of the renegade guerrilla hero in his biker boots, the principled fighter who sleeps on potato crates. ‘Oh, my God,’ Mouse whispers as he gazes through the door. ‘Oh, my God.’
A cavernous hall of loveliness, too much loveliness in a country so smashed. Marble, gleaming mirrors, shine. A colour scheme of black and silver and cream. Light streaming through a glass dome in enormous bands like highways for angels, highways to up and out. Your boy grips the door handle, the last bit of reality from his other, room-boxed life. He shuts the door and leans against the tiles. Can’t step out into this, can’t believe it’s real, can’t ever walk normally into such an audacious place. How on earth did they manage such a secret? Party so ebulliently while ranting against everything this room represents.
Again Mouse opens the door, can’t help it. The handle on the other side is a golden dolphin and looped on its jaunty tail is another of Tidge’s strips. He smiles. Of course his brother drank this up. He glances at orchids cascading in pale waterfalls from vases as tall as toddlers, at chairs with carved eagles’ heads on velvet arms, at chandeliers an umbrella span across, at a pianist’s sad back among fat silver teapots and women with hard faces in high heels and red lipstick. The new regime was never meant to be this. It shrilled that it was fighting thevoraciousness of the previous political caste, people that it spat had perfected the art of denying themselves nothing, who were obscenely immoral, excessive, corrupt. They were going to create a nobler, fairer, corrected way of life. Which was never this.
And B is embedded within it.
And where is Motl in all this? He said he knew his friend so well, like a son. Did he have any idea of this place? Any idea where his children might end up?
Mouse can’t walk out into it, he’s not brave enough. But there’ll be his sister’s knowing nod if he returns empty-handed; you all know she’s expecting failure. He lifts his chin, takes a deep, firming breath, and steps out. You smile in disbelief.
When thou hast enough, remember the time of hunger.
77
A white marble staircase curves like a seashell up to the floors above, up to a secretive quiet. Tidge went there, of course. It’s where his food came from, people leave uneaten food in hotel corridors, yes, but how did he get up?
A lift. Dead ahead. An old iron cage for a door that opens as if reading his thoughts. A uniformed lift-operator bows her head, all enquiring eyebrows and chuff. Your son nods in return with a wan grin not quite there on his face. The woman twinkles a smile and sweeps her hand across the showroom of her tiny space. And a lift-operator, good grief, it’s like seeing a video player or a cassette. Motl would love it so much. He’d settle on her velvet bench and travel up and down, up and down, all cackly with delight. Your son holds high his hand firmly in farewell. Shuts his door. So not good at this. He climbs the stairs and skips the first floor and opens the fire door with a 2 on it.
‘Lost?’ The lift lady chuckles, dead ahead.
‘No,’ Mouse grumps. Annoyed that he’s been second-guessed.
A stand-off. She’s not leaving. Her face has so much memory in it. And it’s been such a long time since Mouse has seen anyone elderly and he steps forward without realising, as if suddenly transfixed by the idea of her house, all those early childhood smells from visits to Granny, stillness and airless rooms and smothery, powdery cuddles and flannellette sheets.
‘Why are you wandering about all alone, young man? Are you lost? Can I help?’
‘What’s your name?’ he deflects.
‘Jude Pickering the Third,’ she announces with a smile. ‘And don’t you forget.’
He smiles and it’s like sun breaking through cloud. The woman closes the lift door with fingers as yellow and as worn as old newspapers and whispers that there’s an old service lift if he’d prefer, pointing with a
A cavernous hall of loveliness, too much loveliness in a country so smashed. Marble, gleaming mirrors, shine. A colour scheme of black and silver and cream. Light streaming through a glass dome in enormous bands like highways for angels, highways to up and out. Your boy grips the door handle, the last bit of reality from his other, room-boxed life. He shuts the door and leans against the tiles. Can’t step out into this, can’t believe it’s real, can’t ever walk normally into such an audacious place. How on earth did they manage such a secret? Party so ebulliently while ranting against everything this room represents.
Again Mouse opens the door, can’t help it. The handle on the other side is a golden dolphin and looped on its jaunty tail is another of Tidge’s strips. He smiles. Of course his brother drank this up. He glances at orchids cascading in pale waterfalls from vases as tall as toddlers, at chairs with carved eagles’ heads on velvet arms, at chandeliers an umbrella span across, at a pianist’s sad back among fat silver teapots and women with hard faces in high heels and red lipstick. The new regime was never meant to be this. It shrilled that it was fighting thevoraciousness of the previous political caste, people that it spat had perfected the art of denying themselves nothing, who were obscenely immoral, excessive, corrupt. They were going to create a nobler, fairer, corrected way of life. Which was never this.
And B is embedded within it.
And where is Motl in all this? He said he knew his friend so well, like a son. Did he have any idea of this place? Any idea where his children might end up?
Mouse can’t walk out into it, he’s not brave enough. But there’ll be his sister’s knowing nod if he returns empty-handed; you all know she’s expecting failure. He lifts his chin, takes a deep, firming breath, and steps out. You smile in disbelief.
When thou hast enough, remember the time of hunger.
77
A white marble staircase curves like a seashell up to the floors above, up to a secretive quiet. Tidge went there, of course. It’s where his food came from, people leave uneaten food in hotel corridors, yes, but how did he get up?
A lift. Dead ahead. An old iron cage for a door that opens as if reading his thoughts. A uniformed lift-operator bows her head, all enquiring eyebrows and chuff. Your son nods in return with a wan grin not quite there on his face. The woman twinkles a smile and sweeps her hand across the showroom of her tiny space. And a lift-operator, good grief, it’s like seeing a video player or a cassette. Motl would love it so much. He’d settle on her velvet bench and travel up and down, up and down, all cackly with delight. Your son holds high his hand firmly in farewell. Shuts his door. So not good at this. He climbs the stairs and skips the first floor and opens the fire door with a 2 on it.
‘Lost?’ The lift lady chuckles, dead ahead.
‘No,’ Mouse grumps. Annoyed that he’s been second-guessed.
A stand-off. She’s not leaving. Her face has so much memory in it. And it’s been such a long time since Mouse has seen anyone elderly and he steps forward without realising, as if suddenly transfixed by the idea of her house, all those early childhood smells from visits to Granny, stillness and airless rooms and smothery, powdery cuddles and flannellette sheets.
‘Why are you wandering about all alone, young man? Are you lost? Can I help?’
‘What’s your name?’ he deflects.
‘Jude Pickering the Third,’ she announces with a smile. ‘And don’t you forget.’
He smiles and it’s like sun breaking through cloud. The woman closes the lift door with fingers as yellow and as worn as old newspapers and whispers that there’s an old service lift if he’d prefer, pointing with a
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