“Your dad’s a good man,” Green testified, leaning his head out the window.
“No, he isn’t,” I said. “He’s non compos mentis.”
“Just because he don’t pay you compliments, don’t mean he don’t love you.”
Serge let me into the squat and then went back to the car. The final items he retrieved were two dead chickens that at some point between leaving our home and returning had their feathers removed. He held them squarely by their limp necks with his arms outstretched forward, as if he was leading (or ending, depending how you looked at it) a bathetic procession of the dead; and sure enough he walked through the apartment like a dread spectre haunting the abode and then exited out the kitchen into the back garden, where to my surprise, a primitive catafalque had been set up. It was composed of pieces of scrap metal and improvised guy-ropes cut from old rags. The decomposing potato lay at the centre of the bier, looking disconsolate. After placing the two chickens at the base of the elaborate arrangement, he pulled out two Cavenders from his pocket, placed them in his mouth, and lit them. He pulled a few drags from them before placing one cigarette in each of the dead chickens’ beaks. The cigarettes kept tipping and falling out, and becoming fed up, my father rammed them down their gullets so that the beaks began to blacken from the ash. Their immobility during this sacrifice did not leave the chickens without an aspect of monastic beatitude. This covenant with the dead lasted little more than five minutes before it began to go pear-shaped. Bugs started noticing the offerings, neighbours began wondering aloud where that awful smell of incense was coming from. I knelt on the grass to remove the chickens at the conclusion of the ceremony, as it did not seem appropriate for them to go to waste, or worse, attract the attention of the rabbits. Serge gently laid his hands on my neck and told to me stand up. He shook his head to indicate that I should leave them there, come what may. When we were back inside the house, he went to the mantlepiece and handed me a small package wrapped in newspaper and twine.
“It’s from Malbar,” he said. “I didn’t know he cared, but there you go.”
I tore at the package quickly, leaving the wrapping at my feet. Between my fingers was a miniscule, hand-bound book whose dimensions couldn’t be more than a few inches square. I leafed through its pages quickly, and inscribed within it in an almost illegible, Liliputian-like scrawl, I made out the headings of practices, codes of conduct, and recorded exploits of the Sous gang since its lowly inception as a band of outrageous chicken touts. Inspecting the cover more closely, I realized that emblazoned on it were the words “Souslard avant sous terre.” Before I could engross myself further, I had the sense of being scrutinized by Serge, and so I shut the codex.
An overdue sense of boredom set in, and though the feeling had lain dormant within me, it took holding the object of such searching to realize that I did not care about it anymore; and that quite possibly, the years of my father’s coyness served to stamp out all my curiosity and supplant it with articulate dejection. That Malbar was the one who took notice of my unhappiness, and not my father, only furthered my indifference to the Sous.
I placed the codex in my back pocket and stomped up the stairs, thinking to myself that I no longer was bothered about what kind of person my father was, or who he associated with, or to what ends he still attended his ridiculous meetings on other continents, whose distance alone seemingly rendered their actions and discussions the tincture of folly. All that preoccupied me at that moment was how Sergent was nothing like Giulio Napolitani any more than Malbar was like Wisdom’s alter ego Norman Pitkin – the Liar and the Bobby were just stories, stories that held nothing over the present, regardless of their entrenched basis in the past, reflexively infused by cinematic power so that these two men could forget that they were now just a pack of dodos in a country that would like to scrub them off the soles of its dignified feet. The Sous were never fingered for a crime here, never martyred for the sake of the greater good, and more importantly, never late for the Yard because they pinched an innocent man on the Tube; never thought to use a hair salon as a front for an Italian jewel gang – either a neither. Either of them being neither the other, because they were lost in the paradox of their brittle rivalry. I learned to say goodbye to one history and grew to bridle against the draggled strands of another, or so some could say.
5.
Flaxman Rd. Brixton, London, England, 1970
AFTER SEVENTEEN MONTHS in Exeter, then four in Staffordshire, there followed half a year in a parky bedsit in South Harrow, ending finally in a doomed stint back in Loughborough Junction. I was on my back foot and packed with my gear, was to stay with the only family I knew to bear a loose relation to on the other side of the world. Everything was arranged very hush-like, while Serge took an early bath from the Chalk Farm turntable he was working at renovating. Expected back in Port Louis, Serge said things would get squared between us despite the travel visa papers humming an elegiac salute to expulsion. We moved fast in the few days left us, selling off our things as best we could, which meant for practically any amount below asking. Serge had been prepping the floors of the turntable for striated-tile conversion, or some such thing. Someone had the bright idea to forgo the mineral spirits entirely and accelerated the job by using flame-throwers to heat up the tar beneath the old flooring. I could tell Serge had a hand in this because he and his mate would collect the tar by the chuckful and sell it off to longshoremen who might want to use it for oakum or peddle it as cheap, unreliable sealant for boats. I couldn’t be bothered to find out. Off his nut Serge was, completely – but wellspring of a good motive it was hard to say otherwise.
As I said, it was my last day before I was supposed to fly out to stay with one of Serge’s bimbos he busied himself with while my mother was in Stone House getting sterilized and rubbed up by other patients. Serge said there wouldn’t be time or money to see her off this time; that she wouldn’t notice to begin with. There was always time, he said, time most of all to make up for time lost later on. That was always in our abundance.
I had a handful of Knockouts in my bag, my plane ticket, passport, and Malbar’s codex. I checked my things every now and then to make sure they were still there. There was always the niggling feeling before a trip that it had all withered away somehow and was only kept intact by repeated rootings and analysis. I was with my mates Christian and Annaleigh, who were brother and sister, in Brockwell Park while their otterhound Scooter was not half-mucking about as much as we usually gave him credit for, chasing the passersby. I promised Chris and Anna I would write them. They knew how much I hated sitting still for anything though and so we were making the very best of whatever teeny-weeny gobs of time we had left. I gave Christian all of my 45s and Annaleigh my air-guns I’d collected in the past year. It would be an impossible collection to rebuild in Canada. Generally a very sad time for us, all in all; it was patched with silences of every knowable variety, but we were enjoying the sandwiches their mum had packed for us to no end all the same.
It always made me sad that I could never seem to hold on to anyone for longer than a fixed span of time, a few months tops, except old Serge. Even when I told myself that not all relationships were meant to stand shoulder to shoulder into the Eternal and that the longing I felt was normal, I still felt an incompleteness in my heart on account of the fact that I wouldn’t continue to see Chris and Anna. I was in this mercurial frame of mind when we saw the horrendous accident. A motorcyclist got ramrodded by a weaving motor that failed to come to a full stop. The cyclist made a churning arc in the sky like a plastic soldier you’d just flicked with your thumb, while the Bug started to brake; soon thinking better of it, the driver then hammered the gas and turned down a narrow ginnel screeching metal and sparks all the way in like a tight bugger. The sound of backfiring thunder was already turning into an echo before the body slammed onto the paved road. It was like the sound of a hundred doorknobs clattering in a rucksack as they skidded down a flight of stairs.
Christ
ian was first on his feet. Scooter followed shortly afterwards, while Annaleigh and I tarried a bit to collect the most important valuables about us, she her shoes and myself my pack and my glasses. You developed this kind of hesitancy when you grew up the way we did, always a look over the shoulder, even when you witness someone a touch from joining the great majority. When we reached him, Christian was kneeling over the body trying to unfasten the woman’s helmet from her head. The way it had been impacted into her face, I could tell what was left of her jaw was obstructing her breathing, which came out a suppressed whistle.
“It’s stuck. I think she’s going to choke,” Christian said.
“I’ll get some help.” Annaleigh let her feet carry her away, leaving Christian and I to wonder over things.
“The bastard . . .” Christian muttered. “Don’t worry, help’s coming.”
Even as he said this, I could see the skittering regret in her eyes. She could tell by the look on my face that our sooty mugs would be the last, unfamiliar sight she’d have to take away with her. Some comfort. This was running through my head as we saw the life slowly ebb away from her body.
“She’s gone Chris,” I said respectfully.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s have a look.”
I reached inside her jacket looking for a pocket and Christian slapped my hand away. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes remained fixed on me. It was as if he was seeing me for the first time; as if I was coming undone. Some people finally hobbled close enough to see us through the dusk. Their spindly legs marching through the park looked like a stop-motion dinosaur.
“What’s happened?” came a sharp, insolent voice belonging to a bearded man. His wife was tugging away at his arm, trying to keep up with his adiposed strides.
“That bloomin’ wog was thieving her pockets,” a crone replied from out of nowhere. “I just seen it.”
“You’ve gone dotty,” I said, arching my back with honesty.
Christian regarded me something unfriendly. I reached again in the pocket and this time he tipped me flat on my back, righteousness informing his movements.
“Gor, Chris! Not you as well.”
“You better get out of here before you spoil it for yourself,” Chris advised.
“Now, now lass, don’t listen to your friend,” the beard’s wife cautioned in her tipsy bedside manner.
“You’d best stay right where you are until the old bill arrive. They’ll have some questions for you both.”
“Chris, the woman’s got identification!” I implored.
Annaleigh came back out of breath and leaned down beside us.
“Meat wagon’s on its way,” she said, before catching on to the situation developing. “What’s going on?”
“Miss, do you know these two?” said the beard. “You’d best start from the beginning.”
“There was an accident with a motor,” I began.
“No,” the crone interrupted. “Not you. The other girl.”
“What did you do, R –” Anna started asking.
“Shut it, Anna,” Christian ordered. “Get out of here if you know what’s good for you. I won’t tell you again. Don’t throw it away.”
Scooter began to whine plaintively. I realized I’d fallen on him when Christian pushed me. I pulled my weight edgewise off him and held him close by my side. Scooter looked around quizzically, uncertain of the atmosphere building, bless his stupid animal heart.
“Grab her,” the beard said, directing some louts who were coming our way like rotating skittle pins, they were so pissed.
I took one last look at my friends and thought about the lasting impression I would leave on them; how that would last forever and how the explanations I might write in the future would be for nought. Chris had made up his mind already and Anna, though the more sympathetic of the two, would come around eventually, especially given how much she craved her brother’s approval. I picked myself up and fastened the straps of my bag. Then I dashed in the opposite direction for home.
When I got in, Serge was mashing the tea. He could see the tears streaming from my eyes. He said nothing. It was evident that he wasn’t surprised by anything, as if he knew the final outing with my mates could end in nothing but misery. For all I knew, he’d just gone through the same thing. He set the cups on the table. I collapsed on the couch and picked at the scabs on my knuckles.
“Couillon, it’s getting cold,” my father instructed, beckoning me to the arranged table.
I sat still for a moment, envisioning an alternate day’s end. Then I crossed the living room to the table, where I sat across from him.
“Eat your scoff. To faim?” he asked.
“No.”
“Cot to billet?”
“I have it. Terminal 3.”
“I’ll see you as soon as I can. The tar money is running out, but once I get to Beau Bassin . . . I’ll pull some strings and fly out to meet you. Six months.”
“Okay. Six months.”
“Listen to me. You can’t stay with Marjorie for long. I promised her no more than a few weeks. You’re going to have to find work as quick as you can. Dogsbody, grounds-keeping, what have you. You’re old enough now. Forget your A-Levels. Until I can come get you anyway.”
“Right.”
“Bit of advice. Don’t stick out. They’ll stick you right back in.”
“I will do.”
“And don’t mend fences with cretins. They are counting on like-for-like sales. Good night. Safe travels.”
I rose and left my half-empty cup on the table. I took out a pen and some scraps of paper from a drawer. I started writing a letter pressed against the top of my thigh, addressed to Christian and Annaleigh. The words had a great unwillingness coming out, as if they would never forgive me for giving them voice. I thought again about clearing my name, then about lying and putting things in a perspective they might actually be disposed to understand. But I abandoned the idea altogether and thought better of it; thought better of ever being understood, or of ever being given a fair shake. The lost art of giving people exactly what they wanted was an overfilling cup of dudgeon. I did not want this for myself, but I would give it to them anyway. And I would make it in any way I could my own. I would become those parallel thoughts which reposed in Christian’s mind and in the housings of the mob, resolving the history of my poor barmy mum’s sickness, my last night in England, and the rough idea that I had nothing left to lose into the idea they had of me. Roll up every secret confidence and history of my life I ever vouchsafed which Christian turned to form the picture of my kind – a penniless wog who thought I was owed something for everything I ever did. For what was stolen from me, for what was never given to me this night, I would make everyone the worse for it.
6.
Phenomenology of the Mind’s Eye, North End, Hamilton, Canada, 1974
IN THE ALTERNATE UNIVERSE where I continue my schooling in England and my father doesn’t abandon me in a godforsaken country I know nothing about, I am slightly less irritated than the situation I presently find myself in. My mother is miraculously cured of her ailments and is discharged from heaven-giving Stone House. We are reunited as a family and Serge no longer needs to continue a life of reckless ruin. Somehow he manages to extricate himself from the Sous without retaliation of loss of limb. They buy a nice house in the country, or what passes for it these days, somewhere grand like Knebworth or Ballasalla. Things could be worse. Serge becomes a local celebrity with timeworn tales of inaction and subterfuge, eventually netting cool millions selling his story to the television networks. “My father used to run around in the mid-Twenties with a group of hustling powderpuffs called the Wigwams, a name whose derivation was the subject of cankerous, uninhibited ridicule.” My mother for a time stays home where we can properly become acquainted. She takes an active interest in what I am studying; I like French and English literature the best, followed by natural sciences, philosophy, maths, and geography, in that order. When our relation
ship is such that we can tolerate long absences from one another, even after practically half a lifetime of it, she takes on a job at a public relations firm handling cases of the highest order. She is allowed a professional life and I am granted teenage heartache, pissy tantrums of the warbliest order – colours not being bright enough, wrong brand of foodstuffs, non-quality makes, and the like. I am miserable this time ’round because the hot toddy is not warm enough, glory be. But our company improves, as it soon includes Stewart Granger, Jerry Desmonde, and other gascons of British renown, on account of both my parents’ social calendar. Jerry calls me “Roundelay” as a pet name. Everything is in frightful good order.
We all begin to speak with finer accents too, the mark of real class. Serge drives a Silver Cloud and he’s not chauffeuring anyone around neither. He also has a Silver Shadow in his possession, parked in a clearing in the middle of the bosky wilderness that abuts against the property, although he does not like that as much and prefers to keep it hidden. The milieu we now find ourselves in helps us tune in at the right frequency. I never have to hear the Derwish’s soppy-toned voice or the Green’s butchering of Latinate syllables. They keep out of our lives and we theirs. All is right with the world, and it keeps on turning.
Grand Menteur Page 5