Imago Bird (7 page)

The man said ‘She tried to take an overdose the other day.'

I said ‘Damn!'

I got up and went out of the room and down the stairs to a landing. I stood outside the bathroom door.

I thought—But how can I say just—Sheila, Sheila, I don't care about any of this! I don't care about the man in white overalls! I don't care if you've been lying —

I pushed on the door. It was locked. I said ‘Sheila—'

I thought—But if I say Sheila, Sheila, I do care about all this: if I was lying, would it help? Would I not have to break the door down to prove it?

Also—Even if I do break the door down, won't she feel guilty because she's made us so fantastical?

I said ‘Sheila, I would like to talk to Brian Alick'

I thought—I have locked myself behind bathroom doors like this often enough in my life, God knows: I should know what to do about it.

I said ‘I want to talk about Marxism.'

I remembered—You have to get what is trapped in the mind out onto something different.

I said ‘I want to ask him whether or not Marx in fact said that the victory of the working class was inevitable.'

After a time Sheila said ‘Of course he didn't say it was inevitable!'

I said ‘What did he say then?'

There was the sound, through the bathroom door, of the seat of a lavatory being raised or lowered.

I thought—This is the point of politics then? To comfort people in, or get them out of, lavatories?

Sheila said ‘He said it might be historically inevitable, but that didn't mean you didn't have to work for it.'

There was the sound of a lavatory flushing.

Sheila said ‘And anyway, what he said was in an historical context.'

I could say to Dr Anders—Politics, you see, is what people talk about when they are afraid that there is no meaning; that the birds behind their eyes might have died —

Sheila said ‘Will you go away now please.'

I said ‘Yes.'

She said ‘And you'll come and see Brian on Sunday.'

I said ‘Fine.'

I thought—When I am gone, she will be able to come out and pretend at least to herself that she has been peeing.

She said ‘About five-thirty. Here. First.'

There was the sound of a bath beginning to run.

I said ‘See you.'

I went down the stairs. I made a noise like a body clattering.

I thought—But where are feelings then?

I wondered—Do birds practise their feelings, like exercises, to keep alive; when they are on their own, behind closed doors, behind the eyes?

Often at weekends Uncle Bill and Aunt Mavis would be away and I would be on my own in Cowley Street except for the housekeeper who came in for a while each day and one or two secretaries who went in and out of the basement and with whom I need have no contact if I was careful.

I would look forward to being on my own: then sometimes I could not think of any reason to get out of bed, and would lie like the donkey between the two bundles of hay that seemed to exist only in my imagination.

I did not want to ring Sheila now: not especially, I think, because I minded about the man in white overalls, but perhaps because I minded about not minding.

Depression, I think, is not so much a feeling as a sort of impression it would be better to have no feelings at all.

I can hardly remember this now; with all the profusion!

The work that I was supposed to be doing in preparation for a university was philosophy. I tried to read my books in bed. I held them on my stomach as if they were shields that might protect one part of my body from another.

The philosophy I was reading was that of the sceptics: who held that one explanation of something was likely to be no more valid than another: whose favourite words were ‘perhaps' and ‘possibly' and ‘maybe': who thought that it was necessary to ‘suspend judgement' for the sake of mental health. They considered anyone who thought himself capable of conclusive judgement to be mentally unbalanced. I found this philosophy encouraging: but did not quite feel, at the moment, that I had found the right way of demonstrating mental health.

I would think—How exciting it should be that there are no better reasons for the sun to rise rather than not rise every morning! That as I lie in bed, I equally may or may not fall
through to the floor!

— Especially when the sun always does rise every morning: and I never do fall through to the floor.

What philosophers who were not sceptics were saying, it seemed to me, was that although they agreed that reason could not make final judgements, yet nevertheless we had to live as if it could; so our lives were ridiculous anyway.

So the only question that remained was whether or not we faced this.

One could spend so much time ruminating upon these things that although one might be incapable of getting out of bed, at least one was not worried by all the things that Uncle Bill and Mrs Washbourne were worried about—such as whether or not oil was getting through to Africa, or who was getting what percentage of which money.

I would wonder about all this with the books that I held balanced on my stomach seeming increasingly to cut off the top part of my body from the lower.

I knew—Then my lower part, yes, begins to lead a life of its own; to wake up and moan like a baby; finally to scream and yell as if it has been left too long without food.

Then I would think—But how can I feed it? What is this need, when I am on my own, that stops me reading interesting things like philosophy?

I had a small store of pornographic literature in my room which I kept in a box in a cupboard. It lay there like some great spider; which every now and then came out to feed when either I, or it, was hungry.

I had had a conversation with Dr Anders about this. She had said ‘Why are you ashamed of pornography?' I had said ‘Because it makes me feel ill.' She had said ‘Why do you read it then?' I had said ‘Because at least I know where I am, when I feel ill.'

I had wanted to ask—Don't other people find that?

— Because like this their tensions have run out? they are in their mother's arms again?

As I lay in bed I would make efforts to join up the one half of my body with the other. There was a feeling like a rugger scrum composed of my head and my groin. This particular Sunday—
the one after the Friday I had talked to the man in white overalls with Sheila—I thought I should try to jump out of bed and do something practical like go down to Uncle Bill's study and see whether or not there was a hole in the ceiling caused by his pistol going off. But according to the Sceptics, how would I know, even if there was a hole, that it had been caused by a pistol? And according to psychoanalysis, how would I know that I was not in fact thinking about masturbation?

Dr Anders had said—It's masturbation that makes you feel ill? I had wanted to say—Oh I know that's no reason to think there's anything wrong in it!

I tried to jump out of bed. The messages could not quite get through to my muscles from my brain.

I thought—There are men with guns lined up on the ground to shoot down these carrier pigeons.

One of the books of philosophy that I admired that was not to do with the Sceptics, was Plato's
Phaedrus.
Here images lived a life of their own: they seemed to be free even within the cages of reasoning. There was the image of a person being someone in a chariot pulled by two horses, the one good and the other bad. It was the bad horse that pulled a person down from the road to the gods along which the good horse was taking him: but it was also this dark horse that enabled him perhaps to get back on to the road to the gods again; for it would be the dark horse that dragged him to recognise, and thus to make contact with, his beloved; and so he grew wings, and was reminded of the gods again.

Dr Anders would say—Did Plato really say that?

I would say—Well, it seems to me he did.

I wondered if it would help me to get out of bed and go down to Uncle Bill's study if I pretended to myself that what I was going to do was to get at my small store of pornography; then when I was on my feet I could make a dash for the study; so that it would have been my dark horse that had got me back on the road to the gods again.

I had such a terrible ache in my head, my groin: I thought—This is a suspension of judgement?

— Oh where was my beloved!

I thought—What terrible battles are fought like Hastings or Waterloo halfway across the floors of bed-sitting-rooms towards cupboards!

I was like a man being beaten up by police on television. I could say—All right! I give in! What I wanted was just the story of Miss Paragon and the Belgian Schoolgirls —

Was this in fact why people were beaten up by police? because they, or the police, were, or were not, ashamed of their stores of pornographic feelings?

Oh come on, come on, my dark horse; take me to my beloved!

I was making such an effort to get my dressing-gown on and to reach the door of my bedroom that I thought my mind might tear with the weight round the nails through it.

I thought—Oh where is the bird that must have perched on that loved one's shoulder then!

There was a sort of scraping noise coming from behind the walls in the direction of the attic.

I thought—That old spider, in my head, my groin, is scratching in the attic?

I had moved on to the landing, with caution, to see who might be there.

I thought—A plumber?

But then—Does not this word now refer to someone fixing up electronic surveillance?

I could say to Dr Anders—Just tell me, will you, how I get away from all these images?

— The birds falling down from the sky like shot pigeons —

Would in fact it be better if one just masturbated in the attic?

There should not be anyone in this part of the house at weekends. I wondered—Might the shot from Uncle Bill's study have gone right through Aunt Mavis' bedroom and up into the roof? and there is a man mending the hole there?

As I was watching the door into the attic the handle began to turn.

I thought—In films, this shot would be too corny; but it is still alarming.

The door opened. A man with crinkly hair looked out. When he saw me he seemed upset.

He said ‘They didn't tell me!'

I began stammering.

I thought—He'll think I'm gibbering with fear.

He went to the staircase and looked down. He was wearing a tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers.

He said ‘Are there any more of you?'

I wanted to say—Of course not!

He said ‘I was supposed to have done this job last week. I'll get into trouble if they know I'm doing it now.'

He looked at me accusingly. He was a sad, quiet man. I thought—I should try to reassure him?

I wanted to say—Well I won't tell anyone.

I thought I could explain—It'll be all right for both of us, won't it, if it's the fact after all that you're fixing up the hole in Uncle Bill's ceiling —

I said ‘The hole—'

He said ‘The hole.'

Then—‘Yes.'

When he looked at me he had absolutely nothing behind his eyes; or behind his words, or his inflexions.

I thought—If he were in a film, wouldn't he be wondering whether or not to kill me?

Then—Of course I am not really frightened.

He said ‘You're here at weekends?'

I said ‘Yes.'

He said ‘What do you do?'

I said ‘Philosophy.'

He frowned.

I thought—Well, according to the Sceptics, is not one answer as good as another?

Then—But am I not the person who knows something is going on behind the stage; and so in a different dimension?

He said ‘Look, if they knew I was there, I'd lose my job.'

I still wanted to say—Well I won't tell anyone.

Dr Anders would say—Well why didn't you?

I said ‘You mean you don't want me to tell anyone?'

He said ‘Right.'

Dr Anders might say—You really did think he might do
something to you?

I thought—No! Then—Am I not trying to help him?

The man said ‘Those cows! They call it information!'

Then he went back into the attic.

There still had been no intelligible messages coming from behind his eyes.

I went down the stairs. I was still carrying my clothes. I had no shoes. I thought I might go into Uncle Bill's bedroom and borrow his slippers.

I could have said to the man—Let's say you're a plumber—if a plumber had not been a man fixing electronic surveillance.

I was putting on my clothes on the landing outside Uncle Bill's bedroom. I thought I might take the opportunity to go and look at his floors and ceilings.

I could say to Dr Anders—But what else could the man have been doing? Other than mending a hole in the ceiling?

And if this were true, it was true they would not want it known —

— Or could he be my white horse to divert me from my beloved!

I was going on down the staircase.

On the pavement, outside the front door, there was one of the policemen put on to guard Uncle Bill. I could go up to him and say—There is a man who might be a plumber or a masturbator in the attic —

But Uncle Bill would not want even a policeman to know, if there was someone mending a hole in his ceiling.

I thought—Perhaps we inoculate ourselves with these hideous images to save ourselves from more simple pornography.

I was shuffling along the pavement towards Victoria Street. I could not quite remember how I had got there. I was wearing Uncle Bill's bedroom slippers. I had looked into Uncle Bill's bedroom and study briefly, but there had not seemed to be any holes in floors or ceilings. I had not spoken to the policeman at the front door, who had smiled at me.

I could explain to Dr Anders—But still, there is some sense in all this: I am out in the air: perhaps it is true that the mental health of the Sceptics is in not expecting to be able to judge
between this and that explanation —