Machines in the Head

by Anna Kavan

  Nothing of any interest took place after the leopard’s visit. My life resumed its former routine of work and trivial happenings. The rains came to an end, winter merged imperceptibly into spring. I took pleasure in the sun and the natural world. I felt sure the leopard meant to return and often looked out for him, but throughout this period he never appeared. When the sky hung pure and cloudless over the jungle, many-coloured orchids began to flower on the trees. I went to see one or two people I knew; a few people visited me in my house. The leopard was never mentioned in our conversations.

  The heat increased day by day; each day dawned glassily clear. The atmosphere was pervaded by the aphrodisiac perfume of wild white jasmine, which the girls wove into wreaths for their necks and hair. I painted some large new murals on the walls of my house and started to make a terrace from a mosaic of coloured shells. For months I’d been expecting to see the leopard, but as time kept passing without a sign of him I was gradually losing hope.

  The season of oppressive heat came around in due course, and the house was left open all night. More than at any other time, it was at night, just before falling asleep, that I thought of the leopard, and, although I no longer believed it would happen, pretended that I’d wake to find him beside me again. The heat deprived me of energy; the progress of the mosaic was slow. I had never tried my hand at such work before, and, being unable to calculate the total quantity of shells that would be required, I constantly ran out of supplies and had to make tiring trips to the beach for more.

  One day while I was on the shore, I saw, out to sea, a young man coming towards the land, standing upright on the crest of a huge breaker, his red cloak blowing out in the wind, and a string of pelicans solemnly flapping in line behind him. It was so odd to see this stranger with his weird escort, approaching alone from the ocean on which no ships ever sailed, that my thoughts immediately connected him with the leopard: there must be some contact between them; perhaps he was bringing me news. As he got nearer, I shouted to him, called out greetings and questions, to which he replied. But because of the noise of the waves and the distance between us, I could not understand him. Instead of coming on to the beach to speak to me, he suddenly turned and was swept out to sea again, disappearing in clouds of spray. I was puzzled and disappointed. But I took the shells home, went on working as usual and presently forgot the encounter.

  Some time later, coming home at sunset, I was reminded of the young man of the sea by the sight of a pelican perched on the highest point of my roof. Its presence surprised me: pelicans did not leave the shore as a rule; I had never known one come as far inland as this. It suddenly struck me that the bird must be something to do with the leopard, perhaps bringing a message from him. To entice it closer, I found a small fish in the kitchen, which I put on the grass. The pelican swooped down at once, and with remarkable speed and neatness, considering its bulk, skewered the fish on its beak, and flew off with it. I called out, strained my eyes to follow its flight, but only caught a glimpse of the great wings flapping away from me over the jungle trees before the sudden black curtain of tropical darkness came down with a rush.

  Despite this inconclusive end to the episode, it revived my hope of seeing the leopard again. But there were no further developments of any description; nothing else in the least unusual occurred.

  It was still the season when the earth sweltered under a simmering sky. In the afternoons the welcome trade wind blew through the rooms and cooled them, but as soon as it died down the house felt hotter than ever. Hitherto I had always derived a nostalgic pleasure from recalling my visitor; but now the memory aroused more sadness than joy, as I had finally lost all hope of his coming back.

  At last the mosaic was finished and looked quite impressive, a noble animal with a fine spotted coat and a human head gazing proudly from the centre of the design. I decided it needed to be enclosed in a border of yellow shells and made another expedition to the beach, where the sun’s power was intensified by the glare off the bright-green waves, sparkling as if they’d been sprinkled all over with diamonds. A hot wind whistled through my hair, blew the sand about and lashed the sea into crashing breakers, above which flocks of sea birds flew screaming, in glistening clouds of spray. After searching for shells for a while I straightened up, feeling almost dizzy with the heat and the effort. It was at this moment, when I was dazzled by the violent colours and the terrific glare, that the young man I’d already seen reappeared like a mirage, the red of his flying cloak vibrating against the vivid emerald-green waves. This time, through a haze of shimmering brilliance, I saw that the leopard was with him, majestic and larger than life, moving as gracefully as if the waves were solid glass.

  I called to him, and, although he couldn’t have heard me above the thundering of the surf, he turned his splendid head and gave me a long, strange, portentous look, just as he had that last time in the jungle, sparkling rainbows of spray now taking the place of rain. I hurried towards the edge of the water, then suddenly stopped, intimidated by the colossal size of the giant rollers towering over me. I’m not a strong swimmer; it seemed insane to challenge those enormous oncoming walls of water, which would certainly hurl me back contemptuously on to the shore with all my bones broken. Their exploding roar deafened me, I was half blinded by the salt spray; the whole beach was a swirling, glittering dazzle in which I lost sight of the two sea-borne shapes. And when my eyes brought them back into focus, they had changed direction, turned from the land and were already a long way off, receding fast, diminishing every second, reduced to vanishing point by the hard, blinding brilliance of sun and waves.

  Long after they’d disappeared, I stood there, staring out at that turbulent sea on which I had never once seen any kind of boat and which now looked emptier, lonelier and more desolate than ever before. I was paralysed by depression and disappointment and could hardly force myself to pick up the shells I’d collected and carry them home.

  That was the last time I saw the leopard. I’ve heard nothing of him since that day or of the young man. For a little while I used to question the villagers who lived by the sea; some of them said they vaguely remembered a man in a red cloak riding the water. But they always ended by becoming evasive, uncertain and making contradictory statements, so that I knew I was wasting my time.

  I’ve never said a word about the leopard to anyone. It would be difficult to describe him to these simple people who can never have seen a creature even remotely like him, living here in the wilds as they do, far from zoos, circuses, cinemas and television. No Carnivora, no large or ferocious beasts of any sort have ever inhabited this part of the world, which is why we can leave our houses open all night without fear.

  The uneventful course of my life continues; nothing happens to break the monotony of the days. Some time, I suppose, I may forget the leopard’s visit. As it is I seldom think of him, except at night when I’m waiting for sleep to come. But, very occasionally, he still enters my dreams, which disturbs me and makes me feel restless and sad. Although I never remember the dreams when I wake, for days afterwards they seem to weigh me down with the obscure bitterness of a loss which should have been prevented and for which I am myself to blame.

  FOG

  I ALWAYS LIKED TO drive fast. But I wasn’t driving as fast as usual that day, partly because it was foggy but mainly because I felt calmly contented and peaceful, and there was no need to rush. The feeling was injected, of course. But it also seemed to have something to do with the fog and the windscreen wipers. I was alone, but the swinging wipers were keeping me company and acting as tranquillizers as they cleared their half-circles of glass, helping me to feel not quite there, as if I was driving the car in my sleep. The fog helped, too, by blurring the world outside the windows so that it looked vague and unreal.

  These people looked as unreal as everything else. I’d just driven over a level crossing when they appeared ahead, a group of long-haired, exotically dressed teenagers, laughing and talking and singing as they wandered al
ong hand in hand or with arms around each other’s waists, all of them obviously on top of the world. In the ordinary way it would have annoyed me to see them straggling all over the road as if they owned it. I would have resented their being so sure of themselves, so relaxed and gay, when I often felt depressed, insecure and lonely and had no one to talk to or laugh with. But this lot couldn’t disturb me because they weren’t real. I remained perfectly cool and detached, even though they didn’t attempt to get out of the way and actually signalled to me to stop.

  I just looked indifferently at their silly faces surrounded by all that idiotic hair in wet snake-like strands, every grinning face wet and glistening with fog, every mouth opening and shutting with breath steaming out of it in clouds. They reminded me of Japanese dragon-masks and also of the subhuman nightmare mask-faces in some of Ensor’s paintings. These faces grimacing at me through the fog had the same sort of slightly eerie repulsiveness of masks, of walking and talking things, not really alive. They’d have repelled me if they’d been human beings. But as they were only dummies I felt nothing about them, my indifference was unaffected. It was just that I would have preferred not to be looking at them.

  I had no intention of giving any of them a lift, naturally. However, as they wouldn’t get off the road, I automatically moved my foot from the accelerator towards the brake. But then I thought, why? They weren’t real. None of this was real. I wasn’t really here, so they couldn’t be either. It was absurd to treat them as real live people. So back went my foot on to the accelerator again. They were just a collection of disagreeable masks I was looking at in my sleep. I was absolutely detached and cool; there wasn’t a trace of emotion involved, no feeling whatever.

  One dummy came up too close to me. Through the fog, I saw the painted mask-face opposite mine, staring straight at me, mouth and eyes opening wider and wider in a grotesque caricature of incredulity. Then there was a bump, and I gripped the wheel hard with both hands as if this was what had to be done to avert some disaster – precisely what disaster seemed immaterial.

  The incident was unduly prolonged. Strange caterwaulings went on interminably and indistinct shapes fell about. When at last it was over, I drove on as if nothing had happened. Nothing had really. I didn’t give it a thought; there was nothing to think about. I just went on driving calmly and carefully in the fog, the windscreen wipers swinging regularly to and fro, promoting that peaceful dream-like sense of not being present.

  An abrupt apparition loomed up at a foggy corner, slewed right across the road. The idea of avoiding a crash between our two unrealities never entered my head: some reflex action must have made me swerve at the last moment and scrape past a huge articulated lorry. Ignoring the driver’s shouts, I drove on again, doing thirty-five to forty, not more, not thinking of anything in particular, the wipers swinging, the fog making everything vague.

  It was pleasantly soothing to feel so detached, so tranquil. Then it began to get boring. Everything went on and on: the fog, the windscreen wipers, my driving. It was as if I didn’t know how to stop the car and would have to drive till the tank was dry or all roads came to an end.

  So I was quite relieved when the police car stopped me. I got out and stood in the road and asked what they wanted. They could see for themselves that I wasn’t drunk, and I certainly hadn’t been driving dangerously. A sergeant asked me to come to the station, and I agreed. It was all the same to me where I was, as I wasn’t there really. I might as well be at a police station as anywhere else. They wanted to search the car, and I made no objection. There was nothing to be found in it; the syringe and the rest of the stuff was in my bag. While I was waiting for them to finish I looked out of the window. It was dusk now outside. I watched the lights come on and shine yellow in the foggy street.

  An inspector interviewed me alone in a small, cold, brightly lit room with notices in small print on the walls and two bicycles leaning against them. We sat on hard wooden chairs on opposite sides of a desk covered in black Formica. I kept my coat collar turned up. He was a big man whose very square shoulders somehow looked artificial. I thought of those dummies children make with coat-hangers and sticks and cushions stuffed inside clothes. His face was an imitation, a mask made of cardboard or papier mâché with green eyes painted on. In the strong light I saw these eyes watching me vacuously, without any expression, gazing blankly at my hair, my watch, my suede coat.

  I looked back at them calmly, indifferently, wondering what they were seeing, if anything. Obviously he wasn’t real. He was just a sham, I was seeing him in my sleep, so he couldn’t disturb me. That was all I was thinking. I was absolutely cool and detached, there wasn’t a trace of emotion involved, not even when he asked if I’d witnessed the accident at the level crossing.

  The room was so cold that his breath steamed out in front of him while he was speaking. For a second I seemed to be watching the steaming mouths of those other masks, bobbing about in the fog like horrid Hallowe’en pumpkins with candles smoking inside. His boring proletarian face looked unreal and subhuman like theirs. He had the same slightly weird repulsiveness of a talking thing, not in any way human. He would have repelled me if he’d been real. But he was only a dummy, an ersatz man, so he couldn’t affect my detachment any more than they could. I felt nothing whatever about him. I was indifferent. It was just that I’d have preferred not to be sitting there facing him. I said, ‘No, I didn’t see anything.’ I had no intention of telling him, naturally. Not that there was anything to tell. None of this was real. It couldn’t really be happening.

  ‘You may be able to help us in our investigations.’

  I didn’t know what to say to this, so I remained silent. How could I possibly help if I hadn’t seen what took place? He felt in one pocket, then in another, brought out a packet of Player’s and offered it to me. His hands were big, square, used-looking, like a working man’s. ‘No thanks. I don’t smoke.’ I sniffed with distaste the strong, rather stale smell of the Virginian tobacco.

  ‘What, no vices?’ He almost smiled, momentarily; I wondered why. He was pretending, putting on some sort of act. I looked indifferently, silently, at his mass-produced nonentity’s face. There was no gleam of light, no life, in his eyes, they were flat green stones, devoid of intelligence or expression. I leaned my elbows on the desk. The situation was prolonging itself unduly. It had become boring. I looked at my watch.

  A policewoman brought in a tray, put it down on the desk and went out again. I took the thick white cup the inspector held out to me and drank some of the tea, or it might have been coffee. The fog was starting to make my throat slightly sore.

  ‘Do you want one of these?’ I looked from his artisan’s hands to the plate of plain dry biscuits and shook my head. He took one himself, broke it in half and swallowed it in two mouthfuls. I put the white cup down on the desk.

  He said, ‘Someone has been killed at the level crossing.’

  Three deep horizontal frown lines appeared on his forehead. His eyes were screwed up and half shut. For a second I again saw the teenage masks floating about in the fog. One came too close and looked me straight in the face with a ludicrously exaggerated expression of amazement or disbelief. The mask-face across the desk was frowning at me. I knew he was waiting for me to say something, but there was nothing to say. A mask had been put out of circulation. So what? A mask wasn’t human. It was meaningless, unimportant. The whole thing was unreal.

  He had refilled his cup; steam was rising from it. Through the steam, his stereotyped imitation face floated in front of me as if in fog, the green eyes, now wide open, staring straight at me, but blankly, perhaps unseeing, they looked almost blind. His square shoulders loomed through the fog; he was a dummy made of stuffed clothes and umbrellas, not real. Since he wasn’t a human being I could look at him without feeling, with perfect indifference. It was just that I didn’t want to look at him. I turned my head.

  The fog was thickening outside as evening came on. I felt the rawness of it in my
throat. Outside the window, fog pressed closely against the glass. For a second I felt trapped in a cold cell surrounded by fog. But I wasn’t here really. Nothing about the situation was real, so the room couldn’t be. The solid look of the walls was an illusion; in reality they consisted of empty space, a field of force between particles in a boundless void. Still, I would have preferred to be some where else.

  I still felt peaceful, but now I’d begun to be dimly aware of some distant threat to peace. I put it out of my mind as I heard him say, ‘Think! Are you quite sure you saw nothing unusual on the road? No one who’d been injured?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I didn’t see anything at all.’

  ‘But the lorry driver says you passed him directly after the accident. So surely you must have seen something.’

  His voice sounded sharper. I had the idea that he glanced at me sharply, almost as if he was really alive. But when my eyes got back to him the mask was the same, with the eyes half shut again as before, painted flat on the frowning fake-face.

  ‘What lorry driver?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t you see it’s all a mistake and I’m not the person you want?’

  I looked at my watch again. He hadn’t answered me. I watched him start looking through a small notebook in a shiny black cover. I was still coolly indifferent, insulated by detachment. But a disturbing doubt was creeping in somewhere. It was beginning to seem as if the situation might never end at all: and I wasn’t entirely sure my detachment would last out an interminable situation. Watching him turn the pages of the small book, I was again aware of a far-off threat, a black cloud on a remote horizon.