The Holy City (14 page)

No, I should never have invested Marcus Otoyo with such impossible qualities. Qualities which, in fact, had never existed. Marcus was nothing more than an ordinary youth going through a phase — exactly as Mossie Phelan had suggested.

It was inevitable that he'd grow up and I ought to have been aware of that: that, even as we talked that day in the street, he was already in the process of leaving what remained of his childhood behind. Something Evelyn Dooris couldn't have been expected to understand — being scarcely thirteen. Which only tends to add to one's sympathy for her. For there could be no doubting her disappointment that day in the greenhouse. Her soul was cast down — you could tell that immediately. Unaware, perhaps, that she too was entering a new period in her life, and that soon her schooldays also would be but a memory. Like those of Marcus Otoyo — except that my myopia of hopeless belief and longing had blinded me to the fact.

The progression of events seems so stunningly simple now — something which comforts me in my advancing years. I had desired, more than anything, to be comparably spiritual, to share somehow in Marcus's extraordinarily pious passions — those I had assumed to be burning deep within him. To be permitted to scale the foothills and crest the dizzying heights, where, my imagination had told me, destiny had placed him. And from whence he gazed down haughtily, upon the insignificant plod of the dismal human herd. In his image and likeness, I would secure the adoration and respect I had so long been denied, I felt certain.

From the very first night I'd seen myself standing outside the Thornton Manor house with its high French windows, gazing in at my mother Lady Thornton, who was little more than a blur as she turned the pages of the golden treasury, reading, as always, to her beloved Little Tristram. Who lay there, luxuriously, desultorily, with his thumb in his mouth, curled up cosily in her warm lap. At one with her and everything about him.
Inside,
I thought.
Belonging.

On the very first page of
A Child's Garden of Verses
— the most beautiful book in the world — there was an ink drawing of an ancient crumbling portal, whose pillars were twined with leaves. And then, underneath, in ornate script, a sentence which read:
Enter through here and inherit human happiness. Abide with us herein beneath the stars of the bluest heaven.

I really don't think that, even if I had wanted to, I could have prevented myself from visiting Ethel that day. Because
of my memories of her and that book. But I was wasting my time, as I realise now, searching for something she would always have found it impossible to give. She hadn't a clue what I meant, poor woman, pestering her about ‘this holy city we call love', and all the rest of it. Prevailing upon her to read ‘Escape at Bedtime', in particular. Yes, she remembered the book, she told me — but only vaguely. So it had been a pointless exercise, emulating Tristram — manoeuvring myself into her lap, I mean. And which had been so awkward, for both of us. I should never have requested that. For, as has been reasonably, if I'm honest, suggested, it was my very insistence that had been primarily responsible for her cardiac arrest.

But I sometimes think, even yet, and in spite of myself, I'll often find myself thinking: If only she
had been
capable of understanding. It could have been so beautiful, almost as good as the way I'd dreamed it, with at long last the French windows of Thornton Manor slowly parting — and Lady Thornton approaching me with arms outspread, crying joyfully:

— But of course you can enter your own house, my dear boy.

But it wasn't to be.

I suppose it's true to say that, at the ripe old age of sixty-seven, C.J. Pops, ancient husky relic of the good old sixties, has, if nothing else, succeeded at last in growing up. But not only that, has also discovered the secret of endurance and survival. That which comes of pledging fealty to but one
single creed, that very same one which now like a cleansing fog spreads out across Western Europe, desultorily floating across the flagstones of the Plaza, where the pudding-faced families repose, as ever, beneath the patiently revolving screens. Attired in their loose-fitting leisurewear, mutely passing wine across the table as one turns, with a single head, smooth and round as a consecrated bread, now facing in my direction — bold escutcheon of this rational new epoch, ephemeral cipher, neat round rubric formed with a chilling, perfect artistry. Regarding me eerily, the starkest orb:

As perfectly formed as a consecrated bread.

I can't say for sure just how long exactly I had been going with Dolores McCausland when I found myself waking up one night in the Nook, with — to my astonishment — the following words thrusting from my mouth:

— Marcus Otoyo, hear this call. Appease for me the longings of my heart, will you?

I didn't sleep for the remainder of the night. Kept tossing and turning and experiencing perplexing, near-feverish visions. One of which in particular was most frightening in its realism. I could almost hear the clamour in the room: that same disjointed cacophony the soldiers might have made in their grim approach to Gethsemane. A detachment of guards — led by Marcus, all bearing lanterns and torches
and weapons. I was standing there alone when I saw him at the gate.

— We have crossed the Kedron Valley to come here, he said, and whispered:

— The one that I shall kiss — that is he.

Then he smiled with those gleaming eyes and I could feel a warm tear beginning to steal down my cheek.

It was only a day later, the moment I saw him outside the Five Star supermarket, that jarringly, almost immediately, the same sentence entered my mind: The one that I shall kiss: that is he.

I involuntarily flinched as it did so, edging into an alleyway as he passed.

But, generally speaking, that episode would have proved an exception around then. Most of the time it was delightful, to be honest. To employ the period parlance, we were having ourselves an absolute ball. Dolly and I had never got along better, and we were the talk of the place as we zoomed around in my E-Type substitute. As we went
vroom!
in the town of Cullymore. Cue
Bullitt,
by Lalo Schifrin. You got it, Pops, it's outasite. No, I jest. I may not really have been a sixties superstar like Ray Davies, or John Lennon, or Sean Connery, for that matter, but as far as anyone from Cullymore was concerned, Chris McCool, he sure was turning out to be a pretty ‘cool mover'. A regular up-to-the-minute outatown hep cat and no mistake.

*   *   *

Emboldened by Dolly's continued encouragement, I worked on refining my image somewhat, to the extent that it wasn't David Hemmings I resembled so much any longer, instead with my thick bushy moustache I looked every inch the twin of Peter Sarstedt, the medallion-sporting singer with shiny boots and crushed-velvet pants. And whose massive hit ‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely' was to be heard almost everywhere throughout that summer.

Along with my impressive facial hair, I was sporting a nice blow-dry hairstyle now, set and styled in the fashion of the time, and tending, in dress, to favour ribbed polos in a variety of bright colours, along with high-waisted flared bell-bottoms. I couldn't have been happier. Why not, for heaven's sake? With Dolly now openly referring to me as ‘her hunk'. Her very own Mr Wonderful, she would proudly say.

‘Toot! Toot!' would go the horn as I picked her up every evening at the house in Wattles Lane, to take her down for a drink in the Good Times. Sometimes I'd see Marcus sitting by the window of his bedroom, studying.

As was my wont at that time, of course, and with no evidence, I remained convinced that it was
A Portrait
he was reading. And it affected me, obviously. Wrenched me, in fact. The emotions I experienced best described by its author within those very pages:
Wounded pride and fallen hope and baffled desire.

It was on account of those inexplicable surges of feeling that I would find myself, falteringly, beginning to make the most unnecessary, unconvincing excuses.

— I don't think I'll be able to go down to Wattles Lane tonight, Dolly. I'm really sorry. I have accounts to do. I have three supermarkets to deliver eggs to tomorrow.

But somehow she always succeeded, in the end, in persuading me. And before I knew it we'd be sitting there chatting away to Marcus's mother, as he himself continued with his studies in the other room — preparing arduously for the forthcoming play,
The Soul's Ascent: Saints You May Not Know.
Every time I went down now, he seemed to be there: ensconced in the same place — frowning intensely, wholly absorbed. Assimilating every possible scrap of knowledge about the saints of old, their magnificent visions and selfless sacrifices. I noticed a booklet lying on the table.
The Blessed Martin de Porres Story,
it was called. As I say, being of colour, Marcus had specifically been chosen for the part.
The Soul's Ascent: Saints You May Not Know
in part examined the life of Martin de Porres.

— I'm so lucky, I had overheard him saying to his mother, so lucky to have been chosen. For Blessed Martin is my favourite saint of all.

I found myself charmed, utterly disarmed by his manner and by the spontaneity of this admission. There was something so open-hearted and all-embracing about his youthful tolerance, his belief in all peoples.

In the beginning, of course, and which I understand now, what I ought to have done was to laugh dismissively whenever Dolly told her Marcus Otoyo stories.

— He really does think he's a saint, silly boy! Those daft old Catholic books, filling his head with nonsense! But he
does make me howl, I have to say. You should have seen his face the day I was ironing my petticoat. The eyes, I swear, nearly popped out of his head. So amusing.

Sometimes, very occasionally, I might have enjoyed her telling those stories. But other times I would resent it — finding it increasingly difficult to conceal my irritation.

As she whinnied with laughter and primped her permed hair.

— One day, just for a giggle, don't you know, I read a little bit to him from
Titbits
magazine, Chris. You should have seen his innocent blushes!

I couldn't believe the sudden harshness of my voice. The chalk-white aspect of my expression, my clenched fists.

— That's disgusting! Do you really have to humiliate him in such a fashion? Is that the way all Protestants must behave? Is it absolutely necessary?

Why had such thoughts even entered my head? I was flummoxed.

I remember Dolly looking pale and quite shocked. She had actually left the Nook early that evening, even after I'd tried to placate her.

— No, Chris, I have to go, Chris, she kept saying — appearing very disconcerted indeed.

And the way she looked at me, just before she left. It was as if what she was thinking was: He's a Catholic all right. Prone to bouts of shame and quite irrational, disturbing violence. A Catholic to his very bones. Vitiated, profligate — lacking sobriety and self-control. He simply doesn't possess the neutrality of the Protestant — the coolness, the distance.
Spiritually infirm, bereft of the capacity to subordinate emotion. Impartiality is alien to him.

But I could have been imagining that. As Mossie used to say:

— For certain souls of a more sensitive nature, the embrace of Catholicism can sometimes prove a disaster — its excesses encouraging paranoia and delusions, often extreme and sharpened heights of perception. Over-sensitivity ought not, in certain cases, to be encouraged, for it can be potentially devastating. But only for certain unfortunates, you do understand.

He's right. But thankfully now, that's all consigned to the dustbin of the past. Catholicism and everything to do with it removed now as though they never existed. As peace reigns supreme along the Plaza and in the Happy Club. C. J. Pops and his babe, Vesna Krapotnik.

A time to be born, this balloon-headed time — a unique era of stability and opportunity. Where we all, with eager willingness, are dutiful zeros. With our life paths signposted upon a virtual highway. The bleached calm of the twenty-first century. Never has such harmony existed in history, or so the vox pops repeatedly tell us. Of course, as usual, not everyone is in accord with this appraisal. The media remain preoccupied with the debate and there is endless speculation about the disappearance of certain values and rules. The rise in suicide being attributed to the collapse of the well-tried framework of Western civilisation. Annihilation of consciousness
appears now to be the norm, it is routinely suggested.

And which, if it is true — and I'm inclined to think it is — then, believe me, is a development that causes me no discomfort at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Having willingly dispensed with my own ego some time ago. Enlisting in the ranks of the pudding-faces myself, or as Mike prefers, the good old Eggmen. The mute serried lines of ghostly coins. Knowing only too well that I might never have survived if I didn't. Survived to become Old Pops' here in the apartments — yep, C.J. McCool, Ambassador of the Void: retired swinger, former tenant of the salubrious White Room. Now as insignificant and untroubled as every other drained and grateful cipher. Which is amusing, of course, for back in the old days, quite coincidentally, they used to casually refer to me as ‘the Eggman'.