Fury Fury Fury

by Salman Rushdie

  So here it was again, but this time it was personal, and body language and voice skills might not suffice. This time there was a woman sleeping beside him in his bed. Eddie Ford had begun to walk slowly back and forth at the foot of the bed. “I know what’s in your head, man,” he said. “Big fuckin’ movie buff like you. Lincoln Plaza, et cetera, sure, sure. Knife in the Dark, you got it right off, second Pink Panther movie, featurin’ the lovely Elke Sommer, am I right.” The film had been called A Shot in the Dark, but Solanka decided not to correct Eddie for the moment. “Fuckin’ knife movies,” Eddie mused. “Mila liked Bruno Ganz in Knife in the Head, but for me it has to be the old classic, Polanski’s first feature, Knife in the Water. A man starts playin’ with a knife to impress his wife. She fancied that fuckin’ blond hitchhiker. That was a bad fuckin’ mistake, lady. That was grievous.”

  Neela was stirring, crying softly in her sleep, as she so often did. “Shh,” Solanka caressed her back. “It’s okay. Shh.” Eddie nodded sagely. “I expect she’ll be joinin’ us soon, man. I fuckin’ eagerly anticipate it.” Then he resumed his ruminations. “We often rank movies, Mila an’ me. Scary, scarier, scariest, like that. For her, it’s The Exorcist, man, soon to be re-released with previously unseen material, uh-huh, but I retort, no. You have to go all the way back to the classical period to my man Roman Polanski. Rosemary’s Baby, man. That’s the fuckin’ baby for me. Now, babies are somethin’ you’d know about, am I right, Professor? Babies sittin’ for instance on your fuckin’ lap day after fuckin’ day. You didn’t answer me, Professor. Allow me to rephrase. You’ve been foolin’ with what wasn’t yours to touch, and the way I see it the fuckin’ wrongdoer shall be punished. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Vengeance is Eddie’s, ain’t that so, Professor, wouldn’t you concede that as we face each other here, that is totally the fuckin’ reality of the case? As we face each other here, you defenseless with your lady there and me with this enormous murderin’ motherfucker of a blade in my hand waiting to cut off your balls, wouldn’t you fuckin’ accept that the Day of Judgment is fuckin’ nigh?”

  The movies were infantilizing their audience, Solanka thought, or perhaps the easily infantilizable were drawn to movies of a certain simplified kind. Perhaps daily life, its rush, its overloadedness, just numbed and anesthetized people and they went into the movies’ simpler worlds to remember how to feel. As a result, in the minds of many adults, the experience on offer in the movie theaters now felt more real than what was available in the world outside. For Eddie, his movie-hoodlum riffs possessed more authenticity than any more “natural” pattern of speech, even of threatening speech, at his disposal. In his mind’s eye he was Samuel L. Jackson, about to waste some punk. He was a man in a black suit, a man named after a color, slicing up a trussed-up victim to the tune of “Stuck in the Middle with You.” None of which meant that a knife was not a knife. Pain was still pain, death still came as the end, and there was unquestionably a crazy young man waving a knife at them in the dark. Neela was awake now, sitting up beside Solanka, pulling the sheet around her nakedness, just the way people did in the movies. “You know him?” she whispered. Eddie laughed. “Oh sure, pretty lady,” he cried. “We have time for a little Q-and-A. The professor and me, we’re colleagues.”

  “Eddie,” a disconcertingly scarlet-eyeballed, blue-haired Mila said reprovingly from the open doorway. “You stole my keys. He stole my keys,” she said, turning to Solanka in the bed. “Sorry about that. He has, like, strong feelings. I love that in a man. He in particular entertains strong feelings about you. Understandably enough. But the knife? Wrong, Eddie.” She turned back to her fiancé. “W-r-o-n-g. How are we supposed to get married if you end up behind bars?” Eddie looked crestfallen, and like a scolded schoolboy stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, diminishing in an instant from mad-dog killer to yelping pet. “Wait outside,” she ordered him, and he shambled dumbly off. “He’ll wait outside,” she said to Solanka, completely ignoring the other woman in the room. “We have to talk.”

  The other woman, however, was not accustomed to being erased from any scene of which she was a part. “What does she mean he stole her keys?” Neela demanded. “Why did she have your keys? What did he mean you’re colleagues? What does she mean, ‘understandably enough’? Why does she have to talk?”

  She has to talk, Professor Solanka answered silently, because she thinks I think she fucked her father, whereas in fact I know her father fucked her, this being an area of inquiry in which I have done much fieldwork of my own. He fucked her every day like a goat—like a man—and then he left her. And because she loved him as well as loathing him, she has looked ever since for cover versions, imitations of life. She is an expert in the ways of her age, this age of simulacra and counterfeits, in which you can find any pleasure known to woman or man rendered synthetic, made safe from disease or guilt—a lo-cal, lo-fi, brilliantly false version of the awkward world of real blood and guts. Phony experience that feels so good that you actually prefer it to the real thing. That was me: her fake.

  It was seventeen minutes past three in the morning. Mila, in a trenchcoat and boots, sat down on the edge of the bed. Malik Solanka groaned. Disaster always arrived when your defenses were at their lowest: blindsiding you, like love. “Tell her,” Mila said, at last allowing Neela to exist. “Explain why you gave me the keys to your little kingdom here. Explain about the cushion on your lap.” Mila had prepared carefully for this confrontation. She unbelted the trenchcoat and slipped it off, revealing, of all things, an absurdly short baby-doll nightie. This was an example of the use of clothing as a lethal weapon: wounded Mila was undressed to kill. “Go on, Papi,” she urged. “Tell her about us. Tell her about Mila in the afternoon.”

  “Please do,” Eleanor Masters Solanka added grimly, switching on the light as she came in, accompanied by that heavyset, grizzled, bespectacled, blinking Buddhist owl, his ex-buddy Morgen Franz. “I’m sure all of us would be fascinated to hear.” Oh fine, Malik thought. Seems there’s an open-door policy around here. Please, come on in, everybody, don’t mind me, make yourselves at home. Eleanor’s flowing chestnut hair was longer than ever; she wore a long black high-necked cashmere coat and her eyes blazed. She looked amazing for three A.M., Malik noted. He also observed that Morgen Franz was holding her hand; and that Neela was climbing out of his bed and coolly getting dressed. Her eyes, too, were on fire, and Mila’s, of course, were already bright red. Solanka closed his own eyes and lay back, putting a pillow over his face on account of the sudden glare in the room.

  Eleanor and Morgen had left Asmaan with his grandmother and flown in to JFK that afternoon. They had checked into a midtown hotel, intending to contact Solanka in the morning to acquaint him with the changed circumstances of their lives. (This, at least, Solanka had intuited in advance: or, rather, Asmaan had filled him in.) “Anyway, I couldn’t sleep,” Eleanor said to the pillow. “So I just thought, fuck it, I’d come and wake you up. I see, however, that you are already entertaining; which makes it a good deal easier to say what I came to say.” The softness was gone from her voice. Her fists were clenched, white-knuckled. She was fighting hard to keep her voice under control. Any moment now she would open her mouth and, instead of words, unleash a Fury’s deafening, world-destroying shriek.

  He should have known, Solanka thought, pulling the pillow down more firmly over his face. What chance did mortal man have against the devious malice of the gods? Here they were, the three Furies, the “good-tempered ones” themselves, in full possession of the physical bodies of the women to whom his life was most profoundly joined. Their external forms were all too familiar, but the fire pouring out of these metamorphosed creatures’ eyes proved that they were no longer the women he had known but rather vessels for the descent into the Upper West Side of the malevolent Divine…. “Oh, for goodness’ sake get out of bed,” Neela Mahendra snapped. “Get up right now, so that we can knock you down.”

  Professor Malik Solanka rose naked to hi
s feet under the flaming eyes of the women he had loved. The fury that had once possessed him was now theirs; and Morgen Franz was caught up in its force field, Morgen, who had so little to be proud of in his own behavior, except that he too had learned what it was to be the servant of love. Morgen, to whom Eleanor had granted the gift of her wounded self and the stewardship of her son. Crackling with the energy flowing into him from the Furies, he moved toward the naked man like a puppet on lightning strings and swung his nonviolent arm. Solanka dropped, like a tear.

  17

  Three weeks later he stepped out of a long-haul Airbus at Blefuscu International Aerodrome, into a hot but balmily breezy Southern Hemisphere spring day. A complex bouquet of odors filled his nostrils—hibiscus, oleander, jacaranda, perspiration, excrement, motor oil. Now the great folly of his actions hit him, even harder than the blow from his wife’s pacifist lover, the haymaker, the pacifisticuff that had put him out for the count on his own bedroom floor. What did he think he was doing, a respectable and now extremely wealthy man of fifty-five, chasing halfway around the world after a woman who had literally left him flat? Worse still, why did it agitate him so that the revolutionaries here, Filbistanis, FRM, Fremen—why couldn’t they make up their minds what they were called?—had taken on the identities of his fictions, like firefighters or workers at nuclear power plants donning protective clothing against the dangers of their work? Puppet King costumes may have become a feature of what was going on in these parts, but that didn’t make any of it his responsibility. “You are not a party to these events,” Professor Solanka rebuked himself for the umpteenth time, and himself replied, “Oh yeah? Then why is that hairless flag-waver Babur hanging out with my girl, wearing a molded-latex mask of my face?”

  The mask of “Zameen of Rijk” had been modeled after Neela Mahendra, that was obvious, but in the case of “Akasz Kronos,” it seemed to Solanka, the opposite was true: as time passed, he had come to resemble his creation more and more. The long silver hair, the eyes made mad by loss. (He’d always had the mouth.) A strange piece of mask theater was being played out on this remote island stage, and Professor Malik Solanka had been unable to shake off the notion that the action intimately concerned him, that the great or perhaps trivial matter of his perhaps significant, more probably rather pitiful life—but, still, his life!—was arriving, here in the South Pacific, at its final act. This was not a reasonable idea, but he had been, ever since the slightly tragic but mostly farcical events of the Night of the Furies, in an unreasonable frame of mind, having regained consciousness with a broken molar giving him considerable trouble, and a broken heart and wounded life that gave him more grief even than the pounding tooth. In the dentist’s chair, he tried to shut out the tape of early Lennon-McCartney tunes and the pleasant prattle of the New Zealander quarryman delving deep inside his jaw—it came back to him from somewhere that the Beatles had begun life as the Quarrymen. He concentrated on Neela: what she might be thinking, how to get her back. She had demonstrated that in affairs of the heart she was very like the man that women had always accused him of being. She was there until she wasn’t. When she loved you, she loved one hundred percent, with no holds barred; but plainly she was also an ax-murderer, capable at any moment of severing the head of a suddenly rejected love. Confronted by his past—a past that in his opinion had no bearing whatsoever on his love for her—she had reached her snapping point, pulled on her clothes, exited, and almost at once embarked on a twenty-four-hour plane journey across the globe without a solicitous phone call about his jaw, let alone a word of loving farewell or even a guarded promise to try and work things out later, when history let up and gave her a bit of time. But she was also a woman familiar with being pursued. She might even be a little addicted to it. At any rate—Solanka persuaded himself while the New Zealander’s babbling road-drill hammered at his jaw—he owed it to himself, having found so remarkable a woman, not to lose her by default.

  To fly east was to hurtle toward the future—the jet-propelled hours rushed by too fast, the next day arrived on wings—but it felt like a return to the past. He traveled forward toward the unknown and toward Neela, but for the first half of the journey the past tugged at his heart. When he saw Bombay below him, he pulled on a sleep mask and closed his eyes. The plane stopped in the city of his birth for a full hour, but he refused a transit card and stayed on board. Even in his seat, however, he was not safe from feeling. The sleep mask was no use. Cleaners came on board, chattering and clattering, a platoon of women in shabby purples and pinks, and India arrived with them, like a disease: the erectness of their bearing, the loud nasal intonation of their speech, their dusters, their hard workers’ eyes, the remembered perfume of half-forgotten unguents and spices—coconut oil, fenugreek, kalonji—that lingered on their skin. He felt giddy, asphyxiated, as if suffering from motion discomfort, though he was never airsick and the plane was, after all, on the ground, refueling, with all its engines shut down. After takeoff, as they headed east across the Deccan, he began to breathe again. When there was water down below again, he began, a little, to relax. Neela had wanted to go to India with him, was excited by the idea of discovering the land of her forefathers with the man of her choice. He had been the man of her choice, he must hold on to that. “I hope,” she had told him, with great seriousness, “that you are the last man with whom I will ever sleep.” The power of such promises is great, and under their enchantment he had even allowed himself to dream of return, had permitted himself to believe that the past could be—had been—stripped of its power, so that in the future all things could be achieved. But now Neela had vanished like a conjurer’s assistant, and his strength had gone with her. Without her, he was convinced, he would never walk the Indian streets again.

  The aerodrome, as its outdated name forewarned, was what a tourist determined to put a brave face on catastrophe would call “olde-worlde” or “quaint.” In fact it was a pigsty, decrepit, malodorous, with sweating walls and two-inch roaches crunching like nutshells underfoot. It should have been torn down years ago, and had indeed been scheduled for demolition—it was after all on the wrong island, and the helicopters that linked it to the capital, Mildendo, looked worryingly down-at-the-heels—but the new airport, GGI (Golbasto Gue Intercontinental), had beaten the old place to it by falling down completely a month after it was finished, owing to the local Indo-Lilly contractors’ overimaginative, if financially beneficial, rethink of the correct relationship, in the mixing of concrete, between water and cement.

  Such creative rethinking turned out to be a feature of life in Lilliput-Blefuscu. Professor Solanka walked into the Blefuscu Aerodrome’s customs hall and at once heads began to turn, for reasons that, flight-exhausted and stupid with heartache though he was, he had anticipated and immediately understood. An Indo-Lilly customs officer in dazzling whites bore down on him, staring hard. “Not possible. Not possible. No notification was received. You are who? Your goodname, please?” he said suspiciously, holding out his hand for Solanka’s passport. “As I thought,” the officer finally said. “You are not.” This was gnomic, to say the least, but Solanka merely inclined his head in a gesture of mild assent. “It is unseemly,” the officer added mysteriously, “to set out to mislead the public of a country in which you are only a guest, dependent on our famous tolerance and goodwill.” He made a peremptory gesture to Solanka, who duly opened his cases. The customs officer gazed vengefully upon their contents: the neatly packed fourteen pairs each of socks and underpants, fourteen handkerchiefs, three pairs of shoes, seven pairs of pants, seven shirts, seven bush-shirts, seven polo shirts, three ties, three folded and tissued linen suits, and one raincoat, just in case. After a judicious pause, he smiled broadly, revealing a set of perfect teeth that filled Solanka with envy. “Heavy duty payable,” the officer beamed. “So many dutiable items are there.” Solanka frowned. “It’s just my clothes. Surely you don’t make people pay to bring in what they need to cover their nakedness.” The customs officer stopped
smiling, and frowned far more ferociously than Solanka. “Avoid obscene utterance, please, Mr. Trickster,” he instructed. “Here is much that is not clothe. Video camera is here, also wristwatches, cameras, jewelry. Heavy duty payable. If you wish to lodge protest, that is of course your democratic privilege. This is Free Indian Lilliput-Blefuscu: Filbistan! Naturally, if protest is desired, you will be welcome to take a seat in interview room and discuss all points with my boss. He will be free very soon. Twenty-four, thirty-six hours.” Solanka got the point. “How much?” he asked, and paid up. In the local sprugs it sounded like a lot, but it translated into American as eighteen dollars and fifty cents. With a great flourish, the customs officer made a large chalk X on Solanka’s bags. “You come at great historical moment,” he told Solanka portentously. “Indian people of Lilliput-Blefuscu have finally standed up for our right. Our culture is ancient and superior and will henceforth prevail. Let the fittest survive, isn’t it. For one hundred years good-for-nothing Elbee cannibals drank grog—kava, glimigrim, flunec, Jack Daniel’s and Coke, every kind of godless booze—and made us eat their shit. Now they can eat ours instead. Please: enjoy your stay.”

  In the helicopter shuttle to Mildendo on the island of Lilliput, the other passengers stared at Professor Solanka as incredulously as the customs officer had. He decided to ignore their behavior and turned his attention instead to the countryside below. As they flew over the sugarcane farms of Blefuscu, he noted the high piles of black igneous boulders near the center of each field. Once indentured Indian laborers, identified only by numbers, had broken their backs to clear this land, building these rock piles under the stony supervision of Australian Coolumbers and storing in their hearts the deep resentment born of their sweat and the cancellation of their names. The rocks were icons of accumulated volcanic wrath, prophecies from the past of the eruption of Indo-Lilly fury, whose effects were everywhere to be seen. The rickety LB Air helicopter made its landing, to Solanka’s immense relief, on the still-intact apron of the ruined Golbasto Gue Intercontinental Airport, and the first thing he saw was a giant cardboard representation of “Commander Akasz,” that is to say of the FRM leader Babur in his Akasz Kronos mask and cloak. Contemplating this image, Solanka wondered with a pounding heart whether, in making his transglobal journey, he had acted as a lovelorn fool and political naif. For the dominant image in Lilliput-Blefuscu—a country close to civil war, in which the president himself was still being held hostage, and a high-tension state of siege existed, and unpredictable developments could occur at any moment—was, as he had known it must be, a close likeness of himself. The face looking down at him from the top of the fifty-foot cutout—that face framed in long silver hair, with its wild eyes and dark-lipped Cupid’s bow mouth, was his very own.