Chris Cleave - Everyone Brave is Forgiven

There was the Tower with its medieval walls, there St Paul’s aping Rome, and there St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the sober Greek temple impaled from beneath by that hysterical Georgian spire. Alistair brimmed with pleasure to see it spread out in the warm glow of the stage lights. Dear old London — the conflator of all centuries, the pigeon-feeding tramp wearing all of her clothes at once.

As the sun rose over the painted city, a chorus of blackface minstrels processed from the wings. A dozen came in from each side and arranged themselves in a semicircle open to the audience. In a whisper at first, rising in volume as the sun rose, they sang.

Bless this house, O Lord we pray,

Make it safe by night and day.

Whether it was the wine and the woman by his side, or the city he had missed, or the seventeen hours he had left, Alistair found himself overcome as the voices swelled.

Bless these walls so firm and stout,

Keeping want and trouble out.

After the hymn, a Negro made up as a white man took to the stage in top hat and tails and introduced himself as Mister Interlocutor.

“That’s him!” whispered Mary. “That’s Zachary’s father.”

The Interlocutor leaned in to the microphone. “In these times of threat and anxiety, when our enemy besets us and we are weighted down with cares, it does the heart good to remember old times, when life — though it was hard — was familiar, and the Negroes gathering together would lighten their heavy labors with song and with levity.”

One of the chorus men stepped forward, large crimson lips painted over his black face. “Well Mistah Interloculator, I wouldn’t be knowin’ about no leviditty, excuse my ignorimiddy.”

The audience laughed and applauded, and Alistair laughed with them. It was a kick, after the poignancy of the hymn.

“Ah, Mister Bones,” said the Interlocutor with affection. “I might have known it would be you.”

“Allus does seems to be me, Mistah Intercalculator, every time I check. Try as I might, I can’t seems to wake up looking like you.”

Everyone roared. Alistair lit Hilda’s cigarette and she snuggled a little closer.

“And tell me, Bones, what have you been up to lately?”

“Well, Mistah Innoculator, I have been out and about in de night.”

“In the night, Bones? Out?”

“Yes sir, why else do you suppose dey call it a blackout?”

Thump of a drum, crash of a cymbal. The audience cheered, the Interlocutor waved his cane like a baton and the whole chorus came forward to launch into an upbeat swing of “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho.”

“Aren’t they marvelous?” said Hilda, close to Alistair’s ear.

“Tremendous,” said Alistair.

“How many of them do you suppose are actually colored?”

“I daresay that fellow Bones is, and at least half of the chaps in the chorus line. Hard to tell, under all that war paint.”

“Aren’t they marvelous?” said Hilda again, across the table.

“Terrific,” said Tom.

“Terrible,” said Mary, laughing. “I mean, don’t you think?”

“But it’s only a clin d’oeil, ” said Tom. “Or at least that’s what you said.”

“I know, but the lips, darling. The…” She popped her eyes wide.

“Oh come on,” said Tom. “Actually it’s funnier than I thought.”

“But so humiliating! I’m sorry I dragged you all to see this.”

Tom yawned. “I’d be surprised if they weren’t all earning more than me.”

“Yes, well, maybe I should marry one of them,” said Mary, knocking back the last of her glass.

Alistair winked at Tom. It was rather fun to see his old friend in hot water. Mary caught Alistair at it, and gave him a look that seemed amused though whether at him or with him, he couldn’t tell. He signaled to the busboy for another bottle of white. By now, no one was counting.

As the spiritual ended and the applause faded away, the Interlocutor clapped his hands and a new backdrop fell. Now they were in Berlin, before a Reichstag with wonky columns and flags with a reversed swastika. Roman standards carried the Reich’s eagle with pendulous breasts and a harlot’s stockings and suspenders. As the audience laughed and booed, a performer detached himself from the semicircle and dragged a soapbox to center stage where a microphone was standing ready. A single spotlight shone on him.

The man was white, and a little rectangular patch had been omitted from his blackface to give him the infamous toothbrush mustache in negative. He climbed up on the soapbox, knocked himself off again with an overzealous Nazi salute, then climbed back on again to laughter.

The audience settled. From offstage came the sound effect of a wireless being tuned. The performer leaned in to the microphone and spread his arms dramatically.

“Dis is Jaaarmany callin’… dis is Jaaaaarmany callin’.”

The audience howled.

“In August alone, de German navy did sink de followin’ British ships: De H.M.S. Pinafore . De African Queen . De Good Ship Lollipop.”

“My dear fellow,” the Interlocutor said. “What nonsense!”

“Oh, you don’t believe me? Den tell me, did you see any dem ships come into port recently?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Well den! Never doubt what de German wireless be tellin’ you!”

He wagged his finger at the audience, who catcalled and jeered.

“We ended resistance in all de followin’ countries: Xanadu. El Dorado. Atlantis. Although I think dere was something fishy ’bout dat last one.”

“Come on,” said Mary, “let’s get out of this dive.”

“Oh please,” said Hilda, “let’s give it five more minutes.”

Mary made a deferential bow. Up onstage, the Broadcaster was working himself into a frenzy.

“You British have no chance! We knows all your secrets! We knows everything ’bout your country!”

“Oh yes?” said the Interlocutor. “Such as?”

“Such as the intentions of your leader, dat Mistah Winsome Chivalry.”

“Ah, you mean Mr. Winston Churchill.”

The audience applauded his name, and the Broadcaster leered. “Dat’s right, de skinny guy. We know de man has no fight in ’im. He’ll never attack.”

From the audience: “Oh yes he will!” And the Broadcaster: “Oh no he won’t!”

As they went back and forth in raucous escalation, the semicircle of singers set up a low, wailing, rising and falling note, quiet at first and then louder until the Broadcaster, finally appearing to notice it, broke off from haranguing the crowd and cupped a hand to listen.

“Oh lordy! De air-raid warnin’! Surely not here in Berlin!”

As the Broadcaster cowered in fear, the audience cheered with delight. The spotlight snapped off, the stage lights fell, and the chorus carried on their wailing, the note rising and falling in the dark. A silver moon rose over the backdrop, which had changed to a blacked-out London by night. The chorus steadied their wailing at its highest pitch and held it in a clear hum that sounded over the moonlit city. The note sounded long and sweet and rose into “I Vow to Thee, My Country.” Beside him, Hilda wept. Tom appeared to have something in his eye, and it seemed to Alistair that even Mary was pacified.

The curtain fell for the interval. The house lights came up. The Interlocutor came out from backstage and sat at a baby grand, front of house. He rolled up the sleeves of his tailcoat, propped up the piano lid, cocked his top hat back and began an incidental.

“Why don’t you go over and say hello?” said Tom.

“Oh stop it. I’m ashamed.”

“But what did you expect?” said Hilda.

“I didn’t realize the joke would be quite so much on them .”