Dante's Inferno (8 page)

Now I must make punishment into poetry

To make the matter of the twentieth canto

Of the first chant, the one about the fallen.

Already, we had reached that spot from where

You can peer down into the pit of Al’s Bulge;

The floor, here, was sticky with tears,

And walking between the rows of books

Near Sociology and Demographics

I saw people go silent and weeping,

Like a funeral procession in our world.

When my sight descended lower on them

I saw that each was strangely distorted:

Their faces were twisted so that their chins

Rested on their backbones, and they shuffled backwards

To go forwards, gazing down at their own buttocks.

Perhaps there was a case of Freud’s – some forgotten

Hysteric whose hang-ups expressed themselves so,

But none that I’ve heard of.

Reader, if the theorists are correct, you

Need to be active in the construction of the text,

So imagine for yourself whether or not

I could keep my eyes dry, when I saw the

Human form so twisted, that weeping eyes

Streamed down to wash their own arses.

I wept, I couldn’t help myself, since having

A child I’ve gone soft like that.

I had to sit down next to one of the

Computer terminals, then Berrigan said:

‘Quit blubbing, the shades in this hole

Aren’t worth your tears, they’re mostly

Folk who were so tied up with growth charts

Or tea leaves they couldn’t see

What was happening in their own back yards.

Lift your head up, right up, see the

Seismologist for whom the earth

Split wide open while on a research trip

In Haiti. “Where you rushing off to

Doctor?” they cried, as he ran for home;

He kept running till he fell into a crevice

And into the hands of Landman, who gets them all.

See how he makes a chest of his back: because

He wished to see too far ahead he goes backwards.

And look, there’s Tiresias, the old devil,

You’ll have heard of him, he changed himself

From man to woman, altering his bits,

And later, he had to strike two serpents

Coiled together in the grass with his rod,

So that he could resume his man form.

The next one, with her back facing

Tiresias’ belly, is Mystic Meg,

She was a graduate in English at

The University of Leeds who claimed

To possess psychic powers – but she

Didn’t predict the Yorkshire Ripper.

And that one with her long red hair

Covering her breasts, and with her hairy

Parts protruding behind her, was Providence,

Who searched through many lands before

She ended up where I was born; let

Me tell you a little about her history.

After the death of her father, it’s said, she found

Herself alone and with a child in New England;

At that time single mothers were hunted down

Like witches, so she fled into the wilderness

Living for some years in the heart of a swamp

Where she dwelt amongst the Narragansett Indians,

Learning how to treat sickness with natural

Medicines, and how to tell when cold was coming.

Here her daughter secretly married a chieftain,

But they were discovered, then banished, and with the

Mother and some servants they set up a new

Settlement beyond the boundaries of the marsh,

Where the land was uncultivated and

Naked of inhabitants, declaring it a

Place of religious freedom and offering

Equal treatment to Indians and white folk.

There she stopped to practise her arts,

And there she lived

                                 till her 130th year,

When her soul took leave of the earth

And left her body vacant.

Afterwards, they built a city over her

Dead bones, and in memory of her who

First chose the place, they named it Providence.

And now, swear to me, if you ever hear

The origin of my city described otherwise,

Don’t let tall tales rob you of the truth.’

And I replied: ‘Berrigan, I don’t

Believe a word of it, you’re pulling my

Leg, aren’t you?’ And he did not reply,

But let out a loud belly laugh instead.

‘Now tell me,’ I said, ‘no joking, who

Are these shades passing us now,

Are any of them people I should know?’

‘That one,’ he said to me, ‘with the white beard

Falling down his backbone, was a climate

Scientist at UEA, who by fiddling

His data brought just science into disrepute,

You might have seen his story in the papers.

That other one, with the skinny legs,

Was an academic at Carnegie who

Predicted robots would be in every

Household by the mid-1980s.

Behind him is the man who said of rock’n’roll

In 1955: “It will be gone by June.”

And look, this wretched crowd taking up the rear,

They were all women from Essex,

Most of them guilty of nothing but owning a pet,

Tried by Matthew Hopkins for witchcraft,

Then hanged – the methods that dude used would

Raise eyebrows at Guantanamo.

The procession is endless, but come,

We need to get moving, believe me, there

Are plenty more shades for you to meet yet.

Quick, let’s jump into the paternoster

Which will take us to our next port of call.’

And then Berrigan stepped towards the lift shaft,

And when the right moment came, grabbing me, leapt.

As we reached the top of the paternoster

I saw the red sign warning us to alight –

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Berrigan,

As we lurched on, into the darkness.

When the lift reached the highest point of

Its trajectory, it began to go down once more,

And just as it did so a door appeared

Which I hadn’t noticed before. I’d scarcely

Had time to read the words
NO ENTRY
,

When Berrigan shoved me through it

Then jumped in behind,

As the paternoster continued its course:

The place we came to was strangely dark.

On the waterfront at Wivenhoe,

Just down from the Rose and Crown,

Lies a busy boatyard, where in winter

They boil the dark brown pitch to caulk their boats;

As they cannot sail, here, between pints, they toil:

Some build new boats, bending the planks into

Shape with steam, others repair old ones,

Plugging the broken boards

                                   with fibreglass,

Some hammer at the prow, some at the stern,

Some make oars, some mend the sails.

Here, too, but heated by a thermoelectric

Ring, not a camping gas, a sticky brown soup

Boiled away in an industrial-sized vat,

All smeared round the rim with sticky residue.

I peered into it, but saw nothing there,

Only the huge bubbles, which rose and fell.

I was standing there, gazing fixedly into

The soup, when Berrigan shouted: ‘Watch out!’

Then pulled me to him from where I stood.

As I turned round, I saw behind us,

Cruising along the rim, a caterer,

Winged, dressed in black. He looked scary,

Like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with,

His wings outstretched as he skimmed over the broth.

‘Now you can see,’ said Berrigan, ‘the raw

Recruits for the new Catering College.’

On one of his hunched shoulders, this one carried

A young student from the summer school.

He shouted out from above the soup: ‘Hey!

Kitchen Devils! Here’s one of Saint Zita’s

Children, you know, the exchange students from Lucca,

You shove him under while I go back for more.

They really are a bunch of Mafiosi, this lot,

They’ll do anything for a backhander,

Except their tutor, Paolo, of course – he wouldn’t

Let me touch them until I offered him

Some free luncheon vouchers.’

He flung him in, then wheeled off over the soup;

I’ve never seen a police dog move so fast,

Not even to catch a G7 protester.

The student plunged in, head first,

Then rose to the surface, waving his arms about

As he tried to come up for air.

‘No backstroke allowed in this pool!’ cried one

Of the Kitchen Devils, ‘You’re not in the

Serchio now! Unless you want to feel

Our forks, I’d stay under the surface, mate!’

Then they all jabbed him with their prongs,

Like scullery boys poking the meat into

The pot to keep it near the flame.

Berrigan said: ‘You’d better keep a low profile

And let me do the talking, otherwise

They might want to throw you into the pot –

It’s a long time since they had fresh meat.’

He left me crouching behind a pile of old

Cookbooks, as he stepped forward to talk to them.

With all the noise and ferocity of guard dogs

Rushing out on an unsuspecting rambler,

The Kitchen Devils surrounded Berrigan,

Turning against him all their crooks.

But Berrigan stood his ground, and said:

‘Hold it right there, you’re wasting your time

If you think you’re going to hook me –

Who’s in charge here? Let me have a word with them.’

They all cried: ‘Jamie, he wants you!’

At which one stepped forward from their midst.

This one had no wings and wore a checked shirt,

Saying: ‘Sorry, guv’nor, but you’ve entered

A restricted area – only

Catering students are allowed down here.’

‘Look,’ said Berrigan, losing his patience,

‘Do you really think I’d have gotten this far

Without recommendation from the top? Our trip

Has approval from the Dean, from the VC,

And we have funding from the AHRC,

What more do you want?’

At this, all his bravado collapsed,

The ladle he carried, too, fell to his feet,

And he said to the others: ‘Hands off this one!’

Now, Berrigan called me from my

Hiding place, yet as I stepped towards him,

From the movements they made, and from the

Looks on their faces, I was worried they

Would break their pact. I was reminded of

A photograph I had seen of de Valera’s

Men on the day they surrendered,

And the worried looks on their faces

As they marched past the Brits.

I drew up near to Berrigan, my guide,

Keeping a close watch on the under-chefs.

They fingered their prongs, saying:

‘Shall I give him one up the arse?’

And ‘Why don’t we show him the carvery?’

But Jamie, who spoke with my guide, turned round

And said: ‘You lot, behave! Or you’re out of here!’

Then he turned to us, saying: ‘If you’re

Trying to find your way out of the kitchens

You’re heading the wrong way – the fire exit’s blocked.

If you want to get out you’ll need to walk round

This vat of soup and go through the café.

I’m sending a few of my apprentices that way

To deliver the new menus – they can show you

The way, they won’t mess you about again,

Not after what I’ve said to them.’

At that point Jamie began to call out

Orders: ‘Right – Wings, Hogswash, over here,

Itchy, Dogbreath, put those pans down, you’re

Going with them. Mothballs, you’re in charge,

Take them to the café, along with the menus,

And don’t get lost. Curly, Frosty, Windbutt,

Pisspants, Sniveller – take a box of menus each

And careful you don’t drop them in the soup!’

Worried, I turned to Berrigan, asking:

‘Can’t we go on our own? Surely you know

The way? Don’t you see how they’re grinding

Their teeth – I’m sure they’re up to something.’

But Berrigan brushed my worries aside,

Saying: ‘Let them grind away.

They’re just doing it to frighten the students

Cooking in the soup – it’s not our worry.’

As they started off round the broth, each one

Blew a raspberry, and Jamie signalled back in kind.

I have heard the bagpipes played at the Edinburgh

Tattoo, I have heard the Orangemen blow their flutes

On the twelfth of July, I have watched

Military funerals roll by to the beat of

A drum, I have heard the hunter’s horn sounded

In Mahler’s First Symphony, a gong beat at

Dinnertime, a buzzer ring when my pizza’s ready,

But I never heard a fanfare quite as strange

As the bugling of these Kitchen Devils.

We moseyed along with the ten chefs by

Our side, we were in bad company, but

As the old saying has it: ‘With saints in

The church, with boozers in the tavern.’

As we went I kept my eyes glued to the

Soup vat, to see what the deal was in this pit.

As dolphins arch their backs leaping through the

Waves in the Bay of Biscay, as they come out

To greet the latest ferry from Portsmouth,

So now and then, to ease the pain, some student

Stuck in the broth poked his back above the surface,

Then dived under again as quick as lightning.

And as frogs sit with their muzzles poking out

Round the edge of a pond or a ditch,

So the students here gathered at the vat’s rim,

But as Mothballs drew near they dunked their heads

In the soup. One of them was a bit slower

Than the rest, just as often one frog lingers

A little longer at the pond’s edge, and I

Saw – it still makes me sick thinking about it –

Itchy, who was standing level with him,

Stick his hook into his shoulder and yank

Him out, turning him about in the air:

He looked just like the Orford Merman.

By this point I’d got their names by heart,

For I’d listened carefully when they were picked,

And listened carefully now as they called out.

‘Hey, Sniveller, dig your claws into his back

And peel the skin off him!’ some of them shouted.

And I: ‘Berrigan, if you can,

Find out who that sucker is

                   who has fallen into the hands

                                               of his adversaries.’

Berrigan strode over to the side of the vat,

Beneath where he dangled in the air,

And asked him where he was from.

‘I was born,’ he replied proudly, ‘in Gosport, Hampshire,

My father sent me to Alverstoke, I

Graduated at Trinity Hall;

Later, I became an MP, that’s where

I learned my graft: perhaps you’ve heard about

The pond feature I claimed for,

That was my finest hour, a floating duck island,

Worth nearly two grand.

Now I pay my bills by boiling in this soup.’

Then Dogbreath, who had two canines jutting

Out from his mouth, like a fox,

Let him feel how just one of them could rip the flesh:

The duck had fallen into the hands of the foxes.

Yet Mothballs grabbed him now in an armlock,

Saying: ‘Hold off now, while I have him pinned.’

Then turning to us, he added: ‘If you’ve

Any more questions, you’d better ask them quick,

Before the rest of the lads get stuck in.’

And so Berrigan, my guide, asked: ‘Do you

Know if there are any from Essex

Simmering in there beside you?’

‘From Essex?’ he replied, ‘You’ve got more than

Your fair share in here, I can tell you, you’re

Top of the league tables for grafting.

Just a moment ago, I was talking to

One of them, I wish I was still with him now,

Then I wouldn’t have these prongs to worry about.’

Then Windbutt cried out: ‘OK, we’ve waited

Long enough!” And with a meat hook he ripped

Into the muscles round his upper arm,

Tearing off a lump of flesh. Sniveller, too,

Was keen to join in the fun, taking a swing

At the MP’s legs, but now Mothballs

Wheeled round, giving them the evils.

When they’d laid off, Berrigan, my guide,

Began to question the wretch, who still gazed

At his fresh wound. ‘Who’s the one from Essex,’

He asked, ‘that you left behind in the soup?’

‘Tucker,’ he said, ‘a vicar from Basildon,

Bent as a ten-bob note – he took bribes from

Inmates at Wormwood Scrubs to put in

A good word for them. He hangs out with

The Professor, a retired maths don at

The university, notorious

For fiddling his research expenses.

Go away!
Look how he’s licking his lips!

I could tell you more, but I’m scared that one’s

About to take a slice out of me.’

But then Mothballs rounded on Curly, whose

Wild eyes showed he was about to strike,

And shouted: ‘Hands off, you old soup stirrer!’

‘If you want to see some Essex boys,’

The frightened shade resumed,

‘I can call some over,

But the Kitchen Devils will have to back off

Or they’ll be afraid to surface –

All I need do is whistle,

That’s our signal when the coast is clear.’

Pisspants let out a loud laugh and shook his head:

‘We’re not going to fall for that old chestnut, mate,’

He said, ‘we weren’t born yesterday.’

‘So you don’t fancy some Essex rump, then?’

Said the MP. ‘Enough,’ chipped in Wings,

Who couldn’t resist the challenge.

‘Call them up! But if you make a run for it,

Be warned, I’ll not come after you on legs,

But flying through the air with this meat hook!’

The Kitchen Devils all stood back from the

Vat, jumping down from the rim,

And the first to do so was Pisspants,

Who had been so against it

                                            from the start.

The MP’s sense of timing didn’t let him down –

He leapt

                                               and was gone.

The Kitchen Devils were all pissed off,

None more so than Wings

Who’d given the MP the nod,

‘Just you wait, you wanker,’ he cried,

‘I’m coming for you!’ And at that he flew

Off and dive-bombed the soup

Swinging his hook into its depths,

But there was nothing doing –

The minister had vanished in the brew.

Wings was now stuck in the vat himself

Yelling out for help. Frosty, who was nearest,

Just laughed, and rather than offer him a hand,

Poked him under with his prong, calling:

‘Come and get it! Deep-fried Devil!’

But Wings was in no mood for joking,

And with a yank on the fork had his

Companion in the soup beside him.

They began to wrestle with each other

Digging their claws into the flesh,

But quickly the heat made them separate,

‘Help!’ they cried, ‘We’re burning!’

To put an end to the sorry mess

Mothballs sent a party to the rescue:

They flew over the soup

Stretching their forks and their ladles out to

The simmering chefs, who were already

Scalded within the crust.

We slipped off while they were still at it.