‘Well Schultz, in all the current directions in which you may venture let me wish you bon voyage.’
‘Thanks. I’m presently first going to try to jump on a balloon ascending into heaven.’
Schultz hanging up the phone. Shifting gently in his seat in his chair and adjusting his thighs. Ominous sounds from the street. The phone on my other line ringing down in the kitchen. Jesus, someone has broken through my security curtain. O god, before recognition comes which you never think is going to come you struggle and struggle your whole fucking life against obscurity and rejection. And people closing doors in your face. Just like my Uncle Isadore did in my father’s face, his own brother. As we as a family stood on their stoop calling uninvited at their house one day on the eve of Yom Kippur. They owned a fucking path up between lawns to their front door. We owned just a fucking door. They owned a car which stood in its own fucking garage. We owned a jalopy with the springs broke which stood rusting in the street. They had six bedrooms. We had two. O christ the ignominy of that visit. They told us to go away and go home, don’t bother us. We were poor. Uncle Isadore was rich. I got named after him when I was born, my father thinking the name a good omen. And Uncle Isadore, said why have you done that nuisance to me when I already call my own son Isadore, who with your recent impersonator means two Isadore Schultzs in the vicinity of Woonsocket. And suddenly I’m called Sigmund and Franz and Isadore is my third name to always remind me of such humiliation and shame. And on that day our tails between our legs, we had to go visit Uncle Ezekiel who was a tailor in two rooms like us and who had a smart assed fat little fucker son called Saul. Holy christ I sit here now. Head hung in hands. Sweat under my armpits and at the topmost gross income of my life which could buy and sell Uncle Isadore and his fucking son ten times over. Plus I stand poised on the stepping stone into the celestial perfection and presence of the Queen. And yet here I am fucked and finished.
‘O Sigmund. O Sigmund. There there now. It’s going to be all right.’
Louella coming back into the room putting her hand gently down on the black curly tresses of Schultz’s bent head. The musky smell of her perfume. Her thigh shining blue under the satin as she kneels her knee on the arm rest of the chair. The bell ringing and the knocker rapping at the front door. Rabbi Low hello. Quick. Come in. I need your advice not to mention maybe even moral assistance. Before all this happened to me I was just this evening going to settle down to read about the care and feeding of pigeons in my encyclopaedia. Everything for a change was calm and comfort. Then after a dozen phone calls trying, I finally get the woman I love and the scent of her lovely body right by my side and nearly in my clutches. So tell me why suddenly this precious situation has to be invaded by what must now be world wide television coverage entertaining everyone from Zanzibar to Prague. All, excepting you, who I know is too sensible to waste time watching such a situation comedy starring yours truly. Who hasn’t even for the third day running, checked the box office. Or even seen to the Royal retiring room at the theatre where I am having the most sumptuous setting appropriately made ready to receive the Queen. Are you listening Rabbi Low. He’s listening, Sigmund. And he’ll tell you about the condition you’ve encountered in two words which is known in the Torah, and which loosely translated from the Hebrew means, tough shit. The kind that even with a hammer and chisel you can’t take chips out of and if it drops can break your toe. Jesus Rabbi Low, stop. There’s a turd already that’s landed on my skull to send me reeling. So now let me tell you something. One thing show business teaches you, is the five second rule. Which is do what you have to do in the first two seconds. Or run the risk of being fucked for eternity.
‘Sigmund, I know there isn’t much I can do, but if I can, I’d like to be of help.’
‘Honey you already are, just being here. His Lordship says I should go face the music and go give a conference to the Press.’
‘Sigmund I really don’t think so. Some of those reporters can be like tigers when they’re after a story and will keep digging and never let up.’
‘Fuck honey what am I going to do trapped in here. Just the thought of what the Rhode Island papers and television could do with this international incident. I’m an American for Christ’s sake from the smallest state in the Union which automatically makes everything larger than life, and it’s going to give my poor defenceless parents who haven’t even seen their priceless twin granddaughters, a heart attack. Shit that bitch is now involving innocent people. My parents out there in their respectable suburban community and at last out of the ghetto and now with decent neighbours. I mean it’s all so fucking awful, that’s what it is.’
‘Sigmund, Sigmund, you mustn’t let it get you down though. Surely we’re exaggerating this out of all proportion.’
‘Well honey not if you consider that every internal revenue and income tax inspector keeping files on me around the world is going to be watching and listening. But don’t worry I’ll be OK at least I can hold out the two and a half hours till the nine o’clock news.’
‘Here Sigmund at least let me make you more comfortable. And you’ll feel better, sip some champagne.’
‘Honey, thanks. You know I can chew fucking lawyers up for breakfast and light my cigars with their writs, but suddenly this bloody thing like a fucking bad dream has really hit me. How could I ever even imagine this could happen. Jesus so many show biz crises have come at me from every angle and direction for so many years you think you’re fielding everything just like catching baseballs on the fly with the glove held behind your back as I used to be able to do and kids would come from miles around to watch me do it. But jesus now, wham. This ain’t no baseball, it’s a meteor the size of a football field that’s coming at me. And it’s no longer me I’m worried about. It’s two innocent children. And my mother and father who aren’t ready for this.’
‘But she might have already come down Sigmund. How do you know.’
‘Because I know she hasn’t. But hey jesus honey, thinking about you. If Al sees this on television in his hospital bedroom in Los Angeles, if he’s got even one working gasket left, he’s either going to once and for all conk out or put his fist or foot through his TV screen. And O jesus, what’s worse is.’
‘Yes I know. If it’s ever made known I’m here.’
‘O god honey I am sorry. Jesus maybe go ring and tell the hospital to black out all international news from him. But jesus knowing Al that would only make him get two sets to watch in case he thought he was missing something. OK I got to, like in the Coast Guard call action stations.’
Schultz lifting himself up out of the chair to reach for one last sliver of smoked salmon, rolling it up and anointing it with lemon and putting it in his mouth. Louella nervously licking her lips. O god when she does that. Which even in all this personal catastrophe is giving me a hard on.
‘Honey, remember, whatever else ever happens. I, Sigmund Franz Isadore Schultz, truly fucking swear upon the life of my mother, that I love you.’
‘O god Sigmund. Please. Can’t we just be good and trusting friends.’
‘Honey no. Because when my balls are better I want to fuck you.’
‘What’s wrong with your balls.’
‘O jesus honey don’t get alarmed that was just a slip of the tongue I just said. And we can’t get into that right now. Let’s just say they’re sort of in a state of suspended animation, resting.’
Schultz sending Jorricks to hang a towel over the number four on the front door. Another bottle of champagne opened. And supper of macaroni and cheese served on trays. The fire blazing in the grate. The drawing room drapes tight closed. The street noises increasing. Even to a fist fight between two motorists trying to see who was going to drive first through a space wide enough for only one car. Floodlights now, illumining the door. No need to call the police who are already there. But with this attention, there’s no doubt at all that every actress that I didn’t give a part to that I promised after I fucked her in an anonymous
hotel, is going to know where I live. Jesus maybe I really got to catch that train to Scotland. If I can ever get out of here. After my whole house if not my face, ends up on the nine o’clock news. With them still ringing and knocking and Jorricks telling them to go away.
‘I guess with their being so insistent you could speak off the record or something to them Sigmund couldn’t you.’
‘Honey at this stage and in this electronic age, everything, and I mean everything, is on the record and coming out of everyone’s mouth live and recorded for repeat replay transmission for all time. Shit here we go. Honey. Hold on to your hat. It’s time for the nine o’clock news. And time for me to walk the fucking plank.’
A face of a clock, the second hand ticking away the seconds as a bell tolls nine. The face of the bespectacled commentator coming on screen. Louella reaching her hand to pat Schultz on the shoulder as he grabs the arm rests and shifts forward to the front edge of his chair.
‘Good evening, this is the nine o’clock news. The Israeli forces this evening, making large advances on a wide front across their borders into Syria, Jordan and Lebanon, continued their several concerted lightning attacks, which has now again involved the Middle East in a potential conflict which some political quarters consider could renew a Middle Eastern war and spread further. The Prime Minister has called an emergency meeting in Downing Street to assess the situation.’
Schultz in his chair taking a deep breath and blowing his breath out between his lips in a loud sigh. On the TV screen tanks, sending the sand flying in their tracks, and roaring over desert terrain, their guns blazing as aircraft scream overhead.
‘Holy shit honey imagine all this going on that I didn’t even know was happening. Look at that, our fucking guys are showing them something. Look christ at that rapid fire from those 75 millimetres. Boy those things can knock your fucking hat off. Wham. Bang bang. They’re fucking wonderful. Jesus they’re not only keeping Israel safe but also distracting the public attention from my fucking life. Thank you, guys. Even though I haven’t had a chance yet to contribute help or money I’m behind you all the way and long live Zionism and Israel.’
The commentator back on screen, his voice coming over as a picture of a nuclear bomb detonates underground in Nevada. A spiel about Russian objection. Another picture of the North Sea and an oil rig capsizing in a storm. And a spiel about the boost such rigs and their oil were giving to the British economy.
‘Well honey, touch wood. Jesus where is some real wood to touch. Never mind I’ll touch some in a second. At least this looks like peace will reign in our time. She must have come quietly down. Jesus let’s send down to Jorricks for another bottle of champagne.’
The commentator voice over as in the distance Tower Bridge comes into focus. Its tall tip top spires illuminated and the graceful cables sweeping down to shore on either side.
‘Now back to London.’
‘O my god no, she’s not still on the fucking bridge.’
‘The drama which began this afternoon on Tower Bridge continued to unfold this evening when a woman professing to be a Mrs Schultz and the wife of the well known impresario, remained perched on a parapet threatening to jump. We are now for the latest developments with our outside broadcast cameras at Tower Bridge.’
Its two spans suspended between the shadowy elevations of the twin towers, figures up on the end of extension ladders from a fire brigade vehicle parked on the overpass. The camera panning to Priscilla standing up on the parapet and glancing at her wrist and removing a blanket from her shoulders and taking off her coat, revealing jeans and a tight sweater, her mouth mouthing shouts. A reporter in front of battlements his voice coming over as the camera focuses again high on a tower.
‘And at this very moment as you can see from our camera, the woman has removed her coat and is. O my god. She is. She has. Jumped. Or rather taken a dive.’
Priscilla springing forward from the parapet in a graceful arched arc, her hands balletically mid air touching her toes and her body straightening like an arrow as she plummets fingertips first down into the rippling black water to disappear in a neat white foaming splash. The idling police launches moving towards the spot. Two deep sea divers flopping backwards into the water as a few feet away, a dark head pops up. The motor police boats closing in and hands reaching to pull Priscilla from the glistening black river into a launch.
Schultz covering his eyes. And uncovering them again. Holy jesus christ, I don’t even know how much of that descent I was watching but what an Olympic medal winning performance. Jesus I hope no one else could hear what she was saying before she jumped, because even if it wasn’t broadcast I certainly could read her lips. She was shouting, my husband is a tax dodging adulterer. Just so the Lord Chamberlain could hear, and cancel my reception of the Queen. Here I am struggling years paying good money to publicity agents and badgering them into giving newsflash handouts for international immediate release and all we then get if we’re fucking lucky is the ass end of a column mention buried somewhere near the obituaries in the middle of some provincial newspaper. And now in the two and a half seconds it takes for her to hit the water she makes news headlines and prime time TV coverage which is probably already around the world. Sending neighbours running up the front path to my mother’s and father’s house who now semi retired to the borders of Connecticut have got not only a path just like Uncle Isadore’s up to their front door but a duck pond with ducks. And their new next door acquaintances, who have ponds of their own with more ducks, will be shouting, hey Mr and Mrs Schultz, hurry and watch the TV there’s something you should see, because we know your son is a big wheel in London from the posters you got hanging up in your front hall and we figure that how many Schultzs are there in this world could there be, that there isn’t some connection. And so now my mother and father can hear and watch. In the special nice little den they built on the back of the house for peace and quiet with the big picture window for watching their ducks. And where now they can blow their gaskets in every heart valve they have. And I’ll be back tomorrow in Rhode Island making arrangements for their funeral to bury them.
After
I have just sworn
On the life
Of my mother
That I love
Louella
12
The milling noise of reporters and photographers outside of number four Arabesque Street. The front door swinging open and Schultz behind his silvered impenetrable sunglasses, stepping out in Jorricks’s bathrobe and slippers. TV floodlights illuminating all sixteen windows on the five floors of this townhouse even to the three peeking over the attic eaves. Clapping erupting. Schultz’s mirrored spectacles glinting with the flash and glare of camera bulbs. Photographers jostling on the pavement and climbing up the stoop.
‘That’s it Mr Schultz, a little more profile. Can you smile.’ Policemen guiding cars past the crowd of reporters and camera crews blocking the thoroughfare. The hooting of horns and a traffic jam in the surrounding streets. Every window in the Ambassador’s house across the way occupied with a black face or two, watching. A reporter spokesman shouting above the noise.
‘Sir are you the husband of the lady who jumped from Tower Bridge.’
‘I thought she dived but otherwise no comment.’
‘Mr Schultz we understand you are the producer of London’s biggest smash hit, will you comment for us on that.’
‘Well yeah. It’s a smash hit and everybody should see it.’
‘Mr Schultz is it true that you and your wife are presently estranged and that you have ignored your wife’s request to meet the Queen rumoured to be coming to attend a performance of your production Kiss It Don’t Hold It It’s Too Hot.’
‘No comment.’
‘Mr Schultz presuming that you are the lady’s husband as she claims aren’t you very upset that she has chosen to threaten all afternoon to jump off a bridge, and then jumps.’
‘No comment that’s all I’ve got to say. And
it’s goodbye for now. And thank you for coming gentlemen.’
‘One more question please Mr Schultz. As one of London’s currently most successful impresarios, why are you here tonight behind your disguise of sunglasses, attempting to deny any relationship instead of being at your wife’s side. And aren’t you a little disturbed that as just reported by radio from the police launch arriving at Traitor’s Gate a minute ago, your wife says she has been driven to doing this by your cruel and inhuman treatment. Do you have any comment to that.’ ‘Yeah I have a comment. Go fuck yourselves you bunch of bloodthirsty bastards. I don’t have to listen to these kind of accusations on my own front door step.’
‘Thank you for your comments. And for taking off your sunglasses. And for being such a diplomat Mr Schultz.’
‘Yeah, the same to you, that’s what I am, goodnight, goodbye.’ Schultz stepping back in the door and slamming it shut. Putting on his sunglasses once more and Jorricks solicitously offering an arm to escort his master back into the drawing room. Schultz slowly levering himself again into his chair. Perspiration on the brow. Utter shambles in the heart.
‘Sir, I took the liberty of showing the young lady to the pink bedroom.’
‘Jesus Jorricks is she all right.’
‘I think madam has a migraine.’
‘Thanks, Jorricks, this is a pretty bad time.’
‘Well sir, they got what they were looking for, your very forthright chastisement.’
Jesus Jorricks did you hear me in here.’
‘It was live on the television sir.’
Schultz slumping back deeper in his chair and shaking the big black curls back and forth on his head. Clenching a fist and pounding it on his knee. Holy jeez now I’ve done it. As soon as I saw her two fucking hired detectives right out there in the middle of all the journalists, I couldn’t control my temper. The whole fucking thing is a put up job. To inflame the Press against me. With lies and innuendo. At what is now becoming before I know it, the most crucial time of my existence. That will go live by satellite to the USA. Be networked coast to coast so that every fucking station across the nation can make capital out of my fucking life. While right here in London they are scaring the woman I love away to bed without me. What new girlfriend is ever going to be convinced I’m a genius. After I’ve just made a public imbecile out of myself being honest. Rabbi Low. You must have got a load of this latest. And being the great astronomer of life’s vicissitudes, tell me please through your telescope where the fuck am I orbiting now. Ah Sigmund, hello. I have a prediction. There are comets coming. You are orbiting into trouble. And it is because you are a rube. Hey christ Rabbi. Who are you calling a rube. And comets have already come. Two in the shape of busted balls. But I ain’t no rube. No. Because Sigmund is going to win. And one of these days go float on his backside in the sunshine of the Riviera. How can you be so sure Sigmund. Sigmund is sure because this old Schultzy boy has money for a change, that’s why. But jesus that black cloud bitch is out to destroy exactly the thing that’s putting the bread and butter into her mouth. Royalty’s presence could have added two whole years to the run. And make the subsidiary rights worth an absolute fortune. Even if Binky did steal my stars. I’m so confused tonight I don’t even know whether I’m unhappy. Only a world war starting now could take the public’s mind off me for a second. But at the rate I’m going maybe I could sell the TV rights to my whole life story in thirteen hair raising and prick depressing episodes. Starting with a full screen zoom in close up of my bandaged balls and a technicolor flashback all the way to a banjaxed youth trying to mind the brassiere counter in lingerie. Christ if a few laughs could be introduced somewhere in between the continual calamity, it would make fucking good slapstick black humour and for its obscenity get publicity being banned everywhere. Only maybe the comedian star shouldn’t be as good looking and charming and as willing to please women as I am.