– and Lilly’s very worried about you.
The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord, the scent of hair-lacquer fills the corridor. The alexandrite in the left nostril is replaced by a small gold flower on a chain that climbs over the nose and loops gently along the cheek into the hair just above the right ear. Follow me, she said, I want a word with you outside. The conversation is real, repeat real. She leans her bare black arms against the golden banisters. Follow me, she said, tapping him on the shoulder, I want a word with you outside and now the golden banisters go curving down behind her, a sort of crown in depth, a spiral gown, a chrysalis.
– She was upset about the infidelity of course, anyone would be, but these things happen and she understood. Anyway it’s none of my business. But your capacity to work is my business. I’m your employer, for the time being anyway, and I’ve taken an interest in you, for Lilly’s sake at least. I’m very fond of Lilly. She practically brought me up and I owe a lot to her. She’s been with me ever since, I know her as I know my right hand, and she’s very unhappy about you. I’ve been watching you in there. You’re dreaming half the time. Oh I know the other workers are no better, it’s understandable, they want to make the job last, but still, time isn’t elastic.
– It’s because of there being no past, and no future, ma’am, it’s so difficult, living in the present.
– I see you’ve been talking to Mr. Swaminathan.
– You fed on our past, you see, and drained us, now you deny the past but need to remind us, it’s an empty ritual for you, a weakness. But it hurts.
– You don’t want to believe everything Mr. Swaminathan says, you know.
– That too is one of the things he says.
– Yes. He belongs to the rope-trick tradition, which can be as unhealthy as – well, you know what I mean. I think I should send you up to the hospital to be psychoscoped.
– Oh, no!
– Why, what’s the matter? It’s a very rapid treatment, quite painless and it does the world of good. It’s a privilege, too.
– Not … the Colourless Hospital?
– You speak so low. I can’t hear.
– Did you mean the Colourless Hospital?
– The—? But we don’t have segregation here, we’re a multi-racial society. Exalting all colours to the detriment of none, don’t you know your slogans? Good heavens, I do believe you really are living in the past … Tell me, does it hurt?
– Yes.
– You’re in a bad way, aren’t you?
The dress is mauve. The shining black hair is coiled up high and smells of fixative. The small gold chain loops gently over the nose and the banisters weave circles around her.
– Come with me, I’ll give you a letter.
The banisters weave circles round them both.
– Then you can go back and sweep up the mess before you leave. It’s all got to be spick and span by tomorrow.
The banisters weave circles.
– Steady! Are you all right? You can’t faint on my stairs, you know. I would send you with Olaf, my chauffeur, but I need him to go and open the Famine Bazaar. Are you taking those pills I gave Lilly? They’re better than the Government ones and they’re rather hard to come by. Wait here.
Whereas no amount of positive evidence. We can make our errors in a thought, and reject them in another thought, leaving no trace of error in us. No evidence at all is needed for a certainty acquired by revelation. Yes, but what relation does it have to the real thing? The number of molecules in one cubic centimetre of any gas, at sea-level pressure and at a temperature of fifteen degrees centigrade, is approximately twenty seven million million million, and each molecule can expect five thousand million collisions per second. Mrs. Mgulu emerges from the bedroom door, wearing something diaphanous. Classical physiology tolerates only one unknown quantity at a time in any investigation and that quantity shall be Mrs. Mgulu. Come in, she says, I want you to read this letter and see if it’s all right. Oh, stop it, you know very well this dialogue will not occur. We don’t have segregation here, oh I know it looks like it, but you’re selecting the facts, I do assure you we’re a multi-racial society. Come in, she says, and I’ll show you. I’ve always loved you, right from the very beginning I’ve loved you. You’re living in the past aren’t you, but now is the time for the beginning.
– Here we are, you go to the Hospital and give them this letter, they’ll get you back into focus. It’s all a question of restoring the equilibrium. But first go up and tidy the mess in the salon. It must all be spick and span by tomorrow. You’re feeling all right, aren’t you?
The dress is mauve, the shining hair is coiled up high and smells of fixative. The small gold chain loops gently out of the left nostril over the nose and cheek. The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord that echoes in the blood long after it has come and gone.
The salon is empty. The thermoplastic marbled tiles are scattered with dust and bits of plaster. In the corner the small funeral pyre of hair has been left, grey with mingled dust. The banisters weave circles. Go to the Hospital and give them this letter. They will restore the equilibrium. They will weigh you in the balance and find you wanting.
The thin freckled left hand lies limply on the neighbouring human thigh. The thigh too is thin, and wrapped in faded grey denim which creases like an old tree-trunk. The creases multiply toward the loin, converging and vanishing into it. Something is missing. The dirty canvas shoe has a hole where the big toe presses and no shoe-lace. The shoe was once white but is now grey and yellow and brown. The other shoe, half hidden by the left foot which is crossed over it, may be in holes and grey. Its rubber sole gapes on the left side. Something is missing. Under the bony wrist the creases start, and multiply towards the loin, like the innumerable legs of a large spider. That’s it. And yet the pale green corridor is full of flies, buzzing in the heat making heads negatively shake, hands wave, knees twitch, feet stamp though not necessarily all at once. Sooner or later the fly will straddle the high blue vein on the gnarled hand and the Bahuko nurse will emerge in pink and white calico and call out an identity and the thigh will slope up into a vertical position, slowly or suddenly according to the age and the humour and the health, according to the degree of sanguinity or melancholia, according to the balance or imbalance of hope and despair.
– Mrs. Mgulu, of Western Approaches. Ah yes, she is much given to writing little notes, is Mrs. Mgulu.
The metal grill splinters the bland Asswati face as the eyes move slowly from right to left under the heavy lids. The fly settles on the right corner of the stalwart lips, that twitch the fly away. In the left arc of the nose with the right eye closed,
– Excuse me but that letter is addressed to the doctor.
– Occupation?
– Well, doctor I suppose.
– You suppose?
– Oh you mean me. Odd job man. At the moment.
– Previous occupation?
– Psychopath.
– Psy .. cho .. path … Sponsor, Mrs…. Mgu … lu. Right. Go up the corridor, second left to Out-Patients, wait there till you’re called.
At the back of it all, Mr. Swaminathan sways weakly from one side to another like a dying metronome. You see, he says, sooner or later the sequence will occur. There is a movement in the neighbour’s neck of one who is about to talk. Sometimes it is sufficient merely to say perhaps or I don’t think so or how very interesting, as the case might be, for the sequence not to occur. It is easy enough in the negative. The fly lands about ten centimetres away from the hand that holds an invisible bunch of flowers. You should write to her, you know, it would be quite in order, she is much given to writing little notes. She takes an interest. The tiled floor is mottled. The dirty canvas left shoe has no shoelace and a hole where the big toe presses. The rubber sole of the right shoe gapes beneath the left foot that is crossed over it. Dear Mrs. Mgulu. Since you are given to writing little notes, may I take it upon myself to reciprocate and ask you to
take a further interest. The sequence with Mrs. Ned was a failure, despite the tender, incestuous appeal of white within a black man’s world. Dear Mrs. Mgulu. Since you have so kindly taken an interest in my welfare I would like to tell you that the sequence with conventional weapons is about to begin. Mr. Swaminathan, however, still ticks away at the back like a dying metronome, despite the flood of your, despite your generous and devoted efforts to dislodge him. It is not merely that I desire you physically, which is understandable in any circumstances, but that he watches me desire you, he occupies me with you like a sneak and a small-time spy and I would prefer him out of the way. I would prefer to give myself entirely over to desiring you, for sometimes it is sufficient to desire intensely. I hope therefore that the conventional weapons sequence will have some result and shall inform you of further progress as it occurs.
Dear Mrs. Mgulu. Open the flood-gates please, I want to die.
– Excuse me, do you happen to know what that green door is at the end?
– No, I don’t.
– All the other doors are white, you see. And that one’s green.
The neighbouring human thigh, empty of hands, is wrapped in faded grey denim and creased as an old tree-trunk. The neighbour has crossed his arms on his chest. And yet the pale green corridor buzzes with flies that make heads negatively shake, hands wave, knees twitch, feet stamp, not necessarily all at once though all at once in the sudden awareness of these gestures having occurred for some time. They should know that people with kidney trouble find it difficult to use their voice, the voice gets lost and little, the effort involved produces monotonous low noises that go on and on and suddenly get loud and bear no relation to the real thing, whatever it is, which could be communicated. After which they are swallowed back in shame. People with kidney trouble do not like people.
– I never said you had kidney trouble. Your eyelids are the right colour.
– But doctor –
– Psychosomatic. Or sciatica. I’ll give you some pills to cheer you up. Next please.
– It can’t be the lavatory because that’s here.
– I suppose not.
– And it’s not the doctor and it can’t be offices.
– No.
– Do you think it’s one of the wards?
– I don’t know.
The floor is mottled all the way to the pairs of feet lined up opposite, in canvas shoes, with legs denimed or bare.
– It isn’t marked. I mean they usually have a name, don’t they, a benefactor or someone.
– Yes.
– It can’t be the theatre either, that’s upstairs. Or the X-ray room. That’s at the back near Physiotherapy.
– Is it.
The Bahuko nurse emerges from the doctor’s door in pink and white calico and the neighbouring thigh tenses. A name is called out. The thigh relaxes. A large pale lady in a black cotton dress rises slowly from further down the line, collects innumerable bags and waddles in, all basketed around. The freckled hands lie limply on each of the neighbour’s thighs. And yet the pale green corridor is full of flies, buzzing in the heat.
– And yet, you know, I’ve seen them going in and coming out of that door.
It is not merely that I desire you intensely, but that I want to die. Sometimes it is insufficient to disimagine. It is not possible at all. The thing exists and floods the consciousness. I would prefer him out of the way, since he might drown, if you would be kind enough to tell him. He is your servant and one has to speak to them. The thing exists and we cannot pretend that it does not. I hope therefore, and shall inform you of further progress as it occurs.
– Excuse me but would you do me a favour?
The conventional weapons are ranged all round, pointing downwards and converging. The lights above the microscopes glare a heavy heat.
– Did you say yes?
– Yes. What is it?
– When you go in there, could you ask them, oh the nurse will do, it doesn’t have to be the doctor.
The neck is freckled, the face a greenish, yellowish colour, the hair ginger. The eyelids are pink and swollen, the skin beneath the eyes trembles slightly.
– Ask them what?
– Well, about that door. I’ve tried but they never tell me anything. They go all mysterious whenever I ask a question. You know, evasive. As if I had no right to ask, as if there were a secret sect and I wasn’t initiated, you know what I mean. But I’ve been coming here a long time, six years, close on. I swear to you that door wasn’t there when I first came. Have you been coming a long time?
– No.
– Oh, well, I expect you’re just lucky then. They’d probably answer you. You may have been initiated for all I know.
All the dancers on the ballroom floor are dressed in black to mourn the death of the Governor. The faces and hands of the gentlemen are black, the faces, shoulders and arms of the ladies are black, all glowing with vitality, and every gentleman holds one lady at arm’s length, jerking tremulously, then convulsively as the ladies quiver and quake in their shimmering black gowns. The Governor’s wife watches benignly through a gold lorgnette, her eyes two gold-framed pictures on a dark velvet wall. Through the gold lorgnette the dancers quiver on the ballroom floor which is as round as the eye of a microscope. The dancers lean backwards, putting out their bellies, and then forwards, bouncing out their behinds in dignified postures and a steady rhythm. Mrs. Mgulu, hand on hip, leans her plunging neck-line forward in a dignified posture and a steady rhythm and says let me introduce, no, but really, you haven’t got a clue, have you?
– Have you?
– What?
– Been initiated.
The Bahuko nurse emerges in pink and white calico and calls out the correct identity, the recognisable label, the dog’s dinner bell. Hope rises with the body on the weight of tingling legs.
– I thought you had. You won’t forget?
– No.
– You will wait for me, won’t you?
– This way.
It depends which kind of Chinese the doctor is, a renegade from Chinese Europe or a refugee from Sino-America, or even a renegade from Sino-America. Or an Afro-Eurasian born and bred, by chance descendance perhaps or any number of individual circumstances.
– So we were a psychopath, were we? We have a sense of humour, yes? Sit down. Strange, that is not what Mrs. Mgulu gives me to understand in her letter. Hmmm.
The gesture is one of careful record-keeping. The fingers move swiftly over the white paper, holding a black pen. The eyes move from right to left in their slits, following the letter. Dear Dr. Fu Teng. I am sending you one of my workers who suffers from humour deficiency. Who suffers from an imbalance of all the humours. Dear Dr. Fu Teng, kindly weigh this patient in the balance and find him wanting me, Mrs. Mgulu. It is important that he should declare himself. The fingers move swiftly back to the beginning of the line. Dear Dr. Fu Teng. Kindly provide this patient with a technique for living.
– Yes. Well, clearly you don’t in fact need psychoscopy. However, if that’s what Mrs. Mgulu wants, we’ll have to give it to you.
– But doctor –
– Yes?
– Aren’t you going to examine me?
– I have examined you. We have our methods if you don’t mind. I can tell you one thing, you haven’t got what you think you have, oh yes, I know what you’re thinking, you all think it, the existence of this thing has turned you people into drivelling hypochondriacs. However, if you insist, you can have routine tests. Nurse, blood count, steroids, M.S.U., B.M.R., P.B.I., the lot. And a form for psychoscopy please.
Mrs. Mgulu emerges from behind the screen in a gold helmet and a mauve dress. She takes the pulse carefully, looking down at the gold watch that hangs upside down on her left breast. She holds the watch a little outwards with the thumb and forefinger of the left hand.
– How are you feeling now? Does it hurt?
– Yes.
– Let me fix your pillows for you.
There, that’s better.
The gold watch sways, the gold chain on the nostril and cheek trembles with the motion, the scent is of aloes and hair fixative, the eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord expressing secret knowledge and concern perhaps that bears a strong resemblance to the real thing. It is not merely that I desire you physically, which would be understandable in any circumstances, but that he watches me desire you, peering at me with bland inscrutability in his lidless eyes, the lower edges of which are straight and upwards slanting, the upper edges of which are curved but vanishing, into the skin of the face itself. Mrs. Mgulu leans her plunging neckline forward and says you know, don’t you, it’s only kidney trouble.
– What’s that? Who said you had kidney trouble? What books have you been reading? Speak up now, I can’t hear you.
– I haven’t been reading any books.
– Well, you must have got these items from somewhere. But they’re all wrong you know. You mustn’t imagine things.
– It’s so difficult, living in the present.
– Who said you had to live in the present? The present contains the future. Who have you been talking to? You mustn’t get ideas, you know.
– Doctor, tell me, is there a secret?
Dr. Fu Teng writes busily. The vibration of the voice has not been sufficient to carry the question over to him and the question evaporates, leaving no trace of error in the air, except perhaps a residue at the back of the mind, to be answered by Mr. Swaminathan in his own good time, slow time. Clearly Dr. Fu Teng is an Afro-Eurasian born and bred, by chance descendance perhaps, or any number of individual circumstances.
– Right. There’s the file, nurse, get it sent round, will you. And call the next patient.
– Doctor. What is the answer?
– This way please.
The Brooke-Rose Omnibus Page 12