A Singular Man (23 page)

Smith feeling the chill of stone strike up the bottom. Stood raising parcel to his arm, waving to taxies. Then stopping, turning, to climb into a jaunting car.

Promoting a brief friendly altercation with the driver, who gesticulated with his whip. A brand new bank note sparkling in the air. And they were jaunting up the avenue. Coachman telling Smith what happened to the horseshit. A little old lady comes late each evening and collects it for her sky garden.

At each hotel, stopping. Smith dismounting, pulling up a few corners of linen hanky in his dark suiting, another tucked up his sleeve. Foolishly in each lobby. Her Majesty the Queen, please. Eyebrows raised. Twice Smith slipping between the evening cocktail faces. Eyes staring after him as he lowered a brandy for the road. And once next to a dowager encrusted in gems, for one second through the dark light it could have been Her Majesty. Madam, may I trespass upon your buoyant property, God just told me it was mine.

"Why don't you give up mister. We've been to ten hotels. My horse is tired. Street's tough on his hoofs. I'm going to have a lame horse."

A note flashed crisply. Once more silence. Except for the clip clop. Odd waves from pedestrians. So many-fellow men about with vibrant lightheartedness. In the next hotel and bar, I vouch the clientele will merge into one big sigh of happiness.

"Mister this is positively the last. Look where I am. This is a berg."

"Are you unhappy."

"Yeah. My horse's feet hurt. I could be held up and robbed in this part of town."

In front of a grey stone building. A faded canopy out to the curb. A bronze plaque. Dim dark interior. Smith slipping across one more note to the horseman. And another asking him to wait. George reeling quietly through the heavy revolving doors into this elderly place. Little parcel held on his arm. To tip toe across the fat carpet and whisper boo at the reception desk. A balcony round the lobby with little tables, chairs and lamps. Doorman passing by with a miniature dog. Take it out to pee. That tiny canine would have been one mouthful for Goliath.

"Can I help you sir."

Smith looking out at the eyes. Holding the counter with uncertain hands. Mouth opening and closing. Eyes fixed on all the hanging keys. To open doors. Shirl seems to stand somewhere behind this desk. With her unlit heart. However cold you get, remember me. Gripped in solitude. There can't be a jamboree all the time.

"Excuse me sir, can I help you."

Smith swaying backwards. Surveying a potted palm. A forecourt, a little fountain. Drapes drawn on windows. Tall grey woman passing, silver sandals poking out under her gown. Marble cornices on the balcony. Across the soft distance of this lobby a green carpet disappearing under closed mirrored doors. Smith delicately separating the strings of his paper bag across his forearm. Focusing eyes once more. To the pigeon holes, brass numbers and red white and blue edges of foreign mail.

"Are you all right, sir."

Smith a feeble smile and wave of his hand. Life is made up of a lot of immediate events. Must not sidle across and pee upon that potted palm. Or with the handy screwdriver I happen to have in my pocket go over and unfasten the doorknobs to the ball room. How dare you keep such things there. To think it was only yesterday I distinctly heard a man walking by say he had the whole world under contract. Naturally I stopped him and asked if I could buy a piece. Regrettably to find he had only a three month option.

"Look mister, I don't know who you are."

"I'm drunk."

"At least you're honest."

Smith turning to a rustle of dresses for evening. Four pastel colored girls and three dark suited men. Clean and scented. All so elegant. Please let me come with you. Just to sit quietly by. To watch, listen, laugh. Lift me out of the dark abyss. Take me back into my own foolish life of youth before I wisely made money. A little of it in this parcel. To scatter around this lobby. Can't you see I'm Smith. The big maple, once an acorn. Desperate to be the oak Miss Tomson whispered.

"Perhaps sir, you've got a reservation."

"Perhaps sir, you've got "Perhaps I haven't."

"What have you got."

"I beg your pardon. Are you being forward."

"Sir, I'm trying to be of assistance."

"Her Royal Huzzy the Queen."

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"I wish to be connected."

"Have you a prior connection."

"I beg your pardon."

"Sir, I mean are you expected."

"You're joking, she's not here, bell boy."

"I'm not joking. I'm not a bell boy. And are you expected sir."

"I am unexpected."

"Now please."

"I am a lamb's kidney. Several people have been now clouted into the tracks. If we keep hitting them there, there will finally be respect, courtesy and kindness for millionaires. Now get me a bottle of brandy and two glasses and we'll have a drink."

"I can't do that sir. This is not the bar."

"Do you want me to buy this hotel and reshuffle the staff. Now get that brandy. I'm going to take the heights tonight. Huge deployment of armour on both my flanks. Commandeer this reception desk. Gee, I feel champion."

"Now sir."

"Then take the balcony. Let the howitzers howl. Adjutant."

"Look mister, I don't know who you are."

"I know who you are. Adjutant. At nine you check the mail waiting feverishly for the first coffee break. Then rustle through the few blank papers and sneak away to the washroom for a cigarette."

"I certainly do not."

"Adjutant. Silence. Then you make a few personal phone calls before lunch. Get back in time for the afternoon coffee break. Make two erasures before five. Time for pot roast at the automat just round the corner. Then read a questionable book on the night shift which was found left in a room by the chambermaid."

"I never have."

"Attention. How dare you back chat a commanding officer."

"I'm not. I'm trying to be of assistance. Is it you want to be accommodated."

"I want the moral fibre of staffs everywhere to hold up under the strain of trying to seize opportunities for advancement."

"Sir, you mustn't shout."

"I want to reverse the decline. Rebound to boom. Land in a field of golden sneezeweed."

"Sir I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. I must hand over now to the manager."

"I asked for her royal high jinks. This dreadful up-creep of unhappiness. In the bag here I have enough toadstools of the green yellow and red variety with the purple dots to poison this evening's menu."

"Sir maybe you want an invalid requisite or something. Our manager is coming."

Smith rearing to attention. Appearance of a dark portly person. Hair sharply parted near the middle. Flat fat fingers, bubbling at the ends, drowning tiny fingernails. Both these hands spread before George Smith on the counter. And a little bow. Smith's visage chill and remote.

"Good eveningsir. Good to see you."

"Hello."

"Nice to see you again, sir."

"You've never seen me before."

"Ah but I have. The brandy is on its way. And you will be pleased to hear we have not just made it in the back room. Please be my guest."

"Well. I can see your ancestors did not come from a stock that would make one wonder."

"You are too kind, Mr. Smith. But I always try to feel important, handsome, well dressed. As you are this evening."

"You too are too kind."

"What shall we drink to Mr. Smith."

"Havoc."

"Ha ha. Of course. If you wish. But perhaps, a toast. Her Majesty. She is as you've no doubt heard, a permanent resident with us now. And we are extremely honoured."

"I'm relapsed. Heigh ho."

"In that case, Mr. Smith my vision is that this hotel will be a refuge. For a safe relapse. Ha ha, nice mix up with words. It's what we're trying to do here with comfort. Every distinction for the distinguished. A client asks for a drink at the reception desk. We have a drink at the reception desk."

"Good on you Mr."

"Park."

"Mr. Park. I've been sweating it out too long at my outpost. I'm enveloped by the enemy."

"A man as measured as you are, is a contribution to the community."

"Thank you major."

Four bell boys in their quiet grey uniforms. Gleaming brass buttons on tunics. Smith swaying, smiling. Mr. Park clapping hands. Bell boys snapping to attention.

"Take Mr. Smith to Her Majesty's suite eighteen B."

Platoon leading George Smith to the elevator doors. Stepping aside as Smith stepped in. Protocol has not packed up yet. I'll go if her nibs says get out. Shirl said I never offered to get my hands wet in the sink. She'll go into old age without me. Sitting in her empty nest. Small body in apron. Ladling out porridge in the bowls. Here is your daddy kids, shouting for justice and getting his just desserts instead. Your mother says sue. Stretch me out on the altar of the law. When in my heart I chirp.

Meet you

In apple green

July

Hiding

Arm's length

Under the

Uttermost tree.

We'll

Play

A pink

Piano.

Become

Each other's

Sadness.

Her Majesty stood at the door. Her arms open. Smith walked between them clutched up tightly to her breasts. Platoon retreating. Grumbling back into the elevator without a tip. Easy money corrupts. Hard to know how long one keeps gripped in greeting. Across the beige room curtains fluttering in an open terrace door.

"George can I make you some scrambled eggs."

Smith holding Her Majesty away from him. To sight her and see her blueish eyes in soft moist lids. Something unpardonable happening in my trousers. To the sound of her voice. Take her hand and put it there.

"George you rude thing after all.'
¹

"Your Majesty squeeze it tightly. It needs comfort."

"George you haven't changed. Bold. Grey too. You are, you know. Kiss me."

Little parcel dropping from Smith's dark arm. Tightening around Her Majesty. One of her soft hands reaching to tug Smith's ear, the other to catch on a lobe of lower haunch and there impart a friendly fingering. North and far away. The Goose Goes Inn.

"Your Majesty you smell so good/'

"Whale sperm."

"Take off your clothes"

Her Majesty unfurled her sari. And kindly took her two breasts and put them in George Smith's hands. He said they weighed the same. Lights out Glow on the sky. All rainbow. Pots of gold everywhere.

"Dear George."

"It's me."

A few

Good old

Days

Are left.

19

G
EORGE
Smith taking his personal temperature which was chilly. The thin silver line showing just below the red mark for normal. Last night with Her Majesty. And this cool morning, hungover, mouth dry, head throbbing. A dream. Big fat woman in a green raincoat, really enormous, started beating me with her walking stick. Of all the blasted cheek I said, desist. Miss Tomson stood smiling by on a marble step between pillars and on her blue sweatered chest hung two little golden balls, one below the other, just as it should be and Smith she said, these are yours, I did some alchemy.

Sound of the opening door. A shuffle. Miss Martin wearing low heels. Said men with power were real men. Up against a lot of corporate bodies what was the use of struggling. We're plankton.

"Good morning, Miss Martin is that you."

"Yes."

Smith turning on his naked shoulder. Slippery surface of the horsehair sofa, now tucked up tightly to the partition. I fear out of caution for Miss Martin's rifle where a bead could be drawn if still asleep when she came. Also need that added bit of privacy which makes one's lot easier. Plus the convenience of the shelf near the wash basin for the regimen of these mornings. One dark tiny pill of the day's vitamins on one big white plate. Two oranges, oatmeal, cocoa and bottle of cod liver oil that Miss Martin buys out of the petty cash. Matilda has exhausted me in Merry Mansions.

"Miss Martin, what time."

"I'm late. They stopped the train and were loading on lumber in the middle of the bridge. For about an hour."

"I just asked for the time."

"Twelve thirty."

"Thank you. Don't come in. I'm indelicate. Utterly frazzled. After being vaguely champion. I think. Last night. O God."

Nightmare. Somewhere between dreams. Bonniface appeared. Completely regaled in deep sea diving equipment. All the shiny knobs and valves on the waterproof helmet. We met on the sea bed. Bonniface smiling inside the little round window, lugging the great heavy square shoes on his feet. Mr. Mystery on a lead. We were having a serious underwater chat. I woke up when the sharks came.

"Mr. Smith, there were three men here yesterday. Who wanted to talk to you. They wouldn't say what about. I told them I didn't know where you were."

"Is there a bag out there, Miss Martin. A paper one with staples in it. Would you look please."

"I can't see anything."

"Are you sure."

"Yes."

"Look under everything. Is it hanging on the hook. Or the hat tree."

"It isn't here."

"O God."

"What's the matter."

"Find that bag."

"Don't shout at me."

"I'm sorry Miss Martin. Find the bag."

"I
have found something."

"Where. Let me have it."

"I'm pregnant."

"No drolleries this morning please. That bag."

"Three months."

Smith spectacular. Throwing coats from the sofa. Knocking over the bathing screen. Miss Martin at the door, eyes blinking at the papers and garments flying.

"Come on Miss Martin, we must find this paper bag."

Miss Martin silently at the door. Smith on hands and knees looking under sofa and desk, two soiled soles of feet sticking out. Opening the window to peer down the airshaft. Pulling open drawers, scrabbling through files. To turn around wearily and face Miss Martin behind the tiny dark hole of her rifle.

"Miss Martin what are you doing with that gun."

"Listen to me."

"I'm listening. Put the gun down."

"No."

"Miss Martin. I hope you're aware of what you're doing."

"I am, you're not going to turn rat on me."

"I beg your pardon."

"No you're not."

"Miss Martin get a grip. For God's sake."

"My finger's on this trigger, that's all I need."

"Do you realise you could shoot me."

"Yes."

"All right. Put it down then."

"You think it's a joke."

"I don't think anything's a joke. Just want to find my paper bag."

"You didn't even hear what I said. I said I was pregnant. Over three months."

"This is no time to be hysterical. My eyeballs are rusted in the sockets. I feel terrible, what a hangover. And I can't find my paper bag."

"I'm not hysterical."

"Just point the gun a little away."

"What am I going to do. If my mother finds out."

"Please, put the gun down. Guns have a way of going off. I know you're an experienced shot. But my army revolver once went off in my holster and split open the toe of my riding boot."

"Shut up."

"O."

"You've ignored me all these weeks."

"Miss Martin, I've seen you every day. We've talked. Chatted. Short of presuming upon you."

"You presumed in the log cabin."

"I rescued you from a venomous insect."

"It wasn't. I looked it up in a book. You disappeared with that Miss Tomson. Glad her old dog was shot."

"Just let me put on my trousers, please."

"No. Stay right where you are."

"I don't mind being shot but not without trousers."

"You lousy sneak. You're thinking of beating it. I can tell. Who's going to pay all the doctors' bills."

"Control yourself Miss Martin."

"You bastard."

"I don't mind what you say but don't say it with the gun."

"I've had nightmares nearly every night."

"Is it me. The father."

"It's going to be a satisfaction to see you drop in your tracks."

"I mean, maybe it's me, all right. Why haven't you told me sooner."

"Because I only saw die doctor yesterday that's why. You fucker."

"That's unnecessary."

"So's your damn burial vault. And the bullet proof car youVe ordered."

"Well. All right. I mean is it any wonder."

"It's you."

"O.K. All right. It's me."

"Yes. You."

Smith putting one hand on the edge of his desk. Have a little support when the first bullet lands. I can take a few low caliber bullets in non vital spots. Terrible to sense she can hit a bee at fifty yards. One has premonitions. Which always come true too soon. Just a few more days and there would have been the armoured vehicle. Thing is keep talking. Leave any time between words and that's where the bullets fit in.

"Miss Martin. I know you're distressed."

"Shut up."

"I can't."

"Shut up."

"Please you've got to let me keep talking. You might shoot."

"That's right. Get your hand off that desk."

"Couldn't you just hand me over my cod liver oil."

"No."

"Can I have the morning newspaper."

"I can tell you what's in the morning newspaper. There was another man beaten and knocked into the tracks and an innocent bystander was arrested but the real one got away. That's what's in the paper."

"Don't look at me."

"You did it once and you probably did it again. Only now you've learned to run. And here read this filth which came yesterday."

Miss Martin flinging a white card. Landing against Smith's ankle. Perhaps now is the time to jump her. Through all the war's strategy, map reading, signals to the front, this is the first time I've been held at gun point. Suppose it's better than being lonely. I wish folks' Christmas greetings would come from the heart. Take my time reading this invitation.

"Just a strongly flavoured invitation Miss Martin."

"You disappear every afternoon/'

"Miss Martin, please. I don't ask you where you go."

"Because I'm stuck alone in this gloomy dump and you don't care."

"I do care, very much. I don't want to see you unhappy."

"You see me underpaid, so how could you care if I'm happy."

"I'll review your salary. Anytime. Make a memo right now, if you put down the gun. The way I'm dressed, to fall mortally wounded. The papers would be full of it."

"I'm the one who should worry. You'll be dead."

"O dear."

"This gun is pointing at the biggest chamber of your heart."

"What sort of a raise do you want. Pension. Anything. Mention it."

"Just keep talking."

"I'd like to."

"Make it good."

"You mustn't get the idea I'm made of money, Miss Martin."

"You're buying an armoured car."

"As I've said, considering the present situation. It's reasonable enough. Now please. There are just the two of us here. Put the gun down. We'll go out of this wretched room, cross over to the bun and coffee shop. Sit over a nut ring, or doughnuts, whichever you prefer."

"O boy. I'll bet."

"It's true. I'm moving office again. Is that what you're thinking. That I was beating it."

"I'm going to have a baby."

"If it's me—"

"I'm going to shoot you. Right now."

"Jesus don't."

"I knew you'd rat."

"Hold it."

"You're a rat."

"Behind you Miss Martin. Is an apparition. I can see it. Hold fire. Just let me enjoy this vision before you shoot. Full of all the colors of the rainbow. And a mist, a light gentle rain. Like tiny tears that maybe an insect might cry. Just another ten seconds. Then shoot. After this, I want to go. Pray for me. I haven't got much religion but I believe. I'll just get down on my knees here for a moment."

"Why don't you die like a man."

"I will but please just look the other way. I would like this few seconds to be private. Don't want you to remember me as if I were begging. Please, don't watch me praying like this. As a final wish. Burn all the files. Sue my estate so you won't be without. Be blood for a blood test. Any reasonable judge will award enough for you and the little one. Now turn away. Cough before you shoot, I need an advance signal before I meet my maker. He lives on a hill for miles around with buttercups sprinkled in the green. According to a recent remark in this apparition."

George Smith slowly bowing his unkempt head. Pink tails of his shirt lightly touching the greyish sycamore floor. Which I only notice now is from my second favourite tree. Not even time to put on a tie. It's going to be wild in Renown. Simply wild. Bonniface and Mr. Mystery will be there, one leading the other. A dog always looks good at a funeral. Wagging his tail, sorry to see me go. As I'm lowered into the crypt. I've got to lunge for her. At least get the charge reduced to manslaughter. He tried to kill me when I told him I was pregnant, your honor. So amusing I should still want everything to look good, even in court. I'm proud Miss Martin should want to shoot me like this. Shows she cares. I would turn rat. I have excuses. Can't go into them now, but always good things to have. What did I do with my bag of dough. Brace my toes, just find a little purchase for them. The Game Club at least has kept me in trim. I won't look bad laid out on the slab. Music now would help. Going over the top into the big circus on the other side. Shake hands in heaven. With the biggest wheeler dealer of them all. In Miss Martin's belly the tiniest heart is ticking. Later little legs will kick. George Junior. Miss Martin if only you could have looked upon it as a present. Which you give back to me. Instead of this firearms. Ready now. To hop into eternity flexing at least two joints. As I dive the bullet will into the back of my head. Goodbye, world, not all that nice knowing but you taught me a few lessons I won't forget in the next.

Smith sprang. Low level. Uncoiling from the crouch. Shirt tails flying. Sharp, brief, crack of the gun. Miss Martin falling backwards. Gun smoking, pointing at the ceiling. George Smith alive. And well on top.

"O.K. Miss Martin. It's all right. Just lie still. Just let's get rid of this gun."

Smith pinning her arms gently to the boards. Taking a deep sigh. Miss Martin's eyes closed. Little bubbles of tears rolling down her temple sides. Amazing how well she looks. So pink. And blossoming. White all these weeks. Attempted murder brought all her color back. weeks. Attempted murder brought all her color "I haven't hurt you, have I Miss Martin."

Little hard blue artery the side of her neck. Only thing that moves. Dear Miss Martin. If the bullet hit me I might be popped into a plain pine coffin. Unclaimed. Lifted on a barge. With hundreds of others. A number and body photographed on a slab. Don't want to go down that way dead. Like an amputated arm or leg. On an island in the river estuaries. With muskrats big as dogs.

"Hello there, Miss Martin."

Her head turning. Breathing up dust. All your rectitude. Milky breasts. Label on your coat that keeps you snug to carry the little life home each evening on the train ride across the flat lands and water. Then down your street. Look out across the beach. Liners burning brightly on the dark horizon. Headed out of turmoil. A cold way on a deep sea to an old world.

"Please. Let me help you up on the sofa."

On the horsehair Miss Martin lay quietly shivering. Smith emptying the bullets. Rolling them one by one out the air shaft window. Two of them firing at the bottom. Windows opening. They'll look up. Stick my head out and look upwards too.

Smith sticking legs into trousers. Wiping feet bottoms on Miss Martin's coat on the floor. Pulling on socks and shoes. Collecting up the edged and pointed instruments. All letter openers and nail files hereafter locked in the drawer.

Crossing to Miss Martin. Head down close to hers. Buy her a bottle of inexpensive perfume. Kiss her on the cheek. Incredible but I want more than anything to take off her clothes. Fill her up with love. Just ease it in. Like the deed already done. We could have walked cold and hungry into a little automat somewhere, bought coffee buns and goodies.

Smith gently closing his door. Picking up Miss Martin's telephone. Finger in the dial. A wail from the back room. Door opening. Miss Martin full of distress and cascading tears.

"Please Mr. Smith don't call the police. O dear God I swear I'll do anything if you don't call them. Don't have me arrested."