Chapter 26- The Key to his Heart
This was a darkness darker than night. There were no stars, no constellations to follow. Someone had taken the north star between their fingers, and snuffed it out like a lamp. This was a darkness that was penetrating, that got into your bones. Wormed its way like black oozing tar into your heart, and in the dark, made you see things that were not there. This was the darkness that filled the smallest and most intimate part of Willy Wonka's soul.
Charlie was disorientated. The dark was such that he did not know left from right, whether he was standing on his head was standing on his head or on his heels. He kept seeing strange things unfolding in the corner of his eyes, monsters expanding like the spiral of starburst. Cold hands kept brushing his neck and shoulders like the softest of kisses.
"Mr Wonka?" he called, stumbling forward, his hands in front of him. "Mr Wonka, where are you?" The dark was so intense, so piercing, without a single shred of starlight that he began to fear that it has swallowed Wonka. "Mr Wonka!"
But then, quietly at first, louder as Charlie followed the sound like Ariadne's string, he heard someone singing.
"Tra la-la-la-la-lee/
I'm as happy as can be!"
The song was bouncing and lilting, yet so soft and sad it brought tears to Charlie's eyes. As Charlie drew closer to the song, his fingers reaching out for the familiar voice, it grew softer and sadder, dropping to a whisper.
"Tra la-la-la-la-lee/
Nobody could be as happy as me!"
Charlie's hands closed around something. Like a blind man, he felt it out; the contours of a jaw, the ridge of a nose, cheek bones, the sunken sockets of eyelids, the unexpected softness of lips.
A face.
When it came down to it, what a strange thing a face was.
He whispered, "Mr Wonka, is that you?"
His hands still cupped around his jaw, he felt the vibration of speech twang through Wonka, as he said, "Yeah, it's me."
The silence deep, ancient and terrible as the ocean. When Charlie spoke, he parted the Red Sea.
He asked, "Where's Willy?"
"Inside me," Wonka said. "Always was, actually. You can't just peel off the more unpleasant parts of yourself and stick labels on 'em. All this time, I was just kidding myself." Slow breathing, sounding in the dark like the crash of waves. "There were many things I forgot. Or made myself forget. Like a conscience, for one thing. But being a child again really beat that back into me. Literally." Wonka chuckled, and he vibrated under Charlie like a cello string. "They say best friends have the best fights, but having a fight with yourself really takes the biscuit, doesn't it?"
Silence. Silence so deep and powerful it threatened to erase their small existences. Charlie held onto Wonka, tightly.
He said, "Why are we sitting in the dark like this, Mr Wonka?"
"Because this is the scene I cut from my autobiography and it's supposed to represent my darkest hour. Very symbolic and snazzy, right?"
A long silence, and then Charlie said, "I'm very impressed, Mr Wonka, but I don't really think this is the time to show off."
"Too true, too true," said Wonka, immediately businesslike. "Right, let's get it over with then, shall we? Final act, folks. Take one. Rolling!"
When they clicked on, the stage lights were so bright Charlie was blinded. For a second, he couldn't even see. When his eyes adjusted, he saw that the stadium and the castle were gone. They were in Wonka's room, except the room was a set, with two walls, no ceiling, spotlights and cameras pointing at them from all directions. Wonka was sat on the bed, still singing his songs. But when Charlie looked back down at the man, he flinched away, horrified.
"Good idea," said Wonka seriously. "You'd get blood all over you."
Wonka, whistling, was cheerfully slitting his wrists.
"Will you still need me, will you still feed me/
When I'm sixty-four?" he sung.
It was the same knife from the museum in his hand, not that Charlie, aghast, would have noticed. Wonka was slitting his wrists, as cool and casual as you'd be slicing up vegetables.
"Mr Wonka!" Charlie cried. "What do you think you're doing?"
Wonka looked up and smiled.
"Oh, it's alright; this isn't actually happening now, my boy. Just a flashback. Have 'em all the time."
"What do you mean its not happening now?" Charlie said, his voice quaking. But not with fear; his whole body was shaking with anger. "Of course it's happening now. You're doing it!"
"Doodle-um doodle-dee
Pretty little lass in the morning
Won't you marry me?"
Then—"Don't worry you little cotton socks. We're just recording the events of three years ago for a live television audience, that's all." He stopping cutting himself for a minute to explain to Charlie; "Ya see, the audience has left on a cliff-hanger for twenty-six episodes as to why the Wonka character tried to kill himself. So, this lil piece of exposition here fills 'em in—"
"Mr Wonka, what are you talking about? You're not a character. This is real life. You're killing yourself—"
Calmly, continuing, speaking a little louder over Charlie, "So you see, it turns out Wonka had ended up losing touch with reality—"
"Mr Wonka, please—"
"You see this older scar, here?" A thin, ridged line, old and faded. "That was his first attempt. Shortly after his workers betrayed him and he threw them all our of the factory. He'd lost everything, you see. Even candy tasted awful—and well, ya know, when candy tastes bad you know its time to end it. But, thankfully for the viewers out there, he chickened out half way through. Remembered he hadn't finished working on the sour gum balls and marched off downstairs to the inventing room without even stopping to get a bandage and passed out half-way through the first batch. Lucky he fudged the job so badly. Decided he just needed a holiday. Management stress, y'know? Gets you down. So he dug a thousand leagues under the factory and found Loompa-Land. Found the Oompa-Loompas, rest is history. The end. Finito!"
A pause, and, "So then the viewers out there are asking, why did he attempt it again? With his Oompa-Loompa companions, surely he was happy? After being betrayed so many times, he'd still found the courage to let others in. Huzzah! Hurray!" He demonstrated this story with vigorous gestures. A talented storyteller, even with his own. Charlie stood, begging with his eyes for Wonka to stop, his lip trembling. "Except," said Wonka, slower now, as if horrified by his own tale, hands settling down into his lap, "he didn't. He didn't let anyone in. Instead, he isolated the Oompa-Loompas with him. Treated them as workers, not companions. When they got to close, rebuffed them. All too soon he was back where he started. Wouldn't even admit he was lonely. Was so gosh-darn stubborn he wouldn't even admit it to himself. Doris knew something was wrong; the crippling flash-backs were a teensy give-away. She arranged counselling but he wouldn't go. When she tired to help him he found her obnoxious, overbearing. When she pushed harder, he retreated into himself. Then, one day…" his brow furrowed, puzzled by something. "It was nothing in particular, actually. Started out like any other day. Was working on the super-stretch gum. You shudda seen it; at its full length you could stretch it from London to Cornwall! Didn't, uh, actually used to mind chewing gum then."
Now he was coming to the heart of his story, he seemed to forget, briefly, it wasn't someone else he was talking about. Briefly puzzled, he continued more strongly; "But even if he wouldn't admit what he felt, he still felt it, and about that time all his candy started going wrong. First the gum wasn't the right density; didn't stretch enough; stretched too far and filled up the whole factory and came out the chimneys. Coupla' batches came out as a yellowish goo. Couple more had to be disposed as biohazards and got rid of rather discreetly. Things got worse. Ya know, don't even ask me how but the silly bugger managed to stick himself to the ceiling with it. Stuff was thicker than industrial glue. Had a dozen Oompa-Loompa's up there with bolt clippers and blow torches, but it didn't touch the stuff. Had a close shave with the chain saw but we had to stop after Bob almost lobotomised me with it. Darn stuff ruined my swanky velvet hipsters and lace shirt with crushed cravat. And you know what gum is like. Once ya get it in your hair, it ain't coming out." Wonka touched his silky locks, cringing from his memory. Without even noticing, his 'he's' had become 'I's' now.
"It was awful," he said quietly. "They couldn't cut the stuff out, so they cut me out. Cut chunks out of my hair, sliced up my hipsters. Ruined my favourite day-glo moon boots." He put his head in his hands. For a minute, Charlie thought he was going to cry over the loss of his velvet hipsters, already forming the words, 'I'm sure they were very fabulous Mr Wonka, but it isn't the end of the world—' when he stopped, remembered that one of the hundred and one things Wonka hated, at the top of his list, was that anyone should see even a slice of his bare skin.
"Afterwards," his voice even softer now, no more than a whisper, "I went back to my room, but I kept having the most stupid ideas. Like, ear-wax flavoured gobstoppers, or candy worms that dig up your front garden, or edible eyelashes you can eat at the end of the night out. I mean, seriously, edible eyelashes? Who would come up with an idea as stupid as that? Ha!" But even the 'ha!' was soft and quiet, like a small, trembling animal. "But I couldn't stop thinking them, all these stupid idea. It seemed to me that I'd used all my good ideas, that all I had left were stupid ones. And then, I got another stupid idea." He ran his thumb down over the blade in his lap. "And like the other ideas, I couldn't stop thinking it. Nothing else mattered, not my factory, the Oompa-Loompas, nothing. A minute before it meant everything to me, but at that moment, it didn't seem worth a dime. And then, without thinking about it- but also having thought it through my whole life, never admitting it—I did it. Just like this—"
Wrapping his hand around the handle, whistling again, he went for the other wrist—
-When Charlie pitched forward like a baseball player, snatched the knife from him, and threw it, soaring, across the room.
"You idiot!" Charlie said. He was trembling, all over. Hot tears ran down his cheeks. "Idiot! Idiot! How could you do this to yourself? Don't you know what you're doing? Doing you know what I would do… if you… if you ever…"
His words, hot and shaking, fell off. What he felt for the man was too potent, too painful, to be contained in mere things such as words. Wonka sat, looking mildly stunned, to stare up at Charlie with wide clear eyes.
"My dear boy," he said, "I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But as I've explained, this isn't happening now. Also, you're in my shot."
He turned round on the bed and clapped his hands, like he was turning on a light. "Alright guys, take two!" When nothing happened, he clapped again, expecting a response he didn't get. The rules of his world were beginning to crumble. Grumbling, he got up to fetch the knife himself. But before he could, Charlie saw what he was doing and dived for it, holding it behind his back.
"Now Charlie," Wonka said, "you really are being unreasonable. You don't understand—" His hands out displaying his palms, like he was trying to put at ease a distressed animal, Wonka approached on Charlie. Charlie stepped back, bumping up against the table.
"No. You don't understand—what something like this does to the people who care about you—what it's doing."
Wonka was beginning to get irritated. "I won't say this again Charlie—"
He snatched at the boy's hand, but Charlie ducked underneath his arm. He scrambled over the bed and put it between them. They looked at one another from either side. A stand off.
"For marshmallow's sake," said Wonka. "Do we really need to do this all night? Take three!" But again, nothing happened. Confused; "I said, take three!" He stamped his foot; "Take three!"
He caught Charlie's eye, and quite suddenly, lunged for him across the bed. Charlie simply stepped back. When he tried to come at him from around the side, Charlie moved round and put it between them again. Wonka feinted one side and went the other, but Charlie, quietly, lips pressed together tightly, was watching him intently.
Quite abruptly, Wonka fell down on the bed. He put his head in his hands. "What I am I doing?" he asked, aggrieved. "You're right; this is stupid. Another stupid idea. What I am…?"
Charlie approached with caution. Just like they'd had a game of tag, he said, "Do you give up?"
Wonka nodded, repentant. Charlie came closer, to sit beside him.
But when Charlie was within his reach, he grabbed him and threw the boy down onto the bed. Winded, the springs shrieking, Charlie realised he was on his back. For a moment, the world seemed to pause. For a moment, he seemed to step back from reality, to become an observer. He saw himself with his arms pinned down by his head. Wonka leant over him with such long arms and legs he was like some kind of mantis, trying to pry the knife from his hand. Their faces close together, Wonka's teeth gritted tightly, his eyes were alight with a desperation that was akin to madness. It was so ludicrous that for a moment Charlie could only lie there, his eyes blank and stunned, watching.
Through his clenched teeth, Wonka said, "Charlie—don't- make this – so – difficult!"
Charlie felt Wonka scrabbling at his hand, trying to prise his fingers open, and his consciousness sprang back to him. He clenched his hand tighter, so tight his nails dug into his skin. He tried to twist out from underneath him, but the man's grip on his wrists was iron tight; he'd never realised he was so strong. And Charlie had never felt more helpless. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, willing it all to go away.
Surely, this was all just a bad dream.
Wonka had the knife half out of his hand, Charlie clinging on with the very ends of his fingertips. Wonka's face was victorious, wild, and mad. But- but—
His legs! They were free. He kicked out, catching Wonka in the chest. He toppled back. Charlie quickly shuffled to the backboard of the king-sized bed. The two of them faced one another, panting. It was hard to say who looked the more vulnerable.
Then Charlie made a decision. There was only one way he could make Wonka see sense. He rolled back the sleeve of his jumper and put the knife to his own wrist.
"Uh, Charlie—what do you think you're doing?" Wonka's voice he kept calm and controlled, but his eyes were wide and panicked.
"Don't worry. This isn't real," said Charlie, in his best imitation. "It's not happening now."
"Charlie," said Wonka. "Don't."
"I mean," still, the Wonka imitation, a little hysterical, "it's not like anyone's going to miss me when I'm gone!"
"Please, Charlie. Don't—" Pleading now.
"I mean, who would care about—" He prepared himself, grimacing. This was really going to hu—
Wonka's hand closed over his. "Charlie," he said, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Something warm dropped onto Charlie's hand. He looked up, startled. Wonka was crying. He cried in funny little hiccups, like laughter, and the tears pooled under his eyes and dripped off the end of his nose. "You're right. I've been—an idiot," he said, between hiccups. "Forgive me."
Leaning onto his knees, Charlie embraced him. "Of course," he said. Wonka clasped him back, embraced him so hard he squeezed the air from the boy's lungs. Charlie didn't care; he wanted him to hold him tighter.
"I'm sorry, my boy. I keep making the same mistakes, over and over. I never learn."
"It doesn't matter," said Charlie, his face buried in Wonka's shoulder.
"It does," said Wonka. "I've done some awful things Charlie. I don't think you're gonna be able to forgive me."
Charlie said again, quite firm, "It doesn't matter." To him, it really didn't. He had come to find Wonka and he had found him. All the things he had seen and wondered over were erased in the space of a single embrace.
Wonka began to grow agitated. "But it does! And I've got to tell ya." He forced himself to pull back from the boy, to untangle their fingers from where they laid together. He didn't want to, but he had to put some distance between them. Wonka was not a fair man, but he wanted to be fair to Charlie.
He slid off the end of the bed and crossed over to the chest-of-draws. Opening a draw, he pulled out the familiar, beautifully-embossed diary.
"I've seen that," said Charlie. "There's nothing in it."
Wonka put the diary on the chest-of draws and opened it. Inside, it had been hollowed out, the same trick used by sneaky inmates to smuggle in secret items. Inside the hollow lay a small, battered diary. The binding had come loose and it looked very fragile. Wonka put it into Charlie's hands. He examined it.
"It's locked," he said.
"Look in yer pocket."
Charlie fished around his his trouser pocket. Inside was a marble, paperclips, and, one tiny silver key. Tied to it was a label. It read;
To his heart
"But how come I have this?" said Charlie.
Wonka coughed. He seemed rather embarrassed. "Well, ya know what I'm like with losing things. I thought you'd take better care of it than me."
He strode across the room. "Go ahead and read it," he said, perching on a seat across from the bed. He crossed his legs and sat with his fingers pressed together in his lap.
The diary was no bigger than Charlie's palm. He unlocked it with a click, and opened it carefully. The pages, parchment, not paper, were as yellowed as yolk. He turned to the page entitled Chapter One and began to read in his head.
"Aloud," Wonka requested, adding gently, "Please." There was a strain in his perfectly composed voice as he said, "I have to hear it."
Charlie began to read.
"Once upon a time, there was a man who lived in a factory on the top of the hill, and he was very lonely." He looked up questioningly at Wonka, but the man was staring at his interlaced fingers. He continued; "He was a greatly respected chocolatier who had the power of magic at his fingertips, and yet, was deeply unhappy. This was because for most of his life, he had been alone. What he longed for most was a companion, someone who he could share his secrets with. Therefore one day he held a great competition, the winner of which would move in with him and become his apprentice. He chose a young boy who was both honest and good, and despite the cruel, cold world had kept his purity cupped like a candle in his hands. The man was happier than he had ever been, but too soon this happiness turned to pain. He had fallen in love with the boy; however, in the world they lived in this was taboo. He knew that the chance they had at happiness was very slim and instead carried his love like a hidden handkerchief tucked away in his pocket. But the boy also harboured feelings for his mentor. He was very young, and such large feelings were hard to keep contained in his small young heart. They filled him like a cup to the very brim and in the end, he must confess before he overflowed. Joyfully, they embraced. Together they decided this fragile love of theirs must be protected, kept very small and secret so that no one else could harm it.
"However, the man was not always a very nice man. He could be jealous and angry and cruel. The best part about him was the love he had for the boy, and he threatened to destroy it himself. He had buried his past with a spade in the back garden but had only grown flaws instead of flowers. He wanted to know every single inch of the boy he had fallen in love with, but refused to impart of his own secrets to him. He had not set his past to rest, only covered it over. Now, he was afraid of digging it up, because in truth, he was frightened of what might have taken root there.
"But then came the day when the sphere of destiny and the wheel of fortune reached alignment. The man's karma for his bad deeds had caught up with him. He hung between life and death, to face his actions and plead forgiveness for his crimes. Because he had... "
The book closed with a snap. Wonka broke out of his reverie to see Charlie sitting calmly, his hands folded over the diary.
He said, "Why did ya stop?"
Charlie said, "Don't you know? It's rude to read someone else's diary."
"But I'm giving you permission. Haven't you always wanted to know about my past?"
"Yes, but..." The boy slipped from the bed and came towards him. "I want you to tell me, in your own time. Not because you feel like you have to."
"But-"
Charlie put his finger to Wonka's lips. "But you can tell me, when you wake up." The boy had never acted so assertively before, and he knew it. He blushed a little, and slid into his mentor's lap.
"When I wake up?"
"When you wake up," said Charlie. He reached up, to cup Wonka's face in the curve of his palm.
"Then I'm dreaming?"
Someone, somewhere, had said those words before.
I'm glad I fell asleep here. If I didn't, I might have thought that last night was a dream. But it wasn't, was it?
Wonka wrapped his fingers round Charlie's hand. Skin against skin. How nice it felt, a feeling he'd almost forgotten, the warmth of another's hand.
He'd forgotten so much. Suddenly, it all rushed back to him. Loompa-land. The crystal heart. The hornswoggler. Everyone was waiting for him.
"Yes. And you need to wake up."
Shock, as cold as ice. Charlie had leant forward, and was kissing the scars on his wrist. He did it with an incredible tenderness, the slightest touch, like butterfly kisses. Lifted his lips, so that at last, like a spell, Willy Wonka woke with a kiss.
To be continued...