Authors: Keir Alexander
‘The owner of what?’ demands the youth snappily.
‘The ruby slippers,’ he mumbles as inconspicuously as he can. The youth looks Michael up and down, taking in the grubby, faded look of the man; the hair splatted thin to the head and the cheap old jacket tucked over the heaving gut. ‘Check it out if you must. My name is Michael Marcinkus,’ he says and stares back with such intensity that the youth is compelled to raise a hand to attract the attention of an older man in an even stripier suit. A flurry of bad-tempered muttering breaks out around him, those standing in line growing resentful at this new hold-up. In the end he has the bright idea of producing for ID his battered old grocery wholesale card with the near-illegible signature. Now the second guy goes away in search of an even higher authority, and before he knows it there are three guys in rank order of stripiness, peering at his particulars. After an agony of deliberation, consensus is reached and the third man indicates for Michael to follow him to the huge bronze door, which opens smooth and soundless.
In his bewilderment, and with the guy hurrying him along, Michael sees it all in a blur: the grand atrium with soaring ceiling, the chandeliers and shimmering screens with images flowing over them like silk, and all the people hurrying to the far doors. Unspeaking, as he has remained through all of this, the suited man escorts Michael across, pulls open swish doors and they are in the auditorium, which is vast, soft underfoot and champagne-tinted. But when he looks down at the rows of sober-suited, serious-faced people all gathered in the congregation, Michael is overcome, sweat-hot in the sudden warmth, his knees stubbornly locking at the prospect of going to sit amongst them. But his minder is in no mood to tarry: ‘Right, so I’ll take you to your seat . . .’ Michael just stands there, rooted to the spot. A few rows down he can see a free place at the end. ‘There would be great,’ he pleads. There at least he can remain unseen. ‘Fine,’ says the man, rescued from a chore much beneath him. ‘Have this, please, with our compliments.’ And turning on his heels, he thrusts a glossy catalogue at Michael, who stumbles down to claim the vacant seat. His weary frame supported at last in soft yielding velvet, he lets out a great sigh, releasing all the anxiety that has dogged him en route, and it is only now that he can really start to take it all in – see the people sitting eager and expectant; hear the stir of voices, so hushed and reverent. It really is like a church. So thinking, Michael’s eyes are led to where an altar would be in such a place, and he sees where the curved rows of chairs slope down to a long wooden stage, served at each end by a short row of steps, and having at its centre the auctioneer’s stand. On a plinth, in pride of place behind and above the stand, is an open oyster shell, completely realistic in its appearance, except that it is three feet high. His eyes narrow to take it in: the shell open so that one half is raised vertical, its gorgeous rim of mother of pearl reflecting rays of light. The other half is tilted on the plinth and houses an interior of folded silk, and on this, sitting on a pink velour cushion, are the ruby slippers, crimson and luminous – and magical to those who have come seeking magic. To Michael, though, it is all quite shocking. The effect of seeing them all lit up and fancified is nothing but false: Rosa’s treasures, removed entirely from the trials and sorrows that brought them to this place.
His thoughts returning to present dangers, Michael scans the rows, until at last he finds the face he has feared to see. There, almost in line with him, twenty people over but just a row down, is Harrison. The doom-bringer. He is bent over in his chair, an idle smile on his face as he fiddles with his cell phone, both thumbs paddling. In the amber light, a faded bruise shows across his cheekbone and a graze faintly trails down his nose. At least no one is with him, thinks Michael. Perhaps it was all just bullshit after all. But his unease won’t go away. To look at him, Harrison’s appearance is careless and casual in the same old way, but in this place and in these surroundings, there is something unspeakable in his detachment, and it fills Michael with a foreboding that sends a shiver down his spine. He allows his gaze to wander further afield. To either side of the room, smart, efficient-looking men and women take their places behind computer screens, reaching for headsets and handsets, clicking into contact with clients in faraway places, whose names are marked under a row of clocks telling the time in Houston, LA, London, Tokyo, Moscow.
A distinguished-looking man with swept-back silver hair and a gold waistcoat under his rich blue suit climbs the stand and taps the microphone. A hush falls over the audience, who have grown bold and more noisy. But it’s a false start and the man goes away again. Michael opens the catalogue, wondering how much a classy thing like this would cost to produce. He turns the pages and finds a centre spread of the slippers on a silk cushion, vivid and glamorous. He looks at the page, then up at the real things. All smoke and mirrors, but they sure know how to whet the appetite.
Three rows down, in the line between him and the slippers, another face flags up on the edge of Michael’s vision: it’s the girl who came to the Sunrise that time. She seems more grown up in the clothes she’s wearing today, but it’s definitely her. She is sitting halfway down in the rows, but she is staring at a point way up front, and following her gaze he sees James sitting there, contained and unmoving. Of course, that is why he recognized her. She must be James’s girl! So how come she is not sitting with her papa? How strange.
The auctioneer mounts the stand again, an assistant at his side. This time, they mean business. The hubbub dies down; something clenches in the pit of Michael’s stomach and he finds himself wondering what on earth it will all come to.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we start tonight with a sale of film and theatrical memorabilia, among which is an upright piano once belonging to Count Basie, and a pair of—’ A salvo of applause breaks out but the auctioneer wades on, undeterred. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen . . . A pair of ruby slippers worn by Miss Judy Garland in the film
The Wizard of Oz
. Beginning then with lot number one: a collection of theatrical programmes dating from the year 1883. Very well preserved with some light foxing; a collector’s item. Who will bid me on this?’
And so the auctioneer gets it going, brisk and businesslike. Michael settles back in his seat. It hadn’t occurred to him that there would be all these other things to be gone through before the main item.
With growing fascination he starts to observe the bidders and their little ways, from the blunt raising of a hand, to the grand gesture, to the merest twitch of an eyebrow. The lots tick down until over a hundred have gone under the hammer. According to the auctioneer’s tone of voice, this is all routine stuff, but the prices are incredible: programmes going for hundreds, posters going for thousands and a pair of gloves that belonged to some actress he never knew raising $5,000!
After an hour and a half of one unbelievable thing after another, the fall of lots grows tedious. Michael zones out, and instead contemplates the awfulness that has brought him here. He puts his hand into his pocket again, wondering if the rain has got through to the fragile letter pad. He pulls it out and sees that it’s in good shape – a little damp around the edges, but otherwise unaffected. He finds his reading glasses and puts them on: yes, why not, this would be a good time. He should get it finished now, for all the pain. He finds his place again and begins to read . . .
Bound by the spell of words, he comes to know the heart of Rosa’s wildest joys and the pit of her deepest sorrow. He peers over the rim of his glasses. He scratches his head in confusion. He reads again what he has just read. And then he exclaims, loud enough for those around him to hear: ‘Holy shit!’ Still in disbelief, he takes up the flimsy sheet to read it a third time and check his eyes are not playing tricks on him. ‘Holy shit!’ he repeats, inaudible now because the enormity of it all has hit, winding him and leaving him stunned until an urgent stir in the room brings him back to himself. At the centre of the stage, the auctioneer is standing straight and panning round to take in the audience. His voice seems to become more rounded and penetrating as he begins: ‘Lot a hundred and eleven: a pair of ruby slippers, authenticated by Warner Brothers and in perfect condition. These shoes were worn by Miss Judy Garland in the celebrated movie,
The Wizard of Oz
, made in the year 1939 at MGM Pictures, Hollywood. Who will bid me? Starting at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars . . . Ah, yes – man on my right, three hundred and fifty thousand. Three hundred and sixty? Good, three-sixty to the woman at the back . . .’
And so it goes: the bids climbing by tens of thousands. At five hundred thousand, Michael sees James raise his hand for the first time. The auctioneer acknowledges him – ‘the man centre front’ – and despite his determination to remain detached from it all, Michael finds himself willing James to see off the competition. He glimpses over at Harrison, no longer playing on his cell but slouching in his chair and looking down with that same knowing smile. It is as if nothing in the room is of any consequence to him, as if he knows exactly what will happen here, as if he has it somehow in his control.
At $550,000, James drops out awhile, leaving others to hike the price to a new mark. A man at the back in a green jacket slugs it out with a bidder in Hamburg, who by his invisibility and remoteness brings new mystery to the proceedings. At $700,000, James takes up the bidding again. There is a stutter as the green-jacketed man drops out, leaving the auctioneer in search of a new player. James’s hand remains in the air, ready to wave away the next call. The auctioneer’s voice shifts a touch, uncovering a new seam to be tapped: ‘New bidder right in front of me: seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’ Here, James’s head jerks round in a double-take straight out of a cheap TV soap. Michael looks over and sees, right at the foot of the auction stand, a wheelchair with the great bulk of a man poured into it, and it is at him that James continues to stare, his eyes fixed and glassy, as if his brain has jumped ship.
‘Against you, sir. At seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars . . . Do I have any more bids?’ The auctioneer sounds almost bored with it. Michael can see people close to James looking at him in alarm, one of them even tugging at his sleeve, but to no avail. Michael wonders what’s going on and turns to study Harrison, as if to find some kind of explanation, as if he should be the source of all ills.
‘Seven hundred and sixty thousand . . . More bids please.’ A woman at one of the desks nods; they are off again, a new tack opened up. ‘In Rome, then, at seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars . . .’
Straight away the wheelchair man bids against her and it goes in a sudden flurry, the price tag rising swiftly, the numbers rising from the unbelievable to the astronomical. The audience is in raptures, willing the game to new heights, and so it climbs before the woman at the screen lowers her head and Rome is gone. It is all with the man in the chair.
‘At eight hundred and sixty thousand to the bidder below me. Are there any other bids? . . . Well then, ladies and gentlemen. Going once . . .’
Michael sees the wheelchair man sneering at James. He sees James’s girl start to get to her feet. And he is staggered when he notices the kind and pleasant Filipino nurse sitting alongside the wheelchair, her face pale and impassive. It seems to Michael that a darkness has gathered in that tiny pocket of the room. The spotlights are blazing bright, but a shadow has swallowed up the light. He has seen bad before, too many times, been trundled over by it and swept away. He knows bad when he sees it.
■ ♦ ■
Everything falls away. James sinks to the place where he was sent whenever he was wrong, whenever he was hopeless or chicken-shit, or just plain bad, and the words rang out, ice-cruel: ‘Go to your room! Go to your bed! Go where I don’t have to look at your pale, pasty face!’ Shame was the commandment and his duty to obey, to lie cold and lonely under its weight, never to measure up to his father’s expectations. Yet, he is no longer a child. He is a man, and it was all so long ago now. The coldness no longer smothers him as much as once it did, so despite the ancient shame that is heavy upon him, James hears the words spoken out loud and clear and for his benefit – ‘Going then at eight hundred and sixty thousand dollars’ – and the nearness of things returns. He feels the marker clutched in his hand and the presence of the woman in the seat next to him, so that his body comes back to him, his eyes opening to the light, his ears ringing with a shock of sound. ‘Fight,’ says his blood. ‘Fight,’ say his limbs, feeling themselves warm again. ‘Fight,’ says his brain, coming in clear and sharp, his bright eyes bringing into shape the man with the hammer raised above his head. And James summons his petrified arm to unlock and raise itself, pivoting mechanically into the air like the pointer on an old-time train signal.
‘New bid from the man centre left.’ The words ring out clear, incised by a chorus of gasps. The flame is back in James now. It will be a straight fight between him and his dad, who glares at him now as though they are the only two people in the room. ‘Nine hundred thousand to the bidder in front.’ And so it goes, bid for bid, McBride edging slow and canny towards his endgame, James holding on firmly.
‘Nine hundred and eighty thousand to the bidder in front.’ This is it. James quivers with the intensity. He feels the audience are with him. ‘Are you still bidding, sir? Can I hurry you, sir? Nine hundred and eighty thousand, then, to the bidder below.’
The tension stretches near to breaking point as James raises his hand. ‘One million. Here, at centre left, a million dollars!’ A gust of applause reaches James’s ears, where there should have been a gale. Somehow, the audience has divined that something deeper and darker than the rule of money is being enacted.
‘At one million dollars then . . . Any advance?’ James braces himself, forces himself to turn his head and look directly at his father, whose face wears an expression of unaccustomed serenity.