The Brooke-Rose Omnibus

by Brooke-Rose, Christine

  – You certainly seem to know a lot. What did you say your occupation was?

  – I was a landscape gardener.

  In the white wall the glossy black door opens. The pretty Bahuko woman stands framed by the whiteness, the edge of the white linen dress resting crescently upon her skin. The negative creates a silence.

  – You can come in. Follow me.

  The path leads straight up to the small white cottage. On either side of the path the cypress hedge stands in a narrow flower-bed full of pink carnations fragrant on the hot air. The hedge opens its brownish green arms to the woman in white linen who walks into them poised and indifferent as they recede. She is an arum lily on a dark stem moving. The path is made of benzene rings.

  – Wait here. My husband is just coming.

  The left foot treads the length of a cemented line. Between the tiles, the right foot carefully selects another line of cement parallel with the edge of the path. The instep of the left foot crosses the carbon atom at the top of the elongated hexagonal, pointing towards the nitrogen hydrogen two. The amount of free energy that becomes available for the performance of useful work does not correspond to the total heat change, but is equivalent to the new face that is handsome, smooth, assured, glowing with earthen vitality and slashed with curved oblongs of sunlight, well?

  – I, I came, I was wondering – excuse me, but are you the head gardener?

  – I am.

  – Oh. I see. I came earlier. The pink man, your predecessor I mean, Mrs. Mgulu had sent me –

  – You know Mrs. Mgulu then?

  – Yes. Yes I do. I was working up at the house, but I fell ill and she sent me for treatment to the hospital. I’m all right now. But they want me to have an outdoor employment and she sent me to you.

  – How do I know you’re telling the truth? Mrs. Mgulu said nothing to me. Haven’t you got a note?

  – No. I – er, I had one but I lost it. Mr. Swami –

  – What? Speak up. Besides, if Mrs. Mgulu sent you why did you expect to see my predecessor? He died. Some time ago.

  – Oh. Well I’m sorry, I’m confused. I had seen him you see.

  – You mean you had seen him about or you had been sent for an interview?

  – For an interview.

  – And?

  – Well. It’s difficult to explain. There was a misunderstanding.

  – Hmmm. Yes, well you’re obviously telling the truth there more or less, or you’d have a better story. The only thing is, I’ve got all the gardening hands I need. If anything we’re over-employing here.

  – But what about the watering? Have you got anyone for the watering?

  – The watering? It’s being done all the time. As you should know if you’ve been here before. Look.

  Round and round, catching the sunlight once in every revolution, the spray unfurls its minute particles at vast distances over the encampment of wigwammed plants to the right of the cypress hedge. Round and round. Catching the sunlight, the spray unfurls its radiating hydrogen and oxygen over the field of potato plants next to the field of tomato plants. And silently through the deep canals beneath the cobcorn skyscrapers to the left of the cypress hedge, the water flows from an unseen reservoir, pumped like blood by an unseen irrigation reactor, darkening the earth with life.

  – But what about the flowers? They’re not like vegetables, each plant needs watering individually, some like the spray, and some prefer a plain jet on the root, or even around the root. The castor-oil plants, for example, where are they? When small they need a very gentle jet that mustn’t touch the stem at all or it would break. Where are the castor-oil plants?

  – We don’t have any. They’re cultivated gross up at the farm, and as for flowers, you should know very well that Mrs. Mgulu has given over all the grounds to food-growing, except for the area immediately around the house. And that is well taken care of as regards watering. The lawns are sprayed automatically anyway. You should know that if you’ve been here before.

  – Yes. I suppose so. One gets confused. May I ask you, do you know, I mean how, what, what did he die of?

  – Who?

  – The head gardener. Before you I mean.

  – How should I know? If he was before me.

  – Did he, do you suppose, could he have just fallen dead, in a flower-bed, the red one for instance?

  – Which red one?

  – On the front lawn, to the left of the drive as you go up towards the house.

  – There isn’t a red flower-bed on the front lawn, left or right.

  – Oh. Perhaps I made a mistake. It’s only natural. It’s the human element.

  – The human element covers the whole earth and interpenetrates itself, the earth being round. It is a painful process. Those who cannot grow with it must die.

  – So you think … Oh. But could he have fallen into it, when it was there? The red flower-bed I mean?

  – If that’s the way you want it then he could have. I wasn’t there and nor, as far as I’m concerned, was the flower-bed. One doesn’t talk of these things. Now I’m afraid I’m very busy, so if you don’t mind –

  – Please. Please. Give me some work. Part-time, low-grade, unskilled, I’ll do anything, absolutely anything, oh please, I beg of you, have pity.

  The benzene-ring is enormous, the energy-rich bonds stretch interminably to the right. From this position the trousers are buff-coloured, widening slightly at the bottom like trees. The shoes match and shine, too glowing to be gripped.

  Layers and layers of possible reactions fill the silence like a mountain cut in half, primitive fear, a fury of revenge, sublimated gratification, embarrassment, indifference. Mrs. Mgulu steps out from behind the poinsettias wearing something or other and says tell him to get up, Ingram, nobody should grovel, in an age of international and interracial enlightenment such as ours revelation is open to all regardless of sex, years, race or creed. The age however stretches interminably. The physical stuff of the universe wraps up the earth with knowledge and communication, and the earth shrinks, and those who do not partake of the great secret growth are eliminated and shrivel away under the physical stuff that is knowledge and communication and wraps the earth with love, for nothing less than symbiosis will do.

  – Get up, man, get up! Nobody should grovel, that is an article of faith. But you are sick, it is difficult for us to employ the sick, you must understand our position.

  – I am sick because I have no work.

  – You have no work because you are under-nourished.

  – I am under-nourished because I have no work.

  – Oh I didn’t mean just bread. There’s consciousness too, man cannot live by bread alone. He needs his daily ration of the whole world, blessed are the conscious for they shall inherit the earth.

  – Is that an article of faith too?

  – If you have faith yes, if not not. However, bread is important. I’ll see what I can do.

  The gesture is one of benediction, or helplessness perhaps, the black hands spread over the molecular geometry of the pink-tiled pavement, then up a little, palms paler, almost pink, lined with achievements, longings and evolutions, then gesturing, after all, a pause, creating from the atoms of the air an expectation.

  The process is known as osmosis. Sooner or later Mrs. Mgulu will emerge from behind the poinsettias and say give him some work, Ingram, the period of initiation has gone on long enough. He has come through, if not exactly in flying colours, being after all Colourless, not too badly, all things and radiation considered. There is a limit to initiation even in the worst of circumstances. Give him a little work, the hose, since he holds on to that so passionately, and the grass fires.

  The dialogue runs smoothly along the kindness in the soft black eyes, orchestrated by a depth of racial memory. Vegetables are mentioned, and occasionally flowers. But mostly maize and rice. The dialogue falters as the smooth face turns its curved oblongs of reflected sunlight off towards the olive grove and a monologue move
s away on the other side of the dark neck and the crinkly black ball. The voice is deep and resonant, yet the vibrations are insufficient to carry the words in the opposite direction through the back of the crinkly head, and the words get lost, if any, requiring a reply perhaps, a contradiction, to carry them forward along a certain groove of disputation to some unnamed astonishing conclusion, or merely a murmuring acquiescence, stunned adoration, even further research. I require notice of that question.

  – This is where we burn all the weeds and other waste matter. The gardeners make little piles wherever they happen to be working and a boy collects them and brings them here. Usually he does the burning but you will be doing it from now on. As you see there are several charred areas, so don’t use the same one twice running. Mrs. Mgulu intends to build a nuclear waste disposal unit here, but in the meantime we have to burn things the old-fashioned way. But of course it’s dangerous, in this heat, the grass is so dry, a mere spark can flare up and run all the way to the trees in no time. That’s how most of these forest fires begin. So you have to keep hosing the grass all around the funeral pyre, is that clear? Keep it damp, and even hose the fire itself when it flares up too high, it has to smoulder rather than burn. Let me see you do it. Take that pile, it’s the biggest. No, use the rake first, it must be a neat pile. You must tell the boy not to throw the stuff all over the place, it only creates extra work. Not that that’s a bad thing these days, but there’s more kindness than ruthless efficiency in this establishment. Believe me I’ve seen other places. Good, that’s the stuff. A little bit more there behind. Right. Now you go up to that tap in the wall and turn it on. This hose is relatively short, it’s kept here just for the purpose. Never mind if water’s wasted. You can’t be in two places at once and it all goes into the dry earth, even if nothing is grown round here. Now then, you light the fire. Oh, well, I will, just this once. You must carry a light, always. Good. See how quickly it catches. No, don’t hose it yet, you’ll quench it. All round. Gently. That’s right. You can either walk round, but be careful to toss the hose away behind you or it’ll cross the fire. Or you can stand here and crook your arm with the hose to get round, then move a little to the left and do the same, then a little to the right. You can’t bend a jet of water, oddly enough, but you can make it go round the corner in a way. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a great deal to see to.

  The fire crackles like rain on a stone pavement. The falling water patters. The funeral pyre of human hair smoulders gently on the marble floor. The banisters weave circles round it, unfurling its minute particles over the dried-up grass. You cannot bend a jet of water but you can make it go round the corner in a way. It is a question of how you hold the instrument, and of aiming correctly, whether it’s fire or water. The human element wraps up the earth with interpenetration and those who do not partake of the great secret story which is not a story are wiped out in a thought, leaving no trace of error. The revelation is open to all regardless. Fill up this form and queue here.

  – If you love somebody, forget it. If you want somebody, oh, hi, it’s you. What are you doing here? That’s my job.

  – I’ve been given this aspect of it. You need only bring the stuff now. Division of labour.

  – Fine, fine, don’t think you’re taking anything from me that I care about one way or the other. You still yenning for old what’s his name?

  – The head gardener asked me to tell you, would you please load out the stuff straight and neatly on the pile and not scatter it all round for me to rake in. Any that’s left might catch fire on the dry grass.

  – Say, look who’s talking. You silly old man, who d’you think you are, bossing me around?

  The olive trees move slowly along, tinged by the sunset. It is difficult to tell their exact colour, for the knowledge of their normal silvery green interferes with the absolute result of being tinged. And yet the road is pink. Not so much immediately underfoot but further. Immediately underfoot it moves slowly along, grey and burning through the thin soles of each canvas shoe as it steps down upon it, ahead of the body and ahead of the other foot, until the other foot follows carrying the body with it, and steps down on the burning road ahead of the body and ahead of the other foot. That is the way a man advances, on his hindlegs, his forelegs free to hold an object such as the world for instance, his head free to look at the object held and reflect upon it. The object could be his own head. But the advance is slow, despite the shrinkage of the world, and the nearness, for example, of Patagonia. Further along, the road is pink. The white house on the hill is pink. The pink house higher up is flame-coloured.

  Despite the heavy knowledge that Mrs. Mgulu has next nodded, nor appeared, nor given the slightest proof of her objective existence, and that it hurts, despite all this she moves alongside, sometimes reclining in the cushions of the vehicle as it glides companionably along at a walking, talking pace, or alternatively treading lightly on the burning road in golden sandals and something diaphanous, sharing the observation of phenomena, the village of smart concrete huts, the concrete post-office, the grocer’s shop, the smiling eyes and frank admiring looks, the carefully terraced, carefully irrigated vegetable gardens and the terraced olive groves through which the pink road winds. She smells of aloes and hair fixative and all the objects stand out sharp.

  Or else quite suddenly the objects are switched off and merge into a dim olive-green dusk which wraps up and weighs down the heavy knowledge that Mrs. Mgulu has not given the slightest proof of her objective existence and does not share the observation of phenomena, and that it hurts, entering the body through the marrow-bone, up into the medullary centres, down the glosso-pharyngeal nerve perhaps or the pneumogastric, at any rate forward and down the throat that tightens as enlargement of the lymphatic glands occurs and the knowledge spreads into the chest, aching. Sooner or later it will reach the spleen.

  At eye-level the shacks come into view. Three of them are on fire, are having a party, reflect the reapparent setting sun in their verandah doors. The others are all dead, straddling their own verandah roofs in a cocooning dusk. Some people would call them bungalows.

  – It is not merely that I no longer desire you physically which would be understandable in any circumstances but that you dwell in me and watch me no longer desire you and smile as I mourn the passing of that simple, intense desire. Sometimes it is sufficient to disimagine, so that slowly and with infinite patience, atom by atom the element of desire will disintegrate. But energy is indestructible as you well know, except in very special circumstances, and so something remains, other and else, equally painful and whole. The thing exists and we cannot pretend that it does not. We make our errors in a thought and reject them in another thought, leaving a host of errors in us. Sooner or later the body must be emptied.

  Sooner or later the bowl of steaming gruel will be set down on the wrinkled wood inside the pool of light.

  Mrs. Ned’s bungalow is on fire. The glass verandah doors of Mrs. Ned’s bungalow reflect the last rays of the setting sun. The other bungalows are extinguished. The fig-tree’s foliage is dark blue-black, the leaves are hardly distinguishable. The dark green trunk leans along the edge of the bank at an angle of forty degrees inside which, from the road, the lower section of the brown clapboard wall next to the verandah merges into the dusky patch of dry grass. The lower branches swoop down their dim U-shapes, visible against the grass only with the help of the knowledge that they are normally visible from this position, in daylight. It is the knowledge of their shape which makes them visible.

  The glass door of the verandah reflects a green light, in which a filmy monster shifts into view, cut into three sections. The top section frames a jellyfish surrounded by flowing wisps, the middle section a tiered hierarchy of diagonal wobbles, the lower section two wavering stems. Don’t keep looking at the monitor it spoils the picture. What books have you been reading? Your head is full of items, you must have got them from somewhere.

  – I’m a reflective typ
e, you see. I exercise my memory in the privacy of concupiscence, the male to the left, the female to the right, reflecting sensory observations as the moon reflects the sun … Oh, the satisfaction of demand, any day … No, I have nothing against authority, what makes you ask? My gesture is of holding a conventional weapon, a flame-thrower for example, or an atomic machine-gun. I am a fire-fighter you see. The fire-fighters’ union kindly did not object to my working overtime, at overtime rates, of course, which is quarter-pay, on account of the severe unemployment, and overtime hours only, from 2359 to zero hour, and in the privacy of concupiscence.

  – That’s very interesting. Your profile is coming up very clearly, your depth personae are most revealing, no don’t look now, there is a very real danger of disintegration.

  – I might of course disintegrate, but that is a risk worth taking.

  – Mr. Blob: thank you very much.

  The shafts of green light swiftly shift, the picture is replaced.

  – Oh, good evening Mrs. Ivan. Nice evening. I was just seeing whether the door needed, well –

  – Yes?

  – Cleaning, you know, I mean, the hinges. I think they squeak, don’t they, would you like some oil on them?

  – I have.

  – Oh. Well, then perhaps –

  – My verandah, yes, okay?

  – I – er – wasn’t peeping in, Mrs. Ivan. I assure you. It’s just that, well, I love this verandah door.

  – You see yourself.

  – Yes. In the green light of the evening. It’s very … frightening. Effective I mean. Look. Come here. Yes, come, don’t be afraid. I’ll shut the door. Look at yourself. Isn’t it beautiful? In three sections.