The Condition of Muzak (23 page)

“He was a snotty-nosed little backstreet nihilist,” she said. “There’s no point in dignifying his attitude.”

“To us he was far more dangerous than any nihilist. He was alien. He came to enjoy the bombing raids because he was interested in what the bombs would do, what sort of pictures they would make, even, as was often the case, when his own safety was threatened. His will to peace was as strong as yours or mine, perhaps stronger, but his methods of obtaining peace were personal. They became personal because we couldn’t understand what he was talking about. He was a friendly chap. He allowed us all to use him. But he gradually came to realise that our aims were incompatible. His Utopia was to us an insane technological nightmare.”

“I can’t believe this sympathy of yours,” she snapped. She clacked across the carpet to the photographs. They were all there, all his relatives, his acquaintances. “You’re older than me. Your world had nothing at all in common with his.”

“It probably changed just as rapidly. But I suppose it’s because I know that I’ve so little in common with him that I can sympathise.” Major Nye turned the chair slightly so that Jerry could see something of the street below, where the rebuilding work was taking place, where the bunting and the flags were going up. “Yours is an unfortunate generation, on the whole.”

“I am, I hope, broad-minded. But one can take for granted far too much, major.”

“Not as much as poor Cornelius. He took it all for granted. It ruined him. He wasn’t his world’s Messiah. He wasn’t the Golden Trickster. He was his world’s Fool.”

“Is that what he’s suffering from?” She became curious, advancing again to the wheelchair, staring coldly into the drooling face. “Shock?”

“He was shown too much of the past at once. That’s a theory, anyway. He hardly knew it existed before.”

“And you continue to support him, you and Una Persson. Even Auchinek, who has no love for him. Why?”

“Perhaps we thought we could maintain our humanity by studying him. In Auchinek’s case, at least, and in mine, you could say that we saw him as a model. In an inhospitable world he seemed to be at ease.” Major Nye fingered his moustache. He sucked his lips. He dismissed the notion. “No. It’s too hard for me to define. It might be much simpler than that. I need to give my loyalty to something. It’s my training, d’you see. With all his faults, he seemed the best bet. He took his world for granted, just as I had taken mine for granted—not complacently, but with the sense that, drawbacks included, injustices included, it was the best of all possible worlds.”

“To be quite candid,” Miss Brunner began, and then was horrified to see Cornelius looking back at her through sardonic eyes.

“You’ll never be that, I’m afraid,” said Cornelius calmly. Then the head dropped. The lips began to drool again.

“He has these flashes,” said Major Nye affectionately.

She clacked towards the door. “It’s disgusting. You’re both as senile as one another. You need a nurse to look after the pair of you.”

Before Miss Brunner could reach the doors they opened and a small black-and-white cat walked in, tail erect, followed by Una Persson who came to a halt when she saw Miss Brunner. Una Persson had her Smith and Wesson .45 in her hand, half-cocked. When she recognised Miss Brunner she smiled and uncocked the pistol, slipping it back into the holster at her belt. She wore the full uniform of a Jodhpur Lancer, for she was currently in the employ of the Maharajah of New Marwar and had come up by train from Brighton only an hour before. “How nice to see you again. And what a pretty outfit.” Una bowed, the plumes in her turban nodding.

“You’ve certainly gone all the way, dearie.” Miss Brunner was disgusted. “Did you bring your harem with you?”

“We’re not allowed harems in New Marwar.” Una inched past Miss Brunner and offered Major Nye a broad, open smile. “Good afternoon, major. How’s the patient?”

“Improving, I’d say.”

Miss Brunner disappeared on angry heels. Una closed the doors. “It’s all arranged,” she said. “I do pray they won’t be disappointed.”

“We can only hope.”

“Hope…” mumbled the slumped figure.

“There!” said Major Nye. “I seem to have offended Miss Brunner. I had no intention…”

“I didn’t know she was at liberty again.”

“I’d hardly call it liberty. Apparently she plans to found some sort of mission in London, together with Beesley and that daughter of his. They’ve fallen on hard times, those two.”

“And I didn’t realise Beesley was back. Where’s he been?”

“He was thrown out of Ohio, I gather. By the Sioux. Then he went to Arizona and was deported by the Navajo. He didn’t have much better luck in New Hampshire, where the Elders regarded him, rather ironically, as an atheist. According to our intelligence, and it’s always suspect, he spent a while in the West Indies where he managed to build up a small following, but eventually he was sent home on an emigrant ship and landed in Liverpool a month ago. The Chinese authorities sent him to us. So far the only state to offer him a home has been East Wiltshire. But he found out what happens to clergymen in Wiltshire, after their seven-year period of office. Some old custom they’ve revived.”

“I appreciate this quest for national identity,” she said, “but it does seem that most traditions were dropped for the good reason that they were revoltingly cruel and stupid.”

“Well, live and let live. Things will probably settle down.” He looked at the red, white and blue French clock on the mantelpiece. It was half-hidden behind the photographs. “You’re about half an hour late. I was hoping you’d rescue me sooner.”

“I dropped off to see Mrs Cornelius.”

“I thought she was coming for the festivities.”

“I had something to discuss. She’ll be here later.”

“Still going strong, is she?”

“As always. Quite a celebrity in these parts now, and enjoying every minute of it.”

“She’s still with Pyat?”

“No. Pyat’s working with the Poles now, over in Slough. He sees her from time to time but I think Hira—what’s he calling himself?”

“Hythloday.”

“Yes. I might as well call myself Lalla Rookh!” She laughed. “Anyway, he’s still her main boyfriend. It gives him a lot of extra muscle in Croydon, apparently, but the Maharajah wants him to marry her and she says she’s had enough of marriage, though she’d be glad of the status. She could go to Brighton whenever she liked, then.”

“It’s even more magnificent, I hear. Lots of gold roofs and pastel walls. Hythloday wouldn’t be marrying out of caste, would he?”

“Mrs C. is regarded as high caste by virtue of being Jerry’s mum. My boss has entertained her to dinner several times and been proud of the honour. She, of course, was in her element. They love her. There isn’t a Sikh in Sussex who doesn’t. Of course she tends to be hated by a lot of the natives who resent her privileges and think she’s socialising above her station or sucking up to the masters, depending on their point of view, but that type of white will always bicker among themselves. I get a lot of similar spite, myself, of course.”

Major Nye was amused. “They think you’re a bit of an Uncle Tom, do they?”

“You could put it like that.” She took a step back from Jerry as if she inspected a painting. Her uniform was primarily white and gold with a gold-trimmed scarlet sash. There was an Indian sabre at her belt and her turban was a tall one, wrapped around a spiked metal cap, matching the colours of her uniform and with some thin bands of blue to show her rank. The plumes were also a sign of rank. For Major Nye the uniform somehow emphasised her femininity and made her seem a fraction shorter than usual. “I wish he’d perk up a bit,” she said beneath her breath. “They’ve made so many preparations.”

“Officially we tell them he’s been asleep?”

“Oh, certainly. But you know what legends are like. There are an awful lot of people believe that when he wakes up this time an era of peace, prosperity and co-operation between the nations will begin.”

“The British nations, you mean? It was our fault, I suppose, for speaking so highly of him.”

“I don’t think it’s that. They needed a symbol and he’s as good as anything. After all, he was a lot of help to many of the independence movements, even before the civil war. Now there’s scarcely one of the sixty states that doesn’t have some sort of folklore connected with him. Not everything is good, of course, but most of it is. You should hear the stories the Highland anarchists tell. It’s astonishing how quickly he’s been worked into almost all of Britain’s mythologies as well as a good many others throughout the world. As if a gap existed for him to fill. There are Cornelius legends in America, Africa, Asia, Australia, throughout Europe. He’s bigger than The Beatles now.”

Major Nye was pleased. He took a brass-plate tin from his tunic. The tin had belonged to his father. It was decorated with a relief bust of Princess Mary flanked by the initials M.M. while the borders contained pictures of stylised arms and ships and the names of various nations—Belgium, Japan, Russia, Monte Negro, Servia and France. In the top border were the words Imperium Britannicum. In the bottom border were the words Christmas 1914. The tin had originally contained a pipe, cigarettes and tobacco and a Christmas card from Princess Mary. Now it contained Major Nye’s own tobacco and cigarette papers. He began to roll himself a tiny smoke. “You don’t mind what’s happened, then?”

“You think I should be jealous?”

“Miss Brunner certainly is. So’s his brother.”

“He was always a better entertainer than I was.” Una shrugged. “And I was always a better politician. He refused to make something of himself and now the world has made something of him. There’s nothing like having a common hero.”

“And I’m nothing if not common,” said Jerry. He blinked. “It’s a bit bright in here, isn’t it?”

They watched him carefully, expecting him to subside.

“What’s been going on?” he asked. “You were talking about me, weren’t you?”

Una shook her head chidingly. “You sneaky little bugger!”

“I didn’t really take much in.” He was apologetic. “Where am I?”

Major Nye seemed to grow younger by the second. He was almost dancing with pleasure. “Ladbroke Grove, old chap.”

Jerry looked around him at the magnificence of it. “Must be the posh end,” he said. “I never knew it very well.”

“This is all new. It was built on the site of that convent. The one they bombed.”

“Blimey!” Jerry shifted in his chair. It rolled slightly and he realised it was on wheels. He cackled at it. “Was I injured?”

“You could say that. You were catatonic.”

“Black or white? Or both?” Jerry thought he saw a tail disappearing up the chimney. He accepted the information without question. “It’s a family trait. Like the Ushers. Wasn’t it?”

“Like the bloody Draculas.” Una Persson’s amusement was admiring. “Pulled through just in time, as usual, haven’t you? You’ve missed all the work and can enjoy all the fun.”

“Oh, good.” He yawned. “Is this your place, major? Or is it a new town hall?”

“It’s your palace, old son. Built by public subscription. All the British nations, bar one or two, chipped in.”

“So the war’s over.” He stood up and the chair shot away across the smooth floor and struck the far wall. He was still a little shaky on his pins. “Well, it’s very kind of them. I didn’t think I was that popular.”

Una hid her pleasure behind an expression of mock severity. “You wouldn’t have been, if it wasn’t for the fact that, for the past decade, you’ve done absolutely nothing. You’re the stuff heroes are made of, Jerry.”

“Yeah? What’s London like, these days?” He walked to the huge bay.

“There’s a great deal to be done yet,” said Major Nye. “Those skyscrapers over there are just the beginning. They’ll have high-level moving pavements going between them eventually. And gyrocopters and airships and everything. Just as you visualised it.”

“The City of the Future,” said Jerry breathlessly. “Is it all for me?”

“And anyone else who chooses to live here.” Una joined him at the windows. “Otherwise the rest of the world’s regressed somewhat, though there aren’t many people complaining. This will be your monument, where past and future come together. London’s independent now, too, you see. It has no authority over anything but itself. It’s a free city, a mercantile, cosmopolitan neutral zone, a symbol.”

“A meeting place for artists, scientists, merchants,” continued Major Nye. “
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan…
”

“Cor!” exclaimed Jerry. “Is it going to have a dome over it, too? A power dome?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I can’t just say what I want, surely? Who’s the boss?”

“You are, Jerry.” Una Persson’s eyes were shining. “Happy Birthday.”

“I get the whole of London?”

“Why not?”

“Nobody else,” said Major Nye with a small grin, “wants it, really.”

“Cor!” The shawl fell from his shoulders. He was still in the uniform of the 30th Deccan Horse. “An O’Bean Utopia!” Major Nye went back to the mantelpiece and got his headdress for him. Jerry put it on as he stared through round, delirious eyes at the golden city of marvels beginning to rise from the ruins. Then he peered in the direction of the demolished Ladbroke Grove Underground Station. “There seems to be a lot of people coming up the road.”

They stood on either side of him.

“We’d better get you upstairs,” said Una, brushing at his back. “Onto the balcony.”

“It’s only fair. They’ll be wanting to see you. You represent the future for them, you see. The wonderful tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I don’t get it.”

“You will. They’re not ready for it yet. Not personally. But it’s comforting to be able to see what it will be like if they ever do want it.”

Between them they escorted the astonished Cornelius from the room, through the double doors, up a wide staircase and into an even larger hall where the French windows had been opened onto the white marble balcony.

From below came cheers. A large crowd had gathered, clad in the costumes of a hundred nations, in plaids and lace; in kilts and pantaloons and britches and trousers and trews and dhotis; saris, sarongs, of silk and satin, chitons, chardors and cholees, frock-coats of cotton and felt, capes, cloaks and kaftans in moiré, astrakhan, corduroy, and gaberdine, bowlers, boaters, Buster Brown and pillbox caps, turbans and kaffiyehs, buskins, moccasins, mukluks, wellingtons, chuckars, brogues, slippers, sandals, plimsolls, pumps and trepida in colours more varied and dazzling than the rainbow’s. And Jerry saw skins of every shade, African, Asian, Anglo-Saxon, Latin and Teutonic, and the faces of all these representatives of the races were turned to him and, when he waved, they waved back.