Jungle Rock Blues, page 37
Now he saw that the Colonel had a plan too. These holes, this room ... all at once he saw that something had been removed from this place. Definitely, he was sure of it – something big was being built here.
“... and so I will send my special assistant to Graceland ...”
“No way,” said Caliban. “None of your people at Grace-land.”
“... for meetings ...”
“Not at Graceland.”
“D’you want to go back to the jungle, son? It could be arranged.”
And now there was a silence.
The Colonel’s eyes had gone to the high windows again and as Caliban looked up he understood that here a lofty machine was being built that would take the Colonel on to some kind of final immortality. Yes, he sensed it now. It was a pity that the pills prevented final clarity but now that he had made these connections Caliban had a great sense of wellbeing. He gazed around and realised that he was finished here.
“You want to see everything,” said the Colonel softly. “And you pretend you don’t care about it, but I know better: you also want to be seen. You want fame, Caliban. To be known by men, that is what you came here for. So: I am building you a stage as high as the Empire State and from up there you’ll become a legend that is never forgotten as long as there are men on the planet.”
Caliban’s eyes toured the room. Now there was a familiar smell – he thought that if he shut his eyes he would remember something. He tried it, but the pills got in the way. But it was there, something big and old, he was certain of it now – when he slept a picture of it would come.
He gave a heartfelt sigh, which made the couch groan.
The Colonel, urgent now, as keen as Caliban had ever seen him, leaned in and said, “I am building you a cage in the sky, Caliban. And in the cage there will be a weta.”
“All the wetas are dead.”
“Not all. Not every single one. And before the eyes of the world I will put you in that cage. Caliban versus the Weta, it will be like the Colosseum, like something from the Bible – like a movie but it’s real, and televised live right round the world. It will be your greatest performance. You’re going to have to go into training, son.” He eyed Caliban, then said harshly, “You need something to fight for. Something to give you a reason. I’m having songs written for the soundtrack, I am putting together the kind of deal that means that history will never forget our names. It’s a new vision. And then you will see: we’ll all be happy again.” He gave his widest smile, and said softly, in the clear blue light of that great room, “You know that I love you, Caliban.”
“Hey, baby,” was all that Caliban said.
When the Colonel offered him a dotted line, Caliban didn’t hesitate. Signing, he knew that this was the final thing that was needed.
The bait for the catfish.
Together Caliban and the Colonel passed back through the scenery house and the Colonel warmly bid him goodbye. Caliban told the guys, told Skip, that in back of his house the Colonel had a palace, just like Graceland – a replica in every detail. And for many years this was what everyone understood to be the truth.
According to Vernon Presley’s calculations, during the year of 1975 Caliban Presley purchased eighty-three automobiles. Caliban bought guns, jewelry, horses, at least six houses. There was only one rule about these gifts – he insisted on leaving Graceland to make the purchase. The guys would say, “Boss, we’ll bring it up – the jewelry guy does house calls.” But when the mood to spend came upon him, nobody wanted to interfere. This was payday, the guy was on the way out, it was time to be thinking about the future.
Finally he bought an aircraft. It was the era of the Learjet, all the stars had one, and he had decided. He found a dealer, tracked down a Lockheed JetStar that was in hock through a credit default, and ordered that it be made over in the Caliban style, pink and black, and solid gold. “Where does he think he’s going?” the guys asked. But he was into cash at this time, he kept demanding it from Vernon, and when the mood took him, handing out fistfuls of the stuff – it kept everyone quiet.
Then one night he disappeared.
This was in 1976, a year before his death. The Colonel ordered an investigation, the guys were spoken to personally: “How did this happen?” Well, he said he wanted to be alone with – what was her name this month? Kathy? – and had ordered them not to follow. A car had been parked across the drive, with its rotor arm removed. How the fuck did he know about rotor arms? Oh, yeah, the Army – and by the time they got after him he had escaped. This Kathy drove him to the plane, he dumped her and had himself flown to Denver. He used the plane phone to order thirty-six Famous Old Pigs and have them delivered. An hour later they arrived, wrapped in foil. A Pig was a long sandwich, filled with strips of fried bacon and slabs of barbecue pork and dripping – the kind of thing a death row killer from the black swamps might order for his last meal. Caliban ate three, right there on the tarmac. He settled back in his Commander’s Chair and watched the Denver channels on one of his TVs. The picture was somewhat on the fritz, due to signal crush at the airport, but this wasn’t the point. He read a little, slept. His pilot kept coming back to see if he was okay but Caliban only insisted that he join him in a Pig – and that there be no radio communication with Graceland. His stewardess, Nancy-Ann, watched from the servants’ quarters, somewhat alarmed, but Caliban was entirely at ease and in the end she accepted that he didn’t want anything, that he wasn’t suffering, and that they should all just await his pleasure.
In all he was away nine hours.
Afterwards he was conspicuously well-behaved and the incident was forgotten. His Vegas show that season was laughable, but the returns were astronomical and everyone was relieved that, for another year, they could keep the lumbering, monstrous Caliban contraption on the road. He even made a little tour, of the cities that were close enough for him to fly home from each night. Good grosses, said the Colonel – not even hotels to pay for. But the catfish was lying deep. Without warning he was gone again and this time it was for five days.
It’s now known that he flew to Switzerland. And, since he knew that the Colonel would eventually screw it out of the pilot, Caliban told them as much. He was consulting a specialist, he said, about his weight. Which specialist? That’s my business. But we have to check this guy out, said Skip, he might be dangerous, he might be a crank – he might be after your money. Why go to Switzerland, boss, we have doctors right here? That’s my business.
He was at this point a frustrating man to discipline, as there didn’t seem to be anything he wanted – nothing you could take away. The Colonel ordered that the jet be sold but found that he couldn’t swing this – and when he fired the pilot Caliban just doubled his salary and reinstated him. Vernon tried to pretend that money was short but discovered that Caliban had learned the words fraud and lawyer and this angle too was soon dropped. The Colonel spoke harshly to Caliban about the upcoming bout with the weta – but in fact no date had been set. The truth was, Caliban was simply too blubbery and to stage that battle now would be to promote a murder. The Colonel fumed – an uncommon thing.
Now Caliban put in a call to Eve Kersting and shortly afterwards she arrived at Graceland to interview him. Again the Colonel tried to intervene but again he was frustrated. Caliban said firmly that she had never published a bad word about him, that he trusted her, that she had enough material for the quality book on him that would counter this rubbish that recently was being published. Negotiations on these matters took place in the kitchen at Graceland, where the Colonel would pace, just as Mrs Presley had once done, his hard-edged voice bouncing off the gleaming whiteware. The cooks and assembled Presley relatives would hang, well within earshot, and make noises, oooh, aaah, when a particularly heavy blow was struck. “Get them out of here!” the Colonel would thunder.
“Colonel,” said Caliban, “it’s my house, they live here. Mary, I would like more cheeseburgers, please.” And so the cook would tell the Colonel to move over, and the heat would rise. Skip would catch the Colonel’s eye and take him into the lobby for a whispered conference. Caliban would go on eating. He was a real heavyweight now, puffy and pale. It seemed that he had no control over his appetite. But the catfish was lying deep. He heard out warnings from the Colonel that any activity which prevented the fulfilment of contracts would produce legal action, and simply nodded. He called for another round of fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches.
So Eve came and was alone with him for three days in his room.
Eve Kersting has been dead now for a good twenty years. She left no papers, no journals or records that indicate in any way her role in Caliban’s life during the 1970s. Neither of her novels*, even read in hindsight, hint at the efforts she made on his behalf. She cleaned up as scrupulously as a spy. Her seventies passport is missing. So are any minor papers – phone bills, parking tickets – from that time, anything that might record her connection to him. In fact there was no need for her to go to these lengths, because in fact suspicion never fell on her. Eve was the kind of person skilled at making herself seem insignificant. She was one of those who wanted most to understand – and she knew the best place to watch from was in the background. She never sold Caliban out. From the first, she looked and saw clearly. By the time of his death she was more or less the only person of his acquaintance that he trusted.
Monstrously overweight, green of skin, lumbering, bloated, he shambled his way through what was to be his last engagement at Las Vegas in January of 1977. The reviews were better, strangely. Even the reporters saw that they were witnessing something terrible, something tragic and also maybe heroic. They had had their fun with him; now at last the sight of him on his knees seemed to bring out human feeling. Terrifying Performance From Entertainment Colossus. The most honest sweat money ever bought ... If He Falls, Look Out Below. The Colonel, never slow to see an angle, understood that he was now selling a life-and-death scene. He talked frankly of “the end” and how this might be the last chance to see him. The fans willed Caliban to carry on. Up on the stage he grinned, gave his fat ass a wiggle – they cheered – then stood, gripping the mike stand, swaying, openly figuring what he should do next. Sometimes he would talk, rambling over the hillsides of his youth, evoking the gorillas, painting pictures – this seemed easier for him now than singing, which plainly produced emotions he found hard to manage. Something like Bridge Over Troubled Water became a kind of psychodrama, with Caliban insisting he would be your guide at the same time as he made it clear he had no idea of where to go.
But he did have an idea. On August 16th, 1977 he again flew the coop. Once again his pilot was instructed not to make a call home – not to call anybody except air traffic control, and then only when it was strictly necessary.
They flew to Zurich. This was established within two days, as Caliban and Eve had figured it would be. Not that Eve was with him, or anyone. Caliban spoke kindly to his stewardess Nancy-Ann, listened to her account of her sister’s recent wedding, as she was soon telling reporters, with real interest. Upon landing he told the pilot to be on stand-by, he would only be a few hours. He left the plane with no luggage, nothing except a large coat, which Nancy-Ann saw him pulling over his shoulders as he descended to the tarmac. As he went in to the terminal she saw that he had put on a dark felt hat and sunglasses.
Investigation proved that he didn’t avail himself of the VIP facilities. It seemed that he had queued quietly and passed, unremarked, through passport control and customs. Then he vanished from the radar screen.
The last photographs of Caliban Presley are the ones so beloved by the tabloids, from his final stage appearance, where his sideburns cannot cover his chipmunk cheeks, where his towel can hardly find a neck to go round. Sweat-streaked, white-faced, puffy, shuddering, immense and dazed in the spotlight. A monument to brainless excess: this we are told is how we must see him.
Every life must yield its tabloid of message.
But I can’t leave it at that – we are near the end now, and I can’t let him leave that way. I am going to give you another picture and in it if you must have one is the message that his life delivers. This photograph is from 1971 and at first glance it’s just one among millions.
But I want to go inside it.
It’s a black-and-white, glossy. In the photograph you can see that his hair is a bit longer at the back. He’s wearing a dark suit in which he looks restrained, even if a golden scarf is bursting out at his throat. Yes, somehow he’s brushed and combed, not just his hair but his limbs. Somehow he’s stiff. That’s it: finally he has acquired the stiffness that we humans have to fight in the moments before we are to perform. There’s something in his hand.
This as I said is in 1971 and Caliban is about to go on stage. He’s about to perform. He’s in Memphis, at the Tulane Memorial Centre, and there’s an adoring hometown crowd. But he’s not going to sing.
In 1971 Caliban was included by the President in his list of The Ten Most Outstanding Young Men of the Year – the mayor of Memphis is about to award him the key to the city. The order of the day says, first the mayor speaks, then the key is given. Handshake, photographs. Then Caliban speaks.
In his hand is a piece of paper with words on it. But that is just a prop. He’s not going to read. By now he can read, and, after a fashion, he can also write. He can make the marks. But writing isn’t only the making of the marks. It’s not about knowing enough words. What is it about? It’s about having a sense of culture – the human culture. It’s about knowing what has previously been said, and done, and been – about what humans have been – and what they are being. That’s it: it’s about knowing what humans have been and are being, knowing that and what you are to that.
And so I want now to go inside his head.
He’s in his room at Graceland. There’s a mirror, a dressing table. He’s alone. On and off he’s in there – his head’s in there – for six weeks. Writing. They bring him meals, and sometimes he goes out to play. No one really knows what he’s doing. They bring him girls.
But this time he doesn’t get the girls to help. He doesn’t talk to Eve about this, either, although he sometimes asks her strange questions.
Inside his head he is trying to do what June said, to put his life down in a sequence that makes sense. But you should never have a mirror before you when you write. It took him weeks to understand this.
And then the photograph starts to move. He steps up on stage, waves to everyone. Flashes the famous grin. The mayor speaks. Well, I won’t bore you, the mayor’s speech has been the same for the last hundred years. Caliban accepts the key, which is as long as his forearm – a cubit for a king. Then he turns and there’s the microphone. So what should he do with the key? He fumbles, nobody likes a fumbler, then finally, rather awkwardly, puts it on the floor. That’s not a good place for such an important, such a symbolic thing, he can feel this, but what should he do, give it back to the mayor? So he leaves it. Straightens up. Has he ever been so stiff? Now he realises that he has also left his bit of paper on the floor. But he knows what he’s going to say.
I want to go inside his head.
The years are not crossable. But I am what he became, I am the son of him, of the impulse that was him. And yet I’m so much older than he was then, than he ever was, I look back and when I go inside him I am feeling fatherly, as though I am proud of him and anxious and fascinated all at the same time. We study our children for the ways of us that to our astonishment are becoming new ways inside them.
“Hello,” he says, and they all roar. He looks down and sees their faces. He doesn’t try to smile – he’s nervous. He was never nervous. But they are with him. “Hello,” he says again, and this time no one shouts, You already said that, though he waits as though expecting it. “I am Caliban. I am from New Zealand. I was raised in the wild by the gorillas. I never had met another human being until the year 1954.” As he speaks he is looking down at all the humans. They are looking into him, into the feelings inside him. They are reaching – they want what he is feeling. “I came to America to learn the ways of the world.”
Now everyone roars, they drum their feet and he knows he should grin. But then he would say, Hey, baby! and the moment would be gone. So, although it is painful, he stands with his head bowed, and waits. There is something disappointing in the way he makes the roar die away, and he feels that, he hates to disappoint them. How has it turned out that everyone is dependent on him? Maybe the yell? But to give the yell, now, would only be a version of Hey, baby.
On the floor is his bit of paper and he could reach down for it. But he knows what it says. But what it says isn’t right, now. So he looks up, until he is looking just above their faces. What’s back there? Nothing that he is looking at.
It’s as though he’s underwater – as though he’s trying to go upstream against a current, by pulling himself forward. It’s as though there are stones, the words are stones, and he has to gasp each stone and, against a strong current, pull himself forward to the next one. Yes, his lungs are bursting but he must keep control. “I came here,” he says carefully, “to see. To see what I would be. Everybody was kind,” he said, and now he did smile, but it wasn’t the grin. They were with him, urging him on. “Everyone I met showed me one little thing. So I am saying thank you for that.” He sensed that he had gone through a passage of easy words and that if he kept going easy he would lose the way. Frowning down, he made himself wait. Everyone waited. “And I have learned.”
Now he did lift his head and grin, and took their applause. Why not? But he held his hand up. “But what I have learned is that I still want to know: what will I be? And that is what everybody wants.” His lungs were bursting but he could see the surface now. Yes, he was going to make it. “It is what my body wants. It wants it all the time. If it stops wanting it then my body will die. I thought I would come to America and then I would be here. And I am here. But always in my body there will be: what am I becoming?” He frowned down harder, then looked up and included them in. “What are everybody becoming?”
