The Currency of Paper

by Alex Kovacs

  Waking up, doused in sweat, he discovered that night had descended. Leaving the bus he found himself staring with some fascination at an array of television screens which were arranged in the window of an electronics shop. A forgotten old black-and-white movie was playing and he looked on fascinated, attempting to identify its provenance. Blonde chorus girls wearing identical skimpy outfits, all spangled with silver sequins, were forming elaborate hand gestures, wiggling their hips in unison and singing lines that seemed to be about the joys of life after puberty. When the chorus came, half of the girls began drinking from long twirly plastic straws which descended in spirals towards an enormous vat of soda pop, alternating between sucking actions and singing, as the camera lunged in circular motions, dizzy with the spectacle it was so busy in creating.

  He next travelled eastwards for half an hour with the sole intention of visiting the Woolwich Leisure Centre Café, a favourite haunt in recent years, probably for reasons mostly inexplicable, although if pushed on the subject Maximilian might well have mentioned the location beside the river and the pleasant view of the swimming pool below, with its looping anaconda water slide, fake tropical beach hut, and colourful octopus mural. For whatever reason, it was a place that he had come to enjoy relaxing in. That night he stayed there for a couple of hours, lost in meditative reveries. Later, in another public house, upon consumption of his third shot of tequila, he took to musing on the subject of the lack of children in his life. Scribbling outlines of the lives of imaginary offspring onto paper, he began to create some very partial pseudo-biographies of the various children that he was surely now never destined to have. Somehow he could only envisage failure taking place for them all, the initial hopes of late adolescence being followed by a debauched studenthood and then the sour disappointments of the workplace. Alcoholism, obscurity, death. Surely it was a good thing that he had never become a father.

  Staring into his reflection in the bathroom mirrors, Maximilian felt as if he was truly seeing himself for the first time that day. Stripped now of joy, he was left only with the aching sadness he felt upon looking intently into the folds of his aging features. A lopsided fake ginger beard purchased in a joke shop hung disconsolately from his chin, wet at the fringes with liquor and dribble, and he could somehow not find the strength required to remove it. Children’s badges lined the left lapel of his tweed jacket. A broken straw hat perched on top of his head somehow seemed to complete the picture of a broken, fallen man. He wondered, quite seriously, if things had gone too far that day.

  Pirouetting and zigzagging through the streets after closing time, Maximilian eventually spotted a park. Gaining entry to it by crawling on his hands and knees and struggling through a hole that had been created in the bottom of the fence that surrounded its perimeter, he eventually reached the dark velvet of a lawn. Amidst the cool night-breezes he felt a sudden overwhelming desire to remove all of his clothes and commune with mystic forces. This he soon did.

  Making a series of tiny jumps into the air he spread his arms out wide and ran across the spaces of the park pretending to be an aeroplane. Curious suddenly to inhale the odours of the trees surrounding him, he picked off a number of leaves, felt their shapes and textures, then crushed them with his fingers, rubbing the residue over his chest and belly, an act which caused him no little merriment.

  Somehow he did manage to make it back home to the bungalow that evening, although in the morning he could not remember how. He fell asleep on the floor, in fact missing his bed by only a metre or so. At the moment of his collapse he had been busily biting into the succulent form of a cheese and piccalilli sandwich, but unfortunately this particular attempt at eating was to remain unfinished and the sandwich would lie upon the floor until morning, with tooth marks engraved upon its form and most of its contents spilt out onto the carpet.

  Reflection in a Darkened Window

  (1997)

  the face of a man

  on the brink of old age

  catching himself in a mirror

  briefly formed

  across the giant surface of a shop window

  flurry of West End pedestrians unceasing

  apprehension of the image

  a moment of absolute clarity

  that disappears almost at once

  an exact rendering of:

  age

  status

  situation

  greying lips

  cheeks pitted with acne scars

  scratchy stubble bristles

  across haggard chin

  soft wisps of white hair

  sprouting outwards from ears

  bloodshot eyes

  falling into blindness

  the tyranny of the present

  of naked reality

  where all is lucid

  and can be measured

  in calm exactitude

  noticing

  behind his shoulder

  another man

  perhaps ten years older than himself

  in solitude

  hobbling

  turning,

  they share a brief look of grim recognition

  a man who may as well possess the same history as him:

  the same habits, obsessions, degenerations

  but neither will ever see the other again

  flurry of pedestrians unceasing

  .

  during its precocious lifetime

  one particular fly

  travelled all the way from Regent’s Street to Blackfriar’s Bridge

  before dying without fame

  meanwhile, the old ladies of Mayfair had mouths of false teeth and neck’s adorned with strings of real pearls

  and beggars with blackened fingers bent down desperately to pick up greasy coins in the corners of doorways

  and steam rose from plates of food, placed with great ceremony upon the fastidious tables of opulent restaurants

  and great flowing rivers of water and shit coursed through the spiralling webs of pipes, towards the swollen mass of seas

  .

  declensions of time

  impossible to count

  disappear into hourglass void

  fragments of days dissolving

  invisible

  the mass of things exhausted and expended

  (matchsticks, lightbulbs, pairs of socks, train tickets, wine glasses, forgotten breaths . . . )

  the irrational selections of memory

  the absolute glistening clarity

  of certain insignificant occasions

  to remember:

  the exact bone structure

  and the particular imploring look

  found resident in the eyes

  of a shop assistant

  long ago

  to remember:

  the warm smell

  of the bread factory

  permeating the air

  of the dilapidated playground

  by the dirty canal side

  to remember:

  the descent from the third floor of a building

  undertaken solely to observe

  the movements in the street below

  resulting in the discovery

  of nothing much—

  the same rows of parked cars

  the same unknown figures walking

  midst scattered leaves

  & flint-grey puddles

  empty sweet wrappers

  & overcast skies

  .

  tired limbs

  weary in pale dawn

  constant shifting

  movements

  to release tension

  an exercise

  which yields

  few benefits

  so

  finally

  the shifting ceases altogether

  to instead enjoy

  the pleasures of not moving

  limiting the aches

  to those that are known

  sciatica

  arthritic hands

>   curvature of the spine

  harsh pains surging through

  soles of the feet

  the remaining teeth throbbing

  moderate deafness in left ear

  red rash forming across genitals

  the awful

  apprehension

  of morning nudity

  as the skeleton

  becomes visible

  pushing out

  towards the surface

  .

  infinite layers of brickwork across the sea of rooftops

  domes and statues and chimneys

  smooth black glissando of taxicabs

  through alleyways and city arteries

  orange-red haloes thrown from streetlights

  in the grey of the descending dusk

  workers marching homewards in precise formation

  boarding buses and trains in toil of daily exodus

  huge looming empty churches with locked-up doors

  frightening protrusions of the dark machineries of commerce

  stray newspaper pages blown against the walls of mercantile

  institutions

  as illuminated windows provide momentary illusions of heavenly

  prosperity

  .

  and yet the city can be anything

  there are green paper dragons in Camden

  quartz elephants in Harrow-on-the-Hill

  tightrope walkers congregate in Poplar

  a blind harmonium player practices in

  Walthamstow

  giant aquariums fill small rooms in

  Marylebone

  a small girl in Brixton collects rainwater in old jam jars placed on a windowsill

  an old man in Leytonstone has taught himself to speak Esperanto but has no one to practice with

  there is a room in Soho that no one has entered in more than one hundred years

  The Distribution of Resources

  (1998)

  After a lifetime spent hoarding funds and materials largely for his own means, it seemed appropriate to Maximilian that his final major artistic action should involve a mass donation of resources to a vast array of different individuals and organizations. He wished to reach anyone who he felt had been overlooked or neglected by society, and was particularly interested in helping artists whose work had not resulted in any great acclaim or financial reward. All of the many unsung creators and revolutionaries, whose works he had been pursuing for some time, would receive some form of recognition from the capacious depths of Maximilian’s purse.

  The plan to make these donations had been crucial to his thinking from the very beginning of his artistic schemings. His conviction that he would do this had somehow underpinned all else that he had done in his life, in a sense justifying all his other projects. All along, his relentless gathering together of examples of legitimate currency had largely been in order to make these donations. In performing this final act he believed that he was doing all that was in his power to behave in a benevolent way.

  By this time in his life Maximilian had become remarkably knowledgeable about the financial and personal difficulties of many people whom he had never met, persons who often lived some miles away from him. Thumbing through his extensive filing systems, he perused the extraordinary number of documents that he had either copied or stolen from a vast range of businesses and organizations. Attempting to recall every last person whom he had ever considered as deserving of financial aid, he obsessively listed names until his handwriting had taken up many hundreds of reams of paper, straining towards a futile attempt to create a genuinely exhaustive, definitive list. Having long since intended to make such donations towards the end of his life, the numbers of potential recipients had built up into a ramshackle profusion of names and faces, a state of affairs that was by now desperate for some kind of formal articulation. To the names of the genuinely needy he added a certain number that he selected at random from the telephone directory.

  In order to protect his anonymity, some years ago he had begun to create a steady succession of fake businesses and false identities. Pretending to deal in antiques, he had set up a number of bank accounts with a variety of addresses, an act which ensured that the sums of money passing through his hands would never seem too outlandish, and that the lack of any public premises could easily be explained. Forging documents of identification was an activity that he found he thoroughly enjoyed, a pleasant distraction that almost felt like a comforting pastime. After creating these identities there was no question of anyone thinking that all of the donations he made in 1998 could have emerged from a single source. The money simply disappeared into the vast mass of exchanges that took place each and every day.

  Once he was ready, the donations were given out within the space of a few months. Sums that it had taken him an entire lifetime to build up would vanish during the course of a few seconds. Within a few weeks he was considerably poorer than he had been for many years. Each morning during this period, he would commence the day by authorizing a sizable number of donations, each to emerge from a separate bank account, to be sent to a variety of destinations, all of which he would proceed to cross out from one or another of his voluminous collection of lists. Once he had finished making all of the donations he felt an immense calm, a genuine sense of having relieved himself of a great burden. Grinning, whimsical, he took great pride in the fact that he had performed his civic duty.

  The process was to lend him the experience of the joy of giving. Waves of tenderness and benevolence flowed through his body in undulating cycles. Suddenly, all that he encountered seemed brightened, magnified, as if he was seeing it all for the very first time. Because he had cast his net out so widely, it seemed to him that there was nothing and no one to escape the effect of his donations. Every last detail of the world seemed somehow related to his actions, which had left him feeling genuinely reborn.

  If it was true that some persons received gifts that were of no use to them, others were given items that would prove to be absolutely invaluable to them in the years to come. Varying greatly in scale and quality it could be said that the only factor that really united the many gifts that he gave was their unexpectedness, their arcane randomness, extenuated by the anonymity with which the acts had been executed, a state of affairs that might make the donations look sinister in character to certain eyes. Some were gifts that were given in a heartfelt manner, whilst others had been selected using methods that might be accurately described as “flippant.” Maximilian could only hope that some of his actions were destined to be wholly appreciated. Finally, when all of the donations were completed, there were hundreds of thousands of persons who received, between them, many millions of pounds worth of currency and materials.

  The I.C.A. received hundreds of boxes of felt tip pens. The Horniman Museum a collection of rare ethnographies concerning Papua New Guinea. A Chinese Takeaway in Barking received a year’s supply of noodles. A bureau de change in Westminster received several crates of banknotes taken from board games. A hair salon in Stepney received a delivery of shampoo.

  Mr. B. Cookson, of Redbridge, received a model railway set. Mrs. P. Chandrasekaran, of Stockwell, received a helicopter. Mrs. M. Bevis, of Dulwich, received a purple telescope. Mr. R. Oyeniyi, of Tottenham, received a box of chocolates. Miss P. Dixon, of Peck-ham, received tickets to the Royal Opera House. Mr. A. Kyriakou, of Charlton, received a barrel of rum. Mr. D. Siewkiewicz, of Rotherhithe, received a replica of a diplodocus.

  Switzerland received a singing telegram. Thailand received a cheetah. El Salvador received a piano. Egypt received a space station. Iceland received a silver hand mirror. Singapore received a wooden tower. Chile received a decorative tea set. Madagascar received a bouquet of artificial flowers.

  Encyclopaedias were sent to schools. Microphones were sent to singers. Hats were sent to gentlemen. Violins were sent to dwarfs. Gadgets were sent to gardeners. Islands were sent to artists. Balloons were sent to melancholics. Gardenias were sent to
nurses. Secrets were sent to poets.

  The Alliance for Workers Liberty was given £1.2 million. The Communist Party of Great Britain was given £2.3 million. The Revolutionary Communist Party of Britain was given £2.4 million. The Socialist Party was given £3.6 million. The Socialist Equality Party was given £4.2 million. The Socialist Party of Great Britain was given £5.1 million. The Socialist Workers Party was given £6.2 million. The International Socialist Group was given £6.3 million.

  No one was disappointed by their gifts.

  Millions and Millions and Millions

  (1999)

  roseate faces at the concert hall scattered light thrown from a kerosene lamp a bundle of clothes tied with brown string clear glass of water radiant in sunlight a row of empty flagpoles lost umbrellas collected in the train station depot shaving lather smeared over sink basin red fairy lights throwing hue across low sloping ceiling black cat curled into a ball on top of wicker chair teenagers laughing as they circle the ice rink an octopus specialist consults his library broken glass glinting from the dark of the gutter sodium-orange light falling onto tarmac floor of car park sunflower emerging from clay pot on windowsill softly biting into the green flesh of a ripe pear purity of soprano voice ascending boxes of jigsaw puzzles tied together with thick rubber bands smoke curling towards the timber rafters of the attic a hall filled with handicraft stalls torchlight thrown out from the doors of a tent erected in a back garden silver glitter coating feminine eyelids black ink scrawled across address book pages a green-and-white stripy shoelace tied into a curly knot photograph of a sand castle built on a beach in Mexico pastel drawing of a smiling mermaid a man holding a watermelon walks along the platform a conveyor belt carrying plates of sushi diagrams of matchstick men taped to a wall apron spattered with stains of wet clay faces of children peeping out from a window on the second floor brass cylinders placed across a blue table pink worm wriggling through air a green hilltop covered with ruins tuning a zither to the sound of a piano cutting out a paper snowflake with a pair of scissors cucumber slices on a paper plate catching a sentence of a stranger’s conversation green apples beside silver candelabra words underlined in pencil consulting the face of a sundial a green velvet jacket hanging in a bamboo wardrobe Tibetan prayer flags dangling from a second floor window boogie-woogie tunes available on the jukebox an oak leaf floats across the surface of a pond aloe plant wet with the steam of the shower giant reflections in the dressing room mirrors words scrawled in red chalk viewing newsprint through a magnifying glass smoothing the edges of a moustache floorboards creaking underneath the weight of yellow shoes a collection of wooden masks froth plashing from the head of a brass fountain shreds of ginger frying in olive oil baskets heaped with oyster shells attempted cultivation of pumpkin seeds waving sparklers in the air in circular motions licking at a ball of candyfloss polished marble floors of echoing corridors an ancient parrot resplendent in a living room tarot cards laid out across the floor pinching a ball of soil between thumb and forefinger a yo-yo travels downwards faces coated in flour static from the pocket radio ink drawings of tiny faces using a rolled up newspaper as a telescope long chains of numbers flashing across a screen the giraffe tentatively moves a few inches westward cascading artificial waterfall at the entrance to an office silence within the descending elevator tying a silk cravat around a neck odour of fresh-cut lawns a budgerigar sings inside a wire cage aeroplane fuselage glinting silver in heat haze yellow droplets falling from a glass pipette fingers feeling along the surface of a pebble surge of electricity through an amplifier twirling a ball of spaghetti against a spoon lingering taste of camomile on the tongue arms raised up skywards and joyful following the rotations of wooden cogs the downwards stroke of a hairbrush remembered pictures from old calendars applying lipstick in a round pocket mirror hair falling on to the floor of a barber shop coloured plastic straws bunched together in a glass boiling a pan of milk and brandy listening as a key enters the lock of a front door a samba dancing class in an old church hall dandelion seeds scattered over the lid of a drain a child pointing at the moon with her index finger reciting tales of female aviators warming wet feet against a radiator a thermometer fixed to the wall of the greenhouse sketching the shoulder of a woman reclining splitting open a ripe pomegranate a secret drawer of thimbles observing the movements of an iguana soap lather falling over arms amber light wavering in drowsy heat blackcurrant cordial poured into a tall glass delicately painting slender fingernails a broach crafted in the shape of a whale a tray filled with tiny plastic beads whirring judders of a ceiling fan sugar dissolving into a cup of warm liquid cutting into stalks of celery a bunch of feathers protruding from a cracked jug a face hidden amidst white collonades mahogany caskets holding stacks of maps upward thrust of vibrating organ pipes buttoning up a waistcoat adorned with branches of fruit trees linen gloves draped over the back of an armchair expanses of shade thrown from a canvas awning tangled green vines cascading down a concrete wall an ammonite used as a paperweight the scent of sun lotion drifts across the veranda a small heap of apricots on a circular table puzzle diagrams given due consideration gesturing in the air with a comb pushing down onto typewriter keys a stack of laundered hand towels rapid revolutions of a whirligig a battered attaché case holding a collection of antique spoons glistening strands of seaweed entwined trickling of rubber sap into a burnished copper bowl arrangements of dominos across a coffee table performing pelicans resting in the shade coloured streamers emerging from the mouth of a bronze statuette