Dante's Inferno (4 page)

Before we reached the foot

            of that         tower

Our eyes had been glued to its tip

Where two flashlights morsed,

And, so far off our peepers could barely see,

Another flashlight signalled back.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, turning to Berrigan,

‘We’re nicked.’ ‘No such luck,’ he replied,

‘Feast your eyes on the filthy water,

You’ll see our welcoming party soon enough,

Unless the marsh’s vapours

                              hide            it.’

An SLR never shot a bullet

That cut through flesh faster

Than the coracle, covered in Tesco’s bags,

That skimmed towards us, drawn by the shades

Of Brent geese, culled for the royal visit,

With a solitary helmswoman, who was yelling:

‘Now I’ve got you, you wretched soul!

Prepare to burn!’ ‘Hold your geese,

Boudicca,’ my guide replied,

‘This dude’s just visiting.’ If you’ve seen

Someone looking real pissed when they find

Out they’ve been swindled – that was Boudicca.

As Berrigan stepped into the coracle

         he handed me a pill,

                              saying,

‘You might need one of these,’

And only when I followed

                did the coracle begin to rock.

As we cruised the course of that dead lake

Before me there rose up a mud-bespattered shape,

Saying: ‘Who are you, come before you’re called?’

And I replied: ‘Though I come here, I’ve

No intention of staying; but who are you

Sporting that mud-soaked mullet?’

‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘I’m one who weeps.’

‘Weep on,’ I replied, ‘for even covered in that

Stinking slime, I recognise you.’

Like a zombie he reached out to rock the boat,

But Berrigan my guide pushed him off with a kick,

Saying: ‘Get down there with the other dogs!’

Then he hugged me,

                   saying: ‘God bless you!

                   Up above this arrogant arsehole

Was obsessed with promotion,

            selling himself to the highest bidder,

                     like the Whore of Babylon.

Many in LiFTS think themselves great scholars,

        who here will wallow like pigs in muck,

           leaving behind their repulsive fame.

In life he did nothing good, and so

           his shade is filled with rage.’

‘Master,’ I said, ‘call me a sadist,

But I’d love to see him dumped

                         deep in the         slop,

                             before we leave.’

‘Just watch,’ Berrigan replied, and soon after

I saw the wretch set upon

                        by a crowd:

‘Get Harry Potter!’ they all shouted,

And at that war cry the Frankfurter, gone mad,

Turned on himself and bit his own fingers,

The blood oozing like ketchup.

We left him there, I’ll say no more about him.

The sound of drum and bass began to pound my ears

And made me peer ahead across the water.

‘Approaching,’ said Berrigan, ‘is Cannabis Castle,

with its iron walls and its hardened dopers.’

And I: ‘Already I can see the

        bright glow of the spliffs

                                 across the swamp.’

And he to me: ‘Those are rather fires,

From nightlights carelessly left burning

On stereos and televisions,

Causing the eternal conflagration

                    that burns within,

       that no fire-extinguisher can put out.’

We sailed around till at last we

        reached the shore, where Boudicca shouted:

‘Alight here! This is the entrance-way!’

I saw the best minds of the Student Union

Perched above the gates, enraged, screaming:

‘Who’s this cunt approaching? Who, without a

Student card, dares to enter the kingdom of

The dead?’ My wise teacher flashed his ID,

Asking to speak to them in private.

They suppressed their rage enough to say:

‘You may enter, but that breather

                                  goes no further.

Let him retrace his fool’s path

                     alone, let’s see him try.

You’re staying right here where you belong!’

Gentle reader, imagine how I shat myself,

When those words reached my ears!

I thought I’d never see the light of day more.

‘Ted,

          don’t leave me here,

                                          I beg you!’ I cried,

‘If we can’t go any further,

           let’s turn tail now,

                     while we still can.’

Then Berrigan, who had guided me this far,

Took out his Lucky Strikes,

                and offered me a smoke.

‘Wait here,’ he said, ‘and don’t despair yet.

You can bet your bottom dollar

                I won’t leave you in this hell-hole.’

At this, he walked away,

               to parley with them,

Leaving me to battle with my thoughts.

I couldn’t hear what he proposed,

        but they were having none of it.

I saw them turn

                   and shut the heavy gates

In Berrigan’s face.

                   He turned towards me

His eyes downcast,

             playing with his beard.

‘Who are these shits to forbid my entrance

To the halls of grief?

                 But don’t worry,

They haven’t got a leg to stand on.

This insolence of theirs is nothing new,

They showed it once before, at the Knowledge Gateway,

Which I can assure you

                                      is now unlocked.

You saw the deadly words inscribed on its portals.

And now, already through them, comes one

Who will open this fucking gate for us.’

When I saw Berrigan bounced back,

Anger painting his complexion red,

I turned white as a sheet;

He tried to calm himself,

Taking a long drag

                               on his cigarette.

‘Why the Hell are they blocking our path,

Surely… but no, we’ve been promised help

From the highest authority,

We just need to play it cool.’

I saw all too clearly how his words

Plastered over a niggling doubt,

And couldn’t help imagining the worst:

This is where our journey ends,

And there’s no way back.

Tentatively, I put the question to him:

‘Has anyone from your circle

Ever entered the halls before?’

At first he looked at me frowningly,

Then he chuckled,

                       flicking away his ash.

‘I see where you’re coming from,’ he said.

‘Only once in a blue moon

                      is someone foolish enough

To make this trip on which I go,

But in fact I’ve been down here

                                  once before.

We were running out of weed,

Not to mention amphetamines,

And Ed Dorn bet me a quarter

I couldn’t blag my way in here to score.

Security wasn’t so tight back then,

I followed the beat up to the tenth floor

Where a guy called Rots used to have digs,

A maths student who supported himself by dealing.

To cut a long story short, I won the bet.’

He said more, too, but I forget the details,

For suddenly my eyes were drawn upwards

To a window near the top of the tower

Where three drunk students

Were leaning out, their hair dyed blonde,

Their look betraying a bad attitude.

They had fuck-off faces, heavily beslapped,

Their eyebrows studded with diamonds,

And round their bare waists hung gold chains.

Berrigan, who knew well the SU crowd,

Cried out:

                 ‘Look! The Essex Girls!

That’s Big Meg, the one on the left,

And that one raving on the right’s Sexy Lexi,

Tiffany’s the one in the middle.’

In a flash they stuck out their tits

Then turned round

                            to show us their arses.

‘Jordan, over ’ere, we’ll give him a boner!’

They shouted, leering down at us

Through false eyelashes.

‘Turn around now and shut your eyes,’

Said my gentle guide, ‘for if Jordan comes,

No mortal can resist her charms.’

Thus spoke Berrigan, who stubbed out his fag,

And turned me around himself,

Putting his sticky fingers over my eyes.

(All of you here who understand textual

Analysis and hermeneutics, note

The symbolism in the above passage;

Any resemblance of the characters

To persons living or dead

Is coincidental.)

And then, across the filthy water,

Came an explosion of sound

Which made both sides of the lake tremble.

It sounded like one of those freak hurricanes

Whipped up by the clash of counter-temperatures

That tear through buildings and streets

Tossing trees and cars aloft like toys.

Berrigan freed my eyes and said:

‘Now turn round and take a look across

The pond, there where the mist is thickest.’

And as my eyes once more adjusted to

The light, I saw the figures

In the mud swim for all they were worth,

As frogs will flee a lawnmower,

To get out of the way of a jet-ski

Which tore across the swelling waters

Scything off ears and toes as it went

Carrying a man who must be the head porter.

I turned round to speak to Ted

But he made me a secret sign

Telling me straight away to zip the lip

In the presence of this man from security.

Oh, what scorn poured forth from his lips,

Aimed at the surly students,

As he reached the heavy gates

To the burning tower, pulled out his keys,

And opened them without resistance.

‘You bunch of utter wankers!

How dare you piss about like this

And get me out at this time of the night.

Any more trouble like this

And the lot of you will face disciplinary action.

And turn that fucking noise down while you’re at it!’

He turned round then and rode back,

Across the squalid swan’s road,

Answering a call on his mobile,

And on his furrowed brow you could see

The look of one with different worries

That were not those he found surrounding him.

We entered the tower without opposition,

And I, anxious to investigate the

Students who lodged in such a fortress,

                                    cast my eyes about,

And saw in every direction

A dwelling of desolation and abjection.

As at Arles, where the Rhone stagnates,

Or as at St Mary’s in Colchester,

Where the lids of the sepulchres

Are broken

                                     and cast about,

So the rooms here were in a mess,

And burning all about were fierce flames

Which kept the rooms far hotter

Than any summer barbecue.

Each room had its fire-door loose, torn off

                          at the hinges,

And from within came fierce laments.

‘Master,’ I asked, ‘what souls are these who,

Stuck in these stinking digs,

Make themselves known by their powerful sighs?’

And Berrigan replied: ‘Here lie wasters,

Addicts, gluttons and party-goers,

A lazy bunch who rarely leave their rooms

Except to get a fix or pick a fight.

All sorts are crammed in here,

Left to cook like baked potatoes.’

Then, after turning at the top of the stairs,

We passed a kitchen

                     bellowing acrid smoke,

And continued our ascent.

Now by a narrow stairwell

Between the lift-shaft and the outer wall

My master went on, and I behind.

‘Dear Berrigan,’ I said, ‘trusted guide,

Who leads me through these smoking squats,

Tell me, will we get a chance to see

The souls who lie within these rooms?

The doors are off,

                 and nobody’s standing guard.’

To which Berrigan: ‘You should bear in mind

The lesson which helped you get out of

Belfast alive: “Let sleeping dogs lie.”’

At Berrigan’s words, a man wearing

The bloodied apron of a butcher,

Who at first I mistook for a student

In fancy dress, poked his reddened

Face out of a smoking doorway,

And eyed us up and down with a look of

Astonishment. ‘What are you doing here,’

He said, ‘a living soul patrolling the corridors

Of the dead? And did I hear you mention

Belfast, that strife-torn city, which once

I called home?’ With a gentle push

Berrigan encouraged me to move forwards

Towards the door: ‘Choose your words with care,’

He whispered. ‘Tell me,’ I said,

‘For I too hail from that self-same city,

Though my accent has faded with time,

Forced into exile as I was

Still in the flush of youth,

What part did you play in the troubled

Past of that bloody city?’ At that

He pulled himself up with pride

Smoothing his apron down with his hands,

And spoke: ‘Young man, let me tell you,

I ran a salutary business in the

Pork trade, and I pride myself to this day

That it was my pork sausages,

Not an inferior variety, like those

Supplied by Walls or Colin Glenn,

That fed the paras and the RUC,

Not to mention the students of this establishment,

Till the dirty Fenians took revenge,

Burning down all my slaughterhouses

Till in the end I was almost glad of the day

They showed up at my door dressed in

Balaclavas, carrying their sawn-off shotguns

Like the cowards they were, and blew my face off.’

By the time he had finished speaking

I had reached the threshold of his room.

He looked me in the eye and asked,

Half-contemptuously: ‘And who would your ancestors be?’

And I, who wanted only to oblige him,

Held nothing back, but told him freely

All he might wish to know. At which

He raised his brows a little, then said:

‘Your family, then, must have been the owners of

That damned dog that roamed

The streets like a vagabond, and never let off

Pestering my bitches when they were in heat.

Not once, but twice, I dragged him back

To your house by the scruff of his neck,

Swearing if he ever showed his face again

I’d make him into sausage meat!’

Just then, round the same door’s battered frame,

A shadow arose, visible to the chin;

It raised itself upon its knees

And looked about as if it hoped to see

Whether someone else was accompanying me,

And when its expectation was quenched

It stuttered, weeping: ‘If it be genius

That gives you the right to freely roam

This blind prison, where is my boy,

Whose scholarship in US Studies

Is second to none, and why

Is he not by your side?’ ‘I’m not alone,’

I said, ‘that man who waits over there

Guides me through this stinking cauldron,

A poet, perhaps, your Owen held in scorn?’

(His face, and the question he posed, revealed his name

To me, and made my pointed answer possible.)

At once, he sprang up to his full height and cried:

‘What did you say? He
held
? Is he not living then?’

And when he heard the silence

                                                of my delay

In responding to his question, he fell back

Into his room, not to be seen again.

The other shade, who’d been talking before,

Showed no concern at all, but turned to me,

Picking up where he’d left off:

‘Tell me, for you might know the answer,

Why did Essex cancel its contracts with me

In the 1970s? What was wrong with my bangers?’

‘I’m sure there was nothing wrong with them,”

I said, ‘but the students of that day

Were mostly hippies, vegetarians who stuck

Two fingers up at the meat industry;

They were the generation that picketed

The livestock exports from Brightlingsea:

Butchery was out of fashion.’ ‘Unjust! Unjust!’

He cried, ‘A bunch of pot-smoking good-for-nothings!

Let me tell you now, for the record,

This craze for vegetarianism, of which you speak,

Is one whose years are numbered;

Before the passage of fifty moons

It will have died out completely;

And in days to come the fur trade too

Will make a healthy comeback:

Not far off lies the day when coats

Of mink and fox fur, badger, bear,

And even Dalmatian will again be worn with pride!’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ I said,

‘But tell me, can you answer a question

That’s been bugging me:

If I understand correctly, all of you

Can see ahead to what the future holds,

But your knowledge of the present is shaky.’

‘Here we see like those with an eye defect,’

He said, ‘what’s in the distance we see

Clearly, with 20/20 vision,

But when an object is up close

It’s all a blur; without gossip

We’d know nothing of your living state.’

Then, moved by regret for what I’d done

I said: ‘Will you tell your room-mate

His son is still among the living,

And if, when he asked, I held my silence,

Let him know that as he spoke all my thought

Was taken up with that point you’ve explained.’

Berrigan had begun to call me back,

So quickly I asked the shade to tell me

What other souls were cooking in this tower.

He said: ‘More than a thousand souls lie here

With me, among them some of the Angry Brigade,

One of them’s another poet

Wrongly imprisoned in life,

Who now spends her days imprisoned here,

Anna Mendelssohn, also known as Grace,

Of the rest I speak not.’ Then he was gone,

And I turned back towards Berrigan,

Thinking on what this man had said about the fur trade.

We moved on, and as we went, Berrigan asked:

‘What’s bugging you now? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

And I satisfied him in his question.

‘Look,’ he said firmly, ‘what these people say needs

To be taken with a pinch of salt.’

Then he turned to the left, up a stairway,

And we were nearly knocked out by a fearful stink.