‘… on the tongue, to produce Mr Punch’s voice,’ she was saying, ‘is now called a swazzle but in Mayhew’s day the Punchmen referred to it as an “unknown tongue” which is interesting I think. Listen to this, from London Labour and the London Poor, published in 1861. Here a Punchman is telling Mayhew about the Punch and Judy show as performed by an earlier showman, Porsini:
‘“At first, the performance was quite different then to what it is now. It was all sentimental then, and very touching to the feelings, and full of good morals. The first part was only made up of the killing of his wife and babby, and the second with the execution of the hangman and killing of the devil — that was the original idea of Punch, handed down to prosperity for eight hundred years. The killing of the devil makes it one of the most moral plays as is, for it stops Satan’s career of life, and then we can all do as we likes afterwards.” Anyone have any thoughts on that?’ A hand was raised by a young woman with a baggy jumper and black hair in one long plait down her back. ‘Sarah?’
‘Well,’ said Sarah, ‘that reminds me of Alesteir Crowley; he was a Satanist and said to be quite a wicked man, and his credo was “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” But the Punch showman says that the killing of Satan allows us all to do as we like, so his Satan seems to have been a more Calvinist sort.’
‘Satan was originally the guy who punished sinners,’ said a man with large ears and a prominent Adam’s apple, ‘which is why Punch was happy about getting rid of him.’
‘Very odd,’ said a woman with a black pullover and a nose ring. ‘The Punchman said that the killing of Satan made it a highly moral play! And it was highly moral for Punch to murder his wife and child, right?’
‘Punch has no morals,’ said the man who had just spoken. ‘Punch is the id.’
‘There’s a lot of id about these days,’ said the first woman.
‘I like it that Punch speaks in an unknown tongue,’ said Melissa, ‘an unknown tongue that’s at the same time a secret utterance but one easily understood by all.’ She looked towards the door, saw Klein, and gave him a look that turned him to stone. Recovering quickly he closed the door and waited for the class to end. ‘“Do what thou wilt,”’ he muttered.
The door opened and a freshet of good-looking women poured out with some males bobbing among them. ‘Gnnggh,’ whispered Klein into his hand as he pretended to cough politely. He looked inside and saw Melissa putting things into her shoulder bag. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans this time, with trainers. She gave him the Medusa look again as she slung the bag from her shoulder and came towards him.
Keeping her voice low she said, ‘You’re not welcome here, Prof, and I don’t like being stalked. You’ve had your treat, OK? Any further traffic between us will be onscreen or on the phone. Now please disappear or I’ll have you thrown out.’
‘Perfectly understandable,’ said Klein, ‘but as it happens the reason for my being here is that I want to talk to you about funding your project.’ He watched the words march out of his mouth in perfect order. ‘Life is full of surprises,’ he said to himself.
Her eyes widened, then became beady. ‘You want to give me money?’
Two professorial-looking men approached. ‘See you Wednesday,’ said one.
‘Right,’ said Melissa, recomposing her face.
‘Can we talk about this over coffee somewhere?’ said Klein.
‘You’re not fooling me, Harold — you just want to worm your way into my life any way you can. You think your money is going to buy you more treats.’
‘After all, what’s money for?’
‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? A respected art historian, and look at what you’ve sunk to!’
‘Melissa, don’t come the shocked academic with me — I’m sure that my moral decline is in complete accordance with your findings on male inadequacy. Let’s not piss about, all right? I heard you say you were almost out of money and didn’t know where the next lot was coming from. Did I hear wrong?’
‘Of course I need money; a study like the one I’m doing needs a whole lot more than the funding I’ve had. I just don’t like your approach to this situation.’
‘Would you believe me if I told you that all I had in mind was the good of humanity? Actually I do think that a study of sexual attitudes and emotional dysfunction in male/female transactions is a worthwhile thing. And if funding this study is a way of buying more time with you so much the better.’
‘Have you no pride, Harold?’
‘I’m long past such luxuries; have you never heard of obsession? Goethe fell in love with a seventeen-year-old girl when he was seventy-five or so.’
‘Probably all he did was write letters — I can’t imagine Goethe at seventy-five doing what you got down to the other night. Besides, you said he fell in love; you’re not seriously going to tell me you’re in love with me. That I refuse to believe.’
‘Why? Don’t you think you’re lovable?’
‘I know damn well I’m not and you certainly aren’t.’
‘“This can’t be love because I feel so well,”’ sang Klein, ‘“no sobs, no sorrow, no sighs…”’ Several passing students turned to look.
‘Please, go have your Alzheimer’s somewhere else,’ said Melissa. ‘I work here.’
‘I’ve already suggested somewhere else,’ said Klein — ‘any place where we can sit down and talk like civilised people. If you want to get rid of me that’s the quickest way.’
Melissa shrugged. ‘I’m sorry I ever started with you.’
‘I don’t think you are, really. I think you’re enjoying your power and the action resulting from it which is all grist for your mill, isn’t it?’
‘This kind of grist I can do without. Let’s go.’
They left King’s College and went into the winter-evening Strand all bright and lively, its buses gleaming juicily in the nightshine, the traffic hurrying to make way for the silence of the small hours. Left high and dry in the rush, St Mary le Strand tuned its steeple to transmissions from the Almighty and waited for the Day of Judgement.
‘Here we are walking together like friends,’ said Klein.
Melissa shook her head and walked faster to put some distance between them. They passed the Courtauld Institute, passed Indian, Thai, and Italian food. ‘Here,’ she said, indicating the Classic Crumb Cafeteria. ‘We can have coffee here.’
‘It sounds so nice when you say “we”,’ said Klein, turning aside to whisper into his hand, ‘I’ve held her nakedness in my hands, I’ve tasted her secret places.’
‘That is really creepy, that hand business.’
‘What can I say? Open a website and strange types with strange problems are bound to fall into it.’
Between the window and a glass display case were two tiny tables, one of them unoccupied. Melissa sat down while Klein went to the counter. She wanted nothing but coffee; he allowed himself a jelly doughnut as well, just to show his diabetes who was boss.
As they sat facing each other he looked out at the passersby, the cars and vans and buses. He’d never seen so many different doubledeckers as those now thronging the Strand. There were 15s, 76s, 23s, 13s, 9s, 71s, 26s, 68s, 77As, a 4, and a 1. He’d never known there was a 1! ‘The redness of them!’ he said. ‘The doubledeckerness of them! The white-on-black of their route displays! They’re some kind of metaphor, they mean something, they have significance. Ultra Nate! Is there a rock group composed of one buttock?’
‘What?’ said Melissa.
‘Ultra Nate — that’s what it said on the side of a 15 bus.’
‘It has an accent: Ultra Nate. That’s the name of the artist. She’s a singer. Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind or did we come here for busspotting?’