Sarah Hall - The Electric Michelangelo

— Hey buddy. Know where I can buy a pogo stick?

— What?

— A pogo stick. Where can I get me one? Pogo-pogo, everybody wants a go!

— I don’t understand. I don’t understand what you are saying to me.

At night he drank his fill and it wasn’t enough. He began to take a drink before work, which he had never done previously, not for pleasure or vice or venom, not even for the sake of his master who had done the very same thing to counter or further blackness of his spirit — not in Riley’s name, Amen — but just for that first reassuring sting of liquor on the tip of his tongue.

And Coney Island looked sick to him. Overnight it seemed as if the fairground had morphed from a potentially ugly thing into a hideous creature, a full-blown monster, like a wyvern wriggling from a rotten egg. He looked around the place and it was skewed with disparagement, whole screens of groaning amusement arcades seemed to be lit now by an eerie, holocaustic Brooklyn light, or seemed reflected in distorting funhouse mirrors. It was all wrong. Occasionally, on afternoons that were less hectic or when he became fed up with work and with the rumpus of the parks, he slipped back into the animal pit of the Luna circus to see Grace’s horse. Claudia had been paying for his stabling since the incident, she would not hear of him being sold on and she paid extra to the zoo hands to exercise him daily and treat him well. There were amazing animals behind the tents and domes, many of which seemed lessened in their tame proximity to each other, their relegation to part of a collection, as if they were only suited to independence within broad khaki expanses of native land. Tigers rolled lazily about in their cages, yawning like house cats. The pair of giraffes had thick scabs on their knees as if from endlessly practising their curtseys. None of the beasts seemed real. They were fading under their old paint and needed sparkle. Maximus always seemed very still in his stall. After Grace’s complaints Cy expected him to be feisty. It would take the animal a second or two to come over to him and then he would rest his head on the gate while Cy rubbed his nose.

— Hello, boy. Got some peppermints for you, don’t tell the missus. She hasn’t forgotten about you. You’re still her favourite boy. She’ll be back for you soon. Then she’ll ride you up to Canarsie and back, I promise.

The horse’s eyes were inordinately sage and sorrowful. They always had been, it was the mark of the species, but now, in this place, and with all that had happened, the animal seemed more human to him than beast, and its eyes acted like a tripwire on his softer emotions. It was difficult to leave Maximus; Cy would spend an hour just petting him and interpreting the evolutionary sadness of the creature. There was a gentle therapy to the visits. The inner stillness of him that Cy had first seen pictured on the brick wall of the building where he lived was present at all times and acted like a salve. So often since the attack Cy had felt on edge, or angry, storing malignancy within himself instead of venting it outwardly. And Maximus calmed him, helped him to relax. So that when he left the tusk-light of the circus stalls he would, for a while, feel better, until the hoary, rakish atmosphere of the exceptional present began to rub his nerves raw again. And the biggest amusement parade on earth sucked him back into its frenetic supernova, collapsing his energy and his sanity along with it.

In daytime the light of the sun seemed to be wasted over the glaring place, and when night came and the horizontal shadows took the legs off the piers, told them they did not exist any more, the garish floodlamps created rubbery cartilages and tissues of muscle underneath Coney that seemed to keep the entire island afloat on a large falsely illuminated lip. But it wasn’t only the Island that chilled him and set him on edge. Coney was just the exotic pet of an eccentric owner. The sickness went beyond it. Everywhere it seemed there were potential madmen and acts of sensibly plotted perfidy or fundamentally corrupt faith waiting to occur, and he did not know how people could stand it, how they could live day to day with that kind of potential in their back yard. Society was suddenly filled with loose hinges and smouldering fuses and he barely felt able to leave his home. Even in the tepid streets of Sheepshead Bay he felt he wanted to look over his shoulder. At any minute there might be weapons produced or chloroform gags or speeding vehicles revving their engines in alleyways ready to throw off their emergency brakes. Because where had Malcolm Sedak come from? He was just a face in the crowd, a darn in the fabric. He was just New York. He was just America. He had stepped out of its undergrowth with his plan and his pledges to God and his diabolically limp cock in order to tear Grace down, to dissolve her. And Cyril Parks hated him, wanted to hate him, had to, he aimed everything he had at the man. He fell into it with determination. But the hating seemed not to have an end or a floor and he kept on falling, his hatred escaped the confines of a single repulsive being, spreading systematically outwards, outwards. He hated the venue of Grace’s demise and got more and more tense within its walls until he fought with a complete stranger one night who had done nothing more than ask the sisters about that fateful evening in passing while smoking a cigar, and Valerie kicked him out. He hated the Island and was spiteful to his customers. He hated the stale smell of the subway and the meritless citizens who rode it and the ensigns of the country. So that more and more things were to blame.

Cy’s mindset was not helped by the compulsory and continual updates of Malcolm Sedak’s hospital incarceration by Henry Beausang, who worked in the institution and had access to all kinds of information. Like the crazy’s unrepentant stance. Like his cock’s happily restored ability to function. Like the colour of his supper plate. But Cy had to know about him, to feed his anger and his spite, to assure himself that Grace’s enemy was contained, and had not dissolved through a wall only to re-form in the outside world, like an old disease, like the plague.

When the first September chill came in off the Atlantic and refused to budge one morning, Claudia and Arturas came to see him and told him this would be their last season at the Island. Since he had not seen them in Varga owing to his banishment it came as a mild shock. They were going to California, by way of an enormously varied land mass. The beaches along the coast were golden and ripe with bodies awaiting ornamentation, Arturas said. And perhaps Claudia might try her hand at the movies, she could act lines or silently terrorize peroxide-blonde actresses with her sheer zombie size or as Frankenstein’s sutured bride.

— They better have good hotdogs in Los Angeles. It’s all I can say. Will you join us, my English friend?

— No. I’ve been thinking of joining up. Going back over. May as well be of some use.

Arturas gave Cy a look that was set painfully between disbelief and hazardous comprehension. As if something latent between them, a tiny, precious, unifying thing, which they had both always tried to protect in the middle of a nest of unmentionable conversation, in the middle of their professional rivalry, and in the middle of a grotesque and sundering war, had now been broken. Turo took Cy’s offered hand and shook it, and with his other hand he reached for the back of Cyril Parks’s neck, pulling him forward until their foreheads met.

— We will have a drink then in Varga, for old time’s sake?

— I can’t. I’m barred.