Imago Bird (13 page)

‘Well then when the time came to leave the pub or club—do you think this is unbearable? or do you think this was the sort of thing that was happening in the Tower of Babel before God sent languages?—when the time came for us to leave the club or pub all this happened again: this drama! this clash of armies! Well, isn't it better if it's funny? I mean, one of Tammy Burns' hangers-on came up to me and said would I like to go back to some house they were all going to in North London or somewhere; and he didn't say anything else I mean: nothing about Sally. And you don't think it's anything to do with my being a nephew of the Prime Minister, do you? because I don't; what would Tammy Burns do with the nephew of a Prime Minister? Except to send him an autograph, perhaps, if it was paid for. Well anyway. There was all this happening again. And Sally Rogers had to say—Don't I come too? Because she still wasn't used to this. The spook stuff. Though she was quite a star herself I suppose. Or do you think in heterosexual things you can't wait: you have to talk: you have to have food for your baby? What do I mean by this? You can't talk music. Well anyway, where was I: outside that club or pub. What do you think I meant by getting food; and not being able to talk music?'

Dr Anders said nothing.

I said—‘Well, I was a bit fed up by this time. And a bit drunk too I suppose. So I thought—What if I do something sensational! like speak to Tammy Burns! a move in a chess game that has never been thought of before! except once by Capablanca in 1920. So I went up to Tammy Burns and said “Can Sally come too?” As if I were snatching the stick out of that Zen master's hand and giving him a whack with it—'

I thought—Is it this that I will one day have to do with Dr Anders?

I said—‘So Sally and I got into his car, it was an enormous car, like you think those sort of people cannot really have but do, a car with darkened windows and little fold-out seats and we were all piled on top of each other as if we were in a telephone box; there were so many people there to stop people touching Tammy Burns; and I was on one of the little seats in the middle facing front with Sally on my knees; and Tammy Burns was behind me. And someone began stroking my hair. I suppose it was Tammy Burns. And Sally was putting my hand on her breast. All such powerful people! And I thought—But what have I to protect myself against: this is the opposite of stammering—'

I felt the white light coming down again across my heart, my mind.

There was Dr Anders' bookcase, her frieze, the spire beyond her window.

I said—‘Well anyway, we got to this house, I don't know whose, an enormous house in North London: with sort of Moorish architecture, you know, with tiles and things like a lavatory. Or a brothel. I mean I suppose like a brothel; in some film about the eighteen-nineties in Paris or Munich. Well anyway. And in fact there was a film going on in the house all the time: along one wall in the sitting-room: like a gigantic cinema screen; for all these people who don't speak much, who have to have images, who try to turn themselves into things. And people weren't paying much attention to the film; were even occasionally moving to and fro in front of it—'

I thought suddenly—Like Plato's cave?

Then—I must remember this.

I said'—And all the people, in the half dark, sitting about, were Tammy Burns' henchmen; and they were like primitive cave-men, yes; with this projection of their unconscious. And the film they were watching, or not watching, was a pornographic film: it went on all the time: it was in the background of their minds: but by showing it on the wall did they recognise this; did they make it any better? It was one of those films, you know, of huge arseholes and cunts and penises: boring away all the time: in the half dark, with people watching and not watching it: half moving about in front of it: like life: or was it? People just getting up to fetch drinks and snacks and things: and then settling down again: all these things in their minds, but because it was on the wall could they turn away from it? Get it out Get it out. But it had also half killed them. They were sitting around, as I sometimes do, listening to—what—music?'

I thought—For God's sake, what is it I have against music?

I said ‘Or like gas that comes in through little pipes in the ceiling—'

I thought—Oh come on, you can think and talk like music!

I said—‘Well anyway, Sally Rogers had sat down with a few others facing the wall. Do you think this was like Plato's cave? Watching breasts and cunts and penises? In their unconscious? But then, what was the reality, and the sun, outside. I went into a sort of alcove. I mean it was three o'clock in the morning. We were in this house in North London. With all this stuff on the wall And I did not really want to look at it. But also of course I did. We do have these memories. But there was this alcove, with a fountain and lights; as if I could be a sort of Narcissus. I mean, I wanted to find out something about myself: about survival. In this difficult world To live in it, with it; not to be beaten. By all this lunacy. Do you know those old plays where there are a courtyard and a fountain and a loggia? And a tree. And a moon. I mean this was a sort of stock stage-set. For people to remember things by. Remember what they really were, and not be beaten. So I thought—I will sit here and then perhaps something will happen against this other backdrop of my mind: such as a girl with long hair letting it down like a rope
from a balcony; or that bird which came into a courtyard sliding on a shaft of sunlight —'

I thought—Why do I say it cannot be talked about?

Dr Anders made a small sound as if she might be snoring.

I said—‘Well, Tammy Burns came into the alcove. I was sitting on the parapet of the fountain looking down into the water. Or rather, Tammy Burns didn't quite come in; he stood by the door; so that his profile was against the images projected on the wall of the sitting-room behind. All the cunts and arseholes and penises. And children, you know: dear God, this is not easy! Nor are wars, revolutions. Tammy Burns stood there with his back against the pillar: as if he were part of the stage-set: his profile cutting into the stuff on the wall behind: framing it: as if, by moving, he might appear to make it move; like a train being left by a station. And I thought I could say to him—Listen, what is it that you know? I mean, in that grotto: when you are like the Virgin Mary? And he came and sat beside me on the parapet of the fountain. He said “What do you want to do?” I said “Make a film.” He said “What sort of film?” I said “One that will be a sort of frame that one might move slightly in and out of as if it were one's conscious and unconscious.” Our two faces were in the water which, if we kept still, remained quite clear. He said “How can you do that?” He put out a hand and touched the water. His face, his real face, shivered. I said “When you get down from that grotto, you should act, or dance, as if you were being made love to and were a bird.”'

After a time Dr Anders said ‘The perfect rapport.'

I thought—How vulgar!

Dr Anders said ‘Unlike you and Sally Rogers.'

I said ‘I haven't told you yet about me and Sally Rogers!'

Dr Anders put her arms on the sides of her chair—her signal that the session was nearly over.

I said ‘I haven't even told you about Aunt Mavis!'

She said ‘But you didn't stay with him.'

I said ‘No.'

I wanted to ask—What is it do you think I have been trying to tell you?

Dr Anders got up from her chair. She went to the door. She
said ‘You were more interested in the experiment.'

I thought—The experiment of whether or not anyone understands me?

Then she said ‘I thought you were going to tell me about whether your uncle's house was being bugged.'

I said ‘I can't really stay interested in all that.'

Then I thought—Can't I really not stay interested in Uncle Bill and my mother?

— All those old breasts and cunts and penises —

I said ‘You know what you once told me about the language of love—'

She said ‘What did I tell you?'

She stood with her hand on the door.

I said ‘I had been talking one day and you said—But that isn't the language of love!—and I said—What is?—and you didn't say anything for a time; and then you made your sort of cooing noise, or mewing, as if you were holding a baby.'

Dr Anders waited with her hand on the door.

I said ‘I haven't even told you about my mother.'

She said ‘You haven't even shown me your stammer.'

I thought I should go and sit in the gardens of the square where Judith Ponsonby lived: which I had been told about by Sally Rogers.

I held some sort of conversation with myself about why I wanted to sit in the square rather than to find out Judith Ponsonby's telephone number and ring her up. I said—But if you pursue people, you do not know if it's really them you want to get; you just know you want the pursuit. And I answered—But isn't it this that you were saying about homosexual rather than heterosexual love: that in the latter there has to be performance, and so there has to be pursuit?

The gardens of the square had railings round them and notices saying Residents Only. I climbed over the railings and I sat on a bench beside some bushes where I could observe the front door of Judith Ponsonby's house.

I said to myself—All right, if you just let things happen then it is like homosexual love because it is like loving yourself: but if you have to make things happen, which is like heterosexual love, then still, you would have to sit back sometimes and observe whether what seems to be happening is true, or how would you know that you were not chasing yourself?

Judith Ponsonby's door had white pillars and a portico. I was uneasy about her living in such a grand house. I thought—But is not all loving the hope of starting from, then going on from, where one is oneself?

There were children playing on the grass. They had foreign girls as nursemaids. The girls were like hens waiting to peck at the children and then deposit them on the ground again like shit.

I was not really waiting for Judith Ponsonby: I was waiting to see whether or not she would come out. In fact, if she came
out, would I hide in the bushes?

I thought—I am like a body frightened of being taken over by a visitor from Andromeda.

I was suddenly not even sure if I had got the right house. I had not made a note of what Sally Rogers had said. But then—Did this matter, if what I was interested in was not Judith Ponsonby, but seeing whether or not she came out?

The nursemaids were gobbling amongst themselves like turkeys. From time to time they would make a dash at the children, as if to pick off bits of fluff for their nests.

I thought I should try to write something in my notebook. There was a mystery here about these images of hens and turkeys, for I imagined birds to be symbols of something divine.

I found a blank page in my notebook. I blew on it.

After a time a man's voice said ‘Are you a resident?'

I said ‘No.'

‘Get off then.'

The man wore thick boots like torn-up tree stumps.

I wondered if I should say—I'm MI5.

What I had written in my notebook was—The person one loves should be involved in the same experiment.

‘Did you hear what I said?'

I said ‘I'm MI5.'

The man was wearing a peaked cap. He had a thin face and a small moustache like Hitler.

I had thought—Birds peck at the mind; for good or bad; the experiment would be to find when good or bad could equally be useful.

I said ‘I'm waiting for someone.'

He said ‘Who.'

I said ‘Judith Ponsonby.'

I wanted to write down—With someone one loved, one could watch life hand in hand, and good and bad would be like a culture growing.

He said ‘Where does she live?'

‘Number 18.'

‘She doesn't live at number 18.'

I had a terrible urge to pick the man up and throw him into the bushes.

He put his hand into his breast pocket

I thought—In films, would he be going to pull out a pistol?

I was afraid I was losing what I had been about to write down.

The man pulled out what looked like a police whistle.

I snatched his whistle and hurled it into the bushes.

He got down on his hands and knees to go after it.

I thought—I could put my foot against his behind and push him further in —

Then—What is this violence, that even on hands and knees there is confusion about whether he is a persecutor or a victim?

I began to walk across the grass. It was such a bright day. The nursemaids were in rows. I wondered—Is it true, that victims are people who summon violence with police whistles?

Then—Wars usually start at the end of a long summer.

I wondered if the man in the peaked cap was coming after me.

When I was out in the street—I had gone through a gate, I had not bothered to vault the railings—there was the traffic and the people on the pavement as if taken over by Andromeda. Nowadays there was no war; so placards made up stories about warfare. If one asked people what they were doing, how many would say—Staying alive?

There was a placard by a man selling newspapers which said
PM Hits Miners.

I saw Judith Ponsonby coming towards me on the pavement.

I at first did not recognise her. I had been thinking of going back to the man in the peaked cap and saying—Sorry, but it is people like you who start wars; who make other people so awful; not because you are violent, but because you are victims. But I did not think I could make him understand this.

Then there was this girl coming towards me. For a moment she was like the goddess Andromeda herself being pulled along by her sea-monster. Then I recognised Judith Ponsonby.