The Brooke-Rose Omnibus (14 page)

– There you go again with your sick talk. I said anterior to collective representations. What did you say you were, a physicist? You must know very well that the development of phenomena is correlative to that of consciousness. And that therefore the prehistory of the earth as described by modern science was not only never seen, it never occurred.

– But carbon 14 –

– There you go, assuming that the behaviour of particles remained unchanged over aeons. All you’re entitled to assume is that phenomena would have been as now described if they had been seen by people with the same kind of perception as man has evolved only quite recently. A mere few hundred years.

– Help, help! The crocodiles! They’re slimy. They’re crowding in down the corridor on their hind legs. I’m strangling one. I’m strangling the second. I’m strangling the third. The fourth. I’m strangling the fifth. After five is numberlessness. They go into the collective genitive. They crowd in, help, help.

– Merge, you fool, merge.

– Help!

– All right, if you must have your crude symbols and your schematisations, there’s only one way out. You see these cabins along the corridor. They’re for changing. We’ll shepherd the crocodiles into them. That’s it. One by one. You see, they’re quite gentle really.

– The floor’s wet.

– Well of course, this is an indoor swimming-bath. Now you listen to me, there are three floors, we’re in the basement. Above us, people slide in to the swimming-pool from the same level. Above that, there is a gallery, and they dive in. Down here however, we have to go in through these round glass portholes. They’re like submarine escape-hatches, only you can swim straight across the two membranes and up through the water. The process is known as osmosis. It’s quite a long way up, so take a very deep breath, now, come along, don’t be afraid, in you go, merge, in you fool, go on or I’ll have to push you.

– No! No! No!

The ceiling is pink and veined in white, and a long way away. The wall ahead is pink above a glossy and pale orange door. To the immediate right, very close to the eyes is a wall of pink veined marble. The veins are enormous, they leap out like a white network made to catch floating eyes. The wall is not very high, half a metre perhaps or a little more, edged by a two centimetre mud-coloured band where the marble has been removed. To the immediate left, very close to the eyes, is another wall of pink veined marble, half a metre high or a little more, also edged with a mud-coloured band where the marble has been removed. Beyond this low wall, some way away, is a high pink marble wall, joining the pink marble ceiling. Inside the head is a hammer striking at a chisel. The wall beyond the low wall to the right is
mud-coloured
, with some of the pink stripped off, the frontier between the pink and the mud being straight and vertical half way up the wall, then zig-zagging to the ceiling. The straightness of the line to the floor is an item of returning knowledge, for it cannot be wholly seen from this position. The body lies in the sunken marble bath. Inside the head a hammer is striking at a chisel.

– Oh! I’m sorry, I forgot – good heavens! What a funny place to rest. You look as if you were lying in a coffin. No don’t move, I’m sure you’ve earned your break. I forgot this bathroom was being done, you see. Oh, yes, you’ve done a lot already. Are you alone?

– Erm, yes … yes, ma’am.

– I say, are you all right? You look terribly white.

– I am white.

– Now, now, no inverted snobbery, you know what I meant. Aren’t you … yes, you are, aren’t you … Lilly’s husband?

– Yes, ma’am.

– No, don’t get up. I say, you do look ill. Anything wrong?

– I – erm – I think I must have fainted. The last thing I remember, I was on top of that ladder. Then I was in here. And my head –

– Give me your hand, you’d better sit up. There. Can you try and get to your feet and sit on the edge of the bath? That’s better. I want you to put your head down between your knees. There. No? You feel sick. Yes of course. Look, I’ll sit down here with my feet in the bath and you lie down alongside it with your head on my lap. Stretch your legs out, that’s right. Or raise your knees perhaps, it might be more comfortable on this hard floor. You poor old thing. Just relax. Don’t keep turning your head.

– Mr. Swaminathan –

– Oh don’t worry about him, he’s gone up country to the Farming Estate.

– He has? How long?

– Did you say how long for?

– How long has he been gone?

– I’ve no idea, a week, ten days. How are you feeling?

– Oh, better, much better. If I could, if you don’t mind, just a moment longer –

– Close your eyes then, and relax.

Under the red networks of the eyelids in the sunlight, the dark curves of chin and lips and nose seen from below the breasts that are ensilked in orange fill up the eyespace
shimmering
with black and yellow and pink. Nevertheless it bears a close resemblance to the real thing, as a mere lifting of the lids can prove and does. The face looks down. The left nostril wears a blue-green stone set in gold. The eyes strike deep, a rich, chromatic chord. The ceiling is pink and veined in white, and a long way away. The wall ahead is pink above and around a glossy and pale orange door. To the immediate right –

– How are you feeling?

The thick lips are unsmiling. The expression is one of concern.

– All right, I think. I’m very sorry. You’ve been so kind. So very kind. Woops. Oh, thank you. It is Mrs. Mgulu, isn’t it?

– The same.

– I don’t know how to thank you. You shouldn’t have – really.

– That’s enough of that. If a person can’t help a
fellow-creature
in distress, well, where would we all be? But tell me, why did it happen? Was it the sun? It is hot in here I must say. Facing South and under the roof. Why don’t you leave the door open to create a draught?

– Well, the noise, ma’am, and the dust.

– Or are you … ill?

– Oh, no, no, not at all, I assure you. I love my work. I’m so grateful to you. Nineteen months, you see, it’s demoralising. I once took a degree in Creative Thought.

The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord. The stone in the left nostril is an alexandrite perhaps, blue-green by day, with purple shafts. The wide lips are edged with mauve, they purse in mock reproach that bears a strong resemblance to the real thing. It hurts, down the back of the neck, then
forwards
, spreading throatwise through the chest.

– You don’t have to impress me, you know, I love people as they are. And I’m glad I’ve been of help, not just for Lilly’s sake but for your own. Now, are you going to be all right? I don’t think you should be working up here all alone, that wasn’t the idea at all. And in a pink bathroom too, right at the top of the house.

– It’s nice, this pink marble.

– Oh, do you like it? It’s very old-fashioned, it must have been put in when the house was built I shouldn’t wonder. It’s all going to be changed into a hairdressing salon for my guests. Right through into the next room.

– What colour?

– I haven’t thought yet. Black probably. Though that’s not very original. Or purple. I’m very fond of purple. But I really can’t think what Mr. Swaminathan was doing, putting you up here, all alone in a pink bathroom. I must speak to him.

– No, no, please don’t, he’ll think –

– He won’t think anything, he’s my servant. One has to speak to them, you know.

– But I thought –

– Well don’t. A pink bathroom at the top of the house, really. No wonder you fainted. Sheer introversion. And I had him trained in human relations, mind you, he should have known better.

– Mrs. Mgulu –

– Yes?

– I beg you not to speak to him. I like it up here. And I like Mr. Swaminathan.

– I see. But work is a social function. You must learn to relate, you know. I’ve taken a special interest in you for Lilly’s sake, and for your own, and from now on you’ll do as I say.

– Yes ma’am.

– I’m going to keep my eyes open.

– Yes ma’am.

The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord, that echoes in the blood long after it has come and gone.

Whereas no amount of positive evidence can ever
conclusively
prove a hypothesis, no evidence at all is needed for a certainty acquired by revelation. Why him? That’s a very good question. Why now? That is an ignorant remark. In an age of international and interracial enlightenment such as ours revelation is open to all, regardless of age, sex, race or creed. It is not, however, compulsory. It’s entirely up to you. Just fill up this form and queue here.

Mrs. Ned’s arms throw her laughter about, it rebounds against the kitchen walls and she catches it. The goitre moves slowly up and down as she relishes the idea. It is possible, after all, to act out these things. With a little concentration, she can be made to give the correct reply. The evening breeze moves the bead curtain imperceptibly, so that through it the slanted glow from the setting sun can be seen reflected in the verandah glass of Monsieur Jules’s bungalow. The red stone floor is dark and still.

– You provoked it you know, your unconscious did, I mean, the fainting, and her coming in just in time to find you.

– Lilly, you shouldn’t have said that. Why didn’t you let Mrs. Ned say it? She was going to.

– No, I wasn’t. I was going to say that it’s an external circumstance. That’s what they call it. So you be careful.

– Of course you’re under-nourished as well. That’s what Mrs. Mgulu said when she told me. Lilly, she said, he’s
undernourished
. She gave me these pep pills for you, they’re rather hard to come by, they’re better than the national ones, she said.

– Isn’t the whole world?

– Oh Mrs. Ned, don’t be morbid. I think I’ll open that tin of pineapple after all.

– I’m not morbid. It always helps me no end to think of those six point two people to the square metre in
Sino-America
. I don’t know how they stand up to it, I really don’t. Afro-Eurasia’s being much cleverer. I mean, it helps me to think how fortunate we are. I didn’t mean –

– No, of course not.

– Yes I will open that tin of pineapple, to celebrate.

Mr. Swaminathan has returned from the Mgulu Farming Estate up-country. He has not nodded and will not nod ever at any time, but the pain, though unallayed, is less acute. He continues to indwell, swaying slightly from side to side, sharing the observation of phenomena. Other people, however, also say the necessary things, from time to time, and no evidence is needed to prove that these things have been said by just these people. With a little concentration from within it is possible after all, to divide oneself and remain whole. At least for a time. There is a record which can be beaten.

– Though of course, there is the spiritual hunger, as you were saying, and that I can’t deny.

– There are plenty of remedies.

– Oh, you’re a great one for remedies, Lilly, I know. But in the end they’re more dangerous than the original –

– Have a slice of pineapple.

– Well, that is kind of you. I was going to say cachexy. Can you spare it? I mean, it was for him, wasn’t it?

– Why him?

– That’s a very good question.

– Why now?

– That is an ignorant remark.

Mrs. Ned’s arms throw her voice about, her laughter
rebounds
against the wall and she catches it excitedly. As for the squint it seems a little wide this evening, the blue mobility of the one eye calling out the blueness of the temple veins and a hint of blue in the white skin around. The skin around the eyes, both the mobile eye and the static eye, is waxy.

But Mr. Swaminathan dwells within, swaying from side to side, aching his absence from the sharing of phenomena.

The floor is almost finished. The other workers have left. From this position, laying the marbled thermoplastic tiles on the last strip of floor between the wash-basins and the dressing-tables, it is possible to distinguish the dark legs of the hairdressing assistants from those of the guests as they step across from time to time in variously coloured shoes, for the hem of their pale orange overalls just comes within the outer orbit of downcast absorption. The guests, however, wear black slipovers. It is necessary to raise the eyelids a fraction to include a serial of long black legs that shoot out, in variously coloured shoes, each leg supported below the knee by another which rests vertically on the thermoplastically marbled floor. Different sizes and darknesses of thigh are underlined variously in red or pink or black. The floor is almost finished, the other workers have left and the salon is functioning in embryo, for a few guests only. The floor is scattered with snippets of dark cut hair, mostly wet and curved, but they dry quickly, and when they dry they thicken out. Some are almost circular. A few are silvery pink or green. A pink and yellow boy in pink and yellow cotton trousers sweeps the snippets with a miniature broom and brings them together in a grey funeral pyre, the colours merging with the dust. The hairdresser himself is a small dark man in
candy-stripe
trousers, with delicate black hands and large brown lips thickly pursed in concentration. Mrs. Mgulu wears golden shoes, and a girl in an orange overall with piled gold hair is lathering her thrown-back head, the neck-line dark and taut, the chin well up and rounded, the lips protruding above it and beyond them the wide nostrils. The gold setting of the alexandrite is just visible on the left nostril. The marbled thermoplastic tiles are purple, with a streak of pink.

– Why now? Why not now? You know the past proves nothing. There’s no such thing as the past, save in the privacy of concupiscence. That’s an article of faith. So stop fretting about how it might have been. Unless of course the urge is too great to be contained. Then go find yourself a whore, a bureaucrat’s willing wife, they’re all willing to
reenact
you know, regardless of race or creed, so just go ahead and indulge yourselves with post-mortems and forged identities. Go on, go on.