Wednesday, August 29, 2012

LETTERS FROM HELLSING LV

"I'm not autistic you know."  Said Zelig.

"Hmm?"  I said adjusting the pound notes more comfortably in my bra.

"I'm not autistic."

"Never said you were Bertie."

"Well I'm not."

"OK."

He frowned and popped his jaw, folding his arms tightly behind his back.  We walked a few more paces towards the main house before he cocked his head back towards me and said.  "And the Asperger's has never been formally diagnosed."

The penny dropped.  "Ah Bertie, that's not why I'm reading the book."

"Humph."  He huffed.  "Stupid poinger learns a few languages and does a few math tricks and suddenly he's some celebrity expert on synaesthesia."

"Well he does have it."  I ventured.  "That kind of makes him an expert."

"He's not!  He's a performing monkey just this side of an idiot savant.'

"Now your just being mean Bertie.  He's overcome a lot."

"Humph."

"Now Bertie."

"My synaesthesia is far and away more interesting than his."  He grumped.  "And I'm much better looking."

"Of course you are Bertie."

"I just don't see why they couldn't write a book about me."

"Well, for starters, there's the fact that you have warrants out in five countries."

"Six,  I'd use a fake name."

"And the dust jacket photo?"

"Moustache,  I look quite sexy with a moustache."

"OK,"  I said.  Warming up to the subject.  "How 'bout this; Much as your book would be good, your art is even better..."

"It is quite steller."

"...So, I would think that you would rather people marvel at your artistic genius than be fascinated by your synesthesia."

"True, true."  He said, tilting his head thoughtfully.  "Still, the book would be bloody fantastic. Seems a pity to deny the world." 

"I know."  I said.  "You could keep a journal to write your memoires and publish them posthumously.  Then, people could say, 'Wow, is that really how his mind worked?  This explains so much.  He truly was a...'"

"Genius?"  He offered.

"Absolutely."  I agreed.

He stopped walking a moment and turned towards me.  "Say...your pretty good at this."

"Good at what Bertie?"  I asked.

"Handling me."  He grinned taking my arm.  "I like being handled, makes me feel important."

I gaped at him at a loss for words.

He laughed and tugged my arm to get me going again.  "It's a complement, really.  In fact when I'm  a ridiculously famous artist, you can be part of my entourage."

"Oh I can, can I?"

"Mmmmhmmm,  you can be the one who tells me what I need to hear  instead of  what I want to hear.  You know, to keep me grounded and such.  And, you can bake the brownies."

"A Herculean task indeed. but  Isn't that sergeant Marks' job?"

"What?  No, he makes terrible brownies."

"Bertie!"

"Oh, the 'grounding' thing.  No, he just hits me on the head and tells me to stop being an idiot.  I like your methods better."

"Hmm.  Well thank you, I think."

He nodded regaly.

"Speaking of 'grounding'," I said in  my most tactful manner.  "Haven't you told me on several occasions that most artists who are popular during their lifetimes are doomed to become talentless hacks, if they aren't already, due to the overwhelming pressure to remain commercially viable?"

"True, true."  He said.

 "So, then, why would you want to be famous?"

"Oh, I don't want to be famous."  He said soberly.

"But."

"I simply won't be given the choice."  He cocked his head.  "It's just that my art is so obviously sublime, that even something as dense as an art critic can spot its brilliance."

"Obviously sublime?"

"Hush now."  He said, wagging a finger at me.  "Genius speaking." 

"Of course, of course.  Please do continue."

"As I was saying...what was I saying?"

"Sublime art critics."

"Yes, yes."  He said.  "As I was saying, my art is so obviously sublime that even an art critic can recognize its brilliance so its just a matter of time before I'm 'discovered' and you know what that means don't  you?"
 
"Ummm."

"Exactly!  Gallery showings."  He shuddered.  "And you know what that leads to."

"White wine and pretentious hors d'oeuvre s?"

"Worse,"  He said gravely.  "commissions."

"I see."  I said sagely.  "No, sorry.  I don't get it."

"Corrine,"  He huffed.  "commissions mean money."

"Ah."  I said. Understanding dawning.

"Yes,"  He said glumly.  "Lots and lots of money."

"You do love money."  I said.

"I do.  I really do."  He said ruefully.  "There are just so many lovely things you can buy with money."

"True."  I said.  "And then there's the attention and adoration."

"I know!"  He wailed.  "I love being told how great I am.  I just love it!  And the more commissions and money I get the more people will love me."  He reached over to pluck at my sleeve.  "So you see why you have to be part of my entourage."

"No, not really."

He huffed, exasperated.  "So you can tell me who adores me for my art and good looks and who just likes my art cause it popular.  You know like the the slave who stood behind the Roman general in the chariot holding the laurel wreath.

"Whispering 'You are but a mortal man'?"

"Yes!"  He said excitedly.  "Only more modern and appropriate."

"So.... Poke you with a stick and tell you to get over yourself."

"I was thinking more like kissing me on the cheek and reminding me that art is more important than money."

"I can see why you wouldn't want St. Marks to do that."

"Cause of the kissing?"

"No, because saying anything was more important than money might just kill him."

He laughed and squeezed my hand.  "That's what the Sarge said!  He said he'd rather just hit me and say 'shut up and take the money!'.  So I decided he's going to be my agent and now that you're on board..."

"Now wait a minute Bertie I haven't agreed to this."

"But I decided."

"I do have a life you know."

He snorted, amused.

"Well I do."  I said mildly annoyed.

"But it's a boring one."

"Bertram DeGaul Zelig, you take that back!"

"But you told me so just last week."  He said confused.

"I did not!...Well maybe I did but that doesn't mean I meant....Oh, why do you take things so literally Bertie?"

He frowned puzzled.  He tapped his fingertips gently together a few times thoughtfully then brightened. "Is this about the asking thing?  Stewart says girls like to be asked first."

 I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.

"Well, if it means that much to you,"  He said  twining his arm around mine.  "I'll ask.  But we both already know your going to do it."

"Oh I am, am I?"

"Of course,"  He said smugly.  "I'm irresistible."

"The word you want is incorrigible."  I said, trying to sound stern but fighting back a smile.

"Of course."  He said dismissively.  "Most true geniuses are." He must have read my smile for acquiescence because he squeezed my  hand and looked up at me with a broad grin.  "Oh Rin we're going to have so much fun."

"Rin?"

"It's your groupie name."

"I think not.  Besides, I thought you didn't want to be famous."

 "Oh I don't."  He said.  "I'll be tourtured and miserable the whole time but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try to enjoy ourselves now is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"No."  He said patting my arm patiently.  "You should always try to find some joy in life Rin, no matter how miserable the circumstances."

I could not fault his philosophy, however flawed his logic.

"Besides,"  He said interrupting my thoughts.  "We'll be so busy planning my death, that I'll have little time to be miserable."

"What the What now?"

"My death."  He said excitedly.  "We have to start planning it right away so it will be just perfect."

"Bertie."  I said warningly.

"No, you see you've inspired me.  All along I've been resigned to having to be rich and famous for the rest of my life and quit the Geese and not blow things up any more, which would really be a shame cause a proper explosion is really just a practical application of performance art,  hmmm... performance art"  He mused.  "Perhaps I could still blow things up from time to time."  He whistled a couple of bars of music experimentally then shook himself back to reality.  "Anyway I'd still be miserable but then you suggested the whole posthumous memoires thing and I thought, hey! perhaps being famous wouldn't be all that bad if it included a gruesome yet stunningly spectacular, tragically premature death."  He wrapped his arms gleefully about himself bouncing on the balls of his feet.  "Oh yes."  He sighed.  Then, eyes gleaming,  he began whistling softly again.

"No Bertie!"  I shouted "Stop it. Stop talking like that right now!"

"But your my death muse."  He said with a little smile.  "Hmm, death muse..I'll have to paint you like that."

I growled and grabbed his shoulders.  Shaking him until his teeth rattled.  "Dammit Bertie! your not this crazy so stop it right now."   He fixed me with a baleful glare for interrupting his express crazy train thoughts of death but I was un-cowed  "There will be no more talk about killing yourself do you hear me?"  I commanded starting to feel the edge of panic.  How could he talk so calmly about orchestrating his own death?  How could I stop him?  "I'll tell Sergeant Marks Bertie"  I said grasping at straws.  "If you kill yourself Bertie I will cry for you but I will never forgive you and so help me God if you don't swear to me by your mother, Zidane and all that is holy to stop right now and never even consider suicide again, not one cookie, blondie or brownie I bake will ever pass your lips again!  Do you hear me?"

That got him.  "Now you listen to me Corrine."  He said angrily, bowing out his chest.

"Not one crumb."  I said, glaring right back.

His expression moved from angry to hurt then puzzled.   He cocked his head and said, "Did you just swear at me Corrine?"

A small strangled sound was all I could manage.

"You did,"  He said.  "I heard it.  But why would you..."  He stopped, comprehension dawning on his face.  "Why Corrine, you didn't think I was planning to actually off myself did you?"  He grinned with delight.  "Oh, bless you silly girl, you did!"  He chuckled.  "My, my, what ever gave you that  idea?"

I gurgled and clutched his shoulders tighter resisting the urge to throttle him.

"I mean really Corrine, suicide, me?  No, that's for poncey brooding poets and pathetic, anorexic actresses.  I'm far too brilliant a visionary to kill myself.  Besides,"  He said tugging experimentally on the fingers which were slowly ensorcoling his neck.  "everyone knows that narcissists rarely commit suicide."

 He flashed me a charming smile then sobered.  He reached a hand out and, eyes round, placed a finger on my cheek.  "You really would cry for me wouldn't you?"  He whispered voice tinged with awe.

"Oh Bertie"  I sighed, dropping my hand to my side.  "What am I to do with you?"

"Well...,"  He said craftily.  "You could start by baking me some walnut brownies."

I lunged. 

He laughed and skipped deftly back away from my clutching fingers.

"Tsk, Corrine."  He said wagging a finger at me.  "If your going to successfully attack people, you'll have to learn not to telegraph.  I mean it wasn't so bad for a first  try but that twitching eye's a dead give away."  Arms akimbo, he tilted his head.  "Don't worry Corrine,"  He said with a wink. "I'm an extremely annoying person so you're sure to get plenty of practice."

I snorted not wanting to laugh.

He bounced forward and clasped my hands in his.  "Oh Corrine."  He said with a beautific smile on his face.  "For the first time since I realized I was going to be forced to become rich and famous I'm not so depressed because now I can write my book and fake my death  then get back to making real art and blowing things up and gardening."

"Ah, um, good?"  I said tenativly.

"Yes!" He said swinging our arms wide.  "Cause now I have my own death muse in my entourage.  This is going to be the best fake death ever!"

"I am not your death muse Bertie!  I shouted.  "I refuse to be your death muse."

But he, of course, ignored me.  He had that inspired look in his eye and was already off on another tangent.  "Hmmm, 'death muse'.  I had planned on painting you as Demeter in the mural because Sarge said he'd kill me if I even suggested painting you naked.  Pity but makes sense you being a lady and all but now I think you will be the 10th muse.  Well have to come up with a Greek name for you of course.  εμπνευσμένη θανάτου?  No, too complicated.  Funny someone so sweet being a death muse but that just adds to the irony and what's art without irony.   Oh so much to do.  I'm going to have to make more sketches and.... are you coming Corrine?  Mustn't dawdle, I've got a lot to do and you'll be late for tea."  He said as he dissappeared into the main house.  Oddly enough, it wasn't so much the fact that Zelig seemed to say all that in one breath that impressed me so, it was that he was also managed to whistle Vivaldi's 'Spring' under his breath at the same time. 


Griffin was right.  Unless you're prepared to use violence, arguing with Zelig is both exhusting and pointless.  I smiled, shook my head and followed him through the door.