The Call-Girls (12 page)

Harriet, who had been engaged in a whispered conversation with Claire, but had not missed a word, struck her glass with her dripping soup spoon. ‘If I can make any sense out of what you two are saying, you are both puzzled and embarrassed because some big brass, for some unknown reason, are apparently taking this conference
seriously.
Not dear little Bruno –
us.
But you are frightened to admit it.'

‘Hear, hear,' said Claire.

‘But my dear lady,' sighed Blood, ‘I have never, never been able to take even myself seriously, so why should I not be frightened? My only courage consists in facing up to my cowardice.'

Harriet again ignored him and turned on Nikolai.

‘Nikolai Borisovitch Solovief,' she boomed, ‘little father, here is your chance. Is not that message the answer to your prayers? That letter to the President – now they seem to be begging for it.'

‘Hear, hear,' said Claire, putting her hand lightly on Nikolai's shoulder, though she rarely indulged in demonstrative gestures of affection. ‘I agree with Harriet. Bruno may not be the hero of my dreams, but let us admit he is a godsend.'

Nikolai shook his head. ‘I am looking for an explanation for this sudden interest in our moth-eaten assembly.'

‘I may offer a parable by way of explanation …' drawled Blood. ‘One of the most disreputable episodes in my life was a stretch of three months in Hollywood. To my mind there has always been a close resemblance between Hollywood and Washington DC. Both have the same atmosphere of publicity-seeking, intrigue, hysteria, jockeying for position, fawning to the gossip-columnists, the same
ambiance
of recurrent
crises. It was during such a crisis that I was called to the telephone in my London flat at the unearthly hour of 6 AM. I thought it was one of my gay young friends informing me that he had just taken an overdose of sleeping pills – they love doing that – but no, it was the president of one of those mammoth companies whose name is a household word in the film-world. I have never met him, but he took the liberty of addressing me by my first name, and practically sobbed on my shoulder across the transatlantic cable-line. “There is a CRISIS on,” he wailed, all Hollywood was shaken by the crisis, weeping and gnashing their teeth, and the box-offices all over the world might as well close down. He went on to confess to me, confidentially and off the record: “It's all our fault, Evelyn, take my word for it or call me a liar, it's
our
fault because we kept to the beaten track and went on making TRASH instead of making ART. We gave the public plenty of CUNT, but what the box-office is yelling for is ART. Now for making ART, Evelyn, we need TALENT. What Hollywood needs is not lousy scriptwriters chasing dollars, but TALENT – people like YOU. Not cheap hacks, but guys with a CREATIVE VISION…”

‘Then he came to the point. To start the new era of ART they had decided to make a film on the life of “that well-known English poet, Baron Byron. Sure you must have heard of him, Evelyn – George Gordon Noel Byron. Sixth Baron. He was a Lord too.” They'd had five script-writers on it, “so-called top class”, one after another. No good. They didn't produce ART. “So that's where you come in, Evelyn.”

‘I told him, politely, to go and commit sodomy with himself. Then he named a figure and I withdrew my remark, and my cigarette burnt a hole in my pyjamas…'

He acted the scene with a shaking hand, the other holding an imaginary telephone receiver. Even Harriet had to admit that, though loathsome, Blood could be quite funny. He finished abruptly:

‘End of parable. Washington, like Hollywood, is in a CRISIS. There is weeping and gnashing of teeth. The script
writers of history have turned out to be lousy hacks. So they are looking for fresh TALENT to save them – guys with a CREATIVE VISION. That's where you come in.'

He sipped his glass of Neuchâtel, delicately balancing its stem between fat fingers, satisfied with the effect of his story.

‘There may be something in it,' said Nikolai slowly.

‘It was a lovely parable,' said Claire. ‘How did it end?'

‘Somebody discovered that Byron had slept with his half-sister and had a queer streak to boot, so it was off. That was before the golden dawn of porn. Sounds incredible today. Anyway, they had to pay me. To compensate them for the loss, I wrote into the President's Golden Book the only rhymed couplet I have ever composed:

‘“I don't care a fart

‘“For your notions of ART.”'

‘That was in abominable taste,' said Harriet. ‘You've spoilt your story.'

‘I always do that,' said Blood. ‘It gives me a kind of masochistic pleasure.'

Random events weave their own patterns. Late in the evening, Professor Burch and Dr Horace Wyndham happened to be the only remaining guests in the cocktail room. Hansie and Mitzie had gone to bed, but there was a comforting array of bottles on the shelves, left at the free disposal of the call-girls. It was a tradition which enlivened some, though not all symposia, designed to facilitate interdisciplinary interrelationships.

Wyndham cautiously approached the bar – he seemed to walk on tiptoe – and helped himself to a sizeable Scotch with water. Burch, sitting at the bar, was apparently immersed in correcting his galley-proofs, with a half-finished high-ball at his elbow. Wyndham noticed that some of its contents had
spilled onto the printed sheets, and that Burch's eyes behind the rimless glasses stared even more fish-like than usual. ‘Best moment of the day,' Wyndham said with a sociable giggle.

Burch seemed to become belatedly aware of the other man's presence. ‘What do you mean by that?' he asked suspiciously.

‘I mean,' Wyndham beamed, taking a gulp of his Scotch, ‘what we euphemistically call a night-cap. I am afraid I am an incorrigible after-dinner drinker.'

Burch considered the matter. ‘I prefer for relaxation an occasional sip of Bourbon,' he pronounced. ‘They don't have it here.' He picked up his glass and, after a moment's reflection, emptied it as if it were water. A few more yellow drops appeared on the galleys.

Wyndham climbed onto the bar-stool and became appreciably taller; he had a well-built torso, only his legs were short. ‘I hope I am not interrupting your meditations,' he said. Since he was nearer to the bottle, he filled up the glass which Burch absent-mindedly held out. Burch put some icecubes into it, but ignored the soda-bottle.

‘“Meditation” is not part of my vocabulary,' he said.

‘Call it contemplation,' proposed Wyndham.

Burch shook his head, using more than the necessary amount of energy. ‘Nix,' he said. ‘Soft-nosed terminology. We call it internalized verbal behaviour, or subliminal vocalization, if you prefer it.'

‘I know,' said Wyndham. ‘But we do not always think in articulate words.'

‘Nix,' said Burch. ‘What you call thinking are inaudible vibrations of the vocal chords.' He swirled the Scotch round the ice-cubes, and drank it apparently without parting his lips. The liquid vanished between them as if by osmosis. Wyndham tried to visualize Burch in the act of love, and quickly took a gulp.

‘Children,' Burch unexpectedly blurted out. ‘Kids. You a pediatrician?'

‘Sort of. Infants are more in my line. Tots.'

‘Tots become kids. Kids grow up … It's only natural,' Burch added reflectively, as if to reassure himself.

‘Do you have children?'

Burch nodded, again too energetically, and stared into his glass. Wyndham guessed what was coming.

‘Two,' said Burch.

‘Well, did you try your educational engineering on them?' Wyndham tittered. ‘To “predict and control” their behaviour?'

‘Sure.' Burch nodded again and finished his glass. Wyndham officiated with the bottle for both of them. ‘Sure,' Burch repeated. ‘You a pediatrician. Maybe you have an explanation. Boy, Hector junior, twenty-one. Did brilliantly at Harvard Law School. Year ago started on hashish. Six months ago on heroin. Twice hospitalized. Psychotic episodes. Two of his buddies committed suicide. One from a railway bridge. Girl, Jenny, seventeen. Did brilliantly at High School. Fell for a Pop guitarist. Followed the Group everywhere through the United States of America. Made plaster-casts first of guitarist's penis, then of the others' too. Became a sort of speciality with her. Mrs Burch discovered Jenny's collection of casts during a search in her cupboard. Quite a collection … I guess it's only natural. Sexual behaviour has many variables. Hindus have lingams in their temples. No value-judgments intended, but it seems slightly odd. You a pediatrician…'

‘Won't you have a little soda in your glass?' Wyndham said conversationally.

‘Only blows you up … I asked you questions. What's the explanation?'

‘My line are babies in cradles. Not adolescents.'

‘Maybe it's the influence of Mrs Burch. Mrs Burch is a Catholic convert. Believes in all the mumbo-jumbo. Attends mass. Attends spiritualist seances too. Apparently Great Chief Chingakook wised her up about Jenny's collection, over the ouija board.'

‘Most families have their upsets. Perhaps they'll settle down,' Wyndham said soothingly. He, too, began to feel the
liquor, and Burch's revelations, combined with the effects of the
Höhenluft,
made him feel somewhat odd.

‘It must be the unscientific influence of Mrs Burch,' Professor Burch mused. ‘Pavlov's method of paradoxical conditioning turned his dogs into neurotics. When you condition a subject in two mutually contradictory ways, he is liable to go to pieces.'

‘They'll settle down,' Wyndham repeated, sliding down from his high stool. ‘I wouldn't worry. In the meantime, thank you for an interesting conversation.'

‘Haven't answered my questions,' Burch protested, fingering his empty glass.

‘And so to bed,' Wyndham said cheerfully. ‘Perhaps we ought to turn the lights out.' He extended a helping hand as Burch scrambled to his feet. Walking out through the glass door on slightly unsteady legs, they gave the impression of Mr Punch helping the Sergeant Major off the parade ground.

On the third day of the Symposium, the keenly awaited duel between Otto von Halder and Harriet Epsom took its predictable course. It was not their first confrontation; in fact they had met and fought twice already in that same year – at an ecology congress at Mexico City and a futurology symposium at the Academy in Stockholm.

Halder spoke in the morning. It had to be admitted that his delivery was impressive, although the paper he read was essentially the same – except for a few paraphrases and impromptus – which he had given in Stockholm and in Mexico; nor did he seem in the least embarrassed by the fact that Harriet had been present on both occasions, since he expected, not without justification, that she too would come up with a slightly paraphrased repeat performance. After all, one could not expect scientists to produce some original discovery on each of these public occasions. Rather, they looked upon themselves as a travelling team of professional wrestlers, who are familiar with one another's antics and go through their paces, each time pretending surprise and indignation at the base tricks of their opponents.

Halder's thesis was basically that of the prophets of the Old Testament, from Isaiah to Jeremiah; his flowing white mane and the pathos of his delivery confirmed this impression. Man, in his view, was a species of assassins –
homo homicidus.
This was his principal characteristic. Other animals only kill prey belonging to a different species. A hawk killing a field-mouse can hardly be accused of murder. The law of the jungle permits feeding on other species but forbids slaying members of one's own.
Homo homicidus
is the only offender against this law – a victim of endemic
aggressiveness directed at his own kin; a bundle of murderous instincts…

‘Rot,' Harriet remarked.

‘
Ach so
?' Halder replied with an exaggerated shrug. ‘You will have your say later. Now it is my say. And I say to you, who is a zoologist, show me any other animal who murders and slaughters its con-specifics – its own biological kin. Yes, animals also have conflicts – over territory, or sexual competition, or food, or wanting to be the boss. They fight, but with gloves, like boxers. They always stop short of killing. It is a ritual – like fencing with the
epée.
It
looks
savage, but it is all bluff and bluster, and when one combatant signals “
touché
”, the other stops. The wolf or the dog signals
touché
by lying down on its back, paws in the air' (Halder mimicked the waving of paws); ‘the fish swims away, the stag slinks away' (Halder grew antlers with his fingers and made slinking motions). ‘And the victor lets him get away. But man – tsh sht …' (he indicated cutting the throat of poor Tony, who sat next to him). ‘Tschsht – kill for money, kill for jealousy, kill for power, kill for territory …'

He ruffled his white hair in despair. How was
homo homicidus
to be prevented from destroying himself? From committing geno-suicide? He raised both arms in a prophetic gesture:

Gefährlich ist's den Leu zu wecken

Verderblich ist des Tigers Zahn

Jedoch der schrecklichste der Schrecken

Das ist der Mensch in seinem Wahn
…

‘As Friedrich von Schiller tells us:

‘'Tis dangerous to wake the lion

Fatal is the tiger's tooth

But most horrible of all horrors

Is man in his madness – forsooth…'

There were several repressed giggles.

‘
Ach so
,' said Halder, controlling his anger. ‘You think it
is funny? But whatever you think, the killer-instinct is a scientific fact, it is in our flesh and blood, under the skin, it is in you and me. If we deny it, if we do not dare to face the facts about our own nature, then there is no hope for a remedy…'