She smiled. It was a conceit, certainly, at which Pete would smile, and upon which he would certainly expand. What would he say? How would he begin? The room and the sunlight, he would say, were what they were, simply, and nothing more. There were many rooms and only one sun. A room might be faulty in idea and construction, and could be criticized from that point of view. A leak in the roof was a fault. An adequate room was proof of nothing but a builder’s competence. It remained static until the house was pulled down; then, and then only, did it go through a process of drastic change; it did, in effect, cease to be a room. Change within a room while it stood was only to be located in the walls, the floor or the ceiling. Damp, warp, dryrot. Furniture, decoration, utilities, were merely incidental and, in some cases, nothing but impositions upon the room. To attribute bias or active desire to a room was merely the projection of a sick or deluded mind or the symptom of an emotional binge. To criticize the sun was absurd. The sun shone and the earth went round it. It was as impervious to criticism or to open revolt as it was to worship. It had no inclinations either way. Nor was it in any way productive to consider the sun as an opponent or ally, or relevant to your own actions as an interested force. It was not an interested force. It was the grossest intellectual falsehood to attribute to or impose upon the sun or a room any other concept or character. You could enjoy the sun or shut yourself from it. You could like a room or dislike it. You’d better watch your step, Virginia.
She laughed aloud. You’d better watch your step, Virginia. She looked across at the streetcorner, at which Pete would turn. But had she been fair? Had her essay at his manner of delivery, his way of stating a case, been accurate?
It was difficult to say. She had known him for two years, but was still unable to recollect his manner of speaking, from one day to another, without some measure of disbelief. Was it true that he spoke in that way? She could not but conclude that it was. Then, abruptly, it occurred to her that perhaps her disbelief was not disbelief at all, but simply a cloak for her apprehension.
If that was so, of what was she afraid? It had been that very power and conviction in his words which had first drawn her to him. They had met a week earlier in the library, and had spent two evenings together, walking. That day he had spoken to her on the telephone for the first time. My father is dead. Meet me for a cup of tea. They had met in a café in Hackney Road. The afternoon was close and pressing. As they sat down, Pete began to speak. She watched him, and listened. The police thought, he said, that his father had committed suicide. He himself did not think so. It was more likely he had been drunk and left the gas on. He had been mending the kitchen sink, there was something wrong with the pipe, when he heard his mother calling. She was in their room, standing over the body. His father was flat out on the carpet and the room full of gas. His mother had gone for the police. He had stayed there, with him. Had she ever been with a dead man? He was as dead as a bedpost and what was more, was nothing, absolutely nothing. He had felt as empty as an old sack. All this emotion business, what was it? A lot of bubbles blown down the coalhole. He was dry as an old faggot. The spanner was still in his hand. He could have easily gone back and finished mending the sink. Add two and two together and what did you have? Nothing. Before the police came he had stood for twenty minutes over the body. His father was as dead as a crusty old ant and, as for him, he couldn’t give two pins to the dressmaker for the whole business.
Pete came in with a brown paper parcel under his arm and placed it on the table. He flapped the parcel open and took out a white summer dress, which he handed to her. She took off her sweater and skirt and changed into it.
- Stay still.
She stood, turning.
- Go to the window.
She walked to the window, held her skirt, turned, gazed at her reflection in the mirror.
- Like it? Stay where you are. The sun’s down your sides and on your neck. You look lovely.
He sat down and lit a cigarette.
- It’s beautiful, she said, sitting on the arm of his chair. Thank you.
- It suits you.
- I’ll reserve it for special occasions.
- No, Pete said. Summer’s the occasion for that dress. I want to see you walk in the air.
- In the sun.
- Yes. It was worth the doing.
- Where have you been?
- I went down to the Embankment. To watch the boats go by. A bit of quiet. It’s like a monkeys’ teaparty in that office.
- The girls?
- Yes.
- What do they do?
- I never look. Probably tickling each other in the vernacular. I keep well out of it.
- Do they let you?
- They don’t come near me. They know I’d cut ‘em into tripes.
- Was it hot today?
- Hot? I was mummified. The sea air did me good. Nice to watch the muck float.
Virginia walked to the mirror and looked at herself. She turned.
- Pete?
- Yes?
- What do you think of: the sun?
- What do I what?
- How do you look upon the sun?
- What do you mean, how do I look upon it?
- No, it doesn’t matter.
- No? What doesn’t?
He strolled to the window.
- It’s going down.
- I’ve been sitting here, she said.
He blew a smokering and watched it float in the air and flop.
- What do I think of the sun, eh? That’s an interesting question.
- Did you enjoy making the dress?
- That dress? Sure.
- It’s perfect.
- Yes. I moved a pawn with every stitch. It came off. She joined him at the window.
- Would you like me to make you a petticoat? he asked.
- Yes, please.
- All right. I’ll do that.
They watched the sun sinking between the chimneys. He leaned her temple to his, his arm about her waist.
- I like you today, he said.
- Because of the dress?
- No.
He turned her to him and kissed her.
- Let’s have some tea.
- Yes.
He watched her move to the cupboard.
- Yes, he said, you look well in that dress.
- It’s a masterpiece, she said.
- But you know what? he said, sitting down, in some ways you’re more of a boy to me than a woman.
- What do you mean?
- No, you’re a woman all right. But I like the way you conserve your mental energy. I can learn a lot from that, myself. But what you are, you’re a good pal to me. You’re a true companion.
- Really?
- Yes. You see, Mark, for instance, could never understand that. A woman is simply one thing to him and no more. A pregnancy of mind exists between us, which is outside his ken. Not all the time, perhaps, but a good deal of it.
She brought the cups to the table and poured milk.
- Mark wants all his women to call him sir and salute him three times a day. And he doesn’t raise his hat for that one either. Another thing that niggles me is I’m sure he rides barebacked most of the time and doesn’t give it a thought.
- Tea up.
They sat at the table and she cut into a loaf.
- You can’t put a woman in a watertight compartment which you only open when the lights go out, Pete said. A woman has potential in other spheres.
- But you like him, don’t you?
- Like him? Of course I like him.
He sliced a tomato and tipped salt on to his plate.
- He’s a listener, Virginia said.
- He’s a diehard. That’s what he is. He was trying to convince me the other day that the answer to my problems was to go to bed with you more often.
- Mark?
- Yes.
- But how does he know? I mean, how does he know anything? About us?
- I don’t know. I probab
ly mentioned it to him.
- You mean you told him we don’t make love very often?
- Yes.
- Oh.
- Why? Do you mind?
- No.
- It’s hardly anything to be ashamed of.
- Yes, but why don’t we write out a joint statement and send it to him?
- There’s no need to do that, Pete said.
He poured the tea.
- To ease his mind.
- I don’t think, Pete said, he’s uncommonly disturbed about our problems.
- He may be, she said. He may be extremely concerned. Of course, I could always send him a poison-pen letter, telling him to mind his own bloody business.
- Hey, Pete said, wait a minute.
- Do we actually need his technical hints?
- Now hold on. First of all, you’re talking about a friend of mine. Secondly, what he said you’ve heard entirely out of context, and thirdly, let’s face it, there may be a grain of truth in it.
- Oh?
- Yes, Pete said, but you have to weigh that grain of truth against the case in hand. And - in a nutshell - I find it unsatisfactory as an overall working idea - in this particular case. Don’t you? After all, a fuck is a fuck but it doesn’t take place in a vacuum. The context is concrete.
- So’s the fuck.
- That’s beside the point, Pete said.
Four
There is the table. That is a table. There is the chair. There is the table. That is a bowl of fruit. There is the tablecloth. There are the curtains. There is no wind. There is the coalscuttle. There is no woman in this room. This is a room. There is the wallpaper, on the walls. There are six walls. Eight walls. An octagon. This room is an octagon, with no woman and one cat. There is the cat, on the carpet. Above the fireplace is a mirror. There are my shoes, on my feet. There is no wind. This is a journey and an ambush. This is the centre of the cold, a halt to the journey, and no ambush. This is the deep grass I hide in. This is the thicket in the centre of the night and the morning. There is the hundred-watt bulb like a dagger. It is neither night nor morning.
This room moves. This room is moving. It has moved. It has reached - a dead halt. There is no ambush. There is no enemy. There is no web. All’s clear and abundant, not closed, not closing, not moved, not moving, having no stealth, possessing no guile. The time would be dark where there are gardens. Here are my stocks. This is my fixture. Perhaps a morning will arrive. If a morning arrives, it will not destroy my fixture, nor my luxury. Here are the paths on my walls, dead at their destination. A meetingplace for the sundries, all within harness. If it is dark in the night or light, nothing obtrudes. I have my cell. I have my compartment. All is ordered, in its place, no error has been made. I am wedged. There is no hiding. It is not night, nor is it morning. There is no ambush, only this posture, between two strangers, here is my fixture, here is my arrangement, when I am at home, when I am alone, not needing to arrange, I have my allies, I have my objects, I have my cat, I have my carpet, I have my land, this is a kingdom, there is no betrayal, there is no trust, there is no journey, they make no hole in my side.
They make a hole, in my side.
The bell split in the room. Len rose. He pushed aside books on the table, lifted the tablecloth, nudged the cat aside, and stood still. He felt deep into the body of the armchair, lifted the cushions, tapped along the windowsill, pulled the curtains to and stood still. The bell rang. He inspected the mantelpiece and knelt down to examine the hearth, crawled under the table and found the floor bare. He stood up and still. The bell rang. He moved to the dresser and emptied a bowl of letters, lifted a cup from its saucer and, shuddering, looked down at his feet. His eye caught a reflection, his chin drew in further. In the top pocket of his jacket were his glasses. He put them on, walked up the stairs to the front door and opened it.
- What were you doing? Mark asked, a wardance? I could see your shadow bobbing up and down.
- How could you see my shadow?
- Through the letterbox.
In the street, the rain slipped through the darkness.
- What did you say the time was? Len asked.
- Well, Mark said, it’d be getting on for that.
- You’d better come in.
In the room Mark took off his raincoat and sat heavily in the armchair, arranging the cushions.
- What’s this, a suit? Where’s your carnation?
- What do you think of it? Mark asked.
Len fingered the lapels, opened the jacket and looked inside.
- It’s not a shmatta, he said.
- It’s got a zip at the hips.
- A zip at the hips? What for?
- Instead of a buckle. It’s neat.
- Neat? I should say it’s neat.
- No turn-ups.
- I can see that. Why didn’t you have turn-ups?
- It’s smarter without turn-ups.
- Of course it’s smarter without turn-ups.
- I didn’t want it double-breasted.
- Double-breasted? Of course you couldn’t have it double- breasted.
- What do you think of the cloth?
- The cloth? What a piece of cloth. What a piece of cloth. What a piece of cloth. What a piece of cloth. What a piece of cloth.
- You like the cloth?
- WHAT A PIECE OF CLOTH!
- What do you think of the cut?
- What do I think of the cut? The cut? The cut? What a cut! What a cut! I’ve never seen such a cut!
He sat down and groaned.
- Do you know where I’ve just been? Mark said.
- Where?
- Earls Court.
- Uuuuhh! What were you doing there? That’s beside the point.
- What’s the matter with Earls Court?
- It’s a mortuary without a corpse.
Yawning, Len took off his glasses and pressed his knuckles to his eyes. Mark lit a cigarette and walked about the room, peering, his arm outstretched.
- What are you doing, dedicating a bull?
- That’s right.
He found an ashtray and sat down.
- How did you get back, allnight bus?
- Of course.
- Which one?
- A 297 to Fleet Street. A 296 from there.
Len stood up to let the cat out the back door. He glanced outside and shut the door quickly.
- I can get you from Notting Hill Gate to here in an hour to the minute, he said.
- You can get me?
- It’s simple. Perfect. Any time of the night. Say you’re at Notting Hill Gate at 1:52, no, it’s Shepherds Bush at 1:52, say you’re at Notting Hill Gate at 1:56 or 1:57, you can catch a 289 which gets to Marble Arch at about 2:05, or 6, about 2:06 and there, before you know where you are, you can pick up a 291 or 294, coming from the Edgware Road, gets to Marble Arch about 2:07. What did I say? That’s right. That’s it. You catch that to the Aldwych, gets there about 2:15 or 14 and at 2:16 you can pick up the 296 from Waterloo, takes you all the way to Hackney. If it’s after three o’clock you can do the whole lot on a workman’s ticket.
- Thanks very much, Mark said. What are you doing at Notting Hill Gate?
- Notting Hill Gate? That was for your benefit. I never go anywhere near Notting Hill Gate.
- I’ve just told you I was at Earls Court.
- Ah! said Len. Don’t mention that place!
Mark scratched himself in the groin and stretched his legs.
- What were you doing, he asked, when I knocked on your door?
- Doing? Thinking.
- What about?
- Nothing. It was about nothing. This room. Nothing. A waste of time the thought and the thinking.
- What’s the matter with this room?
- What’s the matter with it? It doesn’t exist! What you don’t understand, you see, is that they’re holding me up for ransom. If someone doesn’t pay up quick I’m a dead duck.
- Are they asking much?
- They don’t want currency. They don’t want currency, they won’t touch it. They ‘re asking for something nobody’s prepared to give. And I can’t give it myself, because I haven’t got it. Ah, that doesn’t matter. What does it matter? There’s a time and place for everything. These things should be faced.
- You never said a truer word.
- What? What do you mean by that?
- There’s a time and place for everything. These things should be faced.
- You never said a truer word.
Mark coughed shortly and spat into the grate.
- I see that butter’s going up, Mark said, wiping his mouth.
- I’m prepared to believe it, said Len, but it doesn’t answer my question.
- What was that?
- What are you doing here? What do you want here?
- I thought you might give me a piece of bread and honey.
Len moved to the window and straightened a curtain.
- I know that you’re frightened, you see.
- Oh yes? Mark said. What of?
- You’re frightened that at any moment I’m liable to put a redhot burning coal in your mouth. Yes. But when the time comes, you see, what I should do is place the coal in my own mouth.
- Why’s that?
- Why? That should be obvious. Pete would be able to tell you. He wouldn’t be far out.
- Do you think so?
- He wouldn’t be far out, Len said, sitting on the table. But I’ll tell you something about him. As you’re here. I know, you see, how things stand in the nothing. I know the nothing. The waste and dead air. But for Pete, even the nothing is something positive. Pete’s nothing eats away, it’s voracious, it’s a malignant growth. But, can’t you see, he fights back, he grapples to the death with it. He’s a fighter. My nothing doesn’t bother to act in such a way. It licks its paws while I shrink. It’s a true nothing, a paralysis. There’s no conflict, no battle. I am it. I am my own nothing. It’s the only thing I have to rejoice in.
- Monkeynuts, Mark said.
- Why do you say that?
- Catpiss.
- All right, all right. If you believe that, I’ll ask you another question.
The Dwarfs Page 3