Russell Hoban - Come Dance With Me

There was a clatter of cutlery and glassware and a clamour of high-cholesterol smells and conversation, much of the latter in Yiddish, with gestures. My people.

‘You come here often?’ said Peter.

‘From time to time when I need cheering up,’ I said, and I told him about the dream. ‘It was so vivid! I could even smell his old-dog smell, Bo looking up at me with a dried-up trickle from each eye — I keep wondering what it means.’

‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘are you an old dog wanting someone to take you walkies?’

‘All the time, but there was more to it than that.’

Peter looked at the ceiling, low and dark brown, with beams. ‘Of course, this may very well be Bo’s dream that you found yourself in.’

‘Bo is a dead dog,’ I said.

‘So? Who can say where dreams begin and end, and where they travel from and to?’

‘You’re strange,’ I said.

‘Everybody’s strange, only most people try to cover it up.’

A heavyweight waiter wearing a yarmulke arrived and we both ordered potato pancakes. ‘Latkes twice,’ he said, and wrote it down. ‘Anything to drink with that?’

‘What kind of beer have you got?’ said Peter.

‘Maccabee,’ said the waiter.

‘Haven’t heard of that one,’ said Peter.

‘You’re not Jewish, right?’

‘Right.’

‘The Maccabees killed a lot of goyim. So we have Maccabee beer.’

‘Bottled or draft?’

‘Bottled.’

‘But I can see beer pumps at the bar.’

‘Those are from a long time ago, never been taken out. Should I sit down and we’ll have a conversation or would you like to give me your beer decision?’

‘OK,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll have a Maccabee.’

‘Make it two,’ I said.

The waiter wrote down our order, frowned, shook his head, and withdrew.

‘I haven’t had this one before,’ I said.

‘Bare-knuckle waiting, would you call it?’ said Peter.

‘He’s a Jewish waiter,’ I said. ‘It’s a role that’s heavy with tradition and he’s doing it the traditional way. Where were we?’

‘Being strange.’

‘Right. You said that Bo was quiet and well-mannered but he chased cars, was hit by one and had to be put down. Did he have a death wish or what? Now he’s pulled you into his dream in which he’s old and you’re sixty-two and he wants to take you for a walk. Do you want to go with him?’

‘Peter, Bo’s dead, OK?’

‘Well, of course he’s dead — that’s not the sort of dream a live dog would have. Are you going to walk with him?’

‘If he dreams me again I’ll let you know what happens. What are you doing since your big success with “Death and the Maiden”?’

‘I’m still involved with that theme and doing more sketches and paintings. It’s a toughie, it’s so full of ambiguities. The thing about “Death and the Maiden” is that they need each other. Redon did a wonderful lithograph in his Temptation of Saint Anthony series in which they’re both full-frontal naked, although Death is more naked because he’s in his bones. The Maiden is rising above him like a fire balloon but he’s got hold of her arm with one bony hand and she won’t get away. The incandescence of her body lights up the air around her but her face is shadowed by night and Death has a firm grip. He’s very pleased with himself; in the caption he says to her, ‘It is I who make you serious. Let us embrace each other.’ He’s so full of himself that he doesn’t realise that she makes him serious too. Without her youth and beauty on which to exercise his droit du mort he’s nothing but a Hallowe’en costume. Niklaus Manuel Deutsch, 400 years before Redon, draws the maiden fully clothed but showing a lot of cleavage and not putting up much resistance while Death slides his tongue into her mouth and his hand up her skirt. The permutations are endless.’

‘Maccabees,’ said our waiter, plunking two bottles on the table.

‘No glasses?’ said Peter.

The waiter pointed to the slices of lemon stuck in the mouths of the bottles. ‘That’s how we do it,’ he said, and left.

‘You drink it through the lemon,’ I said.

‘Seems very effete for a bare-knuckle place,’ said Peter.

‘This is a very cosmopolitan establishment,’ I said. ‘How many paintings have you done so far in the new series?’

‘Three, but nothing finished — I’ve been papering the walls with sketches as I gradually get my chops together.’

‘I thought “chops” was a musician word.’

‘I got it from Amaryllis but the word isn’t limited to music — it means skills, technique, or talents of any kind.’

‘Sometimes my chops are a little bit scattered,’ I said. ‘This morning at the clinic I found it hard to stay interested. How’s Amaryllis?’

‘Fine. She’s into composing now, working on a Cthulhu suite. The Dream of R’lyeh is the first part.’

‘How does it sound?’

‘Oceanic. The mode is Lydian in a non-Euclidean sort of way if you know what I mean.’

‘Not yet, but I can wait till it comes to me.’

A man at the next table paused with a forkful of gefilte fish halfway to his mouth and turned to Peter. ‘What,’ he said, ‘You’re supporting Gaddafi now?’

‘I said Lydian, not Libyan,’ said Peter.

‘I don’t know from Lydians,’ said the gefilte man, ‘but if they want to start something Israel is ready for them.’

‘Thank you for your input,’ said Peter. ‘I feel easier in my mind now.’

‘There is no mental ease these days,’ said the man, and went back to his fish.

‘Amaryllis is known for her volatility,’ I said to Peter. ‘How is she to live with?’

‘I’m pretty volatile myself, so we get along all right. In any case, the whole thing between men and women is a very dodgy business. Have you seen Christabel Alderton since the Royal Academy?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you might. Are you going to say more?’

‘Not yet.’

‘OK, be prudent.’

‘Latkes twice,’ said our waiter, plunking down two plates which sent up strong feel-good aromas. Also a dish of sour cream. ‘Enjoy,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Peter. ‘I’m sure we shall. By the way?’

‘Yes?’ said the waiter.

‘I saw the bartender working a beer pump,’ said Peter.

‘Oh, that,’ said the waiter.

‘Yes?’ said Peter.

‘That’s Masada bitter. I wasn’t sure you’d like it.’

‘Could I have a pint? I don’t want to be pushy’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ said the waiter.

‘Make it two,’ I said.

‘You got it,’ said the waiter. ‘My name is Moe.’

‘Nice to meet you, Moe,’ said Peter. ‘This is Elias and I’m Peter.’ We shook hands.

‘You I’ve seen before,’ said Moe, nodding to me.

‘You do any boxing?’ said Peter.

‘When I was younger. This is what I do now, plus I get extra work in movies from time to time. I’ll bring your Masadas.’

When the bitter appeared Peter sampled it and said, ‘It’s bitter all right.’

‘That’s why it’s called Masada,’ said Moe. ‘It’s an acquired taste. Have you read Josephus, The Jewish Wars ?

‘No,’ said Peter.

‘Do,’ said Moe. ‘You’ll like our bitter better next time.’

The cosiness of The Daniel Mendoza made the day seem colder and greyer when we were outside again. At Covent Garden Peter went to browse the Jubilee Market. I whistled to Bo and we disappeared into the Piccadilly Line.

25 January 2003. I was glad to see the last of Elizabeth and her ashes. I was beginning to think I had LET’S TALK ABOUT DEATH tattooed on my forehead. Or maybe it was just written on my face. Ashes. Two black horses drew Django’s black-plumed hearse to the Golders Green Crematorium. ‘Nuages’ was the music as the beautiful coffin that Rudy Ka’uhane had made went through the doors. Later I was given a little urn of ashes. I scattered them over the Thames near the Albert Bridge just as the tide was going out.