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slumber: it was Frenzy! I wanted to weep.
" " *
I KNOCKED ON THE STUDY DOOR at precisely eight o'clock. The
headmaster was in a jovial mood, rather too jovial for my taste at
that hour of the morning. Still, I was not in for a twigging, let
alone a caning. It was to be, as promised,'a friendly pot of coffee',
the delightful aroma of which greeted me upon entering, a farewell
'tete-a-tete', as if, troublesome though I had been all term,
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Headmaster had received a healthy cheque in favour of the
Venerable Bede Chapel Fund from my father and I was to be sent
off on my hols, all my sins forgiven. Stan was not behind the huge
desk, but sunk almost to kewpie-doll proportions in a mammoth
leather armchair. He gestured to the chair's twin, set at a recip-
rocal angle to his own. Between us was a low table upon which
sat a sdver tray carrying a sdver coffee pot and its sdver accom-
paniments for sugar and mdk and, beyond the tray delicate cups
and saucers, plates, spoons, knives, cloth napkins and a dish of
miniature Danish pastries. Mrs H had done us proud.
'Robin, let me say right away that I owe you an apology. No,
no, not a word.' He held up his hands to deflect a response I
had not thought to make. 'It was wrong of me to draw you into
that little contretemps.' Again the gesture. 'I can only hope you'll
take into account post-traumatic shock syndrome and the weird
effects of medication. Shall I be Mum?' He was revealing his
command of English idiom again, grinning idiotically and holding
with shaking hand the coffee pot over the cup near me.
'Please,' I said, eager for coffee, not for confessional.
He poured, somewhat unsteaddy, but in the event accurately.
'Will you forgive me?'
I made an il n'y a pas de quoi sort of gesture. ' My dear chap,
you've ready been in the wars. No need for apologies.' I sipped
the coffee. Exquisite. 'Whatever you think of him, you know,
Myron was truly concerned about you.' In for a penny, eh? 'As
were your colleagues. No one knew where to find you.'
'The paparazzi,' he said. 'I'm a nine-days' wonder, guy. Once
the interest diminishes, I'll be in touch. You can pass that on to
Myron, if you like. But I gotta tell you, the old queen would've
liked nothing better than my death. I kid you not. It must burn
him up that I survived.' These words were accompanied by the
sickly grin that now characterised him. 'Here I am, though,
Robin, here I am.' He punched the air feebly.
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Not a kewpie doll, then, but what the Germans cad a
Stehaufmannchen, a grotesque toy figure with a weighted base
that, when pushed over, immediately rights itself.
'The press caUed it a "porno emporium".What on earth were
you doing there?' I asked the question with a we're-all-grown-ups-
here chuckle. Still, this was my opportunity. I mean, what was he
doing there?
'Chance, mere chance. It had started to rain, and I knew
enough to get out of it. That's ad. Hey it coulda been a riding
stable.'
'In that part of the city?'
'Why not? They're everywhere.' Again the sickly grin that
passed nowadays for good humour, however self-deprecating.
'Still, that was pretty far west, wouldn't you say? I've got no
problem with it, but others might wonder.'
A slight narrowing of the eyes, the merest hint of exaspera-
tion: 'Christ! I park in a garage on ioth and 49th, I'm coming
in from Westchester. I was on my way to the New York Public
Library, where I'm a Fellow. I've got my own carrel, Jesus! So it
begins to piss, wouldn't you know it. I'm unprepared for rain;
in Scarsdale the sun was shining. But that's how it is, and not
just for me. You remember that British Prime Minister, the one
who waved his fist at the heavens? "God, how like you!" The
one who did for Edward VIII, was it? Baldwin? So I stand in a
doorway, minding my own business. This Hispanic fucker, he
pushes me into the store, waving a gun. "You very nice man,
you keep quiet, no one cause trouble, no one get hurt, si?" Inside,
there's this fat black woman, you know, one of those waddling,
stereopygous females, a customer. She's got this box of dimpled
condoms in one hand and a Church of Christ Resurrected plastic
bag in the other. She says, "What the fuck you want, mother-
fuck?" He grabs her by the arm and holds his pistol to her head.
"I don't want no fuckin' trouble," he says.
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'I don't know what comes over me. I hit the guy in the
stomach. "Man, you shouldna done that, man!" he gasps, and he
shoots me. Then he runs off. That's all I know. I'm lying on the
door bleeding, not feeling much in the way of pain. My head's
in the lap of this black woman, Joleen Clay, a physiotherapist,
she says, who's down on the ground with me. She's weeping.
"You one sweet motherfucker," she says again and again. "You
one sweet motherfucker." They teU me the Mayor's gonna give
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