The Condition of Muzak (16 page)

“What infernal bad luck!” As he walked along the deck in his glittering white uniform Colonel Pyat tossed his racquet in the air and caught it again. “We lost all our balls.”

“Overboard,” said Catherine, indicating the Mediterranean. She, too, wore white, a boater with a blue-and-white band, a simple silk shirt-waister with a pale blue broderie anglaise bodice. The skirt of the dress was cut just on the ankle of her kid boots. She and he had been playing tennis in the yacht’s court, astern. “Entirely my fault. I’m terrible.”

Jerry shifted his weight in the blue-and-white deckchair, putting his newspaper on the matching canvas stool at his elbow. “I’m sure we’ll be able to get you some more. In Alexandria, perhaps.” He ran a finger round the inside of his hard collar.

“Is it far, Alexandria?” she asked him. She sat in the chair next to his. Colonel Pyat hovered, then went to stand by the
Teddy Bear
’s rail.

“Not too far.” A tiny breeze found his face. He sighed with pleasure.

Colonel Pyat laid a finger on one side of his small moustache and peered out from beneath his cap. The peak shaded his eyes completely. Indeed, the only strong feature visible was his neat imperial. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? It’s almost teatime.”

“So I should.” Jerry rose from the canvas chair. He gathered up his books and papers. “And you, too, Catherine, eh?” He raised his panama. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Fine,” said the colonel.

Jerry crossed to his cabin. It faced forward—a bedroom, a sitting room and a dressing room. It was full of light from the large portholes on three sides, simply furnished with Charles Rennie Mackintosh designs. Even as he changed into his costume he heard eight bells ring for the dog-watch; time for tea. Slipping on his domino Jerry hurried out, making for the stern and the quarter-deck where a piano had already been set up by lithe Lascar matelots. On the rest of the deck were little gilded bamboo tables with lace cloths; they had matching gilded bamboo chairs, upholstered in blue plush.

As Jerry approached the quarter-deck, racing down the companionway, he almost bumped into Miss Brunner, the governess, who made a clicking noise with her tongue before she guessed who he was. Dyak stewards, in white turbans, red Zouave jackets and blue sarongs, were setting silverware and teapots on the tables. Jerry ascended the last companionway just ahead of Bishop Beesley and Karen von Krupp (wearing her usual Brunswick coffee-coloured gown), two of his guests on the cruise, and just behind Una Persson who was smoothing the folds of her elaborate Columbine costume, gold, white and scarlet, and adjusting her own domino mask. She stood beside the piano, protecting her head with a Japanese sunshade. Jerry winked at her and sat down at the piano.

“Shall we try it, then?”

Una Persson looked at Bishop Beesley, Karen von Krupp and Miss Brunner who were arranging themselves at the furthest table, near the rail. “Why not?” she said. She cleared her throat. Jerry lifted the lid of the piano and played a few notes, exercising his fingers, folding back the flounced cuffs of his red, white and blue Pierrot suit. “Where’s Catherine?”

“On her way.” Jerry spread his new music.

“And Prinz Lobkowitz?”

“On his way.”

“Auchinek?”

“You’d know better than I, my dear.” Jerry put his thumb on middle C.

“Your Mr Collier?”

“Doubtless on his way.”

“They’re all arriving, the audience. Oh, I hate bad time-keeping.” She folded her sunshade and put it behind the piano.

Jerry played a 3/4 tango rhythm with his left hand. “We might as well start, I think. It’s only an amateur show, Una.”

She put one hand on the quarter-deck’s port rail, glanced at the smooth sea, raised herself on the points of her ballet slippers, twirling in her three-quarter-length skirt. She began to smile. It was the professional in her. To encourage his companion, Jerry played a white note glissando and began to hum the tune of their song as Major Nye, Mrs Nye, the Nye daughters and the Nyes’ little boy, Pip, took their places at two tables near the front. Major Nye was smiling in delight. “How jolly!” Mrs Nye did her best to smile, but she was not in Una’s class. The girls looked a trifle embarrassed and the little boy seemed astonished. He wore a sailor suit, as did his sisters. The Dyaks bent over them to take their orders. Mrs Cornelius, in a huge cream-and-strawberry day dress and a lopsided Gainsborough hat, arrived on the arm of her son Frank who wore an orange, blue and green blazer, white cotton trousers and a yellow boater. Una began to sing in her high, sweet voice:

Jerry sang to her over his right shoulder as he continued to play:

Catherine ran onto the deck, arriving just in time to join Una. Catherine, too, was masked, dressed as Harlequin in colours to match Una’s. She had her magic wand in her hand, Harlequin’s slapstick with which, traditionally, everything could be transformed into something else. They all sang the chorus:

Catherine took Una about the waist and they danced together for the last line of the chorus.

Jerry played the chorus through again, making it more lively and giving it a strict tango rhythm now, for Auchinek had reached them. He was in white from head to foot, half his thin face covered in an expressionless white mask, the rest caked in dead white make-up, a false grey beard, huge glasses, crowned by an elongated silk hat. He was old Pantaloon, as orthodox as ever in the traditional
dell’arte
costume.

Una and Catherine were cheek to cheek. “Sigh, sigh, sigh…” Their eyes were fixed on the audience. Auchinek went to stand awkwardly on the other side of Jerry, evidently trying to remember the lyrics. When Jerry had told him of the plan he had gone from Naples to Rome by train to buy his costume. “For love that’s oft denied.” Jerry stared mournfully at Columbine. “Cry, cry, cry… My lips remain unsatisfied…” Facing Jerry now, Una sang perhaps a mite too sardonically: “I’m yearning so for my own Pierrot.” And altogether: “As we dance the Entropy Tan-tan-go!”

Colonel Pyat sat down, raising his cap in jovial, if uncomprehending appreciation. Nearby, Frank Cornelius frowned as he tried to make out the words, comprehending all too well. He began to look a bit alarmed.

Prinz Lobkowitz came up at last, all in black velvet save for a white frill around his neck, a beribboned mandolin in his hand, his eyes merry behind his mask, as Scaramouche, and behind him was Shakey Mo Collier, panting, scrambling, swaggering as soon as he was in sight of the audience, in a gorgeously elaborate military uniform, festooned with braid, blazing with brass, a great Wellington hat on his head, sporting ostrich and peacock feathers, wearing false moustachios which he twirled rather too often, monstrous eyebrows which threatened to blind him, jackboots and sabre, a perfect burlesque bantam dandy, Captain Fracasse.

Assembled they sang the next chorus with wavering gusto:

Harlequin tango’d with Pantaloon, Columbine with Scaramouche, Pierrot with Captain Fracasse, until Jerry had to return to his place at the piano for his own verse:

Frank was groaning and looking about him as if expecting attack from all sides, as if he contemplated ducking under the table. His face had turned a colour that was ugly in contrast to his blazer, but his mother merely shook her head. “Ai deown’t know ai’m shewer.” She was using her posh voice. “Yew cearn’t unnerstand a word of the songs these days, cean yew?” She waved a teacake. Crumbs cascaded over her strawberry flounces. “An’ wot they doin’, ai wondah, puttin’ on a bleedin’ pentomime et Easter?” She pushed back the brim of her hat as her eye caught something in the distance. She tugged at a Dyak’s jacket. “Blimey! Wot’s that?”

Absent-mindedly Frank swallowed his whole cake. His eyes popped. He choked. “What?”

Although they had planned another chorus, Mrs Cornelius’s cry was so loud that even the performers turned to stare in the same direction.

Sebastian Auchinek’s eyes were weeping, doubtless from the toxic effects of the make-up. He removed his topper. “Where?”

“What?” said Shakey Mo, twirling a disappointed moustachio. He had only just begun to enjoy himself for the first time since Nice.

“That!” said Mrs Cornelius dramatically.

Miss Brunner, Karen von Krupp, Bishop Beesley and the whole Nye family rose to their feet.

“That smudge over there!” Mrs Cornelius crammed another teacake into her mouth. She made a further remark, also, but it was entirely muffled.

Prinz Lobkowitz put his mandolin on top of the piano. He seemed relieved. “That’s Africa.”

Mais Arlequin le Roi commande à l’Acheron,
Il est duc des esprits de la bande infernale.

Histoire plaisante des faits et gestes de
Harlequin etc.
, Paris, 1585

Once, the giant huntsman was Odin, the Norse god of the dead, who rode through the night skies seeking the souls of the dying. Though his name was changed with the coming of Christianity, his role did not. Often he was thought of as the Devil himself, but in different parts of France he was identified as the ghost of King Herod, or of Charlemagne. In northern England he was sometimes called Woden, while other counties saw him as Wild Elric, who defied the Conqueror, or even as Arthur. The phantom hounds were the spirits of unbaptised children, or of unrepentant sinners … Some critics have pointed out, however, that their cries, as they seek the souls of the damned, closely resemble those of migrating geese.

Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain
,
London, 1973

Portobello Road Market is a disgrace say some local residents—and they are backed up by Sisters of St Joseph’s Convent. The cause is the junk and litter left by second hand dealers—the Steptoes and “totters” of North Kensington. It’s not just the noise of the Borough Council workmen clearing up the rubbish that is annoying the Catholic Sisters. By day, says the Mother Superior, people throw old shoes, suitcases and other unwanted articles over the Convent wall. “The main door is thick with filth sometimes,” she said. “It is quite degrading.” … Mrs Anna Marks, a Portobello Road shopkeeper, described the northern part of the market as “shameful”. It was a disgrace to London … Her husband, Mr W. Marks, added: “I have lived here all my life—I remember when they used to drive sheep down the Portobello Road. The market has gone downhill lately.”

Kensington Post
, 23 April, 1965