Lunch is Off – Chapter 3

Dimitri Bland from Bland, Bland and Sham was actually not a bad sort and advised me thoroughly over many pints of beer. He was a young man, a scion of the Bland dynasty on his way up. Frankly I never saw him as being particularly jurisprudent but rather a quiet, thoughtful fellow who never refused a Lager and elicited not the slightest alarm at my rabid appearance. We undertook to fit as much debauchery into his schedule while he was in London and from then on we were firm friends.

I doubt whether either of us could perceive the source of this mutual attraction but we were always happy to see each other. Later in life he was retained as both proctor and drinking companion. I am sure you can imagine, dear reader, that Dimitri Bland was occupied to his full capacity in this regard.

After the loss of Penelope I carried on the fraudulent life of a gutter snipe for a little while longer but my heart was no longer in it. I graduated from the Spade School of Art without distinction, or at least without the distinction they had in mind, and then bored myself to distraction at Marseilles for a month and a half participating in a pointless relationship with a beautiful but vacuous design undergraduate from Belgium.

Upon my return to London I met up with my mother briefly. She sang Wagner’s Brunhilde at the The Royal Opera. She was one of the few who could do it justice. Of course, she was magnificent but gave me fairly short shrift when receiving me in her dressing room. 

‘Here, Foster, make yourself useful, help me get this fucking thing off.’ She sat down on her dressing room chair and I was required to help her remove the horned helmet she wore for the part of Brunhilde.  Not as easy a task as you might think.

I’d only managed to tell her how much I enjoyed her performance when she said a Duke somebody or other was picking her up and she had to go immediately. She glanced at me without favour, touched my sleeve briefly and left me to be shown out by a stage hand. She was not a good mother, this much I knew from an early age but in the cab back to my digs in Shepherds Bush I unaccountably shed a few tears – for both myself and her.

giseld singing brunhilde

Though Portnoy’s complaint was not one that I enjoyed at that juncture, I was in complete accord with Roth’s sentiments. He described the very world my youth permitted. There was an unassailable truth to his particular genus of angst and I suddenly acquired a taste for reading American novels. Fitzgerald, Bellow, Salinger, Greene, Highsmith, Irving, Doctorow, an indecipherable pinch of Pynchon, Vonnegut, Orwell, Capote, Wilson, Yates, Wolfe and the list goes on.

I was a sponge for the stuff to the point of jettisoning the spikes and Doc Martins for the ‘American in Paris’ look. All Loafers, pale pullovers and louche cum sardonic image, ‘the whole nine yards’ as someone from over there once said. I read Dorian Gray one spooky London night and I felt the cold curse of Narcissus touch me. I did my best not to look too deeply at my reflection. I suspect when I did, the person staring back was the very definition of self loathing.

The next few years saw me rambling about the world becoming involved in one asinine imbroglio after another. I was arrested in Portugal when I attempted to extricate my hands from beneath the brassiere of a Tapas Bar waitress who had accidentally fallen on top of me whilst serving Crab Empanado’s to a table of Algerian snake milkers with whom I was discussing my recent bereavement. In Delhi I was accused of the crime of “rendering a cow unfit for reverence”. In Florence I hid in a convent disguised as a nun for eleven months because I was the subject of a Swedish extradition order on a charge of “copulation with a woman under thirty without a condom”.

FU in disguiseThough the Swedish lady failed to be got with child, the coltish convent cook, Sister Isabella, on the other hand left the convent inconvenienced by a bun in the oven. The happy event coincided precisely with my abrupt departure. Then there were the dreadful events which occurred in Bolivia involving a shipment of ancient Incan artifacts. By reasons of still pending litigation, I am unable to discuss that matter further. Dimitri has been running interference on some of these outstanding issues for decades.

In November 1982 following some correspondence from the redoubtable Dimitri I was summoned by my mother, Giselda to attend to family matters and for want of anything better to do, I decamped for Paris only to find no-one at home.

Apparently my parents had purchased an apartment on the Rue du Bac – Musée d’Orsay and when I arrived at the address provided. I was astonished to find that ’apartment’ barely passed as a description. It was situated on the entire top floor of an elegant sixteenth century building. It was an enormous pile furnished in Belle Époque style of over seven hundred square metres in the 7th Arrondissement practically next door to the Louvre.

In the fiscally desperate days of the early Eighties when agricultural markets ditched and interest rates propelled entire economies into a tailspin the price of this abode would make a bankers ears bleed. It appeared that the hotel business boomed as farmers necked themselves.

The maid told me my mother was called away suddenly and would return in a week. Brigitte, the maid, showed me to a room extraordinary of size and elaborate of decoration the least of which was a particularly salacious Carravagio, I later learnt, was entitled ‘The Corruption of the Inncocents’. The painting had never seen the inside of an art gallery, having been private possession since it’s creation. I later learned that Carravagio, sometimes none as il Vag by his close friends, would roam the entire evenings in the bordello’s of Naples sketching orgies. He was ignognito, having murdered some thug on the streets of Milano.

The great man fucked his way, both male and female, into the good graces of the nobility of Naples and Rome and was greatly admired for his stamina with both brush and a member said to be of exceptional proportions. For two centuries there was an inn in Naples named The Brush and Cock in his honour. Some crazed zealot set fire to it in a fit of peak and the land was cleared and has sat reproachfully in the street as a vacant lot ever since.

It was clear that not a single of the many entwined bodies depicted in il Vag’s piece of blatant fifteenth century pornography suggested anything remotely innocent. Another wall sported a priceless twelfth century tapestry and yet another a large bay window above a plush seat that commanded a view across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower.

Until then, I had never been to Paris and the view from this portal above the Seine was as sublime as one might have anywhere in the world. Much of the ensuing months were spent admiring the city from this seat and reading the works  of Hermann Hesse. Both The Corruption of the Innocents and The Glass Bead Game is always associated with Paris for me.

The first evening I spent entirely alone in the lofty mansion except for the maid Brigitte. There were instructions as to my choices of comestibles and liquor which I, of course, ignored entirely. The comely Brigitte made sure I wanted for nothing. She was a lovely girl with the dearest bosoms I have ever encountered, small and perfectly pert. We had a great deal of fun together and I slept enfolded in her arms better than I had for some time. Indeed, I awoke one morning to find my heart had mended as best it could from the loss of my one true love, Penelope.

One day I arrived at the apartment after visiting Bar Sanguine on the Avenue of the America’s. I had drunk a carafe of excellent Bordeaux and felt quite fine when I found mother in the parlour. She had finally come back from Vienna or somewhere, I can’t remember. It had been about three years since we had set eyes on each other and I can’t say that it was an encounter noted for its warmth but nor was it acrimonious. I had long known an association with my parent meeting normal expectations was not possible whether I desired one or not. Without even enquiring as to my health or recent history she dropped a grenade at my feet.

‘Your father is coming tomorrow.’ She said. ‘He will be accompanied by your half-brother Shane’


So that is your lot for the moment. I am writing it all down furiously as I remember it although perhaps I have been too kind in regard to my mother’s behavior.

There seems to be some suggestion that I took advantage of the maid in Paris. Completely unfounded – it is just your filthy mind.

I swear the breasts of the Tapas bar waitress were unharmed or at least barely bruised. If you believe I had done anything to promote the ‘accident’, think again.

The Incan artifacts were fakes and I had nothing to do with it anyway.

All will be revealed about Shane next time.

Comment without fear or favour.  I expect some of you think my behaviour reprehensible but I was young and much can be forgiven of the young…..or not.

2 thoughts on “Lunch is Off – Chapter 3”

  1. I like the pictures. They tell me much.

    I’m thinking a lot about Herman Hesse and Paris. Those, it seems, were the days.

    Now I only read obituaries. They all have the same ending.

    1. Yes my erstwhile friend. Good old Herman Hesse. How we relished his impenetrable pages while the smoke from the hashish pipe circulated our fevered brows. To this day ‘The Glass Bead Game’ evokes a special variety of madness and occasional vomiting. Our friends are all going far away but we must not tarry. The end will be upon us soon. Some of my acquaintance are hoping sooner rather than later. Please write again.

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