Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

I prepared a fry-up for his breakfast. Heavy on the eggs. By the time I switched them from the pan to the plate, they were a mess. The toast was black. A sort of pathetic fallacy according to the Digest. Was he a tea drinker? Not any more. What we stocked was coffee, all the current residents being wired. Lisa had laid in one carton of fresh juice. I had a glass and only then realised how adrenaline had dehydrated me. Jeez, it tasted good, walloped in another. Ah... there was a quarter of a glass finally for him. Captives can’t be choosers.

Back on with the mask again and serious irritation. I found an old track suit and brought it along.

As I set the tray before him, I asked, “You’re name’s Ronald, right... so I guess I’ll call you Ronnie.”

“No one calls me that... ever.”

“They do now... here’s something for you to wear and your breakfast. Hope you like eggs.”

I had to unchain him to get the tracksuit on but he didn’t struggle. With a disgusted sound he stirred the food.

“I don’t eat cholesterol.”

“Then you don’t eat.”

“No tea.”

“Right.”

“Too much to hope for decaffeinated, I suppose. Tad tight with the juice. Budget a shade low perhaps?”

I pointed with my hand.

“You got music, stuff to read. Could be worse.”

He gave me a withering look.

“Get me something I can read... anything on or by Rilke, Lowell, Baudelaire.”

He paused, then added, “You want me to spell those for you?”

“Ronnie, lose the attitude, or you’ll lose the fuckin’ lip. Can you spell that?”

He picked up James Baldwin, asked, “What were his deathbed words?”

“Fuck should I know.”

“Not that... he said ‘I’m bored.’”

“I thought that was George Sanders.”

“You thought wrong, he shot himself because he was bored. My namesake died of somewhat normal circumstances. However, your answers reveal a muddled tabloid intelligence. Suitable for donkey work.”

I was leaving when he shouted, “Yo’... Gorilla, this music! Surely you jest... Whitney Houston.”

He dropped the cassettes on the floor, continued, “I shall require some Elgar... Bach... or even Beethoven. But only as a last resort. How am I supposed to wash, pray tell?”

He was a spunky little fucker, I’ll give him that... or he was nuts. I asked, “Your verbals reveal a bit too much mate. You’re obviously a man of culture, of refined tastes. Am I correct?”

“One tries.”

“No doubt you’ll be familiar with a French whore’s bath?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What it is, I bring a basin of water and you use that.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“Ronnie... Ronnie, this is getting like a bad song. Then... you don’t wash. As for toilet facilities, that complicated job at the foot of the cot is a chemical toilet... state of the art. Let me promise you one thing, however. You call me names again... any names, washing won’t be a problem... Esso es claro.”

Apart from his muttering “A kidnapping linguist” the message got through. At least for then.

Dex had gone but he’d left a note: “Some greedy-guts left us juiceless, the inhumanity of man.”

No doubt he was already before his wardrobe selecting a persona. Clothes indeed make the man.

Breakfast for me was more coffee. No eggs. As I sipped, I glanced through a magazine Lisa had left on the table.

She’d red-marked lines from a feature on Kathy Galloway’s “Love Burning Deep”.

The poem, “Going Over” had many red lines. It looked like this:

Now, the very last few lines were under red ink gone riot, as if the continuous re-emphasising would drive home the message. Certainly drove it home to me.

We stand, one foot upon the bridge

Wondering if we too have the courage to go over

And strike the match behind us.

So rapt was I by the last line, I didn’t hear her. She snatched the magazine from me, clutched it to her bosom, flared, “Ain’t yo got no decency white boy, no sense of privacy?”

“Hey, back off... I didn’t know it was sacred.”

She rummaged in the fridge.

“Where de juice at?”

“Dex took it.”

“Muthah-fuckhah.”

To ease her down, I asked, “What will you do with the money?”

She mellowed. “Armistead Maupin’s character, Anna Madrigal, said she’d like to buy a small Greek island... but on reflection, she settle for a small Greek.”

I wondered if I had wandered into her “A” Level English class. This morning I had culture coming out of my arsehole.

Did I share this? Hell no. I told her of Dex’s plans. He was going to open a pet cemetery. She didn’t laugh, but asked, “Like Stephen King... is there a demand?”

“Well, there’s already an existing one. At Silvermere in South-West London. Seems there’s three horses buried there. I think, in fact, I used to back them. Oh yeah, they’ve got a goldfish, a family of rats, a terrapin, a monkey and a parrot. He showed me a price list for the deceased... and should I say pet-ceased?”

“It’s what you’d expect from South-West London. Whole place is a fuckin’ graveyard. How much to bury a dog?”

“About £500. But for your five big ones, you get a small burial service and a headstone. Course you could just cremate for £40.”

She gave a small smile.

“Or better yet, leave it outside a Chinese restaurant.”

We were almost close then. An intimacy tugged above us and I felt such a wave of tenderness. She looked vulnerable when she laughed, as if the world hadn’t yet attacked. The moment was lost as a loud crash came from the basement. She said, “Money can’t be everything if God gave it to Madonna and Julio Iglesias.”

Below, Baldwin had smashed the cot against the wall, but the chain held. As I approached him, he dropped to the ground and began a series of furious push-ups. I watched. He was a fit little bugger. After he ceased, he said, “You’re a bouncer, right?”

Got me.

“Why do you say that?”

“Could be your scintillating conversation. Clubs are my business and you have the stance of a bouncer.”

“Well, Ronnie, my man. Let me tell you something. If you want to keep breathing, keep your observations to yourself. There’s no cookie for clever dicks, just a hole in the ground.”

He gave me a studied look. What he saw, he didn’t relish if his expression was any indicator.

“How very B-feature, dare one say. London Noir. Do you prepare these muscle replies in advance?”

“Ronnie... is this yer normal disposition? The constant arsehole. Christ, who’s going to pay for your return? I mean, how keen could they possibly be for your company? What I’d like to know is how on earth you ever survived till now.”

“Tell me,” he said, “was my drink spiked last night... what?”

“You were bumped, animal tranquilliser.”

“No irony meant, I’m sure... and the bump on my head... an actual animal?”

“My colleague, you don’t want to meet him. Not a man of letters, alas.”

“Where’s my books?”

“Easy with that demanding tone, Ronnie, lest you want twin lumps. Anyway, who the fuck is Rilke?”

“One fears the Duino Elegeies would be somewhat lost on you... however

  ‘Who, if I cried out, would ever hear me among

  the angelic orders and

  even if one of them took me suddenly to his heart,

  I would lose identity

  in his strange being.

  For beauty’s only the dawning of terror, we’re