John Banville - Nightspawn

He met me in the courtyard, stopping in false surprise when he saw me, and said,

‘Didn’t you want to talk to me?’

I did not answer, but stalked into the house and sat down on a chair in the dining-room with my arms folded. He strolled in after me, and leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets, the stick dangling from his arm. He had that grin, with one eyebrow raised, thick lips curving up around his downward-curving nose, which always seemed to me to express best his particular brand of wicked, mischievous jocularity.

‘You like your jokes, don’t you?’ I snarled.

He lowered his head modestly.

‘Some of them,’ he muttered, shuffling his feet. ‘But sometimes I cheat, and then the joke turns sour.’

He went to the sideboard, and drew out, from behind it, a small easel and blackboard, and set them up on the floor before me. Next he produced a stick of chalk, blew on it, blew on his fingers, coughed, and, with a flourish, wrote upon the blackboard:

JOKES

He turned to me, a fat finger resting on the lower curve of the S, and said,

‘Now. The successful joke, or practical joke, if you like

JOKES (PRACTICAL)

‘The successful practical joke is that one in which a certain personality or personalities, which are known intimately, are taken in a given situation or situations, and nudged into one cohesive, final situation, whereby laughter is produced. The nature of this laughter will be discussed presently. So; let P equal personality, S equal situation, and L equal laughter.’

The chalk squealed and scratched. Julian held his face close to the board, his tongue between his lips, his brow furrowed.

P + S =

He turned to me suddenly.

‘Equals what? Well, come on, come on, what does it equal? I’ve just told you.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘My god. Does it equal laughter?’

‘Yes.’

He stamped his foot.

‘It does not. You forget the unknown factor, which we shall call V. Hence:’

P+S+V = L

He laid down the chalk, brushed his hands, and stepped back to view the equation. Then he whirled about, glowering at me from under his eyebrows, and barked,

‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strolled to the window, where he stood and looked pensively across the garden. I blew my nose.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let us discuss it. It should be obvious, of course, that one doesn’t do all this work to produce a mere laugh; nothing so vulgar as that. It is a matter of vision, which is why I have called the unknown factor V; look there, look at it on the board. The product is, though I would hesitate to say this to an artist, the product is a matter of art. Laughter is not merely that ridiculous sound which a crowd makes when a comedian’s trousers fall off. Laughter is art. The perfect joke has the economy, the … the precision of a poem. It is ephemeral, in a sense, but so is great art, if one ignores the time factor.’

He glanced at me, and asked kindly,

‘Do you follow me?’

‘Yes.’

He pushed his chin down on his breast, and walked back to the table, where he perched precariously on one buttock, with one leg swinging free.

‘It is often asked, why do people perpetrate practical jokes? And, indeed, I myself would ask why people bother with those ungainly buckets-over-the-door affairs. But the real, true practical joke, the artistic joke, where no conditions are manufactured, but the complete thing is conjured out of the air, as it were; well, do I ask a writer why he writes books? These things cannot be explained. You write a book, do you not, because there is a certain set of situations, or ideas, if you like, suspended somewhere beyond the reach of other mortals, without cohesion, without direction, which you must pluck from space, arrange, direct, and give to them a voice? Is it not so? You call it art. Why should not I say that my jokes are art? You don’t believe, do you, that your books will save souls, cause deaths —?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I said, pointedly.

He paused, and frowned, and nodded quickly.

‘I see what you mean,’ he murmured, sniffed loudly, and left the room. His head came back immediately around the door. ‘But I’ve never felt responsible for anyone’s death, you know,’ he said, grinned, and was gone. I followed him. The hall was empty.

I climbed the stairs again, and, looking up, saw him, in the mirror, walking four or five steps behind me, on tip-toe, with a hand pressed over his mouth, and his blue eyes popping with glee. The red and black squares of his skin-tight suit shook where they were stretched over his big belly, and his knees wobbled from the effort of suppressing his laughter. The bell, dangling from his cap, tinkled derisively. I ignored him, and crossed the landing, and went into that room from whence I had first seen him emerge. It was his study. He sat in an armchair, with a book open on his knees, an enormous cigar in his fingers, and a glass of brandy beside him on a low table.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, brushing away the webs of pale blue fragrant smoke, and laying his book down on the floor. ‘Care for a drink? Cigar? Damn fine smokes, these.’

I pressed my back against the door, shaking my head from side to side. I could not speak.

‘Come along, sit,’ he roared jovially, motioning me to a chair.

I sat down opposite him, and placed my hands on my knees. He cast a sidelong look at me, and grinned slyly.

‘This is my hideout,’ he whispered, with a ponderous wink. I come up here for a bit of peace and quiet. The old girl doesn’t like me to smell up the house with smoke. Sure you won’t have a drop of brandy, boy? Last of the stock, this bottle.’

He picked up the glass, and held it to the light.

‘Grand stuff,’ he said.

‘Julian.’

‘Well?’

‘Will you stop this?’

‘Eh?’

‘I said, will you stop this. I deserve at least an explanation.’

He began to cough, and thumped himself on the chest with the paw which held the cigar. Grey ash tumbled down his waistcoat.

‘What do you mean — humph humph — eh — humph — explanation? Explanation? Let me tell you, if I had spoken to my elders like that when I was your age, I’d have had a good trouncing. You young fellers today, you’ve got no respect, none. Going around in your cissy clothes and your long hair. Where’s your respect, eh, ha, where? Hum.’

He puffed at the cigar, wheezing, and swilled the brandy, and stared at me malevolently, blowing and grunting, an old grampus.

‘What you need is work. Yes, work. Do you good, a bit of honest work. Why, when I came to this country, I had the clothes on my back and nothing else. I got a job as an office boy, ten hours a day for three drachmas an hour. I saved what I could, kept my ears open, invested, made a bit of profit, and started my own office. I met a good woman, and married her. We had no soft life in those first years, but by god we were happy. And look at me today. I’m not a proud man, but I think I can say that I used my time, and used it well. And don’t think that my fighting days are over. That damn army crowd have been threatening to nationalize my industries, the first chance they get. Ha. I’ll show them nationalize. I have them where I want them now, Oh ho yes, I spiked their guns. They won’t cross me now. Listen —’

He bent forward, and beckoned me closer.

‘If it was in my interests, which it’s not, but if it was, I could scotch their plans today. I could. I have something that would … but enough, I’ve said enough.’

Another wink, a quick grin, and then he waved his hand, commanding a general silence on that topic.