The Information Junkie (24 page)

*

Ah, she thought, there's my young man. She noted the short stature, the casual dress, the unruly hair; could almost see the chewed fingernails, the nicotine-stained teeth, the full lips. But he was still a hundred yards away. Why am I walking so slowly? The young man and I have words (and a vision) to share.

If we all die who will satisfy the curiosity of antiquaries, how will they know that grass took over and forests repopulated Britain? What could we build to outlast paper? (The ancients had pyramids but we've pitched our tent in a temporary desert. Plants cannot thrive in sand alone—something else is required: moisture, nourishment; for sand—and here she checked her hat—is anchor not succour...)

*

He felt that the appropriate gesture, as they met, would be to remove, or at least touch, his hat in deference. But he didn't wear one.

Suddenly people froze. A procession of black cars headed his way. On the leading car lay a single white wreath. People crossed themselves. The lady he was destined to meet bowed her head, almost mechanically. It was tempting to offer another two-fingered gesture as the cars passed but he decided not to. Who lay in the front car? What dignitaries sat stiffly in the succeeding ones? Other vehicles gave way as the front car ploughed slowly down Bruton Street like Cleopatra's barge.

Should he invert his responses and mentally doff his hat to the cortège then show Virginia two pale fingers? No: he wanted their engagement to be memorable. As the row of cars passed—still in slow motion—he watched the pedestrians reanimate and assimilate themselves into everyday life. Despite the slowness of time, Virginia got closer, but there was still some way to go before they reached the moment of embarrassment.

*

Martin's image became sharper: he was dressed more roughly than she had expected. There was about him the air of a tramp yet he looked well-fed, cared for. What will be our first words? Will he be respectful and deferential or will he, as I suspect, treat me with masculine contempt? We must speak; we will share those words. Here she pulled the hair, which fell below the line of her hat, behind her ears to ensure it didn't obscure her face. Perhaps he wouldn't be rude at all: he might be one of those rough but articulate men who gave the appearance of hostility but underneath were timorous children. Martin, Mr Amis...? How should I address him?

*

The man has just left the advertising agency J. Walter Thompson in Berkeley Square. He's done a bit of scribbling, fancies himself as an author, a
writer.
He wakes up in the morning with odd scraps in his head. Phrases he cannot yet make sense of. If I only had the time to sit down, explore.

One of these phrases is 'London Fields', but he knows there are no fields in London. Big parks, yes. Or is London Fields the name of a locale? Possibly one that used to be a field. Like the borough of Hackney where work horses were grazed.

But London Fields produces a yearning inside him. It recalls a simpler age before the recording of time. When pumas prowled Piccadilly, tigers roamed the Strand and mammoths pastured in Berkeley Square. He seems to want to go backwards and forwards simultaneously.

*

She knew she had only one subject. Death. Knew it too well, and that it would never leave her. Death was intertwined exhilaratingly with life. The stronger the sun—and the sun had become much stronger lately—only seemed to potentiate that. And it was death that she thought about as she retraced her steps down Bond Street and Bruton Street.

Time, too. Death and time. Days were filled up with hours. The Hours. And the preparation will take place in those hours. There'll be death, too; and madness. Nightingales singing, in Latin, in Berkeley Square.

*

They were now only fifty yards apart and approaching the moment of confrontation: the false looks down at the pavement, the feigned surprise. But moving was like wading through treacle. Despite the slower speed, all the twenty-first-century pilgrims looked frantic.

There was a frozen instant. Everyone—apart from the man and woman—stopped. As if all passers-by were mentally anaesthetised. Now the two could no longer ignore each other. He smiled and studied the pavement; she continued to look ahead.

When the moment came it was almost an anticlimax: they shook hands in a polite way. He wanted to say something like, I've waited a long time to speak with you; she to say, So you're to be the new big cheese. Instead, he said: 'I'm rarely at a loss for words.' She: 'I always struggle.'

From high above came a sound, muted like a distant jet. Both looked up to see the silver speck in the sky. It stopped. They watched its multicoloured display: a cascade of malevolence and atrocious beauty. There was a fraction of a second to look back down at one another before the secondary discharge wiped their image, along with that of pedestrians and motor cars. Simultaneously, the leaves in Berkeley Square ignited before the railings were ripped out then spun by a force beyond imagination.

London is a grass-grown path.

PART SEVEN

Confabulations of a Crimson Fish

 In the Desert, even more than upon the ocean, there is present death: hardship is there, and piracies, and shipwreck, solitary, not in crowds, where, as the Persians say, ‘Death is a festival’; − and this sense of danger, never absent, invests the scene of travel with an interest not its own.

—Sir Richard Francis Burton (1821–1890),

English explorer and translator

*

Anyway this naturally is one of the black celtic melancholy days. I see nothing ahead of me but a long grey waste. This afternoon I may see a little colour in the desert and tomorrow perhaps even an oasis. But at the moment I am in despair.

—Richard Burton (1925–1984), actor,

stage name of Richard Walter Jenkins,

'The Notebooks'

31

So, it's clear that Virginia and the Woolf cub pack will not guide me through the last three parts, the final third of the ascent of Mount Peculiar. Nor Martin. And I'd told Burgess he'd had his time. Where, then, is my new Sherpa?

It'll come. Just wait...it'll come. It's lunch time now. Perhaps after that. And you, yes
you
, will be the first to know. Mm? Oh, it's a cheese and pickle sandwich. And a banana. Luv ya!

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Nice lunch and a walk near Devil's Dyke. Yes, I did, thank you. And you...? Good. Now, then: change and development.

There has been a change, hasn't there? The distinction between me (Rod) and Charlie has become clearer; but also our differences seem to be less. Yet Charlie has a worry that Belinda's been unfaithful, with either Martin or Anthony.

Martin we now appear rid of to have got and Anthony where he belongs back's. Rearrange those words to reveal a well-known phrase or saying. (That's my homage to Anthony B's tortuous word-order. Yes: I know: it's
not
a well-known phrase or saying.) So, does it matter? Yes: to Charlie. He's insecure. Sometimes more like an infant, or boy, than a middle-aged man. That's something for Charlie to explore.

By the way, we're now about fifty-three thousand words in, and counting. And still no sign of my new guide. It'll come. Always does. In its own time................................................

Richard. Richard Burton...? Surely not.

'I should like,' said Rich, 'to have been a writer. Or scholar. I've looked through your manuscript, Roderick, and it's obscure, to say the least.' Adored his voice: it exhilarated me, promised something beyond words.

'Roderick!' snarled Elizabeth Taylor. 'My husband does
not
give free script assessments. He's one of—possibly
the
—greatest actor of his generation. He is NOT a publisher's reader.' Richard, smoking, turned to her, smiled slightly—secure in his own eyes and enjoying her performance, giving her a look of adoration—awe almost—but letting her continue.

Her eyes flashed thrillingly as she threw the MS to the floor. Richard was young again. Plentiful hair, knowledgeable eyes, and the instrument—his voice, his greatest talent—resonating off all four walls.

Richard, then...? No, I don't think so. Best place him in the desert with MM, JFK, Elvis, Gable, Lawrence T.E., Mitch Maverick, V. Woolf, Orwell, Jimmy Dean, BSJ. All condemned to tramp the wastes.

Come on, whoever you are. I'm lost and need you. Amber...? Could she guide me? An engineer—no. It's an archaeologist I need. And not an obvious one. T. S. Eliot? Ooh, no. Will Self? Ah, Will, is it yourself? Will Self: sounds like a self-help manual.
Will Yourself: The Power of Positive Thinking
. Or:
Will Self?
Banish Self-Doubt.
Or:
Will Self? Doubt as an Instrument of Healing.
Or:
Nietzsche: Will and the Übermensch, Ego and Self.
Or:
Will you Stop that Row
by Mrs Self.
Our will became the servant to defect—you just can't get the staff these days.
You could go on for ever, couldn't you? If you had the will. (Yourself.) Or Will. And how's yourself? Well, Will, I think we've done that to death.

If not Will, then who? Perhaps Billy the Shaved Spear. Wonder how he'd talk? In iambic pentameters, presumably.

Will.
Fair Rod, thy manuscript has good and bad;

In truth an unlikely book it would make.

Better be wise and lose this script; and glad

To stay indoors a while to bake a cake.

Rod.
Thy folios, examples to us all,

Bear pregnant fruit like Covent Garden's stalls.

In London's squares or Stratford's streets thy words

On people's mouths, in people's ears, do live;

A guide for ev'ry man and eager lad

Who wants himself to write earth-shatt'ring work:

Pearled exemplars of native modes of speech

Sorry, folks, I can't keep that up, I couldn't maintain that for (another) thirty-thousand words. It won't be him. Yes...that's my last testament to Will.

Still waiting for the new guide, a fresh shadow, an original other. William Shaved Tear would have been fun. I don't know, however, if he could have stayed the distance.

While we're waiting, a few words about weeds and art. It has been said that any unwanted plant in any position is a weed. I think that's a lazy definition. We talked about this before and I gave you a bibliography. Look at this:

Q: What is art?

A: Anything inside an art gallery.

These lazy types would display a dog turd and call it art. So if I broke wind in a gallery could I call it fart?

*

'Roderick,' said Burton, taking me to one side, 'can we talk?' He offered me a cigarette which I refused. He came straight to the point. 'I always wanted to write. I'd give my time again—no, I mean I'd like my time again—to have another go.' His eyes burned.

'But you're dead,' I said. 'And there's no doubt you lived your life to the full. Both ends of the candle. And in a thunderstorm.'

'Sometimes standing in the middle of the whirlwind can be exhilarating. And still.' He waited. 'I'd like to shadow you.'

I didn't know what to call him—I never do when I meet famous people. (Do you?) Should I call him Mr Burton, or avoid the issue and not use any name, or treat him as an equal? Smiling, and seeming to guess my uncertainty, he offered: 'Call me Rich.'

I said, 'Call me poor.' No, I didn't. I said, 'Call me, madam.' No, that's not right either. I said, 'Call me, Rod.'

'I think, Rod,' he went on, 'that parts four through six, particularly with Anthony's interventions, are superior to the first three.
They'll
need revision. But the last three sections could be the thrilling best. And I'd like to be part of that.'

'I can't offer you any money, only the experience.'

'I'll get my lawyer to draw up a contract.'

'And there will be no vodka or whisky (or whiskey) or brandy. All I can offer is a
Monkey's Bum
.'

I handed him one. He drank the bottle in one go then pulled a face as if he'd tasted dishwater. 'I've swallowed stronger tap tears. Where's the kick?' He was getting the message. 'Do you smoke?'

'No, I gave that up long ago. And if you're going to help me this'll have to be a smoke-free zone.'

'Rod,' he said, 'you're becoming a bore. But I'm excited by this project.'

I wanted to know what it was like to die but thought the question might anger him. Yet, without thinking, I found myself asking.

'I suppose,' he said, 'you want to hear about the fast lights, the angels and St Peter at the gate.'

'No,' I said. 'I want the truth.'

He chuckled. 'TRUTH!? You're a sensation junkie. Up for any trip. Let's have a look at your arms.' He examined them, looked disappointed. 'How are you getting the drugs in then—up your bum?'

'No drugs, Rich. Just high on life.'

He laughed. 'We'll see. In the meantime, none of your damn cheek. We have a novel to complete.'

'What about ET?'

My question floored him for a few moments until a shadow of recognition: 'But Spielberg's already done the film.'

'No, no. You misunderstand. I meant Elizabeth.'

A wistful look came into his eyes. 'Still she affects me. I'm weak for her, my permanent one-night stand. She'll always haunt me.'

'Haunt...?'

'Oh, Rod, you innocent. And you thought only the living could be haunted...? My, have you got a thick script to study.' His smile was leering, sensitive and all-knowing.

I had a whole universe to learn. Or relearn. A whole cosmos to assimilate. When life ended, it seemed, a new experience began: death, then, was not the end, nor a continuation, but a fresh start. How, though, to account for Richard's access to cigarettes and booze? And how was his relationship with the angels? Oops! Just as quickly I remembered that they were masculine. Oh dear, heaven was beginning to look a little complicated. Not a place to lounge in deckchairs enjoying endless cloudless sun but—here Rich interrupted: