Michael Frayn - Skios

“So, OK, I’m on tour, I have a contract. Palm Springs, Houston, Honolulu. And, Dr. Wilfred, Mr. Toppler follows me! Everywhere! Ten cities in ten weeks! Eighty-one! And he’s on the road!

“I say, ‘OK, honey, you win.’ We fly to LA, because I’m his fourth, and LA is where he always likes to get divorced. Sweet! We get married in New Orleans — it’s Carnival — we dance in the streets! Then straight back to Lake Tahoe to start the next tour. And for the next six weeks I’m dancing all night and we’re honeymooning all day. Never out of our suite from dawn to dusk! ‘Baby,’ he says, ‘you make me feel like I can touch the stars!’

“Six weeks of true love. And then — oh, Dr. Wilfred, this is so sad! — in Fort Lauderdale I lost him.

“Heart. Just like that. He didn’t suffer. You wouldn’t believe the unkind things some people said. I took no notice. I knew I’d given him those six wonderful weeks.

“So there I am, a widow already. And the major stockholder in TipToppler Beauty Products, plus a string of TV stations and industrial-refuse facilities. Plus also — and this Mr. Toppler had never even mentioned when he told me about his will — a plot of ground someplace in Greece where he was building a vacation home for his second wife — she was Greek — singer — bouzouki — only then he moved on to number three and he forgot about it.

“So I cry my eyes out for a bit, and then I think, How best can I honor the memory of that wonderful man? And I think to myself, When I was Bahama LeStarr I worked my butt off to give something back to humanity, and I did it by the only means I had to offer, which was my dancing. But how many cities can you dance in before your knees go and your boobs need some work on them and agents won’t return your calls? And I see I have to stop thinking like Bahama LeStarr now and start thinking like Mrs. Fred Toppler, because Mrs. Fred Toppler is what I am, and as Mrs. Fred Toppler I can do so much more to make the world a better place than I ever could as Bahama LeStarr.

“And it’s a funny thing — if you’re Mrs. Fred Toppler you suddenly find there are a lot of other people out there who also want to make the world a better place, and all they need to do it is for you to come in with them, and maybe help them out with a dime or two. So this German guy comes to see me. Dieter. Pointy ears, no hair, looks like some creature on Planet Zog. Two minutes with him and I know he’s the cat’s meow. Architect — thinker — everything. A true visionary — and don’t worry, he’s gay.

“He comes here, he looks at the site, he reads stuff in the library, and what do you think? This place was sacred to the goddess Athena! And what was Athena in charge of? Wisdom and civilization! ‘Mrs. Toppler,’ says Dieter, ‘together you and I will dedicate this beautiful property of yours to Athena again! We will turn it into a center of wisdom and civilization, a place of beauty where the finest minds in the English-speaking world can mix with the leaders of English-speaking society.’”

She indicated the view out of the window.

“Every stick and stone that you can see, we had to bring here. Where was the Temple of Athena? Gone. Vanished. We had experts out here from Athens, holes in the ground all over. Nothing. We had to fetch our own temple from Zakynthos. It was dedicated to Aphrodite. We changed her name, the way I changed mine. Now she’s Athena. The agora came from Pelion. The church from Samos. We built this place from the ground up. You know what was on this site when Mr. Fred Toppler first set eyes on it? Two rusty iron sheds where they gutted fish.”

Dr. Wilfred looked at the perfection that had grown out of those two iron sheds. Several more large yachts had backed up to the waterfront, he saw. Their crews were coiling lines and running out hoses, reefing and brailing.

“And all this because you stopped being Bahama LeStarr and became Mrs. Fred Toppler.”

“All this,” she said, “because I became Bahama LeStarr in the first place. And we’re not finished yet. Up there on the hillside — behind the fences — they’re still working. A new fifty-meter pool. Olympic standard. Mr. Papadopoulou’s pride and joy. He’s taken the work over personally! He’s crazy about that pool of his!

“Hey, it’s so nice talking to you, Dr. Wilfred, because you don’t keep saying things yourself, like some of our other guest speakers. You know how to listen! What are you a doctor of, by the way?”

“Oh, you know … this and that.”

“I love it! You Brits! So, not medicine?”

“Aren’t I?”

“You are? You’re a doctor of medicine?”

“Why not?”

“In that case…”

She pulled her shirt out of her trousers, turned her back towards him, and touched a spot on the brown bulge that was struggling to be free of the waistband.

“Just … there. Like a drill was boring into me. I’ve been to specialists, I’ve been to chiropractors and faith healers … Maybe you can feel something … No…? Press it … Lower, lower … Wait…”

She undid her trousers, pulled them down an inch or two, and leaned over the back of a chair.

“There, yes … Harder … Harder! It doesn’t hurt … Well, OK, it hurts, but it hurts in a way that feels kind of good…”

* * *

“Rub it in properly, then,” said the woman who had turned out to be the occupant of what had turned out to be someone’s villa. She was lying on the lounger, facedown, with a towel over her bottom. Dr. Wilfred was spreading sunblock over her back. “Use your thumbs. You might as well give me a massage while you’re about it … The top of my spine … Yes, good … Take hold of my shoulder blades … One hand on each shoulder blade … Press your thumbs into the inside edges and slide them up and down … Harder! I won’t break.”

Dr. Wilfred had not thought about the injustice of his fate for several minutes now, he realized. He was still obediently wearing the flowered sun hat to keep the sun off his own neck, and he was absorbed in seeing how the shiny whiteness of the sunblock gleamed in the sunlight, and then slowly vanished into the brown softness of the skin. The shoulder blades moved with a disturbing fluidity under his hands. The vertebrae, too, were leading a subterranean life of their own that he could only speculate about. There were two moles on the left shoulder which seemed somehow to emphasize its smoothness.

“That’s good,” said the owner of the back. “I’m Georgie, by the way. And you’re…?”

“Wilfred. Dr. Wilfred. Dr. Norman Wilfred.”

“Oh, no! I hate names that you can never remember which way round they go! And you’re a doctor, are you, Norman? No — Wilfred … Wilfred?”

“Norman.”

“Norman. I should have thought a doctor would have had more sense than to go around in the midday sun with no sunblock on.”

“I’m not a doctor of medicine.”

“No? So what are you a doctor of?”

“Management. Among other things.”

“Management? And what kinds of things do you manage, Wilfred, apart from losing your luggage and getting into bed with people you’ve never met in houses that don’t belong to you?”

His hands followed the lines of her rib cage, downward and outward.

“Scientific research,” he said reluctantly.

“What, atoms and things? Pollution and stuff?”

Pointless to attempt any reply to this. His hands were working their way round to the front of her rib cage.

“Not round there,” she said sharply. “I can do the front myself. And the only reason I haven’t got an adapter is because it’s Patrick who looks after things like that.”

His hands started again at the top of her spine, and moved slowly downward.