Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘Good evening, sir,’ said a resonant and resolute voice. ‘Welcome. Your table.’

‘Ah. Lovely.’

‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir, are you going on somewhere after your meal? To the amateur boxing at the Queensbury perhaps?’

‘Amateur boxing?’

‘Yes, sir. I hear Prince Philip’s going to be there. You know — for the Duke of Edinburgh Awards.’

‘The Duke of Edinburgh? … Yeah well I follow the boxing. That’s a proper sport, boxing. Not like all the other rubbish. What’s you name, mate?’

‘… Well, here they call me Mr Mount.’

‘No.’ Lionel looked him up and down: a tall and mournful figure in lounge suit and tie, with an icecap of thick white hair. ‘What’s you first name?’

‘… Cuthbert, sir.’

And Lionel said simply, ‘Cuthbert.’

Mr Mount took a step backwards. He hadn’t heard Cuthbert pronounced quite like that for thirty years. Not since 1979, when he stopped going to Billingsgate Market (at five o’clock on Monday mornings) to assess the catch. He now said,

‘Yes. Cuthbert Mount.’

‘Well I’ll tell you what, Cuthbert. I’m starting me new job! Bouncing in a bingo parlour! And tonight I’m calling the numbers!’

For some reason all this came out much, much louder than Lionel intended — as if through a stadium bullhorn. He grew aware that thirty or forty faces, crowned with wisps of hoar and rime, were staring his way.

He thought, Must be cold, getting old. Old, cold: like poetry. ‘Evening all!’ he found himself hollering as he lowered himself into his chair.

‘… Would you like a drink before your meal, sir?’

‘Yeah. Guiss a uh, give us a —’

But Mr Mount stepped aside, and was instantly supplanted by a knowing youth in a white dinner jacket.

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘You amused,’ said Lionel.

‘Amused, sir? No, not at all, sir.’

‘You look too light on you feet, mate …’ Lionel sniffed and said, ‘Okay. Fuck it. Guiss a pint of …’ In the South Central you could get champagne by the pint (and by the half-pint — very popular with the ladies); and Lionel had in any case come to regard champagne as rich man’s beer. ‘Bubbles, son. What kind you got?’

A ribboned wine list was opened and handed over. Lionel pointed to the most prohibitive of the vintages, and the waiter bowed and withdrew.

The restaurant was something of a surprise. Earlier that day, when he poked his head round the door, his sunstruck stare registered a grotto of pulsing shadow, and he imagined a kind of family brasserie. But Mount’s … The furnishings were plump and plush, the walls practically panelled with paintings, with haywains and cloudscapes and cavaliers. Yeah, the place was like some fat old cavalier, buttoned up far too tight. Lionel hefted but did not yet open the crested red-leather menu. England’s Oldest Restaurant. Established by Clarence Fitzmaurice Mount. 1797 . And Lionel thought: 1797!

‘Your champagne’s on its way, sir.’

Lionel had intended to make a start on the Morning Lark while enjoying his aperitif. Catch up on current events. But now he was having his doubts. He already knew that the cover was devoted to a truly mountainous blonde; and it might look a bit … The Lark , that day, appeared for the first time in two editions, tabloid and broadsheet, and Lionel had succumbed to the novelty of the larger format. Anyway, he slipped the thing out of his trouser pocket, unfolded it under the table, and awkwardly searched for a page that didn’t have a topless model on it. Page two usually contained the day’s news, but today the day’s news was about a topless model (bust-up with childhood sweetheart) … Looks a bit like Gina, he thought — and Lionel was abruptly transfixed by an unpleasant memory.

As he was finishing off with Dylis, he happened to glance sideways at the closet mirror. And there it was, his body, all hammer and tongs, like the driving mechanism of a runaway train. The expression on his face. Teeth bared, and furious eyes, and his –

The champagne arrived in its steel bucket. Lionel calmly compressed the Morning Lark between his knees, and said,

‘Got a bigger glass? You know, like a beer mug.’ Lionel grimly monitored the waiter’s movements. ‘… Yeah, that’ll do. Fill her up, boy.’

Then it started happening. For just half a minute or so, Lionel’s mind became a vertiginous succession of false bottoms, of snapping trapdoors …

Champagne in a beer mug? he fiercely subvocalised. Are you a cunt? They staring now! No they ain’t! They thinking you off to the boxing with the Duke of Edinburgh! No they ain’t! They laughing at yer — they pissing theyselves! Why’d you say that about the bingo? They thinking you some cunt of a bingo caller! No they ain’t! They see they Daily Telegraph ! They know you the Lotto Lout! They know you a cunt anyway! They — they …

Lionel looked up. The diners were dining, hypernormally. The soft echoes and vibrations, the pings and chimes, of tableware, the drones and murmurs of polite conversation …

‘May I take your order, sir?’ said his waiter.

‘Hang on … Hang on. I don’t see no meat.’

‘This is a fish restaurant, sir.’

‘What, just fish? … Oh well. So be it.’ He chose the most expensive starter (caviar), to be followed by the most expensive entrée (lobster). ‘Fresh, is it?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Alive and kicking. Flown in today from Helsinki.’

Helsinki! thought Lionel.

‘And how would you like it dressed?’

‘Uh,’ said Lionel. He’d only ever had lobster in cocktail form, when Gina made it for him in traditional Maltese style: with lashings of ketchup. ‘As it comes,’ he said from under half-open eyes …

‘Shall we shell it for you, sir?’

‘Shell it?’ said Lionel with sudden and inscrutable venom. ‘I’m not helpless, son. Do I look helpless? I’m not helpless. Do I look helpless? … Ah, don’t cry. Here, do me napkin.’ That’s what they did in decent restaurants — smoothed it over your lap. ‘ Où ,’ said Lionel.

He finished his pint and ordered another. The caviar came. He’d had caviar before, because it was often the most expensive starter, and caviar, he found, was tasty enough so long as you seasoned it with Tabasco and plenty of … Not that he was feeling weak or giddy or anything, but he noticed that the salt cellar was heavy, was implausibly heavy. The knife in his hand was implausibly heavy. That was when you … The rich world was heavy, rooted to the ground. It had the weight of the past securing it. Whereas his world, as was, Diston, things were …

‘May we serve your lobster with some melted butter, sir?’ said Mr Mount.

‘Go on then. And some tomato uh, some tomato sauce, Cuthbert. Of you own preparation. On the side.’

Mr Mount seemed to be frowning at Lionel’s suit, and he said, ‘That’s a truly remarkable cloth, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. And I do know something about cloth. Is it … pashmina wool? Is it — my God, is it shah toosh ? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Must have cost you an absolute —’

‘Wasn’t cheap.’

‘May I?’

‘Course you can.’ Lionel held up his right arm. ‘Take you time, Cuthbert,’ he said. ‘Don’t stint youself.’

Mr Mount bent, straightened, bowed and said, ‘So extraordinarily fine … I hope you enjoy your meal with us tonight, sir.’

After much cramped contortion Lionel found a page without a topless model on it, page forty-eight, up near the classifieds. He carefully flattened the paper out on the table. He settled. He drank … And with miming lips he started on a report about a two -year-old who was already in trouble with the law! … This little minx, this little … This little monkey — she was striping all the cars with a doorkey … She was stealing cash and smashing windows … And she got pissed on her mum’s vodka and when the woman from the Social come round she bit her one on the …