Small World by David Lodge

Author:David Lodge [Lodge, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-06-16T17:24:33+00:00

Two

PERSSE woke late the next morning, after a night of troubled dreams, with a dry mouth and a moderate headache. He lay on his back for some time, staring at the sprinkler nozzle, a metallic omphalos in the ceiling of his room at the YMCA, wondering what to do next. He decided to go back to the Club Exotica and make further enquiries about the whereabouts of “Lily”.

Soho seemed distinctly less sinful in the late morning sunshine. Admittedly the pornshops and the sex cinemas were already open, and had a few devout customers, but their facades and illuminated signs had a faded, shamefaced aspect. The streets and pavements were busy with people with jobs to do: dustmen collecting garbage, messengers on scooters delivering parcels, suited executives with briefcases, and young men pushing wheeled racks of ladies’ dresses. There were wholesome smells in the air, of vegetables, fresh bread and coffee. At a newsagents, Persse bought a copy of the Guardian and the Times Literaty Supplement. “LONDON LITERATI ADRIFT” said a headline on the front page of the former. “RUDYARD PARKINSON ON THE ENGLISH SCHOOL OF CRITICISM” announced the cover of the latter.

By retracing the route he had taken with Ronald Frobisher the night before, Persse found the Club Exotica—only it wasn’t the Club Exotica any more. That name, in tubular glass script, lay discarded on the pavement, trailing flex. Over the door two workmen were erecting another, larger sign, “PUSSYVILLE”.

“What happened to the Exotica?” Persse asked them. One looked down at him and shrugged. The other, without looking, said, “Changed its name, dinnit?”

“Under new management?”

“I should fink so. The gaffer’s inside now.”

Persse descended the stairs and pushed through the quilted swing doors at the bottom. Inside, unshaded bulbs hanging from the ceiling cast a bleak light on stained carpet and shabby furniture. A vacuum cleaner whined among the tables. In the middle of the floor, a man in a striped suit was inspecting a young woman who was wearing only briefs and high-heeled shoes. The man carried a clipboard in his hand, and circled the girl in the manner of a used-car dealer scrutinizing a possible purchase for signs of rust. Along one wall other girls lolled in negliges, evidently awaiting the same appraisal.

“Yes?” said the man, catching sight of Persse. “Have you brought the new lights?”

“No,” said Persse, modestly averting his eyes from the half-naked young woman. “I’m looking for a girl called Lily.”

“Anybody here called Lily?” said the man.

After a moment’s silence, a girl stood up at the end of the row. “I’m Lily,” she said, with one hand on her hip, shooting a languorous glance at Persse from beneath a frizzy blonde hairdo.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you,” stammered Persse.

“You were never Lily,” said the girl next to the blonde, tugging her back into her seat. “You just fancy ‘im.” Laughter rippled along the row of seats.

“She used to perform here,” said Persse, “when it was the Club Exotica.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t the Club Exotica any more. It’s Pussyville, and I have to find twelve topless waitresses by Monday, so if you don’t mind.

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