The Unmapped Country

by Ann Quin

  Eventually I took a job in a solicitor’s office in Brighton. Again days spent in sleepwalking, through Abstract of Titles; letters that never varied. But the world of love awaited me every evening, I lived for that, would have gladly died for it. The job, the love lasted two years.

  Heart-broken I tackled London again. I got a job as a secretary in the foreign rights department of a publishing firm. Found a room in Soho, and began my first novel, called A Slice of the Moon, about a homosexual, though at the time I had never met one, knew very little about queers (maybe I had read something on Proust?). The salary I earned was barely enough for rent and food. In winter I lived on potatoes, saved on the gas fire by going to bed, hotwaterbottled, typewriter balanced on knees. I rarely went out in the evenings, but was a voyeur, in the sense of watching from my window the prostitutes, and became fascinated by a blonde one, by the type of men she picked up, they all seemed the same in their fawn raincoats, trilbies, the same age. I timed her by watching for the light in her room to go on, off. Never longer than ten minutes. I contemplated what an easier existence I might have by doing similar work, earning in one day what I received from my job at the publishers in a week. However, I continued going into the office, a whale’s mouth of a place, small window overlooked fire escape. Days spent in typing out contracts, answering the telephone, taking letters and so on. And going back every evening to my novel. A time when I worked the hardest at writing, more disciplined than I have ever done since. This lasted eighteen months or more.

  I decided to go back to Brighton, live at home, and take a part-time job, while finishing the book. I worked at St Dunstan’s, in the office, but as there was very little work there, I also took the blind men out—or rather they took me out: straight to the nearest pub, it was up to me to bring them safely back. After one episode of leading two blind men, one either side of me, on to the grass verge, they precariously balanced on the bank, shouting, waving their sticks, thinking I had led them to the cliff edge, I gave the job up. The novel finished I sent it off to a publisher. Rejected. I sent it off to another publisher, likewise rejected. I put it away, and began another book.

  Back in London, I took a part-time job in a solicitor’s office: three days a week, and began a social life of allowing men to wine and dine me (I’d had enough of potatoes—besides they made me fatter) but somewhat guiltily refused to invite them up for coffee afterwards. I fell in love with poverty-stricken painters, who needed feeding as much as I did, so that never lasted long. I spent a winter, spring, doing office work in a noisy basement, and decided I couldn’t face the summer there, so applied for a hotel job in Cornwall.

  Bearing books, half-finished novel, I arrived at the hotel. The setup there consisted of three other girls, a Welsh chef with medieval face, round eyes, who followed me on my solitary walks along the cliffs, and jumped out from behind bushes. The proprietors were always having rows. She lived on drugs. He on drink. Work consisted in making beds, peeling potatoes, washing up, hoovering, and serving thirty/forty British holidaymakers lunch, tea and dinner. Being a waitress was not unlike going on the stage. I had little time for writing. The rows behind the scenes intensified, the chef threatened to leave. I collapsed one morning. I had given my notice in, but been persuaded to remain. I reached the point when a moonlight flit seemed the only way out. I arrived at the railway station in utter terror of being discovered, made to return to the hotel. I reached home speechless, dizzy, unable to bear the slightest noise. I lay in bed for days, weeks, unable to face the sun. If I went out into the garden I dug holes and lay in them weeping. I woke up in the middle of the night screaming, convinced my tears were rivers of blood, that my insides were being eaten away by an earwig that had crawled into my ear. I went to see a psychiatrist, going more from curiosity, and spent a few hours entertaining the horrified lady. I decided to climb back out of madness, the loneliness of going over the edge was worse than the absurdity of coping with day to day living.

  I escaped to Paris, only to shut myself up in a room for a month. I returned to London, and found a part-time job as secretary in the painting department of an art college. I had a nice room nearby, but was turned out because my typing late at night disturbed the landlady. I moved into an attic kind of place, a small skylight, gas ring; partition next to my bed shook at night from the manoeuvrings, snores of my anonymous neighbour. I spent a winter there, writing my second book about a man called Oscar, who kills his monster child—a novel that developed into telephone directory length of very weird content, without dialogue. I finished this, rewrote it, and duly sent off to a publisher. Again rejected, but with an encouraging letter. I tried three more publishers, then gave up, put the book aside, and started another one.

  My job at the art college lasted three years, and before leaving I finished the third novel, of which I did three or four versions. This was accepted. Soon after I went down with glandular TB and spent several happy months revising the book while convalescing; dreaming in fact of months, years maybe, of being in a sanatorium somewhere in the mountains, and writing masterpieces. Instead I had to face the world again, and the problems of being published. The proofs finally arrived, I couldn’t open them, and spent the whole day vomiting from anxiety and depression. Eventually the galleys lay all over my room. The dream had been realized, but reading what I had written seemed like someone else’s dream. A kind of involuntary commitment. And like Camus I became aware that: ‘There is in me an anarchy, a frightful disorder. Creating costs me a thousand deaths, for it involves an order and my whole being rebels against order. But without it I should die scattered.’

  ‌

  ‌Nude and Seascape

  Her head grew out from the surrounding rocks, part of the grey pock-marked structure of the shore, that was probably why he felt no surprise. The body, admittedly, might not be in harmony or in tone, a little too pink, still it could be considered a good contrast. Hair mingling with seaweed floated in a pool of pus-like water. Dark hair crawled up the wrist, stiff fingers stretched out, as though in a last attempt to grasp an insect, flatten some sea-creature, or just to cover a small area of sand for reassurance. He noted the absence of a ring.

  He lit a cigarette and glanced at the cliffs, austere white knights, ready to advance. Inhaling he quickly looked down. If he moved round, his back to the sea, then his shadow fell directly upon the body, and from a certain angle it looked almost beautiful. Definitely the pink fleshiness spoilt everything. He took his coat off, and gently covered the body up. Even then the head emerging from the grey gabardine was far from satisfactory. He struggled into the coat, the lining was damp, the cigarette went out, he had no more matches. He threw the cigarette away, watching it float, drift between the strands of hair, finally, like a boat, it bobbed up and down in the same place. He picked it up and threw it towards the incoming tide. A few gulls circled above, cat-calling, one swooped and tried to peck the woman’s hair, he waved the bird off, it scornfully screeched into the wind. It began raining. He brought his hat well down, and pulled his collar up, looking round for a flat piece of dry rock to sit on. He felt distracted by the body that was such a separate thing from the fine formation of the head, and he could no longer look to his shadow for assistance in the matter of improvement. He would move the body further up.

  He caught hold of the woman’s shoulders, cold but how soft! He dragged her across the pebbles and rocks, soon he would have her in the right position, he looked round for a suitable place. Driftwood, pieces of iron, newspaper, saturated orange peel, broken bottles, this would never do for a background. If he could only have smoked, he would have solved the problem in no time. He stared at the body, it had become patterned by pebbles, the hip-bone jutted out, that also was covered with sand and small stones; at least the crude pink had been relieved. But he would have to find an entirely different setting.

  Perhaps round the cliff there would be a clear expanse of sand, clean polished pebbles, a desert compared to the jungle he was now in. He cu
rled his fingers into the armpits, feeling the razored hair, and recalled how he had never touched anyone there. About half way he rested, sliding his hands away from the body, so that the head lolled to one side. In such a position the body alone took on a certain eye-catching quality, fish-like in the way it curved, but it was unfinished.

  The cliffs from a closer quarter looked less menacing, he could see a line of damp clay at the top, an ink stain that spread, or blood, even a hair line, anything, it didn’t really matter, it was there in its reality, entirety, whatever he chose to identify it with. This time he would carry the body. The rain felt like pellets of earth on his back where the body did not cover him. He heard the waves, but did not feel the spray, he tasted salt in his dry mouth, and noticed his hands were speckled with blood. As he approached the cliff that was like a piece of cake cut out against the darkening sky, the weight on his back became heavier. He stepped over the rocks, and at one time slipped, the water splashed his trousers, sliding down, though he hardly noticed.

  This side was clear, except in one place where there had been a landslide. However there was plenty of sand, and the pebbles were noticeable for their scarcity. As he lowered the body he was aware of the darkness that had enveloped everything. He sank down, everything, it seemed, had been wasted. Was it really too late? He glanced round, but the rain swept over the beach, even the cliffs could not be seen. He felt for the body as a blind person would, and wiped away the sand, pebbles and seaweed; smooth flesh, though still wet, under his groping hands. He would find shelter for the night, there must be a cave somewhere. Soon he came up against the cliff, and only then realised that he had left the body behind. He was filled with overwhelming sadness, as though separated from a loved one, his mistress, wife, mother, women he had loved, or never loved. He stumbled forward and fell. He crawled the rest of the way down, feeling the sand, like insects, creep into his shoes.

  The tide was nearly in, he could hear the waves lashing the rocks nearby. Where was the body, perhaps already carried out? He came to the water’s edge, turned right, feeling sure he must be near it by now. In his haste, he practically tripped over the body; clasping the head he could have cried out in relief. He dragged the body across the sand, running backwards, until he felt the cliff again, here he propped the body, and began searching for shelter. At last he found a place, not exactly a cave, but adequate enough for a night. He went back quickly, the rain spat on his face, the wind swept his hat off; his hands were cold, but his head was bathed in sweat. Catching hold of the woman’s hair he pulled her into a corner between a breakwater and the cliff.

  The morning light so dazzled him that he had to shield his eyes before he could see anything. The tide had receded, probably now on the turn, which indicated it was well past mid-day. How had he overslept at such a time as this? However it wouldn’t take long to accomplish what he had set himself. He looked the body over critically, already with the objectivity of familiarity; it wasn’t all that pink, not even fleshy, apart from a slightly swollen belly, not nearly as bad as he had thought at first.

  He looked across the beach, taking in, or dismissing a space here, a slight angle there, where the shadow of the cliffs fell. Several times he scoured the beach, until finally he decided to move the body about a hundred yards up, where the sand was whiter, and there were no pebbles at all. He was about to pick the body up when he heard voices nearby. Automatically he fell on top of the woman, and pressed her face close. The voices came nearer, he held his breath, pulling himself completely over the body, and felt the cold brittle lips against his own. The voices died away, only when he could no longer hear them did he roll off, lying for a time panting beside the body, his head to one side. Rubbing his lips he struggled up. A few flies settled on his neck, one crawled into the corner of his eye; he picked the body up, and marched on, it was not far to go now.

  He placed the body in a horizontal position, so that the head faced the sea, then he tried it at a right-angle. In fact every position he could think of; what was wrong, the place, the body, or merely himself? He looked round the beach once more, perhaps nearer where the rocks and stones had fallen.

  This time he caught hold of the woman’s legs, already feeling tired, he walked slowly. Against the landslide he found the body alone spoilt the effect, it was really only the head that was needed. He searched for his pocket-knife, it was a little rusty, which meant it would take some time. He caught the woman’s hair and holding the head between his legs, he started to hack. He began, after a while, to feel slightly dizzy from bending his head too low, he let go, watching the woman’s head fall back upon the sand. The sun was already half way across the sky, a bright burning hole. He went on, looking almost dispassionately at his unfinished work, thinking that with the head half off the body already looked better. He wiped the knife’s blade on his sleeve, and started cutting into the sinews of the neck, until the head was segregated. Triumphantly he held it up, laughing, and raised it towards the sun, as though that alone was the witness to his success. He carried the head, by the hair, into the middle of the beach, a golden patch of sand, and here he gently put it down, as he might a child, face upwards. But it refused to stay in this position, and began rolling away, until he stopped it with his foot. He picked it up, and then made a deep hole in the sand, for it to rest in. For the first time he noticed the eyes, green like sea-stones. He stepped back, it seemed too perfect, far too beautiful. The joy he had anticipated was rapidly replaced by disappointment. He began making a deeper hole, then he threw the head in, and pushed the heap of sand quickly over.

  He walked back until he became aware of the headless body, the mouth slightly open, as though laughing. Now in a certain light and shade, in the corner, where he had left it, forgotten, the body looked better than it ever had before. As he approached he heard the voices again, this time much nearer. He looked at his clothes, his hands, they were covered with blood. He waded into the sea.

  ‌

  ‌A Double Room

  They had arranged to meet at 11 a.m. She arrived at 10:30. I know I must be there early or I won’t go at all. Why am I going. Am I in love. No. One doesn’t question. In love with the situation. Hope of love. Out of boredom. A few days by the sea. A hotel. Room overlooking sand. Gulls. Beach. Breakfast in bed. Meals served by gracious smiling waiters. But the land there is flat. Dreary. Endless. Though the sea. The sea. The whole Front to myself. But what if it rains all the time. It drizzled now as she looked out of the station. Cabs swished by. People rushed through barriers. Escape. Escape with my lover. But he isn’t even that. In her small room. On her single bed they had gone so far. Fully clothed. No we’ll wait it wouldn’t be fair I have to leave you soon. Now the weekend he would prove to be

  She clutched her bag. Glanced at the clock. And there he was. His hat cuckoo-perched on an unfinished nest. Dressed in a new suit. Mac just cleaned over his arm. Hullo love. If people stopped to look they would think we were father and daughter on our way to an aunt’s funeral. They don’t look. But think dirty old man. As he takes my arm. My bag.

  The train. Carriages with long seats. Without divisions. Seats that make one aware of sagging shoulders. She straightened up. Straightened her skirt. Haven’t seen that dress before love—new? He removed his hat. It nestled beside him. He had washed his hair. Had a bad shave. Without adding the bits of cotton wool. The train shuttled forward. Stopped. Now I could say I’ve changed my mind I can’t go on with it I feel ill. Well how are things sweet? OK had a row with the wife oh some trivial domestic thing anyway makes it easier. Looks as if it might clear up. Brighter in the west—forecast said it would. How long does it take? About two hours love should be there in time for a beer and brunch in a nice pub somewhere. The rest of the carriage empty. Maybe someone will get in at the next stop. Pray that someone gets in. Ininininininin the train chugged on over the bridge. Children threw stones into the river. He had on the green shirt. She remarked once how nice he looked in green. Matches your eyes. Eyes now
stared directly at her. Was he thinking of the night. Nights ahead. Nights he had saved up for. Relishing in cosy domestic mornings. Reading the papers together. Quietly sipping tea. Quietly satisfied. Three. Four mornings ahead of them. Already I’m thinking in the third person. Seeing us as another passenger might. But no one got in at the next station. He leaned over and took her hand. She looked out of the window. Looked back at him. Cigarette? Her hand released. She dived into her bag. They lit up. He sank back. She took out a paperback. Looked at the words lumped together. Spaces between paragraphs.

  The train stopped. A woman with a child got in. The child held a blue teddy bear nearly bigger than herself. They sat opposite. The woman looked across once. The child more than once. Giggling she approached. Adjusted the bear’s arms. What’s his name then? Tethy. He’s nice isn’t he? She passed the bear over. He took it and balanced it on his knees. The child started crying gimmee back gimmee gimmee Tethy gimmee. Judy come here don’t disturb the gentleman there’s a good girl. He smiled and handed the bear over. It growled. The child giggled and passed it over to me. Do you want to hold Tethy it’s his burfday. She sucked her thumb and watched. Watching. He watched.

  The houses crammed together. Back yards where men leaned on spades. Women in doorways dried their hands on aprons. Fields where boys played football. In small parks girls paused over prams. The sky strips of blue. Houses spread out. Fields. Cows. Sheep. Away from civilisation. Away from the little rituals they had been going through. Manipulated. Meetings in pubs. Fish and chips afterwards. Parties where she danced. Flirted. While he looked on. Hurried fumblings. Kisses. In a cab. Long talks by the gas fire. Holding hands in the cinema. Being shown off to his friends at dinner parties. I’m so glad he’s found you he does need someone bless him and you seem so suited his wife as you probably know is