The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (13 page)

“Oh, yes, certainly. I shall re-open my negotiations with Mr Gruff, concerning that plot of farmland. That will buy me some time,” Rupert said. “That should leave me just enough for a costume and the household expenses until the New Year, by which time I will have met with Miss Pickering and our courtship will have begun. Roseanna will not pose any problem, although I do wish she’d get what she deserves. I have already received a letter from her concerning the divorce, which she wants resolved as soon as possible before she departs for Italy. Oh, Smythe,
who’d be plagued with a wife, that could set himself free
...” And here his mind danced again with thoughts of brutal revenge and, what he considered rightful, bloody justice.

“Well, as long as you remain calm and measured it sounds a good plan. But, could I enquire...” Lieutenant Smythe began.

But Rupert was already off again with dreams and fancies.

“Now do you think it would be best, for my costume, to go for something contemporary and quirky, say from a novel, or for a more historical character?” Rupert interrupted, beginning the second phase of what was, for Lieutenant Smythe, a very boring evening.

The evening of the Pickering’s ball arrived, and Rupert Robertson took a cab—he had to really, it would not do to arrive on foot. He was dressed as Pierrot. It was not a costume he had chosen, but had been the only one that his new tailor had been prepared to make for him, on credit. He was clearly a suspicious and overly materialistic man, Rupert thought. The irony of the costume had not occurred to Rupert, for this evening was to be, he believed, a glorious unification of lost souls, parted only by the vagaries of family and social circumstance. It was more likely to be the sustained elaboration of an entirely one-sided obsession.

He entered the fine mansion of the Pickering’s. One day it would fall to him, he thought. It would be a burden, but it was a responsibility he would have to bear if he were to be with his Pollyanna. And that is exactly what he intended to do. She would feel the same.

The servant announced his name in a hushed voice, barely audible even to Rupert, who was stood only feet from him. But he was not here for social climbing. He was not here to mingle with the great and the good of their feeble little town. He was not here to play the guessing game of those who had chosen masks. He was not here to listen to music, and drink, and dance the night away. He was, most certainly, not here to celebrate Christmas. He was here for one thing only—to meet his Pollyanna.

As he descended the stairway into the great ballroom he scanned the crowd, searching for her. There were costumes from all ages, but many dwelt upon the French Revolution. There were some military men who had elected to come in their uniform instead of costume; although to Rupert their clothes seemed just as ludicrous a plumage as the other fancy dress. Lieutenant Smythe could be seen, with his usual gaggle of attendant ladies. There was a small orchestra, dressed as performing monkeys, with red tunics and fez hats. But nowhere could he see his Pollyanna.

He almost tripped over a group of young children, dressed in endearing animal costumes, who were dancing around in a ring, singing, “
Dancy baby diddy, / What shall daddy do widdy? / Sit on his lap
, /
Give it some pap;
/
Dance baby diddy.
”

It was that awful old ditty that had been ringing through his head all these weeks. It had the air of a fairground song, repetitive, insistent, and maddening. That, or a rhyme that grubby street children scream at the top of their voices as they play with their crude toys, fashioned from sticks and stones, dead cats or whatever materials may be to hand. Strange that the sons and daughters of wealthy Wickhampton folk should be singing it, at Colonel Pickering’s Christmas ball.

They had planned—that is, Roseanna and him—upon having children. They had agreed upon four, and God-willing, two of each—enough to make for a lively nursery. Their offspring would not play in the grimy alleyways and dangerous streets. They would have a nanny and a tutor. They would have discipline, and set hours of study and relaxation. It would not be a hard regime, but regimented enough to give them purpose and aspiration. Pollyanna Pickering would share his beliefs, of that he was certain, and they would have six—no,
eight
!—children to show the world their love for one another.

And then she appeared—Miss Pollyanna Pickering, attired so lavishly that Marie Antoinette would have balked at the extravagance. Her wonderful locks of golden hair were braided up into cascades of ringlets around a silver filigree frame, with little nodding birds perched amongst the coiffeuse’s artistry. Her gown was of a pale blue, as light and delicate as a promising spring sky, with wide panniers that billowed in great waves about her. And the lace that edged it were the delicate clouds flitting through that painterly scene. Her pointed bodice was a light yellow, with an almost invisible grey embroidery that echoed the birds in the frame of her hair. The colours reminded him of that first morning he had seen her step from the pharmacy, like a proud, exotic bird. And in doing so she had ignited within him fire enough to rise from the ashes of his misery, in the hope, one day, of soaring through the air with her, both dematerialised through the intensity of their passion.

She glided, his perfect
baroque dream
, through the magnificent ballroom.

She floated, a
glorious bird
, alighting here and there amongst the guests to curtsy and greet them.

Interminably slowly, but as though drawn, she made her ethereal way towards him. As she came closer he heard her beautiful laugh, those notes of supreme joy that had held him captivated for these long weeks.

“Oh, how is it possible that perfection could be further perfected?
What a beauty! What a pretty creature!
” Rupert thought, the infernal, unknown melody jingling through the back of his mind.

And soon, very soon, he would hear her charming voice. A few more pleasantries with the other guests and she would be with him. He saw their faces around hers, some masked, others thickly daubed with make-up. They looked as one to him though, as useless as peg dolls, gruesome nothings that merely squandered the time that could be taken up by his first meeting with his exquisite queen.

“
There’s dead folk here, all stiff and dolly,
” that tedious music rang in his head as he mouthed the words. “
I’ll dance and sing like anything, with music for my pretty Polly
.”

The orchestra began a waltz.

Miss Pollyanna Pickering finally arrived, a
graceful swan.

“Why, Mr Robertson,” she curtseyed, her thin lips sneering. “What a pleasure to have you at our little gathering. It is strange though not to see your wife here with you, or has she been detained by the delights of the muses and the hidden charms of Apollo?”

Rupert Robertson heard not a word of what she said though. His mind, so disassembled by the madness of these weeks of fantasy and desperation, permitted only a seraphic choir to play to his ears, further confirming the heavenly being that his crazed eyes had fashioned.

“Might I have this dance with you, my lady,” he burbled. “
I can dance and sing like anything, with music for my pretty Poll!
”

He did not comprehend the shock upon her face and heard, instead of her indignant reply, the poetry of a psalm, set to the music of the cosmos. His enfeebled mind could discern only assent to the dance, and he frantically grabbed Miss Pickering for the embrace he so richly deserved after these weeks of ignominy and anticipation.

He twirled her into the waltzing crowd and laughed, crying out to the tune that played through his brain like a broken mechanical organ, “
At long last, I’ll dance and sing like anything, with music for my darling Polly. All night, I’ll dance and sing like anything, with music for my only Polly. Oh, look you fools, I’ll dance and sing like anything, with music for my pretty Polly.
”

They danced and danced. He danced and danced her.

The music had stopped but the insane jig in Rupert Robertson’s mind was still in full flow.

And he continued to dance and dance her, and chant and chant his demented song.

The peg dolls stood about the ballroom, their blank faces as dead as everything else in the world. There they were, in the centre of the room—the new Mr and Mrs Robertson—their predestined union finally confirmed.

Pollyanna Pickering’s breathless body was slumped in his arms. As Rupert rocked her back and forth a thin line of red liquid trailed from her still lips. He did not hear the shouts of outrage from the men, the agonised screams of the women, nor did he hear the steely swish of Colonel Pickering’s sabre being unsheathed, or the great bellow of his martial voice as it broke from the might of his moustache.

No, in his last moments, Rupert Robertson focused only on the gentle kiss he bestowed upon his sleeping beloved as he whispered into her sweet mouth, “
I love you so, I love you so, I will never leave you; no, no, no!
”

Now to a most curious object, an apparently plain mask. It has an economy of form so loved by the man who designed it. And who is that, you may ask—but I’m sure you already know very well indeed, my friend. Well, if you chose to play ignorant I shall tell you; it is none other than that most revered of men—Oscar Schlemmer! It renders the face neutral, as all masks do, certainly. But this is a most particular neutrality. It is one of polished browning metal, though neither brass nor bronze (something akin to rust, that has been rubbed and burnished into life) and an almost mirrored surface, so that gazing upon the face one encounters a peculiar bending mirror where your eyes and mouth slip aside and melt into a shimmering pool of shadow where only you remain, the face of the other locked away forever. It seems to me like the bastard child of an African ceremonial mask and a welding helmet... Ah!, you ask its provenance. Well surely the quality speaks for itself—there can be no doubt that this is a Schlemmer mask, surely?... Very well, to allay your fears how about this letter, written by Erich Consemüller himself, attesting to the fact that this is the very mask worn by the anonymous figure in his own photograph?

Now there’s no need to snatch, however excited you may be. As you can read there, he gifted it to a friend who then sold it on to a dealer in London in the early fifties—Consemüller was not best pleased. And what is the name of that dealer... Yes, a Mr Aldberry. And what do I have here?

It is a bill of sale from Aldberry to Hawling for that very mask. You see, all good things come to those who wait, and all paths come full circle if you are patient and diligent enough to follow them to (heir end.

It is this mask that sets the scene for our next excursion. And what should go with this story, I wonder. Something of the real
, old
Germany, before the horror, I think. A Riesling, yes! Something with a hint of sweetness and then dry on the finish—a spätlese will do the trick nicely, with just a touch of chill to it. Don’t you detest the vogue for drinks as cold as ice that prevails these days? It is this obsession with bottled lager and barbecues that has done it, I believe; the tyranny of the
cool-box
and the
sun-lounger
!

We’ve had a couple of tales of sad and lonely men now, haven’t we? How dull. What say we change course a little and have one about a happy, sociable young woman. I have called it
,

And why don’t we have something steely and bombastic for our epigraph
,

‘There will arise an enhanced
control
over all formative media, unified in a harmonious effect and built into an organism of perfect equilibrium.’

László Maholy-Nagy, ‘Theatre, Circus, Variety’

The round, rolling circle of light arched towards her across the stage, increasing in size and pace as it leapt into a contorted life. Black panels opened from beyond shedding dull luminosity upon playful geometric shapes that bounced from the shadows, or sprung from great flashes of white light. A vast cone of spiralling purple ribbons teetered back and forth and came to rest against the edge of a coil of metallic life that flitted around a core of great bulging green padding, rippling with the eager push of limbs that struggled to find the limits of its form and plied the absolute. The ritual was set in motion and all became pure architecture, rioting into existence against the chaos of the strictures placed upon them for so long; circles became squares and dissolved as an arc of red light played upon the grey, shadowy window frames beyond. Everything was pliable again and all those present were freed to slide into the nothingness of the pure and abstract.

None can know the pleasure that rippled through Stephanie Grosz that afternoon as she watched her fellow performers dance the final sequence of the work that had been called, in honour of Alfred Jarry, ‘that which rolls’. It was not simply that Oscar was delighted, he was, but also he was relieved. He had been working for too long on the plans for the Total Theatre and it was clear to see how his move to Dessau had been both a joy and a burden.

Passions had been running high, especially as their guest professor had left them the week before the performance, after a monstrous argument with Schlemmer (that had been heard throughout the building and had even led to the cafeteria, usually such a hubbub of conversation, laughter and debate, falling silent). Oscar had saved the performance from the ridiculous mess left by Professor Marceuil and transformed it back into something that spoke of the Bauhaus, and the destiny of art.

But, before we get ahead of ourselves, let’s take a step back to the January of 1926, when Stephanie had first entered the new building—or was it a modern temple?—in Dessau, carrying her designs in a black portfolio, shaking with timidity and doubt over her own abilities and filled with awe and fear of the great masters she might, one day, be lucky enough to work with. This lasted only minutes though before she was shown to the stage where she was introduced to ‘Oscar’, as she was to call him from then on. He was a friendly man, bald, with great jug ears, attired in a simple everyday working suit, who instantly put her at her ease. He looked over her set and costume designs and praised them, finding in them a ‘spirit of our age’ and ‘great potential for functional development’. She left the meeting with a place on the programme that would start the following winter, as long as she promised to move into one of the apartments in the main building, as it was imperative that all on the programme were able to work in harmony, at whatever hour suited them, and contribute to the communal welfare of the group, and their shared intellectual and artistic development.