City of Spades

6

Theodora lured away from culture


The price Miss Theodora made me pay for that twenty pounds she gave me at the radio corporation building was quite heavy: it was to take me that selfsame evening to a theatre, and show me a play by a French man about nothing I could get my brain to climb around. At a coffee, in the interval (for this theatre had no liquor in its sad bar), I said, ‘Miss Theodora, I know this kind of entertainment is suitable for my improvement, but don’t you think we could now step out into the air?’

‘I did hope you’d like it, Johnny.’

‘Quite over my comprehension, Theodora. Please – can’t we go?’

I could see she was sad that I didn’t rise up to her educational expectancies; but to hell with that, and by some violent smiles I managed to get her up into the street away from that bad place. For compensation of her feelings, I took her by the hand and pressed and rubbed it nicely as we walked along the paving-stones. Then what should I hear, rising up from underneath my feet, but the sound of real authentic African song and drumming. A door said, ‘The Beni Bronze’, and I pulled Miss Theodora down the steps before she quite knew what.

Just think of my pleasure when I found it was a genuine, five-drum combination, and hardly had I parked Miss Theodora on a seat beside the bar when I stepped across the floor through all the dancers and asked the band leader (who was bald on his head as any ostrich egg) if I could sit in at the bongos for a moment, at which I am quite a product. He gave his permission with a weary smile, and I asked the young bongo player, as I wedged his sweet instrument between my thighs, what this leader’s name was. ‘Cuthbertson,’ this boy said. ‘Generally called Cranium.’

I think to their surprise my performance gave some pleasure, and as soon as we’d ended I asked this Mr Cranium to come over to the bar. Theodora, I could see, was not very glad at the use I was making of the wad of notes she’d given me, and tried some attempt to pay herself, which I soon avoided. (I do hate those women fishing in their handbags. No woman will ever pay a drink for me – unless I hold her money for her beforehand.)

‘And how is our African style appreciated in this country?’ I enquired of Mr Cuthbertson.

‘Just little,’ he replied with sorrow. ‘Only our people like it, and some few white; but West Indians and Americans – well, they like something less artistic and dynamic.’

‘So you’ve not done so well in England, Mr Cranium?’

‘I tell you something, Mr Man. Before I leave home five years ago, I dream that one day I have a lovely wife, three lovely children and a lot of money.’ Here he pulled out some snapshots from his hip. ‘Well, I got the lovely wife, the beautiful children too, as you can see, but, man, that loot just fails to come my way.’

This gave me a wonderful idea.

‘What you require,’ I said to Cranium, ‘is contacts in the highest type of Jumble high-life. Well, tonight this lady here and I are going to a most special voodoo party, and why don’t you come along with us and play some numbers that will win you good engagements?’

Cuthbertson thought this was a rare idea, full of brilliant possibilities; but Theodora was not pleased to hear I planned to take her to a party without asking her approval. As I waited for the club to close, I had to surmount all her oppositions by pouring gins in heavy sequence down her throat.

The address that Tamberlaine the West Indian had given me was in the fashionable area of that Marble Arch: but there’s fashion and there’s fashion, and none of us quite expected such a glorious block of similar flats. The doorman examined our little group, especially Cranium’s combination, carrying their instruments, and would possibly have been an obstacle if Theodora (who has just that haughty way some Jumble ladies use back home to drive our people mad with hatred) hadn’t kicked him round the hallway with her tongue, and got us all into a lift built to hold only five. The boys rubbed up against her in their gratitude for her display.

‘Who is our host, Johnny?’ she asked me.

‘Theodora, if only I knew that!’

But no need to worry. It was that kind of party that once you’re there, and look glamorous or in some way particular, they welcome you with happiness and push a bottle in your hand. As soon as they’d tanked themselves up a bit, the boys led by Cranium went into action, and Tamberlaine got hold of me to introduce me to our host.

‘This man’s a counsel in the courts of law,’ he told me, ‘called Mr Wesley Vial. Observe his appearance – like an eagle. Very precarious to be his victim in the dock, man, but full of charm and generosity as a hostess.’

‘A hostess, Tamberlaine?’

‘Well, you understand me, man.’

Mr Vial was fat, too fat, his flesh was coloured cream, his eyes sharp green, his hands most hairy and his feet small as any child’s. He wore a pleated shirt that was some shirt, and when he shook my hand he held it up and looked at it like it was some precious diamond.

‘You’ve lovely fingernails,’ he said.

‘My toenails also have been much admired,’ I told him.

‘You’re a witty boy as well as handsome. Now I do like that!’

The other guests of Mr Vial’s were strange and fanciful – the whites very richly dressed, whether men or women, and the coloured so splendid I guessed they’d be Americans in show business at least. And this I soon learnt was so, when Larry the GI appeared with some of this star material from the bathroom. ‘Huntley,’ he said, ‘is going to act a dance.’ And out came a naked boy wrapped round with toilet paper, who pranced among the guests and furniture, which most seemed delighted by – not me. These Americans!

A fierce voice said into my ear, ‘Now listen, Johnny! Why have you brought Theodora here?’

This was Montgomery, bursting with fire and indignation.