Chapter Four
Prior to the drinks in Voot’s office, I should mention, Mifkin had wandered past Gangakanta, who nodded his head while passing down the corridor. Mifkin, under his breath, cursed the fellow for his calm demeanour and, he suspected, asceticism. A man who appeared to have conquered his desires and thus suffered no guilt was, as far as Mifkin was concerned, untrustworthy, and therefore his enemy.
To a vision of Gangakanta’s torture, Mifkin threw open the door to the office, only to find Voot sat behind his (Voot’s/Mifkin’s) desk. Mifkin stopped—for what else could he do? continue walking straight into the furniture? why, in such a contest of brute expression of material solidity, the furniture, all satinwood and walnut, would undoubtedly prevail, and Mifkin would be left hurt and humiliated! stupid idea, Reader, it pains me to tell you—appalled and embarrassed, for, during Voot’s incarceration in his room, by order of Pluck, it had been Mifkin who had reigned in his stead. Now, in the aftermath of Pluck’s annihilation, Voot had been reinstalled as manager of the hotel, and Mifkin was left. . .once again, a slave.
Voot looked up from whatever mindless paperwork he had before him and asked, with the appearance of kindness, his monocle ablaze with reflected lamplight, “Can I help you with something, Mifkin?”
Mifkin, having instantaneously relearnt his place, at once bowed, and apologised for having failed to knock.
“Think nothing of it,” smiled Voot, with all the appurtenances of civility, but, to Mifkin’s ear, none of its spirit. “I hope you don’t mind my having resumed my duties?”
“Of course not, Herr Manager,” Mifkin mumbled. “I beg your pardon.” And he withdrew, vowing revenge (inwardly, that is).
Voot nodded, and returned to his work, which was not what you or I would ordinarily call work, but was, in this case, a rough sketch he’d been making in a space at the bottom of a bill of his younger self sodomising a whore in Trieste—as best he could remember it, at any rate, with only a few formal modifications for aesthetics’ sake, such as a slight reduction in the protuberance of his belly and the erasure of some of her more unsightly blemishes. However, to give credit where credit is due, we must admit that the region incorporating the explicit fusion of his penis with her anus was spot-on, and could be thought of as representative of the same loving act from the very first post-simian, instinctive fumbling of early man and woman, through to the incestuous sibling romancing of medieval royals, and up to the hauntingly disgraceful pornography of our present day. In this—and only this—did Voot touch eternity.
I will plummet into obsolescence soon enough, he thought, although not exactly in those terms. So if given the chance to forestall it, then, by God, I will. This hotel was his life, you see (your loyal narrator speaking again, now), and by retaining a hold on it with a sphincter-like rigidity, that forestalment might, he reasoned—no, he felt, with a cunning and unerring instinct—be achieved. In this manner, the hotel would remain in competent hands, order would be preserved and his life’s purpose would subsist; as for the feigned respect from his underlings he chose to ignore, and the offensive condescension from guests he unflinchingly suffered, well, to Hell with it.
His mind set at rest, he nodded, pulled open the upper drawer of his desk, unbuttoned his trousers, withdrew his penis, laid the poor, spineless, unloved thing over the rampart, and prepared to shove closed the drawer with all his might. If he had been interrupted at this moment, I can tell you, and queried, reasonably, as to the purpose of this imminent procedure, he would have been lost to explain it in terms corresponding to traditional notions of sense. In fact—to drop a bit from the plane of the theoretical to that of the quotidian—Poor Larry, at this moment, as if by coincidence, knocked and peremptorily entered, saw, even from the distance of the door and from his low angle, what threatened to transpire, and proceeded to ask his superior, almost exactly as we’d predicted, albeit in his own idiomatic manner, bless him: “Sir—what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Voot’s answer carried with it a (wholly intended) tone of finality. He stuffed his penis back into his trousers, closed the drawer, and, observing the unyielding curiosity on the boy’s face, blatantly lied: “If you must know, I had just finished ejaculating into this drawer.”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”
“Not at all.”
“Will you need it to be cleaned, sir?”
“What—the drawer?”
“Or your penis, if you wish, sir.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I could send for Modeste—”
“No, thank you, Larry. That will be all.”
Larry, a naturally thoughtful young man (I might as well come right out and tell you, fearing that it might not have been adequately conveyed through the course of the narrative itself), pondered the situation for a moment—then for another—before finally asking of Voot, “Is there a tiny woman in the drawer, sir?”
“No, Larry.”
It was with some relief that Larry exhaled an audible “Phew!”, following it up with: “Are we infested with rats again, then?”
“Not at all.”
“Then. . .a fairy?”
“No, Larry. No, I was indulging in what you might call ‘onanism’.”
“Sir?”
“Know ye your Bible, lad?”
“Only the New Testament, sir. I’ve always found the Old somewhat over my head.”
“I see. Yes, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it, at that? Well—you might know the deed by its more secular name of ‘masturbation’.”
“Sir?”
“You haven’t heard of that either?”
“Of what, sir?”
“Masturbation?”
Poor Larry searched his scanty lexicon and had to admit that he had not.
“‘Frigging’?” asked Voot. “‘Tossing off’? ‘Fetching mettle’? ‘Devil’s delight’? ‘Self-abuse’?”
Larry shook his head, once, twice, thrice, and, er, a fourth time. Then a fifth.
Voot nodded, leant back in his chair, and laced his fingers on his desk in preparation for a lesson. “These terms refer to the manipulation of one’s genitals by oneself for one’s own erotic pleasure,” he lectured.
“I’m afraid I still don’t follow, sir.”
Voot nodded. “I’ll put it into terms you can understand, my good man: ‘Pulling up and down on your penis till you ejaculate’.”
“. . .” Larry seemed to have nothing to say.
Voot nodded, once again. “I think we understand each other now, my good fellow, do we not?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. I. . .”
“Yes? What is it?”
“. . .I hadn’t known such a thing could be done.”
(The reader being implored to recall that Larry was no small child but, rather, in his late teens; consequently, the reader being reminded to consider the differences in sexual understanding from era to era.)
“Well. . .it can. I assure you.”
“I. . .I do not mean to offend you, sir.”
“I assure you you do not.”
“It’s just that. . .” Here Larry looked first to his shoes, then up, resolvedly, to Voot, the first inklings of moral superiority aglint in his eye. “I dare say I shall never attempt such a feat.”
Voot shrugged, coolly. “That’s your prerogative.”
“Yes. And, I dare say, I was a happier man, those few moments ago, when I still believed I persisted in a world in which the possibility remained of there being fairies hiding in desk drawers content to convey anonymous pleasure on the male member.”
“Well, there is that, too, you know.”
Larry had begun to turn around to the door, but, upon hearing this, stumbled. “There is?”
“Of course. Those fairies do exist—they’re called, um, armarii succubi, and they only perform for those pure enough never to touch their own genitalia.”
“Their own what?”
“Penises.”
“Even for making pee pee?”
“I think that’s allowed, actually.”
Larry shook his head. “I shall not do even that—just to be sure.”
“Then I think you’ll do just fine, my lad.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” Larry bowed and went out. Voot, for his part, had gone off the idea of severing his member, so decided to look out the window and daydream instead.