by Rhys Hughes
If I was going to solve the enigma, I would have to pay for a ride myself. But I lacked time and a partner. Ah, now my earlier complacency belonged to a wholly different age. It was I who was lonely! I didn’t even know what kind of girl I would like best to take into a Tunnel of Love. What would she look like? Auburn hair? A brunette? A blonde? With green eyes, blue, brown? A winsome smile, for sure, and a gentle heart. In other words, nobody I had ever met. I still hoped she was waiting for me in the future, but to wait there she would have to live there, and if she lived there she would always be ahead of me, beyond my reach. And I was running out of time. I consulted my watch again. The ride would have to be postponed until the evening. But if I could look deeper into the exit, beyond the web, maybe I could ease my curiosity, spy the man and his mirror in the distance. After all, perhaps the facts were mundane. Perhaps it was simply an extremely long tunnel, with hundreds of loops coiled up tight inside the building.
I pulled myself away from the railings and roamed around the other attractions. Many stalls displayed lanterns among the prizes to be won. I offered to buy one at a price favourable to their keepers, but they all declined on principle. If I wanted a lantern, I would have to win one. I played on the coconut shy, the rifle range, the hoopla, but either I was inept or else I won prizes other than lanterns. At last, loaded with soft toys, I gave up. I went back to the Tunnel of Love and approached the kiosk with a question.
“Excuse me, but does anyone ever come out again?”
“Why should they? Are you saying that couples mustn’t stay in love for as long as possible? That’s the next best thing to forever. Aren’t you going to buy a ticket?”
“Not enough time. I have to leave now.”
“Nobody to go with, huh? The details are none of my concern. I’m grateful that people still fall in love at all.”
“How long is this tunnel exactly? How long is a ride?”
“More than a lifetime, mister. But I didn’t design it, so don’t ask me. And I’m not a matchmaker. I just take the money. In my spare hours I write epithalamia. Love songs, slush.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever come out again?”
“No, sir, not from here. Not since it was built, maybe a thousand years ago, maybe longer than that, when the first two paying passengers climbed into a boat. Why do you want them to come out? Jealous, are you? That’s too bad. You know how love works, don’t you? It’s pure passion right at the beginning, hungry lips, fevered glances, tousled hair, lack of concentration on anything else. Romance. Erotic love. Call it what you please. After a period it settles down to a more comfortable situation, a sort of cherishing and respecting. Less frantic urge to entangle limbs every single minute. Then this becomes even calmer and gentle appreciation swamps everything, and that’s the start of a gradual decay into taking each other for granted, and then dissatisfaction and the roving eye. Finally it’s flings, affairs and divorce. This ride is an analogue of that process. At the exit of most Tunnels of Love you can find mistresses, paramours and alimony. Not this one. The route is simply too long. By the time the first lovers who went in come out, they’ll be ancient faithful skeletons.”
He said all this, but I had to guess most of it, because I had already left and was hurrying to the hotel and the wedding reception. My mind was a whirlpool of confusion, and this in turn led me to suspect that some such natural phenomenon, a maelstrom in the depths of the tunnel, was responsible for sucking the lovers down before they even reached the web, for like I said, I didn’t hear all of the attendant’s theory. Dropping my soft toys, I dashed out of the funfair, along the promenade to the hotel, through the swing-doors and the lobby and into the dancehall, decked out especially for the occasion.
I wasn’t late and people were too busy enjoying themselves to notice my unkempt hair and the creases in my suit. The cake had been cut with a knife as wide as a paddle and individual wedges lay wrapped in blue tissue paper as souvenirs for the guests. Because I was a family friend, my wedge was massive, with a candle protruding from it, which I found slightly odd until I remembered that today was Haylan’s birthday, and the wedding the present she had requested from her fiancé, one he had quivered with delight to give.
She was looking radiant, Haylan, with her luminous green eyes and a smile big enough to catch all the summer dew, and russet hair tumbling about her shoulders, and soft powerful hands which always seemed ready to pick daisies, throw snowballs, push bicycles. And Bowie wasn’t stale in his appearance either. I admired the way his fringe blew the wrong way in any wind. He was almost worthy of her. I wished both of them the best of luck, and through the medium of my speech I would soon tell them that, in rich language, with elaborate metaphors and rhetorical tricks. It had taken a week to write, to polish the phrases of praise. I was confident they would appreciate my efforts.
By vigorous fanning with the papers on which I had recorded this oration, I evaporated the sweat from my brow. I looked cool and assured as I circulated among the guests. There were a few ladies there who quickened my pulse, but they were all engaged or disinterested. My own true love still hadn’t left the future. Maybe I would catch up with her one day? For the moment, my task was to be charming to everybody. But as I strolled around the dancehall, I was discouraged by the mirrors which occupied every wall, with my reflection already inside them, a multiple toastmaster, a bed of wallflowers. Oh, to be picked!
There was a general movement toward the tables. I found myself sitting at the head of the longest one. Plenty of space around me. I would be able to stand without scraping my chairleg on the boards, a sound I despise. Haylan and Bowie were positioned at the table’s midpoint, on chairs higher than ours, or else with more cushions. She had detached the unnecessary parts of her wedding dress, the veil, train and lace, and now she looked like a nymph with a crown of bluebells. Bowie was still in his best suit, but it had taken a battering. His cravat was undone, his collar stained with lipstick, the buttons of his shirt hung on threads. They must have been rehearsing their honeymoon in a backroom.
The abrupt tinkle of spoon on glass crashed into my ears like a comet bouncing on a glacier. I jerked to attention, speech in hand. The room went quiet. All eyes were on me, even those of Haylan and Bowie, though they exchanged glances in their upheld spoons. Normally so glib of tongue, so smooth, so competent, I was suddenly lost. My throat felt dry, my gums too large for my mouth. What was wrong? I was a toastmaster of genius, with matching reputation.
“Ladies and Gentlemen . . .” I croaked.
I frowned, gasped, and then slowly lifted up my speech, held it between finger and thumb, and tore it into pieces, tiny pieces, the confetti which had already snowed on the newly-weds. But I didn’t throw it at them. I dropped the pieces into my glass of champagne, where they swirled, saturated, overflowed. I thrust my triumphant thumbs into the buttonholes of my jacket lapels.
For I had been struck with an astounding insight. I had solved the mystery of the man with the mirror. Or to be more precise, I now knew the secret of self-love, its hidden wisdom. Until this moment I had considered myself a dispenser of love, a generous avatar of love, a reservoir of love, pouring it out among my friends, a mountain of love sending down avalanches to sweep others off their feet before rescue teams might arrive. Selfless, that was the key. Willing, even eager, to forget my own needs in this area to assist others in their romantic endeavours. A personal sacrifice for the sake of love, for love is entirely selfless. That is what we are taught. That is the way, the credo of Cupid.
Now I saw the paucity of this approach, its irrationality. It was a lie, a fraud, an impossibility. If you don’t love yourself best of all, how can you possibly love others? The man with the mirror had taught me this. If you don’t love yourself, fully, completely, unconditionally, without any regrets or doubts, then you can’t love the individual parts which constitute you. And one of those parts is your love for others. And if you don’t love your love for others, then you don’t really love them. How could
I deliver a speech praising Haylan and Bowie and actually mean it unless I first held myself in the highest possible esteem? I had to love myself the most, or my words of love for this couple were worthless.
The finest compliment I could give the bride and groom was to praise myself. For if I left this task undone, my love for them had no basis. Without total self-love, my outward affections were a cheap trick. They couldn’t ultimately exist. Thank all the spirits of love that I had realised this in time! How delighted Haylan and Bowie would be by this act, how much more deeply it would touch their hearts than my original speech.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” I repeated, as I reasserted control of myself, “I am here to say a few words of praise on this joyous occasion. And who is the rightful object of this praise? Who deserves these words of love the most? Myself, of course! For I am so lovely, so gorgeous, so talented, clever, handsome, witty and wise! Look at me! I ask you: have you ever witnessed so many qualities, so much grace, athleticism, good humour, generosity, sagacity, kindness and tender strength in one man before? I doubt it! Crikey, I’m almost perfect, aren’t I? If I wasn’t me, I’d sure like to fall on my knees before me, clasp my other knees and propose marriage! I am so wonderful that I bet you can’t sit there listening to me without lustful thoughts! Now let me briefly outline the excellence of my body and mind before proceeding to a more detailed examination of various aspects of these twin masterpieces of nature’s art. First a general overview of the wonderfulness of my whole body. Let me begin by saying that when I take a bath . . .”
It was pure improvisation, and I felt pleased with the result, but for some unfathomable reason it didn’t go down so well with my audience. Maybe they didn’t consider the logic of what I was saying. Maybe they didn’t extrapolate the function of my words to the point where my self-love embraced every part of myself, including my feelings of love for them. Only if I loved myself to an extreme could I validate this outer love. But they didn’t take time to think about this. They threw food. Bread rolls launched by hand and globs of trifle catapulted by spoon. They grumbled and hissed and made a fuss. Haylan was grinding her teeth, her green eyes like stars on the horizon shining through the smoke of a volcano, sparkling, encouraging the eruption by lending it just that extra heat it required. Bowie on the other hand seemed crushed. My words had crumpled him down in his chair like a concertina. He wheezed his disappointment.
The missiles soon began to hurt. My speech faltered. A slice of melon struck me across the eyes. I blinked and held up my hands to protect myself. I demanded they consider the logic of my speech. They didn’t. I was forced to defend myself more assertively. I reached across the table and snatched the knife which had been used to cut the cake. It was serrated and sharp but I didn’t employ it as a weapon. I swung it like a bat. The blade was wide enough to deflect the solid missiles. I gave as good as I got, but the crowd didn’t applaud my strikes. They jeered. Finally, frustrated by their inability to hit me, and running low on ammunition, they began to stalk me, arms outstretched, faces glowering. And all the while I was trying to tell them how brilliant I was in every way, how desirable, how ravishing.
“Silence him!” I heard a voice command. It belonged to Haylan.
I knew when I was in real danger. I backed away, still holding the knife in one hand, picking up my wedge of cake with the other. I retreated from the dancehall, through the lobby, where a thoughtful valet slipped a promotional book of matches into my pocket, out of the swing-doors and onto the promenade. I fled. I abandoned any thoughts of claiming my pay. I thought I was safe until I glanced over my shoulder. The guests were in pursuit and they seemed more determined than ever to do me an injury. Haylan was right at the back, dragging along the gibbering Bowie by the hand, accelerating on her powerful, dainty feet, overtaking the other pursuers, her free hand clenched into a fist and armed with rings, diamonds able to cut open any jaw. I whimpered as I ran, finding myself suddenly back in the funfair. I wove between the stalls.
I made the mistake of hugging the shadows. My pursuers kept losing sight of me and pushed into each tent in turn to check if I was hiding within. By this time, Haylan had reached the front of the vengeful mob and was directing operations. Bad news for me, because she was more intelligent than the others, and thus more dangerous. She had borrowed a bicycle from somewhere and had packed Bowie into the basket at the front, delivering him like a parcel as she pedalled and made enquiries at every stall she passed. One of them was the den of the fortune teller, who came out and pointed through the crowds at me. She couldn’t have seen where I was headed, so she must have used her mystic powers. But then I remembered she was an electrician. I guess she could sense the shock, the sparks, in my heart.
My pursuers had fanned out, forming a circle around the funfair which shrank from one minute to the next. And I was stuck in the middle. I dipped and ducked in random directions, but you can’t throw a noose off the scent. It has no nose, just a knot. I almost ran into a vanguard of guests as I turned a corner. Luckily they didn’t see me and I jumped back. They hadn’t noticed me because they were bending down to examine a rather alarming object. It was the head of the rotten wooden horse from the carousel. One of them picked it up and I heard him say, “We’ll keep this and put it in his bed as a lesson. That’s the done thing, isn’t it? The most menacing threat?”
I guessed it was only a matter of minutes before they, or more likely Haylan, managed to enlist the aid of the little man with the hammer. And there was no way I could break through the tightening noose and escape by climbing the struts of the antique rollercoaster. I must try to lose them on a ride. But which one? They would simply wait for it to stop and then they would pounce on me.
I searched for a Hall of Mirrors, foolishly assuming it might help to illustrate my point and clear up the misunderstanding. But when I turned the next corner, I found myself back at the Tunnel of Love. I was at the exit and the railings which prevented onlookers from falling into the dirty water. At the entrance, Haylan and Bowie were in the process of buying a ticket. They hadn’t seen me, but in another few seconds I would be spotted. There were voices behind me. The scrape of a hammer dragged by its shaft. The game was finished, unless I did something which probably nobody has ever done before.
Climbing the railings, I jumped over and landed in the water. I kept my balance with difficulty as the green scum lapped my knees. I followed one of the larger ripples into the exit. I passed through the crumbling portals. My eyes adjusted to the murk. I reached the web. Then I saw the spider. It was curled tight in a ball in a recess in the wall. It was pure white and dry. As I passed, my shoulder brushed it and one of its legs snapped off. I felt sorry for the monster at that moment. It had starved to death a long time ago. It must have felt very smug, spinning its giant web at the exit of a Tunnel of Love. But it hadn’t reckoned with the unique symbolic route of this particular example of the ride. It had never caught a single victim.
I cut the strands with the cake knife. The web fell aside in tatters, like a bride’s hymen. Was this desperate venture my own honeymoon? No, for I was at the exit of love, not at its consummation. It was more in the manner of a straightforward exploit. I was equipped for whatever hazards I might face. I had my knife as a weapon, the cake for my supper, its candle and my book of matches as a source of illumination. I would see how far I could go! It would be lonely.
Or would it? It suddenly occurred to me that travelling the wrong way through a Tunnel of Love might have certain unexpected advantages. If the route really was an extended metaphor for the course of love, then I was starting at the divorce end, where it was right to be alone. As I progressed, or regressed, along this perilous emotional canal, my love for an unknown companion would grow. It would become easy complacency, then gentle appreciation, and after that cherishing and respecting, finally culminating in romantic, erotic, uncontainable passion! I was making the journey of love in reverse! Clearly I would acquire my companion on the way. She was waiting for me i
nside. Who would it be? Who could it be? What sort of girl might be the perfect match for a toastmaster? Then I remembered Haylan in her boat coming the other way, my nemesis, my friend, my intended. Only time would tell. I pushed on.
Journey Through A Wall
You all know the legend of the phantom hitch-hiker. A driver picks up a figure on a lonely road and gives it a lift into town. On the way, it vanishes. The driver looks in the glove-compartment and under the seat; the figure isn’t there. The doors are locked. Reaching the town, the driver stammers out his story. He is informed that a person matching his passenger’s description was tragically killed on that same road more than a decade previously. So the hitcher was a ghost!
I’ll spare you further details. Suffice to say I’ve milked sore the udder of that tale with my antics. I am Mark Anthony Zimara, trickster and lovable scoundrel. Actually I’m a pepper-pot salesman, but no less dastardly for that. One stretch of road exists, I won’t name it, where for a whole summer I played the part to perfection. No need to chalk my face or use a deathly voice. My victims inked my style with an eerie brush in the telling. The economy of a nearby town boomed. A local paper paid a famous medium to drive up and down looking for me. I was a soul in torment, everyone said, and needed to be guided through the astral gateway by a professional.
Many people came forward to identify me as a dead relative. There is a real hunger for the supernatural, the belly aches for bread spread with spooks. I’ve cracked this particular joke all over the country, but only once for a whole season. Like I said, I’m a scoundrel but a lovable one. I hurt too many folk that time to really enjoy the deception. When I entered the medium’s car and did my disappearing business right under her nose, she was delighted. She pulled up and performed an exorcism on the side of the highway. It was embarrassing. I decided that on the next day I’d thumb a real lift out. As luck would have it, she drove past while I was waiting. The shock finished her.