A Void (18 page)

during his final agony?"

"His last word was that . . . that frightful cry," says Amaury

in his turn, "but what was it trying to say? Could any of you

work it out?"

"To my mind it was Traitor, traitor!'" says Olga.

"I thought I could distinguish 'Samar' or 'Zair^" says

Savorgnan.

"No," says Squaw, "what it was in fact was 'A Zahir! Look,

look, a Zahir!'"

"A Zahir?" Olga, Amaury and Savorgnan cry out in chorus.

"Just what
is
a Zahir???"

"Oh, it's a long, long story," Squaw languidly murmurs.

"But it's our right to know!"

"Okay, if you must know . . . " says Squaw. "But first, why

don't you try to ring up Aloysius Swann or Ottavio Ottaviani,

for only two days ago Augustus had a radiogram from Swann

that said: 'I'm following your situation. It looks bad. What I'm

most afraid of now is foul play. All my suspicions focus on Azin-

court, so both of us must stay on our guard. I must know a.s.a.p.

if your inquiry brings anything to light, as it's only by knowing

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what's going on that I can act.' Aloysius Swann has - I should

say, had - known Clifford for many a moon," Squaw adds,

"known, too, about this Zahir affair. So his collaboration is cru-

cial to us."

Amaury calls up Aloysius Swann; but, informing him that

Swann isn't at his station, HQ puts him through to Ottaviani.

"Hallo hallo?" says Ottavio Ottaviani. "This is Ottavio

Ottaviani."

"Hallo hallo?" says Amaury Conson. 'This is Amaury

Conson."

"Amaury? How's tricks?"

"Not so hot."

"Why, what's up?"

"Only an instant ago Augustus B. Clifford 'shuffl'd off his

mortal coil', as our national Bard, our Swan of Avon, put it!"

"Crocus and plum pudding!" growls Ottavio (it's an old

Corsican oath popular among Parisian cops). "Kaput?"

"You said it!"

"A killing?"

"No, no, probably a coronary - but that's only a layman's

opinion."

"Good Lord!" roars Ottaviani. "Okay, now, don't touch any-

thing - I'm on my way. Ciao!"

Ottaviani hangs up. Amaury ditto, saying to Olga, who was

not
au fait
with this discussion, "Ottavio's coming round.

Pronto."

Augustus Clifford's body is brought into an adjoining drawing

room and laid out on a low divan, with a thin cloak for its shroud.

Upon which Squaw asks his companions to crouch around it

on an oval Iroquois rug and starts to cast a hypnotic old Indian

charm.

"Squaw," Olga murmurs almost inaudibly to Amaury, "cannot

hold forth without first warding off God's wrath by a singsong

chant that no Grand Manitou would sanctify if it didn't go in

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association with an imploration and an invocation of, I may say,

a most rigorous liturgy, its ritualisation laid down, on his Clan's

foundation, all of 784 springs ago, by its original Grand Satchmo

(from which word a famous black jazz musician, Louis Arm-

strong, took his alias), so formulating a sort of oral canon which,

passing down from clan to clan, from family to family, ad infi-

nitum, is now part of our cultural patrimony."

"You don't say?"

Thus, in an outlandishly occult jargon that no noncommunicant

could follow, Squaw proclaims Grand Satchmo's oral canon,

announcing, to start with, a total submission to its instructions

and, matching action to words, actually carrying out such instruc-

tions, from first to last in turn, with an assiduity that was a joy

to watch.

"O Grand Satchmo, 784 springs ago, you taught us a mystical

art, that of warding off Grand Manitou's horrifying wrath. Today

I shall act just as you did. First, you did go into a dark wigwam.

You did put down a pouch, unhitch it and draw out a black

tomahawk. Now, on an oval rug, you did lay out six stalks of

buffalo grass, as black as night from a touch of a tarbrush, four

tiny clay pots, out of which you took a light sprinkling of tobacco,

a strip of touchwood and a long, hollow roll of piping. Now,

you did undo a truss of arrows, which was lying diagonally aslant

your rug, honing arrow against arrow until its point was as sharp

as a dart's. Now you did swap your clothing for a pair of buck-

skins and carry out your ablutions. At which, squatting not far

from your rug, a profound tranquillity now filling your soul, you

found that you could pacify Grand Manitou with soothing

words: O Grand Manitou, thou art blind, but thou know'st all

that is to know. I know thy might - as do both hippopotamus

and tapir, gnu and urial, falcon and Vizsla, duckbill platypus and

wapiti, cougar and xiphidon, bison and yak, low-flying albatross

and furry African zorilla with its skin that, curiously, has no

flavour. Today, with my companions, I am about to go forth in

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my turn - go forth to absorb an occult and now, alas, outworn

fount of wisdom, to construct, in my skin and in my soul, that

original cry out of which our clans will spring full grown. Grand

Manitou, O archaic Artisan, mount guard, today and always!"

121

10

In which an umbilical ruby avails a bastard's

anglicisation

Falling on all fours, arms stiffly akimbo, brow touching floor,

Squaw abruptly jumps up again and spins round and round and

round.

"Voila," says Olga. "That was Squaw's invocation. Our mission

has found favour with Grand Manitou. Now to find out what

this 'Zahir' is all about."

In Masulipatam (Squaw starts) Zahir was a jaguar; in Java, in

a Surakarta hospital, it was an albino fakir at whom that city's

population had had fun casting rocks; in Shiraz it was an octant

which Ibnadir Shah had thrown into Iran's tidal flow; in a prison

in Istanbul it was a compass found in a pariah's rags, a pariah

whom Oswald Carl von Slatim had thought to touch for good

luck; in Abdou Abdallah's Alhambra in Granada it was, according

to Zotanburg, a stratum of onyx in a moulding; in Hammam-

Lif's Casbah, it was lying in a pit; in Bahia Bianca it was a tiny

notch on a coin.

To know about Zahir, you must apply your mind to an imposing

doorstop of a book that Iulius Barlach brought out, in Danzig,

just as Otto von Bismarck's Kulturkampf was at last drawing to its

conclusion, a book containing a mass of information, including

Arthur Philip Taylor's introductory study in its original manu-

script. Faith in Zahir was born in Islam as Austria's war with its

Ottoman antagonists was winding down. "Zahir", in vulgar

Arabic slang, stood for "limpid" or "distinct"; it was also said 1 2 2

that Muslims had as many as 26 ways of praising Allah - notably,

naming him "Zahir".

At first sight a Zahir looks normal, almost banal: a slightly

wan individual, possibly, or a common, humdrum thing such as

a rock, a doubloon, a wasp or a clock dial. But, in any form it

adopts, it has a truly horrifying impact: who looks upon a Zahir

will not again know Nirvana, blissful oblivion, and will turn into

a haggard raving lunatic.

Alluding first to Zahirs was a fakir from Ispahan, who told

how, many, many moons ago, in a souk in Shiraz, a brass octant

was found "of such craftsmanship that it cast an undying charm

on anybody who saw it". As for Arthur Philip Taylor's long and

thorough monograph, it informs us that, at Bhuj, in a suburb of

Hydarabad, its author was taught a curious local saying, "Having

known a Jaguar .. .", which, if it should apply to an individual,

stood for madman or saint. Taylor was told, too, that Zahir is

common to all kinds of civilisation; in a distant and idolatrous

past, it was a talisman, Yauq; but also a visionary from Irraouaddi

sporting a crown of lapis lazuli and a mask spun out of a

ribbon of gold. Taylor also said: nobody can wholly fathom

Allah.

In Azincourt Zahir was an ovoid crystal of opaloid corundum,

as tiny as a lotus, with a trio of distinct markings on it: on top

a stamp akin to an Astaroth's 3-digit hand; at its midway point

a horizontal 8, traditionally signifying Infinity; at bottom an arc

gaping slighdy ajar, so to say, and finishing in a short, fairly

straight inward strip.

Accompanying Zahir's apparition was a disturbing fact (says

Squaw, continuing). On a spring morning (28 April) a man rang

at our door - squat, swarthy, a bit of a thug, in a whitish grubby

smock, which was, if you want my opinion, a sum total of his

clothing.

"I bin walking all day long," was what this insalubrious indi-

vidual said first. "I'm hungry and thirsty."

1 2 3

"Fuck off, you sonofabitch!" said I, as, frankly, I didn't know

him from Adam.

For an instant all I got from him was a long, hard, hurt look.

Abrupdy, though, as I was about to pick up a club to brain him

with:

"No. I brought a . . . a gift for Clifford."

"What sort of gift?"

"I'm not saying - it's for him to find out, not for you to know."

"Okay, okay," I said, playing it cool, "walk this way. I'll find

out if Mr Clifford's willing to talk to you."

I took him towards a small drawing room in which Augustus

was just finishing his lunch with a satsuma and a slab of Stilton.

"Who is it, Squaw?"

"A vagrant - wants a word - has a sort of gift: for you."

"A gift? Is it anybody I know?"

"I doubt it."

"A ruffian, would you say?"

"No, just a down-and-out."

"Knows who I am?"

"Uh huh."

"All right. Show him in."

As I was announcing him, our visitor was standing half in and

half out, hopping from foot to foot, scrutinising Augustus with

an air that wasn't so much uncivil as almost aghast.

"Augustus B. Clifford?"

'That's right. And might I know who . . . ?"

"I'm nobody at all, not having had any baptism in my infancy.

But I do admit to an alias - an alias that'll charm you, I think,

though you may find it just a tad oudandish: Tryphiodorus. What

do you think of that?"

"Tryphiodorus? It's . . . most original," said Augustus, not

knowing what this was all about.

"Thank you kindly, sir. Now," said Tryphiodorus, calmly going

on as if nothing was untoward, "four days ago, in Arras, a cardinal

- with a blush on his fat mug, I must say, as crimson as his cloak

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- said that I should 'go instantly to Augustus B. Clifford at

Azincourt and inform him that a son of his was in our city's

public hospital, wailing away as if h i s - ' "

"A son!" Augustus cut him short, almost falling down on his

rump (his bottom, his buttocks, his bum, his ass or his BT - call

it what you will). "But, for crying out loud, who brought him

in?"

"Alas!" was Tryphiodorus's sigh. "His mama was also dying

whilst giving birth to him, a poor, totally unknown woman. But

a solicitor's affidavit was found in a handbag-"

"A
handbag!"

"That's right. With confirmation that this (urn, how shall I put

it?) this fruit of a transitory affair uniting on a night of passion,

8 months ago, at Saint-Agil, Augustus B. Clifford and his mama,

was officially your son."

"What's . . . what's that you say?" Augustus was practically

choking. "A night of passion? But I . . . I insist . . . it's . . . not

. . . not a word of truth in that farrago!"

"Shut up!" said a now intimidating Tryphiodorus, "and look

at this court ruling, instructing you, ipso facto, to bring up your

child."

"A bastard!" was all Augustus could cry.

"But also a Brit," said Tryphiodorus.

Although his initial instinct was to consult his solicitor, Tryphiod-

orus was so insistant that Augustus finally took off for Arras,

compliant if still dubious. In Arras's hospital a plump, rubicund

matron put in his grudging arms a baby clad in a cotton outfit

that was a bit too big for his tiny body. So, making a trip that

would occur again in 20 springs, almost without distinction,

saving that his load would consist not of a baby in swaddling

but a body in a shroud, Augustus sat his offspring down in

his Hispano-Suiza sports car and, driving all night, was back in

Azincourt by dawn.

Starting up at a furious knocking on our door, I ran downstairs

125

to unlock it. Augustus, carrying his child in his arms, was hopping

mad, an ugly rictus distorting his lips, a wild, spasmatic tic caus-

ing his chin to twitch up and down.

"I'll kill him, I'll kill him!" - that was his shrill cry. Why, my

blood ran cold!

"This way, Squaw," Augustus said, briskly now, striding into

his drawing room, brutally hurling his poor, worn-out infant on

to a billiard board, drawing off his swaddling garb, picking up

a poniard and approaching his victim, as Abraham to his son

Isaac, his arm high and fatal. I couldn't stand to watch it. But it

was just as Augustus was about to carry out this inhuman act

that an abrupt transformation was to occur in him. With a look

of profound anguish, this murmur:

"Oh! Oh!"