Read Online Mawrdew Czgowchwz by James McCourt - Free Book Online

disappeared into the wardrobe as Salammbô finished blazingly on the wireless, all the while racking her now superbly focused brains in order to concoct the best mélange of heady scents to overcome the inevitable soupçon of mothballs and faded musk-rose sachet that would linger in the fabric of her getup.
    Merovig Creplaczx, composer (the apparent Hollenius heir), conductor, virtuoso pianoforte soloist, and unique accompanist (exclusive to Czgowchwz), sat poised in a state something akin to terror over the keyboard of a Steinway grand in a certain sublet pied-à-terre on lower Bank Street, near the river. In no time he commenced indulging his genius, hammering out frantic note clusters of the “Amen de la consommation” from Messiaen’s Visions de l’amen . Outside everywhere the snow went on hurtling down at the same dizzying velocity (precisely) at which the notes rose, concomitant as well in density—relentlessly metaphoric—until, as the doorbell rang, cutting through the din like a shaft of platinum light through murk, he broke off and rose in a profound sweat to open the door. Echoes of overwrought Messiaen vibrated suicidally against the smokeglass hall mirror as Rotten Rodney Bergamot staggered in, caked like the Golem or the Thing in the blizzard’s officially noted torrential droppings, which presently fell melting in inch-thick lumps on the durable Azerbaijan carpets.
    â€œSo. How did you arrive here?” demanded Merovig, somewhat dully.
    â€œI came all the way down Second Avenue on a troika, hooked to the rear axle of a scarlet snow truck , Mona! I burrowed across Houston Street with a purpose demented. It’s the end of the world out there! It’s ending in ICE —they were ALL WRONG !”
    â€œNot all,” snapped Merovig grimly. “I am going out quite soon!”
    â€œOh? Who’s taking you, the Snow Queen? There are no taxis. There aren’t even any more snow trucks. They’ve surrendered ! It’s no flurry o’ feathers out there, Hilda, it’s the steppes !”
    â€œI am to call for Mawrdew Czgowchwz at half past seven at the Plaza,” Merovig rejoined, unconcerned.
    â€œSkip it, you’re late now. And what was that unearthly noise you were making when I rang the bell? Thanks, I’d love a bowl of the best bourbon. Have you got a bathrobe? Shit, how I hate winter!”
    â€œThat was Messiaen. I adore Messiaen. I must dress.”
    â€œBut I’ve brought you my libretto !”
    â€œYou were due for after lunch; you are past late. Leave me what you have; I will think on it.”
    â€œDo me a smart favor, buster! Get me a drink or I’ll get myself another, shall we admit lesser, composer. And a word to the wise, Solange: Hollenius wasn’t plugged in his high smart prime for no smart reason! Here I come through a holocaust to offer you on a silver cocktail tray the kickiest toy idea since Benvenuto Cellini . And you treat me like—like Scribe! You try to toss me out in—”
    â€œPour yourself what you like; I must dress.”
    Creplaczx disappeared into the bedroom. Rotten Rodney Bergamot, undressed, prowling about nastily naked, made up a sarong out of an overused leopard-print sheet (the actual tenant’s) retrieved from the back of the linen closet. He slipped a worn recording cut by the late Clichette, supreme diseuse, onto the Victrola, poured a brimful snifter of the most expensive Scotch he thought he recognized, and lay back on the indigo suede couch to brood. The record finished in three minutes plus, anguish-ridden, lost. Rotten Rodney loped over to the Steinway in character, sat down to pluck out “Stormy Weather” with two fingers, and moaned along, the way he thought a body should. At length he broke off, thick-voiced and Dexamyl-omnipotent, shouting at Merovig, rooms away: “I swear anything you like, Miro, Puvis de Chavannes has the makings of a