The Word

by William Lane

  About to sit at her desk to work in earnest, she realised she was beginning to bleed. Lacking a pad, she went next door to Connie’s room – Connie would not mind, she had gone off to do the shopping, always a large task at The Word.

  Looking inside Connie’s vanity, Tess discovered the remains of a bitten-off Tim Tam wallowing in a bowl of curdled cream.

  Returning to her writing, Tess wrote a poem, ‘The Word’, as a prelude to her play:

  You tell a lie for long enough

  You begin to look ugly

  If you require proof

  Look at our leaders on TV

  Telling white lies

  Omitting one side

  And insinuating

  Flattering, bullying, misquoting

  And exaggerating

  The Word is our humanity

  How are you going to say

  it How are you going to tell it

  When no one believes it?

  You explain you and I explain me

  To our best ability, and honesty

  That’s the social contract

  It’s our responsibility

  The Word is our humanity

  How are you going to show it

  How are you going to know it

  When no one believes it?

  Politicians and bureaucrats

  Journalists and diplomats

  Salesmen and saleswomen

  Salespeople and salespersons

  How are you going to say it

  How are you going to sell it

  When no one believes it?

  The Word is a captive thing

  A hostage thing

  An orphaned thing

  An exiled thing

  Good words clarify

  Good words shed light

  Good words have nothing to hide

  The Word has 21/20 vision

  The Word has uncanny precision

  The Word has infinite recollection

  The Word is the seed and the conception

  Would you abuse your mother?

  Would you abuse your best friend?

  Would you abuse your loved one?

  Would you abuse your sister?

  Abuse the Word you’re hurting everyone

  Abuse the Word you’re hurting everyone.

  Tess became aware, while writing, of Connie’s low-pitched voice beyond the wall; the walls were thin at The Word. The voice momentarily paused, as if aware its neighbour had begun attending. Then it continued, in an ongoing stream, ‘Roflepugeduogonul –’

  ‘She does hear a bit, our Connie,’ laughed Tess.

  Following the tongue-talking Kenric hastened towards his room almost in a panic. The exercise was a disaster; he’d hated it. Where was the clarity, the lucidity, the meaning? It was as if language itself had worked to undermine meaning. When the talking began, too late he realised the experience was a completely different one to witnessing the youths in the hall on a Sunday. It was the rapt look on the faces of people he knew that unsettled him most – he’d struggled to recognise them. And then to hear their once-familiar voices issuing formless words disturbed him even further. The sounds, mere babble to Kenric, had appeared to satisfy the talkers far more than talking sense ever had, as if more meaning had been conveyed by gibberish than by reasoned talk – not logical meaning, but meaning outside logic that nevertheless deeply satisfied the ear, the heart, the whole being. Where did that leave any program in regard to language? He did not know what had been said, and not to know had somehow been the point.

  Distracted, Kenric pushed aside the batik partition to the ‘office’; he startled Antonia, the secretary and general help. Antonia had first been employed at The Word when Kenric began a small advertising business upon moving to the warehouse, a venture that had not lasted long. Antonia was more or less superfluous, but no one had the heart to dismiss her, and she continued to work several days a week at The Word. Antonia dressed in standard office attire, her face heavily made up, her self set apart for work hours. From her wide-eyed look, Kenric surmised she had heard the tongue-talking. She quickly swept away an empty packet of biscuits as he passed her.

  Kenric let the cloth close behind him, went to his room and tried to call Maria, but he could not get through.

  For a moment he considered going to see Tess – before the memory of her absorbed, ecstatic face repelled him. Her expression had effaced him. Instead he walked up and down the highway for a good hour. As he walked, he imagined he saw, beyond the buildings of the industrial estates, the outlined memories of cattle, grazing in the tree-lined paddocks of his childhood. Then, upon his return to the warehouse, he found Tess’s ‘The Word’ on his desk, typed on the A4 paper she used. Approving of Tess’s words, he stuck them on the fridge, before retreating to his room again, and resigning himself to reading.

  He read philosophy. Soon he was becalmed in the midst of a tome. He would not be able to give a synopsis or an interpretation of the philosophy; he did not understand what he read – he almost never did. Nevertheless, in the wake of the attempt to understand, new ideas would flow into his mind, as if the reading had created a depression or a chamber, which could be filled with an influx of fresh thought.

  Today, however, he could hardly finish a sentence without the memory of the blue gums of this place returning to him, and the quality of his boyhood sun. Then he found himself recalling the soft purple sea anemones on the undersides of rocks at low tide on some childhood shore. Was it Pittwater? The jelly anemones would softly envelop, grasp and suck any finger poked in them. Yes, he had been taken to that Pittwater shore as a young child, he was growing certain.

  The corner of the batik partition parted, and Krystal and Ashram Teddy stepped in. The couple, holding hands, heads lowered, stood gratefully before Kenric.

  ‘We thought it only fair to tell you,’ Krystal began, ‘that this morning’s exercise was a revelation to Teddy and me, and we are grateful to you, Kenric, deeply grateful.’

  ‘I know I’ve muttered once or twice,’ added Teddy contritely, letting go of Krystal’s hand to place his hands together, ‘that a community such as ours needs a guru, a head, a teacher. And I know I’ve said more than once I’ve never been in a group without such a head, and today you showed yourself to be – I expect you’ll dislike the term – a teacher.’

  ‘We feel very happy here and elevated spiritually,’ continued Krystal. ‘We should also tell you that Teddy and I have decided to get back together. You may have noticed we were not talking for the past fortnight? No? Well, Maria noticed, and the reason we were not talking was that we had put each other on trial – yes, trial: did we really want to be life partners again? We were to think about it for a fortnight, without any communication.’

  ‘And what happened this morning at the tongue-talking confirmed the answer for us,’ said Teddy, giving Krystal a squeeze of her hand and a pat on the bottom. ‘We felt it when our tongues were freed – in those minutes, when we talked so freely, we expressed all the love we have ever felt for one another.’

  ‘It opened us up,’ added Krystal, now with tears in her eyes, ‘opened our hearts. So, on a practical note,’ she concluded, ‘I’ll be moving back into Teddy’s room. That will free up another room for The Word.’

  Unsettled by the beatific couple, and no longer capable of concentrating on philosophy, Kenric tried to call Maria again. This time he got on.

  ‘I think you need to attend to some housekeeping, Kenric,’ she advised him, after listening to his account of the morning, ‘do something small and practical, get grounded, and you might feel better. If Teddy and Krystal are in one room now, we can’t afford to leave a room empty, so maybe think about finding someone else.’

  Following Maria’s instruction, Kenric went to Antonia; at his approach she quickly hid another biscuit packet. ‘Can you find that folder of applications for The Word membership?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s just there,’ said Antonia helpfully, ‘in the filing cabinet, un
der “A”. “A” for “Applications”.’

  Kenric sat behind the batik that separated him from Antonia, and flicked through the file, skipping the male applicants; he wanted another female member. A letter from an Isabella Delisle caught his eye: I would love to be part of your word family. I am passionate about words. English was my favourite subject at school. My essays always did well, and I have attached a copy of one … well, she had a nice name at least …

  One could not be too careful when choosing new members – there had been, for instance, the man who passionately advocated burning books, burning all ‘bad’ books; he had left in a rage, once his zeal for bonfires had been repeatedly nullified by communal argument. Then there was the woman who had written law in a former career, and departed in disillusion once it became evident no great depth of feeling for or push towards the written word existed in the community.

  Kenric was always tempted to look in the filing cabinet under ‘T’ for ‘Testimonial’, to remind himself of what members, past and present, had written about the Word … he resisted the temptation that day.

  Going to the kitchen, he found Justin and Judith at the table, talking agitatedly.

  ‘We were just on our way to see you,’ said Justin, getting up in a fluster, taking off his glasses to rub them. ‘Can we go to the office and talk?’

  ‘Let’s talk here, in the kitchen,’ said Kenric. ‘If you’ve got something to say, let everyone hear it.’

  Judith seemed reluctant to remain, and glanced up towards her room on the second floor.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Justin declared.

  ‘Don’t like what?’ asked Kenric.

  ‘You know what – what happened this morning. The gabbling. It went far beyond what I am comfortable with. And Judith agrees.’

  ‘Judith participated,’ said Kenric.

  ‘Now she’s wondering what she said.’

  ‘Nothing intelligible.’

  ‘And that’s just it,’ said Justin, ‘she feels she’s been made a fool of.’

  ‘I didn’t thay that,’ Judith put in quickly, ‘I thaid, “What foolth we mutht have appeared”.’

  ‘We don’t have to do it again,’ said Kenric, ‘it was just an exercise.’

  ‘We thought it whacky,’ declared Justin. ‘I for one won’t stay here if we continue in that direction. I felt I was trapped in some bizarre cult or something.’

  ‘No one’s keeping you here, Justin.’

  ‘If it was some team-building exercise, it failed miserably,’ Justin continued. ‘And I’m thinking, what are we doing here, here in particular, in Mount Druitt? It’s a wasteland out here. There’s absolutely nothing to do here. All my friends are in Annandale or Newtown. But we live in an industrial estate in the middle of the most culturally barren, heat-stricken and polluted place in Sydney – a place by the Great Western Highway everyone drives past on their way to somewhere else, somewhere they actually want to be.’

  ‘But for our purposes the barrenness is good,’ said Kenric. ‘It throws everything we seek into sharp relief. We’ve had this conversation before, Justin. “The Word comes from out of the desert, from a despised place”.’

  ‘You make this sound like a religious enterprise when it’s not, right? It’s philosophical. And the history of the Word is as much philosophical as religious, right? And has been since centuries before Christ. So don’t go quoting scripture, it’s not in the program.’

  ‘But we can borrow from religion, can’t we?’ asked Kenric.

  ‘When you talk like that, Kenric, I wonder, what’s in it for you? Acting and speaking like some guru – I mean, really, why don’t you go and get a real job? Like you used to have.’

  ‘Juthtin, don’t.’

  But Justin continued: ‘Judith’s told me that Tess’s old firm is still keen to employ you, and not so long ago approached you again. Is that true?’

  ‘If you think we should do things differently here, then say so tomorrow when we’ll be meeting for some truth-telling,’ said Kenric. ‘And I don’t think you speak for Judith.’

  At this, Justin slammed down a newspaper on the kitchen table, before rapping it with the back of his hand.

  ‘Thtop Juthtin, thtop,’ begged Judith, as the pair walked away.

  In the letters section of the local paper, Kenric read:

  Having seen the recent article ‘Inside a Suburban Cult’ in your paper, I thoroughly concur with its sentiments in regard to the organisation styling itself ‘The Word’. Only I wish to take these sentiments further. Your article quotes a disenchanted member of this cult, who was a co-founder of The Word along with myself. I can assure you from personal experience The Word is a classic cult in that it controls all sources of information to its members, and allows only one source of authority – the leader. The Word is a highly secretive organisation that insinuates to its members that they live in a world of illusion, and cannot know themselves because of their inability to speak properly, which is due to the widespread false usage of language in our society. The Word preaches that truth and self-knowledge can be found only in and through language, the best use of which – but of course – can exclusively be revealed by the cult leader and his manipulative partner. The couple cajoles, berates and humiliates its vulnerable and isolated members. Self-abnegation and self-critique are daily events. This is how a cult works. It assumes one mind, and assumes one’s mind. It emphasises its distinctness from the outside world, and relies on that distinction to control access to the outside. All members are expected to contribute financially – but of course, this is an old story – under the guise of funding various fatuous so-called educational and self-improvement programs and workshops. The leader is lascivious and I know he has sexual relations with many of the women in the group (another old story, alas). There is no law against this, but it is symptomatic of the pervasive control this man and his associated cabal have over all who commit themselves to the cult. Is it right that all who enter The Word find it almost impossible to defy the pair and their closest associates who assume authority over them?

  The letter was signed by the man known among them as Pitch-Perfect Piers, who had left The Word six months or so before, after proving especially troublesome for the short period he had been in the community.

  Kenric wanted to clear the air immediately, to counter this slander. When he telephoned Maria, however, she counselled him to wait, to let it come out the next day in the truth-telling session. Would she be back by then, he asked? She could not guarantee it.

  Robert and Tess were first to join Kenric at the kitchen table the next morning, where he eagerly waited; the others began to appear, one after another, although no bells had been rung, no doors knocked. It seemed the kitchen could be faintly heard – and somehow felt – from all the bedrooms.

  ‘Here we are among the angels,’ said Bruno, coming down the stairs to join them. Everyone looked at him uncertainly. No one really knew Bruno. He was cagy and jumpy throughout truth-telling sessions. In contrast, the women were always keen to participate in the exercise, and usually came flowing in – they enjoyed getting things off their chest, as they said. Sometimes two or three women spent a morning cooking in anticipation of a session, in the process working themselves into a lather of openness and sharing.

  That day, other than Maria, only Ashram Teddy and Krystal were absent, the reunited couple remaining in their bedroom.

  ‘I thought we might get some things off our chest,’ began Kenric.

  ‘Let’s,’ seconded Robert, ‘let’s start with the letter in yesterday’s newspaper.’ And he rebutted it, point by point.

  Everyone nodded. Everyone had read it.

  ‘That’s the truth – thank you, Robert,’ said Kenric. ‘I’m not amorously involved with all the women here.’

  Barnabus, who appeared enormously relieved by Robert’s speech, laughed loudly.

  ‘I’ve got something I want to say to everyone,’ said Justin. ‘I’ve got something I want to get o
ff my chest. Food keeps disappearing from the fridge. I’ve bought three packets of Tim Tams in the past week and they’ve all gone. I have to tell the truth – it pisses me off. It’s actually stealing.’

  Antonia, who had tentatively stepped into the kitchen, turned and withdrew.

  ‘Keep them in your bedroom,’ said Tess. ‘It’s a communal fridge.’

  ‘Tim Tams,’ said Justin, ‘taste better chilled. That’s the truth.’

  ‘Put your name on the packet,’ suggested Tess.

  ‘Am I to infer you ate them, Tess, and feel justified in doing so?’

  ‘I don’t like sweet things,’ she answered, ‘in case you haven’t noticed –’

  ‘Someone’s been in my bedroom and bathroom and taken stuff,’ said Connie, before Tess had finished talking.

  ‘That was me,’ said Tess loudly, looking directly at Connie. ‘I had to get something from the bathroom.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Some-thing –’

  ‘She can’t hear you,’ muttered Justin.

  ‘Pass me that pen,’ said Tess, ‘I’ll write it for her. Her hearing’s getting worse and worse.’

  ‘I’d like to talk about the cockroacheth,’ said Judith. ‘To tell the truth, too much food ith being left out at night, and thertain people aren’t washing up.’ She was clearly angry. ‘Certain male people. This problem has been going on far too long.’

  Tess vouched for the truth of what Judith said, and Connie also agreed – she always had to wash up before she could cook.

  ‘I want to say I found the tongue-talking creepy,’ said Justin, ‘it felt as if we were turning into a religion or something. I hate religion. Let’s keep the program philosophical. The Word is a philosophical concept as much as a religious one, in case we’ve forgotten. I think we should put a big sign above our front door saying: THE WORD IS NOT THEOLOGICAL IT IS PHILOSOPHICAL.’

  ‘I found the tongue-talking liberating,’ said Tess, ‘it unblocked me. It worked – I was surprised. I felt freer. I wrote that poem on the fridge and I’ve begun a play.’

  ‘At first, I didn’t know what to say,’ admitted Barnabus, ‘then I realised I didn’t have to know, I just had to say. It made me realise there were things inside me I had no idea were there.’