The Brooke-Rose Omnibus

by Brooke-Rose, Christine

  – I wonder why she bothers. I never asked her for anything. I don’t really care one way or another.

  – Now that’s not a nice thing to say. You’ve been out of work for nineteen months now and I can’t take all the burden.

  – So has everyone else.

  – She has strong ideas on the subject, you know. She said to me while she was waiting for the Manager on the telephone, it’s a purple telephone you know, she said, it’s not charity, it’s not philanthropy, Lilly, you must understand, it’s a basic right, she said, but when a thing gets out of hand, like this, and for reasons beyond anyone’s control it becomes impossible to give a large number of men their basic rights one can but do one’s bit to help one individual case whenever it comes one’s way. That’s what she said. Then the top man came on.

  The steaming circle of gruel in the bowl is greyish white and pimply. The squint is not so wide, or so blue, in the luminosity thrown by the oblong of moving light on the red stone floor and in the rectangle of rippling light on the wooden table.

  – I also think she’s very fond of me, that’s why. I’ve worked for her a long time, all in all. She’s a real lady, and she knows, well, she respects me as a human being. And you too. She went to the trouble of writing you a note, where is it? Oh and by the way, I got Mrs. Ivan to clear out those tins. She seemed quite upset, but I think I managed to make her understand about wastage and poisoning. After all there is constant famine about. I made signs on my tummy. She made signs with her hands like an inverted V, roof she said, and Ivan, I don’t know what she meant, unless they’re building a shack of their own somewhere and need the tin.

  By hand, across the top left corner. By hand. I am so sorry about all this mix-up, but all is well now, please come to the house tomorrow and report, with this note, to Mr. Swaminathan, my Managing Agent, who will give you all the instructions you need. D. Mgulu.

  The gesture is of crushing the note into a ball and flicking it across the kitchen towards the hanging beads. It falls into the flowing red river on the floor.

  – Damn the woman. Lilly, you’re worth all of them put together. Don’t ever despair of me, Lilly, don’t.

  The gesture is of tenderly enfolding all the refracted colours and bringing them together again in one transparent light. A teinoscope would no doubt reveal that the squint is really a straight look in the luminosity thrown by the sudden knowledge of the person inside the person, a little girl perhaps, dandled on the knee. The gesture is of capturing an electron from the nearest orbit and rearranging everything within by the emission of an X-ray. You never know when that may come in useful. There is thus no need to talk, in the best of possible worlds.

  DAILY from 8 a.m., outside the Labour Exchange, a dark blue face the size of a bungalow lies upside down at eye-level, the thick hair spread like roots over red desert land, the eyeballs pushing their black nucleus down towards the underlining eyebrows and the street below, the teeth agape in rigid horror, or pleasure as the case might be. The dark blue breasts are high and rounded tumuli slashed by curved oblongs of gloss as if by the nearness of the spidery hand or by the invisible emanation from a black sphere of crinkly matter that hangs above like a carbonised sun within the slanted orbit of an enormous shoulder line, all this beneath a giant cactus candelabrum, SO TORRID, SO TENDER.

  The street follows the curve of the lower line of teeth agape above the upper line of teeth. It is not as curved as the chin-line or the rounded tumuli slashed with gloss, nor does it make the same orbit as the enormous and slanted shoulder line. The street swarms with much smaller people.

  Face to face, however, the man is large and coffee-coloured, dressed in pale blue. He holds out a black thermoplastic hose too close for comfort. All around, just above the crowd, conventional weapons point.

  – What about you, sir, would you like to comment on the situation?

  – Yes. It’s a mug’s game.

  Behind the metallic trellis the face is very black Bahuko, star-fished with light-reflecting sweat, although the day is not yet hot.

  – Unemployment benefit pills cannot be administered retrospectively I’m afraid. Now then, occupation?

  – Look, do we have to go through all that?

  – You know the rules. Three weeks of non-attendance, I’m sorry but you have to re-register. We can’t keep up otherwise. Here, you can fill it up for yourself if you like. I’m not fussy. I’ll see what there is. Hmm. Difficult, you odd job men.

  – But I’ve got an odd job. That’s what I came in to report. In any case I attended yesterday.

  – Now wait a minute, there’s a note here at the bottom. Someone rang through about you. A Mrs. er –

  – Mgulu.

  The young palm tree in the square mops the luminous white sky, framed darkly by the door. The square has one slightly rounded side which the street at this point skirts, forming an almost imperceptible segment of a non-existent circle. To the right the street continues straight on, and to the left it forks into two narrower streets, one of which continues straight on. From the Labour Exchange, the impression is one of a straight street, although experience has proved that a man standing at one end to the left cannot see the street at the other end to the right. Or vice versa, as the case might be. The Street in any case is swarming with people. On the other side, on the curved edge of the square, a large collision of them is clustered in arrested motion, overtopped by microscopes pointing. In the centre of the group the man in the pale blue suit holds the black plastic hose to the chest level of a man with high cheekbones polished like shoe-tips and a white gold smile.

  – Are you going to vote for the Asswati Governor or against?

  – Last time I was sweet, lick me now, said the salt.

  – What do you have against the Governor’s policies?

  – I never said I was against.

  – Well do you disapprove of particular policies, the satisfaction campaign, for instance?

  – What satisfaction?

  – Surely you’ve seen the slogan. We won’t demand satisfaction till we satisfy demand.

  – Yes I disapprove of that.

  – Why? Don’t you think it’s dynamic and imaginative, something the people have been really crying out for. Genuine satisfaction.

  – No, I don’t. I’d call it a demand campaign anyway.

  – So you’ll be voting against the Governor then?

  – I never said that.

  – What about you, sir, which way will you be voting tomorrow?

  – I don’t know. Haven’t made up my mind yet.

  – Do you approve of the demand campaign?

  – Yes, I think so. Yes, yes, I suppose so.

  – Why do you approve of it? I mean, isn’t it a little hard on the unemployed millions?

  – Well, yes, I suppose it is in a way.

  – Are you unemployed?

  – No. I’m a crane-operator.

  – Are you satisfied with the Government’s record?

  SO TORRID, SO TENDER. The face lies upside down, the eyeballs pushing their black nucleus towards the underlining eyebrows and the street below. A group of men stands under them, near the steps of the Labour Exchange. The slight curve of the street follows the curve of the lower line of teeth above the upper line. It is not as curved as the chin-line or the tumuli that come alive like ant-heaps to the nearness of the spidery hand.

  – I’m a physicist. I used to be an alchemist. Lick me now, said the salt.

  – I’m a maize-grower.

  – I have been all these things.

  The buildings to the right of the Labour Exchange are drab four-storey municipal buildings very similar to each other. To the left there is the face, covering the windows of several old houses from the top of the shop fronts to the roof two floors up. Next to the face is the Colourless child, shrivelled and smudged with sores, COME OVER INTO PATAGONIA AND HELP US. The houses continue at the same low level all the way along the street to the left until they merge on accou
nt of the slight curve, into the opposite houses on this side, which from here seem taller but may or may not be, according to the degree of perspective trick. To the right of the Labour Exchange the height of the municipal buildings is more or less maintained with offices and shops up both the narrow forking streets towards the centre of the town.

  The black mannequins in the dress shop to the right wear this year’s colours, red and orange, and dance in arrested motion, protruding their behinds.

  The faces clustered round the man in the pale blue suit vary from shining black to lightest brown and occasional pink or yellow. The cluster could be of caladium hybrids, or a speckled sea anemone, for it is mobile in a liquid way. One face opposite is as lined as a walnut and entirely surrounded with white hair. The face stands out in stark serenity.

  The black plastic hose is being proffered to the neighbouring man, a dark Madrassi Indian, who sways gently from one foot to another. The black plastic hose follows almost imperceptibly, like a dying metronome.

  – Yes. I want to say that to deny is the only true human power, rather than free will.

  – Erm. Does that mean you’re going to vote against?

  – That I cannot say. The reflected image of any object or notion depends on our acceptance, but we can efface it in a thought. Thus the power of negation determines the faculty of reasoning.

  – I see. Well if you’re a professor perhaps you’d like to comment on the situation?

  – Oh, no. I am in business. Import and export.

  Somewhere in the archives there will be evidence that this occurred, if it is kept, and for those who wish to look it up. Other episodes, however, cannot be proved in this way. Sitting alone, for example, on a kitchen chair, making love. A rectangle of light ripples on the wrinkled wood. If all the molecules that compose the solid table were gradually to move faster and faster, as fast as the molecules of liquid, the fastest would have sufficient velocity to move out of the substance. The table would then evaporate. A little pool of liquid might be left on the red stone floor, but otherwise it would be impossible to prove that the table had been there. A radio-isotope carbon 14, with a half-life of 5600 years, might perhaps trace and measure its prehistoric existence, but only for the human mind behind the carbon 14, the development of phenomena being correlative to that of consciousness. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Better get on with the job since a job, at last, is to hand, with or without identity.

  The facia-board in its long rectangular frame of rough wood lies on the floor of the new pavilion. It measures six metres long. The width, or rather the height, for it has to go up on the wall, is eighty centimetres. The stencilled shapes cut into the facia-board are rounded, like flattened rhomboids. There is much banging about and a Colourless boy sings When You Love Somebody above the banging. Some of the stencilled shapes are rounded trapezes, some are rounded oblongs, some are irregular ovals. There are kidney shapes, lung shapes, tongue shapes, cardiac shapes, bladder shapes, womb shapes and possibly even stomach shapes and spleen shapes. There is a small thyroid too, between the spleen and the womb. Now only the pieces of coloured perspex remain to be stuck over the cut-out shapes.

  When you love somebody

  Forget it

  When you want somebody

  Scrap it

  The perspex pieces must be a little larger, so as to stick on to the board since this is the wrong side, they need not be cut to the exact shape but may remain geometrical, providing they do not overlap each other, for they must lie flat. When the board goes up on the wall over the lights, only the rounded shapes on the other side will show, and be lit up in all the different colours. It is difficult to decide on the colours. Blue for the lung perhaps, and green for the spleen, purple for the kidney. Or pink for the lung, blue for the spleen, red for the womb, purple for the cardiac shape. No, that won’t do, two purples are next to each other. It is more important to balance the colours in relation to each other than to equate them with the significance of shapes. The designing and lay-out of the shapes has been done by someone else.

  Mr. Swaminathan stands on the steps of the gazebo and sways gently from one foot to the other.

  – Yes, well, how do I know it’s you? This piece of paper is quite creased all over.

  – My wife threw it away by mistake.

  – What? Speak up man.

  – My wife threw it away by mistake.

  – You might have found it in a garbage-can for all I know. There’s no name on it. If at least it said admit bearer I could rightfully take the risk. You have borne it, I can’t deny that.

  – I can tell you about the mix-up she refers to.

  – Yes, well, she did describe you to me as a matter of fact. The white hair. But you people look so alike you know.

  – My wife works here. She could identify me.

  – By hand, that means nothing. Oh well I’ll take your word for it. There’s no time to lose, really. Two builders are off ill and the big pavilion must be finished in time for the garden-party.

  – Mr. Swaminathan, excuse my asking, but how do I know you are the managing agent, and not, for instance, a professor of philosophy?

  – Don’t be impertinent.

  – Or in import and export? In town in the street you said you were in import and export.

  – You don’t want to believe everything you hear and see in the street. Now get on with it, the foreman will tell you what to do.

  The piece of blue perspex between the orange rectangle and the green trapeze overlaps the green. It is necessary to slip it underneath the facia-board and outline the cut-out kidney shape on to it with a pencil, so as not to saw it smaller than the shape, plus a little all round for glueing. The kidney shape has a large lower lobe. The piece of blue perspex is an uneven triangle with the narrowest angle sawn off. The longest side saws down quite easily. The piece of blue perspex is an isosceles triangle with the narrowest angle sawn off. Down on the facia-board, the space that the angle would have taken is occupied by part of a red parallelogram. The blue perspex fits very well. A flat stone holds down all four pieces of perspex while the glue dries to a good hold. The yellow piece of perspex can go next to the orange. A pair of feet, shod in buff leather to match the buff trousers, strides over the facia-board without touching it. Or tripping it, as the case might be, in brown trousers for example, saying sorry mate followed by silence. A woman’s foot, black in a pink shoe, steps on the wooden frame on one side of the facia-board. The other similar foot steps across to the wooden frame on the other side. It is possible, without looking up from the grey perspex, to see the hem of the pale orange overall which hovers for a moment within the outer orbit of the downward absorption.

  The paving-stones are large as tables. The trousers widen slightly at the bottom, most of them brown or black. Shoes match and shine. It is like being in a forest. The trees run away as the flag-stones vibrate.

  No, Mr. Swaminathan sways gently from one foot to another. The black plastic hose follows almost imperceptibly, like a dying metronome. The cluster could be of caladium hybrids, or a speckled sea-anemone.

  – You sound very professorial if I may say so, for a business man. Do you think the proposed aid to Sino-America or even to Seatoarea would help to solve the problem?

  – I’d rather not comment on that.

  – So you’d prefer to see a definite economic association with Chinese Europe?

  – Oh no, I’m against that.

  – Why?

  – Well, it wouldn’t be in our interest, would it?

  – What about you, do you have any views on the situation?

  – Yes. Compulsory blood-tests, permissive death and compulsory birth control. That’s the only way out. I mean it’s not fair to burden us with their mutations is it?

  So torrid, so tender. The face lying upside down, the eyeballs holding back their black nucleus from the attracting orbit of the street below. A group of men shuffling about beneath them, near the steps of the Labour Exch
ange. The black mannequins in the dress shop to the right, wearing red and orange, dance in arrested motions, protruding their behinds. To the left, on the big poster, the teeth are agape in rigid horror, or pleasure as the case might be. One brown face opposite is as lined as a walnut, with a toothless mouth that says, We had a dream. It’s a disgrace.

  – Yes sir, can you speak up a bit. What’s your occupation?

  – I’m an old man. My face is lined as a walnut and entirely surrounded with white hair. My face stands out in stark serenity.

  – Could you speak up a bit? Straight into the mike, that’s better. It’s a noisy street, isn’t it? Now, which way are you going to vote tomorrow, dad?

  – When I was a young man we had a dream, of universal brotherhood. We were all going to work side by side in partnership, the strong helping the weak. Nobody was going to be afraid. Nobody was going to take revenge, revenge was for primitive people, and we had rapidly become civilized. There’s always as much to be thankful for as angry. What’s happened to all that? Why aren’t we helping those who have now become weak? We only pretend to help. What are we afraid of? Why have we fallen away from the dream?

  – Well, we can’t get into a theological discussion here, I’m afraid.

  – Theology! You tolerate the gods as you pension off old men. We did the same. We always learn too late.

  – Thank you very much. What about you? What’s your occupation, sir?

  – I’m a hairdresser.

  – Do you approve of the satisfaction campaign?

  Or, alternatively,

  Mr. Swaminathan stands on the steps of the gazebo, swaying gently from one foot to another.