Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

  With Sammy’s help, he stowed away on a container ship heading for the port of Harwich in England.

  So his story went on. He told it to Esme in detail, describing the hideous vehicles in which he had travelled, the ghastly places where Karim had been forced to eat on the long trail that had led to this strange miracle of love, in a cellar lit by candles. He told how he had lived, the treatment he had received. As he related everything in obsessive detail, so Esme drank it all in obsessively, feeling a spiritual life revive within her.

  When Karim found how preoccupied with making money were the Muslims he met in England, again his religious faith faltered in his breast.

  He had moved to Ireland, hearing it was a good country. In Dublin he had become a member of a group of mixed nationality dedicated to overthrowing the established order. These men and women were hard drinkers. They had formulated a plot to assassinate the EU president. Karim had happened to catch a news photograph of Esme opening her restaurant at the peak of Everest on the very day he saw her entering the Hotel Kilberkilty.

  The plan to take her captive had been hurriedly cobbled together. He confessed that when he had caught her, he scarcely knew what to do with her. So they now both found themselves in this cellar beneath a ruinous coastal cottage.

  This long story had taken Karim a while to tell. Day and night had passed unnoticed beyond their sunken walls. Told in episodes, the story appealed to Esme as a great myth of endurance and protest against the tyrannies of the world. Never had she heard anything like it, told to her alone. In her mind, she ran over confused pictures of Tabriz, all dust and sun, the stony extremities of Turkey, the grand mosques of Istanbul, the lorries bumping across Balkan roads, the rattletrap trains, the kitchens of Toulouse, the warrens of the Sorbonne, the little wooden room housing the wise lame man. And, because she was a restaurateur, she tasted with Karim the stale fish, the foetid meat, the rotting vegetables, the smashed fruit that he had been forced to eat when living like a pariah dog on the trail that led to this subterranean tryst, this awaiting joy.

  She knew she was falling in love with the enduring spirit of this lonely and troubled man. It was at once like falling down a dreadful well and ascending into clear bright sky.

  More than that. She loved him as she had never loved Victor, loved him so that her body ached for him. For Karim’s way in the world had not been made smooth for him. Karim was a man alone.

  When he was telling her of the death of his friend in the Austrian marshalling yards, he was so troubled that she had stroked his hair in compassion. He had turned to her, quite fiercely, to bury his head in her breast. Their physical needs were released like tigers from cages.

  It seemed entirely right that she should give herself to him. Though they lived in squalor, in squalor was their happiness. She had escaped hygiene. She saw them as two rebels, isolated, driven, faithful unto death. Of course they were lovers. Lovers driven underground, living underground . . .

  * * * *

  ‘Gumbridge’s is the place for pyjama trousers. We sell pyjama trousers without pyjama tops, so if your man sleeps in just his trousers, the tops don’t go to waste. Similarly, if he just sleeps in his tops, then we sell tops without bottoms. Bargain prices? You bet!’

 
  When we emerged from the womb, our first sickly motions were often a source of admiration for our parents. In our dirt they relived their dirt>

  * * * *

  Filming the evacuation from the threatened coasts of the British Isles was Wolfgang Frankel. In his element. The great man enjoyed flitting about in helicopters. He flew, with his camera crew, over a scene never viewed before, never dreamed of. From Cape Wrath in the north of Scotland to Penzance in the south of Cornwall, hundreds and thousands of people were endeavouring to quit the westward-facing coasts before the tsunami struck. They travelled by car, by Slo-Mo, by coach, by bicycle, by foot. Some people in more rural parts travelled by horse and cart.

  Darkness made progress all the more hazardous. Many cases of tailgating occurred where the lines of traffic abruptly slowed. Men jumped from their vehicles, to attack the driver of the vehicle behind or in front. Not only were lanes and roads choked by traffic. Many in their desperate need to escape from the oncoming wave took to the moors or fields, only to stall their engines or slide into ditches.

  Police and road organisations were unable to control the mad exodus.

  The weather became cold and merciless. Through rushing cloud, a new moon smouldered. Rain fell, turning to sleet in the north.

  Conditions in Ireland were no better — and there, if the traffic was less dense, the fear was greater, for the west coast of Ireland was, as a commentator put it, ‘tied to the stake like Andromeda, first in the firing line’.

  ‘It’s getting too bad,’ the helicopter pilot yelled to Wolfgang. ‘You can see, visibility is down to zero. We don’t want the vanes icing up.’

  ‘Okay, take her down.’ He was feeling nervous himself, without showing it. The ‘copter rocked and screamed in the gusts of wind.

  The pilot was a cool young fellow. With a touch of sarcasm, he asked, ‘Whereabouts would you suggest we took her down?’

  Wolfgang turned back to his sound man. ‘Joe, show me whereabouts we are on your map.’

  The sound man produced a damp map and pointed. They had been filming low over the Menai Bridge connecting the Isle of Anglesey to the mainland. Traffic on and around the bridge had ground to a halt. There were those trying to get back on to the island to rescue relations there, as well as those trying to escape from it. Many people were on foot, struggling savagely past the congestions of vehicles. Two cars and a mobile crane were inextricably locked together near the mainland side. A small police helicopter was flying dangerously low, shining a searchlight on the confusion, which police below struggled to clear.

  ‘A few kilometres south-south-west of here there’s a farm called Llanysam. I know it well. It has a helipad,’ Wolfgang shouted.

  ‘Where, for fuck’s sake?’They were yelling at each other.

  ‘Llanysam! Llanysam! It’s a village. A farm.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Can’t be more than twenty kilometres. Think we’ll make it?’

  ‘Could do. We’ve only got wind and rain and ice to contend with . . .’

  All below them as they flew they saw broken strands of light where armoured insects fought their way along the roads from Caernarfon. No road too narrow or too winding not to be crawling with escaping vehicles. Even above the noise of the ‘copter engine and the shriek of the wind, car horns could be heard.

  Under the blustering wind, they seemed to proceed in jerks as they headed inland. Suddenly they were out of the rain front. They all took a deep breath of relief. Progress was still slow. They circled for some while, with the searchlight shining, flickering over hedge and hillside.

  ‘There it is! To your left!’

  ‘I was beginning to think you were making it up.’

  They circled again, losing height. Finally they were settling down on the pad. The pilot hopped out and secured his craft against the scudding wind.

  ‘This is going to be a bit of a surprise,’ Wolfgang said. Suddenly he was doubtful about his welcome. And if Daniel Potts was there—that might be embarrassing. Not that Wolfgang, as he reminded himself, had not been in embarrassing situations before.

  They put their heads down as they crossed a stretch of tormented heath.

  The low whitewashed
building, with its barn close by, was—or had been—the holiday home of Daniel Potts and his wife Lena. Wolfgang remembered it well. He had liked its mountainous remoteness in the days when he had been a regular and secret visitor there. He strode on, head bowed, remembering, leaving the three other men behind.

  It had been two years since his affair with Lena had petered out. He had not seen her since. She had not accompanied Daniel to the Victor-Esme wedding. He saw vividly now, as he had never bothered to do at the time, how difficult had been her life with Daniel, and with Daniel’s endless tussling over his religious beliefs. Self-indulgence — that was what it had been on Daniel’s part, pure self-indulgence. And he had tried to dress it up as something noble.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Wolfgang to himself. Who was he to accuse another man of self-indulgence? At least he had never pretended to himself it was anything else.

  Sorrow filled his mind as he staggered onwards, through the farm gate. Next year, he would be forty years old. Time had gone by. Yes, he had celebrity. Life was enjoyable enough — full, in fact, of excitements. And yet — empty.

  He seized the iron knocker and hammered at the oak door of the farmhouse.

  The time was 4.17 a.m.

  A window above his head opened and a woman’s voice said, ‘Whoever you are, bugger off!’

  He stood back, looking upwards to where a woman, dimly framed in a window, was levelling a gun at him.

  ‘Lena, is that you? It’s me, Wolfie. Is Daniel in?’

  A torch came on, dazzling him.

  Not at all mollified, the woman called, ‘I don’t want strangers here. Fuck off, the lot of you!’

  ‘Lena, it’s me, Wolfie. I’ve got three friends with me — fugitives from the storm. Are you alone?’

  ‘I’m not alone.’ The tone now was more moderate. The torch was switched off. The gun was withdrawn.

  The pilot, the cameraman, the sound man, clustered round Wolfgang. ‘Doesn’t sound too good.’ ‘Who are these people?’ ‘Bloody Welsh . . .’ ‘Hadn’t we better move on?”You saw she had a gun?”Christ, Wolfie, what now? It’s a quarter past fucking four.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Wolfie. Then, ‘She’s just a bit startled.’

  ‘Startled! For two pins she’d have shot us!’

  Lena’s head reappeared at the upper window.

  ‘All right. What the hell do you want? I’ll come down. Just be quiet, the lot of you — I’ve got kids sleeping here.’

  Kids, what kids? Wolfgang asked himself. ‘Well, buck up, it’s perishing cold!’ he shouted.

  As they waited, he began to recall the miserable history of Daniel Potts and his family. Potts in his youth had been profoundly religious, or had claimed to be. Marrying young, he had instilled religious principles into his and Lena’s two children, first Olduvai and then — oh, yes, the name came back, Josephine. The children in their teens had rejected religion, refusing to go to church. And Daniel had disowned them, kicked them out of house and home.

  What a bastard the man had been! And then he too, digging in those shallow graves in Africa, he also had lost his faith.

  Wolfgang had cuckolded him without a moment’s thought.

  God, what misery there was in the fucking world. It was all round them, like the wind whistling round the side of the nearby barn. You had to fight against it, to take what pleasure you could, just as you struggled to keep yourself warm against the metaphysical cold.

  The chain inside went clanking down off the door.

  The door opened a crack.

  The torch shone in their faces.

  ‘All right. Come in. And be quiet.’

  So they went in.

  Lena locked the door and put the chain up. She switched an overhead light on, and surveyed her four visitors, standing sheepishly together. Her rifle was by her side.

  She was wearing an old faded grey dressing-gown over her pyjamas. On her feet were tattered slippers. Wolfgang saw immediately that her figure had thickened. She had aged. The young beauty for whom he had so urgently lusted was gone.

  ‘We are sorry to have frightened you, Lena,’ he said, coming forward and taking her hand — which she quickly withdrew. ‘Is Daniel here?’

  She gave a shake of her untidy head. ‘He’s not. You’re quite safe.’ Said with a certain proud scorn, perhaps remembering Wolfgang’s cautious visits in the old days.

  She ordered her visitors to sit down on an old oak settle by a dead fireplace. When they were perched there uncomfortably in a row, she relented slightly, saying she would make them all mugs of tea. She had no alcohol about the place she told them. ‘Things have changed, then,’ said Wolfgang, with an attempt at lightness.

  ‘Certainly have.’

  As she made her way to a kitchen at the back of the house, Wolfgang followed her down the passage.

  He remembered the kitchen, remembered when she and Daniel had had it installed; the old iron range had been taken out, a new oven put in, together with fridge and dishwasher. They were still there, icy under the bar lighting. He also saw the bottles of wine and malt whisky on a Welsh dresser, but made no comment. A window over the sink looked out on blackness. It was freezing cold in the kitchen.

  ‘How have things been, Lena?’

  She shot him a glance, perhaps measuring how much she would tell him. ‘Bloody ghastly.’

  Her answer silenced him. Lena filled a kettle and switched it on. Wolfgang stood looking vaguely about him, knowing himself unwanted and not entirely knowing what to do. The old charm, he told himself, was not working. He felt compassion for the woman. He was a venal man, and recognised himself as venal: yet his better side wished to offer her some comfort, and perhaps to be forgiven.

  ‘You seem to be having rather a hard time of it. Is Daniel back in Africa? I caught part of his lecture the other night.’

  She turned, leaning against the sink, giving him an unfriendly stare. She had a sty on her left eyelid, he noted.

  ‘You men are all bastards. What do you care? Daniel has chucked me up, just as he chucked up his kids.’

  ‘What do you mean? You two have been married for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Huh. In name, maybe. Now he’s chucked me up.’

  ‘How? What do you mean?’

  ‘What right have you to ask me questions? You come here in your helicopter ... I suppose you didn’t chuck me up, two years ago?’

  She turned away to arrange mugs beside the kettle, which was busily arranging to boil. He wondered if she was close to tears, but that did not seem to be the case.

  ‘You once cared about me, Lena.’

  With her back still turned to him, she said, ‘You never cared about me, you sod.’

  He stood staring blankly ahead. Slowly he realised he was looking at what he had registered as a bundle of old clothes, lying on the draining board. He saw now that there was a small foot with five little toes protruding from it. A black foot.

  Revulsion, a wish to escape, overcame Wolfgang. He remained rooted to the spot.

  The woman was pouring hot water on tea bags. She added milk from a jug standing on the windowsill. Catching sight of the expression on his face, misinterpreting it, she said, ’Your conscience playing you up? You left me without a word. It was because of you Daniel walked out on me. He kicked me out of our London house. I do mean kicked . . .’

  He said nothing. Aware she was regarding him contemptuously, he dropped his gaze.

  Lena said, ’You can carry this tray in. Yes, he found a bundle of those letters you wrote me. That did it!’

  Through a daze, Wolfgang said, ‘What? You kept all those damned letters?’ He remembered writing them. How he had enjoyed writing down all the sexual details after their meetings in the course of — well, it must have been over six or seven years. He had never been faithful to her but certainly he had ... it had been like love. ‘Why didn’t you burn them, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Women always keep love letters, weak creatures that we are.’

 
; He carried the tray with the mugs into the front room where his three companions sat silently. They were listening to the cameraman’s portable radio. A newsreader was giving an account of a massive traffic pile-up on the M5. Seventeen vehicles involved.

  In Wolfgang’s mind, the image of the dead baby’s foot remained. Whose baby was it? Who had killed it? He held the hot mug of tea between his hands but could not drink.

  Lena was standing against the wall, one hand on the barrel of the rifle propped by her side. Glancing covertly at her, Wolfgang saw how gaunt and exhausted she looked. It seemed as if she was waiting for them to leave.