But that’s the point Felix, Catholics have to. Shush, don’t let your father! Busily turning, blandly washing with his footsteps from the pantry and I can’t, they’ve learned to live together, but I.
What are you two gossiping about? Wanting to talk. He perches on the kitchen table but I can’t look, disguise myself like this.
Oh just, Felix was telling me about his friends on the staff of the university. Rubbing the cloth, washing them clean. Have you told your father that some of your best friends are graduate students this year? And even young professors, turning briefly to him, some of them are professors. Aren’t they dear? stiffly nodding, I have no life, I . . .
That’s nice.
They sound very interesting to me. He was telling me how interesting they are. Resentment burning for the fake the avoidance and my: just not real, I’m not. Don’t let your father, mother hear you talk like. Vigorously rubbing, drying.
I was telling Mom that I’m pretty interested in their. Pausing her stiff hands in the soap, her tightening mouth. In their Catholicism, it’s the first time. You know for the first time. Calmly, with calculation and I know, I think I know, I’m sure what. Brazen I’m doing.
“Know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand . . .” sobbing, will we never pass this snuffling, slowly step by step? Mounting fluidly before us now, beneath the colours and between the empty choir stalls and there’s the. Juggling, but more smoothly up, the carpet really helps, it makes a difference and steady there, that’s.
Only her not standing as we passed her body, crouched on the smothered sobbing and from above, his father’s hand, pat-pat her shoulder, bewildered fingers playing with her hair. Shut up!
There’s the stand and, lifting slightly, that’s the way. Pausing on either side and cautiously, don’t for heaven’s! Uncertainly turning inwards, shifting with his nod, I guess. We are dismissed. We can, carefully to the steps and down in a bunch among, these waiting faces. Here, with grace and individual control, to where he motions Jesus! I wish she’d stop! Dear God I . . . Empty pew and in. “To this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” Pushing along and should I, will they kneel and pray? To the end and turning formal with his voice. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed.” They are, at his lead, folding to their elbows on the polished wood and shifting for room. “Be the name of the Lord.” I’ll just sit, bend to demonstrate, acquiesce. Please dear God look after everybody and make her stop crying because he’s dead, that’s all for chrissake, all this doesn’t change and what’s he got to say to her?
I did, I really was. Disguised with protests, yes but I wanted, I clutched their moral condescension, cried out loud, yes grasped and welcomed their paternal, I was afraid. Focused always to that night. Strung out like we were, and physically with drink, the music when suddenly, so hushed and reverentially, his voice: Beauty, such as this, without the strength and security of the sacraments, is too terrible for man to behold. Jesus Christ their mute agreement, their bond! Except for me. And the Mahler (last movement of the third?), silence but for Mahler and their yes, yes! Repeating and acknowledging, so true, it was terrible and set apart, my back against the wall, an emptiness that melancholy slowly filled . . .
But don’t you, can’t you see? Professors, they’re professors and. I’ve had considerable contact you know, and I think, I’m not a fool. I’ve seen a lot of them. And they’re intelligent. Sincere and serious Catholic thought and. Smoothly scathing as I dare. That’s more than I’m accustomed to, but he’s oblivious.
Look son, your mother’s right, I agree with your mother. Slipping abruptly from the table to the counter, mixing a drink and why, how did I get involved? Last of the dinner plates dutifully into the cupboard and I’d like, but I won’t ask, I’d like another. Drink. You just don’t realize what you’re getting into Felix, you don’t . . . The Catholic organization is, surely you know what that’s like? Tasting, sucking at his glass and slyly: a highly organized business. Quickly sipping then, triumphantly. And where would your freedom be with them, eh? Snatching, with venom, silver to be dried for how can I explain? That’s the trouble with your generation . . .
For heaven’s sake now Father! Turning, Jesus, moving to pour a bit of this whiskey and turning my back. My generation always, never me . . .
Darling don’t think us . . .
It’s true, certainly it’s true! You want everything your own way, you. Glittering behind me, her rings on the sill while it’s splashing amber into my glass. The Pope will be telling you what to do and all of the priests! And where would your precious freedom be then? Sharpness in my mouth and swallowing: I think I’ll go out, I’ll. Sipping again for the futility of this and what’s it got to do with . . .
Don’t think us unreasonable dear, I’ve. Always liked the high Church, the Anglicans, you know that; the ritual, but Felix . . . Rome?
Now don’t, don’t go off half-cocked, your mother and I, we’re naturally. Very pleased you, that you’ve begun to. Think about God. And all that, but . . .
The Catholics Felix! Then with intensity, predictable emotion so she dries her hands: Oh darling you mustn’t! It’s so wrong. Promise me you won’t just accept what they say, that you’ll think seriously!
That’s right, be critical and don’t do anything rash that you’ll regret. Comforting voice for her and always, I have to prove, to mock them with. Probably just a stage, young men go through stages, I remember how many times . . . And your professors seem impressive, they seem. That’s the reason, it must be why I do it, for I know they’ll fail. Well you know how teachers influence the young.
They shouldn’t be allowed to do it, that’s all. They shouldn’t. Oh God Mother, neither of you, no they don’t understand!
We’re not saying you shouldn’t see them, of course we’re not. We’re just asking you to be sensible about it. Not do anything rash. Always we’re on the brink, the very edge and I’ve forced them, picked at their weakness with my bastardly . . .
They’re everywhere, they’ve even taken over the Immigration; if you’re not a Catholic you can hardly get in anymore. Why Rose Anderson, she’s your Uncle Simon’s sister’s daughter. She married one of the Andersons from Winnipeg and she was at Immigration in Toronto and she said, she was trying to get an Irish girl you know, a maid because they’re cheaper, and she said the office was full of Italians and Catholics of every kind.
Now mother, that’s, oh brother, that’s . . .
Doesn’t it bother you? I was reading just the other day that every computer is run by a Catholic! It’s true Felix, doesn’t it, but. “I held my tongue and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words.” Good grief, the others have all: straightening, I’m the last, I am, in this row! Shifting, to avoid, yes, attention from their eyes; straightening ever so slowly, with confidence and maybe I’ll even. Bending my head again as if to search, looking for something. Dropped, you see, hah! Wasn’t, no I wasn’t praying all that time, good God no, hah! Dreaming, just remembering vaguely. “My heart hot within me, and while I was thus musing.” Random memories, that’s all. Oh yes, in churches, like this, remember others, brief misleading times? Huh. Silence made only more desperate and ashamed, until . . .
Actually, since I haven’t been able to differentiate between a feeling of social (them nodding there with me against this wall) and spiritual envy, I’ve not placed too much importance on the event.
Indifference now, or even stronger yes, for once we, one time we laughed at my suggestion, wild and forcing, Martin hey, let’s laugh at God! HA-HA!
At God, let’s laugh! Ho-ho-ho?
Yes, let’s you know. Laugh. Laughter, you know, ha-ha. HA-HA-HA! Hoo-hoo, hee!
Hoh-hoh, hoh-hee-hee, HA-HA-HA-HA! GAWD!
OH HAWHAWHAW! HA–HEE–HAW!
Hee-hee-hee-hee-heeee-haaaaw! Harsh self-conscious barricade: an overlapping sound, accus
ing and my eyes, are they bright, do they stare like his? AT GAWD! HA, ho-ho. Guilt twinging and more difficult, ha. They, faces from shadow, watch silent and in the kitchen door is Max. Ho, at God. HOH . . . His squinting face, the troubled stance and grimacing from a cigarette. Vast silence, their faces and was he right? Even if He doesn’t exist, do we still have to believe?
By expense, they try to make it less ugly but still it sits, unnaturally squat and cumbersome; pretentious hardware and a deep-down shine that lasts and. Immutably horizontal, heavy where all else architectually strives, rising around him symbolic where faded, the air is full of regimental colours and the glorious dead. Dead he’s dead. That’s all! What more can we know, what have I ever seen but words?
He’s dead. Gone, that’s all and no more.
Martin Baillie’s dead and gone
Boom tiddyboomboom, boomboom
But his memoree lingers on
Boom tiddyboom . . .
BOOM–BOOM
Trying to imagine what he looks like. Eyes closed, for sure, the artificial flesh prepared, packaged for worms. Blind worms for empty eyes. Folded probably, across his, breast they call it on the dead, and tallow white the puffy fingered; is it still a hand if it doesn’t work like a hand? Flexing, long fingered closing on my knee with, these dirty nails again, I can’t seem to. That’s a hand and so is this other one reaching into my pocket, because they work, they wrinkle amazingly in the palm and stretch as I wish. With this split match between my knees, digging under the nails, cleaning and smearing the dirt between thumb and finger.
Oh Felix, Felix she’s superb! God I could die, she’s so superb, I’m telling you, I lay with my face on her thigh and stared up over her belly, and she has a magnificent belly, oh God she has this long lean belly and her breasts, they’re like pigeons Felix, pigeons . . . No! Not . . . Beautiful birds, that’s it! Jesusjesusjesus. Screwing up his eyes and rubbing at his scalp, teeth clenched and grinning ecstatically, while a stranger beside him, vicarious I watch his cupping hands towards remembered breasts. I could write songs he bellowed for each of these ggrraaowwhll! And an epic, a whole screaming epic for that stuff between her legs. Awwrrrowgghoboyoboy! Throwing himself, rolling back and twitching on his bed, kicking his feet and jumping. Superb, absofuckinglutely superb! Struggling to sit crosslegged and this, pause. And you know something Felix, you know I like her? I really do. Staring back in wonder, his open face.
C’mon Martin, for God’s sake, how many . . .
No this time it’s different! So help me. Convinced, dreamlike, but how many times, how many promises? I’d die, if I lost her now I really think I’d die. How many, yes, with only Stratford. Susan for his guilt.
Why? Into innocent, his unseeing eyes. Why then, for chrissake Martin, I don’t understand why do you go on? Tension, sudden in his body. Seeing Susan. Abruptly springing from the bed and to his feet, angrily: the familiar agitation as he strides, to the bureau and his cigarettes, but push on, I’ll . . . Every weekend, almost every, eh? Deep eyes retreating as he drags, gasping he inhales and blows grey smoke, now breathing out the match. I mean you don’t even, you don’t like going back to Stratford, you know? How can you . . .
Don’t talk about it, don’t. His voice down, angry introspection for a moment. She’s inescapable. Shrugging turn to the window where the shaking leaves, green, they stroke the sill and whisper. You think I want to go back there? You know I don’t, I want to get the hell out, I want! His face again. God Felix, you know . . . I want! I want and want his desperation and and the whimpering leaves. She won’t though, she’d never take a chance. Vague hand rubbing in his hair, abstracted hand alone. And that’s why Val, she’s so lovely; she’d go to Europe, we’ve talked about it and she says a writer’s got to live, he’s just. Got to, you know. Experience things, to sing. To laugh. To fucking dream, look! Let me show you. Hands thrusting under the mattress, reappearing with his journal: opening as he sits, spreading it upon his knees. He reads: To write one line, a man ought to see many cities, people and things he must learn to know animals and the way of birds in the air, and how little . . . a rendering for chrissake! He speaks as though he doesn’t read: upon the page, his fingertips and really he does, I never knew! He wants to write, everybody for Christ’s sake, we’ve talked but I never . . . to think back the way to unknown places . . . and to partings long foreseen, to days of childhood . . . and to parents . . . to days on the sea . . .
“For I am a stranger . . .” Indeed and, we’re strangers with these partings long foreseen: and failure. “O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.” For once and finally in the dark I saw, so many volumes in her empty flat behind Victoria Station, and the cold. (I never knew she liked it so, I never . . . “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son: and to the Holy . . .” Incantation, my automatic lips, remembering; remembering shame because I’d assumed, presumed and all the while she must have read so privately from me. Uncertain amens scatter about me, fading behind: awakened, I was, by an old man’s singing voice. Dancing from outside the pub in the street below, rising against the rain, a lonely voice to this window and her empty room. Those recent antiseptic halls and the sound of starch in her walk, her creaking shoes. You must stop coming down to see me, we’re wasting our time! Past official doctors and rigidity, we stalked, we two to the street. Felix. You can use the flat this last time, but you’ll have to be gone by Sunday at five. That’s when Ellen gets off duty and you know what she’d say . . .
Won’t I see you at all?
No, I’m. Peter’s picking me up right after work and we’re. Oh Felix! We can’t go on and on. Fine rain and occasional hissing tires to the bridge. Lying here, sixteen hours and eighteen rides from Edinburgh and she’s really gone! Harsh shrouded by dusk and the clinging sky, it chants to the whine, the accordion sound. Nan, oh Nan this time’s the end and rolling to my side, struggling beneath her blankets here for warmth, I see again the bookcase and my egocentric bastard, how many, in how many ways, God have I known her at all?
Refuge and mountains: all for the body this geography of words, while really, the curious fact of his reversal, why. Did he come back to her, do I know? “Thou turnest man to destruction: again thou sayest . . .” in a manner of speaking, why? Pressure in the throat, don’t . . . Goddamn his voice, this ritual, oh shit! Be pretty silly, you don’t want to go snuffling past, pushing to the aisle and out through their, no sir! “For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday: seeing that is past as a watch in the night.” His voice, his role, predictable along the path of self-effacing words and I don’t. Raising my passive eyes along carved benches, screens and rising, now from his shoulders, searching assured in the quizzical air; it mingles with his words. I don’t believe it anymore. No, did I ever? Even for a minute (last year, was it as long ago as that?) with Mahler and my willingness, surely . . . Around me, the fair. Above me swaying cars and squeals: harsh-regular beneath the noise with jostling figures (she smiles, see her smile??) patiently, to the door’s black shadow and her creaking breath. SHE WILL NEVER GET OUT. A miracle of modern . . . cut down, dried up, and withered. SHE WILL NEVER . . .
“For we consume away in thy displeasure: and are afraid at thy wrathful indignation.”
. . . and one must have memories of many nights of love (his face upon her thigh, he said, about her belly God!) no two alike. Her magnificent, it’s enough to make me start again, her breasts like beautiful birds . . . and the screams of women in childbed . . .
“Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee: and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.”
. . . one must have sat by the dying, one must have sat by the dead in a room with open windows . . .
“For when thou art angry, all our days are gone: we bring our years to an end, as it were a tale that is told.”
Do you know, bright-eyed to me from his journal, do you know who th
at is Felix, who?
Weak words, from fear, create these gods and explain our death: with his clear voice they reach in hope, in self-degrading. Bastards, fat who unctuously accept their death; it doesn’t matter to their lives! “. . . and though men be so strong, that they come to fourscore years: yet is their strength then but labour and sorrow . . .” Surely you can’t accept! You can’t, it, life is . . .
Rilke, that’s who! Rilke and he’s right by Gawd, he’s. Tenderly almost, closing the black book and turning, he pushes it back under the mattress. That’s the wonderful, Felix! Val’s wonderful that way, she . . . Stretching uncertainly back along his bed, his drifting voice. She wants me to move in with her, what do you think of that? She says. Reaching hands beneath his head, his arms bent-elbowed into stubby wings. And I mean she’s right, what the hell, why shouldn’t I? Briefly, eyes to me shifting, blinking as he looks away. You tell me, eh! From the open window, night, the leaves by his head: clumsy wings and gentle voice of the trees upon the sill. You tell me what’s the difference, I spend most of my time there anyway. And. Who’s going to care anyway? No one, I mean. Nobody has to know, do they . . . Curling suddenly to his side, with hands between his legs and knees bent to the chest. I’d like to. I really would. We get on so well. Together, we’re very compatible. You know? Rising for one of his cigarettes, I . . .
Struggling slim and alone with her black hair falling down and I’d better, I’ll have another. In my own kitchen for Christ’s sake! At my own party . . . Desperate gulping, stop that stop that, trapped I’m. Energetically huge, her shadow on the wall as she pulls with single purpose past the door. Muttering help me, for help; will someone help me with this christly thing! Oh dear oh dear, what can I? Trapped. Maybe I could . . . Grunting, she’s. Shame as she drags it, my mattress for chrissakes! Dragging it in the hall with helpers now, laughing they’re into the living room and I’m so depressed, I feel. Do things just wear away? FELIX and I shrivel, too late, too late, I keep on dying. Felix and I will sleep in here tonight. Oh, awwhh goes my soul, oh in their formal cheers, their encomium. HOORAY FOR PAT! CLAPCLAP! HOORAY! He’ll never get out.
Five Legs Page 18