Why wasn’t she fighting? Why were her arrows sheathed?
She was shrouded in a dry cloth, rubbing at her, rubbing hard enough to rub away her colour, and what if those hands rubbed away her colours until she shone ghost-white?
“Stop it,” I shouted. “Stop.”
The towel was removed. Her colours remained.
The stone woman was placed onto a shelf. No, she was placed onto the mantelpiece. She stood above the fireplace. There were flowers either side of her—roses and lilacs, red as her lips, white as her teeth. The fireplace was the focal point of the room—our living room. Yellow wallpaper and a smart green-striped couch. Sanded floorboards.
My husband dried his hands on the towel, his eyes wrinkling in amusement.
I opened my eyes, the blur of evening pouring through my eyelashes. I was no longer in Frederick’s bed. I leant backwards. Humming, humming drifting through the air. It was Burberry. A line had been traced around me, so I twisted my neck to see where it went. It was all around, the two ends missing one another where it had begun, where it had ended. I was in a circle, a circle I had made. When did I get here?
“Blondee.” Warm breath on my neck.
“Burberry,” I leapt to my feet, stumbling beyond the lines, outside my circle.
“Blondee,” she said, her voice low and slow, “where have you been?”
I had no answer. I had been outside the hut of my enemy; I had been in the bed of my lover; I had been in a house, a real house with a husband and a stone ornament. I bit my tongue as I remembered the word. Burberry planted kisses on my neck, ran her hand over my shoulder, and led me inside.
IT WAS THE MIDDLE of the next day by the time I reached a decision: I was going to rebuild the memory. If Frederick could build a whole city or dense forest, then I could recreate a living room.
I made my way to an empty patch of the minor corner: a place of bare, dry earth and some worms. I arrived with a plank of wood from the hut in one arm and a bag of my rations in the other. I set them down by the wall.
I had tried to remember more, to recall the name of my husband, to remember more of the words we had passed back and forth. To remember something other than the room with the fireplace. I had failed—the memory was already starting to blur indistinct. I had to hold onto it. It was the most detailed, most important memory any of us had. I couldn’t lose it.
To recreate it, I told myself, would give me a chance of keeping it. Perhaps it would even spur more memories. If only I could make it solid, tangible.
I pressed my hand to the wall at the edge of the world. At this deserted section it was discoloured—an eight-step width was brown rather than grey. Perhaps my home, the living room at its centre, was just on the other side of that wall? Perhaps that was even where my garden began?
I pickled up the plank: that would be the mantelpiece. But it needed to be at shoulder-height, and how could I make it shoulder-height? I had no way of attaching it to the wall. Instead I placed two cans of milkshake on the ground, balancing the board atop them. It would have to do. I placed twigs upon it as substitute flowers.
For the stone woman I used a stone—that was simple. I placed her on the board, which wobbled then stayed more-or-less stable.
For the bowl of water I used my bucket. The water tap had been almost completely dry, so instead of a mass of foaming water I had a dribble. It would do.
For my husband I used the rest of the bag of rations, a cloth sack with clumps of food inside—it was much smaller than him but I had no other option. I had thought of asking Frederick or Burberry, but I already knew their faces, they had already made their own memories with me—it wouldn’t work. Besides, I hadn’t even told them about the memory yet. It was the bag or nothing.
But it wasn’t right.
The sack-husband was lumpy and lifeless. The mantelpiece collapsed. I peered into the bucket, but there was nothing.
Of course, the stone woman belonged in the bucket—that was how the memory started.
So I took the stone and placed it into the bucket.
It still wasn’t right.
I stood before the sack-husband and tried talking to him. But what could I say? I had no memory of myself. What was the sort of thing I would say as his wife?
“Be careful,” I said, pointing to the bucket stone.
He didn’t respond.
I gave up and sat down by the mantelpiece. I picked up one of the cans of milkshake and began to drink. It was sour.
I was the only one who remembered marriage. But away from my memory it seemed alien. Still, marriage tied people together. Marriage would stop people flying away.
I drew a circle, then pressed my eyes closed. I tried to go further. I uttered the words to myself, listening to the lull-lull of my own tongue, ‘stone woman stone woman stone woman’. I tried to turn my husband around, to grasp him by the shoulder. But he couldn’t be turned, he had no back. But he was my husband. I tried to open the door to the room, but beyond the door there were only walls, beige and prickled.
I could go back, back to that room, and stand and watch the yellow walls but there was no beyond, there was nothing else. Me, a living room, a husband. That was it.
“Have you had memories?” I asked Burberry, stepping back into the hut.
She lay with her back to me, her breathing even. I took her shoulder and turned her toward me. Her eyelids fluttered.
“Blondee.”
“Burberry,” I kissed her lips. “Burberry, have you had memories?”
“I have lots of memories, many, many, many.” Her voice was churned with sleep.
“Really? What were they?”
“Well,” she said, slowly pulling herself up, resting her forehead on my collarbone for an instant, “I remember kissing you. I remember holding you last night. I remember eating yesterday, I ate cold soup from a can—”
“You know what I mean,” I squeezed her shoulder. She laughed, gently, slowly.
“Of before? Of outside the world?” She was toying with me, making me play for an answer. I nodded dutifully.
“No,” she leant back. “No, I don’t.”
“None at all? Not ever?”
“No.” She closed her eyes. It would have been quiet at that moment, but for Fluffed flitting around next door. Finally she spoke, licking her lips to keep them from sticking together. “No-one does.”
“What?”
“I don’t think anyone does, not really.”
“What?”
“What else is there to say?” she asked.
“No-one does? No-one has any memories at all? But what about the book, what about—”
“And they’re memories, are they?”
“They’re memories of the outside, of the old world, how things were, of the world before.”
“They’re not memories.” She sounded certain, spread before me as still as stone.
“Then what are they, Burberry?”
“Inventions. Stories. Creations.” She was quiet for another moment. “I’m sure people think they’re real.”
I stared at her. She lifted herself up, propping herself on the foam mattress with her elbows.
“Or maybe they’re real, maybe they’re all true,” she continued. “It doesn’t really matter though, does it? We’ve got no way of knowing.” She looked hard at me, as though she were trying to find a speck of dust on my face. “Why? Have you? Have you had any memories?”
“No.”
The curtain-cloth had been pulled closed, its colours collapsing about the room. Burberry lay down and rolled over, her breath descending into even sweeps. I ran my hand along her back. In the book there are hundreds, hundreds of memories, and I had no way of recalling them all. Burberry was wrong.
I decided to make her breakfast, pulling the tray from beneath the bed, a small array of coloured boxes sliding into view, an old t-shirt bundled into the corner. It would be rations-time again soon enough, and all we had were powdered egg, jelly squares, sal
t-pepper-mix and rice. I was certain it wouldn’t go together, but it would make for a good spider-lettered recipe. We had run low on food earlier than ever, but I had been hungry, and I had eaten more than my fair share. Today I would eat less. When I was single I would often starve for a day or two before the next ration. It wasn’t helpful to gather rations whilst hunger gnawed at your insides. For a moment hunger looked to me like an animal, small and furry with huge teeth. I wanted to feed it. There were few animals within our walls.
I stepped from the hut, boxes bundled in my arms. A short gasp leapt from my throat. The sun had risen, throwing purple light over the sand and grass and mud and huts, purple as a raw throat, deeper and richer than before. Wordlessly one or two figures wandered, faces driven upwards, nothing to say or do but wonder at the sky. It didn’t mean anything, the sky must have always played such tricks. But it was beautiful, that couldn’t be denied—deep-red-purple to rich-blue-purple, the clouds scattered like fresh innards above our heads.
At the fire tap there was a queue, people trying to cook their morning meal whilst watching the scene above without scalding their delicate arms or burning their bellies. One man failed, and even those who rushed to help him as he shrieked and growled in pain couldn’t help but witness the world above. His skin blistered in the same heavy hues.
Fluffed was there, not saying a word to me as he cooked tart chilli and canned beans, a scent which stung my nostrils almost as much as his ever-present perfume. I wanted to greet him, to say hello or smile, but I was cowed into blank-faced silence by the strange light. At my turn I cooked quickly and methodically, before leaving the food by Burberry’s sleeping form. I didn’t eat any.
Outside again I lay on the ground, my thoughts interrupted by the odd slow and unsure footsteps of those facing the sun. I knew my memories, I knew the world on the outside, I knew of marriage and husbands and mantelpieces. Watching his rough hands in soap water I knew he was mine. He was mine and he wouldn’t fly away. But I couldn’t marry twice, two separate people all at once. The hunger animal squirmed about my gut.
Those who are lazy go hungry.
The middle of the book.
I thought of the book, blue spine and golden lettering saying ‘Notes’. I had to put my memory in there, I had to transform this memory into ink before it faded.
That meant I had to find Pilsner.
HE STOOD HIS AGE-OLD GUARD at the water tap. We were alone. He didn’t greet me: he simply glanced at my approach and then watched the middle-distance. It was up to me to greet him.
“Pilsner.”
Still he said nothing. He stood motionless as an ornament, one arm leaning on the tap, the other hanging limp at his side. I glanced around to see if anyone was approaching. No-one was.
“Pilsner,” I repeated. Still he made no movement. He was waiting for me to leave. He was scared, I could see it in the tiny motion of his left eyelid. He was afraid of me. I wasn’t leaving.
“I had a memory,” I said, my voice rasping with frustration.
Finally he turned to me, the only movement his neck, still with one arm on the tap and the other to his side.
“You told me that, Blondee.”
“I had another.”
He turned away, back to his original position.
I stepped toward him, not stopping until we were a toe’s length apart, the stench of his body filling my nostrils, the stench of mine filling his. I wasn’t going to leave—I was going to write my memory in the book.
He spoke without looking at me.
“What do you want, Blondee?”
I was confused. He knew what I wanted. I answered honestly.
“I want to write it in the book.”
I couldn’t leave it at that. I would tell him my memory—he would be the first. If he heard what I had remembered then he would realise how important it was. This would change everything.
So I did. He stood rigid whilst I told him about the ornament, about the bowl of water, about the rough fingers and the mantelpiece. I told him that this man was my husband—I had remembered marriage. You see, I told him, two people get married and then they stay together. They don’t leave, you keep one another. That was how things were done on the outside; that was how we did them before. I rambled and rambled until I wrung myself breathless.
He listened. When I was done he spoke. I jumped back. He was unmoving but his mouth contorted, his face reddening. His voice boomed.
“I hear you, Blondee. I hear you. I know what you want. You don’t just want to rebuild yourself like everyone else here. You want to rebuild everything, all we have, all by yourself. But you’ll destroy it first, there’s no other way. Do you know that? You’ll destroy it. I won’t let you. How could I let you? You’re destructive. We were wrong, so wrong to label you a minor. You’re the worst of anyone here.”
He paused for a moment to catch his breath. His voice softened.
“Blondee, I’m aware I’m angry at you. And you’re angry at me. Neither of us will listen—anger closes the ears. But you must pay attention to me: stop this. Stop this whole thing. What we have now is fragile, more fragile than you realise.”
“I had a memory, Pilsner.”
“I will never let you write down a memory, Blondee. We write down our memories to work together, to add to what we’ve made together. You must understand—it doesn’t matter what we did on the outside, or what we were like before. The book is important because it binds us all. You’re not interested in that—you want to rewrite the whole thing to make the world as you want it. This marriage memory doesn’t even fit with how you’re living now—with your two. You want to change things and you don’t even know how or why you’re doing it.”
He stood up fully and stepped away from his perch at the water tap.
“Blondee, I’m not letting you near the book again.”
I held myself back, back from tearing and biting his skin, and not stopping until I reached bone. I wanted to hurt him. How could he say those things? The book was there to help us remember, to help us get back to ourselves. It was there to help us know what was real and what was pretend. He was a liar. He picked at the book and chose what he wanted to follow. I knew what the world was like—he didn’t care.
“Don’t be angry, Blondee. Anger’s hard to get rid of. The world is too small.”
I left him behind.
TIE WOULD NEVER HAVE TAKEN GOLD: he would have had no use for it. He would find a use for wood and metal and planks which could make huts. He would take his furniture rations and with a heart so full it would burst, he would lay the useful items to one side for someone else. He would save them for someone new, someone new who would arrive in the world with nothing, no clothes, no home and no hope. He saved me the window and the pieces which would make my home, pieces which I would never have had access to, not as a simple minor. I fell into the world and was caught by his generosity. He was never thanked.
I had been there for the next arrival, the one after myself.
The new one was scared, of course. He was scared; he was a minor; he was a sexual. I could never remember why. He cried a lot, even more than most. He was young but not so young. Tie guided the new naked man by the shoulder, over to the edge of the wall where he had been stacking new furniture. I had followed behind.
The man quivered and asked where we were taking him. He hadn’t realised that we were fellow captives, not captors, and that we could take him nowhere but the world.
Tie, so matter-of-fact, told him we were taking him to his new home.
The man’s voice rose and he stammered, this was not his home. Get your hands off me, spit mixed with tears, throwing himself from Tie and toward the wall.
I shouted at him.
Tie murmured that it was all right and walked over to the wall, to where the man had collapsed in a heap. I stood still and watched.
I couldn’t hear a word, but at first only Tie’s lips moved. I watched his mouth forming gentle words, trying to soothe
the man who sat with his head between his legs, his back heaving.
There was a cry, the man leapt to his feet, the man struck Tie which his hand, across his face. Calmly Tie stood, and gently, so gently, took hold of the man’s wrists and sat him down. The man’s torso still heaved, but now his head was erect and Tie continued talking. Soon he joined him, and they talked for hours, oblivious to my watching. Eventually the man smiled and they stood, surveying the pile of treasure before them. I walked over.
Tie told me that it would be dark soon and the hut still wasn’t built. He asked me if I would help.
The man wordlessly turned to me, his eyes shimmering. Hopeful.
I told him I would. I told him my name.
The man told me his name in return, but I forgot it since. Perhaps he died.
For the next hours we built, until his hut was complete, more-or-less. The weather had been cool and I had hardly begun to sweat, but salty water poured over Tie’s bumpy face. We said goodbye after Tie fetched him some sheets and walked toward the courtyard surrounded by night.
I asked Tie why the man had hit him.
Tie replied that the man was scared.
I asked if he’d said thank you.
Tie asked if I’d said thank you.
I felt my face burn. I hadn’t. I had cried for my old life, I had yelled and I had asked endless questions but I had never thanked him. There hadn’t been room for that.
I said thank you.
He laughed and told me it wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter. The man, like me, needed a home so he gave one. That was that.
The night was the usual ink-blue-black, and I carried my anger, knotted deep inside me. It was casino night; though once again the tent was different.
“We can make three tents,” someone had said, “least, minor and moderate, then we could all have a casino night at once, without waiting.”
And there had been more talk, the tents were erected and the booze was divided: the least had half the drink, the minors a third, and the moderates the rest.
Forget Yourself Page 10