Between the Bridge and the River Page 13

  Fraser stood for a moment, then sat on the sofa opposite the worried man.

  “I’m Fraser Darby.” He put his hand out to shake. The man took it and shook it.

  “Brinsley. Brinsley Sheridan. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” said Fraser, happy to encounter someone friendly after the scary old boatman.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a bit distracted, nervous, you know.”

  Fraser nodded. “Yeah, that old guy in the boat would rattle anybody’s cage.”

  Brinsley looked at him, puzzled.

  “The sailor, Saknussem—the guy who brought us here.”

  “I came in a Rolls-Royce. It was driven by a very nice Asian man called Tim. He made me a cup of tea.”

  Fraser chose a different tack. “So, what are you doing here?”

  “Tim told me to wait for a Mr. Lovecraft. I’ve been here about fifteen minutes. How about you?”

  “I don’t really know but this is certainly one of the strangest dreams I’ve ever had,” laughed Fraser. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Brinsley gave him a sympathetic look. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think this is a dream, Fraser,” said the Irishman kindly.

  “What are you talking about? I just fell through the ground, floated across the sky, and sailed a calm sea with a cranky pensioner. Granted it’s not sexy or profound but it’s hardly the kind of thing that happens when I’m awake.”

  “What were you doing before you got here?”

  “Why?” demanded Fraser defensively. He still felt guilty about the ugly hooker.

  “Look, before I came here I was in my bed in my house in London. My wife, Val, a lovely girl, love of my life, and my kids and my friends came to say good-bye to me. I had been in hospital with liver cancer but they said there was nothing more they could do. Val took me home. I fell asleep and woke up in the back of a Rolls-Royce with Tim making me a cup of tea. The pain of the cancer was gone and I had a full pack of cigarettes in my pocket. You see what I’m saying?”

  Nothing.

  Brinsley tried again. “I was losing my hair. I was going bald. Now look at it.” He ran his hand through his unarguably gorgeous thick head of hair.

  Silence as the penny slowly fell.

  “I’m dead?” Fraser gasped.

  “I don’t know about you but I’m pretty sure I am.”

  “But I’m breathing. I can feel my pulse. I’m here.”

  “Yeah, that’s all true for me too but I feel it. In my gut, which is probably an illusion.”

  “Are you a doctor or something?”

  “No, I’m a used-car salesman but I’m also Irish and a poet.”

  “You’re a car salesman and poet?”

  “Not a lot of money in poetry, son. Mind you, the way things have been, there’s not a hell of a lot in the car business either. You don’t know anyone that would be interested in a Mercedes convertible? It’s a real collector’s item.”

  “No,” said Fraser dumbly.

  The men sat quietly for a moment.

  “I play the harmonica too,” offered Brinsley.

  “And does being a poet and a car salesman and Irish and being able to play the harmonica make you any more knowledgeable about this than me? We might both be dreaming, in the same dream.”

  “Maybe that’s what death is.”

  “Oh shit, you really are a poet. You really think we’re dead?”

  “Yup.”

  Fraser was thunderstruck. He thought for a moment. He thought about heading out into the Miami night, drunk and angry, he vaguely remembered head-butting someone in the men’s bathroom, he got little flashes of dancing in the gay club, and then he got a few snapshots of himself fighting with T-Bo and Silky and Wilson.

  “Holy fuck,” he whispered.

  “Jesus, be careful. Mind your language, we’re dead here.”

  Fraser nodded. He started to cry. Fat, hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He felt about three years old. Brinsley smiled sadly at him.

  “There, there, come on. It’s all right. Everybody dies,” he said.

  “Oh no. I think I’m in big trouble.”

  “I think your trouble is over, my friend.” The Irishman smiled softly.

  “No, I mean with God and Jesus and everybody. I’ve been a bit of a lad in my life—scratch that, I’ve been a total prick. I always meant to clean up my act before I died. I think I’m going to hell.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m worried about it too, I don’t know what the rules are. I had some adventures myself when I was younger. We’ll have to wait for this Mr. Lovecraft, I suppose.”

  Fraser nodded, very upset. He started weeping loudly, unable to help himself.

  His heart breaking on every exhale.

  Time passed slowly in the cabin for the two men. Eventually Fraser calmed down and sat staring into space, numb with shock, as Brinsley leafed through an Architectural Digest. Brinsley put down his magazine and looked at him.

  “So what do you do, then, Fraser?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your job, what do you do?”

  “Oh, well. I’m unemployed right now.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was in television.”

  “Really? I have some friends in television.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Brinsley could tell he didn’t want to talk, so he kept quiet as long as he could, but he couldn’t help himself. “Are you a celebrity?”

  “No. I’m a disgrace,” spat Fraser huffily.

  Before Brinsley could ask why, the door was flung open by a tall, gangly customer, about forty-six years old, dressed in a black cape, black pants, and shiny black boots. He had a long dishlike face that ended in a big chin that was magnified by the smile on his strangely small mouth.

  “Hello! Hello! Hello!” he bellowed cheerily in a robust New England accent. “I am so sorry I’m late. You won’t believe the day I’ve had: gothic!”

  Brinsley and Fraser stood up as he entered but the man ignored Fraser completely, strode over to the surprised Brinsley, and gave him an affectionate bear hug.

  “Brinsley Sheridan, how wonderful to finally meet you.”

  Fraser looked at Brinsley questioningly. Brinsley shrugged.

  “I’m Lovecraft,” said the man. “Howard Phillips. Everyone calls me H.P. I’m a huge fan, Brinsley—may I call you Brinsley?”

  Brinsley nodded.

  “Did you bring your harmonica?”

  Brinsley fished his mouth organ from his inside jacket pocket and held it up for Lovecraft to see.

  “Oh, excellent! Absolutely spiffy! Like I say, I’m a huge fan. Let’s head off, everyone is dying to meet you—well, perhaps not dying to meet you, if you know what I mean?” He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

  “Are we dead?” said Brinsley.

  “I am, you are.” He glanced at Fraser. “I’m not sure about Laughing Boy here.”

  “What about my wife and kids?”

  “They’ll be fine. Miss you, of course, but All Is Well. C’mon, let’s go. You’re going to love this bunch of guys. They’re loonies!”

  “Am I going to hell?” asked Brinsley.

  “Oh Brins, what are you talking about?” laughed H.P. Lovecraft. “You were finished with hell by the time you were in your thirties. All Is Well my friend, All Is Well.”

  The gentle Irishman couldn’t help but smile and sigh with relief. He gestured toward Fraser.

  “What about yer man here?”

  “Someone will be along for him in a minute. Come on, come on. Let’s go.”

  Brinsley could not help but be caught up in the enthusiasm and cheer of H.P., and he wished Fraser good-bye and good luck before he allowed himself to be hustled out the door. Fraser sat down again and waited.

  L’A MOUR

  RUE DE VAUGIRARD IS ONE OF THE LONGEST STREETS IN PARIS. It runs from the Boulevard Sai
nt Michel, alongside the Palais de Luxembourg and its gardens, crosses Rue de Rennes, and heads out of the Sixth Arrondissement to the groovy wilds of the Fifteenth. It’s a busy street during the day, lots of deliveries and the ubiquitous European buzzy moped funsters, but at night it is as quiet as the Pantheon.

  Claudette and George, or Georges, as she called him (he loved it), had walked away from Notre Dame’s gothic threat and seemed instinctively to be headed toward Claudette’s apartment, the one she had inherited from her actor-lover. As they strolled by the dark palace, now a government building, Claudette told George how Hermann Göring had taken it as his personal residence during the Nazi occupation of the city. How he had looted the place of many art treasures, some of which were still missing.

  It was a mystery to Claudette why the Nazis, who were so spiritually bankrupt, were such art lovers. She couldn’t seem to equate the two, and why was it that their tastes ran to the flamboyant and expensive?

  George said it was because they were criminals. He had seen the same thing with clients. Occasionally he would be called upon to defend successful career criminals. Ugly, brutish, greedy minds who would, when they had the funds, surround themselves with expensive and gaudy art. Art that the rest of the world, that history, had declared meaningful and beautiful.

  They did this for two reasons, said George. One was that it showed everyone they were powerful and could acquire beautiful and expensive things, and the other was that they had no real idea of beauty, so they had to take everyone else’s word for it. George said that it is impossible to see beauty unless you possess some yourself, but there is solace in this fact if it is examined.

  Claudette agreed, delighted with the explanation. She said it was like when she had gone to Hollywood with Guillame, she had seen so many hideous men—Hollywood producers and executives, fat barrels of spite—who always had beautiful escorts with them. But the thing about the beautiful escorts was that they all sort of looked the same: big pouty collagen lips, large fake breasts, gym stomachs, and perfect round asses. They were like drawings of women done by a horny teenage boy.

  “Exactly,” said George.

  The men have no idea what they want and the women cater to that. That same look is favored by criminals the world over. Big, noisy art in gilt frames. You won’t see much Miró on the walls of the wicked.

  “Does that mean the art is debased if it is owned by a philistine?” asked Claudette.

  “Oui,” replied George, thrilled with his daring new controversial stance. “Just like the pouty Hollywood escorts.”

  “Are you sure you are not French?” laughed Claudette.

  “I’m not.” George smiled. “But I’m getting there.”

  And indeed he was. He thought about his abandoned wife, Sheila. He felt another stab of guilt but at the same time he could not remember when he had last had a discussion about art or Nazis or even Hollywood. He hadn’t even been up this late in maybe five years. He wondered what the hell he had done with his life. He’d settled for less. Settled for the path of least resistance. Tried to be a good egg. Didn’t want to hurt those he loved, which of course is impossible. If someone loves someone else it’s going to hurt. That’s part of it. He could see that now. He wasn’t sure that he had ever loved Sheila, he thought probably not, and he didn’t think Sheila had ever really loved him, it’s just that he was convenient. She had acquired him like a big, gaudy painting, except he was more a kind of store-bought print.

  Well, no more, he was getting French, bébé. Finding his inner Frenchman. He couldn’t live for other people anymore, he was dying, and the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

  As they walked under the covered arches on Rue de Vaugirard, opposite the Palais du Luxembourg, George turned and kissed Claudette again. He held her passionately and she returned his ardor with fire and enthusiasm. They were backlit with the light from a display in a clockmaker’s window.

  Across the street, guarding the palace gate, stood a gendarme who was in reality the angel Gabriel. He watched them from his little Perspex sentry box. He smiled approvingly and took a last drag on his cigarette. L’amour.

  INFERNO

  FRASER WAITED FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES or so after Brinsley left with H.P. Lovecraft before he thought of leaving himself. He tried to but found the door was locked from the outside—somehow he had expected that. He sat down and leafed through an Architectural Digest, finally getting interested in an article about the actor Robert Duvall, who liked to collect South American art and to dance the tango with his pretty young wife in their immaculate country home.

  He heard a key in the lock and the door was opened by a short middle-aged man in a dark blue toga. He was red faced, chubby cheeked, and pudgy-fat. He held his hands up high in a rather effete affected manner and his tubby, sausagey fingers looked like they were being throttled by his many elaborate rings. Totally out of character with the rest of his outfit, he wore a jesus is my homeboy baseball cap. He spoke American-accented English, sounding almost exactly like Lee Liberace, the flamboyant homosexual concert pianist.

  “Fraser Darby?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Fraser, standing. He threw in the “sir” just in case. You never knew what would keep you from the lake of fire.

  “Oh, please. ‘Sir’ is my father. Call me V.” He grabbed Fraser and gave him an affectionate but chaste little hug. “It’s short for Virgil. I’m Roman originally.”

  “Okay . . . V,” said Fraser.

  “Sorry I’m late. I have a terrible time with directions, which is embarrassing really, given that I’m a senior guide here.”

  “Where are we, V? What is ‘here’?”

  “Ooh. Good question, smartyboots. All in good time. We’ve got a bit of a trek ahead of us, do you want to go to the bathroom or anything before we leave?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Course you don’t, silly. It’s just my little joke. Shall we?” He motioned to the open door and Fraser walked toward it. Virgil followed.

  The landscape had completely changed.

  The sea was gone and stretched out in front of, and indeed behind and to either side of, them was a vast, flat hardscrabble desert under a white sky. A couple of dowdy fake cacti were placed here and there, and about thirty feet in front of them was a large cardboard cutout of a camel that was smiling and wearing a pair of sunglasses. The earth was parched and devoid of all life, as if crossed by a retreating czar.

  “Behold!” squeaked V.

  Fraser turned and looked at him, mystified.

  V apologized, then tried it again in a much more dramatic and appropriate tone.

  “Behold!” he boomed theatrically.

  There was silence for a long moment. V smiled awkwardly.

  “Behold what?” asked Fraser.

  “The Inferno,” boomed V again, playing to the balcony. Fraser could not believe it.

  “What, this is it? This is the lake of fire? This is hell?”

  “Well, sort of.” V shrugged. He had given up any pretence of sounding scary and prophetic. “Actually, I never really know what’s going to appear until the client arrives. I had one guy, an Italian, few hundred years ago now, doesn’t time fly—in both directions—you should have seen what he came up with. It was stupendous, although a bit over the top for me. We went on for days. All very allegorical and learned. A real masterpiece.”

  “Dante Alligersomething. That who you’re talking about. Dante’s Inferno?”

  “Yes, that was him. Dante. Dan, I called him. ‘Dan, Dan, the Renaissance man.’ That’s what I used to say, made him laugh. Sweet guy. Smelled a bit garlicky but, you know, Italian.”

  “You are the poet Virgil and you are going to guide me through The Inferno?”

  “Exactly!” said V. “You’re very quick.”

  “I did Dante’s Inferno at school. It was nothing like this. Where’re the levels and the wailing corpses and people frozen in ice and all that stuff?”

  “You’re talki
ng about Dante’s Inferno. This isn’t Dante’s, it’s yours.”

  “What?” asked Fraser, genuinely puzzled.

  “This is your soul, Fraser. It looks like this because this is the way you’ve made it.”

  “What do other people’s souls look like?”

  “Oh, it varies—some swampy, some dark, some cheery. I had a very nice lady from Toronto once, she had the whole thing covered in brightly patterned wool. Like a giant sweater. Very Canadian.”

  Fraser stepped forward and kicked a few pebbles toward the cutout of the camel.

  “So I’m dead, then?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just a guide. I don’t get that sort of information.”

  “But I won’t be going back to where I came from?”

  “Dante did.”

  “Yes, I suppose he must have, to write about it. What do I do now?”

  “It’s your soul. We have to cross it.”

  “Why?”

  “To get to the other side,” said V smugly.

  Fraser gave him a withering look.

  “What I mean is, my job is to escort you across your soul to Your Solution, which lies”—Virgil built himself up for a dramatic finish—”BEYOND!” He gestured out across the arid plain.

  “Oh, stop talking like that, you sound like a gay magician,” grumbled Fraser.

  “They have straight magicians?”

  But Fraser wasn’t listening. He started walking out across the desert to the eastern horizon.

  V shouted after him. “You’re going the wrong way!”

  Fraser turned. “How do you know?”

  Virgil smiled and held up a shiny golden compass that dangled at the end of a thick chain.

  It glinted in the sunlight, momentarily blinding Fraser.

  They headed west, as is traditional for Scotsmen in search of a solution.

  The walk was dull. V made a few attempts at light conversation, complimenting Fraser on the tiny rock formations on the floor of his soul, but Fraser was too sad and angry to reply. He just grunted.

  There was no sun in the sky, only the blank white light that seemed to have no definable source. It was neither too hot nor too cold but neither was it just right. It was empty, mile after mile of empty.