Angelica's Grotto

27 30,000 Feet Up

Klein in the shower was thinking about Karl Wallenda. ‘He was seventy-three when he came off the wire,’ he said to himself, ‘a year older than I am now. Ten storeys up between two hotels in Puerto Rico when a gust of wind blew him away. That was in 1978 and ever since then he’s been dead and he’ll keep being dead from now on, rain or shine, nothing else in his diary for ever and ever.

‘I don’t remember what year it was when I last saw the Wallendas at the circus. It was in my other life, back in the States. I was there alone because I’d seen them years before and I wanted to see them again, high up on the wire and maintaining their balance while doing impossible things. Francine was at a dance class and I had no child to take with me, no excuse for being there except my own fascination with what they did.

‘High up on the wire they were, two of them on silvery bicycles and Karl sitting in a chair that was balanced on a pole between the one in front and the one behind. Was the band playing a tango? “Jalousie” maybe? Or was there silence while the Wallendas crossed from one side to the other. I don’t think there was a net. The tent was blue, the lights were on the Wallendas, darkness below them. Everything sparkled. If I slip getting out of the shower I could break my hip and that’s the beginning of the end. Wrong — I’ve already had the beginning; this would be the middle or some way past the middle. I should have a cellular phone with me at all times but I don’t want to be like the people I see talking on cellular phones. Of course this is different but I still don’t like the idea of them. It’s like drinks in the Underground; why are so many people in the trains carrying bottles of mineral water or cans of beer or soft drinks? Why this constant thirst?’

This was Wednesday. On weekdays he had grapefruit juice, bran flakes, and lemon tea at breakfast but this morning he felt the need of his Sunday breakfast: a soft-boiled egg and two slices of toast instead of the bran flakes. He injected his insulin, poured the grapefruit juice, put the kettle on, started the toast, shook a few drops of malt vinegar into the pot, put the egg in, opened the Times, and read that animals in some British zoos were on Prozac and Valium.

The phone rang; it was Melissa. ‘Yes?’ he said, immediately ready for whatever she might suggest.

‘Prof dear, around ten this evening could you go to Gallery 7 at my site, scroll down to the bottom of the page, and click on YES for a one-to-one? Thanks. Must run. Kisses from you-know-where.’

When he was at his desk he worked on notes for the Klimt book. ‘Pornography has always been part of the visual arts,’ he wrote. ‘I don’t recall any pornographic cave drawings but their art was more elemental, more religious — Mother-Goddess figures, fertility symbols — procreation and survival — huge breasts and buttocks — Venus of Willendorf. And the Greeks! Raunchy Athenian red-figure vase-painters drew the line at nothing. Oral sex? Can’t recall. Everything else, certainly, one-on-one and in combinations. What would those vases fetch at Sotheby’s now? The Romans weren’t far behind, look at Pompeii: probably half of them were in flagrante when Vesuvius blew. X-rated petrified corpses. India — they couldn’t get enough of it. They would have had to do Advanced-level yoga before they could even manage those positions. Krishna and the cowgirls. And the Europeans: Rembrandt did it — Vermeer? He did a brothel scene with a madame and some punters fully dressed but no hardcore. Vermeer painted moments in arrest. What would he have done with some of the ANGELICA’S GROTTO activities? The mind boggles. An authentic Vermeer of a woman in period underwear accommodating five men would set an all-time auction record. All the recent masters put their hands to pornography: Daumier, Millet, Lautrec, Picasso, Pascin. The B-List masters too: Felicien Rops and his giant willies; Bruno Schulz and the naked woman with the stallions and the little eunuch — no penetration except in the cerebral cortex. How am I going to get through the day?

‘I have a craving that can only be satisfied by a disaster film — air, sea, or submarine, I don’t care which; but preferably one where somebody survives through sheer pluck and resourcefulness plus maybe a little help.’ He went to his current stack of air, sea, and submarine disasters, considered Freefall: Flight 174; Mercy Mission — the Rescue of Flight 771; A Night to Remember; The Last Voyage; and Gray Lady Down, which starred Charlton Heston and made Klein think of Airport 1975 with Heston and Karen Black. ‘Yes!’ he said, ‘That’s the one: there she is with a great big hole in the front of the 747 and nobody to fly it but her. Were the pilot and co-pilot sucked out through the broken windows after the other plane hit them? Have I recorded that one? Did I record something else over it? Can’t remember.’

Klein owned more than a thousand videotapes in shelves, boxes, and various stashes. After about an hour of moving the ones in front away from the ones behind and the ones on top from those on the bottom, with pauses for rejoicing over long-lost treasures, he satisfied himself that Airport 1975 was gone. By now Must Have had set in and he accepted it without demur. ‘Never mind,’ he said, as he went to the telephone, ‘I can hire it from Blockbusters.’

Blockbusters didn’t have it, nor HMV, nor Virgin, nor the National Film Theatre shop. ‘It’s no longer listed,’ was the telephone consensus.

‘A secondhand copy!’ said Klein. He put on his jacket and went to the local music and video exchange. When he asked his question they looked at him the way bartenders in films look at detectives.

‘We haven’t even got Airport or Airport ’77,’ one of them said without moving his lips.

‘Do you know of any place that does video searches?’

They both shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘Of course,’ said Klein. ‘That’s the way things are — I understand. You could at least move your lips.’

‘You need help getting to the door, Grandad?’

‘Thank you, I can manage. What happened to the old-fashioned specialised geek? Have a nice day.’

At home he dialled the NFT shop again, was given the number of a place that did video searches. They were closed for two weeks starting now, said their answering machine. ‘No problem,’ said Klein. ‘It isn’t personal, it’s just business.’

By now he had attained the calm that comes when Must Have has exhausted its passion. The sun having sunk almost below the yardarm he poured himself the first Glenfiddich of the post-Must Have, went to his computer, and put Cinemania ’97 up on the screen. He didn’t have to load the CD-ROM — it was always in the machine. When Cinemania ’97 showed its contents he went to FIND and typed in Airport 1975 which caused five lines of text to appear in which Leonard Maltin said it wasn’t worth Klein’s time.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘if I look at the other reviews and the cast list maybe I can reconstruct it in what’s left of my mind.’ He read the Ebert and Kael reviews and looked at the cast list. ‘O Jesus — there’s Helen Reddy, the singing nun, and Sid Caesar reactivated but they should have let him lie. Gloria Swanson, of course! As herself with a jewel box and dictating her memoirs. Myrna Loy! They never die, they just get sent to disaster films. Along with ex-stars the usual cross-section of young lovers, old diehards, businessmen regretting they haven’t told their wives, children, dogs and cats they love them, and wives running off with tennis pros.

‘But the star of the film is Karen Black at the controls with her eyes close together in concentration and the wind ruffling her hair — she’s scared out of her knickers but dead game while they try to talk her through it on the radio and finally they put her lover, Charlton Heston, on the mike — he’s a veteran pilot and he’ll talk her down safely but no, this is no job for a stewardess however ballsy and they’ve got to put a man on the flight deck. Scramble a helicopter, hook a 747 pilot on to a line, match speeds and swing him in through the window. Oops! Didn’t make it. The line was severed by the jagged hole or he unhooked before he was all the way in and he’s gone. Well, he was the wrong guy, wasn’t he — this is a job for Charlton Heston. Aha! It’s an Angelica-Ruggiero situation: she’s naked in her ignorance of flying, she’s virgin at the controls; the 747 is the monster that’s going to devour her, but wait! Here comes Charlton Heston on his helicopter hippogriff. Will he make it? Yes! Through the broken hymen of the window he squirms. Gotcha, baby!

‘Where is my Ruggiero? Or have I said that before?’