Imago Bird Page 2

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘You could have asked.’

  ‘Who? When?’

  I thought—Can I not say: I would have stammered?

  Then—But this is what she expects me to say: which will prove that I use my stammer as some sort of protection?

  I said ‘—Ask Uncle Bill if he’d taken a pot shot at Mrs Washbourne —?’

  I thought I should explain—Anyway, none of this is what matters: the point is the way in which we were all there like people in a theatre; in which neither actors nor audience in fact do ask what is going on behind the stage.

  Sometimes with Dr Anders it was as if so many things were coming into my head at once that it was like all the lights coming on in the auditorium.

  I said ‘But the odd thing was that what had really happened didn’t seem to be of importance: we were all just standing around waiting for the cover-up to begin: as if this were the whole purpose of people being involved in the drama.’

  She said ‘A mystery drama.’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  Then—‘If you like.’

  One of the patterns that seemed to be emerging from my sessions with Dr Anders was the way in which she claimed to have spotted in me a liking for turning things into mysteries; while I claimed that it was life itself that consisted of mysteries, which I tried to observe truly but which other people always seemed to be trying to turn into simple dramas that were false.

  And in fact, did I not see myself as someone who was asking what was going on behind the stage?

  I said ‘It’s their mystery. They won’t want to solve it. They’ll chew it over for weeks. How else would they pass their time?’

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  Sometimes when Dr Anders said nothing I knew she did not approve of what I was saying: but because I knew she wanted me to learn not to mind too much whether or not she approved, I both did and did not mind this.

  I said ‘What on earth can politicians do? They have to make up mysteries, hostilities, dramas: who has shot at whom: how the bridesmaids have behaved. What else is their life? Of course, sometimes, something has happened. But still, they would see their job as the cover-up; the story; the question of advantage; not what really had happened.’

  Dr Anders used to sit in profile to where I lay. When I first had come to Dr Anders and had had to lie on her awful couch I had wondered whether or not I should take off my shoes. I had thought—If I do she will think I am overscrupulous; if I do not she will think I am dirty.

  I said now—‘I suppose I could have gone into the study and looked at the ceiling.’

  She said ‘Yes.’

  I said ‘He did seem to say there was a hole there.’

  I thought I might add—You see why I’m smiling?

  Dr Anders’ brown wrinkled face is like a nut that might sprout after millions of years.

  She said ‘But what you said you found yourself actually thinking was—Now I’ve got you!’

  I said ‘But also I said I didn’t want this.’

  She said ‘So that’s why things seem mysteries?’

  Sometimes in analysis such a bright light comes down that it is like a curtain in front of the stage and all the audience seems to be leaving the theatre.

  I thought—So what is it now from which I am trying to protect myself?

  There was Dr Anders’ bookcase, her frieze, the spire beyond her window.

  When I had gone for my initial interview with Dr Anders I had not then lain down on her couch but had sat in a chair opposite her. and when she had said—But of course you don’t want to get rid of your stammer!—and I had been so outraged at this but had also thought—Well, all right, we are off on our long journey—I had kept wondering about this as the interview went on: and towards the end I had said—Why, if it is such hell, do I not want to get rid of my stammer? And she had said—You think people want to get out of hell? And this had been the first time that I felt the light that was like the glow of a fire in a bedroom somewhere beside me: and it was this that was like the beginning of a journey; and also the glimpse of the end of it. For although I knew that I myself thought things like this—about hell being something that people did not want to get out of—I did not know that other people thought this; and this knowing was some liberation. So I had said—But if I do not want to get out of hell because hell is a protection, what is it that I am using my stammer as a protection against? And I had thought she might say, as one of my earlier therapists had once said—Might not you be using your stammer as a protection against other people’s disapproval? or against your own anger? And I had never quite thought this sufficiently subtle. So when I had put this question to Dr Anders and she had not answered for a time I had felt—Well, I suppose your answer will be the same as other people’s: and then she had said—Might you not be using your stammer as a protection against your own high opinion of yourself?

  There was the white light like something fusing: then her bookcase, her frieze, the spire beyond her window.

  I thought—If one jumped, might one not fly?

  She said ‘Of what are you thinking?’

  I said ‘Of the first time I came to see you.’

  She said ‘What about it?’

  I said ‘You said what I might be protecting myself against was my own high opinion of myself.’

  She said nothing.

  When I had first come for proper sessions with her and had had to lie down, I had taken my shoes off. Then I had thought—Would I not have learned more if she had seen me as dirty?

  I said ‘But I couldn’t ask there and then, in the hall, what had happened in the study. It would have been rude. And anyway, I did just stammer.’

  She said ‘What were you trying to say when you stammered?’

  I said ‘I was going to ask whether I should get some new clothes for this party they’re taking me to tonight: also I was trying to say—Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.’

  ‘About the pistol shot —’

  ‘Yes.’

  I thought—What was that image that came into my mind a moment ago when I was thinking my mind was a blank and I was looking through the window?

  She said ‘That was when you felt—Now I’ve got you!’

  ‘Well —’

  ‘A feeling of triumph —’

  ‘But also not.’

  — There are birds that sometimes perch on that ledge beyond the window —?

  Then—But there is no reason why I should not have a feeling of power? And so I stammer?

  I felt a sudden cold run up and down my spine, as if there were Gadarene swine rushing there.

  I said ‘I see.’

  She said ‘What do you see?’

  — A window-ledge; a courtyard; a drop on to some railings —

  I said ‘If the story got out, I suppose it would damage him.'

  She said nothing.

  I said ‘Do you mean, if I had managed to ask exactly what had happened, I might not have stammered?’

  She had a way of pursing her lips as if by this she were getting a hand-hold on a mountain.

  I thought—But is it a good or bad protection then that I stammer?

  — For I do not, do I, really want to hurt them —

  When the lights come on so brightly in the theatre of your mind it is as if you were in a maze in which you have been travelling and have lost your way; you stand between green walls and look for a thread which was spun by some loved one years ago.

  I said ‘But that’s what I hate about the grown-up world, they talk so fluently, whether they’re telling stories, or stories to cover up stories, they’re still not trying to find out how things are. Language isn’t suited to finding out this: language is for arguing, attacking, getting protection, getting responses. Stammering is perhaps a sign of trying to find out how things are: things are so complicated: there are so many of them: you can’t get near them without a struggle.’

  Dr
Anders said ‘Lucky old you.’

  I thought I might make a noise as if I were someone behind a closed door and being murdered.

  Then—Do other people think me lucky then?

  If you stand in the maze long enough, what seems to happen is that the walls begin to shake and holes to appear as if you are in some sort of sieve.

  I said ‘What probably happened was that Uncle Bill had just been mucking about with this gun and then it went off. I expect he does like guns. He’s often shouting at Mrs Washbourne. God knows what connections there are in anyone’s unconscious, or conscious.’

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  I said ‘I had an image just now —’

  Then—I might have wanted to destroy them?

  I said ‘No, it’s gone.’

  There was Dr Anders’ bookcase, her frieze, the spire beyond her window.

  I said ‘So they make up stories —’

  — A pond with a duck on it —

  I said ‘Oh I know I make up stories too! Perhaps I do like mysteries. Then I can feel—what—I told you so! Then I do feel superior. Yes. But I know it and they don’t And still, I don’t really like it That’s the difference. That’s what I hate, their all being on a stage and acting so sincerely. As if they believed in their dramas. What does it matter if a pistol does go off? They treat life like a detective story.’

  Dr Anders said ‘But the point of a detective story is to find out exactly what happened.’

  I said ‘But in fact it’s just a man with a blank cartridge behind the stage.’

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  I said ‘The whole play, or story, is just a pretence to amuse an audience.’

  Dr Anders seemed to be considering something quite different.

  I thought—But have I not, for the last ten minutes, been amusing?

  Perhaps I could explain—Might I not be both actor, and audience, in my own drama —

  Or I could cry out—Is not the thread through the maze the cold air through the holes which appear when the walls begin to shake and come down —

  Dr Anders said ‘Do you know, for the last ten minutes, you haven’t been stammering?’

  I said ‘Haven’t I?’

  I thought—Or something wrapped like a cocoon or a baby in front of the fire —

  Dr Anders said ‘I’m not saying it would be easy.’

  I said ‘What would not be easy?’

  Then —‘—Not easy to find out exactly what’s happening —?’

  Dr Anders leaned forward and raised her hands slightly from the arms of her chair. This was her signal that we were coming to the end of the session. It was also the signal, sometimes, for a rush of thoughts and images to come into my head as if they had been waiting just for this to be like children let out of school.

  I said ‘But if my stammer is a protection against my destructive feelings, should I or should I not stammer?’

  Dr Anders remained leaning forward with her hands on the arms of her chair.

  I said’—I haven’t stammered for ten minutes because I’ve been contemptuous and trivial and aggressive —?’

  She said ‘Yes, that’s a problem.’

  She still did not quite get up from her chair.

  I said ‘The more you find out, the more you find what’s impossible. Neuroses are like shells: you lose them and you burn up in the sun. But if you don’t lose them, they grow so heavy you go mad too.’

  Dr Anders got up from her chair. She went to the door slowly. She sometimes held her leg as if she had been kicked by a horse.

  I said ‘So isn’t it better to be gentle and helpless than to pour out your shit?’

  I thought—And I’m still not stammering —?

  She turned with her hand on the handle of the door. She said ‘You think you can choose?’

  III

  I had a girlfriend at the time called Sheila who lived near Belsize Park. This was within walking distance from Dr Anders'. I used to visit Sheila in the afternoons after I had been to Dr Anders. Like this I did not have to telephone to make arrangements. I hate telephoning: and to make arrangements seems to me to be presumptuous in a world where anything may turn up.

  Sheila said ‘Was there a lock on the front door when you came in?’

  I said ‘Why, has someone stolen it?’

  Sheila lived in a house with a lot of squatters and tenants who did not pay much rent because the ground-lease was nearly up and the landlord was doing nothing about renovations. Sheila was one of a group of Young Trotskyites. I liked the fact that Sheila was a Trotskyite; not, I think, because I found it easier to be committed to her sort of politics than to Uncle Bill’s, but because I felt there was something interesting in moving between the two.

  Sheila said ‘What did the old witch get out of you today?’

  I said ‘Not much.’

  She said ‘Just breasts and cunts and penises.’

  Sheila was a big, round-faced girl with short hair. She had a skin which was rather like ice before you skate on it. She wore very tight trousers; in which she seemed to hang like things in a larder.

  I said ‘And little bits of shit which, when I was young, were rejected by an unappreciative world.’

  She said ‘I do think that’s all balls.’

  I said ‘And crap—’

  ‘And crap—’

  ‘And shit—’

  Sheila’s room had two old frames containing bedsprings on the floor, and a lot of cushions. There were some bits of seaweed and driftwood on the walls which she and I had collected from the beach near Bognor where Blake had seen visions.

  She said ‘That’s how we’re conditioned to talk. By people like you and your fucking analyst. You don’t think people would talk like this naturally, do you?’

  Sheila was a few years older than I. She was doing social science at London University. She felt rather belligerent about doing social science, because so many Young Trotskyites were doing it.

  I said ‘How do you think the workers will talk after the revolution?—Will you please pass the cucumber sandwiches —?’

  Sheila said’—Will you pass you and your uncle’s head on a fucking platter—’

  Sheila and I used to talk like this I suppose because we were not in love. People talked like this on television and in films. I thought—It is this that is our conditioning.

  I said ‘What’s the matter with you today, have you been tortured by the police?’

  Sheila began to take off her clothes. She had difficulty in getting her trousers off, as if they were sails in a high wind.

  It was accepted that Sheila and I made love in the afternoons. It was useful to me that this was accepted, because then I did not have to go through the preliminary moves and stages which I was not good at.

  She said ‘And what’s been going on in your grand world? Have you met any particularly loathsome specimens lately?’

  I said ‘I’m going to this reception tonight. For this Asian or African Prime Minister.’

  She said ‘Which Asian or African Prime Minister?’

  I thought I might say—They all look alike to me. But I wondered—What would I be protecting myself against by making jokes that I do not mean?

  Also I sometimes imagined Sheila might in fact have a tape-recorder in her room, to take down my words and use them one day against me.

  I said ‘Mr Perhaia.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Perhaia?’

  I said ‘I thought you knew about such things.’

  When Sheila finally did get her trousers off she stood like the figurehead of a ship with her arms by her side and her lower half blown by spray. I took my clothes off.

  She said ‘God you take it for granted don’t you.’

  I said ‘Well you do too.’

  ‘How did you get that thing up the stairs?’

  ‘I used it to knock the lock off.’

  ‘That’s how you describe it is it.’

  ‘As if this house ever had any locks!’
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  ‘You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What—’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Although it was accepted that Sheila and I made love in the afternoons, and I liked this, it sometimes seemed difficult to turn into reality what my mind told me I so much desired.

  She said ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You were all right a moment ago.’

  ‘And now I’m not.’

  I do not know what other people find about these things. People seldom tell the truth about making love. What I used to find was that although of course I looked forward to it very much, and it was of course very good when it happened, there was a moment in between when sometimes things went blank as if there were the lights coming on in the auditorium or the thread had got lost in the maze.

  She said ‘Is it something to do with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Wait.’

  I had asked Dr Anders if other people found anything like this. She had said—as she usually said to such questions—Why are you interested in what other people find?

  I wondered—Would it be different if we were in love?

  — Or if we did not take it so much for granted —

  Also—Are these things the same then —

  Sheila said ‘Was it because of what I said about you and your uncle’s head on a platter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  I thought—But in love you would take both everything and nothing for granted —

  When I had first been with Sheila this sudden failure had been terrible. Then, when things had worked out all right once or twice, it was not too oppressive.

  Sheila said ‘You don’t really think, do you, when I ask you questions about your grand world, I’m trying to get something out of you?’

  I said ‘No.’

  ‘Because if you do, it’s pathetic!’

  When Sheila flung herself back on the bedsprings they would rock her up and down gently for a time like a boat

  I thought—Is it true then that she might be trying to get something out of me?

  But also—It is when we act as if we are angry that things get better.