Lanark

by Alasdair Gray

  I asked why he had not ignored it. He said cheerfully, “Descriptive purposes. Diseases identify people more accurately than variable factors like height, weight, and hair colour.”

  He gave me the card and told me to take it back to the enquiry counter. And at the enquiry counter I was told to wait with the others.

  The people waiting were of most ages, none well dressed and all (except some children playing between the benches) stupid with boredom. Sometimes a voice cried out, “Will Jones”—or another name—“go to box forty-nine,” and one of us would go to a cubicle, but this happened so rarely that I stopped expecting it. My eye kept seeking a circular patch of paler paintwork on the wall behind the counter. A clock had been fixed there once and been removed, I felt sure, because people would not have borne such waiting had they been able to measure it. My impatient thoughts kept returning to their own uselessness until they stopped altogether and I grew as unconscious as possible without actually sleeping. I could have endured eternity in this state, but I was roused by a woman who sat down beside me, a new arrival still in the restless stage. Her legs were encased in tight discoloured jeans and she kept crossing and recrossing them. She wore an army tunic over a plain shirt, and glittery earrings, necklaces, brooches, bangles and rings. Thick black hair lay tangled down her back, she smelled of powder, scent and sweat and she brought several of my senses to life again, including the sense of time, for she kept smoking cigarettes from a handbag which seemed to hold several packets. When she lit the twenty-third I asked how long they would keep us waiting. She said, “As long as they feel like it. It’s a damned scandal.”

  She stared at me a moment then asked kindly if I was new here. I said I was.

  “You’ll get used to it. It’s a deliberate system. They think that by putting us through a purgatory of boredom every time we ask for money we’ll come as seldom as we can. And by God they’re right! I’ve three weans to feed, one of them almost a baby, and I work to keep them. When I can get work, that is. But not everyone pays up the way they should, so here I am again. A mug, that’s what I am, a real mug.”

  I asked what work she did. She said she did things for different people on a part-time basis and gave me a cigarette. Then she said, “Are you looking for a place to stay?”

  I said I was.

  “I could put you up. Just for a wee while, I mean. If you’re stuck, I mean.”

  She looked at me in a friendly sideways assessing way which I found stirring. I liked her, she was pleasant to be with, yet she was the first woman I had met and I knew most of my lust came from loneliness. I thanked her and said I wanted something permanent. After a moment she said, “Anyway, a neighbour of mine, Mrs. Fleck, has just lost a lodger. You could get a room with her. She’s old but she’s not too fussy. I mean she’s very respectable, but she’s nice.”

  I thought this a good idea, so she wrote the address and how to reach it on a used cigarette packet.

  Someone shouted that I should go to box fifteen. I went there and was received by the bristling old clerk who returned the card saying, “Your claim is being allowed. Report to the cash desk for the money.”

  I asked how long the money was meant to last. He said, “It should last until you find work, but if you spend it before then this card entitles you to present another claim, which we shall be obliged, in due course, to honour. Eventually. Have you any other questions?”

  After considering I asked if he could tell me the name of the city. He said, “Mr. Lanark, I am a clerk, not a geographer.” The cash desk was a small shuttered hatch in the wall of a room full of benches, but few people were sitting on them. The shutter was soon raised. We queued and were swiftly paid by a woman who asked our names in turn, then shoved out between the bars a heap of notes and coin. I was surprised by the size of these heaps and the careless way the clerk handled them. The notes were creased and dirty and drawn from several currencies. The coins were thick copper pennies, worn silver with milled edges, frail nickel counters and plain brass discs with holes through the centre. I distributed this money into several pockets but I’ve never learned to use it for everyone has a different notion of its value. When buying anything I hold out a handful and let the waiter or shopman or conductor take what he thinks right.

  The directions on the cigarette packet led me to the house where I write this, thirty-one days later. I have not looked for work in that time or made friends, and I count the days only to enjoy their emptiness. Sludden thinks I am content with too little. I believe there are cities where work is a prison and time a goad and love a burden, and this makes my freedom feel worthwhile. My one worry is the scab on my arm. There is no feeling in it, but when I grow tired the healthy skin round the edge starts itching and when I scratch this the scab spreads. I must scratch in my sleep, for when I waken the hard patch is always bigger. So I take the doctor’s advice and try to forget it.

  CHAPTER 4.

  A Party

  Lanark was wakened by someone bumping up and down on his chest. It was the small girl from next door. Her brother and sister stood astride his legs, holding his coat aloft on the head of a floor brush and swaying from side to side so that the struts of the frail bed creaked. “The sea! The sea!” they chanted. “We’re sailing into the sea!”

  Lanark sat up rubbing his eyes. He said, “Get away! What do you know about the sea?”

  They jumped to the floor where the boy shouted, “We know all about the sea! Your pockets are full of seashells, hahaha! We searched them!”

  They ran out giggling and slammed the door. Lanark arose feeling unusually fresh and relaxed. The hard skin on his elbow had spread no farther. He dressed, rolled up the manuscript and went outside.

  There was a surprising change in the weather. The dreary rain, the buffeting winds had given way to an air so piercingly still and cold that he had to walk quickly, flapping his arms to keep warm, the breath snorting from his nostrils in jets of mist. His toes and ears were painfully chilled aboard the tram and after climbing the cinema stairs the crowded Elite seemed wonderfully warm and homelike. In the usual corner sat Sludden with Gay, McPake with Frankie, Toal with Nan, and Rima reading a fashion magazine. Rima nodded to him and continued reading but the rest looked surprised and said, “Where have you been?” “What have you been doing?” “We thought you’d disappeared.”

  Lanark dropped the manuscript on the table beside Sludden who raised an eyebrow and asked what it was.

  “Something I’ve written. I took your advice.”

  There was no room near Rima so Lanark squeezed onto the sofa between Sludden and Frankie. Sludden read a couple of pages, flicked through the rest, then handed it back saying, “It’s dead. Perhaps you’re more naturally a painter. I mean, it’s good that you’ve tried to do something, I’m pleased about that, but what you’ve written there is dead.”

  Lanark blushed with anger. He could think of nothing to say which wouldn’t show injured vanity so he pressed his lips into a smile. Sludden said, “I’m afraid I’ve hurt you.”

  “No no. But I wish you had read it carefully before judging.”

  “No need. Two pages showed me that your prose is totally flat, never departing an inch from your dull experiences. If a writer doesn’t enjoy words for their own sake how can the reader enjoy them?”

  “But I do enjoy words—some words—for their own sake! Words like river, and dawn, and daylight, and time. These words seem much richer than our experiences of the things they represent—”

  Frankie cried out, “Sludden, you’re a sadist, leave the mystery man alone! Don’t bother about Sludden, mystery man. He thinks he’s God but he can only prove it by torturing people. Isn’t that true, Sludden?”

  Sludden raised an imaginary hat from his head and bowed, but her wrath was too impressive to seem a joke. She stood up saying, “Anyway, McPake’s taking us to this party, so come on, everybody. Rima, you don’t care about fashion, give up pretending to read that magazine and look after Lanark. Try to
stop rotten things happening to him. I can’t do it.”

  She walked off toward the stairs. Toal, McPake and Sludden grinned at each other and pretended to wipe sweat from their brows. Everybody stood up. Sludden said to Lanark, “Come along, it might be fun.”

  “Who’s giving this party?”

  “Gay and I. It’s our engagement party. But the house belongs to a friend and the army is providing the booze.”

  “Why?”

  “Prestige reasons. The army likes to be liked.”

  Outside the cinema a steel-grey truck was parked beside the pavement and they scrambled through the sliding door into the narrow seats. Only McPake, in gauntlets and fleece-lined jacket, was dressed for the intense cold. He gripped the wheel and the truck charged smoothly forward. Sludden hugged Gay to his side with one arm and Frankie with the other. Frankie resisted fretfully until he said, “I need you both, girls. This frost is killing me.”

  Toal and Nan embraced in the seat behind but Rima sat so forbiddingly erect that Lanark (who was beside her) folded arms on chest and clenched his teeth to stop their chattering. Gradually the heater raised a comfortable temperature. The truck nearly had the streets to itself but when passing a tramcar or pedestrian McPake sounded a clanging blast on the horn. Lanark said, “Rima, will there be dancing at this party?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Will you dance with me?”

  “I suppose so. I’m not selective.”

  Lanark clenched his fist and bit hard on the thumb knuckle. After a moment he felt his arm touched. She said quietly, “I’m sorry I said that—I didn’t mean to be nasty. I’m more nervous than I seem.”

  He almost laughed with relief and drew her gently against him saying, “I’m glad you told me. I was deciding to leave the truck and walk home.”

  “You’re too serious.”

  The truck travelled down broad streets between overgrown gardens, then entered a drive which curved through a shubbery. The headlights made points of frost glisten among the dark leaves. McPake sounded his horn and stopped before a large mansion and everyone got out. The mansion was a square three-storey building with outhouses and a conservatory at the sides. The enclosing larches, hollies and rhododendrons gave it a secret look, although the windows were lit, music resounded and many cars were parked on the gravel near the porch. The front door was open, but Sludden pressed the bell before leading his party into the hall. This was heavily magnificent, terrazzo tiled and oak panelled, with a pair of black marble columns separating a space where the staircase began. A small figure looked out of a door on the right. It was Gloopy. He was shorter and fatter than Lanark remembered, his hair was streaked with grey and he wore a silver lame jacket. He said, “There you are, Sludden. Leave the coats in here, will you?” The room was hung with paintings of fruit and lobsters in gilded frames. There was an oval table in the centre nearly covered by coats and scarves. As Lanark helped Rima remove her coat Gloopy gazed at him with a grin and said, “Hello, hello! So you’ve arrived after all. You’d have been here sooner if you’d come with me.”

  “Is this your boardinghouse?”

  “It’s not mine in the sense of owning it. I suppose you could call me the concierge.”

  “What’s a concierge?”

  “Why must you be nasty to me? I haven’t hurt you.”

  “You don’t understand our mystery man, Gloopy,” said Sludden, who was straightening his tie at a mirror. “He’s never nasty. He’s just very very serious all the time. Where’s the revelry tonight?”

  “We’re in the downstairs drawing room.”

  The interior walls and doors of the house seemed soundproof, for nothing could be heard in the hall but the click of their feet on the tiles, yet the opposite door opened into a crowded room where couples were dancing to loud jazz. The people were the kind who visited the Elite, though the girls were more exotically dressed and Lanark noticed a few elderly men in dark business suits. He took Rima’s hand and led her onto the floor.

  He couldn’t remember enjoying music before but the rhythm excited him and his body moved to it easily. He kept his eyes on Rima. Her movements were abrupt yet graceful. Her dark hair lay loosely about her shoulders, she was smiling absentmindedly. The record came to an end and each stood with an arm round the other’s waist. Lanark said, “Will we do that again?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  Suddenly he stared across the room, his mouth open. A table laden with food and drink stood in the curve of a bay window and a girl sat on the edge chatting to a stout spectacled man. Lanark muttered, “Who is the girl—the big blonde there in the white dress?”

  “I don’t know. One of the camp followers, I suppose. Why has your face gone that colour?”

  “I’ve met her before.”

  “Oh?”

  “Before I came here—before I came to this city. I know her face but I can’t remember anything else.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “How can I speak to her?”

  “Ask her to dance.”

  “Do you mind, Rima?”

  “Why should I?”

  He hurried through the crowd to the table and reached it as the music started. The girl was sipping from a glass while the stout man laughed heartily at something she had said. Lanark touched her shoulder. She set the glass down and let him lead her onto the floor. She was a vivacious girl with gaudy makeup and a rich brown tan. Lanark held her urgently and said,

  “Where have I seen you before?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I couldn’t say.”

  “I think I know you well.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I killed you, didn’t I?”

  She stepped violently back from him and said, “Oh my God!” People stopped and looked. She pointed at Lanark and said loudly, “How’s this for party conversation? We’ve just met and he asks if he killed me once. How’s that for small talk?” She turned to an onlooker (it was McPake) and said, “Take me away from that bastard.”

  They joined the dance, McPake winking at Lanark as they passed him. Lanark looked desperately round for Rima, then pushed to the door, stepped outside and closed it behind him.

  The hall was completely empty and silent. It was also rather cold. Lanark strolled up and down wondering what to do. He could not think why he had blurted such words to the blond girl, but he would go far to avoid anyone who had been in the room at that time, excepting Rima. Yet he had no wish to leave. His elbow itched and he wondered if a wash would cool it. There was sure to be a bathroom in the house, a tiled bathroom with clean towels warming on heated towel rails, and soap crystals, and sponges, and all the hot water he could use. There was no bathroom in his own lodgings, he had not bathed since arriving there, and now (feeling dirty inside and out) he thought a bath would be beautifully soothing. He walked to the end of the hall and climbed the softly carpeted stairs. The upper floors were in darkness and he found his way by light from the hall below. At the second landing a corridor began. Halfway along it a triangle of light was cast on the floor from an ajar door. He moved toward this, his steps silent in the thick carpet, then stopped and peeked through the narrow door-slit. A vertical ribbon of wallpaper was visible, the light on it flickering slightly. Lanark pushed the door wide and stepped through.

  The room was a library illuminated by a vivid fire burning beneath a carved mantelpiece. Above surrounding bookcases hung massive portraits with antique weapons crossed on the walls between them. There were many high-backed leather armchairs, and a standard lamp with a red silk shade shone beside one with a man getting up from it. He smiled at Lanark and said, “Why, it’s the writer! Come on in.”

  He was nearly seven feet high and wore a polo-necked sweater and well-cut khaki trousers and, though perhaps fifty, gave an impression of youthful fitness. He had a bronzed bald head with tufts of white hair behind the ears, a clipped white moustache and good-humoured, boyishly alert features. Lanark said awkwardly, “I’m afraid I don�
��t know you.”

  “Quite so. Not many of your crowd know me. Yet the whole place belongs to me. Funny, isn’t it? I often have a laugh about that.”

  “Does Sludden know you?”

  “Oh yes, Sludden and I are great buddies. What would you like to drink?”

  He turned to a sideboard with bottles and glasses on it.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Well, sit down anyway, I want you to tell me something. Meanwhile I will pour myself … a drop … of Smith’s Glenlivet Malt. Here’s health.”

  The warm fire, the mild light, the host’s calm manner made Lanark feel this a pleasant place to relax. He sat in one of the chairs.

  The tall man returned with a glass in his hand, sat down and crossed his legs. He said, “What makes you chaps tick? What satisfaction do you, personally, get from being a writer?” Lanark tried to remember. He said, “It’s the only disciplined work I remember trying. I sleep better after it.”

  “Really? But wouldn’t you sleep better after other kinds of discipline?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.”

  “And you’ve never thought of joining the army?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because in a couple of terse, commonplace sentences you connected the ideas of work, discipline and health. So I suspect that, in spite of your association with sponges and leeches, you are still a vertebrate. Am I wrong?”

  Lanark thought about this for a while, then asked, “What use is the army?”

  “What use to society, you mean? Defence and employment. We defend and we employ. I believe you lodge with a woman called Fleck in a tenement beside Turk’s Head Forge.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Aha! There’s not much we don’t know. The point is that the Turk’s Head Forge produces components for our Q39. Industry is slack just now, as you may have noticed. If it wasn’t for the Q39 programme the Forge would have to close, thousands would be unemployed and they’d have to cut the social security allowance. Think of that next time you feel like knocking the army.”