Imago Bird

by Nicholas Mosley

  I said ‘Oh, anywhere.’

  — Where that light is by a fire; in my mind; and not just on a couch, or bedsprings, for an hour looking out of a window —

  I was still trying to make out the writing on a paper on Dr Anders’ desk.

  Dr Anders said ‘I think I should tell you that I shall be away all next week.’

  I said ‘Oh will you.’

  She said ‘Monday to Friday. At a conference. But I’ll leave a number where you can get hold of me if you want to.’

  I thought—You think I will be so lost without you, that I will die?

  Then—Ah, but haven’t I made images of a father and a mother now to look after me —

  I said ‘I’ll be all right.’

  I wondered if I should say—What is your conference then?

  Then I said ‘I never knew it was my sister who put me on to you.’

  Dr Anders said ‘No?’

  I wanted to say—Is your conference at Cambridge?

  There was a letter on Dr Anders’ desk with an address that I could not quite decipher.

  I wondered—Will there always now be this profusion in my head and in my heart?

  I said—‘That night I was with Sally Rogers, you know, after we had been with Tammy Burns: well, when we got back to her flat and there had been all those pornographic films, you know: well, Sally sort of took off her clothes like people do in films—dramatically, you know, like someone casting shadows—and then she was naked on the bed like Achilles in her golden armour. And she had one of those funny instruments beside her bed you know—like an electric tooth-brush or a humming-bird with its wings torn off—that are supposed to give you the most tremendous orgasms you know. Well, I didn’t really want to do anything with this: though I was very drunk: the poor thing seemed quite dead. But Sally was getting nowhere playing with me, either, and was saying “This little piggy went to market.” And I was saying “I’m afraid it’s more like this little piggy’s staying at home.” And after a time I got up and went to the window and I held the vibrator in my hand. And I opened the window. And Sally said “What are you going to do?” And I said “See if it will fly.” And I said to it—“Come along, coop, coop—”’

  Dr Anders said ‘And did it?’

  I said ‘Is your conference in Cambridge?’

  XVII

  On one of the afternoons during the week when Dr Anders was away I went to the House of Commons to see Uncle Bill perform. This was part of my effort to take the outside world of giants and politicians seriously: to see what life was like at the top of the beanstalk.

  I stood in a queue outside the Houses of Parliament and tried to look inconspicuous. I seemed a head taller than anyone else. If I sagged at the knees and lowered my head I thought I might look like one of the Burghers of Calais in Rodin’s sculpture round the corner: and by thus seeming a victim, become one of the crowd.

  There was an enormous hoarding to one side of where I stood on which someone had placed a small sticker which said Oedipus loves Mary.

  I thought—Well, we have not done too badly, have we, my mother.

  Then one of Uncle Bill’s aides was passing by and saw me. At least, I think it was one of Uncle Bill’s aides. I ran quickly through my list of—the man with crinkly hair; the man in white overalls; Jake Weatherby; the flat-faced homosexual —

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting to get in.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know? I’d have got you a ticket.’

  He led me out of the queue. I thought it would be too difficult to explain—But I wanted to stand in the queue to find out what it was like not just to see Uncle Bill, but to be one of the people who queue up all night to get up the beanstalk.

  We went through corridors and up in a lift and into one of those galleries where you sit and hang over the edge and wonder about dropping food down into the bear-pit below. There were all these men and women who looked absolutely at home there; as if they had found their ecological niche and would not change for millions of years. I thought—But this is the opposite of a zoo; where animals know they are on show, and so are uneasy. Here, they are so settled that if you dropped bread to them they would have you arrested for throwing stones —

  — Sprawled about in those precise positions in which they would be when the lava came down: asleep, or dreaming of a world in which speeches came out clicking like the legs of chorus-girls —

  I thought I would have to write this in my notebook.

  There was a man talking about how if certain people got more money the economy would collapse: then another man was saying that if these people did not get more money the economy would collapse. The crowd seemed satisfied by this: to and fro, as in a tennis match.

  Uncle Bill did not seem to have come in yet. There were men with their feet up on a table like barricades.

  I thought—But do these people know how odd they are? Like flies caught in amber —

  — Or are there always, so long as there is life, fingers that reach up like wild flowers out of gratings —

  I found it hard to concentrate on what was being said—Do not take this body of figures in one way: let us take this corpus in another. We have come both to bury Caesar and to praise him. Speech was being used like music or gas to come through little pipes in the ceiling: so that these old bones should not tell too much when they were dug up after thousands of years —

  I thought—But can one save one’s mind simply by ceasing to listen?

  I was ruminating upon all this: thinking—Well, I seem anyway to have no choice; my mind is unable to dwell on such things: I mean the shot in Uncle Bill’s study; the papers that Mrs Washbourne was or was not throwing into the fire; the photographs that might or might not have been stolen. From this sort of lava, like a hungry lion, good Lord deliver me —

  Then there was a whispering noise to one side of me in the gallery and I saw trying to push towards me along the row of seats —

  — Another of Uncle Bill’s aides? The man like President Nixon?

  It looked like Jake Weatherby.

  I thought—But don’t be taken in by this —

  He had got some way along the row and was smiling and grimacing at me: then he had to sit down on the only seat available.

  I thought—Please God, always take away the extra seat as in musical chairs; so there will be no room for these phantoms to get at me —

  Down below, Uncle Bill was coming in. He had his hands in his pockets with his thumbs pointing forward as if he were cannoning off invisible objects like a seaman. I thought—Politicians are sticks that we drop into a river; they go with the stream; then we rush to the other side of the bridge to see who is winning —

  The man in the gallery was Jake Weatherby. He still seemed to be trying to attract my attention. I could say—But I am just getting the secrets of this strange tribe —

  Uncle Bill had sat down and had put his feet up on the table.

  I thought—They are the fossils that God put into the rocks in order to make us think he did not exist —

  Jake Weatherby seemed to be trying to make people move so he could approach a few seats nearer to me.

  From the back, a man wearing knee-breeches was frowning at him intently.

  Down below there was a man saying—Now let us—what?—praise famous men —

  I thought—Is Jake Weatherby my dark horse? My hungry lion?

  Uncle Bill had sat up and was shuffling through some papers.

  I thought—But the problem is still just how to stay alive.

  There were all these fingers coming up through gratings —

  I thought—I must be kind to myself.

  The man with knee-breeches had come down and was talking to Jake Weatherby.

  I stood up and began pushing along the row of seats in the opposite direction.

  Uncle Bill had stood up and had put on his spectacles. Then there was his bright, funny voice that seemed to be saying—Upsadaisy! With a
glass of water and a parasol on a high wire. With a little skip, and a jump, like a child with a hoop. Then his hoop bowling out into the traffic?

  I had pushed my way to the end of the gallery.

  — I was the child running after the hoop: the hoop was the world —

  I hoped that Jake Weatherby would be arrested by the man in knee-breeches, and so would not follow me.

  I was banging down a staircase.

  I wanted to say—Sorry! Sorry!

  Though—Was it really a chance mutation that sent the world out bowling into this traffic —

  When I was in the air I began hurrying towards Embankment Gardens. I wanted to look at Rodin’s statue of the Burghers of Calais. Six old men, trapped in chains, whom everyone thought so beautiful —

  I thought—Dear God, how could we stay alive if you did not send down your shit like lava on the world; or like manure —

  A voice behind me said ‘Hey!’ It was Jake Weatherby.

  I thought—I will now turn and take this man by the windpipe —

  He said ‘I must talk to you.’

  I said ‘All right.’

  He said ‘It’s about your uncle.’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  We were both standing by the statue: I was looking at Jake Weatherby; he was looking at the statue.

  I thought—Is this it, now, why these old men are so beautiful: did we taste chains, Jake Weatherby, inside our mothers —

  Jake Weatherby said ‘They’ve got something on your uncle.’

  I said ‘What.’

  He said ‘What is it about this statue?’

  It was such a grey cold day. With the wind beginning to gather leaves for the bonfire.

  I said ‘If there’s something unbearable about the subject matter, you comfort it in the form.’

  He said ‘Of what.’

  I began to walk towards the river.

  He followed me.

  I said ‘What have they got on my uncle?’

  He said ‘Look, if I knew—’ Then—‘Documents. Photographs.’

  I said ‘Anyway who are they?’

  We had come to the parapet of the embankment above the river. I tried again to face him. He kept turning away; as if he were a lion in a zoo.

  I climbed on to the parapet above the river. The top was a narrow ledge a few inches wide. The river was a long way below. I held my arms out.

  Jake Weatherby said ‘What are you doing?’

  I said ‘Practising.’

  He said ‘For what?’

  I walked along the parapet while Jake Weatherby moved along below me. I thought—I am a bird: if there is a tree, I will climb into its branches.

  I said ‘For when the ice-cap comes down from the pole.’

  He said ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’

  I said ‘No, I’m trying to stay alive.’

  The drop on the far side of the parapet was to mud. There were oil drums and old branches of trees there.

  Jake Weatherby said ‘I don’t know who or what it is.’

  I said ‘Then why say it.’

  He said ‘Something about money.’

  I had come to the branch of a tree. It stretched across the parapet. It seemed that I would have either to climb it, or to come down.

  I said ‘Is there anything else you have to tell me?’

  He said ‘I really wanted to pick your brains—’

  I thought—I will slide down on that shaft of sunlight —

  — Like a bird on a tea-tray —

  On the ground, beside a bench, at the place where people rested in their walks beside the river, I had noticed an evening paper blown by the wind. On its front page, slightly muddied, there was a picture of a man lying on his back with what seemed to be a gag in his mouth. Above the picture was a huge headline—Perhaia Slain.

  I climbed down from the parapet. I picked up the newspaper.

  Mr Perhaia had been such a nice, quiet man. He had been found in the boot of a car, with a rope round his neck.

  Jake Weatherby said ‘You may be able to help your uncle.’

  I said ‘How.’

  The photograph of Mr Perhaia did have something wrong about the mouth.

  Jake Weatherby said ‘There are people putting pressure on him.’

  I said ‘Dear God!’

  The newspaper said that Mr Perhaia’s body had been mutilated.

  I put the newspaper back on the ground.

  I thought—O bury him beneath the tree —

  Jake Weatherby said ‘They cut the poor bugger’s balls off.’

  I was going towards the road.

  I said again ‘Is there anything else you want to tell or to ask me?’

  He said ‘I can’t talk to you like this.’

  I said ‘How can you talk to me?’

  I thought—Oh damn, damn, what can I do for Mr Perhaia?

  He said ‘Where are you going?’

  I was going towards where the traffic ran thickly. It was like molecules of gas that other molecules might or might not get through.

  I thought—Run, run —

  I said ‘To the Tate Gallery.’

  He said ‘Why?’

  I said ‘To look at the people who are balancing on wires and jumping through hoops.’

  He said ‘You know, you’re in trouble; can I help you?’

  I dodged through the traffic. He stayed behind.

  I thought—Molecules are like sea-gulls: they peck at you; some of you do, and some do not, get through.

  XVIII

  I rang up Sheila. I said ‘Sheila, for God’s sake, what have you told Brian Alick?’

  Sheila said ‘What do you mean, what have I told Brian Alick?’

  I said ‘I told you some joke. About my uncle getting money from the Libyans.’

  She said ‘I thought you said it was the Liberals.’

  ‘That was a joke too. You were doing that thing about pretending to get something out of me—’

  Then I thought—But was it not Sally Rogers that I said the thing to about the Liberals?

  However—Does any of this matter, if language has broken down?

  Sheila said ‘Look, I can’t talk about it now.’

  I said ‘Have you got that man with you?’

  ‘Which man?’

  I said ‘The one in a white burnous like a Liberal—’

  She rang off.

  I stood in the call box.

  I thought—But if one made enough jokes might one not keep the world on course as if with little jets when the bomb goes off?

  I rang up Sally Rogers. I said ‘Sally, you know I told you some joke about my Uncle Bill getting money from the Liberals—’

  She said ‘I heard you said it was the Libyans.’

  I thought I might say—On a dark night, can you tell the difference?

  She said ‘As a matter of fact it’s your Trotskyite friends who get money from the Libyans.’

  I could not think of what to say to this —

  — Oh I see! —

  Or—Aren’t the Trotskyites your friends then?

  Sally said ‘When are you coming to see me?’

  I said ‘I don’t know. There’s a man in a burnous on a bicycle following me.’

  She said ‘Well mind you don’t end up like Perhaia.’

  I rang off.

  I was in a call box near Westminster Cathedral.

  I thought—Well, I did try to be serious, didn’t I?

  Then—But where are those seeds growing, from what is buried beneath the tree —

  I picked the receiver up again. I thought—Dial any old number and listen, and one would hear more sense than I get from Sheila or Sally Rogers —

  There were a lot of loud clicks against my ear and then a booming noise as if pipes in a basement were having trouble.

  I put the receiver down.

  I thought—There are people sitting in underground cells in California who have worked out all the telephone codes and they can send
messages round the world just by making clicking noises and blowing whistles —

  — So, could not someone clever enough, witty enough, get himself plugged in to where he wanted and say what he wanted and then —

  — as if with little jets —

  — alter the world —

  Could I put this into a film?

  I banged the coin box of the telephone to see if any money might come out.

  I thought—Once in a million million: those are fair chances, aren’t they?

  I needed money if I was to go on a journey.

  I went out of the call box. I thought I might drop in on Sheila. I wanted to make love. I needed some bearings, before my journey.

  I could explain to Dr Anders—But it is not sophisticated people who are witty: it is Cockneys and Jews and black people —

  Then—Do I really mean that they are not sophisticated in trying to save the world?

  I found I had not got enough money even to go by underground to Sheila’s house.

  I thought I would walk; and bang on coin boxes every now and then to lessen the chances.

  For how else do we live; these people who make jokes; and try to keep the world on course? Ask the wolf in at the door? And he will not come, because we are not privileged?

  It was such a cold day. I thought—The summer is over, when I was fed by Dr Anders and then made love to Sheila.

  I found that I did miss Dr Anders when she was away. There was an ache in my head, heart, balls; as if something were being born there.

  I thought—I will make love to Sheila again: then for a while this burden of thinking will be aborted —

  — We are wandering Jews? Flying Dutchmen? This élite of non-privileged people?

  — If I looked under the lids of dustbins, would I find a genie in a bottle —

  — Or should I sing and dance, and pass my head round on a platter —

  — When it rains it rains —

  Occasionally I did an entrechat.

  I thought—But you would have to keep things secret, wouldn’t you, all you non-privileged people: or else the privileged would want to take away from you even the non-privileges that you have —

  There were people on the pavement who did not pay much attention to me, or indeed to anyone who did not seem to come from Andromeda.

  I thought—Being on the trail of meaning is so embarrassing!