Catastrophe Practice (32 page)

Someone plucked at his sleeve.

He thought he would say — But I've said everything I wanted to say!

Then — I need not even say that.

The girl with dark hair, who was called Judith, had left the lecture theatre and had walked across the courtyard. She was followed by the boy with fair hair who was called Bert Anderson. She decided to ignore him. Then as she went into the street she feared that she had lost him. She thought she might pretend she had left something in the theatre, and go back.

She rummaged in her bag for — comb, notebook, mirror. Then he appeared. He was wearing his old jersey which hung like a cow bell. She walked on briskly. He came up beside her; jogging. They were moving along a street each side of which were grey stone buildings. He began to roll his head and mutter. He seemed to be acting as if he were tiring. Then he slowed, and looked at his hand as if it held a stop watch.

He said ‘Not bad. See if we can get it down to — what — ten — fifteen minutes?'

She said ‘What — .'

He said ‘Our quarrel.'

The crowd that had come out of the lecture hall was dispersing. The street ahead was empty. There was a blood-red sky above the rooftops. Anderson (Judith thought of him as Anderson because she did not, at that time, like the name Bert) was running beside her again, panting and staggering. Then he seemed to give up, and leaned with his head against a doorway.

She went a little way past him and stopped and turned.

He said ‘We'll get it better.'

She looked up at the pediment of the doorway above his head. There was a coat-of-arms of a man with a breastplate and a short skirt leaning on a sword like an umbrella.

Anderson said, as if declaiming, ‘Judith, Juliet, I know I don't get on with your parents! —'

She walked on. She thought — He will now do his funny walk of the drunk man with one foot in the gutter.

He called ‘— Juliet, is it because they think I've got one leg shorter than the other? —'

She stopped and leaned with her head against a lamp-post. She thought — Why doesn't he grab me: is it because I could then escape him, and he is too clever?

Anderson came up beside her and said quietly ‘Do you really have to go?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘I said I would.'

He moved slightly away. Then he raised both fists to the sky and declaimed ‘— I will have such revenge on you both — that all the world shall — I will do such things —'

She walked on. She thought — I like him because he is as strong as me? He knows I do not want to get away from him?

He came up beside her. He said ‘What does he want?'

‘To hear me. In his play.'

She thought he might say — At this time of night?

She looked up at the sun, which was settling above rooftops.

He said ‘Do you know why people go to plays? Because they get comfort from seeing old men being humiliated and tortured, like King Lear.'

She said ‘Where did you get that?'

He said ‘From the old woman I go to.'

She thought — How extraordinary to say — From the old woman I go to!

As she watched, the sun moved behind the chimneys of buildings. The sky became translucent as a stage set.

He said ‘And they like to see Judith, Juliet, being so adoring; nipping a chap's balls off.'

She said ‘Is that why you like me then?'

He said ‘Because you don't want to?'

They were coming towards a corner where the grey stone buildings gave way to a demolished area on which there were huge advertisements: there were men with guns hanging down like breasts: women with their legs apart like explosions.

She said ‘You say so exactly the same sort of things as he says!'

‘What does he say?'

‘About people liking being humiliated. About them then knowing where they are.'

‘And what does he do about it?'

‘He writes plays.'

A gang of boys were running towards them across the wasteland. They were mostly black; they wore white shirts and black trousers. They were smiling. There were blue and yellow lights as if from police cars flashing in the distance behind them. She thought — They are like fishes, being driven out of the sea.

Anderson said ‘Doesn't he try
to
make things better?'

He had taken out of his pocket what appeared to be a hand grenade. As the gang of boys approached, he pulled out the pin and held the grenade outstretched between finger and thumb. With his other hand he held his nose as if he were about to jump into water. The boys made a small detour round him. One of the boys at the back, watching Anderson, suddenly doubled up with laughter: then he acted as if he had been shot, holding his stomach. Then he went on. Anderson smiled.

Judith shouted ‘I do hate it when you do that!'

Anderson put the pin back in the grenade. He put the grenade in his pocket.

He said ‘Does he make things better?'

They walked past the wasteland towards the bridge across a river. There were the sounds of bells, and sirens, in the distance.

He said ‘You can't act goodness. You can't act intelligence, or authority, or happiness.'

She said ‘You can act —'

‘What —'

She thought — But he, the other one, would say: You can't talk about that.

They were going over the bridge across the river. The water moved sluggishly.

She said ‘Well what do you do.'

He put an arm around her.

She thought — Was that a body, or a whirlpool, going past in the river?

He said ‘Oh, if you show that you know that you are acting.—'

She thought — But that's what he says. Then — You make things better?

She put her head against Anderson's shoulder.

She thought — There is something so hard about him; like a visor.

She said ‘You show what —'

He said ‘Creation? Procreation?'

They had crossed the bridge. They were moving towards an avenue with cherry trees.

She looked up at him. She thought — The visor lets through half the light; the other half is reflected back into himself.

He stopped and let go of her. He said ‘But when you know all this —'

She thought again — What —

He said ‘How are you going to get back tonight?'

She thought — Is he, or is he not, acting?

Then — I mean, does he or does he not want me? want to stop me?

They were facing one another. They were at the edge of the avenue with cherry trees.

She thought — But what is he protecting himself against?

He said ‘Or aren't you going to get back tonight?'

She put a hand against his face, not hard, as if she were acting hitting him.

He put a hand up to his cheek He seemed to be feeling for something inside his mouth with his tongue.

He said ‘My God —!'

‘What —'

She thought — I must not laugh.

‘It's that tooth I had, filled with cyanide!'

She began to laugh. She put her head against his shoulder.

He put his hand on his heart.

He said ‘Judith! Juliet!'

‘Yes?'

He said ‘I love you.'

She said ‘I love you too.'

They walked on.

She thought — Do I, or do I not, want him to come in with me?

He said ‘It all lives such a life of its own!'

She said ‘Then let it'.

Across the entrance to the avenue they had come to was a rope, which sagged. In the middle of the rope there was a sign with a diagonal bar across it. Beyond were rows of detached houses with gardens and cherry trees.

Anderson said ‘How much did you hear of that lecture?'

She said ‘He didn't want us to hear much, did he?'

Anderson said ‘Then he's lucky.'

They had stepped over the rope. In the avenue there were houses with corrugated iron over windows. She thought — Like matchsticks across eyes.

Anderson said, as if quoting ‘— The tanks are in the streets —'

She thought — There are people dying —

She remembered how he — the other one — had said: Language is useful not for saying what things are, but for saying what things are not.

He said ‘You have to do it then?'

She said ‘I think so, don't you?'

He said ‘I mean now: you.'

They were coming towards a cross-roads. She had slowed. She took her head from his shoulder.

She said ‘Here we are.'

She thought — But of course I don't want him to come in with me.

She put her hand across her eyes. She thought — There is a fog, sometimes, in the brain, like a curtain coming down.

He said ‘Of course I can't say — What about me.'

She said ‘I'm sorry.'

He was standing slightly apart from her. He began to walk in a circle.

She said ‘Will you come in?'

A police car had appeared at the cross-roads. It had a blue light going round and flashing. There were four policemen in
the car. They sat like toys. She thought — Like those toys with spikes up their arses.

Anderson took her by the shoulders and put her with her back against a tree. Then he leaned with his arms on either side of her.

He shook his head.

She thought — Now at last he will kiss me?

The policemen were looking at them out of the window of the car. One was speaking into a walkie-talkie radio.

Anderson looked up towards the rooftops. He seemed to be observing some event there.

A door in the police car opened. A policeman got out.

She remembered, suddenly, that Anderson had in his pocket what might, or might not, be a hand grenade.

She wanted to hit him with her fists and cry — Oh fool! fool! you want to destroy yourself!

She put her face up to be kissed.

They, and the policemen, seemed to be the only people in the street. There were leaves like broken glass between them.

The policeman who had got out of the car was coming towards them. Then he stopped. He looked up at the rooftops in the direction in which Anderson was looking.

Anderson said, quietly but distinctly, ‘Go away!'

The policeman looked at Anderson.

Then the radio in the policeman's breast pocket began to make a crackling noise. He took it out and held it to his ear.

Then there was a crack in the air as if of a rifle bullet: then from far away, the report as if of a rifle.

The policeman hesitated: then began to move at a run back towards the car.

Anderson put his face down to Judith's and kissed her.

She was trying to bang her fists against his chest.

The engine of the police car roared.

She wanted to shout — You can't get away with things like that!

The policeman had clambered back in the car: the car skidded and drove away.

Anderson took his face away from hers. He said ‘That was a
lucky one!'

He looked up again to above the rooftops. There was a glow in the sky, as if part of the town were burning.

She said ‘It was nowhere near us!'

He took his arms away from her.

She walked across the pavement. She put her hand on a garden gate.

She thought — It is strange I was not frightened!

She said ‘Will you come and get me? I mean, afterwards.'

He said ‘No.'

He was still looking above the rooftops.

Beyond the gate, there was a path to a detached house on the corner.

She said ‘Why not?'

He said ‘I don't know.' Then — ‘I've got to do something about my film.'

She pushed on the garden gate and went through.

She said ‘Goodbye then.'

‘Goodbye.'

She thought — We are children: trying to build something like coral inside us —

He had turned and was walking back the way they had come.

She thought — Or in the streets outside, like a honeycomb.

The Professor stood outside the door of his flat in the corridor of a modern apartment building. He felt in his pockets for his keys. He found — wallet, pencil, wall-nails, notebook. The doors in the row were almost identical with just a different number on each. He thought — In memory there are these corridors: you search; turn away; then a door is opened for you. He felt in the lining of his jacket. Sometimes his keys fell through a hole in the pocket and hung there: he thought — Like Gandhi, his balls above the dust.

The door in front of him was being unlocked quietly. First there was a noise of a chain, then of the mortise lock, then of the Yale lock above. He thought — I will stand with my hands through my pockets and try to dominate the world. The door was being opened slowly. He had once seen Gandhi like this; his legs apart as if he were peeing.

A woman's face appeared through the crack in the doorway. She was carrying something large and round and white beside her neck. He thought — Atlas was a woman?

He said ‘I told you not to open the door!'

The round thing at the side of the woman's neck was a baby. It was facing backwards over her shoulder, wearing nappies.

The woman said ‘Are you all right?'

She turned and went ahead of him into the flat. The head of the baby came round and beamed at him. He thought — If you are the sun and moon, and I am gravity —

He said ‘Of course I'm all right!'

The Professor closed the door behind him. He put the chain back in the slot. Then he followed the woman and the baby into the sitting-room.

She said ‘I thought they might be trying to break up your
lecture.'

He said ‘They were.'

The baby stretched out its arms to him.

The Professor tickled it under the chin.

The baby said ‘Awa, awa, goo goos.'

In the sitting-room there were books on the floor, on chairs, in bookcases. Along one wall was a window that looked out on to a garden.