by Unknown
“What’s lost? Are you lost?â€�
“What time is it?â€� said Boaz-Jachin. “I have to get back to the crew’s quarters before breakfast.â€� He looked at his wristwatch. Half-past four.
“Are you always lost?� said the girl. They were nested like two spoons, her nakedness warm and insistent against his back, her mouth close to his ear. Through the porthole the darkness was graying. Boaz-Jachin tried to remember his dream.
“Are you always lost?� said the girl.
Boaz-Jachin wished that she would be quiet, tried to call back the vanished dream. “Everything that is found is always lost again,� he said.
“Yes,â€� said the girl. “That’s good. That’s true. Is it yours or did you read it?â€�
“Hush,â€� said Boaz-Jachin, trying to fit into a silence with her. The porthole was like a blind eye in the dim stateroom. On that round blind eye, whitening with the morning fog behind it, he seemed to see his map, the one he had newly drawn from memory after he and the trader had been picked up by the big white cruise ship: his town, his house, Lila’s house, the bus depot and the other bus depot, the road to the citadel, the hall of the lion-hunt reliefs, the hill where he had sat, the road to the seaport, the place where the lorry driver had dropped him, the brief distance with the woman in the red car, the farm where the dying father had written FORGIVE with his finger, the Swallow’s track to Rising Son Rocks. The city where he thought his father was now with the other better map, the map of his future.
The map faded, only the round blind stare of the fog was left. In that stare Boaz-Jachin doubted that his father’s map would be of any use to him. He had remembered it as large and beautiful. Now he thought of it as small and cramped, too neat, too calculated, too little cognizant of unknown places, of the night places waiting beyond the day places, of the somewheres dropping from the open wombs of nowheres. He felt lost as he had not done since being with the lion.
“Maps,â€� he said softly. “A map is the dead body of where you’ve been. A map is the unborn baby of where you’re going. There are no maps. Maps are pictures of what isn’t. I don’t want it.â€�
“That’s beautiful,â€� said the girl. “‘There are no maps.’ What don’t you want?â€�
“My father’s map,â€� said Boaz-Jachin.
“That’s good,â€� said the girl. “Is it yours? Do you write? It sounds like the beginning of a poem: ‘My father’s map is …’ What is it?â€�
“His,� said Boaz-Jachin. “And he can keep it.� He threw back the sheets, rolled the girl over on her stomach, bit her buttocks, got out of bed and put his clothes on.
“I’ll show you my poems tonight,â€� she said.
“All right,â€� said Boaz-Jachin, as the girl’s room-mate, yawning, came back from where she had spent the night. He went back to the crew’s quarters and got ready to serve breakfast to the first sitting.
The trader had been dropped off at the last port. Boaz-Jachin, signed on to replace a waiter who had left earlier in the cruise, would stay with the ship until it reached its home port. From there he could travel overland most of the way to the city where he expected to find his father. Boaz-Jachin no longer wanted the map, but he wanted to find his father and tell him so. While serving breakfast that morning he thought about what he would say to his father.
Keep it, he would say. I don’t need it. I don’t need maps. At first he imagined himself only, saw and heard himself saying the words without seeing his father in his mind. Then he tried to imagine Jachin-Boaz. Perhaps he would be lying in a dirty bed, unshaven, ill, maybe dying. Or dim and pale, lost in some shop of dust and shadows in the great city, or standing alone on a bridge in the rain, looking down at the water, defeated. What have you found with your map? he would say to Jachin-Boaz his father. Has the future you drew so beautifully for me come to you? Has it made you happy?
The dishes clattered, the music played anonymously its tunes that were the same in airports, cocktail bars and lifts, the children quarreled and left their eggs uneaten. The parents sat with the faces and necks of every day coming out of their holiday clothes, spongy backs and flabby arms of women in sun-back dresses, festive trousers on men with office feet. Girls displayed in the shops of their summer dresses the stock that had not moved all year, their mouths open with surrender, their eyes blurred with hope or sharp with arithmetic.
Boaz-Jachin walked behind his smile, served from behind his eyes, looked down on bald heads, bosoms, brushed ardent shoulders with his thighs, said thank you, nodded, smiled, cleared away, walked back and forth through swinging doors and galley smells. Every person here had had a father and a mother. Every person here had been a child. The thought was staggering. The feet of the men in the festive trousers made him want to cry.
Boaz-Jachin served the table of the girl he had slept with last night. She shaped the word hello with her mouth, touched his leg with her hand. He looked down her dress at her breasts, thought of last night and the night that was coming. He looked up and saw her father looking at him.
The father’s face was busy with horn-rimmed glasses and a beard. The father’s eyes were sad. The father’s eyes spoke suddenly to Boaz-Jachin. You can and I can’t, said the father’s eyes.
Boaz-Jachin looked at the mother looking at the father. Her face was saying something that his mother’s face had often said. But he had never paid attention to what it was. Forget this, remember that, said her face. What was the this to be forgotten? What was the that to be remembered? Boaz-Jachin thought of the road to the port and of the time after the lorry driver when it seemed to him that he could speak with animals, trees, stones.
Beyond the windows of the dining room the sea sparkled in the sunlight. Part of an island passed, a straggle of ruins, a broken citadel, the pillars of a temple, two figures on a hill. Gulls rose and fell on the air currents beside the ship. This, said the sea. Only this. What? thought Boaz-Jachin. Who? Who is looking out through the eyeholes in my face? No one, said the sea. Only this.
“Thank you,� said Boaz-Jachin serving the mother, averting his eyes from her bosom.
That night again he went to the girl’s stateroom.
“Wait,� she said as he began to take his clothes off. “I want to read you some poems.�
“I just want to be comfortable,� said Boaz-Jachin. “I can listen with my clothes off.�
“All right,â€� she said. She took a thick folder from a drawer. The sea and the sky outside were dark, the ship thrust cleaving its phosphorescent bow wave, the engines hummed, the air-conditioning whirred, the lamp by the berth made a cosy glow. “They mostly don’t have titles,â€� she said, and began to read:
Black rock rising to a neverness of sky,
Black alone, no sky above the
Far-down lost and winding
Blood-red river and my
Frail black boat, dead
God my freight, too heavy for my
Craft, blind broken eyes.
Blind father-stone between my thighs.
“Shit,� said Boaz-Jachin. “Another father.�
… Deflower my death, seed
My defeat, get NOW from nothing,
Fierce upon your daughter.
Lot was made drunk, salt
Wife behind him in the
Desert.
Stone is my lot, dead
God my steersman.
Blind,
Find
Star.
“What do you think?� said the girl when she had finished reading.
“I don’t want to think,â€� said Boaz-Jachin. “Can’t we not-think for a while?â€� He pulled her T-shirt over her head, kissed her breasts. She twisted away from him.
“Is that all I am?� she said. “Something to grab,
something to fuck?�
Boaz-Jachin bit her flank hopefully but with lessening conviction. She sat motionless, looking thoughtful.
“You’re beautiful,â€� she said, ruffling his hair. “Am I beautiful to you?â€�
“Yes,� said Boaz-Jachin, unbuttoning her jeans. She rolled away with her jeans still on.
“No, I’m not,â€� she said. She lay on her stomach, leafing through the poems in the folder. “You’re saying I am because you want to fuck. Not even make love, just fuck. I’m not beautiful to you.â€�
“All right,â€� said Boaz-Jachin. “You’re not beautiful to me.â€� He sat up, got off the bed, put on his trousers.
“Come back,â€� she said. “You don’t mean that either.â€�
Boaz-Jachin took off his trousers, climbed back into the berth. When they were both naked he looked down at her face. “Now you’re beautiful,â€� he said.
“Shit,� she said, and turned away. She lay with her face averted, inert while Boaz-Jachin tried to make love. “Oh,� she whimpered.
“What’s the matter?â€�
“You’re hurting me.â€�
Boaz-Jachin lost his erection, withdrew. “The hell with it,� he said.
“Daughters are supposed to attract their fathers sexually,â€� said the girl as he lay beside her, sulking, “but I don’t. I’m not beautiful to him either. He once told me that boys would love me for my mind. In some ways he’s rotten.â€�
“My God!� said Boaz-Jachin. “I am so sick and tired of fathers!� He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the berth.
“Don’t go away,â€� she said. “Goddam it, have I got to plead for every lousy minute of human companionship? Have I got to pay for every minute of attention with my pussy? Can’t you talk to me, just one person to another? Can’t you give anything but your prick? And even that isn’t given — you’re only taking.â€�
Boaz-Jachin felt his childhood vanish as if he had been launched from it in a rocket. As if with ancient knowledge he recognized the departure of innocence and simplicity from his life. He groaned, and lay back on the pillow staring at the ceiling. Lila seemed long ago, never to be found again.
“What do you want me to do?� he said.
“Talk to me. Be with me. Be with me, not just parts of me.�
“Oh God,â€� said Boaz-Jachin. She was right. He was wrong. He hadn’t wanted to be with her. He had sensed that she would be willing and he wanted a girl to cuddle with, a no one. But everybody was a someone. He cursed his new knowledge. He had known this girl for a few days only, and it seemed a lifetime of mistakes. He felt roped together with her on the sheer face of a bleak mountain. He felt immensely weary.
“What?â€� she said, looking at his face. “What’s the matter?â€�
Boaz-Jachin stared at the ceiling, remembering Lila and the first night on the roof, remembering the brightness of the stars and how it was to feel good and know nothing. The lion came into his mind and was gone, leaving emptiness that urged him forward.
“What do you want to do?â€� the girl said. “I don’t mean now, this minute. In life, I mean.â€�
What do I want to do? thought Boaz-Jachin. I want to find my father so I can tell him I don’t want his map. That’s not a lifetime career. “Shit,â€� he said.
“You’re a real intellectual,â€� said the girl. “You’re a real deep thinker. Try to say something in words, just for the novelty of it.â€�
“I don’t know what I want to do,â€� said Boaz-Jachin.
“You’re a very interesting person,â€� said the girl. “I don’t meet people as interesting as you every day in the week. Tell me more about yourself. Now that we’ve been to bed, let’s get acquainted. Have you ever done anything? Have you ever written a poem, for instance, or painted a picture? Do you play a musical instrument? I’m trying to remember why I did go to bed with you. You were beautiful and you said something good. You said that you were looking for your father who was looking for a lion, and I said there were no lions any more, and you said there was one lion and one wheel, and I said that was beautiful, and then all you wanted to do was fuck.â€�
Boaz-Jachin was out of the berth and putting his clothes on. “I play the guitar,â€� he said. “I drew an ugly map that I lost, and then I drew another map. I copied a photograph of a lion once. I’ve never written a poem. I’ve never painted a picture.â€� He was angry, but as he spoke he became unaccountably elated, proud. There was something in him not drained off by poems or pictures, something unknown, unavailable but undiminished, intact, waiting to be found. He tried to find it, found only emptiness, was ashamed then, humbled, felt mistaken in his temporary pride, shook his head, opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
As he closed the stateroom door behind him he saw the girl’s father coming towards him. The father’s face became very red. He stopped before Boaz-Jachin, his face working behind the horn-rimmed glasses and the beard.
“Good evening, sir,� said Boaz-Jachin, although it was the middle of the night. He attempted to walk around the father, but the father stepped in front of him, blocking his way. He was a small man, no taller than Boaz-Jachin, but Boaz-Jachin felt in the wrong and looked it.
“‘Good evening, sir!’â€� mimicked the father with a dreadful grimace. “Good evening, father number such-and-such of girl number such-and-such. Just like that. Smooth and easy.â€�
Boaz-Jachin saw in his mind a map of the sea, its islands and ports. If he were put off at the next port because of a passenger complaint he would have another sea voyage to make, another boat or ship to find, other people with their lives and histories to drag him down with hard and heavy knowledge. It was as if his shirt and all his pockets were filled with great lumpy potatoes of unwanted knowledge. He wished that he could be at the end of his journey and not have to talk to anyone for a while.
“Excuse me, please, sir,� he said. Still the father blocked his way.
“What are you?â€� said the father. “For you life must be one girl after another, and sometimes an older woman who pays you a little something for your services, I suppose. Now you’re a waiter on a cruise ship, now a beach boy at a resort. You get the daughters that fathers have stayed up with when they were sick, have listened to the troubles of, have wanted the best for. You with your smooth face and clear eyes and long hair.â€�
Boaz-Jachin sat down on the floor, his arms resting on his drawn-up knees. He shook his head. He was almost on the point of crying, but he began to laugh.
“And that’s funny to you?â€� said the father.
“You don’t know what I’m laughing at,â€� said Boaz-Jachin. “Nothing is smooth and easy for me, and my life isn’t one girl after another — it seems to be one father after another. And how would it help you if I had a wrinkled face and clouded eyes and short hair? Would your daughter then become a nun?â€�
The father’s face relaxed behind the beard and the glasses. “It’s hard to let go,â€� he said.
“And it’s hard to hold on,â€� said Boaz-Jachin.
“To what?� said the father.
“The wheel,� said Boaz-Jachin.
“Ah,� said the father. “I know that wheel.� He smiled and sat down beside Boaz-Jachin. They sat together on the floor, smiling while the ship hummed, the air-conditioning whirred, and the dark sea slipped by on either side.
The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)
-23-
Darkness roared with the lion, the night stalked with the silence of him. The lion was. Ignorant of non-existence he existed. Ignorant of self he was a sunlit violence with calm joy at the center of it,
he was the violence of being-as-hunter constantly renewed in the devouring of non-being. The wheel had been when he ran tawny on the plain, printing his motion on the grateful air. He had died biting the wheel that went on and left him dead. The wheel continued, the lion continued. He was intact, diminished by nothing, increased by nothing, absolute. He ate meat or he did not eat meat, was seen or unseen, known when there was knowledge of him, unknown when there was not. But always he was. For him there were no maps, no places, no time. Beneath his tread the round earth rolled, the wheel turned, bearing him to death and life again. Through his lion-being drifted stars and blackness, morning sang, night soothed, dawn burst its daylight from the womb of vital terror. Oceans heaved, frail bridges spanned the winding track of days, the rising air sang lion-flight in wings of birds. In clocks ticked lion-time. It pulsed in heartbeats, footsteps walking all unknowing, souls of guilt and sorrow, souls of love and pain. He had been called, he had come. He was.
The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)
-24-
After his last encounter with the lion Jachin-Boaz felt childish, stupid, shaken. That the lion had turned his back on him now frightened him more than the previous attack. He felt as if the present had vomited him out like a Jonah. He lay gasping on dry land under the eye of an exacting God. “There is no God,� he said, “but the exactions exist, so there might just as well be a God. Perhaps there is one after all.�
“People always assume that God is with people,� said Gretel. “But maybe God is in the furniture, or with stones.�
Go and preach, thought Jachin-Boaz, his mind still on Jonah. The king sleeps with his chariots, the lions are dead. I have not marked the lion-palace on my master map. Boaz-Jachin’s master map. I have a lion, and I have told him about a cowboy suit.
He tried to remember why his old life had seemed intolerable. Admittedly he had not felt himself to be a whole man, but at least he had been a reasonably comfortable failed man, lacking nothing but his testicles. If only he could have the comfort of his mife, his wife rather, without his wife! Whother, whether he could get along without her he doubted. Despite his new-found maleness it seemed that he had nothing, was nothing. He marvelled that he went on making love with Gretel. Something in me lives its own life, full of appetite, he thought. Where am I while this is going on? On what map?