Russell Hoban - Angelica's Grotto

‘I have a craving that can only be satisfied by a disaster film — air, sea, or submarine, I don’t care which; but preferably one where somebody survives through sheer pluck and resourcefulness plus maybe a little help.’ He went to his current stack of air, sea, and submarine disasters, considered Freefall: Flight 174; Mercy Mission — the Rescue of Flight 771; A Night to Remember; The Last Voyage; and Gray Lady Down, which starred Charlton Heston and made Klein think of Airport 1975 with Heston and Karen Black. ‘Yes!’ he said, ‘That’s the one: there she is with a great big hole in the front of the 747 and nobody to fly it but her. Were the pilot and co-pilot sucked out through the broken windows after the other plane hit them? Have I recorded that one? Did I record something else over it? Can’t remember.’

Klein owned more than a thousand videotapes in shelves, boxes, and various stashes. After about an hour of moving the ones in front away from the ones behind and the ones on top from those on the bottom, with pauses for rejoicing over long-lost treasures, he satisfied himself that Airport 1975 was gone. By now Must Have had set in and he accepted it without demur. ‘Never mind,’ he said, as he went to the telephone, ‘I can hire it from Blockbusters.’

Blockbusters didn’t have it, nor HMV, nor Virgin, nor the National Film Theatre shop. ‘It’s no longer listed,’ was the telephone consensus.

‘A secondhand copy!’ said Klein. He put on his jacket and went to the local music and video exchange. When he asked his question they looked at him the way bartenders in films look at detectives.

‘We haven’t even got Airport or Airport ’77,’ one of them said without moving his lips.

‘Do you know of any place that does video searches?’

They both shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘Of course,’ said Klein. ‘That’s the way things are — I understand. You could at least move your lips.’

‘You need help getting to the door, Grandad?’

‘Thank you, I can manage. What happened to the old-fashioned specialised geek? Have a nice day.’

At home he dialled the NFT shop again, was given the number of a place that did video searches. They were closed for two weeks starting now, said their answering machine. ‘No problem,’ said Klein. ‘It isn’t personal, it’s just business.’

By now he had attained the calm that comes when Must Have has exhausted its passion. The sun having sunk almost below the yardarm he poured himself the first Glenfiddich of the post-Must Have, went to his computer, and put Cinemania ’97 up on the screen. He didn’t have to load the CD-ROM — it was always in the machine. When Cinemania ’97 showed its contents he went to FIND and typed in Airport 1975 which caused five lines of text to appear in which Leonard Maltin said it wasn’t worth Klein’s time.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘if I look at the other reviews and the cast list maybe I can reconstruct it in what’s left of my mind.’ He read the Ebert and Kael reviews and looked at the cast list. ‘O Jesus — there’s Helen Reddy, the singing nun, and Sid Caesar reactivated but they should have let him lie. Gloria Swanson, of course! As herself with a jewel box and dictating her memoirs. Myrna Loy! They never die, they just get sent to disaster films. Along with ex-stars the usual cross-section of young lovers, old diehards, businessmen regretting they haven’t told their wives, children, dogs and cats they love them, and wives running off with tennis pros.

‘But the star of the film is Karen Black at the controls with her eyes close together in concentration and the wind ruffling her hair — she’s scared out of her knickers but dead game while they try to talk her through it on the radio and finally they put her lover, Charlton Heston, on the mike — he’s a veteran pilot and he’ll talk her down safely but no, this is no job for a stewardess however ballsy and they’ve got to put a man on the flight deck. Scramble a helicopter, hook a 747 pilot on to a line, match speeds and swing him in through the window. Oops! Didn’t make it. The line was severed by the jagged hole or he unhooked before he was all the way in and he’s gone. Well, he was the wrong guy, wasn’t he — this is a job for Charlton Heston. Aha! It’s an Angelica-Ruggiero situation: she’s naked in her ignorance of flying, she’s virgin at the controls; the 747 is the monster that’s going to devour her, but wait! Here comes Charlton Heston on his helicopter hippogriff. Will he make it? Yes! Through the broken hymen of the window he squirms. Gotcha, baby!

‘Where is my Ruggiero? Or have I said that before?’

‘I’ll wait till quarter-past, maybe half-past ten,’ said Klein. ‘Why should she take me for granted? Waiting waiting waiting.’ He waited till five past, logged on to the Internet, and moused his way to Angelica’s Grotto. He clicked on a few of his favourite Gallery 7 thumbnails to kill five more minutes, then scrolled down to the YES or NO place and clicked YES.

IS THAT YOU, PROFESSOR?

IT’S ME, LOLA.

SO? HOW’S IT HANGING?

REARWISE?

WHATEVER.

I’VE BEEN AFRAID TO LOOK.

IT’S A JUNGLE OUT HERE IN ACADEME.

I’VE NOTICED.

ENOUGH OF THIS SMALL TALK. TELL ME ABOUT YOU AND YOUR TONGUE.

IT STILL HAS THE TASTE OF YOU.

YOU LIKE THAT TASTE?

YES.

DID YOU LIKE TO DO THAT WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER AND STILL CAPABLE OF AN ERECTION?

YES, ALWAYS.

CAN YOU SAY MORE ABOUT IT?

I GUESS WE’RE BACK TO *L’ORIGINE DU MONDE*. IT HAS A STRONG ATTRACTION FOR ME. TO MAKE LOVE IN THAT WAY SEEMS TO ME THE HEIGHT OF PHYSICAL INTIMACY, A COMFORTABLE GIVING AND TAKING OF PLEASURE AND AFFECTION. FOR ME IT’S ALWAYS BEEN A TREASURING OF THE WOMAN.

SAY MORE.

THERE WAS A GREAT MOTHER GODDESS BEFORE THERE WERE MALE GODS. THERE STILL IS FOR ME. HERE’S A QUOTE I PREPARED EARLIER, IT’S FROM *THE LANGUAGE OF THE GODDESS* BY MARIJA GIMBUTAS:

THE AMAZING REPETITION OF SYMBOLIC ASSOCIATIONS THROUGH TIME AND IN ALL OF EUROPE ON POTTERY, FIGURINES, AND OTHER CULT OBJECTS HAS CONVINCED ME THAT THEY ARE MORE THAN ‘GEOMETRIC MOTIFS’; THEY MUST BELONG TO AN ALPHABET OF THE METAPHYSICAL.

I’VE READ GIMBUTAS.

I LIKE THAT IDEA OF ‘AN ALPHABET OF THE METAPHYSICAL’. FOR ME THE VULVA IS THE KEY TO THAT MATRIARCHAL ALPHABET AND IT HAS MYSTICAL POWER. I ALMOST DON’T WANT TO PUT THIS INTO WORDS.

WORDS ARE USEFUL. THEY HOLD THE SHAPES OF IDEAS . WHEN WE TALK LIKE THIS YOU ALMOST SEEM A FRIEND.

I’M NOT A FRIEND, HAROLD. THE DATA I’M COLLECTING MATTER MORE TO ME THAN YOU DO. AND AT YOUR AGE YOU OUGHT TO BE WISER THAN TO PUT YOUR MOUTH ON STRANGERS. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU MIGHT PICK UP.

FROM YOU? I THINK YOU’RE PROBABLY A CAREFUL KIND OF LOLA.

DON’T BE TOO SURE. LET’S GET BACK TO THE VULVA. HOW DO YOU RECONCILE YOUR WORSHIPFUL ATTITUDE TOWARDS IT WITH YOUR PLEASURE IN VIEWING THE BUGGERING OF MONICA?

I THINK IT’S A POWER THING. FOR ME THE ESSENCE, THE ISNESS OF A WOMAN IS MORE POWERFUL THAN MY ISNESS. THAT MAKES ME ENJOY THE IDEA OF A WOMAN BEING FORCED TO SUBMIT TO ANTI–VULVA PENETRATION. AND NOT JUST ME: MORE AND MORE IN FILMS I SEE WIVES, GIRLFRIENDS, MISTRESSES, AND STRANGERS BEING BUGGERED BY CHAPS WHO DO THAT INSTEAD OF SMASHING CROCKERY AND FURNITURE WHEN THEY WANT TO SHOW WHO’S IN CHARGE.

ARE YOU SAYING THAT IT’S A CASE OF THE LESSER ISNESS REBELLING AGAINST THE GREATER?

YES.

SO IF IN FANTASY AND IN FILMS, WHICH ARE READY-MADE FANTASY, YOU LIKE TO SEE WOMEN ANALLY RAPED, ARE YOU NOT, IN FANTASY, ALSO IN FAVOUR OF THE RAPE OF WOMEN IN GENERAL?