Authors: Paul Ableman
I slide out onto the cold, slick floor and finally look out. I draw back half the curtains. There is no clock in my room and so I have no idea what time of day I am seeing. I judge as best I can from the visions. Still, it is very dull. What mandarin wouldn’t think so? Sated with Chinese scenes, sated with
bamboo
, tigers and arches, he’d find nothing here to graze upon. Possibly the sky. But not Hunter’s old van or that villain
whistling.
And at the bottom he’d see a cinema. Inside
that
he might find a Chinese scene—with guns or planes. I’m tired of films myself. The question raises itself again—am I tired of
everything?
Lord God who floats, Lord God who appears—answer straight my question.
Tell me again what to do. I can hardly remember. I can hardly even think today. Where are the words?
Happily Arthur comes in at that moment to tell me he’s ready. Every morning he drives me into town and now, as we wind through the busy streets, he questions me, in friendly and sympathetic vein, about my mission.
“You’ve got it all fixed up, then?”
He is certainly friendly today. But shall I take it at face value? Is he
genuinely
concerned with my affairs?
He shoots me an encouraging smile.
“Well? I’m waiting to hear. I thought you wanted to talk to me. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Well—is this the place?”
“The place? It’s
a
place—as good as any I suppose. Now what’s holding you back?”
“No, of course, I want to get on with it. It’s just that—you see, Arthur, I can’t help noticing your movements.”
“My movements?”
“I’m sorry, Arthur. I do apologize but, you see, I thought you kept making movements.”
“Of course I do—
necessary
movements.”
“That’s right. That’s what they are. There’s not much doubt of that. Well, I’d better get on with it.”
“Let it go, old son. Get it out.”
“Yes, well—it’s not really as simple as it sounds.”
“I see.”
“Do you understand?”
“I’m in that area.”
“What area, Arthur?”
“The area of your thoughts, old son. I’m living with you, in the truest sense. Our single force is doubled.”
“It’s about that old lady.”
“I thought it might be.”
“Hideous old ruin. Blotchy and sodden—I noticed her pull up her stocking. Well, I had no feeling for that woman.”
“No sentiment—”
“As a matter of fact, I was anxious to know the time. I couldn’t ask her.”
“Hardly.”
“And that’s about it.”
Arthur now pulls up the car near a terrible entrance. He looks at me shrewdly, his glance intended merely to hold me in abeyance while he considers the matter.
“I’ll take you as near as I dare,” he mutters finally.
Poor Arthur. He has so much to contend with. He’s our breadwinner. He keeps trying to do the decent thing, run
errands
,
go as far as he can to meet the individual demands we all make on him. But naturally business has to come first. I know at what a sacrifice of precious time, yes and of nervous energy too, it is that he’s doing this for me. Nevertheless, I had to ask him. How could I have got there without him?
Temporarily at ease, now that I know the mission is under way, I sit comfortably back in the splendid machine and watch the passing scene. It passes rapidly, mostly brown or pinkish but some is rather rough still. Someone swoops past on our left, leaving a howl fading in our ears. A merry party severs itself from a hoop and drums towards us. I have not seen any people yet but rather an abundance of dials. Suddenly, I am forced to look at Arthur reproachfully.
“It’s on the way, old chap,” he pleads. “I don’t want to come all the way back. We’ll only be a few minutes.”
There is nothing I can do but follow him and, as I feared, the convivial affair soon engulfs us.
Our hostess sings the introductions.
“Have you met—Colonel Balder?
Very proper, very smart.
Have you met—Sally Punter?
She’s a dear.
Have you met Fred and Ted?
They’re both frightfully ill-bred—”
Her voice continues to reach me in snatches as I am
separated
from Arthur, whom I last see searching the room, with eager glance, for something which the very intensity of his search makes it seem unlikely will be there, and borne by the current to different parts of the room. I visit Ermine, the sullen queen who rules a tongueless people. I visit Koko and Jabwort who fight an eternal duel with bladders. Each time they smite, they turn to the nearest attendant slave-girl and explain that but a few more blows and the long contest will be at an end.
Then, they intimate, with rolling eye and dangling tongue, what sport, what animation! I visit Martop, the recluse, who has retreated from the tumult to reside permanently in some barren corner of a divan. The results of his scornful reflections are not to be had for less than a casual greeting or passing remark. I visit Cortex the Statue, full-fleshed and
heavy-headed
, who, having already been exalted by all those present, need do nothing but manifest a presence. I visit Finway, the fluent, the knowing, who lies back educating, with a stream of sophisticated anecdote, Clearleaf, the enthusiastic, and
Bell-like
, whose girlish tinkle indiscriminately accompanies, even to
his
occasional consternation, all that Finway says. I listen, trying at the same time to keep my attention fixed on Arthur, who keeps disappearing, foraging ever more desperately through the room, and then reappearing, but always a long way away.
“Arthur?” I call finally, “Arthur, don’t forget. We must be leaving soon.”
“I know,” he shouts back at me, but there is an impatient note in his voice that makes me fear for the occasion. “I haven’t forgotten, but leave me alone a little! Amuse yourself. Finish that egg.”
The egg is cold and viscous now. However it expects to be eaten and has poised itself cleverly towards me, drooping over the cracked tray. The room is shivered too and I hardly believe in the light. Once there was Cousin Susan. Once I was injected and I sting in every nerve from that intrusion. Oh, they’ll stop at nothing. There are those who wear the face of men, who use the speech of men and pad amongst us. Are they corks? Are they agrometers? Do they
know
that other haven? And now I hear a step.
“Draw my curtains!” I cry. “Please. Please. Someone. Come and draw my curtains!”
But they don’t come. The foot descends, slackens away into
silence and I know that no matter how I shriek and wail they still won’t come. And I am left lying helpless in the terrible anguish of helplessness and still they won’t come. And from the void, spiraling towards me like an arrow of light, comes a thought which drains the breath from my body:
“What if they never come? What if there is no one to come? What if there is only need and no succor forever?”
“Good morning, Colonel Grözer.”
Addressed thus, Maria just sighs and goes on drawing back the curtains. But a moment later my sally works through to her although she had thought herself, by now, immune to my
drolleries.
A dragging and reluctant little laugh escapes her. But she really wants to be sardonic and shakes her head.
“Why do you sit in the dark? You can’t see to eat.”
“I didn’t want to, Maria,” I explain. And then more feeling charges my voice than I intend. “I hated it! You’ve no idea. I wanted to call out.”
“You could have opened them—silly. Couldn’t you have got out of bed and opened them?”
“Yes.”
“Well then—” She approaches. “Have you finished your egg? Well, Susan’s going to be very annoyed—”
“Is Jane still here?”
But this time Maria is prepared and her expression remains fixed as she sets the tray right and puts the spoon in my hand and then, as an afterthought, induced by the basic tenderness of her woman’s nature, she adjusts my bedclothes.
“Is Jane all right?”
“Of course.”
“And are you all right? Do tell me, Maria, I don’t want to forget you.”
“Oh, you won’t forget me. We’re going out together later.”
“Out? Where?”
But Maria merely points firmly to my egg and doesn’t answer and later, after she’s gone, I wonder if there was anything in her manner corresponding to the words “you know perfectly well where.”
I suppose she will lead me out. It’s useless to pretend. You see I know them very well. I was born into a family and I noted the way they went about things. I came to associate things and read little signs. Emotions awoke in me. They partook of me. I developed a sense of my own importance but I was inclined to be sullen. Sometimes I accosted them. Sometimes I belied them. I was very careful with what I garnered. Once, I
remember,
Arthur tried to deceive me.
“Not quite, old lad,” he said, “not quite the healthiest. Not quite the most salubrious.”
“Organ pipe,” I retorted. “Brother pipe.”
I wish it would amuse me more to recollect it, but I’ve bedded so much around it by now. Perhaps I can give you a single twitch with which to fix it. You’ve never met my brother Arthur. He has a reason. I see very little of him these days. I see very little of anyone. They’re chipping me, you see, and I’m the chisel.
“Arthur? Maria? Someone? Let in the world a bit.”
But this time my dilemma is acute. I can’t be sure I really called. The only way is to go and find them. But could I be sure I’d really gone? I begin to feel wretched again. They take
everything
away and leave me to gasp in this exhausted tank.
Soon, I put on my grey suit and creep cautiously from the house. An hour ago I would have been appalled at the
immensity
of the task. I would have peered, nervous anxiety quivering on my face, into every face I passed, asking, “Is he the one? Does she know where?” Not so now. I drink in the pale, city sunshine and return it, more vital than before, as a radiant smile for those I know and an honest greeting for strangers.
Oh, you say, the street is the street. Its wood and stucco are neutral. Its substance is immune. No, my smile polishes its wood and binds the stony atoms more firmly.
Nevertheless, at the corner, a momentary perplexity takes hold of me. Both ways the traffic roars. But which of the ways is mine? While I am trying to recall some instructions young Merkitt approaches and I almost take it for a sign.
“Lad,” I call, “ditch-hopper, point me out my path.”
He bites his lip and at once an understanding of his
reluctance
comes over me.
“Young Merkitt,” I say gently, “you betray no trust. The delay will be slight.”
“It isn’t that.”
“What then?”
“They keep getting at me. Do you know how old I am? Do you remember that ditch? And now I was on my way to buy something sweet or noisy. And I never see my pal. I never see Merew.”
And Merkitt waves a small, fierce arm over the roaring city into whose immensity, the gesture seems to say, his friend has vanished.
How can I retrieve Merew? I am not familiar with the
neighborhood
. I look ahead in the direction Merkitt appeared to be going but see only a twist of metal. Merkitt looks at me from time to time with something shy and cunning in his manner. For a moment I wonder if he thinks I’m Merew. Then I wonder if he needs money.
“I have no money,” I assure him
“That may be true.”
“Your mother gives you money.”
“They tell me to earn it. It’s that sort of thing I was talking about. I can do bits of jobs anywhere.”
But I feel we haven’t got to the root of it.
“Is it Merew?” I ask him.
“That ditch lad? They made bricks of him. That trouser boy? He was a cheerful one. And mean.”
“And now you’re going—”
“I’ve got lots of pals,” he interrupts. He licks his lips in an insolent way. “I told you before.” He turns and starts away but before he’s gone far, he turns and calls something back. He is too far away, however, and I do not hear what it is.
Nevertheless
, it upsets me. I feel sure it was an insult or taunt. I watch him swagger away until I find that my glance is resting on the tree behind which he disappeared. I listen but the voices are still subverbal. I turn and strike out boldly in the direction opposite to the one taken by Merkitt. I know there are millions of people in this city. I know that one of them is Merew. Between these poles, I feel, other knowledge is condensing.
And now the hardships of the day really begin.
The conductor resembles Arthur. I know that it can not be Arthur for Arthur would scorn to do anything as humble as collect fares. Also the man doesn’t recognize me although for a moment, as he stands tapping his leather bag and eyeing me, I fancy there
is
a faint glint of recognition in his eye. I am about to formulate some casual but allusive remark that will force him to reveal whether or not he is in fact Arthur when he seizes the initiative and, by the impersonal, albeit somewhat discourteous and sullen, tone of his voice, reassures me.
“Would you mind moving down a bit?” he asks. “I’d prefer it if you sat there by that flowerpot.”
As I obligingly rise, he presses me back into my seat.
“No, don’t bother,” he growls. “I get sick of rearranging you. The balance is all right. And what if it isn’t?”
“I wouldn’t presume—”
“No, you wouldn’t know. It takes years of training. Do you want to get like me? Look at my face—closely now.”
He brings his dusty face close down before me and, as I search attentively amongst the features, the glad certainty comes to me that little of this could be attributed to Arthur.
“You look relieved,” he says, straightening up again. He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment or two. “I’d better have your fare. You were afraid I was Arthur.”
But this makes me indignant.
“Not at all,” I urge. “Fear doesn’t enter into it. Naturally one likes to live one’s own life a bit sometimes. But few people cherish a higher regard—that is few people feel a purer fraternal—”