Russell Hoban - My Tango With Barbara Strozzi

We made our way up Avenue Saint-Morys, did a right, and there was the flat grey slab that said:

DAUMIER

Honoré Victorin

N. Marseilles Fevrier 26 1808

M. Valmondois Fevrier 10 1879

Madame DAUMIER

Née Marie Alexandrine

DASSY

N. Paris Fevrier 2 1822

M. Paris Janvier 11 1895

‘Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame,’ said Brian. ‘Tout va bien?’ He brushed off the slab with his hand and took a notebook from his pocket. He wrote in it, tore off the page, put it on the tomb and weighted it with a pebble. ‘Thank you note,’ he said. À bientôt’ , he said to the Daumiers as we left. ‘Victor Noir next.’

We turned right on to Avenue Transversale No. 1, took a left into Avenue Greffulhe, and there was Victor flat on his back with a bullet hole in his chest and a bulge in his trousers. ‘Died with a hard-on,’ said Brian. ‘Tough one, Vic’. To me he said, ‘Perhaps you’d like a few minutes alone with him?’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I would.’ Brian withdrew and I stood looking down at the life-size bronze figure. It was a little startling at first, as if he had been shot only a moment ago. His coat and jacket were opened, his shirt was unbuttoned, exposing the bullet-hole, his trousers had been loosened, and his crotch and boots were well burnished by the hands of female visitors. His top hat lay by his right side with roses and cards in it. There was a bouquet by his left hand. I kissed my yellow rose and put it in his hat. I rubbed his erection and his boot, said, ‘Anything you can do, Victor,’ blew him a kiss and joined Brian.

‘Père Lachaise is a good pick-up place,’ he said. ‘You can find whatever kind of woman you’re looking for here.’

‘Live ones?’

‘Very.’

‘Have you picked up any?’

‘Not lately. Is there anyone else here you’d like to drop in on?’

I thought of Jane Avril with her long face and her high-kicking leg in the Lautrec poster but I decided to keep that image in my mind rather than her tomb so we headed back to the Boulevard Ménilmontant. The cemetery was full of trees and shadows. I recognised the yew and the rowan, not the others. The sun came out and the monuments went pale.

We had dinner at Les Deux Magots and took an evening stroll through the Latin Quarter before going back to the hotel. This was our last evening in Paris. We’d made love on the first couple of nights but not since. ‘One has the feeling that the thrill is gone,’ said Brian.

‘Protestant Work Ethic,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel right when life is easy.’

We checked out the next morning. We never did go up the Eiffel Tower.

The Coroner’s Inquest came up and Barbara — I can’t keep calling her Bertha/Barbara — was there. What can I say? My heart skipped a beat when I saw her. She gave me a really sweet look and said, ‘Hi, Phil. How’s it going?’

‘Pages are happening,’ I said. ‘How’s it with you?’

‘You know — same old eyeballs. You’ve got a new novel going! I’m really glad to hear that.’

‘Still with Brian?’

‘No, actually.’

At this point there were three knocks and the Coroner’s Officer said, ‘Rise, please, to Her Majesty’s Coroner.’ We rose as the Coroner came in. ‘Oyez, oyez, oyez,’ said the Coroner’s Officer as the Coroner passed to the bench, ‘all manner of persons who have anything to do at this court before the Queen’s Coroner touching upon the death of Troy Hector Wallis draw near and give your attendance. Pray be seated.’

The Coroner’s Court in Fulham is shaped like a large telephone box, and my thoughts rose up vertically both inside and outside of it. The clear grey light that came in through the windows was cool and sceptical. Possibly it had heard too many lies to take anything for granted. Ten Bibles in the jury box, two more by the witness box. There was a poor box by the door. Behind the Coroner the royal arms said DIEU ET MON DROIT.

As all the persons having anything to do etc. drew near and gave their attendance we were sworn in and testified that everything had happened the way it had happened. Then the Coroner returned a verdict of accidental death, Bob was our uncle, and there we were out on the street blinking in the sunlight.

Barbara and I were looking at each other as if our mouths had forgotten how to form words. Eventually we both spoke at the same time: ‘Maybe …’ was our joint utterance.

‘You first,’ said Barbara.

‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘we could have dinner one evening?’

‘That’s what I was going to say.’

‘Tonight?’

‘I can’t. I’m going from here to Paddington to get a train for Exeter. My parents and I have never been very close but my father is in hospital for heart surgery and I told my mother I’d be there. If all goes well I’ll probably be back in a week. Can we not talk on the phone while I’m away and can I walk around in your head?’

‘Please walk on in and set right down and make yourself at home,’ I said.

We took the Underground together and at the station we kissed goodbye but it was definitely a hello kiss. When I got home I sat down at the word machine and words began appearing on the screen as if my story were heading for someplace good. I poured myself a large Laphroaig, said, ‘Here’s luck!’ and let my fingers dance over the keys for a good three hours. I was enjoying myself; I particularly liked the part where we watched The Rainmaker video and I was still smiling about it when I got into bed.

True to her word, Barbara came and walked around in my head. She seemed totally comfortable in herself and with me. ‘It’s nice to be here,’ she said. ‘I guess it’s pretty much my favourite place. Being with Brian just wasn’t right for me. I’ve given us a lot of thought, and I think what you and I have between us is something we’ll never find again with anyone else. Do you agree?’

‘Emphatically.’

‘I know it won’t be easy. It used to bother me a lot that you write boring but I think I can handle that now. I mean, it’s no worse than watching football on TV all the time or losing the housekeeping playing poker.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ I said, ‘but it could be that I won’t always write boring.’

‘Whatever,’ said Barbara. ‘I just want you to know I’m in this for the long haul.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘When I went to St James’s Clerkenwell for that tango lesson I could feel that Barbara Strozzi was with me, and when I saw your face, sad and beautiful like her music, I knew that you’d be with me from then on. She’s with both of us now, still sad, still wanting someone to know her needs and bear the burden of her sorrow.’

‘Still wanting so long after her death?’

‘I don’t think the wanting ever stops.’

‘Well, we can take her along with us, can’t we?’

‘All the way, Barb.’

‘That’s settled then. How are things with you in general?’

‘Work’s been going well,’ I said. ‘I’ll have some pages to show you when you get back.’

There was a little pause at her end, then she said, ‘I look forward to reading them. I’ll say goodnight now.’ She kissed me and left and I drifted off to sleep smiling.

Barbara showed up in my head every night while she was in Exeter. No heavy schmoozing — we just talked about all kinds of things from hair styles to dishwashers. She rang me up a week after she’d left to tell me that her father had come safely through the operation and she’d be coming home in two days. ‘I’ll call again to let you know what train I’ll be on,’ she said.

She arrived on a Tuesday evening. I met her off the train and we went to a little French restaurant in the North End Road. ‘My last French restaurant was Les Deux Magots,’ she said.