Memoirs of Many in One by Patrick White & Sophie Cunningham

Author:Patrick White & Sophie Cunningham
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2019-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

Notes

tagari: carry-all

kouros: youth

skala: port

horta: herbs, weeds

ambelourgikós: vine-grower

Meera: Fate

derro: Aust. sl. for derelict

Burlington Bertie: popular music-hall song sung by Australian-born transvestite star, Ella Shields, in London and New York

Fred: Astaire

St Kilda: Melbourne suburb

trahaná: soup made from dried ewes’ milk

galatoboúriko: pudding made from milk, semolina and honey

nounoú: sl. wet-nurse

Editor’s Remarks

As her preparations for the tour grew more intensive, Alex locked herself in her room. At first she refused food, but finally allowed Hilda to bring snacks to her door: salami, pickled cucumbers, pastourmá, yoghurt, and potato salad. The recluse would slam the door and re-lock it. When the time came round for the next meal, dirty dishes would be standing on the mat outside – a rare Bokhara saddle-bag somewhat smeared with mayonnaise.

Sometimes through a crack in the opened door Hilda would ask how the actress was progressing with her studies.

‘Oh, fine, fine! They’ll lap up my Cleopatra. Many great names have barged up the Nile but nobody has understood that Egyptian whore-slut. All those Anglo-Saxon ladies – pooh! In red wigs – or American accents. I am Cleopatra. I know. I have the smell of Egyptian women in my nostrils. I can hear their laughter – the clang of brass above running water. No eau de Nil – dirty water – bilharzia – the lot! You know what the key to Cleopatra is? She hung on to her clitoris. You should appreciate my Cleo, Hilda. She’s real.’

It was never clear to anybody when the tour was expected to begin. There were references to rehearsals in a corrugated iron shed in the suburbs. As time went by and tension increased, Hilda asked, ‘When will you be leaving us, Mother?’

‘Soon, soon! The exact date hasn’t been decided, the schedule is still being worked out.’

‘Have you a contract?’

‘Their word is their bond. It’s the Arts Council.’

‘I hope everything will be alright.’

‘Oh, you needn’t worry. One day you’ll find I’ve gone. Gary will have fetched me – in the van.’

‘Gary?’

‘The director-manager. Could be Barry. Or even Craig. Wayne? There seem to be several Waynes around.’

‘If I only knew the date, I’d pack a basket – a few little comforts for the road.’

‘Comforts? Austerity is the keynote of our project.’

She shut the door as tight as she could.

Speaking from the other side, she continued, ‘I’ll keep Patrick posted on our progress. Patrick understands the demands of art, though he’s never exactly come good himself. Patrick is too piss-elegant by half.’

From then on, the door remained shut between us. Had the genius removed herself? There were faint sounds. A scratching of mice. Once or twice a mewing as from one of the Empress Alexandra’s cats. There were smells – of cheese, of Nescafé, and a spirit lamp.

I was away in Europe much of this time, but Hilda remitted letters from Ms Gray which amounted to a journal of the actress’s progress through the outback.

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