Come Dance With Me

21 Elias Newman

28 January 2003. I dreamt about a dog we had when I was a boy. Bo, we called him, short for Boris. He was a cross between a German shepherd and a collie, and my father used to walk him twice a day. He was about as old as I was, very quiet and well-mannered except that when he was off the leash he chased cars. One finally hit him the year after my father died. My sisters nursed him devotedly; they didn’t want to lose my father’s dog but his injuries were too severe and he had to be put down. I hadn’t thought about him for the last fifty years or so but here he was in a dream. He was very old and stiff but he took the leash in his mouth and went to the door and looked back at me. ‘Bo!’ I said, ‘Poor old Bo!’ and woke up to a grey day with a cold wind blowing.

For a moment I didn’t know where I was but I felt that something was missing. Then it came back to me — Christabel was on her way to Hawaii for her remembrance day. Yet another mystery. There were always new unknowns with her. In an effort to get my mind off her I phoned Peter Diggs and arranged to meet him for lunch.

I did a morning clinic, then I went to meet Peter at The Daniel Mendoza off Long Acre. I’d first heard about it from a patient who was a betting man with a keen interest in all sporting events. He strongly regretted that boxing had become what he called a namby-pamby sport and claimed that he had several times seen the real (and illicit) bare-knuckle thing. Being Jewish he longed for a new Daniel Mendoza to rise like the golem and show the gentiles how it was done. The restaurant is a dark brown place with prints of Mendoza and other bare-knuckle boxers: Tom Cribb, Jem Belcher, Deaf Burke, Ben Caunt, Bendigo and so on. Also Pierce Egan and various of the Fancy. ‘Patronised by HRH the Prince of Wales 1792,’ said the wooden banner over the bar. A framed poster showed Mendoza coming up to scratch under the words, in large capitals, MENDOZA THE JEW, HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. There were several pen-and-ink portraits in which he looked more a poet than a bruiser. Although only five foot seven and a middleweight, he defeated much bigger men to become heavyweight champion and is credited with being the father of scientific boxing. He wore his hair long and curly, possibly with Samson in mind, but this proved his downfall in a bout with ‘Gentleman’ John Jackson who grabbed him by his hair and gave him a beating from which his status never recovered.

There was a clatter of cutlery and glassware and a clamour of high-cholesterol smells and conversation, much of the latter in Yiddish, with gestures. My people.

‘You come here often?’ said Peter.

‘From time to time when I need cheering up,’ I said, and I told him about the dream. ‘It was so vivid! I could even smell his old-dog smell, Bo looking up at me with a dried-up trickle from each eye — I keep wondering what it means.’

‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘are you an old dog wanting someone to take you walkies?’

‘All the time, but there was more to it than that.’

Peter looked at the ceiling, low and dark brown, with beams. ‘Of course, this may very well be Bo’s dream that you found yourself in.’

‘Bo is a dead dog,’ I said.

‘So? Who can say where dreams begin and end, and where they travel from and to?’

‘You’re strange,’ I said.

‘Everybody’s strange, only most people try to cover it up.’

A heavyweight waiter wearing a yarmulke arrived and we both ordered potato pancakes. ‘Latkes twice,’ he said, and wrote it down. ‘Anything to drink with that?’

‘What kind of beer have you got?’ said Peter.

‘Maccabee,’ said the waiter.

‘Haven’t heard of that one,’ said Peter.

‘You’re not Jewish, right?’

‘Right.’

‘The Maccabees killed a lot of goyim. So we have Maccabee beer.’

‘Bottled or draft?’

‘Bottled.’

‘But I can see beer pumps at the bar.’

‘Those are from a long time ago, never been taken out. Should I sit down and we’ll have a conversation or would you like to give me your beer decision?’

‘OK,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll have a Maccabee.’

‘Make it two,’ I said.

The waiter wrote down our order, frowned, shook his head, and withdrew.

‘I haven’t had this one before,’ I said.

‘Bare-knuckle waiting, would you call it?’ said Peter.

‘He’s a Jewish waiter,’ I said. ‘It’s a role that’s heavy with tradition and he’s doing it the traditional way. Where were we?’

‘Being strange.’

‘Right. You said that Bo was quiet and well-mannered but he chased cars, was hit by one and had to be put down. Did he have a death wish or what? Now he’s pulled you into his dream in which he’s old and you’re sixty-two and he wants to take you for a walk. Do you want to go with him?’

‘Peter, Bo’s dead, OK?’

‘Well, of course he’s dead — that’s not the sort of dream a live dog would have. Are you going to walk with him?’

‘If he dreams me again I’ll let you know what happens. What are you doing since your big success with “Death and the Maiden”?’

‘I’m still involved with that theme and doing more sketches and paintings. It’s a toughie, it’s so full of ambiguities. The thing about “Death and the Maiden” is that they need each other. Redon did a wonderful lithograph in his Temptation of Saint Anthony series in which they’re both full-frontal naked, although Death is more naked because he’s in his bones. The Maiden is rising above him like a fire balloon but he’s got hold of her arm with one bony hand and she won’t get away. The incandescence of her body lights up the air around her but her face is shadowed by night and Death has a firm grip. He’s very pleased with himself; in the caption he says to her, ‘It is I who make you serious. Let us embrace each other.’ He’s so full of himself that he doesn’t realise that she makes him serious too. Without her youth and beauty on which to exercise his droit du mort he’s nothing but a Hallowe’en costume. Niklaus Manuel Deutsch, 400 years before Redon, draws the maiden fully clothed but showing a lot of cleavage and not putting up much resistance while Death slides his tongue into her mouth and his hand up her skirt. The permutations are endless.’

‘Maccabees,’ said our waiter, plunking two bottles on the table.

‘No glasses?’ said Peter.

The waiter pointed to the slices of lemon stuck in the mouths of the bottles. ‘That’s how we do it,’ he said, and left.

‘You drink it through the lemon,’ I said.

‘Seems very effete for a bare-knuckle place,’ said Peter.

‘This is a very cosmopolitan establishment,’ I said. ‘How many paintings have you done so far in the new series?’

‘Three, but nothing finished — I’ve been papering the walls with sketches as I gradually get my chops together.’

‘I thought “chops” was a musician word.’

‘I got it from Amaryllis but the word isn’t limited to music — it means skills, technique, or talents of any kind.’

‘Sometimes my chops are a little bit scattered,’ I said. ‘This morning at the clinic I found it hard to stay interested. How’s Amaryllis?’

‘Fine. She’s into composing now, working on a Cthulhu suite. The Dream of R’lyeh is the first part.’

‘How does it sound?’

‘Oceanic. The mode is Lydian in a non-Euclidean sort of way if you know what I mean.’

‘Not yet, but I can wait till it comes to me.’

A man at the next table paused with a forkful of gefilte fish halfway to his mouth and turned to Peter. ‘What,’ he said, ‘You’re supporting Gaddafi now?’

‘I said Lydian, not Libyan,’ said Peter.

‘I don’t know from Lydians,’ said the gefilte man, ‘but if they want to start something Israel is ready for them.’

‘Thank you for your input,’ said Peter. ‘I feel easier in my mind now.’

‘There is no mental ease these days,’ said the man, and went back to his fish.

‘Amaryllis is known for her volatility,’ I said to Peter. ‘How is she to live with?’

‘I’m pretty volatile myself, so we get along all right. In any case, the whole thing between men and women is a very dodgy business. Have you seen Christabel Alderton since the Royal Academy?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you might. Are you going to say more?’

‘Not yet.’

‘OK, be prudent.’

‘Latkes twice,’ said our waiter, plunking down two plates which sent up strong feel-good aromas. Also a dish of sour cream. ‘Enjoy,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Peter. ‘I’m sure we shall. By the way?’

‘Yes?’ said the waiter.

‘I saw the bartender working a beer pump,’ said Peter.

‘Oh, that,’ said the waiter.

‘Yes?’ said Peter.

‘That’s Masada bitter. I wasn’t sure you’d like it.’

‘Could I have a pint? I don’t want to be pushy’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ said the waiter.

‘Make it two,’ I said.

‘You got it,’ said the waiter. ‘My name is Moe.’

‘Nice to meet you, Moe,’ said Peter. ‘This is Elias and I’m Peter.’ We shook hands.

‘You I’ve seen before,’ said Moe, nodding to me.

‘You do any boxing?’ said Peter.

‘When I was younger. This is what I do now, plus I get extra work in movies from time to time. I’ll bring your Masadas.’

When the bitter appeared Peter sampled it and said, ‘It’s bitter all right.’

‘That’s why it’s called Masada,’ said Moe. ‘It’s an acquired taste. Have you read Josephus, The Jewish Wars?

‘No,’ said Peter.

‘Do,’ said Moe. ‘You’ll like our bitter better next time.’

The cosiness of The Daniel Mendoza made the day seem colder and greyer when we were outside again. At Covent Garden Peter went to browse the Jubilee Market. I whistled to Bo and we disappeared into the Piccadilly Line.