Schultz walked to the cemetery entrance. Flanked by grey stone gate lodges. And locked from the world by great high impenetrable iron gates. Inside, a straight road disappearing away into the middle darkness between mausoleums and now in a sudden burst of cloud uncovered moonlight, the distant outline of a church. The sidewalk clear again. Schultz walking back towards the hospital. Looming up with its yellow lighted windows. What a place to be looking down at full of gravestones while you’re trying to recover. And tonight I got to go home now to see if I’m losing fistfuls of my pubic hair. Shout this time real loud. And wake the fucking dead the place is full of.
“Al sent me.”
Schultz waiting. His voice even echoing back as he stood staring around behind. And at a couple across the street. Stopping to look over. Bigger and better and harder rain drops falling. Jesus while I’m getting really fucking wet I may as well throw caution to the wind. And holler at the top of my fucking lungs.
“Al sent me.”
Schultz tightly pushing his face to peer between the bars. Removing his sunglasses. Scanning the dark shadows. The white sepulchres. All the broken and leaning tombstones. Al fucking well better say his prayers. Nothing. Not a sign. Of life. Except footfalls. Directly behind me. And somebody else thinking I’m nuts.
“Ere ere, sir, can I be of any assistance to you.”
Schultz spinning around. Undoing his fists still gripped to the bars like the inmate of a prison. And scraping the cheek of his face on a black paint peeling rung.
“No that’s all right constable. I was just looking in.”
“In the cemetery.”
“Yes. I heard there was someone who is famous could be in there. I sort of was trying to read the gravestone.”
“You mean was famous, don’t you sir.”
“Yeah that’s right.”
“Well a bit dark now for that kind of thing, sir.”
“Yeah I guess it is.”
“American are you sir.”
“Yeah I am.”
“On a visit are you.”
“That’s right.”
“And spending a bit of overtime are you on the sightseeing.”
“Yeah.”
“Ah well, welcome to England sir. Enjoy yourself. And don’t miss the Tower of London.”
“No I won’t thanks.”
Schultz watching the policeman strolling off. His blue cape spread over his shoulders and the thud of his heavy black gleaming shoes on the pavement. Until his easy gait took him further and further safely away. Past the cemetery entrance. Towards the great massive roof on the skyline and a bridge in the distance where the flash of electricity shot in the sky from passing trains.
Schultz gathering the moist evening air and diesel fumes up his nostrils and down in his lungs. To again give one more most impassioned shout.
“Al fucking well sent me god damn it. Will you speak up if you’re in there.”
Schultz slowly stepping back from the fence. Thinking he was seeing a ghost. Stopping only as he was nearly killed backing off the curb. An approaching bus beeping its horn. Schultz jumping forward again to the safety of the pavement. To there turn shaking his fist at this roaring public transport, which with its big back wheel passing through a puddle sent a full frontal wave of muddy water splashing Schultz head to toe.
“Fucking god damn hell.”
Laughter bellowing out inside the cemetery. And a face rising up on top of a massive hulking shape now getting closer and hunched like a gorilla, growling the other side of the rusting fence.
“Who the fuck wants me.”
“Al sent me. Al Duke.”
‘And what the fucking hell do you mean by interrupting my sleep like that sonny.”
“Holy christ you really exist.”
“Of course I fucking exist, would you think I didn’t. Sure what aria from Puccini do you want to hear.”
“No aria. Look, would you do me a big favour.”
“Ah now that all depends.”
“Would you just please come and see me at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Here, my address is on this piece of paper and either of these telephone numbers will get me.”
“Sure my name’s Terence F. X. Magillacurdy and I come to see no man.”
“Hey look, it’s not to see me. All I want to do is talk to you. In private. And maybe even beg you.”
“For what now would you be begging me.”
“To take a part in a show. It could mean Hollywood for you.”
“Well for a start you can stuff Hollywood straight up your American arse me boyo.”
“O.K. that’s swell with me. Believe me, I understand completely how you feel. No problem. But christ I nearly got arrested trying to find you here. Please. Just come to my house. Ten minutes of your time. Three o’clock tomorrow. I’m on bended knee to you.”
“Ah me boyo bend your knee to no man. But seeing as you’ve taken a bath in a street puddle to find me, sure you know, you have the vague possibility of being likeable. Stand up now. That’s it. Open your ears.”
Schultz standing back as Terence F. X. Magillacurdy’s lungs inflated. The lamplight through the bars of the fence cutting across this Roman Emperor’s face. As exquisite melodious song arose from this giant man’s throat. And flooded the length of Old Brompton Road one end to the other. People stopping on the pavement and appearing curtain twitching at windows of a block of flats. The door of a funeral furnisher just up the street opening. A late working mortician in his apron looking down the road. A shade in the hospital going up. A white capped nurse peering out. And Schultz pushing his address and telephone numbers through the rungs of the fence.
“That’s beautiful see you tomorrow and excuse me for running. I can’t afford to be arrested here with you.”
Schultz turning and trotting away, the Irishman’s laughter erupting in his song following him crossing the street. And up along a crescent of houses where Schultz calmed and walked again to reach the blissful anonymity of Warwick Road. Still hearing the Irishman’s distant dulcet voice singing over the rooftops.
O Danny boy
The pubs, the pubs
Are calling
From Piccadilly
All the way
To Camden Town
The voice drowned now by the clanging bell of a police squad car as Schultz flagged a taxi. Taking a deep breath as he put his head back resting on the seat. The soothing throb of the taxi’s diesel engine motoring between these shadowy massive mansions. Once peopled with servants and rich mercantile families. Now catacombed with Australians. Jesus what a struggle it is to climb up on top like a hero. And soon as you do everybody is pulling open your shoelaces.
Taxi now passing a little park. Earl’s Court Square. And into the more sedate streets. The white painted elevations of South Kensington. Theatre goers. In there behind their polished windows, sparkling tables set for dinner. Guests arriving for cocktails. Little children safe upstairs with nanny in nursery. If only I had that kind of a childhood being read bedtime stories before you go to sleep. Instead of sneaking drags of a cigarette up some garbage strewn alley in the bleak depths of America. And now with one’s own entrails maybe wracked with clap eating at my guts already.
The brakes squealing as the taxi came to a halt in front of Sigmund Schultz’s Belgravia town house. Schultz paying another crisp ten shilling note to the driver wreathed with a big broad grin.
“Squire you had me worried. I’m the one brought you to the cemetery. You got a spot or two of mud on you. And glad to bring you back. Had meself a quiet cup of tea at Earl’s Court there and picked you straight up again as my fare. Things all right at the cemetery.”