Russell Hoban - Mr Rinyo-Clacton's Offer

‘When I looked through the window and saw you serving him potato pancakes I didn’t know whether you fancied him or what.’

She took her hands away. ‘He wanted me to go out with him tonight. I said no. Is he HIV-positive? Are you sure about that?’

‘I can’t prove it but he told me he never takes precautions and he’s never been tested and I’m pretty sure he’s had a lot of partners. And if he’s HIV-positive he probably gets a thrill out of spreading it around. And there he sits eating your potato pancakes, that son of a bitch.’

Zoë came in with a tray of dirty dishes. ‘Table One wants to know what happened to his second order of potato pancakes,’ she said.

‘Potato pancakes are off,’ said Serafina.

‘I’ll tell him,’ said Zoë, and was gone.

‘I can’t get over it,’ I said. ‘Two days ago I’d never set eyes on him and today here we are like this.’

‘Both of us maybe HIV-positive,’ she said, looking at me sadly. I wanted to hug her; I stretched out my arms to her but she backed away. ‘Damn you, Jonathan, none of this would have happened if you hadn’t cheated on me.’ She was shaking her head despairingly. ‘I think maybe you’ve destroyed us, I think you’ve taken our lives away.’ She covered her face again, and again I tried to hug her but her arms were in the way. ‘You used to give me comfort when I needed it,’ she said, ‘but not any more — that’s all over, all gone with all the rest of what we had: all gone, all gone.’

What could I say? Zoë came in with more dirty dishes and a folded envelope which she stuck in the little wall-mounted box they used for notes and messages. ‘It was on the window sill between the rubber plant and the aspidistra by Table One.’

‘Is he still there?’ I said.

‘Gone.’ She picked up an order of tagliatelle and withdrew. Serafina grabbed the empty brown C5 envelope with a printed label addressed to T. Rinyo-Clacton, Esq; no indication of where it was from. It had been folded in half to make it pocket-size and the back was covered with Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s handwriting. At the top was what looked like a telehone number. Below it we read:

Space between — like moat to keep animals from getting out — jump over space between mind and brain

MR RINYO-CLACTON’S OFFER

Clay — infirm vessels all — leaky & easily broken — death in every one — return to earth. Millionaire Aquarius, bisexual, HIV-positive, afraid of dying, seeks companion in death. Offers to buy someone’s death. No control over his own except suicide but controls death of other — offers £1m + year to live. Will other take £1m, try to kill R-C? Other’s wife or girlfriend — will R-C sleep with her, spread his death around?

‘Oh God,’ said Serafina. ‘ “Millionaire Aquarius, bisexual, HIV-positive”.’

HIV-positive. There goes my life, was my first thought. I might as well say now that when I signed that document in Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s study I did it thinking I’d find some way for him to predecease me. It was a thought that came to me that first time he buggered me. I’d been hoping to enjoy a full life plus the million pounds but now I had no doubt that I’d been infected by him — this was the destiny I’d shaped for myself and Serafina. ‘Other’s wife or girlfriend — will R-C sleep with her, spread his death around?’ And he’d already done it!

‘What’s he playing at?’ said Serafina.

Ron looked into the kitchen. ‘Please forgive my rudeness in interrupting your conversation,’ he said, ‘but this place is actually a restaurant. That is, people come here to pay money for food which we prepare and serve to them. Crazy idea, I know, but there it is.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was just going.’ I stuck Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s envelope in my pocket. ‘Can I come back for you when you’re ready to go home?’ I said to Serafina.

She nodded and I left.

The telephone number on the back of the envelope was a central London one that might possibly have some connection with Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s notes. I was used to his style by now: it was in his nature to flaunt rather than hide his intentions; his notes might even have been left for that very purpose. If the notes were for a book, then the number could be that of a publisher. A title page appeared in my mind: The Carnivore Cookbook, by Celestine Latour. I saw Mr Rinyo-Clacton grinning at me in Waterstone’s, felt his hand on my bottom, saw Serafina being devoured by him, saw him smacking his lips as he tasted her sweet flesh. The title page had had a publisher’s logo with a little angel: Derek Engel. That same logo was on the title page of Mind — the Gap. Was Derek Engel going to publish Mr Rinyo-Clacton? Would the seduction of Serafina be in it?

All the way back to the hotel my mind regaled me with a continuous showing of Serafina and Mr Rinyo-Clacton in action, with many close-ups and amplified location sound. The slow-motion sequence of my Serafina with her legs wrapped around him had an awfulness that was fascinating. Other and worse images offered themselves. Stop it, I said to my mind, but it wouldn’t stop. Had Serafina had similar pictures in her mind when she discovered my infidelities? Nothing would ever be the same again.

Full of rage and regret I arrived at the Lord Jim and looked up Derek Engel Ltd in the telephone directory. The number was the one that Mr Rinyo-Clacton had written on the envelope. Too late to phone today — I’d have to wait until tomorrow. When I got to my room it no longer seemed a refuge but a place of dead air and inaction. The mirror on the door was full of darkness and foreboding. I began to pack my things and when I found Mind — the Gap in my hands I opened it at random and read:

Human beings are not naturally lawful; one has only to watch children at play to confirm this. Adults acquire knowledge and understanding as they mature but essentially they remain children who have been trained (or not) to behave in socially acceptable ways. In films and novels passionate and violent men and women act out, for those of us so trained, what we dare not act out for ourselves. ‘The greatest pleasure’, said Genghis Khan, ‘is to vanquish your enemies and chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth and see those dear to them bathed in tears, to ride their horses and clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters.’

Most of us are brought up to be rather less straightforward than Genghis Khan but the limbic system will always have seniority over the cerebral cortex. Try this simple test: here are some imaginary headlines; which story will you read first?

PEACE TALKS STALLED

FIVE NEW BODIES IN HOUSE OF HORROR

NEW CURFEW IN KABUL

NUDE ROYALS IN SEASIDE ROMP

MORE CUTS IN NHS SERVICES

GAY VICAR KILLED IN CLUB BRAWL

FILM STAR RAPED ON YACHT

Special interests apart, I doubt that the peace talks, the curfew, or the NHS cuts will be first choice. Sex is reliably interesting, as is death. The death of others is always life-affirming; who has not felt, on reading of a disaster in which hundreds have died, a little inner leap of ‘not me!’ Life is energy, constantly in motion. The plains Indians believed that the taking of a life gave power to the taker; the natural psychology of the hunter is one of balance maintained through energy transfer from prey to predator.

Dr von Luker continued in this vein with the urgency of a would-be cult leader, his text heavily supported by quotations from Darwin, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Ouspensky, Gurdjiieff, Krishnamurti, Canetti, Lévi-Strauss, L. Ron Hubbard, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and thirty or forty others.