Bright Side of my Condition ePub
Page 21
But Mr Frockcoat say no. When yer fall from a great heighth, water is hard. Liquid don’t compress. Hitting yer head on it is about the same as hitting yer head on the rocks. So if yer find yerself falling into the ocean, he warn, make sure yer pertect yer head. And what do I reply when he tell me that? I laugh and ask, when am I finding myself falling into the ocean? I aint a man who like the ocean at all. I aint a man who go about in boats or who stroll on the crumbly edge of cliffs. I aint that sort of man at all. Oh no no no no no.
Now I come to think about it, I aint even sure what heighth Mr Frockcoat were talking of. I been falling a long time, that’s true, but from what I recall when I leave the edge, it aint such a great distance. I dint expect the fall to slow like this. The slowing distort everything.
Oh, I must of fallen asleep again, and now some voices wake me up. It seem to be near dawn. Around me hover a convocation of frockcoats. I don’t know what summon them and I don’t know who they are, but for sure they dead as doornails. Every one of them have the death pallor and a skeleton frame and they give off a loud muttering that sound quarrelsome. When I look closer, I see they aint wearing the same type of clothing, far as I can tell from what I know of fashions, they sport suits from very different eras. Yer wud say they all well dressed, except the suits ride up their legs and arms a bit so their skeleton bones hang out.
‘Remember, don’t land on your head,’ one of them now order. ‘Protect your head. It isn’t the fall that kills, it’s the landing.’
‘And spread yourself out so,’ say another. He open his arms and legs wide like a star jumper.
‘Excuse me,’ say I, even if I aint feeling perlite, ‘but what do you know?’
‘Me?’ reply the star jumper looking indignant. ‘I’m a man who studied the physicks. If you don’t do what I say, you haven’t got a chance for the updraught to save you.’
‘Save me? Are yer poking fun? Perhaps yer a troupe of street clowns?’
‘We most certainly are not,’ a third frockcoat say. This one wear something very strange. ‘And he doesn’t mean updraught, he means resistance.’
When I were a boy at school, I recall we did learn something about Newtone and the tower of Pisa and a silly apple.
‘Galileo,’ the third frockcoat mutter like he heared my thoughts. ‘It was Galileo in Pisa. He dropped objects off the tower to see which one hit the ground first.’
‘And which did?’ Don’t ask me why I humour him, it’s plain as the nose on a physickist’s face the heavier one go faster.
‘They arrive together,’ he reply with great excitement.
It do seem a pity the most beguiling of them frockcoats is also the one that know the least.
‘Anyway,’ say the one who tell me to spread out like a star jumper, ‘it isn’t true that you haven’t got a chance. If you spread out and distribute your weight over a wider surface, you could survive.’
‘With a broke back,’ say I.
‘Yes,’ he admit. ‘Or just broken legs. If you’re lucky.’
‘Funny sort of luck.’
‘Well, what price life?’ ask Mr Third, and grin and wink.
Discussing the price of life with skeleton frockcoats wud seem a bit more interesting than haggling over what I break, but the first two go off in a whoosh and leave me alone with Mr Third. He don’t seem to fall the way I do, he jes dance in the air. Still, he have a look of sympathy on his face. Obviously he done this dying thing himself and know the ropes.
‘If yer here, it’s certain I’m gonna die, aint it?’ ask I.
‘It’s all very open ended,’ reply he airily. ‘I must admit that surprised me when I arrived. The afterlife doesn’t abuse the laws of physics.’
‘It look like abuse to me.’
He laugh and show his shrunken gums.
We say our names to each other, but don’t shake hands, that wud be abuse of the physicks say he, the material touching the immaterial. Then he vanish in the grey light.
I ponder my dream of meeting the dead. Well, it do seem like a dream to my reason, but not at all like a dream to my eyes, they were wide awake and not troubled with glare or wind or salt. Still I heared it said many a man call out to phantoms on his death bed, many a man say gargoyles and satyrs and griffins sit upon his counterpane, they gnash their teeth and spit, and spew flame out of their red eyes. So were it a dream or a vision, and I aint the man to say, I do count myself lucky I only get scholars.
Sunrise come and I’m still alive. I wud like to lift my breakfast cup to the sun – right now, it don’t seem as necessary to eat as it is to toast – but I dint bring it with me. On a fall, always bring yer breakfast cup!
I look down. Yair, I’m closer to the sea and them big rocks on the shore, but not by much. Don’t know which I get gave yet. But I do notice that the closer I come, the more my memory freshen up. Indeed, it’s nearly bright and clear as it were when I were a boy. Little things that once creeped in the dark corners now stand again in the light. And one thing that stand forth most forcibly is all the falling stories I heared in my life and had forgot. Now it make me laugh to recall how earnestly the fallers pluck my coat and with the mad look in their eyes say, it were a miracle! time slowed down! I were calm and seeing everything! I were falling slow as a flower petal, a puff ball, a feather!
Well, now I know from them men of physicks they weren’t correct, those things aint falling any slower than bricks, but what must be true is that falling bodies, when yer inside one of them, go much slower than the rest of time, even if the physickists aint found a way to prove it. The physickists aint yet learned that to every fall there’s a inside and a outside, there’s inside falling time and there’s outside falling time, and it sure will be a miracle! a big fucken miracle! when they figure it out. But it’s also true that none of the falling men that importuned me talked of convocations of physickists or houris, and it do seem a very bad sign to me that once the material meet the immaterial there jes aint no going back.
Another thing bother me this fine dawn. When I first see the flying ship, everything were so new I dint find it strange to see so far. Now I can see the colour of Captain Coffin’s eyes and get a fright. My eyesight grow very powerful indeed. It give me a shudder. Is death-sight now showing itself in snatches?
It turn out the most lustrous day. The sea don’t rage and swell, it turn baby blue and lap on the beach. The sky is also blue, with a wispy cloud that look painted on. What is a falling man to do with himself all day? Don’t seem to be nothing to do but study my murderers. They step out of the hut late, even Slangam, and rub their eyes like they can rub away what they done. Straight away they have a argument about who orta collect the firewood. Toper’s been doing it while I were in my own camp, but now Slangam say Flonker orta go, he do the least work of anyone. Flonker only argue a short time before he stomp off.
Flonker go here and there, places I know is already stripped of wood, and as he wander I take a good look at him, not jes in the flesh but how he were made as a man. Even if he try to fit in and talk like the rest of us, fact is he got a schooling none of the rest of us were gave. It aint just a matter of Rabelay. He learn the French tongue and calculating. He also learn about Art – once he say some of it got a capital letter, I forget which kind, but now I always use a capital jes in case.
The Art he learn is about all them folds in the dresses in paintings and also about Light. Light in Art also have a capital letter. Flonker throw round a lot of names from Paris and Venice but the rest of us don’t know what he’s talking about. It aint true that I never seen any Art, I seen some in a exhibition hall in London once, but when I tell Flonker he say they must of been fakes. I argue with him and say they were very good. I liked how the Pharaoh’s daughter look in her lovely peach dress and also there were a lot of Light. Flonker get angry and say that painter aint ever been to London in his fucken life. When I say maybe only his paintings go, he say, no! they are worth a fortune! only a King or a Queen own them!
Back to Flonker. He’s having a lie down even though he only find a few kindling sticks. Even with all his schooling he don’t find life easy. Maybe this come as a surprise to him. He develop a petulant lower lip. Dint I do my learning, dint I work hard for a better life? he plaint. His learning make him think he been done a raw deal. He think a man who know his Rabelay earn some kind of privilege. And one thing I learn in life is how quick earn turn into owed.
He come out of his schoolboy days and become a popinjay. He declare himself a Artist. But birth don’t give him the talent, so all the declaring in the world aint gonna turn him into anything but a buyer or a seller. Now most of us wud be glad we can jes do that, but not Gargantua in his cunning haircut and pantaloons. Oh, no. He done his learning! he practise his drawing! he wanna be a rich Artist! He dine on poached fish and coffeeweed and mix with Artists in them streets of Paris and Venice. Well, he tell me they’re Artists but maybe they the same as him, plain wishful thinkers. What a sight they all must of been, strutting in their dandify suits and speechifying about the Light. This kind of living take a big toll on his funds, but soon he hear it’s cheap in Persia and off he rush.
He always say in Persia he were a important man on important business, more likely he were jes a fop that wore out his means and et out his purse. He go galloping on his fine horse – I bet it were a poor starving nag that go slower than a beggar – and soon he get to Isfahan and become a Fine Art Merchant. We all know what that mean. He hire some boys who go out stealing fittings from the palaces and temples, he wrap them stolen goods up and take them home to decorate the mansions of the rich.
This Gargantua think everything’s fair in love and war and Art. Why shudn’t he make some money when life’s so hard for him and easy for everyone else? He done his study and he answer the highest calling, yet still he’s forced to recline on the fancy fabrics of the Persian merchant and eat the merchant’s Turkish Delight when at home his own sofa is threadbare and his table rude. But he aint a man who envy his neighbour, oh no, no, no. He think his neighbour a philistine and he think it beneath him to covet his neighbour’s goods. He also know it’s a sin. But he aint done the extra thinking to see how he covet his neighbour’s means.
Flonker stand up and search for a few more sticks. All the time he mumble and grumble like someone force a wrongness on him. Then suddenly he take his poets’ pose, grasp his hands together and recite a tainting rhyme into the fine air.
Late afternoon and the lustrous day persist. I look down again on Flonker, he sit alone in the dirt under a spindly tree. I wish death-sight wud come and let me see inside his mind so at last I know what he’s plotting. He do look like he plot something, he mumble to himself and frown and sometimes take up a stick and draw in the dirt. The drawings look like tally marks. Maybe he plan to present his account to Slangam, here, I done this many skins, now I do the same proportion of bossing.
He rouse himself and go back to the camp for his dinner. Toper jes now start to peel and chop and Flonker get in a rage. But he do try to bite down hard on his nasty tongue for it seem he come up with a very important thing to talk of.
‘We orta make a plan,’ say he, soon as he sit down by the fire.
Slangam look up from his work, he were plaiting more flax plates, and Toper stop his work mid chop.
‘We can say he turn mad,’ Flonker continue.
‘Say to who?’ Slangam reply. ‘There aint no one asking.’
Now the rage boil out, not jes his rage that the dinner’s late, but the rage of a big man that live too long under the fist of the small. ‘See, that’s how yer show yer aint got no imagination. Yer know how to skin a seal and build a fireplace for a hovel but yer can’t see beyond yer own nose. Yair, the Captain aint coming back, we all know that, but do it mean no one ever come here? No. We got to take the long view.’
Oh no, don’t I know about Fatty’s long view? Weren’t that why he first form his alliance with me, so it’s two against two and keep the balance? Course hanging in the air I got a even longer view than he do. On the horizon I see the whites of Captain Coffin’s eyes, I can even see the blue of his irises.
Slangam put down his plaiting and say, ‘I already tell yer, no one that come here know there were a fourth.’
‘What, yer think our cretin cook don’t drink too much of the ship’s rum and forget there were only three? Yer think he don’t start to shoot off his stupid drunken gob? Yer think none of us ever slip up when we talk about our jobs, say Bloodworth always fetch the firewood?’
‘Say to who?’ Toper blink.
‘The newspapers of course. What else? They gonna come in droves when we get back to England from a southern ocean island.’
‘England?’ scorn Slangam. ‘I aint going to fucken England.’
‘Oh? Yer going back to Sydney town and the noose?’
‘They wud of forgot all about us there. It’s more like the English to keep them precious little records.’
Their argument go on and on. Meanwhile I look out at the flying ship. Captain Coffin’s skimming across the ocean to put Gargantua’s long view to the test. It’s a test he’s gonna fail.
Morning. Slangam come out of the hut and take the cooking pot down to the sea. He scoop up the cold sea water and strip off his skins. He upend the pot on his head, the water slosh down his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. When it reach his oxters he do a quick rub, if that wash away the sweat of yesterday’s work it sure a miracle. He put his clothings straight onto his wet skin, run his fingers though his hair, tug his beard a couple of times, when everything’s ship shape he march back to the camp.
Do I blame him much as Flonker? I aint sure. From up here he look like a wooden soldier. As befit a wooden soldier, his mind’s a little wooden box and only got what the world put into it. It dint put in much. The world he lived in were a box too, it have very straight sides and no stretch. So he aint no match for a devious Flonker, for a man that spend the whole day scheming, for a man that’s sure he know everything about the common good. All Slangam can do is punch to make his point. Right now he probably think his punching days is behind him, he throwed the cause of the trouble over the cliff. Course he don’t see what I see. He don’t see Fatty and his tally marks, he don’t understand when four go down to three a new troublemaker appear, he don’t understand it happen again if three go down to two.
Slangam sit by the fire and poke the embers. He pile on the wood. He aint gonna start the breakfast, that’s Toper’s job. A soldier have his job and don’t do the work of the cook. Lucky the cook now come out of the hut scratching his greasy curls. He aint gonna have no cold shower, he don’t need to tough his self up, he don’t need to prove nothing. He yawn and scratch, scratch and yawn. He look up at the sky. It don’t look like rain and there aint no bully wind, not even a tease.
‘What yer cooking?’ Slangam ask.
‘What yer want?’
‘Beef.’
‘Sea beef do yer?’
This aint no comradery, there aint no rib poking, no smiles. It’s jes a nother tired routine with no warmness. Yer wud think at least Slangam and Toper get on, Toper so want to please the gruff soldier, and maybe before they all throwed me them two were a bit more close. But their crime queer the pitch. Now Toper cook silent and Slangam clean his nails with a sharped bone.
The breakfast don’t take long. The potata were already cooked, jes need a fry in seal fat, and the fish jes get a quick sear. Flonker come out, no cold shower for him neither, he wash his delicate self in some boiled water later,
and Toper pile the plaited plates high. It make my mouth water to see them felons shovel in their food, yer get hungry when it take a long time to die. After breakfast Flonker go off on his pathetic search for wood and Slangam do his counting. Toper wash the knifes and pot and look glum. If Slangam’s a wood soldier, Toper’s a little boy. The little boy play foller the leader and get a big shock when the leader lead him to perdition.
It turn out another lovely day. We hardly have one, now we get two to knock together. I feel like a bird, a Incognita albatross, jes slow gliding in the great blue. It feel like bliss. Soon as I think that, I recall I once heared of another man that feel the exact same thing. He went around telling his tale at all the alehouses in London, telling how he tripped and fell down them Alps on the Grand Tour. He say it weren’t frightful at all, it weren’t fast and panicky, and fear dint grip his guts. Fact is, it were a long slow fall through bliss. Everyone that listen draw in their breath and start to mutter and spit. They don’t know what kind of heresy it is to fall slow and feel bliss, they jes know it is one. They think he orta feel the weight and terror of his sins. But he say no, he fall like a snowflake and enjoy the bliss of a snowflake.
That man were kicked out of the tavern by a ignorant hobnail boot – it dint matter, he soon pick his self up and go on to the next place – but dint he confirm for me that while his body fall slow, his thinking go on at the usual comfortable speed? How wud he enjoy bliss if his mind were freezed stop, or if it go fast and in a mad whirl? Bliss have a correct speed like all a man’s feelings. That man have time to notice everything aint a blur, time to wonder at it, follered by time to admire the snow and the sky, then even more time, swathes of it, to ease into bliss and lie within it like in a loved one’s arms.
Course soon as he land and smash up, the bliss go pop! and a hard struggle in the gelid snow come on. If I survive my splat on them rocks, it’s the same for me. The bliss fly off and I’m a broke creature waiting for the mercy of my fellow man. How much mercy yer think I’m gonna get? None at all. Mr Sweat, Mr Pray and Mr Know-it-all is gonna be too busy telling lies to Mr Coffin.