Personality by Andrew O'Hagan

Author:Andrew O'Hagan [Andrew O’hagan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571268351
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2010-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

The life underground. Caverns and chambers filled with darkness – arches, corridors, greasy pipes carrying gas to the metropolis, cracked sewers, bad air, ancient bones, mud, layers of broken plaster, former shelters, night-gloop, the remnants of the Great Fire, dust, soil and the mash of brick, passageways, vaults, lost merchandise, skin cells, a labyrinth of vanished facts, paving-stones, Victorian whispers, telephone cables, a Saxon cross of powdered sandstone, down there, in London.

And tunnels, the tunnels of London, conveying people towards Cockfosters, Brixton, Walthamstow, Ruislip, the end of things. In a tube carriage, Central Line, stopped just short of Oxford Circus, stands a group of strangers packed together in the narrow train. They stand straight and look at each other’s shoes, eyes averted from each other’s eyes, and some of them look at their books, not reading.

It is 9.45 p.m.

The tube is stalled in the tunnel. There is heat between the people in the carriage, and close up a fragrance of shampoos on rain-dampened hair, a faint notion of aftershaves, coffees, and never has this happened before, these same people, this exact spot of the world underground, then round them the tube train shudders into motion. They are gone.

Overhead, through the tunnel’s roof, a layer of bricks gives way to iron filings, to nubs of wood, to walkways, and on and upwards, to unbroken stones and dreck, compacted earth, and then there are shards of wine bottles embedded in a layer of sand near the surface – remnants of a Victorian wine cellar – and finally the beginning of foundation stones, laid in 1908, and then a thick layer of wooden floorboards.

Through the floor and rising still are basement rooms, dark and ill-attended, with old, painted cloths and screens lying around, and one large room’s corners are heaped with dust-covered blankets and painted shoes. A voice comes near, amplified.

‘… came to an end after a mightily successful run on both radio and television …’

Up through a layer of plaster ceiling and wooden beams.

‘… a little girl who has become one of the most sought-after performers in the business, and a personal success for me …’

Passing a layer of electrical wires.

‘… delighting audiences. I mean that most sincerely …’

Through the quiet space of an orchestra pit.

‘Your Royal Highness, lords, ladies and gentlemen. Please give a warm Palladium welcome …’

And slowly, at last, slowly, at last, through the wooden boards of a stage and into the air.

The stage was black. A spotlight came on, and standing at the centre was Maria Tambini, her bright, even teeth smiling the long distance. Poreless skin, hair blow-dried into waves, her eyes saying yes, her blue dress sparkling. She held a microphone and as she walked forward the music began. A huge backdrop of coloured butterflies brightened to the rear, the lamps burned, and suddenly, as the music crashed into life, many dancers in black and white trousers and skirts ran from the wings to encircle her. She stretched out her hands. She came to the front

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