Low life
A crying shame
Jeffrey Bernard
On Tuesday evening there was a terri- ble noise of sobbing from the basement flat. At first I thought that it must be the result of a lover's tiff but she went on and on for 15 minutes. It sounded as though somebody had torn her heart out of her chest. Eventually I went downstairs to see what was wrong, fully expecting to be told to mind my own business. She answered the door looking a dreadful mess with tears streaming down her face and I said, 'Please come upstairs and have a glass of brandy or something.' Over her shoulder I could see that her flat was a shambles. It transpired that she had just returned from a visit to Japan to discover that she had been burg- led, cleaned out, for the fourth time and, what was more, she had come home to go to the funeral of a loved one the following day.
After a while she calmed down and two old friends turned up so I went back upstairs to ponder the episode. The noise of her sobs had been a little unnerving and coming from a little distance which muffled them slightly there had been something almost ghostly about it all. I thought I was case-hardened when it came to the sounds of despair. At any rate I hope I have sobbed my last sob. Some years ago I stood in a field in a remote part of the country not just crying but baying and howling like a dog. It is hard to believe now. If anybody told me today that they were leaving me I think I would say, 'Well, in that case you'll be needing some sandwiches and a thermos of tea. If you hurry you'll be able to catch the 10.30.'
Anyway, I am wondering how she feels this morning. This was the first occasion on which we have come face to face. Hers is quite a nice one. It is odd that previously the only sounds I have heard emanating from her flat have either been of dreadful pop music or her climactic screams of ecstasy. I suppose that is why I assumed she was unhappy about a man. I too have been burgled, cleaned out — they even took my shirts — but I couldn't raise a teardrop.
While she was drying her eyes, it did cross my mind that she might like to come up here one day and do some screaming in my flat. It is awful to be able to have such thoughts at such a poignant moment. Of course, I could soon turn her screams into sobs. As it is I shall avoid her and hope that we don't even meet when we are putting out our rubbish for the dust-cart.
A pity in some ways because I need a good neighbour. I have been as sick a a dog for the past few days with flu and the only awful thing about living alone is to be ill with nobody about to make some tea, heat up some soup or do some shopping for you. I did have to venture forth yesterday to be interviewed by Channel 4 television on the subject of what I think about Mozart and I nearly fainted before going back to bed. Why ask me about Mozart? I am not a musicologist, I just love the man. It was a happy coincidence that just before the Channel 4 car arrived to take me to the studio — the Coach and Horses — that I should have received a lovely book in the post from Renate in Vienna who is still struggling with her PhD thesis on me. The book is Mozart in Vienna 1781-1791, by Volkmar Braunbehrens (Andre Deutsch). What a good woman Renate is and I hope there is no sobbing if she fails her PhD having chosen such an odd subject, or do I mean object?
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