Dante's Inferno (10 page)

Rejoice, Oxford, since you are so powerful

That over sea and fen you beat your wings,

And your name spreads through Hell itself.

I was shocked to find amongst the thieves,

Where those condemned for crimes against literature

Dwell, three of your alumni, a circumstance

That does you little credit.

Not content with taking over parliament

Now you wish to police literature with your

Agents and keep it safe with your unmagnanimous

Authors and their self-important posturings.

But literature is no coterie,

And if history is anything to go by,

Laureates

                                      do not last.

We quit the pit of thieves,

Zone 8 Area G, making our way

Up some scree down which we had come.

To climb back up we had to get down

On our hands and knees, pursuing our

Solitary way, for here foot without hand sped not.

Once at the top, we took a shortcut up some stairs,

And came via a devious route, past some ducks

Hunkered down in a muddy tyre track,

As in a poem by Thomas Hardy,

To the LTB, where many lost souls

Stood about conversing and smoking.

It filled me with grief, and fills me with grief

Again now, when I think back on what I saw,

And as I write I know I must not indulge

My pen, but tell it straight, as it is,

For if some bit of luck, or something better,

Has gifted me this good, I don’t want to abuse it.

As headline acts (in the season when rock

Festivals fill the farmers’ fields with litter,

And shepherds take their annual leave)

Look out into the gathering darkness

To see the flickering of lighters

Held aloft, with flames just as numerous

The chasm of Zone 8 Area H was lit up.

I was standing by the bridge, on the long

Tiled seating area, leaning over

The opaque glass screen, so far over that

If Berrigan had not held my legs I might

Have toppled below. At first I thought there

Was some chemistry experiment going

On outdoors, perhaps involving explosives,

Until I remembered chemistry had been shut down.

Berrigan, reading my thoughts, was quick to

Put me right: ‘Those are no Bunsen burners,’

He said, ‘within these moving flames are souls,

And each is burned by its own conscience.’

‘If that’s the case,’ I said, ‘then who is in that fire

Which splits in two at its tip,

Like that flame which, if Graves speaks truly,

Sprang up once from the funeral

Pyre of Oedipus’ warring sons?’

‘Within,’ said Berrigan, my guide, ‘lie the

Souls of Peter Hulme and David Musselwhite,

Suffering in anger with each other,

Over the direction the department should take.

Poetic justice makes them walk together now.

Inside the flame they lament the compromises

That let The Enlightenment course fall by the wayside,

And led languages to all but disappear.’

‘Master,’ I said, ‘if the souls within these flames

Can speak, please, can we have a word with them now?

I never quarrelled with either of these just men,

And hold them both in high esteem,

The one for his work on Columbus and

Postcolonialism, the other for his

Work on Hardy and the phantasmatic.’

‘I can understand why you’d want to speak

With these two,’ said Berrigan, ‘and I’m not

Going to stand in your way, but hold your tongue,

Let me do the talking, for I can guess

What you want to ask, and perhaps, since they

Were hispanists, they would not pay attention

To your words with the respect they showed your father.’

When the flame had come close enough for Berrigan

To call out to it, I heard him speak these words:

‘You there, two souls trapped within one flame,

Perhaps you recall my face, for I was once

A visiting professor here, many years ago,

When I took over from Robert Lowell.

If you remember me, or remember my verses,

Which still stand on the shelves of the library,

Then speak to me now, and tell me, if there

Was ever a time when one of you, sailing the

High seas of scholarship, bit off more than you could chew.’

When Berrigan had finished speaking the

Greater horn of the ancient flame began

To shake itself, murmuring, just like a flame

That struggles with the wind, then, flickering

At the top, as if it were the tongue that spoke,

Threw out a quiet voice, and said:

‘When I’d done my third stint as HoD,

A job that by then I could do in my sleep,

I set my sights on loftier goals.

Neither the thought of retirement in the

Yorkshire Dales, nor the debt of love that I

Owed Susan, could quench my thirst for knowledge.

The British Academy had launched a new funding

Round, aimed exclusively at those with a

Good track record, encouraging A-list scholars

To break new ground, going beyond the

Merely interdisciplinary to develop

New synergies between the disciplines.

Our project was bold, and stretched the available

Expertise of a department already

Weakened by maternity leaves, retirement,

Cuts, and the relentless expansion of

Creative Writing – but its combination

Of rigour and flair gave it a sporting chance.

We called it Project Darwin, and its aim,

Put crudely, was to retrace the voyage

Of the
Beagle
from the Cape Verde Islands

To Mauritius, with a team of experts,

And developing talent, from a range of

Disciplines: Biological Sciences were central

As was the Centre for Latin American Studies,

But the crew included travel writers,

Historiographers, cartographers,

Representatives from Myth Studies,

Art History and Philosophy, and colleagues

Working in the History of Science.

Inevitably, with restrictions on

Humanities funding tightening by the hour,

Our bid failed – the cruiser alone would have cost

An estimated £6,000,000 – but

We didn’t abandon our idea altogether.

Cutting our losses, we borrowed the VC’s yacht,

And I set sail with a group of colleagues,

Not many, who had not deserted me.

We could see the shore until we passed Tenerife,

Then we struck out from the Cape Verde islands,

Leaving all land far behind us, for days on end,

Till at last we sighted Bahia, where we took on

Fresh provisions. From here we stuck to the coast,

Leaving Rio de Janeiro and Montevideo

Behind us. We were old and tired academics,

Not used to the rolling of the ocean.

“Colleagues,” I said, “you’ve sat through departmental

Meetings nearly as long as this voyage,

And much duller; but if you’re short of things to do

This is as good a moment as any to check

Your Course Material Repositories.

And as we near our goal, don’t forget why we came here,

You’re Essex men and women, not sea dogs,

And you’re here to pursue paths of excellence and knowledge.

The next RAE is only round the corner,

And for the humanities it’s time to sink or swim.”

I could not have known how prophetic my words were to be.

As we rounded the cape a tempest rose from the west

Striking the fore-part of our yacht. Three times it made

Her whirl round, at the fourth it made the stern rise up,

And the bow sink down, till the sea closed above us.’

By now the flame was straight and still,

It spoke no more and began to drift away

From us, with sanction from Berrigan,

When another, that came behind it,

Drew our attention to its tip

With the strangled sounds that issued from it.

As a torture victim, shut in the romper room,

Will let out cries of pain as the Prods

Set about their sectarian DIY,

But because his mouth is strapped with

Insulation tape, the voice remains muffled,

So the dismal words here seemed eaten up by the flame.

Yet just as the voice will grow clear when the tape

Is ripped off, so now the words, having found

Their way to the tip of the flame,

Which gave them outlet like a tongue,

Became audible, and we heard it say:

‘Did I hear you talking in the voices

Of the living? If so, and if you

Have recently descended from the sweet air above,

Tell me, is Northern Ireland at war or at peace?

For I was once curate at Cullion,

Near the village of Desertmartin.’

I was still leaning forwards, trying to tune in

To his wavelength, when Berrigan touched me

On the shoulder and said to me:

‘You speak to him. He is of your land.’

And I, who was unprepared for my speech,

Leant further still towards the burning flame,

And said: ‘Spirit, flickering below in the pit

Of flames, the land of which you speak is not,

And never was, without war in the hearts

Of its zealots and paramilitaries,

But since the Good Friday Agreement

The guns have quietened down,

There is no open conflict as I speak.

Yet in much the situation has not changed.

Rogue IRA units still assassinate

Catholics in the RUC and plant car bombs,

And only recently the Queen’s visit

Was threatened by a bigot in a balaclava

At the 1916 Memorial

At Cregan cemetery in Londonderry.

And every year on the twelfth of July

The battle lines are drawn up fresh.

Today the city on the Lagan lies as ever

Between tyranny and freedom,

As it lies between the mountain and the sea.

And now I ask you to tell me who you are,

And to speak as freely as I’ve spoken to you,

So may your name on earth keep its flame burning.’

It flickered a while

Shifting the sharp point to and fro

And then blew out these words:

‘If I thought for a moment I was talking to

A fellow who might return to the world

This flame would shake no more;

But if what I’ve heard is true, nobody

Has ever returned alive from this depth,

So without fear of infamy I answer thee.

I was a Republican and a priest,

Believing that the dog collar was the perfect

Cover for my misdemeanours:

And, to be sure, I was right enough,

Till that interfering High Priest showed up,

May his soul be damned!

Let me tell you exactly what happened.

While I still wore the bones and the flesh that

My mother gave me, my deeds were not those

Of the lion, but of the fox.

I was a dab hand at the fundraiser,

Bingo, dances, gymkhana, you name it,

I even set up a wee radio link now and then

So those who weren’t there could still be part of it.

When the event was over, I’d tip off the boys,

And they’d make off with a fair share of the loot.

We were robbed so many times at these events,

That rumours began to circulate,

People started to say things, but

There was nothing anyone could prove.

Nonetheless, I thought the time had come,

As it comes for every man, to tighten

The rigs and pull down the sails, but little

Did I know what lay round the corner.

It was then I was approached by the High Priest.

The ceasefire had broken down, and he wanted

Something to take the heat off the fighting in Derry,

The dog collar I wore was of no concern.

As Constantine once sent for Sylvester

To cure his leprosy, so this one implored me.

“What do you want from me?” I asked him,

Looking him in the eye. He shifted in his seat

A little, then said: “We need someone to

Deliver a few packages to Claudy.”

I knew what he meant, straight away, and I

Gave him a look as if to say you must be mad.

Then he spoke again, saying: “The cause is good.

The Lord will forgive you. Afterwards, we

Can find a parish for you in the Republic.”

Eventually, when his arguments had

Pushed me to the point where silence seemed

No longer to be an option, I said: “I’ll do it,

But I don’t want any dead.”

It was around ten o’clock that we planted

The bombs, the place was busy with shoppers.

When we’d made our getaway, we stopped in

Feeny to make a call, but the phone box

Was out of order. We went on to Dungiven

And tried again in the shops, but it was

The same story, all the phones were out

Following an attack at the exchange.

The men told the shop assistants to warn

The police, but by now it was too late.

The bombs exploded, causing total carnage,

Leaving nine dead, Protestants and Catholics alike.

It was a day that haunted me for as long

As I lived, there was no peace for me after that,

Even across the border this horrible

Affair hung over me like a black cloud.

When the time came for me to meet my maker

I made confession to Father Liam,

I wanted to go to the grave with a clear conscience.

I was hoping to go to the other place

But the moment I died I was whisked down here,

Todd Landman greeted me with a knowing smile

And consigned me to this pit of flames forever.’

When his words had ended, the flame,

In sorrow, departed, writhing

And tossing its sharp horn.

We passed on, Berrigan and I,

Making tracks for Zone 8, Area I,

Where the bridge crosses the pit in which those

Who have sown discord pay Hell’s tariff.