chapter 15 Brothers at the Bookshop
brOTHERS AT THE BOOKSHOP
Back in the cab, the three drunken friends sit silently as the coachman pulls up and stops outside Dinky’s Neil’s Yard flat. All three are more or less wearing their own clothes. Dinky’s hat is conspicuously absent. Crowley almost pushes Dinky out the door.
“See to it that you give Mr. and Mrs. Mathers every courtesy. Treat them like gods, Dinky. Gods!”
Dinky mumbles an affirmative.
The cab continues on to Mrs. H.’s building. Crowley gets out to help her down. He smashes her hat down on her head and guides her onto the sidewalk and up to her door.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Horatio. Get some sleep.”
“Aren’t you coming up? I’ve raw eggs and bitters.”
“I’m afraid not, my dear. I think I shan’t be seeing you for a while. Perhaps not for a long while.”
Crowley’s cold words startle her sober. “Don’t be absurd!” She smiles and reaches to stroke his cheek. “You just need to replenish your reservoir of creative energy.”
“That’s precisely the point. I’ve vowed to be celibate for a while. Call it a gesture.”
Mrs. H. Laughs at this, but her queasiness stops her. “Oh dear God! A gesture for your black magic, I presume?”
“In a way, yes.”
“You’re drunk. Are you coming up or not?”
“Good night, Mrs. Horatio.”
She narrows her eyes and stands silent for a moment. “Damn you, poet!”
She turns, throws open her door, and storms through, slamming half her hat in the door. Instead of opening the door to remove it, she violently pulls it through the crack, destroying it completely.
Morning finds Dinky at work as front-desk clerk of the luxurious Claridge’s hotel. He is impeccably groomed and dressed but painfully hungover. The lobby is nearly empty, and he leans half-sleeping against the registry stand.
He is shocked to attention by the excruciatingly loud ringing of his own desk bell.
He almost screams in pain but stifles his reaction when he sees that the person who rang the bell is none other than Moina Mathers.
Her husband stands behind her, fiddling with the buttons of his overcoat.
Dinky’s hands shake, but he makes an effort to conceal that fact.
Moina scrapes the heavy room key across the marble desk top.
Dinky stares at the key (and its noise) in horror.
“My husband and I are checking out. Please send a boy for our bags and arrange a cab to Victoria.”
“Of course, madame. Right away.”
Dinky now realizes he must ring the bell-of-pain himself in order to summon a bellhop. He winces and attempts to ring it quietly but winds up having to pound out three or four very clumsy-sounding rings. After a moment of very awkward silence, the bellboy appears. Dinky hands him the key.
“Room 333. Ask Neville to hail something covered for Victoria.” The bellhop leaves with dutiful speed. Dinky forces a smile.
“I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”
Moina seems pleased for the opportunity to question Dinky.
“So you know Mr. Crowley, do you?”
Mathers doesn’t like what his wife might be up to. “That will be enough, my dear.”
Dinky is pleased to respond. “Why, yes. Yes, I do. Extraordinary chap, Crowley. Quite a mountaineer; a published poet, too. We often play chess. He always lets me beat him.”
Mathers grabs his wife’s arm. “Moina?”
Still ignoring her husband, she continues to press Dinky. “Indeed?” She eyes Dinky’s rather frail and effeminate stature, then asks, “You climb rocks together, do you?”
“Well, yes. Rock climbing. Crowley does most of the climbing, of course. I mostly carry the picnic basket and urge him up.”
Dinky eventually realizes how bad all this is sounding but can only silently blush.
The late morning sun beams through the display window at Redway’s Bookshop. Mr. Redway’s face brightens as he greets two distinguished customers.
“Mr. Yeats, Mr. Stoker! How perfectly amazing. Together, I mean. You honor my shop. I’m happy to report brisk sales of your books . . . both of you . . . indeed yes. Brisk sales. Oh Mr. Yeats, what glowing reviews you continue to get. I think you’ll free Ireland yet!”
Yeats is obviously pleased by Redway’s greeting. “Like to hear that, don’t we, Abraham?
Stoker, irritated at being called Abraham, mumbles something through his moustache, then turns to browse the stock. It is clear he is in no mood for small talk. Yeats however seems anxious to speak with Redway.
“Mr. Redway, I was wondering if the Picatrix I ordered has arrived yet?”
“Picatrix. Indeed yes. Just in from Berlin. Hope your German’s good sir.”
The conversation is rudely interrupted by an outburst from Stoker.
“Oh, here too!” He waves a Crowley book of verses. “That degenerate bastard. Can’t we ever escape his filth? Obscenities from the king of depravity! Oh, Bill! The thought of you and I forced to assume god-forms in the same sacred temple space room with that . . . that . . .”
Yeats moves to Stoker’s side. He lowers his own voice in an attempt to calm him down and make the conversation more private. “Now, Abraham. Allan Bennett is our senior adept, and he still backs Mathers. This all might be a magical test of some kind.”
“To hell with Bennett! Who knows; maybe he and Crowley are some sort of sodomites . . .”
“See here, old man! Stop it. You’re upset.”
“Yes, I’m upset!”
Stoker opens Crowley’s book and starts ripping the pages out and throwing them into the air. Then he grabs the other copy and starts shredding it also.
“I’m very, very upset!” He does a mad little dance as if he were stark raving mad. Yeats and Redway look on in embarrassed horror.
The door of the shop opens, and two ladies (the same two that tried to enter the shop earlier) appear at the door, but when they see Stoker’s little dance, they immediately turn to exit.
The sound of the closing of the door seems to bring Stoker back to himself.
Yeats puts his hand on Stoker’s shoulder.
“Annie has asked us to cooperate. Let’s not get ourselves expelled until we know more.”
Stoker looks at the remnants of the shredded book in his hands.
“Very well, Bill. But I swear I’ll kill Crowley before I see him advanced in the order. He’ll not set a foot in our sacred vault.”
“No, Bram. Without our votes, he won’t advance. He’ll never be an Adeptus.”
Stoker looks around at the mess he’s made. He slowly picks up the torn pages and takes them to the dustbin by Redway’s desk.
“To the dustbin with him.” Stoker reaches for his billfold. “Mr. Redway, forgive me. Very untidy of me. How much for . . .”
“That will be one guinea each, sir.”
“Yes, of course. There you are. Forgive me.” He pays Redway, then joins Yeats. Their exit is prevented when they run straight into Crowley who is entering the shop. They are all startled.
Crowley greets them sheepishly. “Good morning, brothers.”
“I’m no brother of yours, sir!” Stoker spits the words out. “You’re through Crowley! You’ll never take another magical degree. Never! Get out of my way!”
Yeats doesn’t even acknowledge Crowley. “Come along, Bram. Good day, Redway.”
Stoker and Yeats exit. Crowley is devastated. He watches as the door closes. In a daze he backs into Redway’s counter. “Dear god. What have I done?”
He then turns to look at Redway as if the answer would come from him. Suddenly Redway breaks into a cheery smile. “Good news, Mr. Crowley. I’ve sold my entire inventory of your books!”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to laugh. Sir Francis made it all sound so absurdly funny.
I was really enjoying his story, and he told it so charmingly.
But this was hardly the kind of Crowley film I’d envisioned.
Many of the characters and circumstances were well known to me, but some, I dare say, were completely unfamiliar.
Also, I was a bit resentful that Sir Francis was characterizing young Crowley as a somewhat na?ve buffoon.
This was hardly the story of the greatest philosopher-sage Western civilization had produced in four hundred years.
And what about these comic relief characters like Redway and Dinky or farce situations like the ball at the Savoy Hotel?
I started to confront Bendick with my misgivings, but before I could open my mouth, he answered me.
“Milo, do you want this to be a movie? A movie that is distributed and viewed worldwide? A movie people pay to see? A movie people enjoy and tell their friends about? A movie that is exhibited, year after year? A movie that spawns sequels and imitations and sends people rushing to libraries to find books by Aleister Crowley? My god, Milo. You’re in the business.
Even Shakespeare peppered his immortal tales with clowns and farts and dirty jokes and puns.
It kept everyone awake and coming back to the theatre.
“Our story is, at the moment, taking place in a fictional 1900! Crowley was twenty-five. Back then, he still actually was a na?ve buffoon! Mathers did have a revolt on his hands! Bennett was the greatest magician of the Golden Dawn! Crowley did have lovers . . . men and women! The Golden Dawn was split in their opinions and support of both Crowley and Mathers! Curses were being hurled back and forth. And most importantly, young man . . . it’s a story that has kept you awake all night. ”
I looked out the window. He was right. It would be dawn soon.
We’d written through the night. I suddenly realized I was very tired.
I asked Sir Francis if we might break for three or four hours so I could sleep.
He reluctantly agreed, adding he’d have Archie draw me a bath and wake me up at 11:00 a.m.