Imago Bird

by Nicholas Mosley

  The man said ‘To pick up the crumbs fallen on the top table—’

  I wanted to say—But don’t you think, in India or Africa, they would be handing round whisky?

  I began to stammer.

  The man put his hand on my arm and his head on my shoulder and laughed.

  I could not remember anyone else ever laughing before when I stammered.

  I said ‘—Or sliding on a shaft of sunlight between pillars on his tea-tray.’

  The man lifted his head and looked at me.

  I think stammerers develop, as blind people do, some instinct that compensates for the faculty they are deficient in. Insofar as there is at the back of stammering—as I think there is—a feeling that conventional language is an unsuitable medium for conveying things of importance, so there is yet the feeling that these things might be communicated by other means—perhaps by something like the letting-out, for a moment, of a caged bird behind the eyes.

  The black-haired woman like a film-star moved away.

  He was a tall somewhat middle-aged man with spectacles.

  After a time he said ‘Yes.’

  Then—‘That’s right.’

  Then—‘I can’t think of anything else to say.’

  Standing like this, and looking down into the glass of champagne in my hand, and imagining that the bubbles were like birds flying out through open windows into quiet air, I had an impression that I had had once or twice before in my life; which was that I was not only looking down at myself in a maze but was looking at myself doing this: and so I could tell myself where to go; not because I saw this exactly, but because I knew I had the ability.

  Then I looked towards the fireplace where I had originally taken refuge when things had seemed about to become too much for me.

  There then occurred—the man with spectacles and myself remained, I think, side by side—the incident that was to be taken up in the gossip columns over the next few days and even weeks; which the reception for Mr Perhaia would for a short time become notorious for; but which few people except myself, and I suppose the man with spectacles, in fact saw, since most people were so intent on jockeying for position for their introductions to Mr Perhaia. Mrs Washbourne had gone to the fireplace and was standing there in the way that I had stood; with one foot on the fender and a hand out to the glow; as if trying to work some magic there; as if she had removed me from the fireplace almost deliberately in order to do this. And then she seemed to be tearing something up, and then to be trying to burn it, on the fire. Then a man came up and knelt in front of her and put his arms round her as if to stop her. And the two of them seemed to struggle for a moment like two children who want to get, or to keep, some secret one from the other. Then Mrs Washbourne looked round as if to see if anyone was watching. And I think they both noticed me. I had not quite seen if Mrs Washbourne had got what she wanted on to the fire. Then the man kneeling hit at the side of her dress as if it had caught alight from the fire and he was trying to put it out. But it had not caught alight; and he was just pretending it had, so that this might explain his putting his arms around her. And then Mrs Washbourne did seem to step back towards the fire as if she might thus set her dress alight; and so explain why the man was struggling with her. Then people in the room did begin to notice; to turn; and by this time it did look as if Mrs Washbourne had simply fallen into the fire, and the man was nobly trying to put her out. Then Mrs Washbourne began moving towards the door. She had a hand to her head and swayed slightly. Perhaps she thought it would appear better if she seemed somewhat drunk. And the man was standing up and brushing at his trousers. Uncle Bill was saying ‘What happened?’ Someone said ‘Connie fell into the fire.’ Mrs Washbourne went out of the room. Uncle Bill watched where she had gone. He said ‘Who pulled her out? Then—‘Little Tommy Stout?’ And everyone began laughing. And Mr Perhaia was watching with his small bird-like eyes. It was thus that the story got about that Mrs Washbourne had been drunk and had fallen into the fire, and had been saved by a secret-service man or somesuch. The man might indeed have been a secret-service man: but Mrs Washbourne had not fallen into the fire. She had been tearing something up, and the man had tried to stop her. But people were not interested in this: they were interested, as I kept telling Dr Anders, in making up stories to amuse or to protect themselves. And this was a suitable story, because a lot of people did not like Mrs Washbourne and thus were happy for her to have set fire to herself when drunk. But what I did not understand was why I used this incident myself as a chance to move away from the man who had meant so much to me; whom I liked; who had put his head on my shoulder when I had stammered; and it was only later that I worked out that perhaps I had done this because I was protecting myself; being not yet quite ready, like Icarus, to fly so close to the sun.

  V

  ‘Just laughed—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But kindly—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you feel?’

  ‘At first I didn’t believe it. Then it was as if I were sort of above myself: seeing myself looking down on a maze.’

  ‘A maze—’

  ‘Yes. As if I saw myself as something in which I could find my way.’

  I thought—A maze: amaze: these connections are in our minds: but are there threads in the outside world by which we find our way?

  I said ‘But all this stuff about spies and security men is such rubbish. It’s in people’s minds: they have to make up stories about these things: like once they had to make up stories about gods. There have to be free and mysterious beings who move outside fate and outside responsibility and are supposed to cause things: whom human beings would like to be like, but also wouldn’t, because of the responsibility.’

  Dr Anders said ‘But I thought you said they didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Make up stories about spies and security men. They said Mrs Washbourne was drunk and fell into the fire.’

  I thought—These thin green walls; the jungle; what did it look like when I looked down on the maze?

  I said ‘Well they’d have talked about spies and security men if they’d seen it. But they didn’t. Perhaps they talk about spies and security men when in fact people are drunk, and about people being drunk when in fact they are spies and security men.’

  I thought—But what I am really trying to say is that none of this matters.

  Then—But why do I talk about it so much?

  She said ‘But it’s you who are talking about spies and security men.’

  I said ‘I saw it’

  She said ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘You’ve told me you saw a man kneel down by the fire and put his arms round Mrs Washbourne.’

  ‘I suppose you think he was assaulting her.’

  ‘It’s not me who’s suggested he was assaulting her.’

  ‘You think it’s me who’s always thinking analysts are thinking people are doing things like assaulting people.’

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  What analysts do is make you feel you are tied up in knots. Or rather, they watch you while you make yourself feel tied up in knots. They encourage you almost. They do this because with other people you have found yourself tied up in knots; and you cannot begin to untie yourself, it seems, until you have some sort of model of what your knot is; and it is this that an analyst gives you, almost puts you in, so you can learn to get out.

  I said ‘It was in the evening paper that she was saved by some sort of secret-service or security man.’

  There was Dr Anders’ bookcase, her frieze, the spire beyond her window.

  I thought—What I am learning is not just to think that this stuff does not matter, but to act as if it did not.

  She said ‘Look. There were a lot of interesting people at that party. There were interesting things going on. There was Mr Perhaia, whose influence is vital in—what—matters of life and death in Central Africa. There’
s your Uncle Bill, who’s involved in these negotiations with the miners. And even if you weren’t interested in any of this, there were what you call these artistic people: you could have got yourself introduced to any of them: you could have talked to Mr Perhaia about anthropology, whose book you say you admire.’

  I said ‘I know.’

  She said ‘You know what?’

  I thought I might say—Nothing.

  Or—Help me: there are birds that sometimes fly around the spire outside your window.

  She said ‘What you were interested in was being indignant about other people making up stories about spies and security men. But in fact it was you who were making up these stories, and they were making up other sorts of stories.’

  I thought—All right: I have told you I know this: I will not say anything more. And I will not come back to you after the end of this session.

  Dr Anders and I sometimes remained silent for several minutes.

  The spire seemed to be at an angle against passing clouds; like the stick of a firework in a bottle.

  I thought—But what I was not going to say: Of course I’m the same as them!

  — But I wasn’t, was I?

  — Wasn’t going to say it? or wasn’t the same?

  Dr Anders’ bookcase had all those words in them trapped between covers like birds in cages.

  At my first interview with Dr Anders—after she had said the thing about what I was protecting myself from by my stammer might not be other people’s disapproval but my own high opinion of myself—it had seemed clear to me that I should become her patient; and I was ready to accept this. But then towards the end of the interview, after she had taken notes about my upbringing and schooling and things like that, I had said—‘Will you take me on?’ she had said—‘I myself am giving up private patients, but there are plenty of other therapists.’ And I had thought—But that’s wrong! and then—I’ll make you! and then quickly—Of course, that’s not the way. And then, rather belatedly—Of course, I can’t make you. And we had gone on talking about the past, about other therapists, about the ways in which I either did, or did not, want to get rid of my stammer. And then she had raised her hands from the sides of her chair which I suppose I knew even then was her sign that the interview was nearly over. But I did not move. I was sitting opposite her. I was intent on trying to see what would happen: I felt I was almost able to watch myself in the maze. And it seemed as if she, with her hands on the arms of her chair, were on some sort of parallel bars: while I, with the part of myself that watched, was on a tightrope in my own head, with a drop on one side of—But you must take me on! and on the other of—I don’t care whether you take me on or not. Either of which could be both true and untrue. Because I had to stay on the tightrope. And if I balanced well enough I could. And so we were both of us waiting. For whatever would happen. And then Dr Anders got up. She went to the door ahead of me. I followed. She put her hand on the knob of the door, as later she seemed often to be doing, and she kept her head down, and seemed to make a faint mewing sound. I thought—Don’t witches work with cats? Then she said ‘I might have a vacancy.’ I said ‘Thank you.’ She said ‘Monday to Friday each day three-thirty.’ I said ‘That’s good.’ She said ‘Starting next week.’ I said ‘Fine.’

  Now, there were the clouds going past the spire beyond her window.

  The window was like that painting of a painting hung in a window of a window with clouds going past it.

  I said ‘I know it’s true I didn’t want to talk to anyone at that party. I hate those parties: I always have. The people there are different from me. I don’t know if I hate the people, or I hate my being different. But even when I meet someone I like I can’t talk at that sort of party. People there aren’t talking at all: they’re just making noises to get reactions: or to stop themselves reacting. And I know I make up stories about spies and security men: but this is a sort of joke: I do it to defend myself I suppose: it’s a way of trying not to take any of the things they care about too seriously. It’s a way of trying to say—Look, it’s all in the mind: but I know it and you don’t. Oh I know I’m lonely. Other people take protecting themselves so seriously. And then they put it on to the world. So in fact there are things like spies and security men. Like vultures. Like carrion. But there wouldn’t be if people said—Look, this isn’t exciting, it’s silly. And it’s true I liked that man but couldn’t think of anything to say to him. But I think there are more important things than saying, and I think he knew this too. And I think he knew I knew it. And I think there are these sort of people even if I don’t speak to them much: I mean who know this sort of thing, even if they don’t speak much too. Like me. And I think there’s some sort of network, understanding, like this; that has some sort of life of its own; which if I chased, it might go away; but if I don’t, I might find it. And it’s this that matters: of which politics is only a shadow. And I can’t help it if this sounds confused or silly or mysterious: it’s just what I think is true.’

  Dr Anders said ‘—Yah boo sucks—’

  I said ‘What do you mean, Yah boo sucks?’

  She said, as if perhaps speaking with my own voice, ‘—That’ll teach you to say I’ve been naughty!—’

  I thought—Well, didn’t you say I’d been naughty?

  She said, as if now in someone else’s voice’—Not liking the people that mummy says you should like at parties!—’

  I tried to think about this. Sometimes Dr Anders would talk as if she were playing another person’s role—that of myself, or my mother, or some other powerful figure in my unconscious.

  I said ‘You mean, you don’t think I should have liked most of those people at the party?’

  She said ‘Good heavens, why should you?’

  I said ‘I thought you said I should.’

  She said ‘Yes I know you did.’

  I tried to go back in my mind about this. I was sure she had said—but what?—this didn’t seem to matter.

  I said ‘But you did say, there were all those interesting people—’

  ‘I did say, there were people who could be called interesting. I didn’t say you should like them.’

  I thought—This is unfair? But perhaps my mother had been unfair. So—What could I learn from this?

  I said ‘You mean, it’s because I’ve been made to feel guilty about not liking these sort of people that I make up hostile stories about spies and security men?’

  I thought—And I stammer?

  She said ‘There are after all pretty awful people at those parties.’

  After a time I said ‘They run the world.’

  She said ‘They run certain aspects of certain parts of the world.’

  I thought—You mean you agree, it would be better if I stopped worrying that I don’t think things that go on at those parties important?

  Then—Even my mother did not really want me to feel guilty?

  So—Why do I stammer?

  I said ‘But through these sort of people other people either die, or don’t die, in Africa.’

  She said ‘Good heavens, don’t people either die, or don’t die, anyway, in Africa?’

  I thought—But now, I have not stammered?

  I said ‘Because I worry I stammered?’

  — A dead body, beside some railings —

  Dr Anders said ‘You were a very clever little boy. It was difficult for you to take all this on when you were seven.’

  I thought—Did she say very?

  She said ‘Wasn’t your mother often worrying about who was or was not dying in Africa?’

  I thought—But was she not right?

  Dr Anders said ‘And your father was—what—making jokes? making films?’

  I thought—But was not he right too?

  Then—Should I not make jokes? And should I not care?

  Dr Anders said ‘I just think you might try to look at these people more closely: to see them as not gods nor devils.’

  I said ‘Yes.’
Then—‘I see.’

  Then—‘The people at the party?’

  She said ‘If you like.’

  I said ‘And my father and mother—’

  She said nothing.

  I said ‘And not go on about them.’

  I lay as if in my cocoon; my cot in front of the fire.

  She said ‘You go on with what you like.’

  I thought—And are there not huge hands that hang like nests in bags from trees —

  I said ‘It’s not that I think they’re all wrong and I’m all right. I know I sometimes sound as if I do.’

  She said ‘Why not’

  — A bright spring day. A pond. A poplar tree —

  I said ‘When I stammer, it’s like some giant in my head, that I either have to kill, or be killed by.’

  I thought—What was that image?

  There were pigeons beyond her window, flying around the spire.

  I said ‘But there’s one thing that really terrifies me—’

  I waited for her to say something like—What?

  I said ‘You know, that first day, when I came to see you—’

  She said ‘Yes.’

  I said ‘And you said, about my high opinion of myself—’

  She said nothing.

  I said ‘I had an image the other day of everyone being so much happier when they were sort of underneath, like servants or victims.’

  I found myself shaking.

  She said ‘And you think you’re not.’

  I said ‘I think I don’t want to be.’

  There were the hoofbeats up and down my spine; like the Gadarene swine rushing towards the cliff.

  I said ‘And when I stammer I only pretend to be.’

  I thought—Not to stop myself being killed; but to stop myself killing?

  I said ‘To stop myself taking the responsibility.’

  I thought—The responsibility—but for what?