by Peter Carey
May says, what do you want?
Milligan shouts, I want to tell you something.
May says, no you don’t, you just want me to tuck you in.
Milligan says, no. No, I don’t.
Fantoni’s loud raucous laugh comes from even further away.
The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is knocking on the ceiling of his room with a broom. Finch can hear it going, bump, bump, bump. The Sibelius record jumps. May shouts, quit it.
Milligan says, I want to tell you something.
May shouts, no you don’t.
Finch lies naked on top of the blue sheets and tries to hum the albatross song but he has forgotten it.
Milligan says, come here. May? May, I want to tell you something.
May says, tuck yourself in, you lazy bugger.
Milligan giggles. The giggle floats out into the night.
Fantoni is in helpless laughter.
Milligan says, May?
May’s footsteps echo across the floorboards of his room and cross the corridor to Milligan’s room. Finch hears Milligan’s laughter and hears May’s footsteps returning to May’s room.
Fantoni shouts, what did he want?
May says, he wanted to be tucked in.
Fantoni laughs. May turns up the Sibelius record. The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name knocks on the ceiling with a broom. The record jumps.
11.
It is 4 a.m. and not yet light. No one can see them. As May and Finch leave the house a black government car draws away from the kerb but, although both of them see it, neither mentions it.
At 4 a.m. it is cool and pleasant to walk through the waste lands surrounding the house. There are one or two lights on in the big blocks of flats, but everyone seems to be asleep.
They walk slowly, picking their way through the thistles.
Finally May says, you were crazy.
Finch says, I know.
They walk for a long time. Finch wonders why the thistles grow in these parts, why they are sad, why they only grow where the ground has been disturbed, and wonders where they grew originally.
He says, do they make you sad?
May says, what?
He says, the thistles.
May doesn’t answer. Finally he says, you were crazy to mention it. He’ll really do it. He’ll really do it.
Finch stubs his toe on a large block of concrete. The pain seems deserved. He says, it didn’t enter my mind-that he’d think of Nancy.
May says, he’ll really do it. He’ll bloody-well eat her. Christ, you know what he’s like.
Finch says, I know, but I didn’t mention Nancy, just the statue.
May wraps his overcoat around himself and draws his head down into it. He says, he looks evil, he likes being fat.
Finch says, that’s reasonable.
May says, I can still remember what it was like being thin. Did I tell you, I was only six, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. Jesus it was nice. Although I don’t suppose I appreciated it at the time.
Finch says, shut-up.
May says, he’s still trying to blow up that bloody statue and he’ll get caught. Probably blow himself up. Then we’ll be the ones that have to pinch everything. And we’ll get caught, or we’ll starve more like it.
Finch says, help him get some dynamite and then dob him in to the cops. While he’s in jail he couldn’t eat Florence Nightingale.
May says, and we wouldn’t eat anything. I wouldn’t mind so much if he just wanted to screw her. I wouldn’t mind screwing her myself.
Finch says, maybe he is. Already.
May pulls his overcoat tightly around himself and says, no, it’s whatshisname, the big guy, that’s who’s screwing her. Did you see them dancing? It’s him.
Finch says, I like him.
May says nothing. They have come near a main road and they wordlessly turn back, keeping away from the street lights, returning to the thistles.
Finch says, it was Nancy’s idea. She said why don’t we eat the statue.
May says, you told me already. You were nuts. She was nuts too but she was only joking. You should have known that he’s serious about everything. He really wants to blow up everything, not just the fucking statue.
Finch says, he’s a fascist.
May says, what’s a fascist?
Finch says, like Danko… like General Kooper… like Fantoni. He’s going to dig a hole in the backyard. He calls it the barbecue.
12.
In another two hours Finch will have earned enough money for the rent. Fantoni is paying him by the hour. In another two hours he will be clear and then he’ll stop. He hopes there is still two hours’ work. They are digging a hole among the dock weeds in the backyard. It is a trench like a grave but only three feet deep. He asked Milligan for the money but Milligan had already lent money to Glino and May.
Fantoni is wearing a pair of May’s trousers so he won’t get his own dirty. He is stripped to the waist and working with a mattock. Finch clears the earth Fantoni loosens; he has a long-handled shovel. Both the shovel and the mattock are new, they have appeared miraculously, like anything that Fantoni wants.
They have chosen a spot outside Finch’s window, where it is completely private, shielded from the neighbouring houses. It is a small private spot which Fantoni normally uses for sunbathing.
The top of Fantoni’s bristly head is bathed in sweat and small dams of sweat have caught in the creases on the back of his head; he gives strange grunts between swings and carries out a conversation with Finch who is too exhausted to answer.
He says, I want the whole thing… in writing, OK?… write it down… all the reasons… just like you explained it to me.
Finch is getting less and less earth on the shovel. He keeps aiming at the earth and overshooting it, collecting a few loose clods on the blade. He says, yes.
Fantoni takes the shovel from him. He says, you write that now, write all the reasons like you told me and I’ll count that as time working. How’s that?
And he pats Finch on the back.
Finch is not sure how it is. He cannot believe any of it. He cannot believe that he, Alexander Finch, is digging a barbecue to cook a beautiful girl called Florence Nightingale in the backyard of a house in what used to be called Royal Parade. He would not have believed it, and still cannot.
He says, thanks Fantoni.
Fantoni says, what I want, Finch, is a thing called a rationale… that’s the word isn’t it… they’re called rationales.
13.
Rationale by A. Finch
The following is a suggested plan of action for the “Fat Men Against The Revolution”.
It is suggested that the Fat Men of this establishment pursue a course of militant love, by bodily consuming a senior member of the revolution, an official of the revolution, or a monument of the revolution (e.g. the 16 October Statue).
Such an act would, in the eyes of the revolution, be in character. The Fat Men of this society have been implicitly accused of (among other things) loving food too much, of loving themselves too much to the exclusion of the revolution. To eat a member or monument of the revolution could be seen as a way of turning this love towards the revolution. Eating is a total and literal act of consummation. The Fat Men would incorporate in their own bodies all that could be good and noble in the revolution and excrete that which is bad. In other words, the bodies of Fat Men will purify the revolution.
Alexander Finch shivers violently although it is very hot. He makes a fair copy of the draft. When he has finished he goes upstairs to the toilet and tries, unsuccessfully, to vomit.
Fantoni is supervising the delivery of a load of wood, coke, and kindling in the backyard. He is dressed beautifully in a white suit made from lightweight wool. He is smoking one of Florence Nightingale’s cigars.
As Finch descends the stairs he hears a loud shout and then, two steps later, a loud crash. It came from May’s room. And Finch knows without looking that May has thrown his bowl o
f goldfish against the wall. May loved his goldfish.
14.
At dinner Finch watches Fantoni eat the omelette that Glino has cooked for him. Fantoni cuts off dainty pieces. He buries the dainty pieces in the small fleshy orifice beneath his large moustache.
15.
May wakes him at 2 a.m. He says, I’ve just realized where she is. She’ll be with her brother. That’s where she’ll be. I wrote her a letter.
Finch says, Florence Nightingale.
May says, my wife.
16.
Glino knows. Milligan knows. May and Finch know. Only the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is unaware of the scheme. He asked Fantoni about the hole in the backyard. Fantoni said, it is a wigwam for a goose’s bridle.
17.
The deputation moves slowly on tip-toes from Finch’s room. In the kitchen annexe someone trips over Fantoni’s bicycle. It crashes. Milligan giggles. Finch punches him sharply in the ribs. In the dark, Milligan’s face is caught between laughter and surprise. He pushes his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and peers closely at Finch.
The others have continued and are now moving quietly through the darkened kitchen. Finch pats Milligan on the shoulder. He whispers, I’m sorry. But Milligan passes on to join the others where they huddle nervously outside the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name’s room.
Glino looks to Finch, who moves through them and slowly opens the door. Finch sums up the situation. He feels a dull soft shock. He stops, but the others push him into the room. Only when they are all assembled inside the room, very close to the door, does everybody realize that the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is in bed with Florence Nightingale.
Florence Nightingale is lying on her side, facing the door, attempting to smile. The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is climbing from the bed. Finch is shocked to see that he is still wearing his socks. For some reason this makes everything worse.
The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name seems very slow and very old. He rummages through the pile of clothes beside the bed, his breathing the only sound in the room. It is hoarse, heavy breathing that only subsides after he has found his underpants. He trips getting into them and Finch notices they are on inside out. Eventually the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name says, it is generally considered good manners to knock.
He begins to dress now. No one knows what to do. They watch him hand Florence Nightingale her items of clothing so she can dress beneath the sheet. He sits in front of her then, partially obscuring her struggles. Florence Nightingale is no longer trying to smile. She looks very sad, almost frightened.
Eventually Finch says, this is more important, I’m afraid, more important than knocking on doors.
He has accepted some new knowledge and the acceptance makes him feel strong although he has no real idea of what the knowledge is. He says, Fantoni is planning to eat Florence Nightingale.
Florence Nightingale, struggling with her bra beneath the sheet, says, we know, we were discussing it.
Milligan giggles.
The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name has found his dressing-gown in the cupboard in the corner. He remains there, like a boxer waiting between rounds.
Florence Nightingale is staring at her yellow dress on the floor. Glino and May bump into each other as they reach for it at the same moment. They both retreat and both step forward again. Finally it is Milligan who darts forward, picks up the garment, and hands it to Florence Nightingale, who disappears under the sheets once more. Finch finds it almost impossible not to stare at her. He wishes she would come out and dress quickly and get the whole thing over and done with.
Technically, Florence Nightingale has deceived no one.
Glino says, we got to stop him.
Florence Nightingale’s head appears from beneath the sheets. She smiles at them all. She says, you are all wonderful… I love you all.
It is the first time Finch has ever heard Florence Nightingale say anything so insincere or so false. He wishes she would unsay that.
Finch says, he must be stopped.
Behind him he can hear a slight shuffling. He looks around to see May, his face flushed red, struggling to keep the door closed. He makes wild signs with his eyes to indicate that someone is trying to get in. Finch leans against the door, which pushes back with the heavy weight of a dream. Florence Nightingale slides sideways out of bed and Glino pushes against Finch, who is sandwiched between two opposing forces. Finally it is the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name who says, let him in.
Everybody steps back, but the door remains closed. They stand, grouped in a semi-circle around it, waiting. For a moment it seems as if it was all a mistake. But, finally, the door knob turns and the door is pushed gently open. Fantoni stands in the doorway wearing white silk pyjamas.
He says, what’s this, an orgy?
No one knows what to do or say.
18.
Glino is still vomiting in the drain in the backyard. He has been vomiting since dawn and it is now dark. Finch said he should be let off, because he was a vegetarian, but the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name insisted. So they made Glino eat just a little bit.
The stench hangs heavily over the house.
May is playing his record.
Finch has thought many times that he might also vomit.
The blue sheet which was used to strangle Fantoni lies in a long tangled line from the kitchen through the kitchen annexe and out into the backyard, where Glino lies retching and where the barbecue pit, although filled in, still smokes slowly, the smoke rising from the dry earth.
The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name had his dressing-gown ruined. It was soaked with blood. He sits in the kitchen now, wearing Fantoni’s white safari suit. He sits reading Fantoni’s mail. He has suggested that it would be best if he were referred to as Fantoni, should the police come, and that anyway it would be best if he were referred to as Fantoni. A bottle of scotch sits on the table beside him. It is open to anyone, but so far only May has taken any.
Finch is unable to sleep. He has tried to sleep but can see only Fantoni’s face. He steps over Glino and enters the kitchen.
He says, may I have a drink please, Fantoni?
It is a relief to be able to call him a name.
19.
The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name has taken up residence in Fantoni’s room. Everybody has become used to him now. He is known as Fantoni.
A new man has also arrived, being sent by Florence Nightingale with a letter of introduction. So far his name is unknown.
20.
“Revolution in a Closed Society-A Study of Leadership among the Fat” By Nancy Bowlby
Leaders were selected for their ability to provide materially for the welfare of the group as a whole. Obviously the same qualities should reside in the heir-apparent, although these qualities were not always obvious during the waiting period; for this reason I judged it necessary to show favouritism to the heir-apparent and thus to raise his prestige in the eyes of the group. This favouritism would sometimes take the form of small gifts and, in those rare cases where it was needed, shows of physical affection as well.
A situation of “crisis” was occasionally triggered, deus ex machina, by suggestion, but usually arose spontaneously and had only to be encouraged. From this point on, as I shall discuss later in this paper, the “revolution” took a similar course and “Fantoni” was always disposed of effectively and the new “Fantoni” took control of the group.
The following results were gathered from a study of twenty-three successive “Fantonis”. Apart from the “Fantoni” and the “Fantoni-apparent,” the composition of the group remained un-altered. Whilst it can be admitted that studies so far are at an early stage, the results surely justify the continuation of the experiments with larger groups.
Peeling
She moves around the house on soft slow feet, her footsteps padding softly above me as I lie, on my unmade bed of unwashed sheets, listening. She knows, as she always knows, that I am listening to her and it is early
morning. The fog has not risen. The traffic crawls outside. There is a red bus, I can see the top of it, outside the window. If I cared to look more closely I could see the faces of the people in the bus, and, with luck, my own reflection, or, at least, the reflection of my white hair, my one distinction. The mail has not yet arrived. There will be nothing for me, but I wait for it. Life is nothing without expectation. I am always first to pick up the letters when they drop through the door. The milk bottles, two days old, are in the kitchen unwashed and she knows this too, because she has not yet come.
Our relationship is beyond analysis. It was Bernard, although I prefer to name no names, who suggested that the relationship had a boyscout flavour about it. So much he knows. Bernard, who travels halfway across London to find the one priest who will forgive his incessant masturbation, cannot be regarded as an authority in this matter.
Outside the fog is thick, the way it is always meant to be in London, but seldom is, unless you live by the river, which I don’t. Today will not disappoint the American tourists.
And she walks above my head, probably arranging the little white dolls which she will not explain and which I never ask about, knowing she will not explain, and not for the moment wishing an explanation. She buys the dolls from the Portobello Road, the north end, on Friday morning, and at another market on Thursdays, she has not revealed where, but leaves early, at about 5 a.m. I know it is a market she goes to, but I don’t know which one. The dolls arrive in all conditions, crammed into a large cardboard suitcase which she takes out on her expeditions. Those which still have hair she plucks bald, and those with eyes lose them, and those with teeth have them removed and she paints them, slowly, white. She uses a flat plastic paint. I have seen the tins.