The Brooke-Rose Omnibus (19 page)

– What did you say?

– I think the pills are slowly poisoning us.

The whites of the eyes are brownish with a tinge of pink. The blacks of the eyes are brown, and for a moment stray away from the pasty face and the slouching shoulder of the man leaning on the counter, but the meeting is not
compulsory
and the dark lids immediately half shield them.

– Oh come now, man, you don’t want to go believing that sort of thing. What was your occupation?

Through the slanted slits under the lowered brown lids the eyes just visible follow the dark hand as it moves across the pink card, holding a golden pen, and neatly braceleted at the wrist by the spotless white cuff-edge.

– I don’t mean on purpose.

– What? Oh. Well, I should hope you do not. It is a very serious accusation. We have courts in which to make that kind of statement, backed with suitable evidence. Now then, are you going to take it, I haven’t got all day.

– You can’t force me to take the pills. They’re poisoning the blood-stream. I’ve analysed them, I know, under pretext of building us up and protecting us from radioactive minerals you’re over-filling us with potassium and carbohydrate
complexes
, you’re multiplying our leucocyte count, you’re slowly debilitating us so that –

– Now that’s enough. If you have any complaints you can take them to the proper quarter. As far as I am concerned you must take this pill, and I am entitled to insist that you take it here in front of me. We’re only trying to prevent unemployment apathy and frustration, you know, which are the seeds of crime. But it’s for your own good mainly. Don’t you see that you must keep yourself fit and cheerful just in case a job does turn up? I mean if it did you just wouldn’t get it. Or keep it. You’re in a bad way you know.

– I can’t swallow it without water.

– Yes you can, it’s very small and quite round. Good. Now don’t miss out tomorrow or the next day. You’ll see, you’ll soon feel quite different. Next please.

The grid grows big and splits the taut Bahuko face, alert as a monkey’s but shining with curved oblongs and blobs of white light from the heat of the day.

– Is it true what he said?

The vibration of the voice has not been sufficient to carry the question across the metal barrier and the question evaporates, leaving no trace of error in the air, except perhaps a residue at the back of the mind, to be answered by Mrs, Mgulu who writes no little notes and does not nod and aches there by her absence. The dark hand moves across the card, holding a golden pen. In the right arch of the nose, with the left eye closed, the vertical metal bar divides the taut Bahuko face almost exactly in half. In the left arch of the nose, with the right eye closed, the vertical bar moves to the right of the face. The horizontal bars frame the face above and below.

– Hermm! Excuse me. But is it true what he said?

– What? Speak up man, I can’t hear you.

– Is it true? What he said?

The shrug seems to fill the whole trellis, twining in and out of the squares.

– No. He always comes and makes a scene. It is his big moment. We play along with him. Nothing today I’m afraid. Here’s your pill.

– No thank you.

– Hey, are you starting that game? You must take it. It’s a new regulation. I’ve got my job to do and you’ve got – to take it. Go on.

The pill tastes bitter in the saliva under the tongue. The floor is mottled and full of feet in dirty canvas shoes. Men move aside. Above their heads the notice says Do Not Spit. The young palm tree stands cut in stillness against the blue intensity framed darkly by the door, and waits, as if to bend down and mop up the accumulating spit that sizzles suddenly on the burning pavement and then is lost in walking legs and under ambling feet.

– Wait.

The voice grabs the shoulder. The man has a pasty face and thin pale hair. His hand is now outstretched.

– You are my friend?

– No.

– But you spat!

– A man can spit can’t he?

– What? I can’t hear you.

– People don’t usually.

– You mean you always say things like that?

– Like what? I mean, oh it doesn’t matter. My voice. It’s very small.

– Oh I don’t think so, it’s just the noise here. I saw you … spit. Don’t worry I won’t tell. Did you see the way he made me take it like that. Why, I might have been a child. Where you from?

– The – er – just outside town.

– No. I mean before. Ukay?

– Yes.

– Uessay. Can I walk along with you?

– If you want to. I mean, it’s very crowded, isn’t it.

– I must talk to you. About these pills.

– Are you a doctor then?

– There you go, you’re as bad as they are. That’s not the point. But can you honestly say that you haven’t been feeling steadily worse since you started taking the pills? Stand here and cross your heart and say – hey, there’s no need to push, Madam, the street’s big enough for all of us. Mongrels. Sons of bitches, the lot. I’m sorry my friend. I am upset and irritable today. It’s the long-term effect of these pills, there is not a doubt about that, and I ask you once again to stand here and cross your heart and swear you haven’t been feeling steadily worse since you began taking them. Can you? No you cannot.

– Well, it’s true I do feel worse.

– More and more debilitated! Of course. They send up the leucocyte count you see. Oh, the onset is insidious, well advanced before diagnosis. Very clever. But I’m not having it.

– But do you have proof? I mean how did you come to these conclusions?

– What? I can’t hear a word you say.

– Well, you asked for it. The street’s much too crowded. OW!

– Oh, I could probably prove it, if I had the facilities. The laboratories and that. But at the moment it’s just an idea, a hunch if you like, you know, like the sulphonamides and derivatives, for years everyone thought they were the answer to everything, until the ultimate harm they were doing to the blood cells was finally realised and, well, that’s medical history, like leeches or anything else. And this could be the same.

– Have you told anyone about your suspicions? Anyone responsible?

– No. And they wouldn’t listen if I did, would they? It wouldn’t be in their interest. Because it’s true. So they treat you like a lunatic, and if you’re not careful they treat you like a subversive element.

The crowds knock into their sudden immobility. The noise mills about. The traffic hoots by slowly through the swarming people who gesticulate and move lethargically among the shouts from the vegetable stalls. The children and the old men grub about under and between the stalls, under and between the innumerable legs, hoping to find a fallen fig or some dropped seeds of maize. It is market day.

– Now, listen. As I said to that chap, I don’t mean they’re doing it on purpose, nor are you going to get me to say it. I don’t know who you are anyway, come to think of it you’re not as friendly as you seemed when I saw you spit.

– Well, I didn’t ask for your company.

– You’re dead right. Don’t you trust anyone. Here’s my card. I’d ask you round to my place, I live down town, couple of blocks along but I share the room with four others. I like you. Let’s get out of this and go sit on a bench. I’d like to know you.

– Well, er, I have to be getting back. My wife’s ill.

– Oh. I’m sorry. I see you have all the more reason to be suspicious.

– Well, it’s not quite like that. As a matter of fact I just won’t believe that. If I did I couldn’t go on living.

– What? I can’t hear you. Come along round this corner, that’s better, we can breathe. Now listen to me, I’ll tell you something. I believe we’re being slowly exterminated. And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m not having it. I don’t take my pills either. I spat out that one too.

– You’re mad. Stark raving mad.

– Ha! That’s what you’d like to believe, that’s what everyone’d like to believe. Oh, I know you lot, you ex-Europeans, you’ll play along with them as far as you can, you don’t want to know your own kind, do you, the cold-hearted kind, they call us all, you know, but it’s people like you that have made it so, it’s your sickness we’re suffering from. Your wife is ill is she, and you live in THE-er-just-outside-the-town, do you? I know where that is, I’ll find you, if I want to, that is.

The fist lands straight on the snarling mouth with the advantage of surprise, paralyzing the mind behind the fist as much as it disfigures the face beyond it, so that the
returning
blow astonishes equally. The side-street rocks, then straightens. The grip is less strong than expected, the
staggering
is unsteady, the man is feeble, sick perhaps, tears burn the eyes, the grip lasts longer than expected, and aching burns the throat and head, the staggering is unsteady, the
side-street
rocks, the paving stone moves up. Innumerable trousers widen slightly at the bottom, grey or buff-coloured, like trees, or in creased grey denim like fig-tree bark, and some legs bare and thin and white. From this position in the gutter the paving stones look as large as tables.

– Are you all right, man?

– Of course, he’s all right. They’ve neither of them got the strength to hurt a fly.

– Are you hurt somewhere?

– Two old men, they should be ashamed of themselves, fighting like that.

– Look at them, they’re crying now, both of them.

– Licking their wounds. It’s disgusting.

– Now then, what’s happening here?

– Oh nothing, constable. An old Colourless man knocked down another. I don’t think any harm’s done.

– You all right, man? Come on up then. What’s all this about? You fighting at your age? Who started it?

– I’m not old. I only look old. On account of the –

– Is it? Yes, it is. Constable, I know this one. I say, aren’t you Lilly’s husband? Yes you are. His wife works up at Mrs. Mgulu’s, Western Approaches, you know, that’s where I work and I’ve seen him around. I think he does odd jobs.

– Oh, well, if you’d like to see to him I won’t take the matter further. Western Approaches, you said, Mrs. er? Mrs. Jim. Thank you. How about you, man, are you hurt?

– Don’t you touch me!

– Now then, now then, I’m entitled to lay hands on you if you give me cause. I suppose you started this?

– I say, you are Lilly’s husband aren’t you? Oh, thank goodness, I’d hate to have perjured myself to the law of the land. Whatever got you into that mess? Well, never mind now. I think you’ve wriggled out nicely. I’m Mrs. Jim. I
daresay
Lilly’s talked to you about me. Look, would you like me to help you home? I’ve only got a bit more marketing to do if you’d like to wait for me in that bar. No? I think you should at least have a drink. You look very shaky. And perhaps a bite to eat. Come along, now. I’ll pay for it, don’t worry. That’s it. Just hold my arm. I work up at Mrs. Mgulu’s you know, that’s where I must have seen you.

At home there would be a remedy. A remedy would be read, it would occupy the air. Or a letter from the Labour Exchange, according to our records. At home the gruel would be brought.

The palm wine tastes a little acid, the bread a little sour. Sooner or later Mrs. Jim will go and finish her marketing. Mrs. Jim has gallstones. She’s anaemic, you know. I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s pernicious. But Mrs. Jim is the picture of health, pale pink and fleshy and bedworthy in a purely
physical
way. She certainly lives in the present. She has adapted to her environment, has Mrs. Jim.

– Well, you don’t have much to say for yourself, do you? I can’t imagine your ever saying enough even to get into a fight. But maybe it’s shock. Perhaps you’d rather have had mint tea? No, you just sip that quietly while I finish my marketing then I’ll see you home. You can help me carry some of the bags as a matter of fact. I shan’t be long.

Inside the avenue of the mind, that functions in depth, Mrs. Mgulu sits back in the cushions of the vehicle as it glides smoothly out of the town. The shining hair is coiled up high, dressed in gold chains and off the face, cave-blue through the blue glass and the wide lips mauve.

– That looks like Lilly’s husband just ahead. Olaf, will you slow down so that I can see? I hear he had a little trouble in town with a Colourless ruffian. Perhaps he could do with a lift. Yes it is him, will you stop. Hello, there. Can I give you a lift? How are you? You don’t look too good. Jump in.

The concrete huts move slowly by, grey in the shimmering heat. No. The sun beats down into the nervous system that has no foliage to protect the nerve-ends. The road burns through the thin soles of the canvas shoes. Mrs. Mgulu walks lightly alongside, wearing something diaphanous, smelling of aloes and hair fixative. The vehicle moves slowly ahead waiting upon her fatigue. But she walks lightly alongside, although the tall acacia trees give insufficient shade. The number of the vehicle is eight four … the number of the vehicle is insignificant.

– Oh but I love walking. Especially with someone. I never really see anything by car. I never really see anything except with you. Look at the concrete huts moving slowly by, grey in the shimmering heat. The road burns through the thin soles of your canvas shoes, I expect, as it burns through my gold sandals.

– The tall acacia trees give insufficient shade.

– The number of my vehicle is 8473216.

– It wasn’t the way you think, you see, he told the
employment
clerk the pills were bad for us, and the clerk made him take it there in front of him and me too so I spat mine out and he saw me and well it turned out that he meant
genocide
, and I said he was mad and he said, oh he said horrible things, he called me cold-hearted. You know I’m not, don’t you?

– Now you really mustn’t go believing everything you hear from the man in the street.

– That’s what Mr. Swaminathan says.

– Ah, my old friend Mr. Swaminathan. Is he still swaying away at the back there?

– He’s there all right. But he refuses to acknowledge my existence. It’s very hard. He just watches. He watches me desire you, he occupies me with you like a sneak and a
small-time
spy. I would prefer him out of the way, I would prefer to give myself entirely over to desiring you, but he is one of the warm-hearted and I cannot transfer any energy to him to move him out.