Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"And you, that they were Ships at Anchor." She had, once,— as our Sky, a Harbor to Travelers from Ev'rywhere.
"Look to the Earth." she instructs him. "Belonging to her as I do, I know she lives, and that here upon this Volcanoe in the Sea, close to the Forces within, even you, Mopery, may learn of her, Tellurick Secrets you could never guess."
"I've betray'd you," he cries. "Ah,— I should have—
"Lit Candles? I am past Light. Pray'd for me ev'ry Day? I am outside of Time. Good, living Charles,...good Flesh and Blood—" Between them now something like a Wind is picking up speed and beginning to obscure his View of her. She bares her Teeth, and pales, and turns, drifting away, evaporating before she is halfway across the slain Forest.
Erect after her dear Flesh impossible to him till Resurrection Day, he returns to his bed-clothes. In the Crepuscule, Maskelyne's Observing Suit is edging into Visibility. Great Waves of Melancholy, syncopating the Atlantick Counterparts not far away, surge against him. They might drown him, or bear him up,— he lies not caring, and fails to find Sleep again. Maskelyne, on the other side of the Tent, slumbers till Midday. "Hullo, Mason. Was that you, coming in about Dawn?"
"Not I." Unpremeditatedly.
"Hum,— Might it've been Dieter, d'ye think?"
"Dieter? Why would he be in the Tent?"
"The Wind."
"Ahrr,— that is, of course.”
"He's not Dieter.. .at least not any more, he isn't."
Mason recalls that he has never met the German face to face. "How is the project for his Release getting on?"
' 'Tis someone else. You may be confus'd. Pray, erase Dieter from your Mind, and I shall be much oblig'd."
Mason, understanding little enough already, still resounding up and down his Center-Line with Rebekah's Visit, is abruptly certain that Dieter is a Ghost as well. How wise would it be, however, to share this Revelation with Maskelyne? "He is well, I trust," keeping at it for reasons he sees only after he has spoken.
' 'Well'! What are you saying, Mason? To be not well over here, is to be dead. How you have avoided that Fate, indeed puzzles me."
"Which leaves you,— are you 'well,' Maskelyne?"
' 'Tis Dieter who's in Peril here. Medically, I cannot speak,— yet as one of the Lord's Menials, I see his Soul insulted in ways Souls do not bear readily. Why did you not, rather, ask after him? His Fate has Consequences within my own."
Mason has begun in recent days hearing in the Wind entire orchestral Performances, of musick distinctly not British,— Viennese, perhaps, Hungarian, even Moorish. He finds he cannot concentrate. The Wind seems to be blowing cross-wise to the light incoming from Sirius, producing false images, as if, in Bradley's Metaphor for the Aberration, the Vehicle, Wind, has broken thro' some Barrier, and enter'd the no-nonsense regime of the Tenor, Light, whilst remaining attach'd to it. As supernatural as a Visitant from the Regime of Death to the sunny Colony of Life,— to be metaphorickal about it—
"I think the two of ye need some time together," Mason, with what remains of his good Sense, suggests. "And to be honest, I haven't your resistance to this Wind. It is driving me insane." His Stomach warning him not to add, "You are driving me insane."
He runs without delay down to the Shingle and begins assembling a Signal-Fire, using his Coat to fan it, advising any Coasters that might come by, of his need of passage to the Leeward Side. The Price will be more or less Criminal.
Maskelyne waves good-bye from the Ridge. He wears a Canary Coat and Breeches Mason has never observ'd him in before, a Wig that even at this Distance causes a contraction of the Pupils, and a Hat, more obscurely, suggesting Optickal Machinery of uncertain Purpose. He seems to be on his Way to the Fort, perhaps into it. Perhaps that is where Dieter does his principal Haunting. Presently a Dhow ventures in, to Wading-Distance. "Good Ride to Jamestown! Twenty Rix-Dollars! Good Price!"
"Ten!" having no idea if he can afford it.
"Only as far as Friar's Valley."
"Break-neck," whispers a Voice clearly, tho' no one is there.
"To Break-neck," calls Mason.
"I've no wish to offend your Companion. Done.”
Once 'round Castle Rock and the Needles, they can run before the Wind, down past Manatee Bay, and the great Ridge-line above wheeling as they rush on,— doubling at last the South-West Point, standing off from Man and Horse, Lines and Hooks drop over the side, and presently the Day's Meal is flopping about the Deck,— they have lost the Wind. The Absence stuns him. Breezes, Tides, and Eddies must now get them past this Coast. The Crew, who've been out in it for a few Days, find Mason's Discombob-ulancy amusing. That their Remarks are not in English sends him further a-reel. When they debark him at the mouth of Break-Neck Valley, two or three Miles from the Town, he is more than eager to be off.
He can smell the Town upon the Wind, the Smoke and Muck-Piles, long before he sees it. Awakening from a sort of Road-Trance, he finds himself before the Jenkin's Ear Museum, dedicated to the eponymous Organ whose timely Display brought England in against Spain in the War of '39. Not long after, Robert Jenkin went to work for the East India Company,— many styl'd it a quid pro quo,— being assign'd to St. Helena in '41 as Governor, and bringing with him the influential Ear, already by then encasqu'd in a little Show-case of Crystal and Silver, and pickl'd in Atlantick Brine. James's Town wove its Spell. Eventually, at Cards, Mr. Jenkin extended his Credit too far even for Honorable John. There remain'd the last unavoidable Object of Value, which he bet against what prov'd to be a Cross-Ruff, whence it pass'd into the Hands of Nick Mournival, an Enterpriser of the Town.
Mason is chagrin'd to find set in a low Wall a tiny Portico and Gate, no more than three feet high, with a Sign one must stoop to read,— "Ear of Rob' Jenkin, Esq., Within." Clearly there must be some other entry, tho' Mason can find none, not even by repeated Jumps to see what lies over the Wall,— to appearance, a Garden gone to weeds. Reluctantly at last he takes to his elbows and knees, to investigate the diminutive Doorway at close hand,— the Door, after a light Push, swinging open without a Squeak. Mason peers in. What Illumination there is reveals a sort of Ramp-way leading downward, with just enough height to crawl.
Owing to a certain Corporate Surplus accumulated at Cape Town, Mason's smooth descent is here and there in doubt,— each time, indeed, tho' but temporarily stuck, he comes near Panick. At last, having gain'd a slightly roomier sort of Foyer, hewn, it seems, from the Volcanick Rock of the Island, he is startl'd by a Voice, quite near.
"Good Day to you, Pilgrim, and thanks for your interest in a great modern secular Relic. Helen of Troy's face may've launch'd a thousand ships,— this is but one Ear, yet in its Time, it sent navies into combat 'round the Globe. Think of it as the closest thing you're apt to see to Helen's Face, and for one Pistole 'tis a Bargain."
"Bit steep, isn't it? Where, ehm, are you, by the way...the Echo in here,— "
"Look in front of you."
"Yaahhgghh— "
"Ta-ra-ra! Yes, here all the time. Nick Mournival, formerly Esquire, now your Servant. Once a Company Director, now.. .as you see. Fortune's wheel is on the Rise or Fall where'er we go, but nowhere does it turn quite as furiously as here, upon this unhappy Mountain-Top in the Sea."
"You are Florinda's friend. We met before the Battery one evening,— she is well, I trust."
"She is flown. Some Chicken-Nabob traveling home with his Mother. Watch'd her work him. Masterful. She knew I was observing, and put on a Show. Her Stage Training,— humiliating, of course.—
"Well," brightly, "where's the Ear then,— just have a look if I may, and be off?"
"Dear no, that's not how 'tis done, I must come along, to operate the Show.”
"Excuse me,— Show...?"
Nai've Mason. First he must endure The Spaniard's Crime, The Ear Display'd to Parliament, the Declaration of War,— with Mournival speaking all the parts and putting in the sounds of Cannonades, and Storms at Sea, Traffick in Whitehall, Spanish Jabbering and the like, and providing incidental music upon the Mandoline from Mr. Squivelli's L'Orecchio Fatale, that is, "The Fateful Ear." A Disquisition upon Jenkin's Ear-Ring, "Aye, 'twas never Mr. J.'s Ear the Spaniard was after, but the great Ruby in it. For one silver shilling, you may view this remarkable Jewel, red as a wound, pluck'd from the Navel of an importantly connected Nautch-Dancer, by a Mate off a Coaster, who should've known better,— passing then from Scoundrel to Scoundrel, tho' Death to possess yet coveted passionately, from the Northern Sea to the farther swamps of the Indies, absorbing in its Passage, and bearing onward, one Episode after another, the brutal and dishonorable Tale of Bengal and the Carnatic, in the Days of the Company,— till it settl'd in to dangle beneath the fateful Lobe of Mr. Jenkin, and wait, a-throb with unlucki-ness, the Spaniard's Blade."
In the strait and increasingly malodorous space where they crouch, awash in monologue and vocal Tricks, Mason's only diversion is what Mr. Mournival, by now seeming more openly derang'd, styles "The Chronoscope," which, for a fee, may be squinted into,— here in all colors of the Prism sails the brig Rebecca, forever just about to be intercepted by the infamous Guarda-Costa. Mason's Squint is not merely wistful,— the ship's name is a Message from across some darker Sea,— as he has come to believe in a metaphysickal escape for the Seahorse, back there off Brest, much like this very depiction,— the Event not yet "reduc'd to certainty," the Day still'd, oceanick, an ascent, a reclaiming of light, wind express'd as its integral, each Sail a great held Breath.... Into just such a Dispensation, that far-off morning, had he risen... like a Child...India, all Islands possible, the open, inextinguishable Light.. .his last morning of Immortality.
"And finally, a salute to the career of Mr. Jenkin with the E.I.C., featuring his brief and not dishonorable tenure as Governor here." Nick Mournival's Tortoise Pick begins to vibrate upon the Notes of "Rule Britannia," as a life-siz'd portrait of Jenkin now shimmers into view, the
missing Ear tastefully disguis'd by the excursions of a Wig of twenty years ago, and the Curriculum Vitas is grandly recited.
All this while, the Ear reposes in its Pickling-Jar of Swedish lead Crystal, as if being withheld from Time's Appetite for some Destiny obscure to all. Presently 'tis noted by Mason,— he hopes, an effect of the light,— that somehow, the Ear has been a-glow,— for a while, too,— withal, it seems, as he watches, to come to Attention, to gain muscular Tone, to grow indeed quite firm, and, in its saline Bath, erect. It is listening. Quickly Mason grips himself by the head, attempting to forestall Panick.
"Aha." Mr. Mournival breaks off his narration. "Good for you, Sir. Some of them never do smoak it, you know. Yes of course Ear's been listening,— what're Ears for?— and to be honest, there's not much to do down here— Ear may look small and brine-soak'd to some, but I can tell you she's one voracious Vessel,— can't get enough of human speech, she'll take anything, in any language,— sometimes I must sit and read to her, the Bible, the Lunar Tables, The Ghastly Fop, whatever comes to hand...'tis Ear's great Hunger, that never abates."
" 'Ear'?"
"Oh? What would you call her? 'Nose'?"
"I...but wish'd not to speak inappropriately,— ' Mason's Eyes swiveling about more and more wildly, failing to locate the Egress.
"You're a Sporting Gentleman, I recognize your style, been to any number of London Clubs in me time, how'd you like to"— his Nudge, in this under-ground Intimacy, comes like an Assault,— "get a little closer, maybe.. .tell her something in private?" As much as the Space allows, he now flourishes a Key.
"Ehm, perhaps I'll just,— could you, actually, kindly, point me to the...Way out?"
Mr. Mournival has unlock'd the Vitrine, and reach'd into the Sea-Glow within. "You ought not leave, Sir, till you've spoken into Ear. She'll be a much better Judge of when you may go. And 'twill cost but a Rix-Dollar more,—
"What!"
"Be advis'd, I am empower'd to use Violence, I've a Warrant from the Company,—
"Here then,— take, take two Rix-Dollars,— why not? only Dutch money, isn't it, no more real than the Cape be, and that terrible Dream that has seiz'd and will not release them,—
"Don't tell me," shrugs Mr. Mournival. "Tell Ear. It's just the sort of Chat-up she fancies. Treat for you today, Ear!" he cries, startling Mason into a back-twinge he would rather not have. "Go ahead, Sir. Put your Lips as close as as you care to."
"You're not altogether well," Mason points out.
"And more of us on the Leeward Side than you'd ever suspect— There.. .so.—
Better? Now whisper Ear your Wish, your fondest Wish,— join all those Sailors and Whores and Company Writers without number who've found their way down here, who've cried their own desires into the Great Insatiable. Upon my Solicitor's Advice, I must also remind you at this Point, that Ear only listens to Wishes,— she doesn't grant 'em."
Mason can scarce look into the blue-green Radiance surrounding the Ear,— in this crowded darkness, even the pale luminescence stuns.. .and just as well, too, for the Organ has now definitely risen up out of its Pickle, and without question is offering itself, half-cur'd and subterranean cold, to Mason's approaching Mouth. I have surviv'd the Royal Baby, Mason tells himself,— this can be done. The flirtatious Ear stands like a shell-fish,— vibrating, waiting.
His fondest Wish? that Rebekah live, and that,— but he will not betray her, not for this. What he whispers, rather, into the pervading scent of Brine and...something else, is, "A speedy and safe passage for Mr. Dixon, back to this place. For his personal sake, of course, but for my Sanity as well."
Helen of Troy, mutatis mutandis, might have smirk'd, yet even if the Ear were able to smirk, Mason wouldn't have notic'd, would he,— being preoccupied so with the Metaphysicks of the Moment. Till now, he has never properly understood the phrase Calling into a Void,— having imagin'd it said by Wives of Husbands, or Teachers of Students. Here, however, in the form of this priapick Ear, is the Void, and the very anti-Oracle— revealing nothing, as it absorbs ev'rything. One kneels and begs, one is humiliated, one crawls on.