He rings the front doorbell and she waits a moment before going to answer it. She checks herself in the hallway mirror then opens the door wide and invites him in. He had imagined that he might have to use persuasion, coercion, even force on Mrs Lederer but her manner is entirely open and cooperative. It looks like there will be no problems here.
“Mrs Lederer,” he says. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
She smiles and nods but says nothing.
“You have something I want,” he adds.
“Yes,” she says. “I think I do.”
“Have you been expecting me?”
“You or someone like you.”
He nods sympathetically, a family doctor making a house call. “And you know why I’m here.”
“I can guess. Long before Carlton Bax disappeared, he gave me a package. I thought it was a slightly odd present at the time but I tried to look grateful. When Marilyn disappeared too, I made one or two deductions and suspected that someone would be coming to reclaim that present sooner or later.”
“I think you’re being very sensible about this,” he says. “Now show me the Volkswagen.”
“It’s upstairs,” she says and she leads him from the living room up to her bedroom. The bed is unmade’and the room smells of bodies.
She goes over to a carved oak chest at the foot of the bed and lifts the lid. She tries hard to be casual. She reaches inside and pulls out an old but innocuous looking cardboard box, no more than a foot long. It is scuffed, discoloured and it has some indecipherable German writing on it. She hands it to Phelan. He takes it from her as though it might explode. His hands betray a slight tremor as he places the box on the dressing table and carefully opens it. Within is a small glass case with a wooden base, and set on that base is the object of all his needs and fascination; Paul Loffler’s automaton, Hitler’s Beetle.
He removes the cardboard box, takes off the glass case and stares fixedly at the naked reality of the model. He glances up at the angled dressing table mirrors and sees three reflections of the car and himself, multiple images that project through time and history.
He touches the handle delicately, just the way Adolf Hitler must have done all those years ago. He knows it is only his imagination, and yet the brass of the handle feels hot, as though there is some potent electric current coursing through it. He begins to turn the handle and gently, slowly, the sun roof of the Volkswagen rolls back. He sees the naked figures of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, delicate, absurd, utterly obscene. He can hear the whirr of tiny gears and cams moving effortlessly inside the car. The operation is smooth and reassuring. With every turn he can feel his powers growing. Now that he has this, nothing can stop him.
He prolongs the sequence, savouring each movement of the model figures, each turn of the mechanism, until both he and the automaton of Adolf Hitler can delay no longer and the tiny shower of diamond dust sprays from Hitler’s oversized bone penis and the sun roof snaps shut.
Phelan is aware that he has an erection, but it is not because the pornography of the automaton has aroused him. It has more to do with power, with the anticipation of conquest and domination. He is also aware that his skin feels like sandpaper, that the light in the bedroom has become thickly luminous and that he may be about to sob.
He tries to collect himself. Swiftly but lovingly he returns the Volkswagen to its case and then to its box. He picks it up, holds it firmly in both of his big, beringed hands.
Suddenly Mrs Lederer slaps him across the face with all her might. It is a spiteful and shocking blow, delivered with a strength that comes from some fierce, surprising place deep inside her.
“If you’ve done anything to my daughter…” she says.
“Your daughter is just fine,” he says. “She’s with her boyfriend.”
She says nothing.
He rubs his cheek, at least partly in admiration of her power.
“You’ve done well, Mrs Lederer,” he says. “You’ve done the right thing in handing over the automaton. When this whole business is over, I could have a need of someone like you.”
She stares at him coldly, a little contemptuously, and yet there is something in her face that tells him that their needs might not be entirely at odds.
♦
On Friday afternoon they start to arrive. They come from everywhere, with their different hopes and expectations and modes of transport. The New Agers come in their buses and vans and converted ambulances, and some even on foot. The Volkswagen enthusiasts arrive in their campers and Bajas, their splits and ovals, their Karmann Ghias and Jeans and Super Beetles, some Cal look, some Resto-Cal, some customised, some completely standard. The camp followers arrive too. For the New Agers there are vegetarian food stalls, tarot readers, astrologists, vendors of crystals and aura goggles. For the Volkswagen enthusiasts there are the sellers of dress-up engine parts, customisers, engine tuners and rebuilders, dealers who specialise in Volkswagen toys and collectables.
Inevitably there is some confusion. Sam Probert has organised a few stewards to direct people as they arrive, but the stewards themselves are not organised at all, and so, especially at first, some Volkswagen fans end up in the New Age field, and vice versa. But gradually the build up of Volkswagens in one field and of New Age culture in the other ensures that a moment comes when no such mistake can be made. There is a small police presence, and they do their best to remain friendly yet formal.
Both crowds are surprisingly diverse. Among the Gathering of the Tribes there are many genuine full-time New Age travellers, but there are also plenty of old hippies, crusties, punks, a few bikers, and more than a smattering of clean and healthy looking youngsters who seem to have borrowed Mum’s hatchback and are playing at being New Age for the weekend. There are even one or two skinheads, though not of the neo-Nazi variety.
Those attending Bug Mecca are also varied in their own way. Some are family groups out for a weekend’s camping, while others are history buffs and are driving thrillingly authentic antique Volkswagens. Some are trendy young things in immaculate, restored Beetles, while others try to look like California surfers.
Moreover, a certain number of visitors are interested in both events. Some old hippies are interested in Volkswagens. Some Volkswagen enthusiasts are into things New Age. Fans of rave culture are at home in either camp. People pass back and forth between the two fields, sometimes in Volkswagens, often not, and they are able to partake of both Volkswagen and New Age worlds.
One or two locals are happy enough to welcome the visitors; mostly the owners of the local garages, supermarkets and off licences, who do a brisk trade. They tend to welcome the Volkswagen people more than the New Age travellers because, in the main, the former spend more money, but when Planetary Cliff arrives at the petrol station in his double-decker bus and fills it up with diesel, he’s made to feel very welcome indeed. Nevertheless, the people who said it was a disgrace, that there would be chaos, noise and smells, dogs and children, people revving their engines and loud music and drugs, unprotected sex and people peeing in the street, still feel they’re going to be proved absolutely right.
In fact Planetary Cliff is one of the first to arrive, naturally enough, since he’s the one providing the music for the Gathering of the Tribes. Many hours are spent unloading his bus and setting up his vast sound system in a corner of the field furthest from the caravan site. Cliff tries to be considerate.
A stage is rapidly constructed out of scaffolding and old boards, and it has a navy blue back cloth with suns, moons and holy symbols painted on it. A lighting rig will illuminate the stage at night, and there is a row of microphones so that Planetary Cliff, or anyone else, can address the crowd and share some cosmic wisdom with them.