Imago Bird Page 6

  I had such a terrible ache in my head, my groin: I thought—This is a suspension of judgement?

  — Oh where was my beloved!

  I thought—What terrible battles are fought like Hastings or Waterloo halfway across the floors of bed-sitting-rooms towards cupboards!

  I was like a man being beaten up by police on television. I could say—All right! I give in! What I wanted was just the story of Miss Paragon and the Belgian Schoolgirls —

  Was this in fact why people were beaten up by police? because they, or the police, were, or were not, ashamed of their stores of pornographic feelings?

  Oh come on, come on, my dark horse; take me to my beloved!

  I was making such an effort to get my dressing-gown on and to reach the door of my bedroom that I thought my mind might tear with the weight round the nails through it.

  I thought—Oh where is the bird that must have perched on that loved one’s shoulder then!

  There was a sort of scraping noise coming from behind the walls in the direction of the attic.

  I thought—That old spider, in my head, my groin, is scratching in the attic?

  I had moved on to the landing, with caution, to see who might be there.

  I thought—A plumber?

  But then—Does not this word now refer to someone fixing up electronic surveillance?

  I could say to Dr Anders—Just tell me, will you, how I get away from all these images?

  — The birds falling down from the sky like shot pigeons —

  Would in fact it be better if one just masturbated in the attic?

  There should not be anyone in this part of the house at weekends. I wondered—Might the shot from Uncle Bill’s study have gone right through Aunt Mavis’ bedroom and up into the roof? and there is a man mending the hole there?

  As I was watching the door into the attic the handle began to turn.

  I thought—In films, this shot would be too corny; but it is still alarming.

  The door opened. A man with crinkly hair looked out. When he saw me he seemed upset.

  He said ‘They didn’t tell me!’

  I began stammering.

  I thought—He’ll think I’m gibbering with fear.

  He went to the staircase and looked down. He was wearing a tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers.

  He said ‘Are there any more of you?’

  I wanted to say—Of course not!

  He said ‘I was supposed to have done this job last week. I’ll get into trouble if they know I’m doing it now.’

  He looked at me accusingly. He was a sad, quiet man. I thought—I should try to reassure him?

  I wanted to say—Well I won’t tell anyone.

  I thought I could explain—It’ll be all right for both of us, won’t it, if it’s the fact after all that you’re fixing up the hole in Uncle Bill’s ceiling —

  I said ‘The hole—’

  He said ‘The hole.’

  Then—‘Yes.’

  When he looked at me he had absolutely nothing behind his eyes; or behind his words, or his inflexions.

  I thought—If he were in a film, wouldn’t he be wondering whether or not to kill me?

  Then—Of course I am not really frightened.

  He said ‘You’re here at weekends?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  He said ‘What do you do?’

  I said ‘Philosophy.’

  He frowned.

  I thought—Well, according to the Sceptics, is not one answer as good as another?

  Then—But am I not the person who knows something is going on behind the stage; and so in a different dimension?

  He said ‘Look, if they knew I was there, I’d lose my job.’

  I still wanted to say—Well I won’t tell anyone.

  Dr Anders would say—Well why didn’t you?

  I said ‘You mean you don’t want me to tell anyone?’

  He said ‘Right.’

  Dr Anders might say—You really did think he might do something to you?

  I thought—No! Then—Am I not trying to help him?

  The man said ‘Those cows! They call it information!’

  Then he went back into the attic.

  There still had been no intelligible messages coming from behind his eyes.

  I went down the stairs. I was still carrying my clothes. I had no shoes. I thought I might go into Uncle Bill’s bedroom and borrow his slippers.

  I could have said to the man—Let’s say you’re a plumber—if a plumber had not been a man fixing electronic surveillance.

  I was putting on my clothes on the landing outside Uncle Bill’s bedroom. I thought I might take the opportunity to go and look at his floors and ceilings.

  I could say to Dr Anders—But what else could the man have been doing? Other than mending a hole in the ceiling?

  And if this were true, it was true they would not want it known —

  — Or could he be my white horse to divert me from my beloved!

  I was going on down the staircase.

  On the pavement, outside the front door, there was one of the policemen put on to guard Uncle Bill. I could go up to him and say—There is a man who might be a plumber or a masturbator in the attic —

  But Uncle Bill would not want even a policeman to know, if there was someone mending a hole in his ceiling.

  I thought—Perhaps we inoculate ourselves with these hideous images to save ourselves from more simple pornography.

  I was shuffling along the pavement towards Victoria Street. I could not quite remember how I had got there. I was wearing Uncle Bill’s bedroom slippers. I had looked into Uncle Bill’s bedroom and study briefly, but there had not seemed to be any holes in floors or ceilings. I had not spoken to the policeman at the front door, who had smiled at me.

  I could explain to Dr Anders—But still, there is some sense in all this: I am out in the air: perhaps it is true that the mental health of the Sceptics is in not expecting to be able to judge between this and that explanation —

  I was moving parallel to Victoria Street, between it and the river. It was a bright windy day. People in the street were going past like leaves blown from Andromeda.

  There were some pornographic bookshops at the back of Victoria Station.

  I thought—For God’s sake, if I could hold out a crucifix at you, fart at you, would you stop following me?

  Dr Anders would say—I thought you were on your way to your beloved —

  — That dark horse, to drag me down, like a child at the skirts of its mother.

  The man with crinkly hair had been so terrible! He had had such a life: his mother, like a seagull, had gone for his eyes and got him —

  I thought—Should I not just have put out a hand to him and said—Get it out, get it out, it won’t hurt you —

  Or—Is it not the best in the best of all possible worlds, that there are these dark horses to take me to my beloved?

  I had come to one of the pornographic bookshops at the back of Victoria Station. I thought—You go out through a door, along a passage, and in through the same door —

  The covers of the magazines seemed to have been carrying on for some time a contest about how far they could see up women’s arses.

  I thought—And all these men, like ghosts, in their chain-mail, clanking; who want to post things like letters up women’s arses —

  A voice behind me said ‘Hullo.’

  I said ‘Oh hullo.’

  ‘Have you got the time on you?’

  He was a flat-faced man, rather elderly.

  I thought I might explain—I’m here just to study the anthropology of this strange tribe; the question of why it is customary to make letter-boxes of arses —

  I said ‘No.’

  He said ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  I thought—Well, I would, wouldn’t I?

  Then—This is not a dark horse to take me to my beloved!

  He said ‘I know quite a good place round here.�
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  I thought I could explain—But I’m carrying out an experiment, you see, to discover what happens if you simply act what seems truthful —

  I said ‘All right.’

  In fact I would like a cup of coffee.

  We walked round the corner.

  I thought—An experiment is not an experiment, is it, if you think you know the result —

  Round the corner there was a café with red-topped tables and bottles of sauce like fly-traps.

  He said ‘You’ve done this before?’

  I said ‘No.’

  He said ‘You’d like some coffee?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  I sat at the table while he went to the counter.

  I thought—There is that story about the prison warder who goes to bed with the man in the condemned cell out of pity —

  Then—But I’m not his warder?

  The man came back with some coffee. He said ‘Here.’

  I said ‘Thanks.’

  He said ‘Where do you come from?’

  I said ‘Cowley Street.’

  ‘Cowley Street!’

  ‘Yes.’

  I could say to Dr Anders—You see, I told you —

  He said ‘What do you do?’

  I said ‘Philosophy.’

  We drank our coffee.

  He said ‘I’ve got a room round here.’

  I thought—Dear God, perhaps I do not after all know about dark horses!

  He said ‘I’ll give you twenty pounds.’

  I said ‘Twenty pounds!’

  I thought—Can it possibly be true, that I would not like twenty pounds?

  He was a man with such a sad flat face; as if his mother had sat on him.

  I thought—But even if everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds —

  Then he said ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

  I said ‘I don’t know, have you?’

  He said ‘Excuse me.’

  He got up and went to talk to the man behind the counter.

  He seemed to pay for the coffee. Then he went out through a door at the back.

  I thought—Perhaps it was the photograph of me getting out of the car at Mr Perhaia’s party?

  Or—Could he be all the time one of Uncle Bill’s detectives put on to follow me —

  I could explain to Dr Anders—But this is still the point: if you just let things happen truly, at least you get a cup of coffee —

  — But perhaps I should not think that I could talk about this too much anyway.

  The man behind the counter was eyeing me suspiciously.

  After a time I went out into the street. There was no sign of the flat-faced man.

  I thought—And I did know, all the time, that nothing unpleasant would happen, didn’t I!

  Then—One day there will be horses, or birds, to carry me to my beloved.

  VIII

  ‘Brian, this is Bert.’

  ‘Hullo, Bert.’

  ‘This is Brian.’

  The meeting that Sheila had arranged for me to talk with Brian Alick turned out to be taking place at a party at the house of Sally Rogers, a television personality. Sally Rogers had once been an interviewer on television; then she had become involved with the Young Trotskyites. She was now much in demand on talk-shows to give the revolutionary point of view; which she did in a way that did not upset people, talking pleasantly about the need to break up society for the good of the people in it; thus encouraging the people watching her I suppose to imagine, because she was pretty, that the sooner society was broken up the better; because there might then be a better chance for people like them to go to bed with people like Sally Rogers.

  ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Bert?’

  When we had arrived at the party Sheila had taken me straight to Brian Alick: she had not even introduced me to Sally Rogers. Brian Alick was a short, compact man with smooth hair and a grey flannel suit and eyes that looked over my shoulder as if towards an autocue.

  ‘Shall we sit here?’

  When people wait for me to talk in public, it is once more as if all the lights have come on too brightly in a theatre and there is nothing for anyone to do except leave the building.

  I sat with a glass in my hand and I wondered about language being useless because it could only say one thing at a time: while what things are truly is always a network of connections.

  There were about twenty people in the room. It was a sort of drinks party. I was being treated as if I were on television.

  I said ‘Why do you think if you got power—’

  There was this line of guns shooting down messages between my brain and my muscles: I thought—Is it my body that cannot bear this simplicity —

  ‘—you would be any different from—’

  — but with people who talk fluently is there not always something projected blindly like an autocue, and not a bird, behind one’s head —

  ‘—from any other communist government in power—’

  My stammer was having the effect of people paying attention to me: or rather not quite to me, but slightly to one side of me, as if there might be knobs there which might adjust my programme.

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘—which—’

  ‘Sorry.’ This was Brian Alick

  ‘—can only maintain itself in power—’

  Sally Rogers was watching me intently. She was a brown-faced, dry-skinned woman like a Californian tennis player.

  ‘—by means of a secret police—’

  Dr Anders had once said—You know how attractive it is when you stammer?

  ‘—the chief aim of which is—’

  I thought—This cannot be attractive!

  Then—If I get out of this alive, might I get off with Sally Rogers?

  ‘—to oppress the workers that they say they want to liberate.’

  I had finished. I seemed to have taken about ten minutes. I tried not to let my breath out too heavily.

  I thought—It is an effort like making love to Sheila?

  Also—Did not Plato say, somewhere, that there is a vulgarity in people who are too fluent and precise?

  Brian Alick waited for a time as if to make sure I had finished: then he spoke with his eyes still over my shoulder.

  ‘I suppose we are talking about the Soviet Union. Now as you know we are opposed to the Soviet Union. We consider in fact that the Soviet Union has quite deliberately betrayed socialism—’

  I thought—But with people who speak fluently, isn’t it then the case that their mouths are different from their anuses?

  — But still, it is the case that their mouths are where things go in?

  ‘—as Trotsky himself said as early as 1927. No, the role of the party in a workers’ social state—’

  Sally Rogers was standing with her legs apart and was watching me as if I were one of her tennis balls in California—

  ‘—but I need not go on about this. Take the example for instance of Chile—’

  — Her legs bent slightly inwards at the knees: turn her over, and her sand would run down the other way as in an hourglass —

  ‘—No, what we say is, give power to the British worker—the British worker who is a responsible and sophisticated political being—and you will find, once he has been liberated from the conditioning of his oppressed and oppressive past—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘—that he will be able to look after his own interests: and how will it be in his interests to let himself be oppressed by what will be after all his own police?’

  I thought—Sally Rogers might be like Miss Paragon the Belgian Schoolmistress.

  ‘But you were saying?’ This was Brian Alick.

  I thought—One day, you old man at my windpipe, I will get you before you get me.

  ‘How—’

  I thought—I will now do my breathing exercises: in, one two: hold it, three four: out, five six seven eight—like one of those statues t
hat stare out, or wait to give birth, over the banks of the Nile.

  ‘Take your time, Bert.’

  ‘How will you free him?’

  ‘Free him?’

  ‘The British worker. From his conditioning.’

  ‘It will take some re-education certainly—’

  ‘But that’s—’

  ‘—what we’re planning—’

  ‘—what would be done by—’

  ‘—as I was saying —’

  ‘—the secret police.’

  I thought suddenly—Is it the point of my stammering that I won’t accept that I may have to attack people?

  — But still, who would be hurt?

  Brian Alick said ‘No. We see this as much more of a natural process when once the substructure and superstructure of an oppressive society have been taken away—’

  But how —

  And so on: round and round: like mice on a treadmill

  I thought—I am frightened of myself being hurt? Of Brian Alick being hurt? Of my opponent, whoever he is, lunging forwards and flying out of the window?

  ‘—a natural process as much as a part of the processes of history—’

  I thought—It is life that does the hurting; and the reeducation, certainly; I should not fear it.

  Then there came in at the door, as late arrivals at the party, a group of people who were like dancers coming on half way through an opera: people different from the others on the stage: very conscious of themselves, of their bodies, of how they looked and moved; in contrast to the lumpishness of an opera chorus —

  ‘—which after all was seen clearly enough by Trotsky—’

  One of the people who had come in was a girl of about my own age who wore a cap and a sort of jacket with bells —

  Brian Alick’s voice faded as if sound had been switched off.

  — a girl with such softness, tightness about her; such a taste of dust; that at a touch she might crumble; as if exposed in a tomb after thousands of years —

  The camera, my eyes, remained on Brian Alick; his lips moving like mice on a treadmill —

  — someone round and compact as a nut or an internal organ —

  I thought—This, then, is my dark horse? Do I feel life emerging?

  — like a butterfly; a girl with such soft skin over sharp bones; a small, self-reflecting, curly-haired girl —