A Singular Man (4 page)

Woman looking George right in the eye. He had only enough fortitude left to sustain a stare for an instant. How do madam. You looking for a piece of ass. I beg your pardon, you stranger. She'd scream. And the arm of the law would extend its fat cowardly hand to clutch me by the garment. If they could spare time away from taking graft.

George was out of that park rapidly having a mind for nightly behaviour in those shrubbery places. To get back to his own cosy fireside. And the urchins. Whom, my goodness, I've left them singing.

Speed was now essential. Smith taking the relaxo stride down the pavement to Merry. Up the steps, three at a leap. No time for elevators. These days. Inside the vault door of Flat Fourteen there was sheepishness. Each urchin trying to stand behind the other and one trying to squeeze out the door as I came in. With no sign of Matilda. And this kid Snake slithering away.

"Hey you Snake, where are you going out that door."

"Free country."

"What have you got behind your back.'1 [34]

"Just my ass."

"Ungracious brat."

"Hey mister don't touch him. We'll tell the cops you brought us up here to sing dirty songs and take off our clothes."

"Little blackmailers. Give me back that bottle and get the hell out of here."

George Smith lunged. Exodus ensued. The rush for the stairs. Give one of these kids a boot in the hole to remember me by. Boy they can travel. They're going up instead of down. The noise is terrible. Just get round this landing. Whoa. Goldminer's door is open. They'll see me. See me chasing six urchins. This will slander me just nicely. First time I've ever seen Mr. Goldminer look serious in his life.

"Say George, what are you doing."

Smith pausing quietly in his shirt sleeves, rolled to obscure the sea gull dropping. Resting one calm hand on the glass bannister. And with a generous show of front teeth.

"O nothing. Just a youth club. It's exercise night. Giving the kids a chase up the stairs."

"O."

"Toodle oo, got a rush. Put them through a few contortions on die roof. Got to build good sound bodies these days. Stops delinquency."

"O."

Mr. Goldminer, frowning in his doorway didn't laugh at that last remark. Usually laughs at everything. Uncontrollably. And then slaps his wife's bare back and gives her a little nudge under the tit. Distasteful habit.

Deep down below the voice of Hugo shouting up the stairwell. George travelling four steps a leap, attaching a left hooked hand and flying round each landing. Up above a door slamming. Little buggers have reached roof [351 already* If I make the top alive and out of breath they might turn on me all at once and I'll scarcely be able to handle six. Onward. Never show cowardice in die face of children.

The roof. Out the door into the darkness. Over the skylights and round the chimneys. Away in the distance, shaft of searchlight flashing. Could use that here in the dark. Where are they. There. Running across the pebbles. Climbing over to the next roof, which I know for a fact is down twenty feet. With a parachute could leap too and have them trapped, crippled with their broken ankles and begging for mercy.

Smith making it across to the boundary wall of Merry Mansions as the last and biggest urchin, Snake, took a flying leap. With a crunching result darkly below. If there is plaster on anyone's ceiling. Alas it will be there no longer. Retreat out of this. With a shout to send them on their way.

"I'll get you yet. You wretched urchins."

"Hey mister, what cheap whisky you drink."

George silent spectre, right hand placed under the shirt to quieten a throbbing heart. This little group of the younger generation shouting their way down the interior of number Four Eagle Street. Night rife with disrespect. Not to mention outright insolence. Left standing on a rooftop, with probably no maid, no secretary, minus my reputation, a bottle of whisky and God knows what else. Trust Goldminer to be at the door. When mostly they're naked and drunk on the floor, in nude carry on with the indiscriminate display of bare flesh among the tropical flowers they grow in that mad house.

George Smith crossing the pebbled roof. Hands in pockets shoulders hunched. Looking down over the edge into Eagle Street. From a doorway two canopies away, shot die urchins. Snake holding a bottle high. Knifing wind blowing. Sly massive with light and faint with stars. Wisps of smoke from the river. Running lights red and green, tug hooting. Up here alone I can think of the time of year it is. Gifts. And of gold in some tropic. My own kick growing up without daddy. Me being just myself walking along the pavement hoping someone will look at me, stop, come back, see into my eyes and say I love you.

Without later

Turning

Utterly

Treacherous

4

T
HAT
was some Friday night. At Thirty Three Golf Street Monday morning there was no Sally Tomson pecking away at her machine. Nor Tuesday nor Wednesday. And Matilda locked in her room now for five days. Smith acquiring a contraption to make breakfast which woke a person with soft music and leaked out a cup of coffee. Once doing so the middle of the night upon Smith's arm while he lay defenseless asleep in a disturbingly objectionable dream.

Chaos gathering at Merry Mansions. Whorls of dust and cracked pieces of delf . Smith slipping notes in under the bedroom door to the silent Matilda. Who on Monday grunted once. And to the shout on Tuesday are you alive, growled. Smith making his way as usual along the river desperate to hop into one of the medical institutions for a mental checkup.

Three days of Miss Tomson's empty desk And Miss Martin came in and said Mr. Smith shall I parcel up Miss Tomson's things and send them to her. George shouting no one's to touch that desk, leave it just as it is. And the rest of the day was one of obtuse politeness with Miss Martin coming back with a letter handing it to Smith, saying, Mr. Smith I'm afraid you've made an error.

"Miss Martin, I'm terribly busy, can't you correct k yourself, where is it, what's the matter with you, what are you paid for.'1

And Miss Martin took her silent white finger and with a fat pink fingernail touched the bottom of the page where George had signed the name Sally Tomson instead of his own.

When the fights start to flicker on during the rapidly dark afternoons were the worst moments at Thirty Three Golf Street. George nipping out for a walk. And late Monday at an excavation peering down into the floodlit morass of winches, cement mixers and ladles of concrete swinging through the air. All din, dust and unsad. A man near George on the platform recognising him from prepsterhood, followed Smith as he retreated the short distance to the corner. And saying behind him, why hi, George. And Smith running outright. Hailing a taxi. Taking it to The Game Club where sitting in the library in die deep stillness and chime of a grandfather clock, examining one's behaviour which was getting too weird for words. What harm to say, hello, hi, good to see you, gosh you look great, remember the great things we did as kids and prepsters, the snakes we put in neighbours' kitchens through the window. And I ran. Can't now face the things which happened years ago, both believing in the same God, putting hands up the same dresses.

Thursday the sixth day of Matilda's incarceration. Morning dawning. George reaching to punch the coffee contraption into life which lacked the loving hand, the juice of living. And with one bleary eye awake the flash thought that Matilda was dead. Maid servant starves to death in Merry Mansions. Police and public crucifixion on the front pages. Why did you do it Mr. Smith, murder her in this ruthless slow way. Instead of shrivelment why not the knife or gun, you're licensed to carry a pistol Why didn't you blast her. Members of the jury this murderer is not only a murderer but a twisted and callous person.

And Thursday Smith swept up his nudity in the polka dot dressing gown, plunged tootsies into slippers to pound once again on Matilda's door. Milkbottle silent. And in the polished mahogany, George's eyes culled up a scene of other mahogany. The witness stand. Gold-miners giving evidence, sure he's violent didn't I see him with my own peepers chasing those poor kids up on the roof and he goosed my wife last Christmas. Violently. Just a forceful nudge of the knee.

"Matilda are you in there."

As Smith looking down his dressing gowned person to the bare skin of the legs. Hair ending at the ankles. Yes your honor, his usual was an attack on Matilda Friday nights, sure he was tight, sure we knocked on his two inch thick steel door, yeah I got one too but only an inch, we could really hear him and this poor dark creature, as he took advantage of her color.

And finally Thursday noon after the constant visits to pound, Smith shivering at his bedroom phone. Reaching for the instrument. A few dials of the finger and buster, the street outside will be full of clanging bells and sirens careering in off the avenue, anything to keep people nervous. The blue uniforms, respirators, acetylin torches and usual safe cracking equipment to get to Matilda's cadaver behind the mahogany disguised half inch steel door. And as George put the dark plastic to his ear and a finger into the chromium dial, his arms rose in rigidity as an icy clutch of water crashed upon his back. A loud shout and laugh from Matilda as she said surprise and Smith said Jesus Christ so it could be heard in the padded cells on the island in the river.

"Matilda, God damn you. What the hell's the idea. The absolute and the preposterous cheek after I'm half scared to death."

"You can't talk to me like that Mr. Smith."

"I'm talking to you like that. Get me a towel. You're behaving in an absolutely stupid manner."

"That white trash, that blond bitch."

"She's my secretary. What the hell are you making out of my life. Don't I pay you enough."

"Yeah, sure bring up money. Sure bring up the money, Mr. Smith. It's the only thing you understand is that old green stuff. Buy everybody off don't you."

"Matilda you're talking out of turn. I'm soaked."

"I know my turn to talk, you don't have to tell me when to talk. I'll talk and I'll talk and I'll talk. Slurping up asparagus."

"We're going to settle this Matilda. Get me a towel."

"Sure you can settle, can't you. Get it yourself. Everybody in their place, setde up. Fire me. Get rid of those you can get rid of. I don't mind walking the streets. Plenty of jobs."

"Well you're not working in that room."

"You want to fire me."

"No one said anything about firing."

"Fire me."

"No."

"Well you can if you want, just so you understand that."

"Stop explaining my rights to me and get some clothes on. And get me a towel."

"O it's business now. You don't mind a little bare tit on Fridays. You want it white now."

"I've got to be at the office."

"Sure, everything's black and white in the day time."

"I just hope that by tonight you're behaving in a civilized manner."

"Or what are you going to do."

"Stop pressurizing me. Just telling you to be out of that room. And have something to eat ready for a change."

George rose sadly in the direction of the bathroom. Reflecting upon the turkey cock unable to flap its wings in the floor. Life's getting like a merrygoround with people getting on and off and no one paying for the ride. I'll try to track Miss Tomson down. No I won't. If she can get more money and better conditions somewhere else, let her. That goes for Matilda too. I've never bought anyone in my life. Cheaply. Is treating people with warmth and concern buying them. And then being doused from behind. Answer me that. Hear her, standing on the verge of stark nudity having an argument with me.

Smith putting on a blue shirt and a black tie dotted with three legged golden stars. No Miss Tomson to reach out and give it a flick and say that's for the birds. Guess you might say I'm going to have a little freedom of expression around my office for a change. And take up the phone with my new adaptor that fades out my voice when the talking gets ticklish and sends the line dead at signs of disaster. Wear white shoes with red dots if urge denotes that attire. I lie. What an empty god forsaken place the office has become. When people are going home, sidewalks crowded. And I'm head in hands. Too sad to look up, out, forward. And late tonight I take the train.

"Matilda, I catch the train at eight and I want sandwiches."

"Sure if that's the way you want it."

"Shit."

"Ooo you said a nasty word, Mr. Smith."

"Are you locked in that room again."

"I'm delicately attired."

Smith clenching fists. He raised them slowly. Dropped them and spread out his fingers and looked at the nails. Not much moon showing. I'll just take so much from her and no more. O there'll be changes, no more of this if it's all right with you Matilda. Thinks she owns me. That I live to keep her.

Businesslike George Smith went to the kitchen. Taking four large elliptical white plates. At Matilda's door he raised them above his head and crashed them to the floor. A little white chip bounced right up on the hall table. Amazing.

Smith passing out of Merry Mansions. Dog trotting to Golf Street. To any new meantime of horror. Nearly stopping to ask a female pedestrian were she ever a feeding mother to give some human milk of kindness.

And Miss Martin with worried lines across her brow, stood at the top of the stairs of number Thirty Three, holding one hand in another.

"Good morning, Miss Martin."

"Mr. Smith I was so worried. I was going to ring."

"Just a little something, Miss Martin, held me up. Sudden conference. Top level, private, all that sort of thing."

"Shall I get you some apples."

"Please."

"Mail is on your desk. There were a few phone calls, you know when no one speaks on the other end. The breathing is awful. I switched the music in with die adaptor"

"The bag pipes record."

"Yes Mr. Smith. They hung up right away."

"Good."

Smith smiled and entered his office behind the frosted glass. Past the top of that desk which is like a desert. Lost on it without water. Letters, there they are, arranged [431 right in a row. I'm just not up to it. Examine the stamps. Always a nice distraction. Whoa, one or two countries I've not yet heard of. What could they be after.
I'm
putting my soul under lock and key. And by Jesus these three go in the safe, unopened. Miss Tomson come back. I must not weaken. Open this harmless one. With one neat slit. Goodness, handmade paper inside. No. Not one of these.

Dear Sir,

Quite obviously you intend overlooking the particular seriousness of this matter.

Perhaps you will have to be made to dance a different tune. And we take this opportunity of reminding you that it shall be to our music.

We know you have read this.

Yours faithfully,

JJJ. & Others

George Smith putting feeble hand to the buzzer. Still able to press down. Three shopping days till Christmas. Cigar store man has a big sign, Give Smoke For Yule. Soon as good will towards men comes round in the calendar they try to get in a sneaky boot to one's oxsters.

"Miss Martin, come in please."

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"Would you get me a glass of water."

"Certainly. Will a paper cup do."

"Goatskin, anything."

"I wasn't trying to be funny, Mr. Smith."

"I know you weren't Miss Martin, forgive me. Put all this correspondence in the safe and lock it. Bum it, eat it-"

"I don't understand Mr. Smith."

"Forgive me Miss Martin forgive me, in my moment of mood."

"I'll get the water right away."

"And ice."

"Yes Mr. Smith, right away."

"Hold it Miss Martin. Stop right where you are. Gome here a minute. Right over to the desk. Don't be scared. I just want you to tell me something. In my eyes. See. Just tell me what color they are."

"I think they're green, Mr. Smith."

"I mean the whites, what are they."

'White. Mr. Smith."

"How white."

"Just white, Mr. Smith."

"You don't think they're going grey."

"No, Mr. Smith."

"Or brown."

"No."

"Miss Martin thank you very much. Really thanks. Stop all calls. I'll be away from tonight over Christmas. And just one more thing before you go. Make an account of Miss Tomson's wages, till the end of this week."

"Shall I mail them to her sir."

"Don't be distant Miss Martin."

"Sorry Mr. Smith."

"No, don't mail them to her. Leave it on my desk. That's some buckle you have on that belt."

"Like it Mr. Smith. Out of an antique shop. I was looking at a brass pig. And just behind it was this buckle."

"Where is this brass pig."

"Two blocks over and right across from a building has big sign in front which says Religious Fittings."

"Thanks Miss Martin."

Two thirty that unurgent time of afternoon with wandering minstrels toting signs on portable radios, it is possible I may cough again with a transplant throat. Madam I cannot speak but can feel. And past a window full of wines. And around this corner. There, Religious Fittings. With additional remarks. Crosses our speciality, everyone welcome to come in and look around. Get tacked up. Measurements free.

Smith viewing the large stuffed ape. Under which stood the little brass pig. Overshadowed by the anthropoid's private parts. Miss Martin says she was looking at the brass pig at the time. Mustn't betray eagerness in the shop. Just look as if I'm after a cane or an instrument for some neat little ulterior appetite. I like having satisfied alone. And which I keep tucked away in my personality. Don't like the look of this proprietor.

"Good day, are you the proprietor."

"What do you want."

"As a matter of fact I want canes."

"You want canes, mister."

"I want canes. Everyone in the shop."

"Mister wait a minute."

"No."

"Well wait a minute."

"No."

"You mean you want all the canes."

"Yes."

"I got two hundred canes."

"Wrap them up."

"Hold it. Do you know what you're saying."

"Wrap them up."

"I ain't got that much wrapping paper. You don't know what you're saying."

"Are you questioning my sanity."

"Yeah."

"Let me repeat. You own this shop."

"What do you mean, repeat. You haven't said it once yet."

"I repeat. You own this shop."

"Look mister I understand English/
¹

"And let me repeat. I want to buy every cane in your shop."

"This is a store. But if you repeat I'm going to repeat. I've had a lot of people come in here in my time. And what is happening at this moment is original. They come in about the ape."

"A most obscene exhibition too."

"That's God's problem mister. But you come in about some problem you got, I think."