The weather has been good to me lately. July sometimes means sun, sometimes just means disappointment, but this year it has been fine. I think my complexion and my heritage come into their own whenever the sun is out, and temperatures rise. Paul’s doing well – he’s not dead and he’s sometimes winning. No major troubles in any of the properties. Tenants come and go, but as long as rents and deposits are collected I’m a happy man. I’ve even had the opportunity to purchase a couple of new summer hats. Some really exciting developments on that front. The shows in Paris and New York must have been good this year. Maybe one day I’ll get the time to travel a little.
When Mr Morton and the weather allow it, I go and see Paul race. Which isn’t that often but more often than one might think. Maybe because he races a lot, or because I have started to understand a little of the racing.
At first I tried to treat it like horses. The closest thing I could think of. The oval, the muscles, the staring eyes, the occasional death from exhaustion. Then I realised cycling was, if not better, then at least very different. I still can’t shake the image of horses, but I have come to develop a special place in my heart for the velodrome. It is rather exciting, and some of the men are real specimens, real power houses.
As with any sport, it’s difficult to be interested if you don’t understand it. It’s the same with most things. Unless you know, it’s hard to judge a pretty painting from a dog’s dinner. Same with a fantastic effort on the track. But there are racers who seem to be one with the bike, who can sense where there will be a gap, where a back wheel will be in a split second’s time. Racers who shine even to the untrained eye.
Paul is one of these. He floats as if friction and fitness are concepts he needn’t concern himself with. He never sees me, I make sure of it. I don’t want to disrupt him. He’s doing well enough without some man in a cravat shouting from the stands. Someone who, despite my recently acquired knowledge and my budding passion, has no idea about racing. And I think I’d probably add pressure he doesn’t need. My presence signals he owes me money and that I wish to collect soon. I have no intention of spoiling his winning streak. It is, if not making me rich, certainly bringing in money I never thought would come. And I enjoy watching him. It’s become an essential part of my weekend routine. So I’m happy to let things be the way they are. A bonus, a gift horse, and all that.
Mr Morton checks my book. The blue ledger where I note my ins and outs is always kept in his second office. It’s a kind of casual library where everyone’s account ledgers are kept. It’s casual until he needs access to your book and it’s not there when it should have been. That happened once to a man, and the result wasn’t pretty: Closed casket.
Besides, compared to some, I’m a man of modest means and pleasures. I own the Copenhagen Street property, and two smaller houses, as well as a few debts that I collect interest on and a couple of gambling schemes. In essence, just enough to tide me over.
I’m good at always returning, or having Rupert return, the ledger. Mr Morton has never showed my smaller sidebusinesses much interest, other than to ask for a small cut every now and then. I never lie, and he always snorts at the insignificance of the money I make. My gambling and the collateral income must be shoelace money for him. I am glad about that. The less we are in contact the better.
This changed after one of his random inspections. Just after Paul, sporting his new handlebars – these days I notice things like that – won twice in one weekend against Emrys, Mr Morton called me in and shouted at me for not calling his attention to the money I had made from the bikes.
Mr Morton told me all my business was done ‘Under my protection you’ll be wise to remember.’
I told him it was meagre profits. I’m not managing or sponsoring any other racers. By now I probably could, as I know a bit more who’s who. But I won’t tell Mr Morton that. I was issued the decree that from now on I was to keep a closer eye on Paul. To influence him for the better, to make sure he slept well, stayed in, trained. That he was kept busy racing, making money, apart from when delivering, and kept away from trouble and women. Especially women. The deliveries would also increase. I was to tell Paul he had been tried and he had passed, but his holiday was now over.
‘And for you too Silas.’
I nodded and thought about nothing. Then I forced myself to think of a hot bath and a cold drink and everything felt better. For a second or so.
‘I’m the first to admit Paul’s been good for business. In a small way. The boy is fast, the police clueless, and he is very cheap compared to some of the other methods I’ve tried,’ Mr Morton said. ‘But for the money I’m paying him to run my errands, you need to make him more profitable. You understand this. And you will see to it. In fact you should have solved it before I was forced to bring it up.’
For the first Saturday in August I arrange for Paul to be at the Carousel. Race ready for nine o’clock at night. It’s not his usual time to start, but it happens to be when my working day starts to pick up speed. I tell him I’ll give him some money, and that I’ll double the amount if he can find a partner.
I make it sound like an exhibition, a room full of fans, a little something they can do for cash in their spare time. They can prance around like horses at the circus, and easily pay rent that month. It isn’t going to be quite like that but I don’t have to tell him he doesn’t have a choice. That I didn’t have a choice. I’m going to make him more profitable, and that always requires a show. I can’t be concerned about his comfort or dignity.
The day comes and I dress to impress. Saunter over to the Carousel. I am early. Seeing the arrangements Mr Morton has made causes me to feel sorry for Paul and his friend. I’m paying them both handsomely, but as Mr Morton, who was quite enthusiastic about my idea when I first told him, shows me around the inner room, and talks me through the evening, and the people he has invited, I’m starting to feel a bit funny. It’s not a race or exhibition that’s for sure.
‘Tonight Silas, this is called the paddock.’ Mr Morton’s hand is on my shoulder, half fatherly, half a leash. He’s talking about the hexagon in the middle of the inner room.
‘And tonight we’ll hopefully see the birth of a new sport, or the death of two men. Either or: it’s publicity,’ he continues.
‘It’s great, really great,’ I say.
‘Come here,’ he says, with his hand like a vice on me, and he shows me four blocks where the axles of the two cyclists’ rear wheel will go. He’s had a scared-looking joiner working for him all day. The man is now busy nailing the blocks to the floor, the two sets of blocks facing each other.
The hexagon is usually sprinkled with sawdust and sucks up blood, sweat, vomit and the tears of the defeated most nights a week. Today, though, it’s scrubbed clean, and the lines have been repainted. Not that it matters on this occasion. Boxers and wrestlers might stray outside the boundary lines, and be penalised for it, but where will the two cyclists go?
Once Mr Morton lets go of me, I go and hide in the Ram’s Head across the road. Under the pretext of wanting to change and think up odds. I’m feeling too queer to drink gin and ask Isaac, the man in charge, for a good hangover cure.
‘I’ve got just the thing here. Very popular with the revellers.’
He pours me something called Bib-Label Lithiated Lemon-Lime Soda, or a Bibi, for short. He explains something about Lithium that I can’t hear or understand. After a few glasses of Bibi, I feel a bit calmer and more clear-headed. I’ve not changed or thought about odds, but I doubt Mr Morton will notice. Besides he’ll have the betting under control tonight.’
I walk back to the Carousel. I see that Mr Morton has changed into his evening wear. His customary white, with baby blue dashes, with his abacus, his business rosary, tucked into one armpit. A lot of the seats, especially the ones closest to the ring, are occupied by men smoking cigars and clasping his hand as he makes his rounds.
‘Silas, where’s your man?’ he shouts as soon as he sees me.
‘I told him to be here at nine sir. In about an hour,’ I say after consulting my watch.
‘That’s too late,’ Mr Morton shouts. ‘Make him come faster.’ He laughs and turns to his next guest, but not without wagging a finger at me. I stand in a corner sincerely hoping Paul hasn’t had an accident on the way over. It’s a nervous thirty minutes, the Bibi can’t help with that, until he walks in, his sportsman’s strut impossible to hide.
To my disappointment Paul has brought with him an asthmatic Welshman. A man called Emrys, who despite wheezing, and plunging his head in formaldehyde or something before we get going with the warm-up challenge seems fit enough. As he’s getting on the bike, Paul, who has noticed my initial disproval, tells me Emrys wins a lot of races, quite often beating Paul. There’s no telling with cyclists I find. Boxers, fighters, horses and dogs I can gauge. Cyclists are still an unknown quantity.
Mr Morton has arranged the evening like a gladiatorial tournament. Only there are no animals and no Coliseum. This doesn’t deter a man like the Elephant Emperor. Instead he hushes the crowd. Walks around with his arms up in the air, officiating a séance by the looks of it. He proceeds to introduce the two cyclists with fanciful Latin names: Paulus Maximus and Caesar Emrys. Gets them to strip to their waists, and parades them around the room for the patrons to pinch and admire.
He has each cyclist take off their rear tyres and remove the inner tube, all with a great sense of drama. Then he sets them up on their bikes, or chariots as he calls them, and has the rear axles of their bikes inserted into the slots in the wooden blocks. Then, with the rear wheels, now naked, spinning in the air, he has the same unlucky joiner attach a belt to the wheel. This belt is attached to a cog on a stand. One each for Paul and Emrys. The joiner, now flushed and with shaking hands, fits the instrument of the first battle to the wheel. It’s a whisk. And the game that people are now betting on and laughing at too for that matter – which is great; happy people are more loose with their money – is to see which of the two cyclists can first turn milk into butter. The person whose legs first manage to whisk a bowl of milk to a consistency where it can be turned upside down without anything landing on the floor, will win. Mr Morton has even found a retired dairy manager, all dressed in white, as a co-judge. The man, a Mr Stanley, stands in one corner cutting up bread in preparation for the butter. The whole thing is truly awful.
Soon the two boys are sweating, milk splattering in every direction, and Mr Morton goes over to slap Paul’s back.
‘Give the man a beer,’ he shouts to no one in particular, ‘No. Ginger ale. No, wait. This one has a hard-on for sarsaparilla. Mr Morton turns around to receive the laughs. ‘A pint! No, a pitcher! Can’t you see he’s a thirsty man? And bring a couple of straws.’ He points to a bartender who scurries out of the room. Then he continues, ‘This one’s hungry for a win. Come on Paulus! You get to eat the butter you make.’ Then he laughs, and resumes his tour of the room. Once the bartender returns Mr Morton shakes his head and Paul never gets a drink.
As the people in the wingchairs become increasingly drunk, the games turn more ridiculous. Also harder on the boys. I can see from the way Mr Morton is working the room, the way his upper lip is shining, that he’s content. The way his eye whites are showing and the way he gestures for one of his orangutans to come over and take bundles of cash to be put in a strongbox upstairs lets me know things are going well. In a way this makes me happy. Or at least relieved. After the butter, which Paul wins, Emrys is the first to saw through a log, then he’s also the quickest to reel in an anchor, and I get a bit worried in case, despite the lucrative nature of the evening, Mr Morton thinks I am, and by extension, he is, backing the wrong racer. Luckily Emrys has a massive coughing attack. Then, he collapses and falls off the bike. A harsh seallike sound escapes him and he can’t get back on the bike. Emrys is spluttering and trying to say something about the smoke and the sawdust, then he goes all white and has to be carried outside into the alley for some fresh air. Wagers from the chairs collected, wealth redistributed, drinks and smokes continuing, and there’s talk of a whole series of these events. The Emperor is happy.
The Carousel doesn’t close for another couple of hours, but the Roman feast is over. I can’t look Paul in the eye, but I give him twice the amount I had promised him and the same for his friend. As soon as he’s allowed he runs out into the alley to check on Emrys, while Mr Morton walks around the room with a toga and a laurel wreath made from bay leaves for the winner he can’t find. He hands it to Miriam, who’s standing in the shadows. I hadn’t noticed her.
I go across the road for another Bibi. Sitting by the window in the Ram’s Head I see Paul come limping out with Emrys draped over his shoulder. Miriam comes out and tries to hand him the wreath, but he shakes his head. Instead she hangs it around the neck of a drunk sleeping against a lamp post. Then she goes inside. Paul hails a taxi which he piles Emrys into, pays and then goes back in for the bikes. I pay for my drink. All I want to do is to go home and have a bath. Clean myself.