chapter 7 I’m Doing Nothing It’s Difficult
I’M DOING NOTHING; IT’S DIFFICULT
Crowley emerges from the alley with his cape wrapped around himself. He turns to his left and strides confidently down the sidewalk. A Hansom cab pulls up a few yards ahead of him. The coachman dismounts and opens the door for Crowley.
Inside sits a disturbingly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties. She is impeccably dressed; her thick auburn hair is up and tucked fashionably under an extravagantly saucy hat. She holds a slim book of poetry in her gloved hand. She smiles appealingly and taps the cover.
“I’ve just been reading your newest book of verses. Very stimulating. I must complement the poet. You’ve yet to disappoint me, Mr. Crowley.”
“My dear Mrs. Horatio. As always, you are abundantly charitable. And to what do I owe the pleasure this evening?”
“I think I’d prefer, ‘to whom do you owe the pleasure.’ I adore how you tickle a girl with words, my poet. You know, I’ve been following you tonight.”
Crowley is enjoying the conversation. “Indeed?”
Mrs. H. slides over a bit in her carriage seat. “May I offer you a ride . . . perhaps to my flat?”
“Delighted, as always.” He smiles and gets into the cab. The coachman closes the door and quickly retakes his seat.
Inside, Mrs. H. roughly grabs Crowley’s head and kisses him most aggressively. Eventually, she releases her grip, and Crowley gently wipes a drop of saliva from her lower lip.
“And how is Colonel Horatio this evening?”
“Rather ask me where is Colonel Horatio? Back to India with his team of old war horses.”
“How patriotic.” Crowley sounds as if he half means it. He then throws his purple cape open to display his lack of trousers.
She looks absolutely delighted.
“Hail Britannia!” he sings as he flings the cape around Mrs. H. and himself.
The bedroom of Mrs. H.’s flat is a scene of refined feminine chaos. Bedding is strewn everywhere. It is clear the two have been rigorously copulating for hours.
Crowley’s cape is now wrapped loosely around Mrs. H.
She sits cross-legged on her bed and tries to light an opium pipe.
Crowley is seated on the floor, his legs locked in a full lotus yoga posture.
His eyes are closed. He would look every inch a proper Buddha except that he is wearing Mrs. Horatio’s feather-trimmed dressing gown, her saucy hat, and a string of her pearls.
She puts a long match to her pipe and coughs a thick cloud of smoke. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”
Crowley opens one eye, then closes it. “I’m doing nothing. It’s very difficult.”
She puts another match to her pipe. “I can’t imagine.”
This time Crowley opens both eyes. “My dear, that’s precisely the problem with the world. Nobody can imagine.”
“Now you’re mocking me.” She pouts. “What are you doing? Black magic?”
“Yes. Black magic yoga. If you must know, I’m practicing pranayama, the Hindu science of breath control.”
“So am I.” She coughs out the words in another cloud of opium smoke. “What does your pranayama do for you?”
“It helps replenish my reservoir of creative energy . . . energy that only a moment ago I unselfishly sacrificed on the altar of milady’s ennui.”
“My ennui?” She giggle-coughs. She puts down her pipe, gets up from the bed, and walks over to where Crowley is seated. She opens the cape wide, sits down, and straddles his lap, creating a comic version of the classic Hindu erotic statues of Shiva and Shakti making love in the seated posture.
She playfully sings an old music hall ditty: “Where did you get that hat? Where did you get that ’at?”
Crowley says nothing. She removes her hat from his head and kisses his forehead, then gazes at his closed eyes.
“You are a strange one, Mr. Crowley. Why can’t you be satisfied with your inheritance and your talents and me?”
Crowley opens his eyes, then violently thrusts his body forward until he is lying on top of Mrs. H., pinning her to the now cape-strewn floor with his body. She might have been frightened, but the sight of Crowley in her dressing gown and beads causes her to giggle.
Crowley, however, strikes an intense and serious tone. “Because fortunes evaporate! Talent decays; beauty perishes; and you and I and everyone and everything we know will be dust lost in dust in a few ticks of the clock.”
He kisses her and gently bites down on her lower lip. Before releasing it, he pulls it out until she squeaks a little whimper. He releases her lip. Her chest heaves as she swoons. He gently slips his hand under her head and cradles her skull.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Mrs. Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy . . . and I intend to discover everything . . . master everything, storm the gates of heaven and hell and copulate with the sky!”
He closes his eyes and winces slightly as if in pain. Mrs. H. is concerned. “Darling, what’s the matter?”
He opens his eyes and kisses her between the breasts. “Why Mrs. Horatio, I believe you’ve replenished my reservoir of creative energy.”
It was half-past four in the morning, but I wasn’t at all sleepy. Sir Frances was more animated than ever. For an old man, he could still write a pretty hot love scene. I told him so, and he just chuckled.
“You know as well as I that women were the key to the master’s magical life,” he said.
“Let’s just say that in our story Mrs. Horatio wears many hats.
Let’s change the scene now: I think it’s time we turn our attention to a quaint little bookshop on Museum Street in Central London; just the kind of place young magicians might frequent. ”