The Condition of Muzak (24 page)

“Hi,” said Jerry in some awe, “fans.”

He saw a small figure break through the crowd and move across the street. “Miss Brunner?”

Did she turn and present two fingers to him? He could not be sure, for now the procession was passing the palace.

“Bloody hell!” said Jerry. “What is it? A carnival?”

“It’s in your honour,” said Una with great satisfaction. “They’re deputations from every British state.”

“Just like the Jubilee!”

“More or less,” said Una, “though things have perhaps changed a bit.”

Precedence had been given to the knife-wheeled Celtic chariot driven by a lady in a sky-blue smock who hailed him with her long spear, but she was followed immediately by the ceremonial elephants, festooned in scarlet and gold, jade and silver plumes of ostrich, peacock and bird of paradise, with intricately woven shawls, tassels and jewelled tusk rings, some of them bearing enormous howdahs on their backs—howdahs of bronze and gold or carved from rare woods and set under with mother-of-pearl…

“Those belong to my master,” said Una proudly, “the Maharajah of New Marwar. He’s one of the most powerful monarchs in Britain.”

… and some of the elephants pulled monstrous carriages, not unlike ornate railway coaches, the windows curtained with green velvet, the metal glowing with brilliant enamels, containing the families of the rulers of Surrey, Sussex and South Dorset. The rulers themselves, maharajahs and rajas in traditional military uniforms similar to those worn by Jerry and Una, rode at the head of their lancers and their riflemen, their splendid infantry, veterans of Dorking, Bognor Regis, Lewes and Hastings, swords raised in salute to the Lord of London. Next came the mandarins of Liverpool and Morecambe, in glinting rickshaws, coaches and sedan chairs, their retainers waving dragon banners, beating gongs and playing pipes as they marched and danced their superb acrobatic steps; the great Captains of Birmingham and Bristol in vast open Cadillacs, sporting the blazing flags of New Trinidad and Old Jamaica, accompanied by masked troops playing drums of every description, by lovely black drum majorettes, by batmen and panthermen, all style and dash. Then came the great clans of Scotland, with wailing bagpipes and rattling drums, plaids bright enough to dim the sun, the green-kilted warriors of Eire and Cymru, the Coal Dancers of the Federation of Miners’ Republics, bearing their bowler-hatted Chief Executive on their shoulders; the Lancashire Free State leaders, carrying their own banner, the great red-and-yellow tapestry with their famous slogan
Wigan Won the War
woven into it; there were more Irish Hussars, and Scottish Mounted Rifles, Australian Light Horse, Canadian Artillery, Welsh Irregulars, Wessex Roughriders, regiments of horse and foot from South Wiltshire, East Kent, North Yorkshire, West Wickham, all carrying flags of their states, some of them wearing uniforms whose origin was thoroughly obscure to Jerry, who knew nothing of recent history; some of the mascots and totems—skulls, pieces of furniture, sheep, dogs, goats, bulls, portraits, items of clothing, children, mummies—were equally mysterious. There were Briganti, Iceni, Trinovantes, Cantiaci, Catuvellauni, Coritani and Cornovii, with red-gold bracelets and bears and braids and burnished shields of brass and bronze, with glittering M16s on their backs, with horned helmets, huge beards and fierce eyes. There were Mercians and Northumbrians, with blood-red banners and dark helms, mounted on bucking motorcycles decorated with chrome and gold and semi-precious stones and, after all seventy-two British nations had displayed their military strength, there followed the pipe bands of Surrey and Inverness, the brass bands of Fazakerly and Bradford, the steel bands of Ashton and Shepton Mallet, many of the tunes recognisable, many others hauntingly alien—a great wailing of sitars, saxophones, syrens and serpents, a banging and beating of bongos and congas and kettledrums and tablas, of gongs and cymbals, of xylophones and glockenspiels, the thrumming of guitars and mandolins, violins, banjos and double-basses, maraccas, mouth-organs, cowbells, sleigh-bells, tubular bells, songs and chants and shouts in fifty different dialects, all of them full of wild, innocent joy, for this was a celebration of peace of which Cornelius and his London were the concrete symbols.

“The king! The king!” they cried. “For he’s a jolly good fellow!” they sang, and “Auld Lang Syne!”

Jerry was weeping as he waved back. He turned to old Major Nye who smiled behind his moustache.

“Am I really the king? Or just a play-actor?”

Major Nye shrugged. “Does it matter? Elfberg or Cornelius. You are their ideal. Wave to them, Your Majesty!”

Una came close, murmuring: “It’s an honorary title, with very little actual power. But the honour really is considerable.”

“But what are my duties?”

“To exist. It would be foolish to make a king who had any concrete responsibilities, particularly after the trouble the world’s been in. It’s all titular, though you do have the whole of London to play with. Anyway, nobody else wanted the job.”

“Not even Frank?”

“Almost nobody else.”

Jerry continued to wave. “I don’t know about you, Miss Persson, but it’s the best offer I’ve had so far.”

“You’ve never been one to resist a bit of glamour.”

“It’s more the security I like.”

He waved violently at the airships, keel after keel, making their stately way across the sky. “I wish Catherine could see this. Is she about?”

“She’s still sleeping, I’m afraid,” said Major Nye. “We didn’t like to try waking her until you…”

“Of course. But King Pierrot must win his Queen Columbine now. It’s only right. Catherine would expect it of me. I’ve never let her down before. Pierrot’s been waiting for centuries, hasn’t he?”

Major Nye looked baffled. “I thought you were playing Harlequin?”

“I wasn’t suited for the part. I changed. It was quite natural. No danger.”

A shadow fell across the balcony and for a moment an expression of terror appeared in Jerry’s eyes. Then it vanished. He turned, arms outstretched. “Hello, Mum.”

“Cor! Wot a scorcher!” Mrs Cornelius was sweating as only she could sweat, her huge bulk dripping with diamonds and pearls. She sported an ermine-trimmed robe of scarlet silk, a huge feathered hat. “D’yer like it? I ’ad it run up special for yer corernation. Loverly turn art, innit?”

“Lovely.”

The procession was over. The sound of it began to fade near the top of Ladbroke Grove, heading towards Notting Hill.

Frank stood behind his mother. “Congratters, old son.” Rage flitted in his eyes. “Feeling all right now, are we?”

The roar of the crowd below began to rise higher and higher and drowned whatever it was Jerry had been hoping to say.

London, England: the time is Christmas Eve, probably during the nineties, and from the black night sky drop flakes of soft snow, covering roofs and walls, trees and streets, giving to the air a silence, a taste at once damp, fresh and salty; and with the flakes, from the huge darkness, there descends a fluttering, indistinct figure whose feet touch the flat top of a tall, deserted building, the new Derry & Toms. The figure darts for the shadows, even though the roof garden is closed for the season, but the footfalls, which leave light prints on the surface, together with the slap of the snow on the broad rhododendron leaves, disturb the birds there and they move in their sleep. Overhead we hear a distant bass drone, as if a flying machine departs.

Wrapped in a cloak of red velvet trimmed with green moiré, the hood covering the head, a black domino mask disguising the features, the figure looks this way and that, then slips towards the exit, leaving more footprints behind it. As the figure moves, the cloak falls back to reveal the varicoloured costume of Harlequin.

Harlequin flits down the darkened stairs to the emergency doors, takes out a key, unlocks them, pauses, as if drawing breath, then enters a side street bustling with cheerful life: gas-jets roar over stalls and under stoves, some for light, some for heat: there are braziers, crimson and black, of jacket-potatoes and hot chestnuts; there are pans of pies, apples, toffee, cakes and fried sausages; all for sale, all cheap: fish and chips, barley sugar twists, humbugs, gumdrops, bullseyes. Huge, scarlet faces hang over the wares, shouting, laughing, crying. “’Ot codlins. ’Ot codlins!” Father Christmas pads along the narrow space between the stalls, ringing his bell, while his costumed imps caper here and there, handing gifts to any children they meet. “Plump turkeys! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Best pippins!” A sweet for a girl, a sprig of mistletoe for a boy. “Carp! Carp! Merry Christmas!” And the breath steams from their lips, muffled in collars and scarves, to join the boiling mist from the pans and cauldrons which, in turn, meets and melts with the falling snow so that the air immediately above the stalls glows like a yellow aurora. “Roast goose! Salt beef! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” Dogs bark, horses neigh, children scream for the joy of it all.

Harlequin moves quickly into the broader canyon, the renewed Kensington High Street. Here, beneath arcades created by overhead pedestrian galleries climbing, step by step, into the black-and-white sky, among elegant towers with windows of glittering gold and silver, whose tops are lost high above, between moving sidewalks, packed with shoppers, are the warm lights of more stalls: stalls piled with vegetables, with meats, toys and sweets; stalls burdened with fowl and game, salmon and trout, pine branches, bunches of heather, holly and laurel; and behind the stalls are coffee houses, where men and women of every nationality—Hindus, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portuguese, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, descendants from all the builders of Babel, come to trade in London—seek the warmth alike, joining there in friendly intercourse; chophouses, where merchants exchange Christmas gifts and clap one another upon the shoulder—“Merry Christmas!”; pie shops, whose windows are heaped with beef puddings, steak-and-kidney pies, treacle tarts, sweating and smoking in great white enamel basins and trays; bazaars and emporia bursting with rich, mouth-watering smells, crammed with customers still upon their Christmas hunt, while from the other side of bright frosted windows, in the public houses, comes the sound of pianos, pianolas, fiddles, harmoniums and accordions.

God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay…

Harlequin passes on, muffled in the cloak, head hidden by the hood, between a little knot of boys and girls gathered round a lanthorn pole, their shadows huge on the snow, to sing:

Already other children stoop to gather the snow in mittened hands, knead it into balls, throw it at one another, laughing, screaming, yelling fit to burst…

… Omnibuses rattle by, lights ablaze, top rails crackling like so many Christmas stars; carriages, rickshaws, cabs and cars. “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!”

A mass of loose snow suddenly tumbles into the street, covering the children who shriek with delight and look up.

A mighty airship moves slowly between the towers, its engines idling to produce the sound of a slow, gigantic heartbeat, while tiny silhouettes look down from the yellow illumination of the observation galleries to catch glimpses of the rich world below.

The 19.00 is bringing in the last of the Christmas mail, proceeding with such stateliness that snow is able to form on the top of her hull; she resembles a huge Yuletide pie. The bells of St Mary’s Kensington ring out from the church in the shadow of the archway formed by two fourth-storey pedestrian roads:

Ding dong. Ding, dong. Merry Christmas.

Ding, dong.

And another bell joins in, held in the hand of a fat greatcoated figure with a huge white cap nodding on his head, a tray depending from his broad shoulders by cords, a huge grey muffler around his neck. “Mince pies! Tasty mince pies! Merry Christmas!”

Harlequin dodges the revellers who come round the corner from Church Street dragging two or three of their number on a broad, flat sledge. The sledge is stacked high with wicker baskets, a Christmas tree, balloons and bunting. Up the hill runs Harlequin while the snow grows thicker and thicker and the traffic moves very slowly, hooting, jangling, creaking, squeaking, engines revving, horses snorting. Over-excited dogs bark and snap at Harlequin’s heels. Harlequin ignores them. Old ladies pause in their black fur coats to press coins into the hands of bright-cheeked small boys. “Merry Christmas! Be good to your pa, look after your ma!” And whistling delivery lads ride their big bikes along the pavement, scoring the snow with thin black lines, swerving amiably to avoid dancing Harlequin who is almost at Notting Hill Gate where crystal towers glow green and red, black and gold, blue and silver, overlooking a plaza where a fair is in full swing, with sparking dodgems and dazzling roller coasters, merry-go-rounds and whips, rattling and banging and smashing and crackling; with rhythmic wheezing music of the calliope, with the hot smells of oil and steam and sweet cooking fat, the bawling voices from the megaphones in the hands of the sideshow men. “Roll up, roll up, roll up! Merry Christmas! ’Ere we are again! Merry Christmas! Ten for a tanner. ’Ave a go, luv. Merry Christmas! Anyfink on the top shelf, George! Merry Christmas!” The fairground is full. Holidaymakers from the world over patronise it, for London is the centre all travellers hope to visit, the only city of its kind, where representatives of hundreds of independent nations meet to trade and to treat and to take advantage of the city’s entertainments, to gape at its marvels, for London lives again as the City of the Future, a wonderland to visit but not to make one’s home, rich with vice, and art, and cunning; radiant, articulate and wise. There are ships at anchor in the docks—ships from Shanghai, Toronto, Cape Town and Makhnograd, from Manhattan, Cardiff and Rangoon, from Darwin, Singapore and Freetown and a hundred states besides—there are airships at their masts over White City, bearing the flags of still more nations. The world is made up of thousands of such tiny states, most no bigger than Surrey, some no bigger than London which, itself, is independent, maintained by the pragmatism and the sentiment of a million survivors of a half-forgotten Age of Empires.