I Hear Voices (4 page)

I move casually towards the bed, having planned to get in and then burrow beneath the covers but, with sinking heart, notice that Cousin Susan is laying out my suit. Now genuine revolt stirs in me and I march to the wall beside the bed and gaze at the toffee-colored paper.

They make a great stir and chattering behind me.

“Oof—” says little Jane.

“What does it matter?” shrills Maria. “I
did
phone the laundry. Well —”

“Is that a pie collar? Is it?”

“Be quiet, Jane. Well, he’ll have to wear the blue one.”

“You didn’t draw the curtains,” I reproach her, thinking this may shame her sufficiently to win me a short reprieve. “I say you didn’t draw the curtains, either of you. You don’t know what I may have missed.” They go on squabbling over the clothes. “I’m not going out,” I urge flatly.

“Oh yes you are.” I hear the rough but somehow amiable voice of Maria, but I am cross with her too.

“Is he going out?” asks the beastly, insensate sprout, glair dribble depending from her nose. “Is he going out? Is he going out?”

Mechanically Cousin Susan threatens.

“You’ll go out in a minute!”

“You could stifle her,” I say, but this does not produce a
happy effect. Little Jane looks frightened and grows silent, watching me and sucking her thumb. Cousin Susan begins, “We could stifle—” but something makes her reluctant to
continue
and she shoos Jane from the room and goes on sorting clothes. But I realize that she will be ashamed and unrelenting later on and I tap triumphantly on the parchment. Now that I have attained the upper hand I do not want to be too exacting. I turn round and study them closely.

“I could escape at any moment,” I announce coolly. They affect not to hear me but my knowledge of psychology and acoustics brings an ironic smile to my lips. I go closer and snap Maria’s apron elastic, at which she whirls furiously, but I mimic consternation and draw back to the wall again. “I could give you meanings,” I boast, but the situation is already fading. “Maria? Would you like to sniff an ancient rose?”

“I have work to do,” she replies but, although she is always busy and practical and quite immersed in the demands that daily living makes on capable females, she finds time to dart me a look of such intense longing that her face is twisted by it into an ugly and disquieting shape. Another challenge. I have no ancient roses nor can one ever breathe them. I have no hands for Maria. I do not know her bridge. I do not know where she came from, although there are rumors that she married an Italian. I do not know what happened to her husband nor to any children she may have borne him, nor to her hats and underwear. There were reports of war. There were far reports and others that leapt from brain to brain so that the sunset was pricked with doubt and signaled a spectrum of confused
acknowledgement.
There were men like moles whose antennae quivered. There were men like wheels and trumpets like men. They say one dropped in a wheatfield and others were dispersed amongst the million rays and vital nodes of things.

“Have you finished?” I ask them. “Have you finished that
futile business?”

But they do not hear me. I might just as well be in bed dreaming of them or waiting for them to arrive.

“You
were
in a desolate state,” says Maria with sudden
feeling.
She leaves Cousin Susan and, her fingers still unraveling some tangled threads, moves towards me expectantly. “What was the nature of your depression?”

“Well,” I begin and, anxious not to lose the opportunity, I try to find a simple and convincing explanation for her. “I had met with some reverses. You’ve heard Arthur speak of
increments
and annuities?”

“I never listen to that slab,” she retorts scornfully and,
although
I am forced to condemn this disrespectful remark, I can not help feeling strangely cheered by her manner.

“It’s not really germane in any case,” I point out. “Look, Maria, perhaps you’d care to accompany me? I have some calls to make and I could give you fuller details on the way.”

Maria agrees. She goes away and puts on her best clothes and, a little later, we leave the house together, little troubled by Cousin Susan who, in any case, confines her reproaches to murmuring “you’ve really no business to” and ostentatiously continuing to sort clothes.

“That was just a ruse, wasn’t it?” urges Maria as I hail a taxi and give the driver instructions.

“Yes it was,” I smile. I find the situation very satisfying. Maria is proving to be a wittier, more graceful and in every way more attractive companion than the years of merely domestic contact could have led me to expect. I look out at the
commodities
lining the road. Frequently I instruct the driver to pull up and I get out and buy some of them for Maria. I bestow all sorts of improvements on her to make her life sweeter and more like life in the bowers.

“What lovely treasures!” she exclaims, seated amidst the
profusion of opulent gifts that I have selected for her. I show her what to do with them all, explain their mechanisms or construction.

“This one is for your face,” I explain, showing her a little heart, cunningly fabricated to pump little draughts of
sweetly-scented
powder onto her cheeks. “And this one is in case you ever have charge of a large military establishment.”

The parcels and decorated boxes rustle all around us as the taxi grinds on towards the first appointment.

“Was ever a girl so fortunate!” exclaims Maria, clasping her hands. “What a splendid ruse!”

It was a ruse, of course, but I am not altogether pleased to hear her mention it again. She detects the passing cloud of displeasure on my features and instantly leans back
submissively
.

“I have everything now,” she assures me. “I know you’re a busy man and I want you to forget all about me until your appointments are over. Forget about my breasts and legs and my irresistible seductive femininity.”

I am naturally glad that she has adopted so sensible an attitude.

“I’ll nuzzle them later,” I assure her. “I’ll help you organize these treasures and luxury commodities that I’ve bought you and then you can repay me.”

As we drive on, I can not help wondering if she will be sufficiently diverted by the mediocre scenes which seem to be all that this taxi can provide.

“Are you enjoying these scenes?” I ask her.

“I accept them,” she replies. “I’m only a simple person.”

And now I see that most of them escape her in any case. They are, on the average, very poor scenes, but occasionally we pass a more general one and then I glance at Maria only to find that she has passed it over in favor of something quite particular and unimportant. Finally the taxi pulls up.

“What am I to do with you?” I murmur, involuntarily
allowing
my thoughts to escape.

“Is there a problem?” asks Maria, and I am not sure whether her innocence is genuine or assumed. “I thought you had the situation well in hand?”

“You
are
anxious to accompany me?” I explore. “I mean you wouldn’t like to take your treasures and go somewhere and wait.”

“Where could I go? I know no one in this city,” she pleads. “I gave up my job because of you—and now you want to abandon me.”

“No, I don’t—” I begin, but the taxi-driver, in a stern voice, calls out a large sum of money and begins to manifest signs of impatience. I find that I have no money, having dispensed it all on Maria’s treasures. I begin to feel miserable again and fancy I notice a certain hard light in Maria’s eyes as if she were beginning to doubt her sagacity in accompanying me. Happily, at this stage, Arthur, who must have looked out of his office window and seen our confusion, now comes hurrying from the building and efficiently organizes matters. I am also gratified to find that his natural tact and delicacy extend to pretending that his assistance is merely a polite service rendered to an honored guest and so my worth is rather enhanced than
diminished
in Maria’s eyes. Later, when Maria and her parcels have been comfortably bestowed in an attractive anteroom, Arthur and I confront each other across his desk.

“Why did you bring Maria?” he asks coldly.

Behind him and a little to the right is the window and beyond that, on the other side of the street, are some more windows behind which some office girls seem to be planning a small zoo. I can not help being fascinated by their activities at the same time as being slightly despondent at the unfriendly tone of Arthur’s voice.

“Cooperate, old chap,” he urges, in slightly more
sympathetic
tones. “I have to ask these questions. I have to find out about your state of mind and perplexities, otherwise I’ll never be able to help you.” He stands up and walks thoughtfully about the office, trying to create, I feel, an impression of responsible benevolence, like a solicitor or doctor. “Don’t watch that zoo.”

“Is it a zoo, then?” I ask.

“It’s really a mystery to me,” he confesses. “I’ve never
inquired
. It wouldn’t look right. And I’ve never asked anyone about it. It seems to be a zoo.”

He comes and stands beside my chair. I feel my shoulder tingle expectantly, thinking that he is about to clasp it in
brotherly
fashion. The pressure does not materialize, however, and we both remain still for some time watching the office girls, who have now been joined by a red, stout and bespectacled office manager, at their unusual occupation.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he says finally. “It’s all right. Don’t shake your head in that helpless fashion. I think I know. You were lonely and thought you fancied her. Isn’t that it?”

“That’s part of it, Arthur,” I nod.

“She’s sitting out there, now,” he reports, having opened the door slightly and peered out, “surrounded by those expensive treasures you bought her. But she looks restless again already. There are some magazines there that I put out for my clients in case I have to keep them waiting. But she doesn’t show any inclination to look at them. That’s revealing. That sort of
observation
is always revealing. Now she’s pulling up her stocking.”

I hastily join Arthur at the crack but, by this time, Maria has let her skirt fall again. And in any case, I now notice how familiar and unenticing she is.

“She doesn’t resemble Clara,” I remark.

“Not Clara, the gazelle,” Arthur agrees, “whose skin was drawn clearer than a frosty night. Whose body, so young and
newly-ripened, so delicate and shy, trembled like water under a breeze or sound. Her bones—I like to think of her bones, fragile, like shells.”

“Did you never speak to her?”

“I never met the girl. It was you who met her, touched her, spoke to her. I only knew her vicariously, I only saw her, as it were, reflected in the light of wonder and the words of
admiration
you brought back from your meetings with her. Her
memory
, her beauty is one of the few things I have from you. I must confess—I’m grateful for that.”

“That’s why I’m interested in that zoo.”

“That zoo? The zoo across the street? What has that to do with Clara?”

“That’s her, I think, the darker one cleaning that cage or manufacturing a cage, or reading that file or thinking of
burning
the file —”

“Is that Clara?”

Arthur moves slowly, in a dreamy way quite unlike the
harassed
efficiency of his normal business manner, to the window and gazes across the iridescent street. Songs, the stroking of oars across an immense but serene expanse of water, the
clattering
of machines, broken songs rise like herons from the street.

“I think I see,” nods Arthur. “I think I understand. Clara needed a job. She took work in that office where a man or company of men of initiative and enterprise were planning a new sort of zoo to delight the public. The project has not fared well, nor yet too badly. Although all the details of the zoo have not yet, after several years, been completed, still advance
publicity,
the results of questionnaires and polls distributed amongst the public in accordance with formulae of great
mathematical
ingenuity, the word of impartial dignitaries, editors, government officials and other influential and informed people,
all seem to augur well for the undertaking. Meanwhile, in that small third-floor office across the street, a team of personnel, amongst whom our Clara is doubtless quite insignificant and junior, have labored to complete the thousand and one
administrative
and technical tasks contingent upon introducing a new zoo into our closely-knit and intricate society. Where is the trembling maiden you lay with in the violet hollow? Where that form, that tracery of life, lovely and ethereal as the petals of the wild poppies that brushed her slender limbs as she strolled through summer meadows? Bitten, corroded by the acid fumes of our streets. Worn, coarsened by the harsh routines of our work and play, the clamorous prospects, the unceasing rattle and roar—”

“She always looked like that,” I interrupt. “She always looked chubby and rather crooked about the mouth. Her skin always had those pores. It never looked like frosty nights. No, she was never crooked about the mouth but her face was rather thin. It made her look rather stupid and obscene. And then her hair was hair, long strands issuing from tiny holes in the scalp. She had teeth and such rubbish, bowels, kidneys, liver, bladder and heart—an organized mess inside her, and she walked on a mountain ridge, high above the cloister. I can’t honestly say that girl is Clara, because Clara was entirely different, more like Maria. You see Clara had blue eyes, little concentric blue rings on the soles of her feet and through these she peered grotesquely at the answering blue of days. She had blue holes in her armpits and blue testicles. Nor would she organize zoos, not for any money. You had only to meet the girl to understand that. There was a quality of elevation, of superiority to the conventional pursuits prescribed for a young lady of her rank and education that impressed everybody who rattled her. And many rattled her. Many racketed with her and tried to report her —”