Medusa Frequency

15 Life after Death?

I went to bed and the next thing I knew I was awake again and it was getting on for ten o’clock in the morning. Ring, ring, said the telephone, ring ring. Seize him.

‘I’m right here,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of running. Here I stand.’

‘I have a call for you from Sol Mazzaroth,’ said Lucretia.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘bring forth Mazzaroth in his season.’

Sol stepped out of the telephone and looked at me in disbelief. ‘Herman,’ he said, ‘was it a bad dream or did you actually phone me at three o’clock this morning and say you couldn’t do it?’

‘Yes, it was a bad dream and that’s what I said.’

‘But why, Herman? Surely you’ve done tougher adaptations for me: look at War and Peace, how you got through it in twenty-five pages, I still tell people about that.’

‘I know, Sol. This is just one of those times when something that was whatever it was becomes something else and all of a sudden it’s too much.’

‘Herman, when I think of what we’ve been through together since the old Hermes Foot Powder days I can’t believe this is happening. Together we built Classic Comics and made it a beacon of literacy at newsagents everywhere. John Buchan, Dostoevsky, Victor Hugo — you name it, we put it in speech balloons.’

‘Believe me, Sol, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. If it weren’t for you I’d still have to bath and shave and go to an office every morning if I could find an office to go to.’

‘And you’re going to throw it all away.’

‘You know how it is,’ I said. ‘There comes a time when a road comes to an end and you have to say, “This is the end of the road.’”

‘But it’s not the end of our friendship,’ he said.

‘Of course not.’ We both looked at our watches.

‘Well, it’s going to be a more hectic day than usual. Take care, Herman.’

‘You too, Sol,’ I said as he climbed back into the phone and was gone.

So here we are then, I thought. This is the first day of the rest of my life. I got dressed, had breakfast, hurried to my desk. The corpse of the current account was half-buried under discarded pages. I uncovered it, went through its pockets and found enough to live on for six months if I managed very carefully.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s get organized.’ My voice was frightening in the silence. I switched on the radio and got the Voice of Greece with male and female singers one after another singing songs with ‘S’agapo’ in the refrain. All of them sang the words soothingly, almost lullabyingly. S’agapo, s’agapo. I love you, I love you.

‘All right,’ I said again. The football was still on my desk. I took it to the usual place near Putney Bridge and dropped it into the river.

When I got back I sat down and typed on to the screen:

1 LOOK FOR FREELANCE COMIC WORK.

2 TRY TO FINISH ORPHEUS STORY WHEN HEAD TURNS UP AGAIN.

3 NO MORE OTHER PEOPLE’S ORPHEUS.

Ring, ring, said the telephone.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello,’ said a vigorous female voice, ‘this is Hilary Forthryte, I’m with Mythos Films. I hope you don’t mind my ringing you up out of the blue like this.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Can you talk for a moment or are you in full spate?’

‘Not yet, I’m a late spater.’

‘Ah! I know what you mean. What I’m phoning about is to ask you whether you might like to do a film with us. We’ve got Channel 4 funding for six one-hour films under the series title The Tale Retold; we’ll be doing new versions of old myths and legends with six different directors. The first one I’ve spoken to is Gösta Kraken and he said he wants to work with you and a composer called Istvan Fallok.’

There was a pause at my end.

‘Do you know Kraken well?’

‘No. I’ve only met him once.’

‘But you’re familiar with his work.’

‘I’ve heard about Codename Orpheus.’

‘But you haven’t seen it?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘We’ve got a print of it, I can arrange a screening any time you like. What’s interesting is his use of Orpheus as semiosis rather than as story.’

‘Ah.’

‘We’ve also got prints of Bogs and Quicksand — those were the last two before Codename Orpheus and you can see his obsessions developing, his preoccupation with wetness and ooze as primal mindscape and his vision of a discarded world. Anyhow, without committing yourself at this point, do you think you like the idea in principle?’

‘Have you got a subject in mind for our film?’

‘Eurydice and Orpheus.’

‘But he’s already had a shot at that.’

‘As I’ve said, he’s obsessive. He says it’s an inexhaustible theme and he’s got a lot of new ideas for another approach.’

‘What sort of money are we approaching it with?’

‘We’ve got a budget of £250,000 per film; that works out at £8,000 each for director, composer, and writer, plus residuals. That’s not a lot of money but you’d be completely free to do what you like and I should think it might be quite fun if you’ve got the time to take it on.’

‘All of us getting paid the same, I’m surprised that Kraken agreed to that.’

‘He looks on this as a necessary exploration and he’s particularly keen on an equal partnership with no ego trips. I thought perhaps the four of us could meet for lunch. Would Thursday be all right for you, one o’clock at L’Escargot?’

‘That sounds fine.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to see Bogs and Quicksand and Codename Orpheus first.’

‘I’ll just have a look at Bogs to begin with, I’ll save the others for later.’

Forthryte arranged a screening of Bogs at Mythos for the next day, Saturday. I rang up Melanie to ask her along.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she said. ‘I’ve been phoning you for days.’

Oh yes, I said in my mind. Did you phone me on Monday as you said you would? Did you phone on Tuesday? ‘I went to The Hague,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Would you like to see Bogs with me tomorrow?’

‘The Kraken film? Yes, please.’