Barbers & Booze

Someone from the British consulate popped by, an earnest youngster in wire-rimmed glasses and a snug suit. He carried with him an air of foreboding and some papers. The apartment, on the top floor of an old building in the west seventies, had an unreliable elevator. Rough stucco covered the walls and amber bulbs glowed in the wrought iron light fixtures that lined the hall. They reminded Malcolm of a medieval castle every time he flicked on the lights. No one climbed the stairs this far unless they had serious business with Malcolm, which was rare. There was the odd FEDEX package and food deliveries of course, which he kept forgetting to cancel.

“Mr. Hollinghurst, you really must complete these forms, it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Oh yes, quite so, young man, quite so,” he replied, taking the papers and edging the junior diplomat ever so gently toward the door, all the while trying to shield him from a view of the apartment’s interior.

There were three Blue Apron boxes stacked in the corner of the living room, unopened. The long defunct ingredients for a Middle Eastern vegetarian stew oozed from one of them. A buzzing of tiny flies divebombed the pile like miniature Luftwaffe fighter planes in the Battle of Britain. Periodically, they would all disappear, only to return later in the day, full of life. They had gone off somewhere, perhaps Denmark, to refuel was Malcolm’s theory. In their absence Malcolm missed them. They were company, not intellectually stimulating, mind you, but cheerful and busy, despite the Nazi overtones. A fold-up hospital bed and stacks of sketch pads on a table occupied the opposite corner.

But the young man—Cecil—was not to be deterred. He had it all, Malcolm thought, the razor-sharp hair that glistened in the dim light. The razor-sharp jawline, the fine grained beard, the flat stomach, the ripe and rippling buttocks. Malcom dared not get too close for fear of cutting himself on something.

“Mr. Hollinghurst, the consulate has tried contacting you several times

by text and email but there has been no response. Your US work visa will expire at the end of this month, if you don’t renew you’ll lose your job and be deported.” Cecil recited this unfortunate scenario in a flat monotone bordering on sing song. He had an odd way of rolling his lips when he spoke, as if his mouth contained extra teeth that got in the way. Aside from the eyes glazed over by what Malcolm assumed was an excess of internet connectivity and social media saturation, it was his only flaw. For the grand finale, he exposed a glowing tablet and pointed it at Malcolm’s face. Bold italic paragraphs spelled out his future in no uncertain terms. The final sentence, in blood red type, said it all: The US State Department will institute deportation proceedings against you within 30 days.

“Quite so, young man, quite so,” Malcolm repeated smiling. “So sorry I can’t invite you in.” Slowly he closed the door in the boy’s near perfect face, waited for the click of the lock and wandered slowly into the bedroom, depositing the precious papers in the wastebasket.

***

In contrast to the unfortunate mess in the living room, Malcolm’s bedroom was neat, almost spartan. There was a small plaid overnight bag on the bed. His passport and wallet were on the dresser next to a small black marble urn in the shape of Bastet, the Egyptian cat goddess.

For the first time in a week Malcolm opened his bedroom window and peered into the setting sun; a sliver of Central Park West spooled out block after glorious block. It was late summer and the lights were just coming on. The traffic had become a burnished band of yellow gold light against the dark green of the park, all courtesy of rent control and Malcolm’s refusal to move even once during his thirty years in the city. He thought again of the boy from the consulate and smiled. His dire warning reminded Malcolm of a crone swooping in on a black cloud with a death decree clutched in her bony claw. “An old witch with flawless skin and a manicure,” Malcolm said out loud.

Earlier in the week, Malcolm had given some thought to cleaning the apartment and eating better, but all that was beside the point now. What he wanted was a haircut, the old fashioned kind in a proper barber’s chair with Bay Rhum and a shoulder and neck massage afterward. “Your hair is your best feature,’ his mother often said to him when he was a boy. Now the color had faded from glossy black to thunderstorm gray. Nevertheless, Malcolm liked the way it complemented his British accent and the old brown cable knit sweater he wore winter and summer. All together it made him feel like a university don; Oxford, perhaps, or Cambridge.

***

In his twenty-two years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Malcolm had cycled through Modern and Contemporary, the American Wing, and Ancient Near Eastern. But if you asked him, he would have told you that his favorite was Egyptian. “Not just because it’s beautiful, which it is, but it was all functional—eating utensils, storage jars, tomb paintings; they all served a practical purpose.” Everybody called it the Met, but not Malcolm. Ask him about Fragment of a Queen’s Face and he would

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tell you that it was carved from yellow jasper in the 18 Dynasty during the reign of Akhenatan. And its accession number was 26.7.1396.

Malcolm had collected a treasury of obscure facts about the museum that he would share whenever the mood struck him, which was quite often. “Did you know,” he would say after pointing a pair of Westchester matrons in the direction of the gift shop, “that we have a resident florist? Oh yes. Once a week, he creates five 10-foothigh floral masterpieces for the Great Hall. Don’t miss them, they’re quite spectacular”. He could rattle off the movies where the museum was a featured player and trot out the smallest artifact in the collection: a 1.1-inch cylinder from ancient Mesopotamia used to stamp impressions in clay. Or the oldest: an Iranian storage jar created nearly 4,000 years before the birth of Christ. Visitors seemed to love it, especially little kids. It was like getting your own special tour.

Back in the spring, Malcolm spent a couple of months doing research for a new museum publication on Medieval stained glass housed at the Cloisters. It was to feature highlights from the collection; a greatest hits album without the music was how he described it. In April, he was deep into ‘The Virgin Mary and Five Standing Saints.’ Lunch was usually a sandwich in the gardens overlooking the river. The Treasury room held a small collection of illuminated manuscripts that had nothing to do with the book but interested Malcolm. He would see Anthony there two or three times a week sketching. Odd, Malcolm thought, for a kid like that to be fixated

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on 14 Century French art. His favorite seemed to be ‘The Feeding of the Leprous Monk,’ by Jean Pucelle. Most boys that age raced through the collections making as much noise as possible before they ran out into the gardens which they assumed were available for throwing around a frisbee and trampling the flowers. Malcolm soon set them straight and sometimes even convinced them to go back inside for a second look.

“There’s a much larger collection at the Morgan Library downtown,” Malcolm said to Anthony one afternoon when his research had slowed to a crawl, “although ours is of exceptional quality.”

“Been there,” Anthony replied without looking up from his sketch pad. “I like yours better.” Malcolm took a proprietary pleasure in all things related to the museum, so he was delighted that Anthony, whose name he did not yet know, would, in his boyish way, assign him ownership of the 500-year-old masterpieces.

“‘The Leprous Monk’ is an interesting choice,” Malcom said. “Do you know the history?”

“I know enough,” he said. “Some French King went around touching sick people; if they got well he took credit, if they didn’t he blamed God. Rumor has it the whole thing was just a scam, like how politicians used to go around kissing babies or saying what they think people wanted to hear just to get them on their side. Looks good, sounds good, doesn’t mean shit.”

“I’m sure that there are a few Medieval scholars who would disagree with you, but from where I stand? Spot on!”

“Anthony, my name’s Anthony,” the boy said, looking up at Malcolm for the first time.

A small group of tourists drifted into the Treasury enveloped in a hum of conversation. “Seems as though politics hasn’t changed much in the last five centuries, has it, Anthony?” Malcolm said before scurrying back to his office, but the boy was already reabsorbed in the ailing monk.

The following Tuesday Anthony was in the Treasury room again. As he flipped open his sketchpad, Malcolm noticed that the boy’s hands shook. He held out a pamphlet,

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‘French Illuminated manuscripts of the 14 century’. “Check it out,” Malcolm said. “You might find something in there you can use.”

“Sorry, I don’t need any help,” the boy said, barely looking at the cover. “I can beat this on my own.”

“Beat what?” Malcom asked, but the boy was silent.

“No worries, there’s no obligation, not even to say thank you. I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind.”

***

“Lovely to see you again Mr. H., it’s been awhile, please come right in.” Ronnie, whose muttonchop whiskers were oiled to a golden glow, had a special talent for making customers feel at home. He closed the heavy carved oak door and shot the bolt. Malcolm handed Ronnie a small wooden box. “The Egyptian pieces you

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requested, all 18 Dynasty, all deaccessioned. Like the others, the museum felt they were expendable,” Malcolm said with a quiver in his voice, “so nothing will be missed until the winter auction. This is the last of it Ronnie.” Ronnie nodded and placed the box behind the bar. He handed Malcolm a thick envelope in return.

Given the potentially lethal mix of alcohol and sharp instruments, it was kind of a miracle that Barbers & Booze existed anywhere, let alone in New York City. Regulations had been circumvented, laws had undoubtedly been bent if not broken. Money had almost certainly exchanged hands. But the name pulled them in and Ronnie had a steady stream of customers passing through his old-fashioned doorway for a first-class haircut and something from the bar.

“What’s your pleasure?” Ronnie asked, adjusting his plaid vest. “The usual?” Later, as Malcolm reclined in an old leather and chrome chair with a steaming towel wrapped around his face, Ronnie brought him a gin and tonic from the mahogany bar. “I think we’re about done, Mr. H,” Ronnie said as he removed the towel, sending up wisps of steam. “What say you?” The barber asked holding up a mirror.

“Considering what you had to work with? Fantastic. As always, I’m in awe of your talent Ronnie, you’ve made me look almost human.”

Malcolm paid the bill in pounds sterling as was the custom and Ronnie, whose face shone a little brighter for the compliments, led him out into the street.

***

Anthony was skinny with hair the color of straw or wheat, something in the grain family, Malcolm thought, and he was often sniffling. The boy always looked both tired and driven and his fingers were perpetually dusted with charcoal from the sketching. If nothing else, Malcolm knew potential when he saw it and the boy’s work had life. It was confident, sensitive, beautiful even. He would sketch the same subject dozens of times, each one a bit different. Something about him scrunched up on a bench like that, in his oversized hoodie and banged up hi-tops, moved Malcolm in a way he couldn’t describe; but he liked the feeling. For so many years Malcolm had thought only about the care and feeding of Malcolm. Not that he was selfish, really, just that he assumed no one else would be interested. For the first time in a long time he said to himself, ‘I’ve got nothing to lose.”

And then aloud to Anthony one day around noon: “I’m just stepping out for lunch; would you like to join me? There’s an excellent food cart nearby, my treat.” They sat on a bench overlooking the river, their hotdogs covered in sauerkraut and brown mustard. Anthony looked a bit cold and Malcolm wanted to give him his coat, but he resisted the urge.

“I love this spot,” Malcolm said, “isn’t the view magnificent?” “Whaaat?” Anthony responded. “It's New Jersey.” He looked at Malcolm as if he was not quite right in the head. “You want magnificent, try someplace else.”

“Where do you have in mind?” Malcolm asked.

“I don’t know. The Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, a garbage dump. Anyplace but New Jersey for Christ’s sake.”

“What have you got against New Jersey?” Malcolm asked, “It’s a perfectly decent place from what I hear.”

“OK, let me stop you right there,” Anthony interrupted. “New Jersey sucks. The best thing about it is the Turnpike. Know why?”

“Let me just think about that a moment,” Malcom paused to wipe a bit of mustard from his cheek before answering. “Because the next thing you know you’re in New York City and you don’t have to listen to that terribly annoying accent.”

“You got it almost right,” Anthony said. “Because it gets you the hell out of there and you don’t have to see anybody you’re related to ever again. Not your mother or her slimy boyfriend. Not your miserable brother. Nobody. The Hudson River is as good as electrified barbed wire as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well, I have to say, you’ve given me a whole new perspective on—it’s the Garden State isn’t it? At least that’s what is says on the license plate.”

“Yeah right, the Garden State,” Anthony replied, shivering. Malcolm took off his coat and wrapped it gently around Anthony’s shoulders. He eyed the palisades on the other side of the river and the George Washington Bridge in the distance.

“Would you care for another hotdog?” He finally said, breaking the silence. “They really are quite good, aren’t they?”

***

A pale yellow moon streaked with clouds was coming up as Malcolm entered the park at West 81st Street. Skirting the Turtle Pond and the Gothic Romanesque fantasy of Belvedere Castle, he walked slowly with a bit of a hunch. Lovers, drunks, and youngsters on skate boards drifted past him in the dark as he came out onto Fifth Avenue just south of the museum. Walking north, he was soon standing in front of the rescued Egyptian temple. That fabulous piece of antiquity, trapped under glass like a preserved insect, owed its coveted spot at the museum to a family of art patrons whose wealth ran into the billions. “The Met doesn’t seem to care where the money comes from,” he had told Anthony once he knew the truth, “as long as they get their slice.” And neither did Malcolm, until he did.

Malcolm walked back to the massive Fifth Avenue entrance and climbed the stairs. He pulled out his employee ID badge and dropped it on the top step. Next to it he placed an amber prescription bottle with a white twist off top. Inside there were still a few round green pills with the number 80 imprinted on one side and OC on the other. It was time to go back home.