by Flynn
"What about it?"
"Well, I've got to answer them all by myself. Nobody can do it for me."
"I see, but what does the triangle mean?"
"That I have got to be—"
"Responsible?" I suggested.
"Yes, responsible."
"Yes, I see. You mean you've got to bear all the weight like those other triangles do?"
"Yes, of the things I've done and the things I've thought."
Each word was underlined with a nod of satisfaction. She left me in the silence of her full stop.
It took a little time for all this to sink in, but it was true. We've all got to bear the weight of our own actions. We've all got to be responsible—either now or later. We've got to answer Mister God's questions all by ourselves.
* * *
four
There was no doubt about it, Anna's arrival had caused a fair degree of upheaval in the house, given me lots of problems to deal with, and caused a lot of heartache. From the very beginning I had seen her as someone who was a little unusual. Perhaps it had just been the unusual way we had met. The first few weeks had shown me that she was certainly no baby angel, no changeling, in fact not even a sprite. No, she was at least a hundred percent child, complete with the giggles, dirty face, and breathless wonder. She went flat out after each day, as busy as a bee, as inquisitive as a kitten, and as playful as a puppy.
I suppose to some extent all children have a touch of magic about them—like some mysterious living lens, they seem to have the capacity to focus the light into the darkest and gloomiest of places—and this one had it in a very high degree. Perhaps it's the very newness of the young, or perhaps it's just because the shine hasn't worn off, but they can and do (if you give them half a chance) make a dent in the toughest armor of life. If you're very lucky they can dissolve away all those protective barricades so carefully erected over years of living. Lucky, did I say? Well, if you can take in your stride being twenty years of age and naked, then you are lucky. If you can't, then it's hell. I've seen other people knocked right back on their heels at some of Anna's comments. It wasn't that her remarks were all that clever and penetrating, it was just that she made herself so vulnerable. This made people hesitate as to the next step. This was a trick that she had learned: make people hesitate by whatever means you have at your disposal, fair or foul. And Anna was not above using tricks if they achieved her aim. Make people hesitate, and your remarks have a better chance of being looked at, being seen again. I suppose on the whole I didn't do too badly, considering. I didn't give in without a struggle. Letting your soul, or whatever fancy name you like to give it, out of its cage and into the daylight is perhaps the hardest thing anyone can do.
The hoarding down the Broadway displayed in large red lettering: do you want to be saved? I wondered just how many people would say yes to that. Had it read "Do you want to be safe?" millions of people would have said "Yes, yes, yes, we want to be safe," and another barricade would have gone up. The soul is imprisoned, protected, nothing can get in to hurt it, but then it can't get out either. Being saved is nothing to do with being safe. Being saved is seeing yourself clearly—no "bits a colored glass," no protection, no hiding—simply seeing yourself. Anna never said anything about being saved, never to my knowledge attempted to save anybody. I don't suppose she would have understood this way of putting things, for this was my interpretation. But Anna knew full well that it was no use playing things safe; you simply had to "come outside" if you wanted to make progress. "Coming outside" was dangerous, very dangerous, but it had to be done; there was no other way.
It wasn't very long after Anna had come to live with us that I tried to tie a label on her. I suppose it was for my own satisfaction and comfort, but thank God she wouldn't stay labeled. After the first few weeks of delicious enchantment with Anna I found myself faced with two problems, one of which was fairly immediate and easy to understand; the other grew more slowly and was very difficult to understand. Neither of these problems was easily solved, in fact it was over two years before I felt that I had the answers. The solution to both problems came at the same instant.
My first problem was, exactly what was my relationship with Anna? I suppose I was old enough to be her father, and for some time I wore that role without any great success. Perhaps the part of the big brother was a better bet, but that didn't fit either. I saw myself variously as father, brother, uncle, friend. Whatever I called myself seemed to leave an emptiness which needed to be filled. Nothing happened for a long time.
The other problem was, what exactly was Anna? A child certainly, a very intelligent and a very gifted child, but what was she? Everybody who came into contact with Anna recognized in her some strangeness, something that marked her as different from other children. "She's fey," said Millie. "She's got the 'eye,'" said Mum. "She's a bloody genius," said Danny. The Reverend Castle said, "She's a very precocious little girl." This certain strangeness in Anna gave some people an uneasy feeling, but her innocence and sweetness acted like a balm, soothing away suspicions and fears. Had Anna been a mathematical genius all would have been well; she could have been written off as a freak. Had she been a musical prodigy we could all have cooed with delight, but she was neither of these things. Anna's strangeness lay in the fact that her statements were so often right, and as time went by they became more and more often right. One of our neighbors was quite convinced that Anna could see into the future, but then Mrs. W. was like that. Mrs. W. lived in a world of tarot cards, tea leaves, and premonitions. The fact however remained that Anna was so often right in her predictions that she appeared to be some sort of diminutive prophet, or East End oracle.
Certainly Anna had a gift, but it turned out to be nothing spooky, nothing out of this world. In a very deep sense it was at once as mysterious as it was simple. She had an immediate grasp of pattern, of structure, of the way that bits and pieces were organized into a whole. Unexplainable as this gift might be, it was always well and truly earthed in the nature of things. As simple and as mysterious as a spider's web, as ordinary as a spiral seashell. Anna could see pattern where others just saw muddles, and this was Anna's gift.
The day that the horse and cart got its back wheel stuck in the tram lines produced half a dozen willing helpers.
"All together, lads. When I say 'heave,' all heave together. Ready? Heave!"
We all heaved like mad. Nothing happened.
"Once again, lads. Heave!"
We all heaved once again; same result—nothing.
After a few minutes of heaving and cussing, Anna tugged at my coat. "Fynn, if you put something across the line under the wheel and something so it won't go back again, and then push, it's easier, and the horse can help."
With the help of a flat iron bar and a few bits of timber we pushed and the horse pulled. The wheel came out as sweetly and as easily as a cork out of a bottle. Someone thumped me on the back. "Good lad, that was a good idea of yourn." How could I say that it wasn't my idea? How could I say it was hers? I just accepted the praise.
Yes, it was true, Anna certainly had a lot of luck. Such moments as these gave me great pleasure and pride in her achievements; but there were also moments of great anguish when she seemed to overstep
the mark, moments when her remarks, her statements, her claims, seemed to me to be so rash, so wildly out, that I felt compelled to say something. She took it all without comment. I felt like a heel and I didn't get it right for a long time.
Now Anna accepted the concept of the atom as easily as a canary bird accepts birdseed; accepted the size of the universe and its billions of stars without batting an eyelid. Eddington's estimate of the number of electrons in the universe was admittedly a fairly large number, but nevertheless very manageable. It wasn't very hard to write down a number bigger than that, and Anna knew full well that numbers have the capacity for going on and on and on. Anna soon ran out of words to express very large numbers and this was becoming more and more important. The word mill
ion was adequate for most things, billion came in handy on occasions, but if you wanted to use a word for a very, very large number, well, you just had to invent one. Anna invented one: a squillion. A squillion was a very elastic sort of a word; you could stretch it as far as you liked. Anna was beginning to have need for such a word.
One evening we were sitting on the railway wall, just watching the trains go by and waving to anyone who would wave back. Anna was drinking her "fissy" lemonade when she started to giggle. It's difficult to describe the next few minutes. If you want some kind of a picture, I suggest you try to drink fissy lemonade, giggle, and develop the hiccups. I waited until the giggles had died down, until the hiccups had stopped, waited until the toss of the head had settled her hair back into place.
"Well," I said, "what's so funny, Tich?"
"Well—I just thought I could answer a squillion questions."
"Me too," I replied, without any surprise.
"Can you do it too?" She leaned forward with excitement.
"Sure! Nothing to it. Mind you, I might get about half a squillion wrong." I'd taken careful aim with this remark, but it fell wide of the mark.
"Oh," the disappointment was obvious. "I get all my answers right."
This, I thought, is the time for a bit of the old guiding hand stuff; a bit of correction wouldn't come amiss.
"You can't. Nobody can answer a squillion questions right."
"I can. I can answer a squillion squillion questions right."
"That's just not possible. Nobody can do that."
"I can—I really can."
I took a deep breath and turned her to face me, quite ready to scold her. I was met by a pair of eyes, calm and certain. It was obvious that she thought she was correct.
"I can teach you," she continued.
Before I had a chance to utter another word she was off.
"What's one add one add one?"
"Three, of course."
"What's one add two?" "Three."
"What's eight take away five?" "Still three." I wondered just where this was getting me.
"What's eight take away six add one?" "Three."
"What's a hundred and three take away a hundred?"
"Hold it, Tich! Of course that answer's three, but you're cheating a bit, aren't you?" "No, I'm not."
"It looks like it to me. You're just making these questions up as you go along." "Yes, I know."
"Why, you could go on asking that kind of question until the cows come home."
Her grin exploded into a roar of laughter and I wondered what I had said that was so funny. It was the tilt of the head and the grin that made me realize what I had said. If asking questions till the cows came home wasn't the same as a squillion questions, what was it? Just in case the lesson hadn't been rammed home far enough, she turned the thumbscrew one last turn with, "What's a half and a half and a half and a-------" I put my hand over her mouth; I'd got the message. I didn't give the answer; I wasn't supposed to. With the ease and matter-of-factness that a mother shows when patting up baby's burps, she finished off with, "And how many question sums is three the answer to?"
Duly chastised, I answered, a little uncertain as to what garden path I had been led up, "Squillions."
By this time I had looked away and was busy waving to the passing trains as if nothing had happened. After a moment or two she put her head on my shoulder and said, "Ain't it funny, Fynn; every number is the answer to squillions of questions?"
I suppose it was at that point that my education began in earnest. For quite some time I just didn't know which way was up or down or if I was coming or going. I had been taught the good old-fashioned method of question first, answer second. Now I was being taught by a halfpint, redheaded demon that almost every sentence, grunt, number, or utterance was the answer to an unuttered question. I suppose it is possible to fault this method of approach, but now I'm stuck with it, and it's very usable. Very gently, but with great excitement, I was instructed in the method of walking backward. Keeping my eye firmly on the answer, I was encouraged to walk backward until at last I bumped into the question. Patiently, it was pointed out to me that the answer three was very important and useful because it led back to squillions of questions. The more questions an answer led back to, the more useful that answer was. The interesting thing about this method, I was told, was that some answers led back to a very few questions, and some answers led back to only one question. The fewer questions an answer led back to, the more deeply important were those questions. When an answer led back to only one question, then you'd hit the jackpot.
As I was slowly initiated into this upside-down world, I found myself positively enjoying the kind of answers that led back to squillions of questions. That the number nine stood as the answer to squillions of unasked questions I found myself getting more and more excited about. I too could answer squillions of questions right. In this aspect of the upside-down world I found myself somewhere near the top of the class, constructing questions of such complexity that I would have hesitated to try to solve them had I not known the answer from the beginning. At the other end of the scale, the end where an answer led back to only one question, I was at the bottom of the class. Uncertain, hesitant, and most unwilling to state the question.
Taking a stroll one evening with me and playing an unending solo game of hopscotch on the paving stones, Anna suddenly flung over her shoulder without stopping her game: "Fynn, say 'In my middle'."
As a very obedient pupil, I chanted, "In my middle."
From ten yards ahead of me she yelled, "Wot?" I stopped dead in my tracks, filled my lungs with the necessary, and yelled, "In my middle."
Little old ladies with their shopping baskets hurriedly crossed over the road with sidelong glances at me. Young girls giggled and children made those sorts of signs that indicated that I had a screw loose somewhere. Whatever activities or thoughts these good people had been engaged in were rudely interrupted by a six-foot-plus, 225-pound young man suddenly standing still and yelling, fit to wake the dead, In my middle. Sympathetic looks and such remarks as "He must be bonkers," "You never can tell by looks, can you?" were aimed in my direction. How could they possibly have known that I was conversing with that leaping, prancing demon, that redheaded kid, now some thirty or forty yards away? Obviously the man was having some kind of a seizure. At all these reactions to my yell my mouth fell open and I gaped like a stranded goldfish, my eyes stood out on stalks. I must indeed have looked bonkers. With a flood of embarrassment I rapidly pulled up my anchors, slammed my legs into top gear, and fled down a side street, around the block, and braked hard in front of Anna, who was still spring-heeling it on the spot. "Oi!" I panted. "You with me?" My mentor—or was she my tormentor?—still continued with her demented yoyo act. I put both hands on her head and pressed her to a stop with, "Hold it; your engine's still running. Cease. You'll curdle your brains."
She ceased and said, "What's the big question, Fynn?"
"How the heck do I know?" I answered, looking back down the street, half expecting to see white-coated men bearing down on me with straitjackets.
"You're frightened." She took my hand and we went on our way. It wasn't an accusation, just a matter-of-fact observation. We came to the canal bridge and Anna said, "Let's go down to the canal." I picked her up and leaned over the bridge, holding her at arms's length, and dropped her the five feet or so on to the tow path. This was our usual method of getting down to the canal; we never ever used the stairs about twenty feet away. We mooched along down the tow path, said "How do" to a couple of horses, plopped a few stones into the canal, and sunk a baked-bean tin. We searched for a handful of skimming stones and skimmed for about half an hour, managed to bounce a few stones on to the opposite tow path with one bounce, and pressed on down the path. We came to a moored barge and clambered on board and sat up at the front end with our legs dangling over the side. I rescued a cigarette from my coat pocket and straightened out the kinks, searched for, and found, a
match. Anna lifted up her foot and I scraped the match alight on the sole of her shoe. I lit the cigarette and took a long drag.
We lay there side by side on the barge, soaking up as many ultraviolet rays as managed to stagger through the steam and smoke of the surrounding factories. I was dreaming of my nice white yacht sailing through the Mediterranean, the steward bringing me cool pints of bitter and lighting my specially made monogrammed cigarettes. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky and the fragrance of exotic flowers wafted across the waters. Beside me lay this enchanting child, happy and contented, radiating sweetness, as innocent as a summer's morning. Little did I know that this miniature angel was busy stoking up her question-and-answer boiler, waiting for a good head of steam. Little did I know that she was busy sharpening up her scapels, saws, and cold chisels, weighting the haft of her sledgehammers. Halfway through my second glass of bitter my beautiful white yacht struck a mine and sank instantly. My comfortable couch was now the metal deck of a barge, my pillow a coil of tarred rope, my monogrammed cigarette was a dead and drooping butt, and the sweet smell of flowers wafting across the Mediterranean was the soap factory working overtime. The golden sun in the clear blue sky was peering watery-eyed through the sulfurous clouds from the chimney stacks.
"You empty in yer middle?"
I closed my eyes tightly, hoping that another yacht would pick me up. Already it was beginning to take shape. I could see the news placards: dramatic sea RESCUE, YOUNG MAN RESCUED AFTER 21 DAYS AT SEA—exclusive story. I was beginning to like this; I fitted the part well.
"Oi!"
My right ear exploded and all my dreams fled out of my left ear. A good hard prod with an elbow and my empty brainbox filled up with reality again.
"What? What's up?" I said, prying myself up on to my elbow.
"You empty in yer middle." I didn't know if that was a question or a statement.
"Course I'm not empty in my middle."