Collected Stories

by Peter Carey

Finally May says, you were crazy.

  Finch says, I know.

  They walk for a long time. Finch wonders why the thistles grow in these parts, why they are sad, why they only grow where the ground has been disturbed, and wonders where they grew originally.

  He says, do they make you sad?

  May says, what?

  He says, the thistles.

  May doesn’t answer. Finally he says, you were crazy to mention it. He’ll really do it. He’ll really do it.

  Finch stubs his toe on a large block of concrete. The pain seems deserved. He says, it didn’t enter my mind — that he’d think of Nancy.

  May says, he’ll really do it. He’ll bloody well eat her. Christ, you know what he’s like.

  Finch says, I know, but I didn’t mention Nancy, just the statue.

  May wraps his overcoat around himself and draws his head down into it. He says, he looks evil, he likes being fat.

  Finch says, that’s reasonable.

  May says, I can still remember what it was like being thin. Did I tell you, I was only six, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. Jesus it was nice. Although I don’t suppose I appreciated it at the time.

  Finch says, shut up.

  May says, he’s still trying to blow up that bloody statue and he’ll get caught. Probably blow himself up. Then we’ll be the ones that have to pinch everything. And we’ll get caught, or we’ll starve more like it.

  Finch says, help him get some dynamite and then dob him in to the cops. While he’s in jail he couldn’t eat Florence Nightingale.

  May says, and we wouldn’t eat anything. I wouldn’t mind so much if he just wanted to screw her. I wouldn’t mind screwing her myself.

  Finch says, maybe he is. Already.

  May pulls his overcoat tightly around himself and says, no, it’s whatshisname, the big guy, that’s who’s screwing her. Did you see them dancing? It’s him.

  Finch says, I like him.

  May says nothing. They have come near a main road and they wordlessly turn back, keeping away from the streetlights, returning to the thistles.

  Finch says, it was Nancy’s idea. She said why don’t we eat the statue.

  May says, you told me already. You were nuts. She was nuts too but she was only joking. You should have known that he’s serious about everything. He really wants to blow up everything, not just the fucking statue.

  Finch says, he’s a fascist.

  May says, what’s a fascist?

  Finch says, like Danko … like General Kooper … like Fantoni. He’s going to dig a hole in the backyard. He calls it the barbecue.

  12.

  In another two hours Finch will have earned enough money for the rent. Fantoni is paying him by the hour. In another two hours he will be clear and then he’ll stop. He hopes there is still two hours’ work. They are digging a hole among the dock weeds in the backyard. It is a trench like a grave but only three feet deep. He asked Milligan for the money but Milligan had already lent money to Glino and May.

  Fantoni is wearing a pair of May’s trousers so he won’t get his own dirty. He is stripped to the waist and working with a mattock. Finch clears the earth Fantoni loosens; he has a long-handled shovel. Both the shovel and the mattock are new; they have appeared miraculously, like anything that Fantoni wants.

  They have chosen a spot outside Finch’s window, where it is completely private, shielded from the neighbouring houses. It is a small private spot which Fantoni normally uses for sunbathing.

  The top of Fantoni’s bristly head is bathed in sweat and small dams of sweat have caught in the creases on the back of his head; he gives strange grunts between swings and carries out a conversation with Finch, who is too exhausted to answer.

  He says, I want the whole thing … in writing, OK? … write it down … all the reasons … just like you explained it to me.

  Finch is getting less and less earth on the shovel. He keeps aiming at the earth and overshooting it, collecting a few loose clods on the blade. He says, yes.

  Fantoni takes the shovel from him. He says, you write that now, write all the reasons like you told me, and I’ll count that as time working. How’s that?

  And he is not sure how it is. He cannot believe any of it. He cannot believe that he, Alexander Finch, is digging a barbecue to cook a beautiful girl called Florence Nightingale in the backyard of a house in what used to be called Royal Parade. He would not have believed it, and still cannot.

  He says, thanks Fantoni.

  Fantoni says, what I want, Finch, is a thing called a rationale … that’s the word isn’t it … they’re called rationales.

  13.

  Rationale by A. Finch

  The following is a suggested plan of action for the “Fat Men Against The Revolution”.

  It is suggested that the Fat Men of this establishment pursue a course of militant love, by bodily consuming a senior member of the revolution, an official of the revolution, or a monument of the revolution (e.g. the 16 October Statue).

  Such an act would, in the eyes of the revolution, be in character. The Fat Men of this society have been implicitly accused of (among other things) loving food too much, of loving themselves too much to the exclusion of the revolution. To eat a member or monument of the revolution could be seen as a way of turning this love towards the revolution. The Fat Men would incorporate in their own bodies all that could be good and noble in the revolution and excrete that which is bad. In other words, the bodies of Fat Men will purify the revolution.

  Alexander Finch shivers violently although it is very hot. He makes a fair copy of the draft. When he has finished he goes upstairs to the toilet and tries, unsuccessfully, to vomit.

  Fantoni is supervising the delivery of a load of wood, coke, and kindling in the backyard. He is dressed beautifully in a white suit made from lightweight wool. He is smoking one of Florence Nightingale’s cigars.

  As Finch descends the stairs he hears a loud shout and then, two steps later, a loud crash. It came from May’s room. And Finch knows without looking that May has thrown his bowl of goldfish against the wall. May loved his goldfish.

  14.

  At dinner Finch watches Fantoni eat the omelette that Glino has cooked for him. Fantoni cuts off dainty pieces. He buries the dainty pieces in the small fleshy orifice beneath his large moustache.

  15.

  May wakes him at 2 a.m. He says, I’ve just realized where she is. She’ll be with her brother. That’s where she’ll be. I wrote her a letter.

  Finch says, Florence Nightingale.

  May says, my wife.

  16.

  Glino knows. Milligan knows. May and Finch know. Only the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is unaware of the scheme. He asked Fantoni about the hole in the backyard. Fantoni said, it is a wigwam for a goose’s bridle.

  17.

  The deputation moves slowly on tiptoes from Finch’s room. In the kitchen annexe someone trips over Fantoni’s bicycle. It crashes. Milligan giggles. Finch punches him sharply in the ribs. In the dark, Milligan’s face is caught between laughter and surprise. He pushes his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and peers closely at Finch.

  The others have continued and are now moving quietly through the darkened kitchen. Finch pats Milligan on the shoulder. He whispers, I’m sorry. But Milligan passes on to join the others where they huddle nervously outside the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name’s room.

  Glino looks to Finch, who moves through them and slowly opens the door. Finch sums up the situation. He feels a dull soft shock. He stops, but the others push him into the room. Only when they are all assembled inside the room, very close to the door, does everybody realize that the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is in bed with Florence Nightingale.

  Florence Nightingale is lying on her side, facing the door, attempting to smile. The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name seems very slow and very old. He rummages through the pile of clothes beside the bed, his breathing the only sound in the room. It is hoarse, heavy breathi
ng that only subsides after he has found his underpants. He trips getting into them and Finch notices they are on inside out. Eventually the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name says, it is generally considered good manners to knock.

  He begins to dress now. No one knows what to do. They watch him hand Florence Nightingale her items of clothing so she can dress beneath the sheet. He sits in front of her then, partially obscuring her struggles. Florence Nightingale is no longer trying to smile. She looks very sad, almost frightened.

  Eventually Finch says, this is more important, I’m afraid, more important than knocking on doors.

  He has accepted some new knowledge and the acceptance makes him feel strong although he has no real idea of what the knowledge is. He says, Fantoni is planning to eat Florence Nightingale.

  Florence Nightingale, struggling with her bra beneath the sheet, says, we know, we were discussing it.

  Milligan giggles.

  The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name has found his dressing gown in the cupboard in the corner. He remains there, like a boxer waiting between rounds.

  Florence Nightingale is staring at her yellow dress on the floor. Glino and May bump into each other as they reach for it at the same time. They both retreat and both step forward again. Finally it is Milligan who darts forward, picks up the garment, and hands it to Florence Nightingale, who disappears under the sheets once more. Finch finds it almost impossible not to stare at her. He wishes she would come out and dress quickly and get the whole thing over and done with.

  Technically, Florence Nightingale has deceived no one.

  Glino says, we got to stop him.

  Florence Nightingale’s head appears from beneath the sheets. She smiles at them all. She says, you are all wonderful … I love you all.

  It is the first time Finch has ever heard Florence Nightingale say anything so insincere or so false. He wishes she would unsay that.

  Finch says, he must be stopped.

  Behind him he can hear a slight shuffling. He looks around to see May, his face flushed red, struggling to keep the door closed. He makes wild signs with his eyes to indicate that someone is trying to get in. Finch leans against the door, which pushes back with the heavy weight of a dream. Florence Nightingale slides sideways out of bed and Glino pushes against Finch, who is sandwiched between two opposing forces. Finally it is the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name who says, let him in.

  Everybody steps back, but the door remains closed. They stand, grouped in a semicircle around it, waiting. For a moment it seems as if it was all a mistake. But, finally, the door knob turns and the door is pushed gently open. Fantoni stands in the doorway wearing white silk pyjamas.

  He says, what’s this, an orgy?

  No one knows what to do or say.

  18.

  Glino is still vomiting in the drain in the backyard. He has been vomiting since dawn and it is now dark. Finch said he should be let off, because he was a vegetarian, but the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name insisted. So they made Glino eat just a little bit.

  The stench hangs heavily over the house.

  May is playing his record.

  Finch has thought many times that he might also vomit.

  The blue sheet which was used to strangle Fantoni lies in a long tangled line from the kitchen through the kitchen annexe and out into the backyard, where Glino lies retching and where the barbecue pit, although filled in, still smokes slowly, the smoke rising from the dry earth.

  The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name had his dressing gown ruined. It was soaked with blood. He sits in the kitchen now, wearing Fantoni’s white safari suit. He sits reading Fantoni’s mail. He has suggested that it would be best if he were referred to as Fantoni, should the police come, and that anyway it would be best if he were referred to as Fantoni. A bottle of Scotch sits on the table beside him. It is open to anyone, but so far only May has taken any.

  Finch is unable to sleep. He has tried to sleep but can see only Fantoni’s face. He steps over Glino and enters the kitchen.

  He says, may I have a drink please, Fantoni?

  It is a relief to be able to call him a name.

  19.

  The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name has taken up residence in Fantoni’s room. Everybody has become used to him now. He is known as Fantoni.

  A new man has also arrived, being sent by Florence Nightingale with a letter of introduction. So far his name is unknown.

  20.

  “Revolution in a Closed Society — A Study of Leadership among the Fat” by Nancy Bowlby

  Leaders were selected for their ability to provide materially for the welfare of the group as a whole. Obviously the same qualities should reside in the heir-apparent, although these qualities were not always obvious during the waiting period; for this reason I judged it necessary to show favouritism to the heir-apparent and thus to raise his prestige in the eyes of the group. This favouritism would sometimes take the form of small gifts and, in those rare cases where it was needed, shows of physical affection as well.

  A situation of “crisis” was occasionally triggered, deus ex machina, by suggestion, but usually arose spontaneously and had only to be encouraged. From this point on, as I shall discuss later in this paper, the “revolution” took a similar course and “Fantoni” was always disposed of effectively and the new “Fantoni” took control of the group.

  The following results were gathered from a study of twenty-three successive “Fantonis”. Apart from the “Fantoni” and the “Fantoni-apparent”, the composition of the group remained unaltered. Whilst it can be admitted that studies so far are at an early stage, the results surely justify the continuation of the experiments with larger groups.

  The Uses of Williamson Wood

  1.

  The mornings in the Lost and Found were better than the afternoons. In the mornings she didn’t think about the afternoons, yet the knowledge of their coming hung behind her eyes like great grey cloud banks that would soon blot out the sky.

  Few people came to the Lost and Found at any time. Sometimes in the mornings they would have a businessman looking for an umbrella or a schoolgirl looking for a lost coat. But few came to collect the great library of treasure that was stacked in its high dusty canyons. Sometimes in the mornings she would simply wander through the great grey alleyways between the metal shelves and then she would visit her favourite objects: the cases of butterflies that were stacked in the high shelves above the railway goods yards, the old gardening books on the top of the ancient gramophone, the strange and beautiful building materials that lay in a tangled heap just near the loading dock. She would sit here sometimes, perched on a bag of concrete looking at the big lumps of four by two and imagining what she might do with them if she had a chance. The wood was grey and heavy, each piece marked with the name “Williamson” and she often wondered who Williamson had been and how anyone could be so careless as to misplace such a wonderful treasure. She longed to steal that four by two, to grow even taller than her five feet ten inches and somehow put it under an overcoat and walk out with it in the same way that Jacobs walked out each day with watches and transistors and small items of value. Mr Jacobs used the Lost and Found as a private business, as if the whole sawtooth-roofed warehouse had been built by the government for the express purpose of making Mr Jacobs rich.

  Mr Jacobs didn’t give a damn for butterflies or books or four by two. He cared solely for money, and he cared for it with a fierce energy that she found alien and disturbing.

  In the mornings when he spoke to her he often talked about money, its value, its uses, the freedom he would purchase with it. In two years, he predicted, he would no longer use his battered brown briefcase to smuggle goods from the Lost and Found, but instead use it to collect rents in the afternoons. In the mornings he planned to stay in bed.

  Mr Jacobs was a small neat man who combed his hair flat with Californian Poppy hair oil. In his grey dustcoat he could look almost frail. In fewer clothes he revealed the alarming strength of his muscul
ar forearms, disproportionate arms that belonged to a far bigger body than his. Sometimes she saw the arms in nightmares. Yet when he arrived in the morning wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase he looked to her like a respectable businessman. She was always shocked, in the mornings, to see how respectable he looked, and how his eyes, peering behind his rimless glasses, had a soft, almost mouse-like quality. He looked like a character from one of those cartoons which feature henpecked husbands. If you hadn’t known Mr Jacobs you could have imagined him saying “Yes dear, no dear”, but then you wouldn’t have known about the forearms, nor the afternoons, nor his angry bachelorhood. A wife, Mr Jacobs said, was a waste of money.

  She had never known anyone like Mr Jacobs, but she had little experience of people. When she was a child they had lived in a poor mining area where her mother’s lovers had tried to gouge some unknown wealth from a bleak clay-white landscape. Around their tin shack were the high white clay piles of other men’s attempts. The ground was dotted with deep shafts and for her first four years she had only been able to play in a special leather harness which was strapped to a length of fencing wire. She had run up and down the wire like a dog on a chain, safe from the dangers of mine shafts. It must have been there, in that white hot place, that she had learned how to go somewhere else, to dream of green places and cool clear rain, to ignore what her eyes saw or her body felt.

  People do not love those whose eyes show that they are somewhere else. Her mother had not liked it. Her mother’s lovers, in varying degrees, had been enraged or irritated by her withdrawals. She had learned not to hear their words or feel their blows. Now, at nineteen, her long thin legs still bore the ghost of their rages, the stripe of a heavy piece of wire, the spot of a cigarette. Yet they had not touched her.