Mr Cassini

by Lloyd Jones

  The story should end at this point, but it wouldn’t. He’d be disappointed. He would stand up and flex his legs because they’d be stiff by now. His bottom would be wet. Suddenly, he would feel very tired. He would be cold too. He would rub his shoulders to warm them. His teeth would chatter. He would smile at Olwen and she would smile back at him. It would be time for him to enter the white room again… it was time to go.]

  And what happened after that?

  He told me not to eat any of the chocolate cake.

  Pardon?

  He said don’t touch the chocolate cake.

  What cake?

  He’d made a cake, it was in a tin which he’d put in my bag.

  Not just a normal cake, I take it.

  No, obviously not.

  I’m struggling… why would be say that?

  I’m not entirely sure, but I think maybe he had second thoughts about something. It was like a change of plan. I think he’d intended to eat the chocolate cake and maybe offer me some too. But then he decided, somewhere along the line, not to.

  Why?

  [Fly agaric… poisonous, a relative of the more lethal Destroying Angel. Hallucinogenic. In Lapp societies the shaman prepared the mushroom carefully to make it safe enough to eat. During his trance he would twitch and sweat. His soul left the body as an animal and flew to the otherworld to communicate with the spirits. The shaman’s urine was recycled and could pass through up to seven people, staying potent. St Catherine of Genoa used fly agaric to achieve religious ecstasy.]

  He told you not to eat the chocolate cake because it was drugged, presumably.

  Yes, that’s the only sensible explanation.

  You have no idea why?

  Yes, I have an idea – but it’s only a possibility, not a probability.

  And that was…

  He’d mentioned once that he wanted to try it without drugs.

  Try what?

  Moving from the dark room to the white room.

  Yes, you’ve mentioned that already. I have a rough idea what he meant. He implied that he’d kept himself in a state of permanent suspension, on the threshold between the two rooms, I think.

  Yes.

  And he’d used drugs to do this.

  Yes, and alcohol. Food also. He used them to fill the holes inside him, to keep the water out as long as possible and to keep himself in suspension.

  Had he managed it?

  Mostly, yes. Sometimes – he mentioned the twenty-year cycle – he was dragged back towards the dark room.

  What happened?

  He was capable of absolute terror when that happened. All his defences were broken and he became extremely scared of something.

  Something?

  He was never able to identify what caused his terror. But he knew it had something to do with Mr Cassini.

  [Olly would be restless by now. She’d say come on Duxie, we must get back, or we’ll be here for ever. He would see a few snowflakes gyrating in the air; it would begin to snow again. Olly would get up, shake the snow off the tartan rug, fold it carefully and put it in her bag. It would be time for them to leave the island. The snow would be melting fast. The ground would begin to appear again, rubbed into existence again by an unseen coin in an unseen hand. The Rainbow Messengers would check their apparel, rub their shoes on the grass clumps to get rid of the snow.

  Shall we make a move? Olly would tell the Rainbow Messengers to go on ahead because their work was finished. They’d all hug each other and laugh or cry. One moment they’d be there on the island, then they’d have zoomed off in a brilliant, radiant, dazzling super-arc which stretched far into the distance. He’d be waving at them long after they’d gone; a rainbow tinge would remain in the air for some time afterwards.

  Duxie, it’s decision time, she’d say. Look, you can stay in your make-believe world or you can come and sort things out on earth. He’d be torn between the two options – should he stay there, or should he go back with her, to tie up all the loose ends?]

  I tried to be firm with him. He’d stopped crying by then but he wanted to stay. I was bloody perished, I wanted to go home. So I tried to drag him off the island, back into the boat.

  Tell me, did he put his gloves back on?

  Yes, straight away. I never saw his hands again. I didn’t mention the crying. I think he felt rather foolish about it. He made a joke of it, said he needed a good cry now and again. I’m just a big kid really, he said to me.

  How was he at this stage?

  Subdued… he looked pretty groggy and his eyes were very red. But he made me leave without him.

  That must have been difficult.

  Very. I thought it was crazy. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  You must have found it hard to leave him there, surely? He would have been stranded.

  He was adamant. So I let him row me back to land. He got out for a bit. We sat on a tussock, looking back at the island. I tried to talk some sense into him.

  What did you say?

  I tried to persuade him not to dwell on the past, on his problems. I said he needed to sort things with his family, find them again. I was a bit hard on him, I suppose. I told him he needed to raise his eyes from his own petty problems. His children probably needed him right now.

  [Olly would be cross with him. ‘Look what they had to overcome to survive, all those people who came before you,’ she’d say. ‘Your own little problems are nothing in comparison. Your children need you…’

  ‘But they seemed to be coping fine.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Duxie, and you know it. Maybe they need you around, that’s all. One thing’s for sure, you won’t find out unless you get in touch. You’re taking the drugs route to oblivion, and that’s selfish. You know it. You’re being selfish.’

  He’d nod a lot, but he wouldn’t say very much. He’d be occupied with something on the ground by his feet – he’d scoop it up in his hands and they’d look at what he’d found: a tiny worm, a baby worm probably, which had drowned in the melting snow water. It would look pathetic, the colour washed out of it already.]

  Then he left you?

  Yes, he held me tight for a long time. I could smell the earthworm on his glove. He gave me all the picnic stuff and then he got straight into the boat and rowed off. He was looking at me all the time he rowed across.

  Was that the end of it all?

  Pretty much. I waved to him when he landed on the island again, and he waved back. There wasn’t much point standing there all afternoon so I went back to his pick-up and drove back.

  And how about him – how was he getting home?

  He said he’d be all right, thumbing it. So I drove home.

  [He’d sit on the island and he’d see a long line of people, from one horizon to the other. There would be thousands and thousands… his ancestors on one side and his descendants on the other. His own children would be right next to him, and they would laugh and mess around. They would do the conga. Come on Dad, do your special dance, they’d say. So he’d do his special dance, and they’d love him again. He’d look up, and there would be a long line of people stretching into the distance, all doing the conga.

  The Rainbow Messengers would have disappeared into thin air and Olly would have gone for ever. His alibi girl. He would shout out her name and it would echo back from the hills around, but there would be no response. Soon, he would be all alone. Maybe he’d get a coin from his pocket and he’d spin it into the lake. He would make a final, final, final wish. He’d hear the plop far below.

  A white light would spread along the land; it would grow in strength, almost blinding him. And he would realise what it was: a mist, coming to engulf him. A cold white breath coming to enfold him. Soon, he’d be asleep in the mist and the snow would start falling again, flowing around him in the silent air, covering him in a featherweight duvet of white.]

  He was going to his white room?

  No, not necessarily. He was looking for it.

 
An igloo?

  No, I don’t think so.

  Was it on the island?

  I don’t know. It could have been anywhere – I think it was a state of mind, not a place.

  And the dark room – was that also a state of mind?

  I don’t know for sure, but I think the dark room was a real place in his past.

  Would he have given you a sign if he’d reached the white room?

  Again, I don’t know. There was a big problem with going into the white room.

  What was that?

  He couldn’t go into it without going into the dark room afterwards, at some stage.

  Could you explain that to me?

  You’d have to ask Duxie himself to get the truth.

  Come on, give me some sort of idea.

  Well, he said that coming out of the white room was an amazing experience.

  Did he describe it?

  He couldn’t because it was such a personal thing. It was a feeling of ultimate happiness… complete joy, I think. The world seemed very, very beautiful. Everything seemed very simple. He said he could live happily in a single second and it would seem as if it lasted for eternity.

  Sounds like an LSD trip to me.

  No, that was the whole point. He’d used drugs to keep him on the threshold of the white room for a long time, but when he went into the white room the whole point of the experience was to be on nothing except fresh air.

  And you believed him?

  Yes. It was necessary to take the drugs route first, he said. One could achieve absolute clarity only if one had tried to reach it through drugs and failed. It was all a matter of contrast.

  But I thought that every drug trip was an attempt to recreate the magic of the first trip.

  Not for him, I don’t think.

  OK – we’ll have to leave it at that, I suppose.

  No, there was something else – something very important. Going into the white room was an amazing experience, but there was a downside.

  Which was?

  Eventually the colours faded and normal life would catch up with him again. He would start worrying about mundane things again – about bills, and having somewhere to live, and money – that sort of thing.

  How long did the colour world last?

  It depended on the clarity he experienced in the white room.

  Go on, give us an idea.

  At least six months, perhaps longer.

  And then?

  He would have to go into the dark room again.

  But he couldn’t. He said many times that he couldn’t remember it clearly.

  No, he couldn’t remember it clearly but he could remember the fear and the dread. He could feel the horror all over again.

  [Damn. He’d forget to leave a note for Harriet. She’d worry about him. She’d put a glass against the wall and listen out for the ping! And the boys at the snooker hall… they’d talk about nothing else, not even about motorway exits and the girls in the trailer parks. It would be snowing heavily now. The whole country would be preoccupied with this white scab, picking at it. His mind would drift to Siberia’s seven time zones, the reindeer’s third lung to keep it warm. He’d open his mouth and taste the snowflakes falling onto his tongue. An iron taste, like blood. He’d have a little nap, then he’d head for the white room. He’d know where it was now. Inside a snowflake, inside his head. Mr Cassini would be trapped forever in the telescope. If Duxie looked inside that cylinder Mr Cassini could be a few inches away, or he could be somewhere in deep space, or he could be a little dot moving around on the silvery moon – wherever he was, he couldn’t harm anyone now. Duxie wanted a view of the truth. Galileo risked his life, everything, for the truth. Duxie would sleep for a while, then he’d wake with a start. It was dangerous to sleep in the snow – he could die. He wouldn’t want to die now. He’d want to live. He’d want to go into the white room again, he’d want to see all those wonderful, brilliant colours.]

  What will you do now?

  I’m leaving tonight. This business has taken a lot of my time already. I was supposed to marry a month ago, but we had to delay it.

  Going ahead now?

  Yes, next Saturday.

  You never know, it might snow. That’s the forecast…

  Yes, we hope it does.

  I bet the photographer doesn’t.

  Why’s that?

  You’re getting married in white?

  Yes of course.

  You won’t be able to see the dress in the snow. No contrast.

  Perhaps I should marry in black…

  Don’t think that would go down very well. In red, perhaps? That was the medieval colour wasn’t it?

  Funny… wasn’t Mr Cassini a funeral photographer in Duxie’s dreams?

  That’s what you said.

  Are there such people?

  Yes, I think so – in some religions.

  Why not. Seems OK to me.

  You won’t have to worry about that for a while – you’re still young.

  True.

  It’s been nice meeting you. I’ve enjoyed it.

  Well I haven’t. It’s been a very strange time, and I feel as if I’ve failed him. But there were times when I thought he was using me.

  Could you explain that?

  You know something – that little girl down inside the well was the only important thing to happen all week, but he was only interested in his little island of introversions. I felt like an actor, a girl in a fairy tale or a myth, just a foil for his ego trip. It’s a tic of the age – a hypochondria, a pathetic need for self-diagnosis. He wasn’t really interested in me as a person.

  But you did everything you could.

  Sure, but it didn’t help much, did it?

  How do you know? He could be inside his white room at this very moment. He could be about to reach the colour world again.

  I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.

  No, that’s for sure. Can I offer you a lift?

  Yes, that would be great.

  Where to?

  I wouldn’t mind going to the white room myself.

  Now you mention it, nor would I.

  There’s one last thing.

  Yes?

  His mobile – it rang when we were on the island.

  Did he answer?

  Yes, it was the nuisance caller again.

  Are you sure?

  Yes, I could tell. So I took it from his hand and I shouted as loud as I could at the person on the other end. I was really angry. I told him to fuck off and leave Duxie alone.

  Did he answer?

  No, nothing. But I could hear some music in the background, very light, the sort you get from a musical box or some sort of wind-up thing.

  And?

  I threw his phone into the lake. As far as I could.

  He’d be almost asleep now. He would go up into the tree, he would feel as light as a snowflake, or a butterfly, in the upper branches, and he would look all around him, to all four corners of Wales. Waves would break in his head – he would miss the sea – and far below him he would see the diving rock from which the Hyperboreans made their final exit from the land, into the copious oceans from whence they came. Perhaps he would see seven swans flying along the horizon, through a rainbow. There would be an opportunity for a final imprecation to Lady Luck and good magic...

  He’d feel nothing by now. His body would be anaesthetised. The numbness in his body would merge with the numbness in his hand. Quite pleasant, really. He would sleep for a while. Just a few minutes, to refresh him. The snow would mean something new to him now – a secret relationship; an eradication, a light on the truth. Perhaps he would dream again. A nice dream. There would be people on the shore, waving to him. Was that Karol Karol the Polish hairdresser he could see, and Captain Oates with Yuri Zhivago and Baron Munchausen? They would want to be there with him. But first he’d have to go to the eye of the prism.

  He would see a vision of splendour. A moment of absolute clarity. All time
would be there: the past, the present and the future. He would desire, now, the silence and the beauty of the prism, and then he would want to step out again, into the world… he’d want the seven colours of his existence, the seven basic plots, to meet him in the branches of this rowan tree, to fuse into a tranquil clarity; he would look down into the very earth itself, and he would see all that was below him in the ground: gemstones and crystals and agates shimmering in their myriad colours, and living creatures splendid in their earthy skins; and he would look into the sky above, at the perfections of blue and white and grey and pink. And in the exit from the prism, he would engender his own story – in the meeting of all the colours and their parting again, with the cocoon unspun, he would create his own curious refraction – another story, the eighth; his own personal version… it would start with a sheaf of white paper in a child’s hand; a love letter to the world, sent in a new white envelope, unaddressed. And it would seem to him that all the many millions of words he had expended in his life would be rendered to but a few, a haiku of his own existence, or a mere verse:

  Out of whose womb came the ice?

  And the hoary frost of Heaven, who hath gendered it?

  The waters are hid as with a stone,

  And the face of the deep is frozen.

  Then he would take a step forward on the tree’s outstretched palm, and he would fly.

  15

  EPILOGUE

  Arthur Jones, known to his friends as Duxie, was reported missing in February 2005. There have been no sightings of him since, and not a single message has been received from him.

  Up to a quarter of a million people are reported missing in Britain every year, and although most of them are found again, or turn up safe and well, thousands disappear without trace. Duxie’s family haven’t given up hope of seeing him again. They believe he’ll walk back into their lives one day.