On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (10 page)

After a moment's pause the door clunked quietly to itself and then swung open with a self-satisfied sigh. Stood before her was a tall, slim, elegant, red-faced gentleman, dressed in English tweeds and wearing a fine waxed moustache and a somewhat apologetic expression.

“I am so sorry, Miss Palmer. So sorry for my lateness,” he wheezed, clearly still catching his breath.

“Such tardiness is unforgivable. And on today of all days.”

He beckoned her to come inside. She stepped through the door into what seemed to be the exact same nothing of the previous room, if room is even the right word for an undefined space filled with nothing.

“This way Miss Palmer. Please follow me . . . follow me. Just along here . . . this way.” He seemed to be urgently hurrying her along, and though she dutifully followed she was beginning to have second thoughts. “Come along now, we're already running late. . .” At this she stopped.

“Late for what? . . . And what is all this anyway? . . . Where am I? . . . Where are we going? . . . At least that is what she thought she said. What actually came out was somewhat more garbled and shot through with expletives. But either way, the moustachioed gentleman was entirely unfazed.

“No time for questions, Miss Palmer. Not now. They'll be plenty later. Just come along please.” Although this entire situation was more than a little peculiar, it struck her as particularly odd that every now and again he would stop, look searchingly left and right into the absent cavern of nothing, and then purposefully turn one direction or another and stride forward, checking his watch and muttering to himself before calling back to hurry her on.

“Nearly there now,” he said, turning again, this time to the right, and glancing at his watch. A hundred or so yards later he stopped.

“Et voila!” He gestured smugly towards . . .

“A ladder! You've got to be fucking kidding me!”

“I kid you not, Miss Palmer. After all, when has getting somewhere important ever been easy? Please follow me . . . and don't get too far behind, we're already late.” And before she could say another word he was disappearing up the ladder, calling back from time to time to hurry her along.

She must have climbed a good hundred yards or so when the ladder abruptly came to an end. Abruptly, as there was no indication of its impending conclusion - it seemed to be propped up against nothing at all. It wasn't until she reached the very top that she realised that it was in fact leaning against what can only be described as a hole in the side of the nothing, or rather a tunnel, shaped something like a gothic arch and with brightly painted external baroque finishings. She peered hesitantly inside only to hear
her moustachioed companion calling her along into the dark and surprisingly damp interior. It was barely tall enough to crouch in, so she had to go on all fours. The walls seemed to be made of bricks, old crumbling bricks at that, and were lined with a good century worth of slime and moss and... well, she didn't even want to know what that was.

She must have been in the tunnel for a few minutes when a dim light began to glow somewhere in the distance, marking, or so she hoped, the other end.
Is this my bright light?
she thought, slightly mocking herself.
My loved ones waiting to greet me at the end of some damp fucking hole!
“Wait-up!” she called into the dim but ever-brightening distance, and made what effort she could to speed her progress.

At the other end the passage seemed to contract somewhat before opening out into an obviously bigger and brighter space. As she clambered through she realised she was climbing up out of the rather grand fireplace of what can only be described as a Queen Anne drawing room, fully bedecked with richly textured fabrics and tassels, still lifes on the wall. She collapsed on a surprisingly comfortable armchair to get her breath back.

“We really must hurry along you know, we're late as it is,” said the moustachioed gentleman tapping at his watch before opening the French windows to reveal a most unexpected view: they were looking out at the most unimaginably enormous furniture warehouse, filled to the very top with a towering chaos of chairs stacked upon tables stacked upon desks, upon wardrobes, upon barrels, upon chests upon... were those coffins?

“You gotta be kidding me!” At the top right-hand corner from their perspective she could see door with the word EXIT writ large in chalk above. “We gotta climb up there?”

“It'll be a piece of cake, Miss Palmer, with cherries on top, if you catch my drift. Just follow along closely. I know the way.” And with that he was gone. Amanda remained seated. A few moments later his head reappeared around the open door, his eyebrows raised. She paused for dramatic purpose.

“You know, I think I might just sit here for a minute. I'm guessing you can't make me move, or you wouldn't be bothering with all that polite cajoling.”

“Come now, Miss Palmer, that won't do, really won't do at all . . .”

“Well I'm not budging, not until you answer some questions.” She leant forward, and gesticulated. “I mean, what the hell is this. Is this Hell!? It's a fucking furniture warehouse. That's what it is! Is Hell a fucking furniture warehouse? Is that what you're telling me?”

“More of a dispatch depot really.”

“Ok, so it's a fucking dispatch depot. What the fuck am I doing here? And why the fuck do I have to climb the fucking thing!? And... and... what the fucking hell is going on?!” She felt surprisingly refreshed after that little rant.

“Please, do calm down my dear.”

“Don't you fucking patronise me.”

“Sincere apologies, Miss Palmer. I understand that this might seem somewhat perplexing. We are indeed moving via unconventional routes. But this is an unconventional circumstance. There is no precedent, no accommodations made for such a happening. It truly is most irregular, so please do come along, we really don't want to make things any worse.” And with that he was gone again.

“Worse for who?” She said this to herself as she didn't really want an answer. Reluctantly she stood up and moved to the doorway to address the situation of the climb.

“But why furniture?” she called after him.

“Everyone needs furniture. Quite a sound investment I would say.”

The ascent proved far easier than she had imagined, like being a small child again, climbing Furniture Castle on moving-in day. And as she reached the top, a good 200 feet up, she surprised herself by yelling aloud “BoooooHa!” If she didn't know better she might have mistaken that for a shout of glee. Truth be told, and
slime aside, she was beginning to quite enjoy this little run-around, although when she noticed the moustachioed gentleman looking at her through the doorway she quickly changed her expression to one of mere tolerance.

“This way please.” he said, gesturing inside with the smallest hint of a knowing smile. And he was gone again.

“So what's next?” she thought, this time ready for anything. As she passed through the doorway into what seemed to be a Boston back alley, complete with its associated stink of rotting food and piss, she couldn't help but mouth the words “curiouser and curiouser.”

“It is indeed a shame that we have to arrive by the stage door—we had such an entrance planned for you . . . dancing girls, magicians, acrobats, midgets . . . the whole damn works. But then under the circumstances . . . well, it just doesn't seem quite appropriate now . . .”

They reached the stage door, clearly defined as such by the elderly security guard, and the flickering sign above saying
Stage Door
in pink and green neon. As he opened the door the guard acknowledged them with a polite “Good evening Sir, Ma'am.”

Inside, the main corridor was lined with a veritable menagerie of circus performers, burlesque girls and street entertainers, the majority in a not inconsiderable state of undress. Midgets in blue spandex hotpants abounded, many stood upon each others' shoulders in small groups. There were dancing girls galore, dressed (or becoming dressed) entirely in feathers of innumerable different but equally bright colours. There were clowns of every shape, size and demeanour; magicians in top hat and tails with enormous handle-bar moustaches; a plethora of stilt-walkers, each strumming quietly to themselves upon a ukulele, mouthing the words of some inaudible song, whilst stooping somewhat so as to avoid banging their heads on the ceiling. As they slowly elbowed their way through the general hubbub and melee of bodies they occasionally passed an open dressing room door, each revealing a more surprising scene than the last. A gathering of great philosophers, at
least men in false beards and wigs dressed as great philosophers: she recognised Socrates, Schopenhauer, Blake, and Newton, but who was that young man in a tuxedo? Perhaps Wittgenstein? The next open door revealed a girl in a dress made entirely from pages of
Moby Dick
– she wasn't sure how she knew it was
Moby Dick
, but of that fact she was certain. At the girl's feet was an elderly gentleman, on his knees, attempting to look up her skirt with his hand-held spectacles whilst she danced about in a mildly provocative manner. A few doors later opened onto a blazing row taking place between a dandy-highwayman and a lady grandfather clock. And so it went on, corridor after corridor, turning after turning until they came to some stairs.

Just as they were about to ascend, a rounded and slightly oafish gentleman, in a superbly huge top hat and bright red tailcoat (presumably a circus ringmaster of sorts) came bustling down the stairs, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd whilst shouting through a megaphone “More delays, more delays . . . please remain in place and await further instruction . . . more delays, more delays . . .” nearly deafening Amanda as he passed. At this her moustachioed friend immediately seized the moment, diving headlong into the wake of the oversized gentleman calling out “Make way for Miss Palmer . . . make way for Miss Palmer . . .” whilst dragging Amanda behind him by the hand. This seemed to work as they were on the stairs in no time, though she did notice many accusatory glances cast in her direction. As they made their way up the stairs the crowd thinned considerably until by the third flight there was only one solitary midget-acrobat carefully applying gold makeup to his legs and torso. He looked up at them as they passed:

“You better be good. He's in a foul mood today,” he said before returning his attention to the gilding of his nipple.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Amanda asked with some urgency as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Oh, nothing for you to be concerned about Miss Palmer. Internal politics, nothing more. Come along now. We're nearly there.”

They were by now stood at the top of the stairs, before a set of rich red velvet curtains that hid a large double swing door.

“What's the show anyways?”

“It's a musical drama loosely based upon Dante's
Inferno
. Such a shame . . . you would have loved it . . . great set pieces . . . Paul McCartney dragging behind him for all eternity the great weight of every unnecessary sentimental refrain that ever flowed from his pen... and a grinning Kurt Cobain who giggles when you tickle him... it was such fun...”

“Wait a minute, McCartney's not dead,”

“Indeed he isn't. And yet the depth of sentimentality must weigh heavy on his shoulders every day...”

His face was partially lit by a sign that stated
Quiet Please
above the curtain door, and as he spoke Amanda noticed that something was, well, slipping a little.

“Is that even real?”

“What do you mean Miss Palmer?”

“That moustache. Is it real? It seems to have . . . moved.”

“Why it is absolutely real. A 100% genuine finest handmade moustache by Dinsley & Sons, theatrical suppliers to Her Majesty the Queen. I assure you it is the envy of many here today.”

“What does the Queen need false moustaches for?”

“Some questions are best left un-asked Miss Palmer. This way please . . . after you . . .” and he parted the curtain and opened the door, gesturing for her to go through first.

She was momentarily perplexed by this moustache situation – why would someone wear a false moustache in the afterlife? - and thus paid little attention to where they were going. That is until the applause began, which caught her so much by surprise that she swung round violently, almost losing her footing, just in time to see the lights go on. They were walking across a stage. The spotlights were on them, or rather her, and, judging by the sound, it was a full house. The crowd was uproarious at the sight of her, but she didn't know what she was expected to do. Of course, crowds didn't scare her, she fully retained her self-possession and was
about to do her notionally-patented-punk-curtsy when she felt the falsely-moustachioed man's hand gently taking her wrist.

“Come along now, Miss Palmer, we're nearly there. Let's not get distracted . . . And mind how you tread.”

The applause slowly petered out as the audience began to realise this was not the start of the show, and, before she could regain her composure, they were off the stage and heading down another corridor. They came to a large mahogany door, stoically ornamented with a small brass plaque clearly stating
Theatre Manager
.

“Et voila. We are here. And this, I am afraid, is where I must leave you, Miss Palmer. I do hope you enjoyed the little journey . . . Just knock and enter. You are expected.” He turned to leave. Before she could think of anything to say he added “Don't let him bully you now . . . oh, and break a leg, so to speak.” And he was gone.

“So,” she thought, “what next . . .” and was just contemplating whether to go right ahead and knock, or perhaps take a minute to digest what was going on, feeling something like a naughty schoolgirl outside the headmaster's office, when a voice seemed to boom through the door: