âRaffles. Gentlemenâs Sauna Club.â The text was underlined.
⦠thou knowest the people,
that they are set upon mischief.
For they said unto me
âMake us gods, which shall
go before us â¦â
( Exodus 32, v. 22â23)
âUnfortunately,â continued Demetrius, âNico comes from a long line of people without a God they can truly believe in and â worse still â without a sense of humour. She fails to see the entertainment value in a lugubrious piano player, a punk drummer and a dope-fiend guitarist. Nor, sadly â and this is particularly painful for me, James â does she reciprocate the depth of my affection for her ⦠more than affection ⦠love .â
So, it was â amore â after all. I was being employed to facilitate a romance.
In Genova we performed with an armed guard around the stage. Young Argentinians of Italian extraction were meeting their deaths in the South Atlantic. There was a strong anti-English feeling, especially among guys of conscription age.
The promoters had really pumped up Nicoâs reputation in their pre-concert publicity. The kids were expecting heavy metal Wagner â what they got was Demetriusâs circus. Soldiers reconnoitring the stage; Nico wandering on and off, unsure of her lines, coming in with the right lyrics but to the wrong song. A strange ballet to cabaret angst.
âBeastly business, old boy,â said Demetrius in the dressing-room after the show. âDo I take it youâll be yielding to the academic yoke once more next term?â
The study or the circus? The monastery or the madhouse? I looked around. Echo was helping Raincoat retrace his steps down memory lane to the exact moment when his microphone went missing. Nico was locked in her millionth interview about the Velvet Underground â why this, why that, why wasnât it still 1967? Toby was offering to show the rose tattoo on his backside to a couple of cat girls in leopardskin mittens â if they would, in turn, âshow somethinâ of yer beautiful city ter me anâ my palâ. He pointed me out. One of them darted a glance at me and giggled into her paws. She was pretty.
Nico stuck her head out of the interview and glared at me. âNymphomaniac!â she spat, and then carried on reliving Andy Warholâs dream. For all of us.
âSee you next term,â I said.
April â82:
CHEZ NICO
Schlaf Kindlein schlaf
Deine Mutter hüt die Schaf
Dein Vater ist in Pommerland
Pommerland ist abgebrannt
Schlaf Kindlein schlaf .
(Sleep, baby, sleep
Your mother guards the sheep
Your fatherâs gone to Pommerland
Pommerland is burnt to the ground
Sleep, baby, sleep.)
Nico and Demetrius were crooning a hideous lullaby. Dr Lugubrious and Old Mother Hell in full-tilt fireside nostalgia. April in Paris, winter in Prestwich.
âMy earliest memory is of Nanny Cristel singing to me.â Demetrius wiped his misty glasses. âFirst she would dry my little pink body, wrap an enormous towel around me and then rub â ah, how she would rub â¦â
Echo poked the fire and spat. The gobbet of catarrh-green spume fizzing abruptly in the post-lullaby bliss.
Nicoâs bags were packed. It was the big send-off, though she was only moving one hundred yards round the corner. Faith didnât like other women in her kitchen, boiling up syringes all the time. And it shamed her to see Echo forever rolling up his sleeve in the hope of a free hit. Faith worried so much she couldnât eat; not that there was ever enough food to feed the whole tribe, including Nico and assorted ephemera. Why couldnât Echo be more of a man and look after his family, instead of being permanently incommunicado, brooding about his new mistress â heroin? It was like he was somewhere else all It was like he was somewhere else all the time. (Daddyâs gone to Pommerland.)
â ⦠Then she would shower
⦠thou knowest the people,
that they are set upon mischief.
For they said unto me
âMake us gods, which shall
go before us â¦â
( Exodus 32, v. 22â23)
âUnfortunately,â continued Demetrius, âNico comes from a long line of people without a God they can truly believe in and â worse still â without a sense of humour. She fails to see the entertainment value in a lugubrious piano player, a punk drummer and a dope-fiend guitarist. Nor, sadly â and this is particularly painful for me, James â does she reciprocate the depth of my affection for her ⦠more than affection ⦠love .â
So, it was â amore â after all. I was being employed to facilitate a romance.
In Genova we performed with an armed guard around the stage. Young Argentinians of Italian extraction were meeting their deaths in the South Atlantic. There was a strong anti-English feeling, especially among guys of conscription age.
The promoters had really pumped up Nicoâs reputation in their pre-concert publicity. The kids were expecting heavy metal Wagner â what they got was Demetriusâs circus. Soldiers reconnoitring the stage; Nico wandering on and off, unsure of her lines, coming in with the right lyrics but to the wrong song. A strange ballet to cabaret angst.
âBeastly business, old boy,â said Demetrius in the dressing-room after the show. âDo I take it youâll be yielding to the academic yoke once more next term?â
The study or the circus? The monastery or the madhouse? I looked around. Echo was helping Raincoat retrace his steps down memory lane to the exact moment when his microphone went missing. Nico was locked in her millionth interview about the Velvet Underground â why this, why that, why wasnât it still 1967? Toby was offering to show the rose tattoo on his backside to a couple of cat girls in leopardskin mittens â if they would, in turn, âshow somethinâ of yer beautiful city ter me anâ my palâ. He pointed me out. One of them darted a glance at me and giggled into her paws. She was pretty.
Nico stuck her head out of the interview and glared at me. âNymphomaniac!â she spat, and then carried on reliving Andy Warholâs dream. For all of us.
âSee you next term,â I said.
April â82:
CHEZ NICO
Schlaf Kindlein schlaf
Deine Mutter hüt die Schaf
Dein Vater ist in Pommerland
Pommerland ist abgebrannt
Schlaf Kindlein schlaf .
(Sleep, baby, sleep
Your mother guards the sheep
Your fatherâs gone to Pommerland
Pommerland is burnt to the ground
Sleep, baby, sleep.)
Nico and Demetrius were crooning a hideous lullaby. Dr Lugubrious and Old Mother Hell in full-tilt fireside nostalgia. April in Paris, winter in Prestwich.
âMy earliest memory is of Nanny Cristel singing to me.â Demetrius wiped his misty glasses. âFirst she would dry my little pink body, wrap an enormous towel around me and then rub â ah, how she would rub â¦â
Echo poked the fire and spat. The gobbet of catarrh-green spume fizzing abruptly in the post-lullaby bliss.
Nicoâs bags were packed. It was the big send-off, though she was only moving one hundred yards round the corner. Faith didnât like other women in her kitchen, boiling up syringes all the time. And it shamed her to see Echo forever rolling up his sleeve in the hope of a free hit. Faith worried so much she couldnât eat; not that there was ever enough food to feed the whole tribe, including Nico and assorted ephemera. Why couldnât Echo be more of a man and look after his family, instead of being permanently incommunicado, brooding about his new mistress â heroin? It was like he was somewhere else all It was like he was somewhere else all the time. (Daddyâs gone to Pommerland.)
â ⦠Then she would shower
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