When I got to Sheila’s house there was the entryphone on her door and a little button with her name beside it as if she had gone up one rung on the social ladder and was now a prostitute.
The door was not locked; so I pushed and went in.
I thought I might say—I’m MI5. I’m mc2—
Sheila was not in her room. There were the two bed-frames on the floor. I thought—From these breasts I once used to hang.
I began to move around the room looking on Sheila’s shelves and in cardboard boxes. I thought—It is now clear in my mind that people do this because they can’t think of anything else —
Underneath some stockings, in one of her cardboard boxes, I found the three or four letters that I had written to Sheila. They were rolled in a cylinder with an elastic band around them.
I took the letters and sat down on the bed.
I thought—But if there really were this man, underground, plugged in to all the communication systems of the world; what, after he had made his clicks and his whistles, would be his message?
I read—A revolution to be permanent would have to be aesthetic.
I thought—Well that’s all right, isn’t it?
Then—Did I get that from my father or my mother?
I heard footsteps on the stairs. I put the letters in my pocket.
I thought—I don’t want them to pinch my message.
When Sheila came in it was as if she were not surprised to see me. I could not understand this. Then she acted as if she had suddenly remembered she ought to be surprised.
She said ‘Look, I’ve got to talk to you.’
I said ‘Yes everyone tells me that.’
She said ‘What do you know about the Libyans.’
I said ‘Nothing.’ Then—‘Sheila, what on earth does it matter if you get money from the Libyans?’
She said ‘Why do you say that?’
I said ‘Libyans was just something that came into my head.’
She said ‘Have you told anyone?’
I said ‘No.’
She said ‘Has anyone followed you here?’
I thought I could say—Sheila, Sheila, we once used to go and collect sea-shells on the beach where Blake saw visions —
Or—Yes, as a matter of fact, I was followed by a small fat man like a film director —
I said—‘I don’t know if anyone followed me. And I don’t know why things come into my head. Except it’s interesting what does seem to have a counterpart in the outside world—’
Sheila went out of the room, slamming the door.
I thought that now I could lie back on the bed and read my letters.
I began to have some nostalgia about Sheila. She had been a girl with smooth shiny skin; her waterline protected from torpedoes —
I read—Only what is aesthetic contains revolutions within itself.
I thought—Well —
Then—But Sheila’s footsteps went upstairs, not down.
I put my letters back in my pocket. I got up and opened the door. I went out quietly onto the landing. I looked up.
I thought—From an upstairs room she could have seen me arriving; and so not have seemed surprised?
There were faint voices coming from upstairs. One of them was a man’s and the other might have been Sheila’s.
I thought—She has been living up there all the time with that man like the famous actor?
I put my hand round my throat and made a strangling noise.
I thought—But this is not my message to the world!
I might kick against the banisters and say—Plasterboard! Plywood!
I went down the stairs making a banging noise. I could explain—A heavy body is being dragged down! I am being kidnapped!
I thought—It is true, I’m not upset —
— And I don’t mind if this is condescending.
In the street there was an enormous dustcart going past with its mouth open at the back like a dragon’s arse. I wanted to make a noise like a wolf, following it.
Then I crossed the street and went down a small alley between two houses opposite. I thought that from here I could watch the front of Sheila’s house; to see what would happen, or who would come out.
I thought—Libyans! Liberals! These privileged people are not witty —
Then—Phantoms are what are dropped by dustmen out of dragons’ arses.
While I was watching the front of Sheila’s house a boy on a skateboard came whizzing down the road and as he passed the dustcart he swerved so that a car that was going the other way nearly ran over him. The man in the car yelled and the boy banged on the bonnet of the car and then the car pulled away with a backfire and a screech of tyres.
I thought—What, no pistol shot? No secret-service man like President Nixon?
Then—I must ask Dr Anders —
There was the street again quiet and mysterious as a film set.
I was half hidden behind a fence down the alley-way opposite Sheila’s house.
I wanted to get an answer from Dr Anders about whether or not in the outside world —
A window on the second floor of Sheila’s house opened and Sheila looked out.
Beside her was a man.
I had been thinking—There are these connections?
The man was Brian Alick.
I thought—Then it is he who has been living with her upstairs all the time?
— And the man in white overalls, when he did, or did not, go to make a telephone call —
— Yes, I see.
— What do I see?
A cat came and rubbed itself against my legs.
I thought—This cat, that is like a teddy-bear, once belonged to witches —
Then—It doesn’t matter, here, what I do not see —
Sheila’s head disappeared from the window.
I thought—Now, in a film, there would be something old-fashioned like a nun with a pram and jackboots showing beneath her habit —
— So, in the outside world, you make up things to look sinister when you fear that nothing is happening?
After a time the front door of Sheila’s house opened and Sheila and Brian Alick half came out. They looked up and down the street carefully. Then they seemed to shelter again behind the front door of the house.
I thought—They are like targets at a fun-fair?
Sheila and Brian Alick appeared again. They ran to a small car parked in the road. Brian Alick climbed into the driving-seat: Sheila got in beside him. They drove away, fast.
I thought—That is all then?
I came out of the alley and began the journey back towards Cowley Street.
I tried to concentrate on the film I would one day make: in which things would happen as they did in fact happen; as if at random, but you have to make up patterns to live or to die —
But if you make them, who are you, there have to be patterns? You can’t make, if they are you, you can only find?
Then—Why did the people in Plato’s cave not come out into the sun —
— Was it because there was some old Zen master standing behind them with his stick and saying—If you say I am holding the sun I will hit you with it and if you do not say I am holding the sun I will hit you with it —
XIX
When I got back to Cowley Street I tried as usual to get upstairs without being seen. I seemed to be obsessed about this. I thought—Soon I must stay out for good; or I will be a bird caught by those old cats of witches.
I was caught by Mrs Washbourne on the first-floor landing. She said ‘Can I have that jersey?’
I thought I might say—It’s the only one I’ve got.
Or—You want my cloak of invisibility too?
She said ‘You’re invited to dinner.’
I said ‘Oh am I?’
Going on up the stairs I worked out—She wanted to wash my jersey.
On the second-floor landing I was caught by Aunt Mavis. She said ‘You didn’t give that woman your jersey?’
>
In my room I sat and wondered what would happen if someone said just—I want to wash that jersey. Would there be the sound of trumpets: the walls falling down?
On the few occasions when I had had dinner with Uncle Bill and Aunt Mavis when there had been other people there I had sat halfway down the table and had managed to put off being spoken to by smiling and nodding as if I were either already playing a full part in the conversation or insane.
My father’s old brown suit seemed to have grown a green mould on it. I wondered—How would one know if it were penicillin?
When I got down to the drawing-room there was a man whom I recognised as an MP who appeared on television, and another man whom Uncle Bill introduced as The Editor. This made him sound like a racing correspondent.
There were also two women who remained separate from the men, and for whom I seemed to have been brought in like a eunuch.
One said ‘You’re a friend of Sally Rogers?’
I said ‘Yes.’
She said ‘Didn’t you meet Tammy Burns?’
The men had gone into a corner and were talking amongst themselves. Or rather, the two strangers were talking but not really with Uncle Bill. They looked at him from time to time; but messages did not seem quite to be getting through from Andromeda.
I thought—The suitcases under his eyes are about to burst open like wounds.
The other woman said ‘Do tell me, what’s it like with Tammy Burns?’
I said ‘I think he has the most terrible contempt for people.’
She said ‘How exciting!’
I said ‘Yes I think he’s sad because he knows that too.’
When we went into dinner I saw again how exhausted Uncle Bill was. The suitcases under his eyes were like baboons’ arses.
The first woman said ‘Isn’t he gay?’
The other woman said ‘Isn’t he a bit of liquorice all sorts?’
I thought—My efforts at communication, like Uncle Bill’s, have been cut off from Andromeda.
I sat beside one woman: the other sat opposite. The Editor and the television MP talked at each other across the table. They were on each side of Aunt Mavis. They were careful not to look too closely at Aunt Mavis. I thought—If she takes her teeth out and holds them up in front of her mouth, will they pretend she’s eating a lobster-claw?
Then—But monks or monkeys, like myself and Uncle Bill—are they any better who do not talk at all?
I thought—Perhaps I should just watch out for what indicators or dials flicker to show whether people are still alive —
‘She was a Moslem—’
‘She was a Catholic—’
‘She can’t have been—’
‘She was his mistress?’
‘She was his wife.’
The television MP was a thin, rather delicate man with red hair. The Editor was a thickset man with spectacles.
‘Moslems don’t always have two wives—’
‘Catholics don’t always have one—’
‘Isn’t that what I’m saying?’
‘Perhaia?’
I was trying to memorise this conversation so that I might afterwards write it down. But it was difficult to get a hold of randomness without some memory-system, or rhyme.
The woman next to me was listening with shining eyes. I thought—As if to Hector and Achilles bashing away at each other with balls and chains —
‘Who’s got the money?’
‘Who’s got the child—’
‘The hand that rocks the derrick—’
I did not think I could be getting this correctly.
I wondered how much I should drink. If I drank too little, I might never be able to talk again. But if I drank too much, I would not be able to talk either.
‘Do you know the story of the woman who rushed at Perhaia with a bottle?’
This was Uncle Bill. I thought—Perhaps he has got drunk, in some effort not to talk at all.
‘No?’
‘He said—I’m sorry I only drink water.’
I thought—Aunt Mavis is doing quite well, just sitting there like a tower appearing to topple over with clouds rushing past her.
The television MP said ‘You mean, the woman was going to hit him with the bottle?’
I thought that on the whole I should drink quite a lot: then, if the old Zen master came behind me with his stick I could pretend I had meant to upset the table —
There were two decanters of wine. By filling up the glasses of the people on either side of me I could manage myself to get double rations in the middle.
Then Uncle Bill said ‘Bert, here, has been hob-nobbing with the Trotskyites.’
I thought—Oh God, but have you forgotten I am the eunuch?
The television MP said ‘Oh which ones?’
The Editor said ‘Is there any difference?’
The television MP said ‘On a dark night—’
He was a rather fine-drawn man with kind eyes, and he sat with his hands under his legs and rocked backwards and forwards slightly.
I thought—He is like one of those small green parrots?
The Editor said ‘It seems to me their programme is entirely destructive.’
I thought—O Aunt Mavis, take your teeth out!
One of the women said ‘Yes I do find that depressing.’
I said ‘They’ve got a feeling—’
Uncle Bill’s eyes were so misty they were like the pearls of that dead sea-captain.
‘A feeling?’
‘Yes —’
‘Well that’s something!’ This was The Editor.
There was laughter.
I thought—But you are not someone who is supposed to laugh when I stammer!
Then—Let the flood come down —
I said ‘—A feeling that things are so trivial in this society, so rotten, that what good can any programme do except be destructive? It’s the sort of feeling, or the programme I suppose, that God must have had at the time of Noah.’
I thought—Bye bye to you on the land, you old fossils.
The Editor said ‘And you call that constructive?’
I said ‘Isn’t God constructive?’
The Editor said ‘Let’s leave God out of this.’
Uncle Bill said Tou’re a Catholic!’
I said ‘Naturally.’
I got a laugh at this.
I thought—Dear God, I want to beat them, not join them.
The Editor said ‘What’s wrong with this society?’
I said ‘It’s not just that the wrong people have got money and power, which the Trotskyites say it is: it’s that the people who do have money and power are so hopeless at doing anything except destroying themselves.’
The Editor said ‘Destroying themselves?’
I said ‘What skill it must take for reasonable people to appear so depressing!’
I wondered—Is he in fact the editor of the Farmer and Stockbreeder?
I said ‘People in this society wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if things went well. They’d just dash around till they found something horrible again.’
I was trying to remember—What was it that happened to Noah when he was drunk? One of his sons saw him naked?
The two women had gone back to their food. I thought—What does all this mean—that in survival, people are simply embarrassing?
The Editor said ‘And you think Marxists want things to go well?’
I said ‘Yes, but they don’t see that things are funny too.’
The television MP said ‘Don’t we?’
I said ‘Perhaps, but we don’t see the other thing.’
Then Uncle Bill said ‘Bert, will you help your Aunt Mavis please?’
For some time I had half been aware of Aunt Mavis doing something like trying to pull her dress down over her wrists. This had seemed to be like making herself ready for the deluge.
I remembered how my mother and father had told me the story of how Aunt Mavis had come down o
ne day without any clothes on to the lobby of a hotel. She had been caught by the doorman and turned round and put back into the lift.
Uncle Bill said ‘Take the ladies upstairs for a while. We’ll stay and watch it down here.’
He was referring, I supposed, to the television set which had been wheeled into the dining-room from the study.
I thought—They will be hoping, as the waters rise, still to be catching glimpses of themselves?
I had stood up and was manoeuvring Aunt Mavis towards the door. She was hard and bony. I thought—Aunt Mavis, if you want to be Ophelia, you will have to learn how to swim, not just to take your clothes off —
Then—This would be a good bit of advice for the Trotskyites?
When we were out in the hall, and the two women had followed us, Aunt Mavis began to try to sit on the stairs. I lowered her, straight-backed; and she stared out over her particular desert as if she were waiting for the annual fructification by the Nile.
I thought—But there are no seasons any more in that dining-room nor in Egypt —
One of the women said ‘What do we do now?’
The other said ‘I feel like a Chinese tart.’
Aunt Mavis was like one of those temples being covered by water: her outlines being eroded that were once cut into her brain —
One of the women said ‘How’s your father?’
I said ‘He’s all right.’
I thought—You were one of his snakes in the long grass?
She said ‘You’re very like him you know!’
I said ‘Yes.’
I thought—Poor old Mum.
The other woman said Can we get her upstairs?’
I said ‘We can try.’
I thought—At least, you went sailing away on the high seas, my mother; and you were not tied to this lot out of pity —
Through the closed door we could hear the voices of what seemed to be Uncle Bill and The Editor and the MP talking to themselves, or to each other, in the dining-room, or on television.
I thought—Will you send me a message like a genie in a bottle, my mother? And that is where I will rest on the sea, when I am an albatross, or that dove?
XX
In the early hours of the morning I awoke in such despair that it was as if poison had been poured into my veins and I felt the best I could do was to open them and let the whole damned artificial lake out.
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