Stanley Elkin: The Magic Kingdom

(“Colin says I mustn’t invalid myself,” Liam tells them, back, breathless, in bed.

(“You’re overextended, darling,” Ginny says. “You must save your strength.”

(“What for?”

(“It’s just gone three,” his father says. “Where have you been these past twenty-five minutes?”

(“Colin took me to stand by the window. We looked out on Devonshire Place.”

(“Oh? What did you see?”

(“The traffic,” Liam says. “We counted two Humbers. There were Bentleys and Jags. Colin calls them doctor’s cars. Morris- Minors, of course, and Ford Cortinas and Anglias. We saw ever so many Vauxhalls and Daimlers. And Colin says he saw a Hillman-Minx with its top rolled back in the phaeton position. I missed that one.”

(He knew he was dying. He might have been talking about birds spotted in nature. He knew he was dying. He would have known this if he hadn’t the evidence of his decaying body. The doctors had spoken guardedly when he’d asked if he’d ever leave hospital again. He knew he was dying. There was the pathetic testimony of his parents’ vigil, their soured, close-quarters breath, Bale’s stubble and the careless erosion of his mum’s makeup. So he knew he was dying. Colin Bible had told him so. “It’s only traffic down there, kiddo,” the man had said. “They’re just cars, not kangaroos. If Lord and Lady Muck let me, I’d have you off to Kew Gardens or Regent’s Park zoo. We could pop by Madame Tussaud’s for a look-see. Most of that lot’s goners too, Liam.” Liam shuddered. “What, you’ve seen ’em then? Ozymandias, Ozymandias, hey, kid? They look a grave and gray bunch now, I grant, but I’ll say this much for ’em. They done their time, they done their time and they put on a show, the villains no less than the heroes and courtesans. Every mum’s son, every dad’s daughter. All the ancient and modern personages. Not one eager to die and, except for the crazies, p’raps, not one even willing. Not because they didn’t know what they was getting into but because only a crazy don’t appreciate what he’s getting out of. So that’s what you have in common with the moguls and presidents, Liam. Everybody wants to live. We all love the sunshine and we all love the rain. Only the nut case thinks life is hard. Hard? It’s softer than silk pajamas.”

(“My life is hard.”

(“Oh? Then you’re the one don’t mind dying.”

(“Yes. Yes I do.”

(“There you go then.”

(“I’m twelve years old,” Liam said.

(“Yes, and you weren’t always sick. You’ve kicked the football in your time, I’ll be bound. You’ve jumped into the header.” Liam smiled. “Sure. And I’ll bet you the baby you know how to swim, that you’ve been to the baths, maybe even to the sea itself. Maybe even to Brighton.”

(“And Blackpool.”

(“Brighton and Blackpool! And you tell me life is hard. Oh, yes. I believe you but thousands wouldn’t!”

(“One time, on the pitch, I was bowling and knocked the bails clear off the stumps three times running,” Liam remembers.

(“You were a bowler, were you?”

(“It wasn’t a regu la tion cricket ground. Something me and my mates set up on the common.”

(“You’ve done it all,” Colin Bible says.

(“I never did,” he tells him quietly, and looks at his nurse. The boy is tired, wishes the man would help him back to his room. On these occasions Colin rarely brings the child’s wheelchair. He carries him when he’s too weak to walk and sets him down on the hospital’s deep window ledges. “I never did those things.”

(“What things, Liam?”

(“That the ancient and modern personages did.”

(“That was my surprise,” Colin says.

(“I won’t live long enough to do just even ordinary things. I’ll never have my own bed-sitter.”

(“That’s not so much,” Colin Bible says. “What, a bed-sitter? There’s less there than meets the eye. They’re all moldy and dank, with patches of lino on the floor that never match. I think the Council has rules against it.”

(“I always wanted to live in one,” the boy says. “That was my idea. To rent a bed-sitter and put my shillings in the electric fire. What surprise?”

(“Well, you know, Liam, you really are a personage.”

(“What, I am?”

(“A modern personage but a personage all the same,” Colin tells him. “Maybe the most famous young personage in England.”

(“What, because I’m going to die, you mean?”

(“Your picture’s been in News of the Day. You’ve been on the telly. They’ve written about you in all the papers, even the Times. Just everyone knows you. You’ve been a poster boy. Famous people pray for you. Girls write for your autograph. They know you listen to Terry Wogan. They call him up and he dedicates songs to you. One Sunday in the flat my friend and I were listening to ‘Melodies for You’ and we heard your name. ‘I know him,’ I said. ‘You know Liam Bale?’ he asked. ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘he’s my patient.’”

(“I never did anything brave. The pain doesn’t count. When it hurts I cry. I whine and I whimper. You’ve heard me, Colin.”

(“You’ve been to Madame Tussaud’s, Liam,” Colin Bible said. “It’s not all Monty and Lord Nelson and Christ on the Cross. You’ve seen the noted criminals, you’ve seen the film stars. Of course you’re a personage.”

(“Madame Tussaud’s?”

(“Well, that’s what we’ve been talking about, isn’t it? That’s my surprise. I can’t absolutely guarantee it, of course, but my friend is one of their top artists. He’s Artistic Director, actually, and makes most of the decisions about who’ll be showcased. When he heard I actually knew you he was very excited. He’d already made some marvelous sketches that he took from the papers. ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if Liam even wants to be in your waxworks. Not everyone would, you know, Colin.‘—my friend’s name is Colin, too. — Well, he said he’d respect your wishes in the matter, of course. He doesn’t have to. He’s Artistic Director, and you’re a public personage. Even if you weren’t, once you’re dead you’d be in the public domain anyway — I think that’s the law — so he can pretty much do as he pleases, though he promised he’d respect your wishes. I said I’d check with you, Liam. Personally, I think it would be flippin’ lovely, but it’s your decision.”

(“Madame Tussaud’s!” Liam says. “Me in Madame Tussaud’s! That’s a stunner. I mean, no boy wants to die, but that’s a stunner. I can almost see the expression on my mates’ faces when they see me.”

(“Well, you know, Liam, I told Colin I thought that might be the way you’d react when I told you. He’s very good, Colin is. He doesn’t make the actual molds. Those are done in France, mostly, but he does the preliminary sketches and determines the poses.”

(Liam’s face goes suddenly pale. Colin Bible grabs him from the window seat and carries the boy to a bench, where he lays him down gently. He raises his pajama top, warms the metal disk with breath from his mouth, and puts it against the child’s skin. Liam starts to say something. “Shh, shh,” the nurse says. “All right then,” he says in a moment. “I want to take your pulse.” Which is rapid but not alarming. He places a thermometer under Liam’s tongue. Again the boy tries to speak. “Liam, please, you’ll snap it in two. Then we’ll both be at the Madame’s.”

(“Uh oj esh,” Liam says.

(“In a minute,” Colin says. The color has returned to Liam’s face. “Not even normal,” he scolds. “All right, Liam, what was that all about then?”