The Unmapped Country

by Ann Quin

  The glow from the garden ascends. The ladder of fire reaches the ceiling. I am walking on air from room to room. The walls breathe and have luminous edges. Those from the other side have melted away. But Death in white sits on the swing, head bent, hooded. Waiting. The chairs in the garden have been re-arranged. The rag doll has been put on one of the seats, a thrush guards her. Is it safe to go out? From the window I can see the street lined both sides with parked cars. Two blue cars parked outside this house, a sign that it is all right. I can’t be too careful.

  Once outside I can hardly lift one foot in front of the other. The sun burns my energy away. The powers of the moon and the sound of stars only give me strength. I move like a blind person. But the signs are there. As long as I keep within the Controlled Zone I will be safe, outside of that it is enemy territory. The traffic lights are for me all the way. My right side gives me the route to take. But it is all very difficult to learn, to understand. A pain goes through my left side, I have taken the wrong turning. I am out of the Controlled Zone. Two Russian spies are waiting on the corner, just like in a corny film, hiding behind newspapers. The traffic speeds up, then slows down so I can run across the road and into the park.

  The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. I sit down on the damp grass. I cannot go on. But the two spies are approaching rapidly. I have to get up. If they capture me they will use me for their own ends and destroy the Good. Those of the underground movement are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps this is another test—to see if I can manage on my own. It is too much, why aren’t they here to help? The password has been relayed from spy to spy, they appear between trees. I move towards the sound of water, where children poke sticks and watch toy sailing boats dip and spin in the pond.

  In the distance emerging from the thin greyness of autumn mist a skyscraper that looks like a rocket. The space ship to Mars is only half way on its journey, and every breath I take either speeds it on in space or slows it down. My breath today is short, I am giving them a difficult journey. I suddenly see a friend walking along by the edge of the pond the other side. At least I thought she was a friend, but now I am not too sure. She has haunted me all these millions of years, and like so many of those I meet, she had returned once more only for revenge. The past is catching up, she has seen me and waves. I turn away and see the spies shift behind their newspapers, move from the trees into an open space. The park used to be a shelter from the concrete and steel, it is now another inferno teeming with serpents.

  Of course—why hadn’t I thought of it before—how stupid? It is this leather coat my mother gave me, I must get rid of it, then I shall be able to move in a free way, be lighter, for her claim weighs heavily upon me, not only the coat, but the watch she also gave me.

  I leave the coat and watch in a ladies lavatory, and move swiftly from the enemy. In the high street the underground network are there to welcome me, not in words, or even glances, that would be giving the game away. It is our secret. Our mission. The Good must prevail for Him to enter the world again and redeem it. The old match seller outside the underground station smiles. He is truly blind. But he recognises the sound of my steps. I pause for breath, the traffic slows down. I am led into a shop. My hands reach for things quickly; food that will take care of us for a few days. I have never stolen before, but now it is my right, and I put the packages in my bag, not furtively, but quite openly, no one pays any attention. Even so I have to be careful for if the Manager sees the enemy watching then he has to say something. I pay for a few items only. The rest is piled high in my bag, but the weight is hardly anything, and my body feels warmer than it did in the coat.

  I enter a Controlled Zone and slow down. A half demolished church. Dust and the musty smell of past incense and candle wax pervade the place. Small chipped statues of the stations of the cross line the crumbling walls. Wind howls through broken stained glass windows. Sound of pagan feet on the altar steps. Shadow of a leaning cross covers half of Satan’s grinning face. Scuttle of those inhabiting the form of rats under slabs of grey stone. Merlin’s magic staff beats the walls and commands me to go.

  Walking back through a smaller park I climb through leaves. I feel as though I am scaling a waterfall. Those bloody Russian agents are everywhere, women pushing prams with monstrous dummy babies in them. Merlin in disguise waits near the fountain. He faces the sun; his shadow is a sun-dial thinness. Obviously I am not destined to go home yet, for I am led out of the park. It is to side-track the enemy, for I have lost them now.

  I enter a museum; at last I can sit down, but no, a white-haired old man steps by and I have to follow him through winding corridors, in and out of rooms filled with tapestries. Finally into roped off areas depicting rooms of past centuries. Rooms I have known well, stuffy, hemmed in. Rooms where I half existed; rooms where I was betrayed; chairs I sat on and spun out dreams never to be realised; beds where generation after generation I was born, loved, gave birth, died in and born again. The old man pauses in front of each room, and he seems to chuckle.

  ‘Stuffy in here isn’t it?’ He suddenly says, and turns round, then marches out. The first time any one of the underground movement has spoken to me. Not that I wish they spoke, but trying to mind-read the whole time gets exhausting. But I must get out of these ancient haunting times, the staleness is suffocating.

  In the foyer a fat Russian woman agent pretends to look at the cards, and as I pass she pretends to accidentally bump into me. My God I must be careful, another incident like that could be the end; a small jab with a needle, and I would be in their hands. The woman follows me. I jump on to a bus, she sits next to me. The more I move away the closer she edges her monstrous body nearer. I quickly get off the bus and enter a huge department store. At least I have waylaid that one, but there are others in the store, pretending to look at things. I wish I could disguise myself, but I have tried that, wearing different clothes, sun glasses, a scarf, but it is hopeless; their mind reading computer is well programmed for any variation. I have to be careful too about where I might eat, drink and what I take. In fact it is such a risk eating out that I never do now. And then the cost of it; how I despise my previous way of life, allowing Clive to pay six or seven pounds for poisonous food. How on earth do I get out of this grotesque place, the way in was so easy? Escalators going up, but there seem to be none going down. They trap you in places like this, and the agents are everywhere, even the sales assistants have been warned.

  If I get an entirely new outfit perhaps then I will not be detected? I have never before attempted stealing clothes, and my hands tremble as I put on a dress quickly, covered by my own clothes—isn’t that how they do it? I’m done for if there are secret TV screening detectors. But I manage to get away with it, at least until I reach the pavement outside, where I am stopped by a uniformed attendant.

  ‘Madam will you step inside please—we would like to see the receipts for what you have.’ I manage to release his hand from my arm and run up the street into the cover of an underground station, where I go into the ladies, and later emerge in the new clothes, with the labels torn off, my old clothes left for some poor beggar no doubt. Ah well all for a good cause. And on with the journey; will I be recognised now? Possibly not at first, but it will not take long before they catch me out. It is beginning to rain as I enter the park once more. I hungrily drink the milk I pinched from a doorstep, and look round. The park is practically deserted, just a few park keepers brushing leaves, and soon the rain drives them away.

  My new outfit is drenched through, and I am shivering, more through exhaustion than coldness. Can I get back now safely? The way through the park seems clear. But in the distance I hear the warning signal of an ambulance, and soon overhead an aeroplane flashes its red lights. Sure enough that woman agent awaits me on the path leading out of the park. There is nothing for it but to climb over the railings and take a devious route out. A peacock’s cry signals that this is the right way, and other birds fly from branch to branch showing me the way th
rough the undergrowth. The trees are so thick that they provide shelter from the rain, but the journey is difficult, over mounds of those buried, of those unable to find release, and I hear their cries with every step I take. At last I arrive at the edge of the park, and climb over the railings. No one about. All is quiet save for the dripping of rain on leaves and concrete, and the sound of city traffic beyond high walls.

  Finally I reach the flat and lie down. My head spins. Automatically I look at the wall, but no face is there. I was granted just one vision of God, and that I must hold to. Nothing can be taken for granted any longer, even this flat, where I felt secure before. I must soon leave; the whole place is bugged. I must switch off the electricity, take the phone off the hook. But where shall I go? Do not question. And what of Clive? First you must go on with your journey, without him. Take all my savings out of the bank. Tomorrow I shall leave. No one must know. But first switch off the mains, then they will be less likely to detect my movements.

  The rain has stopped, but they have not stopped searching for me. Two agents with an Alsatian dog walk by; ah how they pretend to be unassuming. A red car now parked outside the house, wired in to my radio—well I won’t switch that on. I sit in the gathering darkness, hypnotised like a snake before the jets of flame and the sounds of the gas fire. Three candles are lit, two have steady fingers of light, one trembles. Clive is on his way back. How can I tell him—explain about switching off the mains? But of course, everything falls into place, he will not be coming back tonight, he stays in the country for an evening’s teaching session. Look after him well spirits of the night. And yes they are here, three loud bangs from the gas fire prove that they have heard me.

  My hands are directed to certain books, which I arrange in a circle as directed, opened not at random, but from their choice, or the way the wind blows through the half open window. It takes me a long time to read now, a paragraph holds so much significance, and everything links up. Soon I pick up the signal that it is Ireland I must go to, release the spirits of my ancestors in that country, and from there? But first things first, I must obviously not question further.

  I move into my animal sleep, where my body sleeps, but my eyes remain open. Two hours suffice, and I am wide awake for the rest of the night. No time now spent in dreaming, for everything that happens and has happened is realised fully, no longer hidden in some strata of the unconscious.

  A full moon cradled by the trees calls me out into the gardens. I hear the light of the stars, and feel the colour of the west wind forcing the shape of branches. The spirits of the oak tree protect me from those struggling in their prisons from inferior trees.

  My right side bids me leave and go into the street, but there are shadows lurking from doorways. Where can I hide? I dare not go back to the flat, they will only follow me. I try a car door, it opens. I climb in. It reeks of tobacco and beer. I have made a mistake, a murder has taken place in this car. They have trapped me. They will interrogate me, they will use me and then I will be executed. But I am saved, a police car appears on the corner, and blinks its lights. The shadows move back. It is safe to get out of this car. Return to the safety of the gardens. I have to be so careful, a little thing like that and I am lost, the world is lost.

  I sink back against the oak tree and float up into the Milky Way. But the wind forces me out of the gardens once more, and into quiet back streets, where only cats are disturbed by my presence, and perhaps my steps echo in someone’s dreams. I go towards the North Star. How quickly I can move at night, as though I am flying through the city. A city I am only now discovering. Territories that have been taken over by the enemy are in complete darkness; those of the underground movement always have a light showing, and these I keep close to, for I have found that it is painful moving in the enemy areas, their forces pull me back. At the end of the street a man waits in a car, moving slowly now towards me. I shuffle by in the disguise of an old tramp woman, but it does not fool him, he knows, and slowly pursues me. The sound of wheels hissing on the asphalt, getting near and nearer. I hide in the hallway of a block of flats, until I hear the car move away.

  I have no idea where I am, some unknown street, but the North Star is there. The engine throbbing warns me that the car is still waiting round the corner. The panic is so bad now that I even consider the idea of knocking up one of the underground movement people, but I cannot betray any one, and besides they would only pretend they didn’t know, couldn’t help, pretend I was some mad woman and call the police who in turn would carry out some pretence of officialdom. I must get back. But how? I do not even know where I am. Make a run for it that is the only way,

  I stumble out and run down back streets, until I reach the main road, which I recognise. But the going is heavy, painful, I can hardly breathe, for I am in an area where the Zone ends. Now there are more cars hissing along, headlights blinding me from all directions. I want to get back to the flat—oh God please help me, let me go home. But you have no home, these commonplace little safety-valves must be liquidated, you are no longer a child, so stop behaving like one. And I am behaving like a child, stranded, no one to turn to.

  On an island where either side of me evil forces are speeding by in their monstrous machines. I am not breathing properly, damn it my lungs are in poor shape, all those years of nicotine and tar; if I hold my breath then the cars will slow down and I can get across to the other side. Like underwater I manage it, and gasping for air I turn into some more back streets. Obviously it is too dangerous for me to return to the flat, will I have to put up at a hotel? Wait a minute there are some friends nearby, though they are more Clive’s friends than mine, but still…

  ‘Sandra what on earth’s the matter—are you all right?’

  ‘I’m being followed quick let me in.’

  ‘Followed by whom?’

  ‘Don’t laugh but I’m being followed by Russian spies.’

  ‘You better come in and tell us all about it—want to stay the night here?’

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  ‌One Day in the Life of a Writer

  Woke up from dream of my publisher handing me a cheque, to the post—letter from my publisher regret Arts Council have refused a grant, no reason given… That’s ’cos they read what I did with the last one. Ah well on to a passable crap. Retreat into ex-tenant’s room to write, confronted by a little heap of dust, bugs, etc., landlady has brushed up, cursing I put into dustpan to the sound of ‘do you want some coffee now or later are you warm enough in there what do you want for lunch there’s kippers, lamb stew, eggs or bacon or…?’. Close door and confront blank paper in typewriter. Look at some notes made from Harry Guntrip’s book on Schizoid Phenomena, Object Relations and the Self. ‘Patients become inaccessible emotionally, when the patient seems to be bodily present but mentally absent.’ ‘I went down into a tower and then had to go through a tunnel to get out. Though I had come in that way I was horrified.’ ‘The symptoms were a defence against guilt and depression about his hostility to his mother. He was orally dependent on her. In this connexion it is significant that he sucked his thumb all his life.’ I start my round of oral masturbation with a cigarette. Window cleaner props ladder outside and stares in. Re-start novel; finally get the tone right, decide that’s the most important part of it all: the tone.

  Lunch. Walkies along the Front with Mother. We sit down. ‘Look at that it looks like a Martian look he’s coming to get you—’ Umhhhh? A large piece of shitty paper bounces along. ‘Oh God he’s coming to sit next to us come on dear let’s move.’ Ummhhh? ‘No thank God he’s decided to sit next to them.’

  Library—practically empty except for the section I want. The usual eccentric-looking fraternity gathered around the Psychology section.

  Open a book on Hostility and read ‘You can guess what happened, if you do not already know. In the wee hours of the morning Stretch would tiptoe to the door of the guest room, open it ever so softly, and peek in, just to make sure. You can also guess what he saw and what utter c
onsternation seized him at finding his guest either too short or too long—never a perfect fit. And now, knowing how it was that Stretch was trying so hard to be a perfect host, it is quite easy to see that next he simply had to do what he did.’ Back along the Front where Bergy men furtively walk, sit, spit and mutter.

  Back home and nice tea dear. Start decorating and spend most of the time wiping off emulsion drops from parquet flooring, burn hole in carpet from cigarette, burn hole in table lampshade. Give up in despair and foul temper. Back to writing the tone is all wrong. I’m no longer capable of writing that’s why the Arts Council—they know you know. Watch tele. Watch myself watching and being watched by Mother in between her sleep, and hear her shudder as an old woman comes on. And so to bed.

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  ‌A Note on Sources

  Since Ann Quin’s death in 1973, her papers have remained scattered across archives and private collections. The stories and fragments collected in this volume were gathered from the Calder and Boyars Manuscript Collection at the Lilly Library, Indiana University and from the private collections of her friends, the writer Carol Burns and Fr. Brocard Sewell in London, the poet Larry Goodell from New Mexico, the New Zealand Pop artist, Billy Apple. I would like to extend my thanks to all the above, as well as Meg Randall of El Corno Emplumado, the staff of the Washington State University Archives, Jane Percival, Robert Sward, Richard Copsey and Tina Barton for their help in locating and collecting these stories.