But everything has its answer. The blue unmediating infant’s gaze of Mnemidis fixed itself, not upon the nuns in their picturesque uniforms, but upon the two great carving knives with which they so expertly cut up the daily bread of the establishment before distributing it deftly among the yellow baskets. He sighed when the operation was at an end and the baskets were loaded on to trays and trolleys and carried away to the refectory; he sighed as if woken from a dream of some total abstraction which had held him spellbound. This was indeed the case. His whole day orientated itself upon the appearance, as if upon a stage, of the nuns. The kitchens blazed suddenly with white light. A van drove up to the door, the back opened; the drivers lifted out a number of tall baskets with the loaves of bread in them. Into the kitchen they went and the nuns, seizing the two flashing, sabre-like products of the Upinal Steel Federation (often given away as pure advertisements) began their absorbed Christian sacrifice, cutting up the body of Christ into eatable-sized slices. In this way the Word would be made flesh at last; as for the wine, the blood, that would come later. Meanwhile the knives rose and fell, flashing in the sunlight, or poked and thrust with peristaltic suggestibility until with one hand he found himself fingering his private parts and deeply thinking. Deeply, passively thinking. Happiness lies in this sort of concentration, this surrender to one’s inmost nature. What could be more innocent than a loaf of bread? It hardly felt the knife enter it, purr through its white flesh. The Upinals were terribly sharp always, they were known by the excellence of their superior steel. What better steel for a sacrificial knife, then? Mnemidis watched humbly, taking in every detail. Sometimes he broke off and made a short circle around the writing table, only to come back once more to the window and concentrate on this gripping vision of the nuns cutting up their Saviour. Give us this day …
Of some of this matter Constance was aware, but not of all; but the news that Mnemidis was running short of patience and simmering into revolt was depressing in the extreme. Though she had been tired at the dinner-table and was glad that her host walked her back to her flat relatively early, she found that sleep evaded her. Nor did a sleeping draught help matters, so she read a little, and then rose to make coffee for herself – a fatal decision. A profound depression seized her, and about everything – her life, her work, her profession, her future … It was like sliding down a bank of loose sand into a deep pit of self-reproach and, which was worse, self-pity. It would not do. She played a game of solitaire on the green card-table and after a while felt the drug beginning to work on her nerves. Sleep became once more a possible achievement, however troubled, so she risked getting back into bed with her book. On an impulse she did what she did quite often, picked up the telephone and dialled the time-clock. The announcer’s recorded voice was not unlike Affad’s, though the accent was different. She allowed him to recite the passing of time for about two whole minutes before shame drove her to cut him off. But her self-reproach became actualised by the dream voice of Max as he guided her through the asanas, forcing her to take them slowly, and at each stage to pin-point the nothingness-quotient of her mind, half narcotised now by the drug. It was clumsy, lop-sided yoga and would have merited a rebuke from the old man, but it had the desired effect for it shifted her attention from herself – sleeplessness is in the first instance simply exaggerated self-importance – and allowed her to lower herself into the warm pit of night with a mind too tired to manufacture any more dreams. No more dreams!
She slept.
FOUR
The Escape Clause
IT HAD BEEN STIRRING WITHIN HIM NOW FOR DAYS, AND HE was aware of a gradually growing constraint in his feelings about the outer world – first towards his keeper Pierre and then the doctor, that handsome woman who made everything sound glib and roguish. He knew now that everything she had been telling him was false, and came from the Black Bible she had loaned him. Her smile, moreover, was false as a mousetrap – une souricière de sourire! First she had thrust him down into full oblivion with her medicines: now it was this mysterious letter. He had perused it negligently, vaguely noting the date it contained, and that not precise. It said “à partir de …” which seemed to offer no very exact information. Nor had this anything to do with his own concerns – the gradually overwhelming, suffocating, feeling which would evolve slowly into the basic cold hate upon which his actions would be based. Hush! she must not become aware of his state of mind, he must pretend to be pious, for they were all Christians and had been brought up in a vengeful code, always seeking moral redress, always thinking sacrificially. For some time now when he heard Pierre’s footsteps on the gravel he would hasten to kneel down and feign to be deep in prayer when the Judas clicked open. No doubt this was reported. He watched her reactions carefully when he criticised the good book; he intended at the very end suddenly to pretend that he had been converted, that after all he had come to believe in it. That would put her off her guard and make her become perhaps more negligent in her habits. He had already reflected on how much energy it would need to overpower Pierre in the course of their walk across the wood. It is true that the negro was built like a house, but that did not seem to Mnemidis an over-riding consideration. He was agile and versed in the ju-jitsu style of wrestling. And he was totally unafraid, his wholehearted self-dedication gave him the strength of a lion. He felt the current of his desire sweeping through his body like a stream of electricity. There was only one question which created a difficulty in his planning. L’arme blanche, in the expressive French phrase-the crucial knife which he needed for his self-expression. At home in Cairo he had a wall collection of them-beautiful knives of all calibres with which he practised assiduously. He could both throw and stab at will, and as suddenly as a snake striking. No real problem here. It was only the details which remained to be worked out.
The mention of Cairo now, that was a new factor in his thinking, a new promise of life and freedom. The whole matter had filled him with renewed enthusiasm for his avocation. To quit this dull grey Swiss background for the brilliant Cairo of his youth-goodness, his heart sang within him! And just as a farewell present he would, as a pourboire, so to speak, leave them a knife-print or two in his best vein before leaving. It would be his going-away present for the sterile world of doctors and priests and policemen. Who did they think he was? He was, after all, Mnemidis, the one and only member of his species. Old B., the doctor, used to tease him about this proposition, but really it was the truth. B. used to joke and say, “Now tell me to which species do you belong? Imaginary Man, Marginal Man, Fortuitous Man, Superfluous Man, Parallel Man? …” And he would reply, “To none, to none. I am the incarnation of Primal Man. I am perfected in my sainthood because I know not the meaning of Fear!” As he spoke he had a sudden vision of his own consciousness hanging in the air above him-brilliantly iridescent and glowing, a self-perfected globe of celestial light, throbbing and hovering in an atmosphere of pure bliss of which he was the human instrument. He was the pure spirit of the perfected Act! It had all come to him from that first day when as an adolescent he had strangled the little Bedouin child who had come to the house to beg for work. So silently, his lust glowing like a great ruby in his mind. In this way he had separated himself from the rest of humanity.
Yes, the thought of Cairo struck a new note, and the sudden arrival upon the scene of ancient associates with their promise of freedom excited him unduly. Moreover when they spoke to him in Arabic, as the doctor did, he felt quite disarmed, and incapable of keeping a secret about his feelings, about his eagerness to be done with the Swiss scene. But the doctor urged compliance upon him, and patience and watchfulness; a hasty move might spoil his chances of an escape. There were documents to be filled in, people to be consulted. Nevertheless he felt in honour bound to make it clear that since he realised that he was being systematically poisoned he found it much harder to set aside his feelings of impatience and frustration. Much, much harder.
Nor could he help noticing that his jailors had redoubled th
eir precautions, for his person, his cell and his meagre possessions were subjected every morning to the most careful scrutiny by Pierre who dwelt lingeringly upon each object, as if he were trying to memorise it, humming softly as he did so. What charm the man had! Mnemidis ground his teeth soundlessly, feeling the muscles at his temples contract and relax. He had a secret premonition that it would not be long now, things were moving into the sort of spiral which quickened into the catharsis of action.
His intuitions seemed verified almost at once, for on presenting himself for the usual interview he was confronted by the surly figure of Schwarz who informed him that the long treatment was to be discontinued. “I understand you have expressed strong reservations about the doctor treating you, and in deference to them I have had her transferred to another field of enquiry. On her return from leave she will undertake other duties. I hope this will satisfy your sense of justice.” This sounded a most elaborate and juicy climb-down, and the patient was all smiles at his unexpected victory; he rubbed his hands and bowed. Then his face darkened again with a renewed wave of doubt, for it seemed to him that they were trying to shirk their responsibilities; after all, the damage had been done. The poison was already permeating his whole system, and now they were talking of abandoning him. No, it wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all! “It’s all very well,” he said at last, with a smouldering glance of contempt, “but what about all I have been through, all the questions, the waste of time … eh?” Schwarz sighed and said patiently, “I hope you will soon forget your ordeal. Tomorrow or the next day you will be returned to the civil authorities and they will arrange for you to join your two friends and return to your homeland. Surely that must please you?” Mnemidis moistened his lips and asked if it were true. “Of course it is true,” said Schwarz, who now permitted himself the faintest tinge of joviality. And indeed his two friends, as if to prove the correctness of the doctor’s announcement, presented themselves with good news. The transfer was being negotiated, there was no impediment in law, and within a week or ten days they would present themselves with all the papers and a special Red Cross ambulance to take him to the airport where a special plane would be waiting, bound for Cairo. It was like a dream, he wept as he thought of it, but sadly, for it had come too late. They would not avoid their retribution quite so easily, particularly the woman. The whole thing had been her idea, the whole cunning interrogatory had been devised by her with the idea of making him doubt himself. That night he wet his bed. He was assailed with extraordinary dreams and visions of power and omnipotence; he became once more the child divinity whose purpose burned within him like a lamp of grace. His tongue swelled up in his mouth like a puff adder, then his whole throat. He woke late but ready for anything. He had a feeling the hour was at hand, though for the moment the details were not clear; they would come.
When there is such a stylist in mischief as Mnemidis prepared for action, the very spirit of mischief presents itself in order to facilitate things. In this case it was the Swiss mania for insignificant detail which played the part. Before parting with their visitor it was essential that the documentation upon his case be complete; hence the long and exhausting series of blood-tests and nerve-tests, of analyses and readings, of cephalograms and cardiograms … the whole rigmarole of quantitative science must have a final outing before restoring him to his world of occasional involuntary murder. He had to blow into tubes, swallow liquids, stand on one leg, kneel and lift weights. He waited patiently and most obediently throughout all this, waited for the door which he knew would open. He went from laboratory to laboratory like a lamb, watched over by Pierre, whom he had come to love like a brother. But he was in a state of heightened attention, he noticed every lock, bolt and bar; yet for the time being nothing beckoned him, nothing whispered conspiratorially in his ear to say, “Now! This is it!” And apart from all this the change and the movement were refreshing for someone suffering from over-confinement.
The last of these investigations were the most elementary, and usually took place first, on entry into the hospital. There was a tank-like changing room with seats and lockers on all sides, changing-screens and douches. In here were machines which recorded your height and weight and such vital facts as general corpulence or the circumference of calves and breasts. The entry corridor to the whole complex contained notice-boards and toilets, and finally opened into the spacious dining-rooms and kitchens. It was in this tank-like precinct that the magical whisper came and communicated itself to Mnemedis.
To divest himself of the long-sleeved regulation coat of pleasant green tweed and his woollen vest he stepped behind a screen while Pierre, respecting the delicacy of one who had been “born a gentleman”, did not follow him but stood and waited on the other side; the articles of clothing were thrown upon the screen and Mnemidis, stripped now to the waist, looked strangely coy and playful. Ignoring the weighing machine which stood waiting for him, he gave his jailor a sudden push with both hands, catching him off his guard, and with one and the same movement, propelled himself through the door and into the corridor where he promptly turned the key upon Pierre and went off – but slowly, thoughtfully, for he knew that if one moves slowly people suspect nothing – and entered the network of locker-rooms and privies which led to the kitchens. One cannot describe him as thinking all this out in detail; he was really sleepwalking, letting instinct guide him. Flashes of light like a summer lightning dazzled him from time to time and he blinked his eyes. He heard the voice of Pierre and the rattling of the door but was not alarmed at all. A wild certainty possessed him. The spirit of mischief was in the saddle. He went solemnly and industriously from room to room, locking each door behind him, and so at last came to the spacious kitchens which were empty. He stopped to gaze about him, noted with appreciation the warm sunlight shining through the high windows upon the spotless array of cooking utensils lining the walls. It was very Swiss in its impeccable cleanliness, the great kitchen, one felt that no germ would find a harbour there; it smelt clinical and pure, its air filtered by the clean flowing draught of fans. But he was looking for something and had no time to waste on idle appreciation of his surroundings. From his window on the opposite side of the court his gaze fell … just where? He made a swift calculation and changed direction. Yes, the bread-bins and the wall of tins was on the right, surely they must be there? There!
The knives, spotless as the rest, were there!
With the current of joy and affirmation flowing through his body he contemplated, giving thanks to his creator; he even joined his hands before his breast and shook them in thanksgiving, like a Christian. Then with a sneaking, smiling air of happiness, he took up first one and then the other of the knives and felt its exquisite balance in the palm of his hand; it was as pregnant with futurity as an egg. At this moment the swing-doors at the end of the kitchen opened and in swayed the monumental form of Pierre, looking puzzled, for this had never happened to him before and he found it surprising. Moreover with Mnemidis now stripped there was no sleeve to grab in order to tame and pivot him. The big man was suddenly realising that much of his mastery over things, over people, was due to familiar routines; the lack of that basic sleeve troubled and disoriented him. Nor had he seen Mnemidis ever look quite like this – blithe and exuberant, his whole bearing suffused with a glory from on high. He proposed to play cat and mouse with Pierre, but jovially, with kindliness, for he really loved and esteemed this companion of his solitary hours. He put the hand with the knife behind his back and beckoned Pierre to approach with the other, playfully, teasingly; and when the “Malabar” obeyed he dodged back and round, in and out among the sinks and cupboards. They performed a slow and somewhat elaborate ballet in this way, passing across the great kitchens in a sort of gruesome two-step for Pierre was fully aware of the knife and of the danger he was in from a sudden change of mood. It would have been wise for him to pick a weapon for himself and try to despatch the madman with a lucky blow on the head – a saucepan, perhaps: but he preferred to b
e patient and not provoke a flare-up of aggressiveness. He was calm and confident of the outcome and only concerned lest he might obtain a wound while trying to disarm Mnemidis. Moreover, dancing about like this they were killing time and it could not be long before somebody came into the kitchens and then Pierre could shout for help in surrounding his man. Where were the sisters? Where was the staff of the place? There was no sign of a soul. They continued on their appointed courses like two ill-omened planets in orbit – planets engaged in a gravitational flirtation which could only end one way, in a collision!
Neither was the least out of breath as yet, and watching the intense concentration with which they danced an observer might have thought their synchronised and stylised motion the result of long rehearsal. But there was method in Mnemidis’ madness – to coin a phrase; he had seen a half-open door which gave on to a sort of clothes-closet which housed a quantity of aprons and gowns, of buckets and pails and sundries. He was working his slow way round until his jailor had his back to it – it was like putting a billiard ball over a pocket. This done, he attacked the “Malabar” with almost inconceivable force, giving a pious grunt which echoed throughout the kitchen. Under the impetus of this rush the “Malabar”, attentive to the threat of the knife, backed away and before he knew where he was found himself pinned into the closet against the hanging clothes, against the wall, with a hand firmly clutching his throat, his own arms vaguely encircling the shorter man with force but without design. And now Mnemidis with thoughtful and considered strokes, like an experienced cook, started to lard him with the knife he held in his hand. All this seemed to the “Malabar” to pass in a kind of languorous slow motion, but in fact the blows were swift and tellingly aimed. Meanwhile Mnemidis gazed into his face with attention, almost lecherously, as if he were looking into a gauge which might tell him how successful his assault was. Negroes do not turn pale but rosy in this kind of fatal situation. Mnemidis felt his man give a crooning sound and lean forward upon him. It would be like tearing down a high curtain, he thought to himself. Both were breathing heavily now, but Pierre was blowing out his cheeks with exhaustion, and his lungs were filling and emptying very quickly all of a sudden. It was as if he had run the 100 metres in record time.
The Avignon Quintet Page 106