“Be reasonable Sigmund. For the sake of the one and only god come back. Sit down.”
Pricilla’s mother, all two tons of her in a shiny scarlet dress rising up from her seat. Her hands sup porting her monstrous shoulders and bosoms as she leaned forward over her newly replenished plate and now as she shouted, lifting one arm to point in the direction of the departing Schultz.
“That man leaving, inseminated my daughter.”
Schultz making his way out across this familiar room. All its assured sombre plushness. The haunt of ladies and gentlemen. Amazing what new things you notice in old familiar surroundings when the brain has received a shattering shock. The gleaming gold base of the marble pillars holding up the restaurant ceiling. The nearly empty wood panelled lobby. The white frieze high around the wall. Carts, oxen and ladies dancing to flute players. Out under the gleaming canopy of this hotel. Got to look up. A bronze warrior with a shield and spear on the roof. Jesus I should be him. They sounded like the wedding’s all set to happen. How did they do this to me. Excoriate me. Convict me. So I should go marching down the aisle. Into the depths of hell. Or up the steps into the chamber of horror of some fucking registry office. Why didn’t I put a condom on my prick. You want to feel flesh. And Jesus you end up feeling you’re falling into a snake pit. Just when in the incredible bliss of Shangri La I learn from his Lordship what life could be all about. They get together a birthday party. To fuck me. For my whole life.
Outside the revolving doors, Schultz doubled up, hand on his stomach, hobbling back and forth. The doorman calling up Al’s limousine. Schultz unable to lift an arm to wave it away. The concerned commissionaire holding the car door open. Waiting as Schultz bent further over. Both hands across his stomach. And the doorman niftily jumping back. As Schultz delivered from his lips. With a heaving groaning roar. His champagne, caviar, vichyssoise and steak tartare. Into the rear blue soft carpeted interior of Al’s limousine.
Jesus
This is what
The Jews
Did
To Christ
16
That night stepping crumpled up from a taxi. Schultz perambulated about the shadowy gardens of Belgrave Square. Until a black cat scampered along the pavement across Schultz’s path as he headed up the steps to the perfumed hall of number four. And shivered past the stack of roses. Past the pantry. Down the stairs. To flick the light on in the kitchen and look in the cupboards for some kind of stomach soothing concoction. And wham. Kick and trip over the garbage pail. Strewing contents across the floor.
“Holy shit. I’m distraught. What’s all this. On the tiles. My fucking mail. O dear god, my Royal invitation to the palace. Torn into little pieces. And this. Photographs. Ripped up. The bitch must have gone through every one of my drawers and papers I had under lock and key. This is the god damn ruination of beautiful memories. Every girl I ever knew nearly. Or ever tried to seduce when I cast them in a fucking production. Or who might have meant something to me. Including, would you believe it, pictures of my own mother. And Jesus, my Aunt Essie, when they were good looking young women back in the ghetto in Prague. Nothing, fucking nothing is sacred anymore. I could cry. Jesus I am crying. My poor fucking mother and father. When you come to look at it, all the sacrifice they did for me. Marking down lingerie which were already bargains. Just to make a sale. Jesus this is too painfully sentimental. I’m having a fucking breakdown. I need an aspirin. Al calls himself my friend. He’s a big fucking mother spider. I’m going to keep out of their web. For the rest of my fucking life. I don’t care who hears me all over Belgravia at midnight, I, Sigmund Franz Schultz, am going to sweat, practise and train, and turn myself into the most indomitable muscle bound mountain of resolute unyielding fucking stubborn fortitude who ever avoided marriage. And no woman fat, beautiful or otherwise is ever ever going to do to me what was done to me through the recent past. Jesus what’s that.”
Schultz’s shoulders jerking backwards as if shot. And spinning around from his commiseration. Staring towards the larder.
“A noise was made in there. Christ now I got rats or something.”
Schultz stepping across to the cream panelled door. Waiting listening. Slowly pushing it open. The kitchen light. Shining in.
“Jesus what the fucking hell are you doing in here.”
“Forgive me. Please. I am nowhere to go. I run away. I look. I find nowhere. I come here. Don’t make me go. I am Greta.”
“Holy shit. I know you’re Greta. Honey come out. As if I didn’t have enough trouble without you already. Jesus you’re all dirty. Where the fuck have you been. Go have a bath.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“But Jesus. You can’t stay here.”
“I no like it there to go back to Hornchurch.”
“Hey baby. Look. I’m telling you. You can’t stay here.”
“Please, I beg. Please. I no can go back.”
“What’s wrong.”
“The man of the house. He try all the time jump on me to kiss me.”
“Jesus tell his wife.”
“I cannot. She try all the time jump on me too to kiss me.”
“Well Jesus, let them kiss you for christ’s sake.”
“I have done. And now they fight with knives over me.”
“Holy shit kid. You got a problem. O.K. for tonight you can stay.”
“O thank you. Thank you.”
“Shit no kisses for me tonight. Just make me some Horlicks with some honey and hot milk.”
“O yes. Yes.”
“Bring it up to the bedroom.”
“O yes. Yes.”
Schultz staring in darkness. The light from the throbbing diesel of a passing taxi flashing on the bedroom ceiling. A quiet sobbing shaking the mattress as Greta wept. Schultz reaching out to touch this arm and hand which squeezed tight to his own. Suffer little children to come unto me. Heard that somewhere in my life. Probably was some publicity provoking statement made by a grown up Jesus. Feel a welling up just below the lungs. My own tears now are pouring down my face. Christ here we are. This au pair turning now to comfort me. And we’re both clinging together, sobbing to sleep. Boy if that don’t make sad headlines. In my personal history.
A streak of light waving between the drawn bedroom curtains. Greta snoring beside him. Schultz reaching over across her to turn on his lamp. And catching his wristwatch by the strap to read the time. Christ almighty. Do I have to knock over a glass of water. First move I make waking up is a disaster already. It’s twelve o’fucking o’clock. I should have been at the office two hours ago. Now I got all this on my hands. Even with her limited English she must have understood everything I said in my moment of personal collapse last night.
Schultz rushing through into the bathroom. Turning on the shower over the tub. As the nozzle blasts off and hits him in the head. Following by scalding hot water. And a nearly neck breaking scramble to safety.
“What next. Jesus what next.”
Schultz dressed. A last peek in the bedroom. Greta one ankle sticking from under a sheet. And sprawled, her arms and legs flung out like she was being drawn and quartered. Her yellow hair splayed over the green and blue striped pillow. A breast peeking up pink and soft. And the long deep snores as she slept.
“Honey they may be fighting over you with knives but let me tell you it’s better than having a bunch of blackmailers at your throat.”
On a breezy sunny corner of Belgrave Square Schultz dabbing his face with a hanky and flagging a cab. Cutting himself twice trying to shave around his claw marks. And now jumping out of the elevator nearly catching and amputating four fingers as he slammed the expanding door closed. Rushing past Rebecca who followed behind him with a handful of letters, into the chairman’s office where a cavalry twill attired Binky sat with the newspaper, his open coat displaying a pink blue striped shirt, and a light blue polka dot tie.