[The Game] A White April Fool

Chapter 13

"I can smile, and murder while I smile"
- Shakespeare, Richard III

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April 1st A.D.1076. Bayeux Cathedral, France.

The Tapestry hangs, awaiting inspection. Matilda paces, controlling her anger at the invasion of her rights which she has just learnt is coming. She looks at the completed work. It spreads out, small in height, but long, wrapping its way arond the walls of the chamber, over seventy metres in total. Nodding her head in satisfaction, she notes that it's a thing of rare beauty and she makes a promise to herself to congratulate the artisan again - to gift him with a present worthy of such labour. A voice from behind. A fine piece of work, it says. Matilda spins quickly, shocked by the presence which she did not sense. Four men stand behind her, dressed in cloaks. Three faces are obscured by their cowls, heads bowed. I didn't hear you enter she tells the one who has spoken. Apologies for our stealth, he says, pulling back his hood. A mirthless smile lights up a bronzed face, his eyes creased slits. He steps past Matilda and up to the tapestry. A fine work and no doubt he pronounces. Why are you here, she asks. What business do men of the cloth have in dictating what is acceptable in matters of art? Oh it's not simply a question of art, he says, running his eyes over the work, smiling and exhaling. It's a question of what is appropriate. A question of what we want future generations to think of us, to know of us. I'm sure you understand he tells her. I do not, she replies flatly. Well, he says, stepping closer to a section of the tapestry near the end, this for example, is a problem. What is, she asks. He points to a depiction of a young man and a woman. The man's hand is outstretched, reaching for the young woman, as though he is about to touch her, to place his hand on her head. It is bad enough that this is included, but what comes after, well. This is, he says with a small laugh, really rather problematic. It'll have to go. On his words, the three cowled figures step forward and produce knives. Matilda screams in horror as they set about cutting off the final section of the work. What in the name of the King do you think you are doing, she exclaims. Making sure, the man with the shining teeth says, that your venerable King keeps his end of the bargain. Bargain? What bargain, she asks. The one he made with me, says the man. He takes the section of the tapestry which they have cut away and begins to roll it up. The three figures turn as one, knives drawn, motionless. What bargain? The one that made him King, he says. They move towards her.

April 1st A.D.1604. Rome, Italy

A jail cell. Thatch, rats and piss on the floor. The artist lies on his side, not sleeping, not waking, but somewhere in between. Drugs and alcohol flood his blood stream. He groans, the smell of vomit and shit filling his nostrils. Bruises on his face and ribs ache, the taste of blood in his mouth. He struggles to recall how he got here, images of a naked woman and flying fists bubble up from the darkness. He recalls an officer of the law attempting to restrain him as they dragged him from her bed. Violence followed. He knows that he hurt one of them, but which one, or precisely how, he cannot recall. Outside, there is conversation, animated, angry. Voices are raised, someone objecting to the presence of someone else in the jail, asking for entry. The voices of the officers are angry, offended. Who do you think you are, one asks belligerently. Another voice speaks, calm, soft, soothing, musical. Oily and unctuous, it's song relieves the tension. Why I only need a few moments with Signori Merisi. A friend. An old friend. I come with the wishes of the Cardinal. You wouldn't wish to offend the Cardinal would you, he asks. No, of course not, says the officer. So, you will allow me to enter and speak then. I will allow you to enter and speak, says the officer. Bolts slide, the door moves, creaking on a hinge, light cuts like a knife into the cell's gloom, a rat scurries for shade and a man enters. He sighs. A sad state of affairs for Italy's living greatest artist he announces. Who are you, the artist asks him. A friend, says the visitor, a wide, sparkling smile glittering in the dark. Do I know you, the artist asks. Oh yes, he replies, everyone knows me. But let us not trouble ourselves with formalities just now, he says. I am here to help you. To help you as I have helped so many others, in so many places, in so many times, in so many darkened hours. The artist sits up on his bed. Help me, he asks, how? By making you a legend says the man, his smile spreading to reveal pointed teeth and squinting eyes. The man produces a parchment from within his great cloak. It looks old, older than this jail. He steps over to the artist and in a movement so rapid and so gentle that the artist barely sees or even feels it, he slices open a cut on his arm. The artist considers the trail of blood now slicking up his skin. He notices that the blood looks just like ink. Drunkenly, he giggles. A quill appears before him. Something of a cliché, I know, says the visitor, but it is a requirement. The artist considers him, trying to place the countenance, convinced he has beheld it before. He hiccups. And takes the quill.

April 1st A.D.1990. Dublin, Ireland

Backstage, five young men sit in a dressing room. Their faces Oompa-Loompa orange from dodgy sun-beds and two inches of concealer, they await their visitor. A man, they have been told by their excitable manager, who can make this happen. A man who knows everything. Who has been everywhere. Who has seen everything. Who can do anything. Mr. White. The Magic Man. Just hear what he has to say, the manager has told them. They wait quietly. Two exchange glances, one pulling at the corner of the pink, sleeveless tank-top he's wearing, another absent-mindedly worrying at a spot on his chin, another wondering if his chipped teeth will see him ejected from the band. Not to worry, the manager has told them, when we sign this deal there'll be no end of money to fix that kind of thing. The door opens suddenly, the sound from the main stage pouring into the room as it does. A man stands there, framed in the doorway. Wearing a white suit, black shirt and airforce sunglasses, he looks every inch the record-industry twat - legs akimbo, shit-eater, crowbar smile splitting his face into leathery creases. He shouts, boundless joy in his voice. I gotta tell ya boys, he says clapping his hands together, I like what I see and I see what I like. The young men say nothing, look at each other and then back to him. Oh don't be shy, he says. The world is your oyster. Your fucking Oyster card no less. No wait, too early for that yet. Your oyster. The world is your oyster. So here it is: I've been watching. Now, I gotta be honest with you boys. Speaking plainly, you're a pack of talentless gimps who couldn't hold a tune if your miserable lives depended on it. You're entry into the world of music is about as welcome as a skid-mark on a wedding gown and, let's be honest here, you look like you were dressed by a troupe of blind, retarded circus midgets. As for your songs? Sweet Jeebus, but if I shat into a rusty tuba and handed it to a brain-dead badger I'd get better fucking music. No two ways about it: you guys are a shit sandwich without the bread. But, no matter, I've seen worse. Way worse. So, here's what we're gonna do: we're gonna go to work on ye. We're gonna make you famous. We're gonna make you rich. We're gonna fix it so that the whole world knows your names, where you're from and what sweet, sweet boys you all are. We're gonna fix it so that blue-rinse biddies will dote on you, men will envy you and a relentless, never-ending army of giggling seventeen-year old girls will want to sit on your faces and wiggle. So, whaddya say? Are you in? The boys laugh. He laughs too. One voice, the voice of the youngest boy, speaks up. What do you get from all this, he asks defiantly. Oh not much, the man replies. Money I suppose, he says. The satisfaction of a job well done. The smile on a young mother's face. A tear on the cheek of an innocent child. A line of cocaine snorted from the upturned arse-cheek of a twelve year old. He closes the door, spinning to look at them. So, are you in? Slowly at first, but more certain as the moments pass, they nod, looking at one and other, smiling broadly. Good, says the man, cracking his knuckles. Now then, he says opening his jacket and reaching for his trouser belt. Let's get started, shall we? With a flick of the wrist he drops his trousers to the floor and grins. Hands on hips he looks from face to face. So, he says, a glint of the light on his teeth, who's first?

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