There were portrait shots of all the actors and actresses from The Mortician pinned to the wall in Roger’s office. Someone had drawn a phallus going into Bart’s mouth and a garland of garlic around his neck. The catering staff continued to giggle in Bart’s presence but there was now a new undertone – whereas before it had been flirtatious, in the way that old matriarchs are with young men, now it was barbed, or at least it felt barbed. Bart felt entirely alone. He was entirely alone – Étienne was in Las Vegas with the set painter, who was apparently straight and talked about ‘pussy’ all the time, but really, it only took a few drinks for all that to change.
‘Oh, that’s sad,’ said Roger. ‘I’ve had similar things happen to me, back when I was still deemed attractive by the ladies – yes, there was a time.’ They were in Roger’s office, Bart’s defiled photograph on his desk. Roger was eating a plate of macaroni – the room stank of it; a cheesy baby-vomit funk. ‘I think what happens is, a person is rejected and they’re hurting. And some – ya know, the real insecure types – will turn that hurt into anger and throw it out at the person who rejected them. And when the person who rejected them is a fruit, like us, that’s – I think the target is made that much bigger. An easier hit. Something they can’ – he pinched his fingers together and mimed throwing a dart – ‘aim at real easy.’ He spooned macaroni into his mouth and chewed.
‘If I wanted a magnanimous response I’d be speaking to Étienne,’ said Bart. ‘If he were here.’
Swallowing, Roger picked up Bart’s picture. ‘You want me to say she’s a bitch? All right. She’s a bitch. It’s just I know some things about Lilly. She had a real tough time of it growing up. I know’ – he held up a hand of admission – ‘no excuse.’
‘She’s a fucking child.’
Roger nodded. ‘I’ll speak to her about this.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, actually,’ said Bart.
Roger raised his eyebrows. Drank his root beer. ‘Your choice. I’ll replace the picture. Just hang tight and stay professional.’
Bart had kippers for breakfast. He requested, as an accompaniment, a whole onion, sliced, and a bulb of garlic, peeled. The waiter furrowed his brow but acquiesced. Bart ate the onion slices with the fish and put the garlic between two pieces of thickly buttered rye bread. He drank four coffees and smoked five cigarettes. He didn’t brush his teeth.
When they kissed, he pushed his fingers into her arms, pressed hard, hoping for bruises. She in turn had pooled her mouth with extra saliva and let it ooze into his. He didn’t know what she’d had for breakfast, but it smelled like tripe.
The last day of shooting – another defaced portrait picture. A speech bubble in the comic-book style coming out of his mouth: ‘One sucks cocks. Jolly good.’
Bart ripped the picture off the wall. He found Étienne smoking a cigarette with the set painter (Gabe was his name). How chummy they looked – their arms slightly touching. Friends did that. But so did clandestine lovers – he should know. He took Étienne to one side and showed him the picture.
‘What can I do?’ Étienne said.
‘Nothing,’ said Bart. ‘I hate her. I fucking hate her.’
Étienne squeezed his arm. ‘It will be over soon.’
‘Don’t touch me in front of people,’ said Bart, pulling away.
Gabe had a grey-purple blemish on his throat – a love-bite.
Six times – six fucking times. He’d never fluffed a line this many times before. Lillian rolled her eyes as if she was sick of dealing with such amateurs. Oh, to slap that face and get away with it. To punch it.
Lunch break was called and, unable to find Étienne, he got his own food from the buffet table, his hands shaking so badly the salad tongs kept clattering out of his hand. ‘Fuck!’ he said, dropping them on the table. He felt a hand dab his elbow. It was one of the caterers, a small Mexican woman with plump cheeks. She picked up the tongs, transferring a chicken piece to his plate. ‘More?’ she said, looking up at him. He nodded and she added another. ‘Salad?’ she said. He nodded again, saying, ‘No cucumber please,’ in a humbled whisper. She reached up and patted his cheek. ‘Good job. Don’t be sad.’ And she smiled and walked away, wiping Bart’s waxy make-up onto her smock.
He rushed to his trailer and burst into tears. He caught sight of himself in the mirror – mucus streaming from a prosthetic nose, tears tracking through the ghoulish face paint – what a joke. And where the fuck was Étienne? Where the – he ripped the nose off and dashed his food to the floor. A flap of torn rubber hung down over his lip – dangling from it, a droplet of cold snot.
He lit a cigarette and picked up the letter he’d received from Bettina two days ago. He re-read it, imagining her at her writing desk, cheek resting on the heel of a hand. ‘You’ll probably be packing by the time this reaches you. If I believed in God I’d pray for your safe passage. But of course I don’t, and anyway, what chance does the ocean have against you, you indestructible bastard? All my love, and our daughter’s, and our unborn foetus’s, your exemplary wife, Bettina.’
They’d been arguing a lot, he and Bettina. Constantly trying to catch each other out, expose the other’s hypocrisies. But none of that mattered now. Really, it didn’t.
The door blasted open and Bart dropped the envelope, startled. It was Étienne, wide-eyed and out of breath.
‘Roger is at the hospital. He choked on a chicken bone. I think he’s dead.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ said Bart.
Bart looked at the floor. The shiny-bald gristle of a thigh joint glistening next to a shard of white ceramic. Bettina was always trying to find significance in everything, little scraps of symbolism to put in her book. Well, there it was. There it was.
Barney was a huge barrel-torsoed man with a messy grey-peppered beard, an underbite and ice-blue eyes that glittered keenly. A sort of Walt Whitman. It was easy to imagine Barney living in a log cabin, trailing his muddy boots all over the freshly swept floors and eating huge steaming bowls of porridge with a wooden spoon. He was wearing a fine-tailored suit but had removed his tie and loosened his collar in the heat. He took a pipe out of his breast pocket, stuffed it in his bulldog maw and got it going. ‘You fellas go inside’ –puh, puh – ‘before kicking-out time.’
Bart and Étienne walked in, their hands bumping together. The chapel was cool, dark and empty – most people (and there had been many) had paid their respects in the morning. Their heels clipped against the stone floor and the clips echoed. The sunlight coming through the stained-glass window cast a fuzzy reflection along the centre aisle in yellow, blue and red. The casket was huge and lacquered-white, so shiny it looked liquid. Roger lay amongst the lilac satin in a white suit. His skin looked more orange than ever, his serrated shrimp lips daubed in a most unsubtle pink. His small hands with all their jewels lay crossed over his chest. Bart glanced at the door then took Étienne’s hand.
‘I would have liked to get to know him better,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Étienne.
‘He was warm-hearted. I don’t know many warm-hearted people.’
‘Hmm.’
‘How old was he?’ said Bart.
‘Fifty-four.’
‘That’s – I was about to say that’s young. But it’s not. My father was thirty-five. It could happen’ – Bart snapped his fingers – ‘like that. We should start taking better care of ourselves.’