A Wreath for Rivera

It sounded, really, much like all the other numbers they had heard that night, Carlisle thought. Lord Pastern banged, and rattled, and zinged much in the same way as Syd Skelton. The words, when the three singers came out, were no sillier than those of the other songs. The tune was rather catchy. But, “Oh,” she thought, “how vulnerable he is among his tympani!”

Edward thought: “There he sits, cat’s meat to any satirist who feels as I do about the social set-up. You might make a cartoon of this or a parable. A cartoon certainly. Cousin George, thumping and banging away under Breezy’s baton, and in the background a stream of displaced persons. The metronome is Time… finger of scorn… making its inane gesture to society. A bit too obvious, of course,” he thought, dismissing it, “false, because of its partial truth.” And he turned his head to watch Carlisle.

Félicité thought: “There goes George. He has fun, anyway.” Her glance strayed to Lord Pastern’s sombrero. She touched Edward’s knee. He bent towards her and she said in his ear: “Shall I pinch George’s gun? I could. Look!” She reached out towards the edge of the dais and slipped her hand under the sombrero.

“Fée, don’t!” he ejaculated.

“Do you dare me?”

He shook his head violently.

“Poor George,” said Félicité, “what would he do?” She withdrew her hand and leant back in her chair, turning the white carnation in her fingers. “Shall I put it in my hair?” she wondered. “It would probably look silly and fall out but it might be a good idea. I wish he’d say something — just one thing — to show we understand each other. After this we can’t just go on for ever, pretending.”

Lady Pastern thought: “There is no end to one’s capacity for humiliation. He discredits me and he discredits his class. It’s the same story. There will be the same gossip, the same impertinences in the paper, the same mortification. Nevertheless,” she thought, “I did well to come. I did well to suffer this torment to-night. My instinct was correct.” She looked steadily at Rivera, who was advancing into the centre of the stage. “I have disposed of you,” she thought triumphantly.

Lord Pastern thought: “No mistakes so far. And one, bang and two bang and one crash bang zing. One two and three with his accord-een and wait for it. This is perfectly splendid. I am this noise. Look out. Here he comes. Hi-de oh hi. Yip. Here he comes. It’s going to work. Hot Gunner with his accord-een.”

He crashed his cymbal, silenced it and leant back in his seat.

Rivera had advanced in the spot light. The rest of the band was tacit. The great motionless arm of the metronome stabbed its pointer down at his head. He seemed rapt — at once tormented and exalted. He swayed and jerked and ogled. Although he was not by any means ridiculous, he was the puppet of his own music. The performance was a protracted crescendo, and as it rocketed up to its climax he swayed backwards at a preposterous angle, his instrument raised, the pointer menacing it as it undulated across his chest. A screaming dissonance tore loose from the general din, the spot light switched abruptly to the tympani. Lord Pastern, wearing his sombrero, had risen. Advancing to within five feet of Rivera he pointed his revolver at him and fired.

The accordion blared grotesquely down a scale. Rivera sagged at the knees and fell. The accordion crashed a final chord and was silent.

At the same moment as the shot was fired the tenor saxophonist played a single shrill note and sat down. Lord Pastern, apparently bewildered, looked from the recumbent Rivera to the saxophonist, paused for a second and then fired three more blanks. The pianist, the trombone, and finally the double-bass each played a note in a descending scale and each imitated a collapse.

There was a further second’s pause. Lord Pastern, looking very much taken-aback, suddenly handed the revolver to Bellairs, who pointed it at him and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked but there was no discharge. Bellairs aped disgust, shrugged his shoulders, looked at the revolver and broke it open. It discharged its shells in a little spurt. Breezy scratched his head, dropped the revolver in his pocket and made a crisp gesture with his baton hand.

“Yipes,” Lord Pastern shouted. The band launched itself into a welter of noise. He darted back and flung himself at his tympani. The spot light concentrated upon him. The metronome, which had been motionless until now, suddenly swung its long arm. Tick-tack, tick-tack, it clacked. A kaleidoscopic welter of coloured lights winked and flickered along its surface and frame. Lord Pastern went madly to work on the drums.

“Hell!” Edward ejaculated. “At this pace he’ll kill himself.”