Five Legs

by Graeme Gibson

  “Hey you!” oh, my. “Listen,” my shuddering, the hunchback in shadow: “You can’t do that . . . you can’t just, wander away. We’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’m sorry.” He’s angry and turning, he’s . . . so trotting behind him. “I’m sorry.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” And out to the others, accusing for empty Felix among them. “He was in there after all.”

  “Aaaah!”

  “I’m sorry, really I’m . . .”

  “We’ve lost.” Abruptly staring at his watch. “We’re half an hour behind time now.”

  “You don’t know, you didn’t stop to think, did you?” Injured and petty-voiced: “How hard it is to find somebody in all these rooms.”

  “We’ll have to rush.”

  “It’s not as if we didn’t . . .”

  “I said I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” Obedient now and surly as off we go but I thought. How was I supposed to know for chrissakes, it’s not my fault, no sir . . . they should have. Right, if there are rules then, obviously: keeping up easily with them, short-legged bastards, they should have told me. “How was I supposed to know?” but they don’t even answer so piss on it. “I just wanted to see.” Shit. “That’s all.” Purposeful walking, thin-lipped about me and watching cautious, I know they don’t trust me, they’re . . . fucking keepers that’s what they are! Boy. Hurrying with shadows about us to the walls, hurrying sounds of breathing, our feet and I’m, what am I a fucking prisoner?

  Empty doorways: silence as monotonously step after step, confused and always descending . . .

  Captive Felix, yes I am and confused. What would happen if I disobeyed? Three small men and twisted, rodent bodies: we’re underground. Where, “where are we going?” Polite, I’m friendly, properly respectful “where” to rustling clothes; pitpat quick feet to the earth and no reply. His shoulder’s silence. Pumping arms and faster, shapes around me in the hall and somewhere voices whisper, a man is running, look look how he falls into the earth!

  Possessed and expectant with them and I follow, I see and follow, ignore those other passages, their life and noise: sadly observe my body, fumbling with them, threading their way . . . how many times have I lost my life?

  “PISS PARADE”

  Voice command and bumping together, turning left “LEFT TURN” in a rank and pausing. “QUICK MARCH.” Shoulder on shoulder, forward to the edge of this tumbling hill. “HALT” as he should with them, pause again; then clumsy pulling it out be ready! to ready, aim, “FIRE!” All pressure released uneven, four glistening arcs. What is this ditch, crevice, ravine where he stands? Two feet balancing, pissing heartsick, knowing the ground’s eroded, feeling the fall about to come yet hopeless, obedient . . . polite I am, instinctive to please

  what can she want? Hesitant because I can’t, she knows I’ve Jesus seen her and I can’t escape! Arrange, Felix arranging for mothers, quizzical, intelligent and somehow yearning. My body gallant yes, I mutter: “Mrs. Baillie m’am” and stare. Our eyes. Now speak, say: “A sad day” or something.

  “Oh Felix!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. . . .”

  “Felix oh!”

  “I really am.”

  “Felix I don’t know what.” Choking, searching my face. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Yes.” I know.

  “So sudden, it’s all so sudden.”

  “I know.”

  “In the midst of life.”

  “Yes.”

  “Felix!”

  “Yes?”

  “He was a good boy Felix.”

  “He was, yes . . .”

  “A good Christian boy.”

  “He was.”

  “Oh Felix.”

  “Um . . .” Straining I think, staring at her vacant staring face. I’ve drunk a lot . . .

  “Such a loving son.” Fingernails absently trace her forehead. Clumsy fingers and the sweat under her white arm. “Felix.” Pointed, threatening . . .

  “Um . . .”

  “Are you a, tell me . . .” Swallowing, then in a rush. “Do you love your God?” Argh-oh a, dirty, what?

  “What?” and sick, she’s . . . Reeling, a foul, glaring she pursues my eyes.

  “Are you a loving son?” She did, Christ my heart! ARE YOU A LOVING . . . Sickness and listen that’s it! I’m not a child anymore, not a child. Seizing breath, their sighing breath, there it is again! Bursting from the door and desperate to the park and nightalone . . .

  “Um,” a loving, “what do you mean?” Deep breath. Another. Don’t speak. Fat bitch. WHAT DO YOU MEAN? Guilty. My eyes to the room and away: see him come, glass in either hand, earnest from; white eyes, he’s coming, he rescues. I nod, he smiles, she takes the glass; we nod and smile. We smile.

  “Reverend, do you know . . .” That’s his throat, that’s his collar, those are ashes. Plop. “This is Felix, Martin’s room-mate Felix Oswald.” Bobbing. Hands extended. Those are his hands.

  “Hi.”

  “How do you do.”

  Undemanding hand. “I’m pleased.” Ashes.

  “It’s a pleasure . . .”

  “Felix only . . .” Warning in her, “Felix only looks like Jesus. Don’t be taken in Reverend; he doesn’t go to church, he doesn’t love his God like Martin.” Jesus fucking Christ! “Why aren’t you like Martin?” Bastard bastard he’s better off, he’s better dead. “Every weekend he came home to go to church with us . . .”

  Martin!

  “Well you can’t be sure Mrs. Baillie . . .”

  There’s time.

  To die, wear away . . .

  Smoke and spaces. Bodies, funeral blooms: he was a good boy. You can’t be sure of I’ll get out that’s the thing . . . See him clumsy suckhole smile; this is my smile . . . Knowing Felix desperate voice, the sudden want: of many nights no two the same of love GET OUT I Felix or I’ll never Felix out I “Felix” what, returning what, her voice? “Felix, you have . . .” Where am I? “There are still some things of Martin’s in the apartment. His gramophone I think and a clock, his electric. Clock.” She wants, she’s going to take Christ everything away from me! Sour throat, I wanted, he was my friend . . . I really do . . . eyes swimming can she, can they see? And I nod, yes. “Do you have them?” Nodding yes but . . .

  “The record player’s broken. It doesn’t work.”

  “That’s, oh Felix, that’s all alright!”

  “A long time, there’s something . . .”

  “I’m not, Felix I’m not going to use it. It’s just you see . . .”

  “There’s something wrong with it. It’s broken.”

  “I’m collecting everything,” insisting Jesus, “for well. Upstairs.” Head rolling to the stairs. “His room upstairs.” Hands. Her spotted. Together. “I’m you see, I’m making kind of a memorial up there.”

  I’M MAKING KIND OF A MEMORIAL UP THERE

  “You don’t mind if I have them Felix, do you? You don’t mind . . .” Voices accuse, what’ve you ever. Laughter. Nod. The clock, yes his clock, the clock in the museum. “I knew you wouldn’t . . .” Squeeze LET ME! “Thank you Felix, thank . . .” Sniffing, so sad darling, it makes me . . . she’s squeezing my hand, that hand, my body in this room. That body. Mine? Who are they there? What are they doing? “Um. Professor Crackell seems a fine sort of man.” Felix. “Dear Martin always spoke so highly and I told him, yes I did, I said Martin

  what sudden figure, figures bursting in noise? Enchanted Felix because they’re real, they talk and laugh (I can hear their noise), not like those doorway ghosts or other judges judging that dying run, his face into the earth.

  Boy this is fantastic!

  It really is, exhilarating: smiling to faces, Felix grinning as they come, well-dressed from passages ahead and excited more and more, they fill the corridor, a
mob. From the theatre. Good-natured to the street like this, joined by some exciting, some show, something . . . Expensive, low-cut at the breasts all tanned and heavy, elegant summer dresses, white and glistening lips, their bright mouth’s laughter, and arms, their round arms, shoulders that pass by me. Felix, eager, silent Felix at the edge of a crowd, madras jackets, bermuda shorts and brown knees; cigarettes are lit, the flame from mouth to mouth and shadows on soft throats, breasts tanned and heavy . . . they look so nice . . . oh boy!

  Pressed back to the wall and delighted and there’s more and the first ones move too slowly, they’re pausing to talk: there must be dozens for pity’s sake, hundreds more, they push and chatter to one another; they wave from their toes and smile, they haven’t seen me yet . . .

  Everybody certainly seems to know everybody and boy, I wish they’d . . . Felix resisting, forearms up and elbows out as again he’s jostled, Christ. Straining to see and that’s curious? really creepy . . . they’re talking alright . . . yes they are . . . a muttering noise but there’s not a word, I can’t recognize a fucking word! Jesus Christ, leaning worried to a voice, it sounds like a voice but THERE ARE NO WORDS boyoboyo­boy I’d better . . . Searching excited, frightened eyes and above them; there! is that? Yes. For Christ’s sake they’re, they’re . . . look at them clutching up there at the ceiling, bastards among the pipes: desperate and holding afraid, I’ll signal; I’ll wave so they’ll see, like this and stretching higher, this. Felix waving, arms in giant motions left to right and crossing, right to left but they don’t look, they crouch as Felix “Hey” is jarred by this vacuous prick, “c’mon, watch out eh!” Shoulder pushing back to show him, angry Christ they shove as if I wasn’t there at all. Be firm then. I’m going to leave, get out of this and join them. On the other side, YES: so if I push along the wall, just edge against them to the end (there must be an end) . . . inconspicuous along the argh, the wall like this “excuse me,” then I’ll cross over and that should do it. Stronger and a little louder: “Excuse me” but they still don’t move. Pressing harder for chrissakes, hand to a shoulder. “EXCUSE me, PLEASE!” and stumbling, shoving, grunting into another. This is hopeless . . . Felix desperate prying them apart, lunging into an instant’s gap and even when I trample on their goddamn feet they don’t respond. Urgent on he goes and on with breaking sweat inside his shirt: keep to the right! don’t leave the wall or I’m lost, swallowed up in this sludge. Levering at them, knees and elbows out and slipping by in their wordless noise:

  Rising to judge direction, yes stretching up to see how far . . . WHAT’S THAT! Who’s that for chrissakes, there he is familiar again I know him God, I do but who? he’s seen me, can he be, he hangs by his arms then falls away . . . Letting go. Down into the crowd with driving need to follow, discover who it is and where he leads, he’s leading me somewhere, he . . . and he’s getting away!

  Body harder as more press in and stand; lashing out he snarls “get away, get away!” but they jostle him sharp against the wall. “Watch out will you, Jesus will you watch out where you’re going . . .” Eyes blurring, what are you going to do? Eyes clouding and panting afraid: “I have to find him oh please, excuse me I’ve got to get through.”

  Prepare that’s it and body intent, Oswald-at-last will show them, sneering bastards, savage he’ll lash out . . . attack . . .

  Another blow and they don’t care, nobody cares how I feel, my body in the dark or what I want I want from clawing shadows these houses and the night

  blonde and pleasure of Ann: my dark, my face for her. The haunting smile. “Hi there.”

  “Felix you look.” Hair to her grey eyes. “You really look surly.” Laughter in her throat. “And you’ve been ignoring me all . . . yes you have, don’t try! You have.” Mocking pressure, she is she must be on my arm. “Flint-hearted boy!” Not true, I’m not . . . “But I forgive you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s true, oh yes it is. But I’m accustomed to your cruelty Felix Oswald. I am resigned.” Fingers down my sleeve to my hand, they rest. “You know that. Don’t you?” Gentle. Fingers . . .

  Funny. We hold. I fall away . . .

  Her eyes are grey.

  My flesh is soft, she says and full; my marrow burning . . . if only you’d bring yourself, and give yourself, and lose yourself . . . Grey eyes, hand. Forgive.

  I’m afraid.

  Rain on streets, rain at windows, breath in my ear, her mouth, I could with you, with her if I yes if I could . . .

  White, hair black on my mattress, white-armed, my baby baby reaching arms encircle, draw me down I’m sorry, Pat I’ve. Got you! crying I don’t like her. No! Five legs, three legs. I’ve never liked, don’t you . . .

  “She said I only look like Jesus.”

  “What?” Startled. Hand, its touch.

  “Isn’t that wild?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Baillie.” Worlds! There are worlds in me . . .

  “Oh.” Hand gone. Eyes. “Here comes Susan.” I’m sorry, you’ve made me look like . . . who Susan? “She wants you Felix.” Ann I’m reaching, see it, my hand, I need you. “I’m leaving Felix.”

  “Ann,” whose voice? “Ann don’t go.” They’re all . . .

  “Felix.” Voice, I turn. “Felix, how are you darling.” Leaning. Cheek. Struggling, breath . . .

  “Susan,” please!

  “Oh Felix.” I do not move. I mutter.

  “Susan,” mutter, then PUSH HER! Push her away! Skirts . . . He was right. Shrivelled-up prune between her legs . . .

  “We were engaged to be married Felix, did you know that, did you hear?” Voice, songs, an epic . . . he won’t, I know! “So glad you all came down, that’s why . . .” not to me . . . “So many nice people . . .” Back there. What happened, why am I? “They’ve come from all over you know, from Toronto . . .” Into the snow, from the snow. So many nights. “Ottawa, and his uncle Bill is down from Montreal.” Going back, so many . . .

  Forgive me.

  Ann! Where is . . .

  Back my head. “Particularly Lucan, he’s so . . . well . . . so human, so understanding. I simply don’t know how.” WHAT AM I DOING? “How I’d have managed, coped today without him. He’s so, well so reassuring isn’t he, so giving.” Get out, I must . . .

  He rubbed, sucked those breasts. For nothing.

  “Just by being here, just having him near was enough . . .” Crackell’s failed you, didn’t you know? “He’s going to be head of that new department, he has” what? “an excellent chance. Did you know that?” Whatwhat.

  “The head, he’s going . . .”

  “Yes. Isn’t that nice. He told me, he said . . .” It doesn’t matter. Feet. Legs from standing. Voice. Other words. Thunder beyond the trees, I can’t . . . I don’t want, I don’t want to play!

  “. . . that trouble at home . . .”

  I’ll never, that’s all . . . hear me hear on the tracks at night! HE WILL NEVER GET OUT . . .

  What if somebody really was and letting them out? Hah for chrissakes, that’d be great! But where, a bunch of cows at night, where’d they go, what would they do?

  “I mean it must be terrible not to be able to give a man a baby, not to be able . . . you know, and that’s their problem, that must be their problem Felix, don’t you think?” Dull. “Felix.” What’s she . . .

  “What, I’m sorry. Who?” People.

  “Oh you . . .” Thin lips. “Weren’t you . . . Felix Oswald you weren’t even listening to me . . .”

  “Those people, what are they . . .” Pointing to the kitchen door, they gather to see. “I wonder what?” Staring at Frieda.

  “Felix, is that somebody singing?” Some yes.

  “It certainly sounds . . .”

  Goddamn Frieda! “What is it,” I told her Val. I. What does she know? “Who’s singing aunty, is that someone singing?”r />
  “Yes it’s . . . what’s his name . . .” Who? “Crackell . . .”

  “Lucan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean he’s singing?” Wildly, what in Christ?

  “And he has a very pretty voice.”

  “Oh,” Susan crumbling: prunes. “What’s he . . .”

  “Singing? I don’t know, I’ve never heard . . .”

  “But he must.” Off she, “he just has to stop! poor man, he . . .” Door; “Let me through, excuse,” me door, I pause:

  A very strange enchanted boy

  They say he travelled very far, very far

  Over land . . .

  His voice. Unwilling, whose voice?

  . . . one day,

  one magic day he comes her way

  he’s there again, there! don’t you see? Felix eager because of the shadow, again, a silhouette for me in the narrowing passage, it sees yes it does! it stares and who is it. “Who are you . . .” who’s that? But it turns from my reaching arm. “Please stay!” and at that corner is gone. Christ it’s urgent, crucial yes, and maybe they’ll know; “Who’s that, did you see? who’s that person just ahead?”

  “Which,” and slowing to stop, they turn: “which one?”

  “What person, I didn’t see . . .” Dark and somehow nervous they pause. “We can’t . . .”

  “There are all kinds of people down here.”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “And even if we had.” Voice insists: “Even if we had we can’t, it’d be silly to think we knew them all.”

  “But he was with you!” waving, pointing my arm, “back there.” He was, they. “You must know him . . .”

  “No, no” dismissing. “There are too many.”

  “In the pipes, remember? With the crowd, that terrible crowd and he was with you up in the . . .” Blank faces waiting, bodies deformed, but they have to! “You must remember, in the pipes? then he came on ahead and just now, right there,” pointing to the corner. “He motioned to me from the corner.”

  “I certainly didn’t see . . .”

  “At any rate it’s not important.” Abruptly: “We’ve lost too much time already, let’s go.” They follow with Felix defensive, sure they’re acting, that’s it! they know alright but they won’t tell . . . “Come along you, come along. We have to keep going.” Legs scuttling and there’s no need, he doesn’t have to . . . get impatient, not like that . . .