Imago Bird (18 page)

When I got back to Cowley Street I tried as usual to get upstairs without being seen. I seemed to be obsessed about this. I thought—Soon I must stay out for good; or I will be a bird caught by those old cats of witches.

I was caught by Mrs Washbourne on the first-floor landing. She said ‘Can I have that jersey?'

I thought I might say—It's the only one I've got.

Or—You want my cloak of invisibility too?

She said ‘You're invited to dinner.'

I said ‘Oh am I?'

Going on up the stairs I worked out—She wanted to wash my jersey.

On the second-floor landing I was caught by Aunt Mavis. She said ‘You didn't give that woman your jersey?'

In my room I sat and wondered what would happen if someone said just—I want to wash that jersey. Would there be the sound of trumpets: the walls falling down?

On the few occasions when I had had dinner with Uncle Bill and Aunt Mavis when there had been other people there I had sat halfway down the table and had managed to put off being spoken to by smiling and nodding as if I were either already playing a full part in the conversation or insane.

My father's old brown suit seemed to have grown a green mould on it. I wondered—How would one know if it were penicillin?

When I got down to the drawing-room there was a man whom I recognised as an MP who appeared on television, and another man whom Uncle Bill introduced as The Editor. This made him sound like a racing correspondent.

There were also two women who remained separate from the men, and for whom I seemed to have been brought in like
a eunuch.

One said ‘You're a friend of Sally Rogers?'

I said ‘Yes.'

She said ‘Didn't you meet Tammy Burns?'

The men had gone into a corner and were talking amongst themselves. Or rather, the two strangers were talking but not really with Uncle Bill. They looked at him from time to time; but messages did not seem quite to be getting through from Andromeda.

I thought—The suitcases under his eyes are about to burst open like wounds.

The other woman said ‘Do tell me, what's it like with Tammy Burns?'

I said ‘I think he has the most terrible contempt for people.'

She said ‘How exciting!'

I said ‘Yes I think he's sad because he knows that too.'

When we went into dinner I saw again how exhausted Uncle Bill was. The suitcases under his eyes were like baboons' arses.

The first woman said ‘Isn't he gay?'

The other woman said ‘Isn't he a bit of liquorice all sorts?'

I thought—My efforts at communication, like Uncle Bill's, have been cut off from Andromeda.

I sat beside one woman: the other sat opposite. The Editor and the television MP talked at each other across the table. They were on each side of Aunt Mavis. They were careful not to look too closely at Aunt Mavis. I thought—If she takes her teeth out and holds them up in front of her mouth, will they pretend she's eating a lobster-claw?

Then—But monks or monkeys, like myself and Uncle Bill—are they any better who do not talk at all?

I thought—Perhaps I should just watch out for what indicators or dials flicker to show whether people are still alive —

‘She was a Moslem—'

‘She was a Catholic—'

‘She can't have been—'

‘She was his mistress?'

‘She was his wife.'

The television MP was a thin, rather delicate man with red
hair. The Editor was a thickset man with spectacles.

‘Moslems don't always have two wives—'

‘Catholics don't always have one—'

‘Isn't that what I'm saying?'

‘Perhaia?'

I was trying to memorise this conversation so that I might afterwards write it down. But it was difficult to get a hold of randomness without some memory-system, or rhyme.

The woman next to me was listening with shining eyes. I thought—As if to Hector and Achilles bashing away at each other with balls and chains —

‘Who's got the money?'

‘Who's got the child—'

‘The hand that rocks the derrick—'

I did not think I could be getting this correctly.

I wondered how much I should drink. If I drank too little, I might never be able to talk again. But if I drank too much, I would not be able to talk either.

‘Do you know the story of the woman who rushed at Perhaia with a bottle?'

This was Uncle Bill. I thought—Perhaps he has got drunk, in some effort not to talk at all.

‘No?'

‘He said—I'm sorry I only drink water.'

I thought—Aunt Mavis is doing quite well, just sitting there like a tower appearing to topple over with clouds rushing past her.

The television MP said ‘You mean, the woman was going to hit him with the bottle?'

I thought that on the whole I should drink quite a lot: then, if the old Zen master came behind me with his stick I could pretend I had meant to upset the table —

There were two decanters of wine. By filling up the glasses of the people on either side of me I could manage myself to get double rations in the middle.

Then Uncle Bill said ‘Bert, here, has been hob-nobbing with the Trotskyites.'

I thought—Oh God, but have you forgotten I am the eunuch?

The television MP said ‘Oh which ones?'

The Editor said ‘Is there any difference?'

The television MP said ‘On a dark night—'

He was a rather fine-drawn man with kind eyes, and he sat with his hands under his legs and rocked backwards and forwards slightly.

I thought—He is like one of those small green parrots?

The Editor said ‘It seems to me their programme is entirely destructive.'

I thought—O Aunt Mavis, take your teeth out!

One of the women said ‘Yes I do find that depressing.'

I said ‘They've got a feeling—'

Uncle Bill's eyes were so misty they were like the pearls of that dead sea-captain.

‘A feeling?'

‘Yes —'

‘Well that's something!' This was The Editor.

There was laughter.

I thought—But you are not someone who is supposed to laugh when I stammer!

Then—Let the flood come down —

I said ‘—A feeling that things are so trivial in this society, so rotten, that what good can any programme do except be destructive? It's the sort of feeling, or the programme I suppose, that God must have had at the time of Noah.'

I thought—Bye bye to you on the land, you old fossils.

The Editor said ‘And you call that constructive?'

I said ‘Isn't God constructive?'

The Editor said ‘Let's leave God out of this.'

Uncle Bill said Tou're a Catholic!'

I said ‘Naturally.'

I got a laugh at this.

I thought—Dear God, I want to beat them, not join them.

The Editor said ‘What's wrong with this society?'

I said ‘It's not just that the wrong people have got money and power, which the Trotskyites say it is: it's that the people who do have money and power are so hopeless at doing anything except destroying themselves.'

The Editor said ‘Destroying themselves?'

I said ‘What skill it must take for reasonable people to appear so depressing!'

I wondered—Is he in fact the editor of the
Farmer and Stockbreeder?

I said ‘People in this society wouldn't know what to do with themselves if things went well. They'd just dash around till they found something horrible again.'

I was trying to remember—What was it that happened to Noah when he was drunk? One of his sons saw him naked?

The two women had gone back to their food. I thought—What does all this mean—that in survival, people are simply embarrassing?

The Editor said ‘And you think Marxists want things to go well?'

I said ‘Yes, but they don't see that things are funny too.'

The television MP said ‘Don't we?'

I said ‘Perhaps, but we don't see the other thing.'

Then Uncle Bill said ‘Bert, will you help your Aunt Mavis please?'

For some time I had half been aware of Aunt Mavis doing something like trying to pull her dress down over her wrists. This had seemed to be like making herself ready for the deluge.

I remembered how my mother and father had told me the story of how Aunt Mavis had come down one day without any clothes on to the lobby of a hotel. She had been caught by the doorman and turned round and put back into the lift.

Uncle Bill said ‘Take the ladies upstairs for a while. We'll stay and watch it down here.'

He was referring, I supposed, to the television set which had been wheeled into the dining-room from the study.

I thought—They will be hoping, as the waters rise, still to be catching glimpses of themselves?

I had stood up and was manoeuvring Aunt Mavis towards the door. She was hard and bony. I thought—Aunt Mavis, if you want to be Ophelia, you will have to learn how to swim, not just to take your clothes off —

Then—This would be a good bit of advice for the Trotskyites?

When we were out in the hall, and the two women had followed us, Aunt Mavis began to try to sit on the stairs. I lowered her, straight-backed; and she stared out over her particular desert as if she were waiting for the annual fructification by the Nile.

I thought—But there are no seasons any more in that dining-room nor in Egypt —

One of the women said ‘What do we do now?'

The other said ‘I feel like a Chinese tart.'

Aunt Mavis was like one of those temples being covered by water: her outlines being eroded that were once cut into her brain —

One of the women said ‘How's your father?'

I said ‘He's all right.'

I thought—You were one of his snakes in the long grass?

She said ‘You're very like him you know!'

I said ‘Yes.'

I thought—Poor old Mum.

The other woman said Can we get her upstairs?'

I said ‘We can try.'

I thought—At least, you went sailing away on the high seas, my mother; and you were not tied to this lot out of pity —

Through the closed door we could hear the voices of what seemed to be Uncle Bill and The Editor and the MP talking to themselves, or to each other, in the dining-room, or on television.

I thought—Will you send me a message like a genie in a bottle, my mother? And that is where I will rest on the sea, when I am an albatross, or that dove?

In the early hours of the morning I awoke in such despair that it was as if poison had been poured into my veins and I felt the best I could do was to open them and let the whole damned artificial lake out.

I was a cell, a sperm, that was being eaten by acid.

I thought—All these hopes, energies: a damp patch on the carpet.

There had been a boy at school who had tied himself to a railway line. He had put his neck on one rail and his ankles on the other and at the last minute he had tried to free himself but he could not untie his ankles and the train had run over them.

I thought—He was someone saying—For God's sake, look after me, by putting me out of my misery.

I tried to remember exactly what I had said at dinner. I had accused other people of being rotten. Whereas rottenness was now in myself. I was Aunt Mavis, waiting for someone to put their arms around me; having taken off her clothes and set fire to herself in a hotel lobby.

I thought—Of course we don't want to succeed: which is to have to adapt oneself to violent things like fire and water.

I found that I was longing for footsteps to come up the stairs: so I could throw my arms out; bury my head in any lap that would suck my blood like a vampire.

I thought—Despair is such aching for emptiness.

I had drunk too much whisky; then wine. The poison did not just happen in my veins; I had decided to pour it there.

I thought—Our unconscious is nuclear waste, leaking —

I could telephone to Dr Anders in the morning.

I could say—But I do not want to be made better! I want to become worse, to make an end of it!

I thought—Or is it the fact that I am coming out of some
protection, that I cannot bear?

Every now and then it seemed that a guillotine was coming down at the back of my head. Then my head would fly off into a bucket. As if God had played some sort of golf shot.

And my head would lie in the hole grinning up at me.

— Hullo, hullo, do you hear me?

— Can you give me a hand up —

— I mean me give you a hand up —

— My slip: my Freudian slip —

If only I had not gone to Dr Anders; then I might have remained safe in my bathroom for ever.

I want to shout—Take it away! My head! That umbilical cord at my windpipe!

But now, with my head in the bucket mouthing back at me—

— It is not simply mind that is a complexity of matter —

— It is matter that is a simplicity of mind —

I thought I should try to go downstairs and make some cocoa. It was when I became immobile that there were these miseries.

I switched the light on. There was my room with its Dr Caligari ceilings.

I had half a dozen sleeping pills which I had pinched from my father or my mother. I thought—But if I want to go out fighting —

— How does one remember, if one endures this, it will be all right?

Some time during the night I got out my small store of pornographic literature. I thought—All right, you fuckers, you furies; if there is nothing so boring as you except King Agamemnon and Queen Clytemnestra —

— Then here is the story of Oedipus and the Belgian Schoolgirls.

I wondered what it was they had done to Mr Perhaia.

Geese flew away over the Arctic: was it touch and go, they might spark off the world.

I thought—Well that's all right. I can now go down to the kitchen and make cocoa.