Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  “ ‘This’? I say, what’s that you’re doing there? You really ought not to— ”

  “Having but an innocent Squeeze, Sir. Keep me in Mind. I’ll tell them I couldn’t wake you up.” She proceeds carefully as she may to the door, expecting at ev’ry step to be assaulted,— he snorts, and paws the Counterpane, but doesn’t charge. Exiting, looking back over a dorsal ’Scape immediately occupying all of Mason’s Attention, “See you tomorrow at Breakfast,— remember to save one of those ’cute Frowns for me.” And Damme, she’s off.

  Next morning, none of the five Sprites is able to engage the Eyes of any other. Dixon wolfs down griddle cakes and Orange-Juice, whilst Mason glumly concentrates upon the Coffee and its Rituals. Cornelius comes in briefly to light his Pipe and nod before proceeding to his Work, which involves a good deal of screaming at the Slaves. Mason’s Day, long and fatiguing, is spent popping in and out of doors, being caught alone in different rooms with different females of the household, by others, who then contrive to return the favor. Only slowly does it dawn on him that this goes on here all the time,— being likely the common Life of the House,— and that he but happens to have stumbl’d into it as some colorful Figure from the Fringes of the World, here for a while and then gone, just enough time for ev’ryone, barring some unannounc’d bolt of Passion finding a Target, to make use of him, perhaps not quite time enough for them to come to despise him.

  So Mason prays for clear nights and perfect seeing,— nonetheless, his throat closes and dries, his heart’s rhythm picks up whenever the Clouds cover the Sunset, and the Fog rolls swiftly all the way up to the Observatory, and over it, and on up, and he knows he’ll be facing anywhere up to five distinctly motivated Adventuresses, each of whom, as in some fiendish Asian parlor-game, is scheming against the other four, the field having shifted from Motives of Pleasure to Motives of Reproduction and Commerce. Its being for them a given that nothing of a Romantick nature will occur,— nothing does. Mason is usually left with an inflexible Object, which, depending upon the Breeches he’s wearing that day, not to mention the Coat, is more or less visible to the Publick, who at any rate, as it proves, are quite us’d to even less inhibited Displays.

  Dixon does his best not to mention it, waiting rather for Mason either to brag, or to complain.

  Eventually, “I know what you’re looking at. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Who? I? Mason.”

  “Well, what am I suppos’d to do about it?”

  “First, get out of thah’ House.”

  Mason makes quick Head-Turns, to Left and Right, and lowers his Voice. “Whilst you’ve been out rollicking with your Malays and Pygmies, . . . what have you heard of the various sorts of Magick, that they are said to possess?”

  Dixon has in fact heard, from an assortment of Companions native to the Dutch Indies, Tales of Sorcery, invisible Beings, daily efforts to secure Shelter against Demonic Infestation. “They are not as happy, nor as childlike, as they seem,” he tells Mason. “It may content us, as unhappy grown Englishmen, to think that somewhere in the World, Innocence may yet abide,— yet ’tis not among these people. All is struggle,— and all but occasionally in vain.”

  Mason cocks his head, trying to suppress a certain Quiver that also gives him away when at Cards,— a bodily Desire to risk all upon a single Trick. “Would you happen to enjoy Entrée to this world of Sorcery? I am anxious as to Protection. . . .”

  “A Spell . . . ?” Dixon suggests.

  “Emphatickally not a Love-Potion, you understand, no, no, quite the contrary indeed.”

  Dixon, to spare himself what might else prove to be Evenings-ful of Complaint, says, “I’ve met people who are said to possess a special Power,— the Balinese Word is Sakti. It has not, however, always been successful against Dutchmen. Would this be a Hate potion, then, that tha require?”

  “Well, certainly not Hate. Inconvenient as Love, in its own way,— no, more of an Indifference-Draught, ’s more what I had in mind. ’Twould have to be without odor or Taste, and require but a few Drops,— ”

  “I could have a look about, tho’ ’tis more common here to accept what they happen to offer . . . ?”

  Difficult indeed are the next few Nights as Dixon, searching the Malay Quarter for an Elixir to meet Mason’s specifications, beneath lampless staircases, in the bloody lulls of cock-fights, is merrily insulted from one illicit Grotto to another. Oh, they’ve heard of the Philtre, all right, ’tis quite in demand, in fact, as much by one Sex as the other. As the Company seeks to confine all the Dutch of the Cape Colony behind a Boundary it has drawn, and to rule them radially from a single Point, the least immoderate of Feelings, in such a clos’d Volume, may prove lethal. Over the Mountains, to keep all tranquil, entire Tribes work day and night shifts, trying to supply a lively Market. Imitations and Counterfeits abound.

  Mason is not seeking the Potion for himself,— rather, his Scheme is to introduce it into the Soup-Bowl of his Hostess, who is kept tun’d to her own dangerous Pitch thro’ the Attentions of a number of young Slave-girls chosen for their good looks,— they haunt her, whisking the flies from her skin, oiling it when the South-easter makes it dry as Pages of a Bible, draping it with silks from India and France. They feed her pomegranates, kneeling quickly to lick off the juice that runs down her hand before it reaches her sleeve. Cornelius has a Peep in from time to time. Though he usually departs with an Erection, it is possible that he is feeling the pain of an ineptly shot Beast. But his Expression doesn’t change. He sucks upon his Pipe, removes it from his mouth to cough, and, continuing to cough, ambles away.

  In Johanna’s intrigue to bring together Mason and her senior slave, however, ’tis the Slavery, not any form of Desire, that is of the essence. Dixon, out of these particular meshes, can see it,— Mason cannot. Indifferent to Visibility, wrapt in the melancholy Winds that choir all night long, persists an Obsession or Siege by something much older than anyone here, an injustice that will not cancel out. Men of Reason will define a Ghost as nothing more otherworldly than a wrong unrighted, which like an uneasy spirit cannot move on,— needing help we cannot usually give,— nor always find the people it needs to see,— or who need to see it. But here is a Collective Ghost of more than household Scale,— the Wrongs committed Daily against the Slaves, petty and grave ones alike, going unrecorded, charm’d invisible to history, invisible yet possessing Mass, and Velocity, able not only to rattle Chains but to break them as well. The precariousness to Life here, the need to keep the Ghost propitiated, Day to Day, via the Company’s merciless Priesthoods and many-Volum’d Codes, brings all but the hardiest souls sooner or later to consider the Primary Questions more or less undiluted. Slaves here commit suicide at a frightening Rate,— but so do the Whites, for no reason, or for a Reason ubiquitous and unaddress’d, which may bear Acquaintance but a Moment at a Time. Mason, as he comes to recognize the sorrowful Nakedness of the Arrangements here, grows morose, whilst Dixon makes a point of treating Slaves with the Courtesy he is never quite able to summon for their Masters.

  Yet they entertain prolong’d Phantasies upon the Topick. They take their Joy of it. “Astronomy in a Realm where Slavery prevails . . . ! Slaves holding candles to illuminate the ocular Threads, whilst others hold Mirrors, should we wish another Angle. One might lie, supine, Zenith-Star position, all Night, . . . being fann’d, fed, amus’d,— ev’ryone else oblig’d to remain upon their Feet, ever a-tip, to respond to a ’Gazer’s least Velleity. Hahrrh!”

  “Mason, why thah’ is disgusting . . . ?”

  “Come, come, and you’re ever telling me to lighten up my Phiz? I have found it of help, Dixon, to think of this place as another Planet whither we have journey’d, where these Dutch-speaking White natives are as alien to the civilization we know as the very strangest of Pygmies,— ”

  “ ‘Help’? It doesn’t help, what are tha talking about . . . ? Tha’ve a
personal Interest here, thy Sentiments engag’d, for all I know.”

  “Ahrr! My Sentiments! Sentiments, in this Place! A Rix-Dollar a Dozen today, tomorrow wherever the Company shall peg them,— the Dutch Company which is ev’rywhere, and Ev’rything.”

  “Somewhat like the Deists’ God, do tha mean?”

  “Late Blow, late Blow,— ”

  “Mason, of Mathematickal Necessity there do remain, beyond the Reach of the V.O.C., routes of Escape, pockets of Safety,— Markets that never answer to the Company, gatherings that remain forever unknown, even down in Butter-Bag Castle. I’d be much oblig’d if we might roam ’round together, some Evening, and happen we’ll see. Mind, I’m seldom all the way outside their Perimeter,— yet do I make an effort to keep to the Margins close as I may.”

  “And I’m making no Effort, is that it, you’re accusing me of Servility? Sloth? You’re never about, how would you know how hard I’m working? Do not imagine me taking any more Joy of this, than you do.”

  “Come, then. There’s too much Sand in the Air tonight for any decent Obs,— Zeemanns and Vrooms all cataleptick from these Winds, none shall miss us,— mayn’t we be carefree Mice for a few Hours, at least . . . ?”

  He receives a blurr’d and strangely prolong’d Gaze. “I wish I knew where my Affection for you runs,— one moment ’tis sure as the heart-yarn of a Mainstay, the next I am entertaining cheerfully Projects in which your Dissolution is ever a Feature.”

  “Calling off the Wedding, again. We must try not to weep . . . ?” For an instant both feel, identically, too far from anyplace, defenseless behind this fragile Salient into an Unknown, too deep for one Life-Span, that begins directly behind Table Mountain.

  They do, to be sure, go out that Evening, as into various others together, in search of Lustful Adventure, but each time Mason will wreck things, scuttling hopes however sure, frightening off the Doxies with Gothickal chat of Headstones and Diseases of the Mind, swilling down great and occasionally, Dixon is told, exceptional Constantia wines with the sole purpose of getting drunk, exploding into ill-advis’d Song, losing consciousness face-first into a Variety of food and Drink, including more than one of the most exquisite karis this side of Sumatra,— that is, proving a difficult carousing partner, block’d from simple enjoyment in too many directions for Dixon to be at all anger’d,— rather marveling at him, as a Fair-goer might at some Curiosity of Nature.

  Mason, no less problematick indoors than out, being an uneasy sleeper, begins at about this time to dream of some Presence with a Krees or Malay Dagger, of indistinct speech, yet clear intention to Dowse for the Well-Spring of Mason’s Blood. He wakes up screaming, repeatedly. At length Austra, expressing the will of both Houses, sends him to talk with a certain Toko, a Negritoe, or Asian Pygmy, of a Malay tribe call’d the Senoi. It is their belief that the world they inhabit in their Dreams is as real as their waking one. At breakfast each morning, families sit and report their Dreams to one another, offering advice and opinions passim, as if all the fantastical beings and events be but other villagers, and village Gossip.

  “They live their Dreams,” Mason reports to Dixon, “whilst we deny ev’rything we may witness during that third of our Precious Span allotted, as if Sleep be too much like Death to advert to for long. . . .” It is at some point that night, after securing the second Altitude of Shaula, that the Astronomers agree to share the Data of their Dreams whenever possible. After those initiatory Hours together upon the Seahorse, having found no need to pretend a whole list of Pretenses, given thereby a windfall of precious time, neither is surpriz’d at how many attunements, including a few from dream-life, they may find between them.

  “Heaven help me,” Mason muttering sourly, “my Dreams reveal this Town to be one of the colonies of Hell, with the Dutch Company acting as but a sort of Caretaker for another . . . Embodying of Power, ’s ye’d say, altogether,— Ev’ryday life as they live it here, being what Hell’s colonials have for Routs and Ridottoes,— ”

  “Why,” Eye-Lids clench’d apart, “my own dreams are very like, tho’ without the Dutch Company,— more like a Gala that never stops. . . . Think thee ’tis all this Malay food we’re eating ev’ry day . . . ?”

  Mason has a brief excursion outside himself. “You’re enjoying this miserable Viper-Plantation! Why, Damme if you’re not going to miss it when we’re shut of it at long last. Arh, arh! What shall you do for Ketjap?”

  “They must sell it somewhere in London . . . ?”

  “At ten times the price.”

  “Then I shall have to learn a Receipt for it.”

  The next time the tall Figure with the wavy Blade approaches him, Mason, willing to try anything, stands his ground, and with the help of certain Gloucestershire shin-kicking Arts, actually defeats his Assailant. “Keep your Face down,” Mason tells the Adversary. “I do not wish to see your Face.”

  “You must then demand something from him,” Toko has advis’d. “Some solid Gift you may bring back with you.”

  “The Krees,” says Mason. Silently, the bow’d Figure throws it on the Ground to one side. Mason stoops and picks it up. “Thank you.” When he wakes, there it is, the Point lying nearly within the Portal of one Nostril,— a wrong turn in his Sleep might have been the End. Despite its look of Forge-fresh Perfection, ’tis not a Virgin Blade,— tiny Scratches, uncleansable Stains, overlie one the other in a Palimpsest running deep into the Dimension of Time.

  “Happen ’twill be those Girls, teasing with thee . . . ?”

  “Why thankee, Blight, what would a Day be without a Common-sense Remark from you?”

  “One of us must provide a Datum-Line of Sanity, and as it seems unlikely to be thee,— ”

  “Aahhrr! The most intimate of acts, the trustful sharing of a Dream, taken and us’d against the Master, by his own sly ’Prentice!”

  “Begging thy Mercy, Sir, let us not venture into the terre mauvais of professional Resentment, or we shall certainly miss the culmination of Shaula, that Sting e’er pois’d above the Pates of this unhappy People, to strike which, and which not, who can say . . . ?”

  “The very voice of Responsibility Astronomick,— was ever Star-gazer more fortunate than I, to be seconded to this Angelickal Correctness. And yet despite you, Dixon, do you know what, the Imp calls,— it advises me, ‘Whom better to bore with the unabridg’d tale of your woeful treatment by the World you so desperately wish to be lov’d by, aye, unto Ravishment, than this unreflective Geordie here? At least he understands some Astronomy,’ is usually how it goes.”

  “ ‘And being your Second,’” Dixon bats back,” ‘he has no choice but to listen.’ ”

  “Just so, and take Notes if you wish, for someday, Lad, you’ll be running your own Expedition, bearing all the weight of Leadership, which crusheth a man even as it bloateth his Pride. . . . Aye, miraculous,— perhaps with some luck you’ll come to know the Relief indescribable of shedding that Load, dumping months, even years, of accumulated Resentment in one great— ”

  “Eeh, if tha don’t mind?”

  “Oh. Oh, of course, I hadn’t realiz’d. ’Tis but our uninhibited Earthiness, we of lower degree, we’re forever speaking of shit, you see, without much— Damme, I say, I said ‘shit,’ didn’t I?— Oh, shit, I’ve said it again,— No! Twice!” Smacking himself repeatedly upon the Dome.

  “Be easy, Mason, it’s all right.”

  “You’ll report me now.”

  “Be happy to, if I thought anyone would believe it . . . ?”

  “Wouldn’t want you getting into any trouble,” Mason unable to refrain from adding, “— Spanish Inquisitors or whatever. . . .”

  “Indulge me, Sir, that word again was . . . ?”

  “Oh, for Heav’n’s sake, ‘Authorities,’ if you like, if that’s not too sectarian for you.”

  “I am not a fucking Jesuit, M
ason. If Jesuits are manipulating me, then are we two Punches in a Droll-booth, Friend,— for as certainly would it be the East India Company who keep thee ever in Motion.”

  “Ah,— and how is that, exactly?”

  “Someday, someone will ask, How did a baker’s son get to be Assistant to the Astronomer Royal? How’d a Geordie Land-Surveyor get to be his Second on the most coveted Star-gazing Assignment of the Century? Happen ’twas my looks . . . ? thy charm . . . ? Or are we being us’d, by Forces invisible even to thy Invisible College?”

  “Whatever my Station,” bristling, “I have earn’d it. Tho’ frankly, I have wonder’d about you. A collier’s son,— a land-sale collier at that,— surely there’s more wealth and respect in sea-coal?”

  “Aye, and we’re Quakers as well, is there a Nervus Probandi about someplace?”

  “Merely have I gone on puzzling,— as, without influence, nothing may come of a Life, and however briskly you may belabor me with Mr. Peach,— yet who, I ask myself thro’ the Watch when Sleep comes not, may it have been, between mouthfuls of ‘Sandwich,’ as the spotted Cubes went a-dancing, who dropp’d the decisive word about you? Don’t tell me Emerson.”

  “Why, ’twas John Bird . . . ? Thought ev’ryone knew thah’. As Mr. Bird’s Representative in the Field,— my duty’s to tend the Sector,— pray nothing goes too much amiss, requiring me to fix it . . . ? Eeh! I’m the Sector Wallah!”

  Mason’s response is a Reverse Squint,— each Eye, that is, doing the opposite of what it usually does when he peers thro’ a Telescope. Dixon finds it, briefly, disorienting. Mason even seems to be trying to smile in apology. “The Arts of leadership in me how wanting, as all alas must know, I bear this command only thanks to a snarl’d and soil’d web of favors, sales, and purchases I pray you may ever remain innocent of. You are right not to accept my Command,— well, not all the time, as I may hope,— ”

  “Am I giving that impression, I’m sure I didn’t mean to . . . ?”