by WALL, ALAN
'It sounds like a labyrinth.' She started laughing.
'You're right, Tom. It sounds like a labyrinth. Though don't ask me who's the minotaur and who's the virgin.' At which point he put his hand on her thigh. And she left it there. No rules any more. She was going to have to make up a new set quickly.
'Are you married, Tom?'
'Getting divorced.'
'That makes two of us.'
'We could share notes. Don't believe everything you hear about me, by the way. '
'Do you have somewhere to go?'
'Not my house. My wife and child are there. Things are getting sorted out, but not quite yet.'
'Well, we certainly can't go back to the Signum.'
'Why not? I heard you stay over there sometimes.'
'By myself. With Hamish lurking around ... God, I can't even bear to think about it.'
'We can be quiet.'
Sober, Sylvie would never have done it, but she was far from sober. The two double vodkas on an empty stomach, then all the wine, probably more than a litre, since Tom had been more attentive to her needs than his own. Plus the odd sense of exhilaration as it occurred to her more and more vividly that she was free. She had told Owen to go and it seemed that he'd done as he was told. And she had not spent the night with Henry, because he had accepted her farewell, and put her in the spare bedroom instead. So she wasn't sleeping around, was she? If anything, she was doing the opposite of that. She owed no one anything and she'd been not far off a nun for the last few years. And she did like Tom. Something about both his intellect and his body appealed to her this evening.
As they left the pub she spotted Lionel, wet-headed and solitary.
'Out chasing women?' she asked him. 'Au contraire.'
Five minutes later they made their way up the creaking steps of the Signum, tiptoed down the corridor, and shuffled in to Sylvie's room with only the mildest of giggles.
'You'll have to leave early. Before Hamish is up and about.'
'I'll go first thing.'
So much of sex is politeness. That was in one of Owen's scripts, she remembered, but she could never remember which one. Tom was very polite at the beginning. Decorous, responsive, making sure she liked each stage. She did. His body, taut and agile, was such a change from Henry. A lot more like Owen, in fact, though less angular, less ... she didn't know less what. Then he became less polite, but by then that was what she wanted him to be. She called out his name in the darkness.
When she woke up, he had already gone. There was a note on the table. I'll phone you. Love, Tom. She remembered who and where she was briefly, and then decided she had better get back to Chester before she remembered any more. She wanted a quick shower. She stepped out on to the corridor and saw Hamish sitting on a wooden chair, reading a book. He looked up at her, unsmiling.
'Ms. Ashton, as I believe you are now called, I think you and I need to have a serious talk at some point about the nature of this institution.' She could think of nothing at all to say, so walked in silence down to the bathroom.
The Motel Route to Wisdom
The book that lay open on the floor next to the makeshift bed where Alex Gregory slipped in and out of consciousness recounted the long travail that had been Lady Pneuma's life in America when she first proclaimed her gospel: the motels, the manicured greensward rising to the shopping mall, diners with their burgers, fizzing drinks, heavily-gutted men draped in white aprons. A world shaped into a prophylactic against her seminal words. She spoke at length about cars. Cars, the endless lines of cars in their liturgical processions, back and forth to the mighty urban shrines. For what? The flashing shrines with their truckloads of secular treasure. Moloch and Mammon, in a dizzy waltz, with a neon Christ perched on the top, a shining decoration, no more, his crucified body curving now like a dollar sign.
Science she proclaimed a degenerate form of art, which had replaced song with measurement and had forgotten in any case that all counting ended in infinity. Its humble function had been to describe our location; instead it had usurped the sacred wisdom. Good and evil, she explained, are recently invented categories, brought in to explain why all the causes cannot cohere; and thereby enable us to fathom why there is contrariety and tension in the force-field of the world. What Pneuma had noted more and more in her study of the goddess was that she who gives birth also slaughters. Astarte, Medea. But these are the takers of flesh, even the eaters of flesh; they enter the flesh of the gods and are entered by it. Not so with Mary. She is entered once and once only, by the Spirit. It is air itself then that enters her, and the god who then exits.
It was a Taoist doctrine that evil, seeing its own image in the mirror, would promptly destroy itself, unable to countenance the horror that was its own identity. One day Pneuma had looked in the mirror and found nothing there at all; no engrossed dark matter. Then she knew the real journey had begun. But it had still taken the intervention in her life of Hermann Gebler to launch her world-wide movement. Gebler was technically her husband, though as she explained in her introduction, this term could be no more than a flag of convenience, given that any possibility of fleshly union had already been transcended. It was Gebler who had seen her charismatic potential; he who had formed the Delta Foundation, published The One True Elemental, and gone on to produce the videos, arrange the elusive tours, distribute the hagiographic vignettes. Her book was dedicated to him, and the goddess.
This book lay face-down on the floor as Alex's body began its emaciated journey into hypothermia. She was seriously weakened now by four weeks of inanition. She was also radically dehydrated since she had drunk nothing for three days. When she occasionally surfaced into consciousness she felt a sharp dryness in her throat which would have made her retch, but there was nothing inside her to retch with. Her chest had a stone weight upon it. She felt as though each organ inside her were being eaten by acid. Could this finally be the beginning of enlightenment?
Doll's House
Sylvie was hoping she didn't have to see Hamish again for a while. She needed a little solidarity. So when she heard Alison's door open, she waited two minutes then slipped across quickly to see her.
'Hello Sylvie. How's things?'
'A bit complicated really.' Sylvie was staring at the large poster which Alison had pinned to her wall. It showed a gleaming sculpture by the Italian artist Rembrandt Bugatti. Alison had been to the exhibition in London a few years before.
'Rembrandt Bugatti. Now there's a name to make you pause.'
'Bet you can't think of anyone else with the surname of a famous artist followed by a famous car?'
'Bacon Rolls?' Alison smiled; Sylvie didn't. Alison was three inches smaller than Sylvie, who wasn't very tall herself. This meant that Alison was the only person in the Institute Sylvie could look down on. Alison was even more hunched than normal. All the tension in her body, in her life, seemed to congregate in the middle of her shoulders. Her head seemed to be trying to disappear into her spine. Sylvie constantly had the urge to get hold of her by the neck, and pull her upright in a single jerk. There now, that's better, isn't it?
'So what's going on?'
'You won't get angry with me, will you?'
'No.'
'Promise?'
'I promise.'
'I told Owen I want a divorce.'
'Why should I get angry with you for that? The only question there is why it took you so long.'
'That's not all. Do you remember the bloke I mentioned to you in Shrewsbury - the one with the Picassos?'
'The one who was twenty years older than you and was letting his waistband out as he grew more spherical?'
'That's the one. Well, he asked me to marry him this week.' Alison started laughing. 'Can I guess the answer?'
'The thing is ... I had slept with him from time to time. I didn't really think of it as an affair, to be honest.'
'More of a sleep-over. '
'More of a monthly sleep-over. I mean he's very sweet and always very nice to m
e and ... Oh God, Alison.'
'Made a change from Owen, I should think. Which I daresay you needed. No harm done, is there, and I should think he got his money's worth, knowing you.'
'Owen could be sweet when it suited him, you know Let's not start slagging off men.'
'Why not? They spend half their lives slagging off women.'
'Anyway, there's something else.'
'Christ, Sylvie, where do you get your energy? Not surprised you haven't finished your book.' Sylvie took a deep breath. 'Last night I slept with Tom Helsey.' For the first time Alison's lips tightened. Any trace of a smile now disappeared. Her head seemed to ratchet one more inch down into her spine.
'Are you out of your mind?'
'I couldn't remember what you said about him exactly ... I mean I'd had a few drinks.'
'Did he tell you he was getting divorced?' Now Sylvie's lips tightened.
'Yes. I mean, he is getting divorced.'
'No, he isn't, but that's his line. I've been told. He's already worked his way through all the old slappers over in the science block, so now he's moving in on the Signum, is he? He only shifted his attention to the staff because it was made plain to him by the powers-that-be over there that if he fucked another student, he'd be out. Where did you do it?'
'Here.' Alison's small delicate features now registered a distaste intensified by incredulity.
'HERE?'
'And Hamish ... seems to know all about it.' Alison put her hand to her face.
'We're almost quorate, you know, to bring a vote of no confidence against that poisonous dwarf ... ' - who was, Sylvie couldn't help noting, several inches taller than Alison herself- 'I do hope you're not going to wobble, Sylvie. Because if you do, you'll find you don't have many friends around here.'
*
Henry Allardyce sat surrounded by minotaurs and told himself that he knew, and had always known really, that it could never have worked out. Actually he told his third wife this, since he had taken her photograph out of the drawer where he had lain it face-down after he had started his affair - was that the right word? - with Sylvie. They'd slept together no more than twenty times. Was that an affair, or merely a take-away pizza service, with some accommodation thrown in? Had he behaved like a doting older man? He had, hadn't he?
'I suppose I just needed a little comfort, darling. Don't hold it against me. You don't, do you?' The image in the photograph uttered no complaint, so he took that as a no. 'She was very attractive. No more attractive than you, of course. But then you haven't walked through my door for such a long time, have you? And she did, that's all.' The serene smile of the third, and by far the sanest, of Henry's spouses assured him that he need feel no guilt. He might accuse himself of a little emotional folly, if he so chose, but guilt was unnecessary. He found this comforting. He put the photograph back into place on the table and picked up the invitation that had landed on his mat.
Henry Allardyce
is invited to the opening of
Dressmaker
by Miriam French
He was hardly ever interested in the things put on by that gallery in town. The last one - Everything's Untrue Except the Dog - had left him bored and baffled. But today he felt like getting out. He would lock up the gallery and walk in to Shrewsbury. He would see the exhibition, might even have a late lunch at that wine bar at the top of the hill, having checked the art section of the Oxfam bookshop. Cheer up, lads, he said to the minotaurs on the walls. You can't lose what you never owned in the first place.
Dressmaker. In the centre of the floor was an old doll's house, a big Edwardian-looking one, and all around it, forming queues to each door, were files of miniature dressmaker's dummies on their monopod metal stands, each one tarnished with age. All the clothes on the dummies were distressed, cut or tom, and some had flashes of red satin showing through like tiny rivulets of blood. Some still had their pins sticking out at curious angles from unexpected places. Henry found it oddly moving. He normally avoided anything to which the name 'installation' could be attached, but he kept walking round and round. Fragments of old newspapers had been pasted on to the doll's house, dating from the time of the First World War, and it took him a moment to realise that the tom headlines, if you read them in sequence, spelt out: Dressing ourselves in one another's wounds. And then when you peered through the windows of the little house you saw those photographs, the heartrending photographs from the trenches. Men slumped over their rifles, smoking. Men with bandages on legs or heads or arms, or everywhere.
'What do you think, Henry?' This was Maria, the gallery owner. He knew her voice so well he didn't even turn around. 'I think it's beautiful, Maria, honestly. Not sure what it is, exactly, but I'd be happy to be holding this exhibition at my gallery. '
'Then let me introduce you to the artist, Miriam French.' Henry turned around and saw the tall woman in a white trouser-suit. Her hair was either blonde or bleached and it had been cropped to within a quarter of an inch of her skull. Her eyes were aquamarine. In her heels she was a good six inches taller than Henry, and she stared down at him smiling.
'Miriam, this is Henry Allardyce. Riverside Galleries. Remember, I told you about him.'
'You have the Picassos. The Vollard Suite. Some of my favourite pictures in the world, but I've only seen most of them in reproduction. Any chance I could come over and have a look?'
'Why not? When did you want to come?'
'I'm going back to London tomorrow. Would this evening be any good?'
'Fine. About seven-thirty. You know where to come?'
'I'll give her directions, Henry.'
So Henry didn't go to the wine bar. He went to Marks and Spencer instead and bought various salads, and a large pizza. Vegetarian, just in case. A couple of bottles of decent red wine, then he went back home and put his wife's photograph away again. Could it really be that one door was opening as another closed?
'This is ridiculous,' he said to himself. She couldn't be any older than Sylvie. Calm down, Henry. It's Picasso's bull's horns she wants to examine closely, not yours.
*
But in fact the evening was not ridiculous; it was remarkably pleasant. And it became evident to Henry early on that any hint of physicality was out of the question. He couldn't work out why he was so sure of this; certainly not any lack of attraction on his part. Then Miriam spoke of her partner in London, and once, instead of saying partner, she said Sue. Now we've got that out of the way, thought Henry, we might as well enjoy ourselves.
'Do you like pizza?'
'Love it.'
'Would you be vegetarian, by any chance?'
'How did you know?'
'Just a hunch. I can spot female vegetarians at fifty paces. I'm often responsible for saving them from starvation. Shropshire can be a harsh environment for herbivores. '
And for the rest of the evening, Henry gave her the benefit of his considerable knowledge about the Vollard Suite. She really did want to know, and he had the knowledge she needed. Once every few months a busload of students from one Shropshire school or another would turn up by arrangement, and Henry would give them a lecture for half an hour. He didn't need notes. Miriam often sprang up from her chair, and looked closely at some detail of one of the etchings. As she observed the pictures, he observed her. Not for the first time in his life, he thought it might be a shame he wasn't a woman.
As she was leaving she said, 'Thank you so much. It's been delightful, it really has. I can't tell you what it's meant to me to sit there all evening with those Picassos. If I come back here one day with my partner, would you mind if we both landed on you for a couple of hours?'
'You're more than welcome, at any time.' He meant it too. 'Give me enough notice to buy the pizza. Sue a vegetarian too, is she?' Miriam nodded. 'I know how you all tend to stick together.'
'You should have Maria over some time, you know. She'd appreciate it.'
'Can't stand her husband, unfortunately.'
'Neither can she now. He's
gone. Hadn't you heard? Shacked up with some twenty year-old piece of skirt in London. Shouldn't think that’ll last long.'
She stopped and turned back towards him when she reached the gate.
'Do you think I might be able to do something with it? This labyrinth theme?'
'Everybody else is. But just remember, when you're in the labyrinth, you're marked for death.'
'What if you're out of the labyrinth?' Henry thought for a moment.
'You're still marked for death.'
'Then it sounds like six of one and half a dozen of the other to me.'
Nudes
That was the title of one of Sylvie's more popular lectures.
She normally started with Walter Sickert, a painting called Le Lit de Cuivre. The woman naked on the bed is only half-emerging from the murk, as though the world of Edwardian England is simply not ready for the openly naked body, as though the rotting fabric of the zeitgeist clings about the portrayal of nudity so as to properly obscure it. Then it was back to nineteenth-century Paris: Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas, Rodin. The nude of the brothel; the nude of the rub-down; the nude of athletic sexuality. For once Lionel's eyes weren't fixed on her legs. There was a minor detour then through Alma-Tadema - the nude as a spurious exemplum of antiquity. Stimulation as scholarship. The aesthete's eye as the camera lens of the pornographer. On to Klimt: Viennese corruption, a gilded invitation card slipped inside a silk chemise, followed by Egon Schiele: sex in the sanatorium, sex as tubercular derangement. One or two slides of lngres' orientalist fantasies of nubile women spread over richly woven eastern carpets. A few versions of Andromeda; and one of George and the Dragon. You didn't have to be schooled as an expert in the workings of the psyche to appreciate the significance of a man stiff in his armour approaching a naked young woman chained to a rock. Not everyone's idea of a good time on a Saturday night, but archetypal all the same. Then she would confront them with Stanley Spencer and his double portraits with that monster of subterfuge and duplicity, Patricia Preece. She explained how this woman had consumed the artist, brutally, heartlessly, with malice aforethought. His innocence was nutritious enough for her to feed upon for the rest of her life. These paintings somehow prefigured that consumption. She edged towards Francis Bacon: sex as rage, a howl against the void and then, once she was sure they were ready for it, and Lionel wouldn't pass out, Lucian Freud.