A Season In Carcosa
Page 30
“I know,” Preacher Daddy. “I know. But . . . but …”
But the Bible was leaking, too . . . pages . . . passages . . . promises . . . HouseBiblePromiseHouseBible . . . once so . . . so white . . . so bright . . . now dingy . . . yellowed . . . like the . . . the pretty . . . the pretty little . . . arranged in strange patterns and . . . and leaking . . . oozing . . . bleeding . . .
“Merrily, merrily . . . yellowy, yellowy . . . life is but a . . . life is but a …”
But still she could hear them. Still she could see them. The . . . the Highway . . . the Noisy Ones . . . the . . . the …
~*~
So deeper still she crawled. Deeper and deeper. Stranger and stranger. Rooms twisting. Bible leaking . . . pages . . . passages . . . portals . . . leaking . . . oozing . . . bleeding . . .
“Merrily, merrily . . . yellowy, yellowy . . . life is but a . . . life is but a …”
For the blood is the life.
Yes, but—but whose blood? Whose life? And why so . . . so . . . so why . . . why did . . . why did you . . . it was . . . was mine . . . mine! . . . and you . . . you …
What’s yours is mine, my child. What’s yours is—
~*~
Deeper and deeper . . . stranger and stranger . . . yellower and yellower . . . pages . . . passages . . . portals . . . rooms no longer rooms . . . just twists and turns and . . . and words . . . endless, mazelike words . . . winding . . . worming . . . calling . . . but . . . but the voice . . . the voice was different now . . . stranger . . . deeper . . . yellower . . . and . . . and changing . . . changing the . . . the shape . . . the shape of the . . . the House . . . bending its boards . . . warping its . . . its angles . . . angels? . . . arranged in strange . . . angels? . . . and . . . and changing . . . calling . . . her calling . . . her purpose . . . the . . . the House . . . she could . . . could feel . . . feel herself . . . touch myself? . . . feel herself becoming . . . becoming more . . . more a part of . . . of . . . of It . . . the House . . . the Bible . . . the Promise . . . flesh of Its flesh . . . blood of Its blood . . . bone of Its . . . Its …
~*~
It’s mine . . . mine! . . . what’s mine is . . . is Its . . . what’s Its is . . . is . . . arranged in . . . in strange . . . and . . . and squatted above . . . rained upon . . . rained and rained and . . . yellow . . . so yellow . . . so very, very . . . sorry . . . so sorry . . . so very, very . . . but he . . . he made me . . . made me . . . I tried . . . tried to keep . . . keep you safe . . . sound . . . secret . . . but . . . but he . . . he . . .
~*~
Greater is He that is . . . but which He? . . . which Lord? . . . which King? . . . Witch! . . . Witch! . . . Suffer not a witch to . . . to . . . life is but a . . . life is but a . . . but he . . . he took . . . took you instead . . . took you away and . . . and forced . . . forced me to . . . to . . . sorry . . . so sorry . . . so very, very . . .
~*~
Forty days and forty nights . . . or months . . . or years . . . or . . . but deeper . . . stranger . . . yellower . . . the House . . . the Bible . . . the Promise . . . and the . . . the bones . . . the bones in the woods . . . the woods in the bones . . . wood and bone . . . bone and wood . . . hers and . . . and Its . . . Its and . . . and …
~*~
Deeper . . . stranger . . . yellower . . . HouseBiblePromise . . . HouseBibleIt . . . HouseBibleHer . . . one and the . . . the same . . . the very, very . . . like . . . like time and . . . and prayer . . . and . . . one inside the other . . . deep inside the other . . . one and . . . and the same . . . the very, very . . . verily, verily . . . merrily, merrily . . . life is but a . . . life is but a . . .
~*~
An ark! . . . yes! . . . an ark . . . the Ark . . . the Ark of the . . . the Covenant . . . the Promise . . . the Promise that . . . that Jesus would . . . Jesus wood . . . wood and . . . and bones . . . so many, many bones . . . once so . . . so little . . . so weak . . . now big . . . now strong . . . and . . . and yellow . . . so yellow . . . like the . . . the line . . . the double line . . . the double yellow line . . . on the . . . the . . .
~*~
It came . . . It came . . . not . . . not Jesus . . . but . . . but It . . . IT . . . and for . . . for her . . . just her . . . her and her alone . . . her and . . . and It . . . It and . . . and her . . . two of a kind . . . one and the . . . the same . . . Promises made . . . Promises kept . . . HouseBibleIt . . . HouseBibleHer . . . together . . . at last . . . again . . . forever . . . and . . . and …
~*~
Leaking . . . foundering . . . sinking . . . but . . . but merrily . . . merrily . . . and . . . and gently . . . so gently . . . gently down the . . . gently down the …
~*~
HIGHWAY . . . MY way . . . THE way . . . I! …
~*~
I am the WAY, the truth, and the . . . the . . .
~*~
Life is but a . . . life is but a . . .
~*~
Merrily . . . merrily . . .
~*~
Yellowy . . . yellowy …
~*~
Down . . .
~*~
… down . . .
~*~
. . . down . . .
The Beat Hotel
By Allyson Bird
Of course all the artists, if they could get it, chose Room 41 of The Beat Hotel, in Rue Git-Le-Coeur. The view over the rooftops was inspiring. An artist, who called herself Juliette, had got into some of the rooms that were unlocked, had taken the grubby pillows and ripped them open. She flung the feathers from the window declaring that winter had come early, and that they would all feel the better for it. That would be doubtful of course because it would be freezing in the shabby place in winter. Still Madame Rachou forgave her, eventually, although Juliette had to give her three of her best paintings, or she would have had to leave. The tally of paintings in her head that she owed herself increased by three. Madame Rachou forgave artists almost anything. She let them do what they wanted in their rooms—there they could reinvent themselves a thousand times over within those walls.
Some of the artists chose the cells in the hotel. They would have an iron bed, small radiator and a chair, one light bulb hanging from an extra thin cord. No window. Cellular. On their own, almost finished with their writing of books and poems, but hoping for some fire before the last ember died away. Before they felt too tired, too worn down, too dim that they let their star fade. All they needed was a breath of fine air, a wealth of fortune, a hideaway that was properly hidden away. A life in death episode. A death in life ritual. An ending. Once more to a barricade (that would come later) with more cobbles than when the Bastille was stormed.
Juliette without her balcony. How would the heavens hear her words and any would-be lover on the street also? She had no need of love anyway— she would not pay lip service to sex. The heavens would wait for her a while longer whilst she finished her paintings.
Madame Rachou had a cat, war torn from scraps with dogs, and other such things. The cat licked her underbelly, on her back; leg pointed straight up, an elastic off white dough leg stretched from a table. The same cat had been kicked into the Seine many times and had always come back meowing for more, more from what life could throw at her. More from Madame and more fondling in the places she like to be fondled. The cat who whispered in Madame’s ear about what she had seen. Spread legs and arses, skinny, plump, and round. Madame visibly drooled at the images described by the cat that shook its paw at the Seine like one would an old friend in jest. That cat would see that river again and again. The river could not lose—could it? Could it have won if a cat’s body rotted in it? Would the piss bed river lose its attraction for lovers then?
Juliette had let the cat into her room and the cat had run away screaming. It had seen those paintings on the walls. Juliette could get down to it alright. She could paint those figures in those positions, doing those things, which drive men mad and women too, but she had to always take it one step further. One Step Beyond. R
emember that do you? The cat had taken that step many times and it would report back to its mistress—that it had gone into forbidden territory, and that there was a man it had never seen before sat in an threadbare armchair. The scalloped edge of his yellow gown reaching out for the cat as it fled. Madame Rachou once had the courage to ask Juliette who her visitor was and how he was never seen entering or leaving the hotel? Juliette simply whispered, ‘Carcosa’ as if that was the answer to it all.
In her room Juliette found some space on the wall, brushed her dark hair away, and put her ear against it. Could she hear? Could she hear? Yes. ‘Carcosa.’ ‘Carcosa.’ ‘Carcosa.’
Perhaps this time? She dipped her paint brush in the pot. Golden yellow. The colour perhaps that had made Van Gogh go mad with his blessed sunflowers? Could a colour make you go mad? Juliette held the brush, dripping the gold paint on the floorboards where it piggy-backed the citrine, that held fast in the faded linoleum. What other colours could have made other artists go mad? She tried to think. If she was held in a room where the walls were painted white, for days on end, or if psychedelic colours swirled around one another in a continuous effort to merge, and failing—would that do it? She was sure it would. The forms she painted and that the cat ran away from were liberating—weren’t they?
The king seemed to find them so.
She painted them for him. Juliette turned and smiled at him. He nodded.
There came a knock on the door and Juliette, startled, turned quickly and dropped her brush. She never ran out of yellow paint and as it fell to the floor the yellow poured from the brush and under the skirting board. It flowed freely.
No brush could hold that much paint she considered.
It was Chapman. He had come back or did he ever really leave? He took her picture before she could object. He even managed with his snake arm to manoeuvre around the door and her, and take another of her room. Then it snaked back and he was gone. She slammed the door. She did not care.
The king had retreated for now.
Her hunger got the better of her. Would she go to the café at the bottom of the stairs? Raul would be there with his monotone eyes and his ever wandering hands. Occasionally she sat with him. He had once glanced over to Madame Rachou, placed his hand under Juliette’s short skirt, felt for her clitoris, and pinched hard—removing his hand quickly. Juliette had screamed, jumped and then smiled. The cat simply thought it wouldn’t have to report back to his mistress as she had seen it first-hand. Could a cat smile? It did.
No. Not that café today.
The Beat Hotel had come close to being closed down in 1963. Madame Rachou had cleaned it up a little, it was a thirteen-class establishment after all, and so it didn’t require much work. Any crumbling brickwork was put right. Bugs killed off. It was still the 60’s and the place was still filthy but the authorities tended to look the other way.
Vietnam in the headlines daily and she played Bob Dylan’s “Lay Lady Lay” as she painted. Only that song—nothing else.
The paint brush still oozed more yellow paint than it should hold and had found the gaps between floorboards. Half the floor was covered with linoleum and inundated with scores of stiletto heal marks from a previous occupant.
I smell like the fish I ate last night she thought.
Juliette smiled. She knew Rimbaud. ‘Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.’ And his descent into madness or truth. Juliet had decided long ago that poets don’t re-create the world. They create worlds.
Rimbaud again. ‘In the morning when, with Her, you fought in the dazzle of the snow, the green lips, the ice, the black flags and blue rays, and the purple perfumes, of the polar sun – your strength.’
The door opened again and the cat came in. It seemed in a good enough mood but kept its head low and didn’t look at the walls. It sniffed at the yellow paint and sat with its back to Juliette. Its eyes—almost totally eclipsed by the black iris in each. Twins suns. Black holes. For a moment she was reminded of the giant dogs in Hans Christian Anderson’s The Tinder Box. Those enormous saucer eyes.
A knock at the door. It was Madame Rachou this time. Juliette put her head to one side and studied the woman for the moment. She had lively blue eyes that danced the can can, looking at Juliette’s breasts, then the eyes and then the breasts…you know, the way some men do. Madame Rachou wasn’t a man, at least Juliette didn’t think she was, or was that a hint of a moustache above her upper lip? Juliette laughed out loud as she pictured the woman in a man’s clothes and perhaps a Dali moustache. Madame smiled. She was used to Juliette.
Madame handed her a new rent book. Juliette thanked her politely and closed the door, quickly. She remembered the time Madame had given her the first rent book. How long ago was that? She certainly couldn’t be bothered to check the date. Juliette threw it onto the desk near the window. Just above it, stuck to the wall, was the postcard Victor had sent to her. He’d drawn a caricature of them both by the Seine. She remembered that day quite clearly—when they had walked along the banks talking about the exhibition they had planned together. It had never materialised but they had both got drunk that summer evening and had flung poems into the water. Had they been any good she thought? The ink would have been washed away but they had fantasised that the words would come together again off the paper and ripple through the water to be washed up on a distant shore, perhaps—Carcosa. Black ink bleeding. She thought of floating in that obsidian water, letting the current take her to the darker sea. And on that sea she became surrounded by pure white orchids for as far as the eye could see.
What happened to Kaja and her book of Human Songs? Had there been anything sweet in them? Human. Returned to dust. Or be black and white. So white. Thousands of doves flying together against the snow and one black rock in the way. Obsidian. Pearl. Sand, and finally glass. Dozens of thick, dark green glass panes in a window with the reflection of one gone now within each.
Juliette recalled her childhood and remembered her dress with tiny red roses on it. She’d spilt the wine. The tiny pink and grey felt hat with Calais on it. Her father had shown her the way and she hadn’t looked back since. Her earliest memory. Looking through the bars of her cot into the shadows—looking for the one. Always the one. Never found. The great gaping mouth of the wood beneath her house and all it promised to give her. The two ladies selling Spanish. Another time—the memory of jasmine. The Steiff bear her brother had brought her back from Germany. If you tipped it up it growled. It sat next to the monkey with the cymbals. The bear. Evil thing that was. Would pull her hair and tug the covers off her at night and then roll itself in them near the window where it snored until dawn. The first chink of light through the gap in the curtain made its brown eyes flare and then it would just be a silly stuffed blurred pink bear with a faded red ribbon at its neck. How she wished she had cut its head off in the daytime so it would not scare her at night.
The others had wished to meet The King. They had pleaded with him to come to them. He had taken Victor but not her. Why couldn’t she go?
Victor had been back to see her just the once. At least she thought he had. One cold winter night, she’d been drinking again, and shivered under her thin grey blankets. She felt his body close to her and an arm around her waist. Then a wonderful dream—as a child she had seen a tapestry in some old castle or other and depicted upon it was a hunting party, in medieval dress. The woman in a long pink gown— the man in red. They rode white horses and two pale greyhounds looked back at the man and the woman, waiting for instruction. The hooded birds. All through the dream the rhyme played in her head, ‘with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes she shall have music wherever she goes…’
The bird flew in through the window. A falcon no less. In Paris? Always a sign. One thing leading to another— down a dim passageway in the Latin Quarter—over the tiny bridge in Venice. They always follow don’t they? Nobody to shout out and say, ‘Idiot.’ Don’t you see? No seer in sight, no messenger to shoot or save the day. No
daylight now and forever. Forever. Eternity under twin moons. The falcon circled once and flew into the wall as if trying to get through. It broke its neck in the attempt. And blood on the neck of the man on the wall now, before the guillotine descends.
Juliette thought of her father. He said he was a travelling salesman. She rarely saw him for weeks on end and in her strange mind he was the national executioner, Monsieur de Paris. His was the face of the man on the wall. Looking directly at her. She remembered her childhood—a difficult one with loveless parents. An only child. A disowned child. A child allowed to run wild in the streets and the street filth run wild in her. A special child. She’d had to become that.
Juliette pulled the bright green ribbed sweater over her head. It was short. She liked the look of her bare midriff. She then looked out of the window. Would she care if it was cold? She had a black anorak. That would do. She put it on hastily. She only had one pair of shoes—pumps, really. They had been white once. She picked up her battered brown leather duffle bag and left the room. Down the stairs careful not to slip, she had done that too many times before, and out the door.
Paris in the rain. She didn’t mind. Juliette always saw the exterior of the buildings in blue and grey. Everywhere grey walls and blue roofs when they should have been grey or rust coloured. Blue roofs—just like the hunting lodge in the tapestry.
She’d go to help Michel on his bouquinistes stall on the bank of the Seine in exchange for a few francs towards the rent and some food. Juliette was good at selling things even herself sometimes.
‘Ah, here is my Juliette. Everyone’s Juliette!’ Michel kissed her passionately on the mouth. She liked the taste of brandy on his tongue.
‘Have you sold much this morning?’
‘A little. Not much. But now you are here with your sweet words no doubt we will have some sales soon.’