The Avignon Quintet (166 page)

The boy had settled down very comfortably, having found companions of his own age at the farm. He had been instantly adopted by the farmer and his wife, and made free of the place. What more intoxicating place than a farm with all its livestock to fire the mind of a child? But he had also, in some curious way, adopted Blanford; he had begun to show a preference for his company over the others’. Often when Aubrey was lying down – an enforced rest or siesta, say, for his back – the boy would appear and ask to be read to. Or he wished to play a game, or learn how to play backgammon. Blanford found this profoundly touching, and at once complied. It was as if Constance herself had asked him for these trifling favours. He loved the boy with this transferred love, the rival of Sylvie, so to speak. He wondered what it would be like to have a child of his own – he supposed that there was no experience in life so strange and so unique as to create another human being. Once the boy said, “You will stay with us, won’t you?” and he was surprised for he supposed that the child had overheard some of their deliberations, their expressed doubts and hesitations. “Would you like that?” he said, feeling absurdly moved and flattered. The boy nodded in solemn fashion. “You play games so nicely,” he explained, “and you always explain things to me!” An obscure shyness prevented him from recounting any of this to Constance. But she noticed for herself – small touches of affection and confidence marked the relation; when out walking in the courtyard, for example, the boy might take the hand of Blanford in an absentminded way; or break step in order to let their footsteps chime. On the other hand the embraces of Sylvie, which were on the effusive side, made the child ever so slightly impatient – anxious to be released. It was a strange polarity of inner feelings, yet it must have been based on some sort of sense of discrimination and insight, for when Felix Chatto arrived he was immediately accepted on the same basis by the boy, and instantly. About Felix Blanford was not surprised – he had developed into a most charming human being. A little bit of professional success and a sortie into the social world where he might receive the favours of women and so assume himself and gain confidence – it had served him in good stead, and he had not wasted his time. His scope had broadened with his new charm; even his looks had changed, had improved. He was lean and brown now in physique and with a high sense of irony, as befitted somebody in diplomacy, where one is always in danger of being besotted by protocol and caution. And a wry sense of humour set off to perfection his shy and self-deprecating manner. Most important of all he had managed now to get upon even terms with Lord Galen and was no more oppressed and intimidated by the shadow of the great man. He was able to stand his ground and have opinions of his own. The boot was, in fact, on the other foot, for Lord Galen had become diffident and hesitant with
him
, and of late had started to defer to
his
opinions. Indeed he had even been invoked to bring some critical judgement to bear upon the Templar Treasure investment – was it worth continuing the quest, or should it be given up as useless? The debate which was now going to ensue upon the matter would largely turn upon his private opinion as to the soundness of the venture. Time had enabled him to turn the tables on his seniors. All this put him into a very good humour, enabled him to support with sangfroid the Prince’s own dark humour. But it was evident that on the question of their so-called investment he harboured more doubts than hopes, despite the tantalising elements which Quatrefages had revealed in the construction of his Templar wall-map, despite the reluctance of Lord Galen to relinquish all hope of finding a treasure buried in the crypt of some old castle. “I shall be sorry to play the ‘killjoy’,” he told Blanford, “but good sense is good sense, particularly in finance!”

“Finance again!” cried Sutcliffe later that night. “But did Felix tell you of his mission to China, to help advise them on how to balance their budget? Galen sent him from Geneva. Did he?” Blanford shook his head. Overwhelmed by his excitement, Sutcliffe tapped his own temples with a clenched fist, but softly, and said: “I will, then. My goodness, what an adventure for Felix.

“When he arrived he found them all convulsed with enthusiasm for Zen Buddhism, of all things! Yes, I know, I know. In the Marxist Ministry of Finance they had never heard of such a thing. But they were working with an American adviser called O’Schwartz if you please and he had told them that the only future for China lay in tourism. They must provide facilities and he, O’Schwartz (he said he was from an old Irish family, Madison Avenue Irish) would guarantee the tourists. All America would rush to visit China, but it must have not only accommodation but also sports like tennis, golf, water skiing, etc., and Zen Buddhism. They looked puzzled and asked what the devil that might be. They’d never heard of it. Well, O’Schwartz told them that everyone knew what it was, it was kinda religious only needed no effort. He knew that there was money in it because the Rothschilds were on to it and it was given away free with every packet of crisps by the Club Mediterranée. Now the American tourist insisted on the best and nothing but; if he did not find Zen on the menu he would feel he was being cheated. Obediently they got to work and a professor was found who had heard of the article. He told them of the epoch-making arrival of Bodhidharma from India, where he had been the twenty-eighth patriarch, in order to become the first in China. Dazed, they heard him describe the long incubation in the cave, where the sage sat facing a blank wall for so many years until the King asked him what he had gained from the practice, only to be told, ‘Nothing at all, your Majesty!’ This really baffled the Chinese, but O’Schwartz stuck to his guns, and they turned to Felix for confirmation of the fact that American tourists would feel happier if they could visit, for example, the original cave or the original wall. They had sent out scouts to try and locate the original cave where the practice of Zazen was first initiated. In the meantime, while waiting for news of it, they addressed themselves to the formidable problems raised by the other requisites – the large hotels, beaches, excursions, shopping centres. Finally word came back that a cave – perhaps the original, perhaps not – had been found and was open for their inspection. But it was a long way off and would necessitate a long journey by train and jeep and finally mule. The old sage never did things by halves. It was remote, this cave. Felix was full of misgivings, but O’Schwartz was adamant. They must really take the trouble to look at it on behalf of future tourist activities. In fairness to the Ministry it must be said that they did not insist on the
original
cave – it was the relentless American adviser who did. Any bit of wall, any cave, would do, thought the Ministry. But at the prompting of O’Schwartz the Professor took charge of them and off they set on a long journey by river and pure jungle towards the keystone of the old sage’s edifice. Wild country, yes, and full of rock-panthers of a beautiful ivory hue which they caught sight of from time to time, but rarely for they were shy and of a guilty conscience. This animal delights in the flesh of dogs, just as man does in the flesh of fowls. At first they divined their invisible presence as they advanced because their dogs began to disappear one by one, and noiselessly, with hardly a bark or a shriek; they melted into invisibility as if some unknown hand had sifted them away. It was unnerving – like swimmers taken by a shark. Once or twice they caught a glimpse of these favoured great creatures which seemed to have stepped out of an old engraving or a wash drawing of the middle period. At night they drew close about the fire which they were forced to light in the wilderness in order to keep the panthers at bay. They slept badly with their huddle of dogs. It was wild country with no towns and no taverns. So at last they came to the place of the cave.

The old scholar who led the party was a vague and prosy old gentleman whose exposition was blurred and whose knowledge was full of gaps. Fortunately Felix knew a little and O’Schwartz also. As for Bodhidharma the only painting extant is too late to have been done from life. The sage’s eyes are crossed from his exertions. Diplopia giving the impression of the pineal eye, the Third Eye in full flower. The only painting shows the tender clown with painted tears engrossed on his face, fixed like the flared nostrils of painted rocking-horses uprearing to the winds of heaven. When the poor little king, so thirsty for instruction, asked old Bod just what forty years of speechless wall-gazing had done for him, the great one returned a somewhat dusty answer. ‘Forget it, cod,’ he said, or words to that effect. There was in fact nothing that
could
be predicated about the experience he had been through. Either one twigged or not; there was nothing to say about so private an inkling of truth. The King sighed. (Was memory then so tenacious? The keystone to the average human condition was, as always, stress and fret and frenzy. The squalid and chubby self was still in the centre of the picture.)

Zazen, as he christened it, was the dire and absolute procedure which enabled him to effect a breakthrough into the other register of consciousness – the open realm or field where the whole of consciousness floated, detached and sublime. The cave they had found was large and silent, its walls like superb natural frescos of blood-red stone – intricate interlacings almost suggesting a human hand’s work. It was not here that he squatted, the sage, for these graffiti could have reminded him of things, and he was not allowed to have either associations or even memories. His purified outlook upon the sublime was empty of every qualification! He was glimpsing the very ‘itness’ of things, of all nature, if you wish. He plucked this dense wall as one plucks a goose, or a picker picketh fruit or moss, absently present all the time. This kind of reality had no Therefore in it. Bodyless, Boneless, Soundless and Meaningless – it was full of information for his parched intuition. Reality now was sweet as a plum, romantic as wedding cake among these neolithic veins of gorgeous stone which he rejected in favour of a barren uncoloured strip of cave. A far corner which was not declamatory, which was worth its weight in … The tremendous plumage of nonentity – gazing into it he realised all the riches of his inmost dowry. All Sesame slid back – it was a simply mental knack to slide the panel back upon the mirror of truth! The place, so ordinary for him, would become hallowed through the bald irreverence of the horde. Early tourists must have come. They visited bones until they dissolved into dust. Then with moistened finger they licked up his dust or supposed dust. Now only the wall remained on view for a century or two – orders of the Ministry. But ‘Is this
really
all there is to see?’ they ask the guide. Perhaps one could X-ray the wall, and catch a glimpse of the treasures inside? No, since then man has lived on in ever-increasing embarrassment at this power-cut in the central vision. The travel agencies can do nothing except repeat promises of their good faith. It is not the original wall – it proved to be too far away; so they settled for a cave which was more easily accessible to the tourist. But the original – Felix was aware of the importance of the experience O’Schwartz had given him, and he was duly grateful. In the silence of the cave he stood and counted the golden register of his lagging heartbeats. He could not help but think in quotation either – Plato’s mystical cave with its shadows loomed up in memory. Plato’s cave was the un-purged cave of human consciousness. The soul’s bargain basement which old B. had turned into a jumble sale! Fecit! With only his eyeballs for probes he exhausted the contents of the blank wall by a relentless attention to its focal beauty. Plucking a blank wall with primal sight – a wall dense with music like some carnal plum. This is what gave the old lad his fatal ZA – his
do-re-me-fa-so
! What he was rewarded with was something that would not melt in silence, nor pucker in wind, nor be honed by mischief-makers, nor claimed by clowns. Within it all polarities ceded. Never was it to be disavowed by the wrong love.

In this critical wall he saw a mirror reflecting the whole retrievable inward chaos of man. He harnessed the energy it gave off, fully aware that one day local fame would become world renown; yet the plight of human happiness could not be changed by simply changing the metaphors for desire. The real original sin of the affect was trying to perpetuate the transitory. Water, itself the symbol of ancient purity, stagnates without motion, without movement. This was old B.’s simple ZA! Hunting down an old spontaneousness which had once been innate, unrehearsed: pining to dwell once more, and this time for ever, in a perfected nonchalance of being! This he managed to do with the bare bodkin of his human probe-his eyeballs. The old
TU QUOQUE
gave place to rest and silence. As he told the king: ‘Imitate plants in their defencelessness. If you are a love-child it doesn’t matter if your father is only a groom. The art of fishing is never to let the fish know that you are in love with it! To heighten pleasure tighten pain. The highest sensuality lies in repressing the hunger.’ What marvels of insight emerge from privation! What a marvellous topic was silence! (The king burst into tears. He had tried so
hard
and here he was: out of his depth!) All these aphorisms, the spawn of insight! It was such bad taste – altogether too literary. The soft reversal of the real provokes a wholesome vertigo in the opinionated. The hairpin bends where death attends. The secret plumage of the rock gave him the information that he needed. He marvelled at the sapience of his triumphant ZA! There was no written text, no code for this passion. A slip of the pen in the dog-days of love – he now knew how to be vigilant in silence and quite sorrowless. The sources of culture were obvious now. The origin of all drama was incest! The role of the physician was to purge our childhood of wishes.

There he sat, the old crystal-chafer, quietly rubbing his soft lampoon and daring humanity to dare.”