The Brooke-Rose Omnibus (52 page)

— Wherever particular people congregate … you smoke too much. You tap your cigarette too often into the ash-tray and you never smoke them to the end, just as you get on
first-name
terms with everyone and don’t remember their
surnames.
So why don’t you marry me after all these years?

— You know why.

— Oh that, I can’t think why you bother. You don’t even believe it any more.

— No.

— Well then, what difference does it make?

— Just—how to explain, a sort of blind protest at the lack of freedom to choose, for or against.

— But my dear, you have the freedom to take no notice. If you no longer believe in the validity of any annulment, or its failure, based on half-truths and antiquated sophistries?

— We live in an age of transition, haven’t you heard? The Church will find a voice. One day. Perhaps.

— Oh yes, the Church reforms but always at least a hundred years too late, and with an agony of resistance over the one per cent of what they ought to do at any one time. Even now—but you know Congresses better than anyone. I wouldn’t mind if they’d got stuck in the 18th century or the 17th, but the 19th, ugh!

— Yes, yes, all right. But calm down. It really doesn’t matter any more we’ve had fun haven’t we?

— We have played those games mein Lieber. Yes. But if it doesn’t matter to you why did you once make it matter to me? For what? Just the need to belong and to obey? Look where that got us before.

Such conversations do occur occasionally representing more or less truly something there no doubt and a small clutch of anguish perhaps moving up quickly to the distant brain way up with where when and to whose heart did one make anything matter?

In Istanbul, considered one of the most beautiful cities in the world, you will find a land of legends and history where East and West come face to face. Its legendary history starts in the eighth century B.C. Founded by the Megarions and called Byzantium after Byzas, their commander, it soon became a trade centre because of dein Brust like a mosque domed on the night-sky my hallowed structure like a minaret piercing the Milky Way with all that gorgeous calligraphy institutionalised and dead.

A la recherche des amours perdues. Lisez l’émouvante histoire de Marie-Félicie de Montmorency. Chantilly 1650. The calendar between the two mirrors shows a beautiful of course Japanese girl in a kimono against lake and pagoda beneath the letters in red ZETINA. Dikiş makina radiolan. Elle aima Monsieur de Montmorency de tous les amours qu’on peut imaginer, car elle n’aima que lui. Above the mirror hangs a pale green sign with large black squiggles on it. The Turkish ladies occupy each hairdresser’s loving
attention
with tall complicated styles regardless of other waiting femininities less confident, every strand here, no there, a little more forward and you’ve brushed the curl right out of it please use the tongs or the Turkish equivalent and taking literally the final Va-bene-così gesture with the mirror held to the back of the head and no, no-va-bene or the Turkish equivalent please brush it out back-comb it re style again and again ancora. Un amour de soutien-gorge. Ça pigeonne formidablement. The man talks to the mirrored reflection of the lady and the lady talks to the mirrored reflection of the man. Seen from the profile they do not proffer anger
dissatisfaction
and polite attempt to please at each other at all but only at the mirror. Votre déodorant. Choisissez-le
sérieusement
chez votre pharmacien. What does that mean? Madame? Up there. Ah. Arabe. Je ne sais pas madame. Just vital mysteries lost, euphemised into proverbs for the day. I wouldn’t mind if they’d got stuck in the eighteenth century or the seventeenth but the nineteenth ugh. Ça va comme ça madame? Oui, merci, teşekkür ederim. Lutfen madame.  Allaha ısmalardık. Güle-güle! So go the thankyous the
goodbyes
the welgohome in the smattering of the mouthpiece at twenty-nine or forty-five even and the baby-face stares out of lather under the letters Müjde! PEARS bebek sabonu—Lux sabonu hayranım. Hayramm. Turkish ladies surely. Hayranım lutfen. Hayranım? Er—la toilette s’il vous plaît. Ah au fond à gauche madame. Merci. Tuvalet. ERKEK. KADIN. Of course KADIN. Ka-dın ka-dın ka-dın. Not hayranım which looked up in the pocket-dictionary says haylaz
faul,
hayli
viel,
hayran
verwundert
where when and to whose heart did one do that?

In Izmir (ancient Smyrna) you will find everything for your convenience and pleasure. The city has an admirable position at the end of the bay of the same name. With its hot dry summers and mild rainy winters mild indeed, does it say mild? Well, if you will arrange your Archaeologists
Congresses
in January. True, madam, but most of us go on digs during the summer. In England for example, at Stonehenge where I have special Wiltshire? How interesting. It forms a perfect centre for visiting the ancient ruins of Ephesus, Pergamon, Troy. Oh, you know Wiltshire? Quite well. Have you ever visited Stonehenge? Where stones talk walk make love have fun until they come to a standstill. Of course. Ah, well, then you will take a special interest I hope in my paper on the relationship between Stonehenge and Mycenae. The lintels you see, constructed by the fire-breathing wolf under the letters Petrol Ofısı and above Güle-güle means that the
grey-lined
bus stretches its innumerable armchairs towards the axe-motif you see passing a place called Yavaş in black letters on yellow. The Archeological Museum, situated in the Kültür (Culture) Park, houses the objects brought from Izmir, Ephesus, Pergamon, Sardes, Aydin, Mügla, Denizli and Miletos. But perhaps you wouldn’t agree? Yavaş. I ought to introduce myself professor William Something didn’t quite catch your name, excuse me, I probably know you, at least, your work in your own field? Oh no, no field at all, just translation you know. Oh? From English? Into what? From French into German. German? Ah. Do you like it? I mean, the work? Do you find the technical jargon hard to follow? Well on one level Yavaş, er, well yes in a way. But everything comes with practice. Even archeology? Everything, excuse me, Monsieur le Président? Oui madame from the seat in front vous voulez du feu? No thank you but we keep passing a place called Yavaş, not on the map have we gone round in madame no wonder, Yavaş means slow. Ah, voilà, merci monsieur. De rien madame. How do you mean everything? Oh, archeology, medicine, irrigation, economic aid for the under-developed areas and so forth. Goodness, do you work it up in advance? A bit, yes. At least the relevant jargon. But one soon learns, and then forgets, you see one has to understand immediately because the thing understood slips away, together with the need to understand. Oh. We even had a conference of archetypologists in Athens last week. Archetypologists? Well, you know, a sort of mixture of mythologists, psychiatrists and structural anthropologists. Structural? What do you mean structural? Well they didn’t make it very clear themselves, really, sometimes it seems to mean the structure of primitive societies, or perhaps the structure of the system they use to make sense of it all,
sometimes
the structure of myths, you know, up into the sky or down into the earth. Ah yes, of course. Unless they meant perhaps the structure of the imagination itself. Oh I see, the imagination. How fascinating.

Where when and to whose heart did one do that? Do what and what difference does it make? None except by subtraction from the marked masculine and unmarked feminine or vice versa as the language of a long lost code of zones lying
forgotten
under layers of thickening sensibilities creeps up from down the years into no more than the distant brain way up to tickle an idle thought such as where when and to whose heart did one do that?

In Troy, located at the entrance of the Dardanelles, 32 kilometres from Çanakkale, on a mount near where the rivers of Dümurek (Symois) and Menderes (Scamander) join together, lie the ruins of the city whose renown Homer of Izmir (ancient Smyrna) sang and spread all over the world, the city whose walls rose to the legendary sound of music or circular dance, creating an invisible magic wall of defence undone by Achilles when he dragged Hector’s body round it anti-clockwise to the horror of all concerned. The true history of Troy, however, continues from 3000 B.C. up to the Roman period. Archeologists have discovered nine settlements from nine different civilisations, nine cities over one another in Troy, naming them Troy I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX. According to the American Blegen Troy VIIa
represents
the Troy of Homer.

— How very disappointing.

— Well, yes, most non-specialists find it disappointing. I suppose you only see just a rubbish of stones labelled Troy I, Troy II and so forth. But I assure you it means much more than that to us. Not of course, like Stonehenge or Mycenae. But I mustn’t bore you with my pet theories again, you will hear them at tomorrow’s session and anyway you don’t have to translate me. Nevertheless in exchange for your charming company on this excursion will you allow me to take you round and explain in simple terms I hope just what it all means?

Troy I, Troy II. This layer belongs to the Bronze Age. Schliemann thought that this represented Homer’s Troy. But he bulldozed his way to find Priam’s treasure silly ass, destroying everything. Sometimes the stones make up some sort of shape the bathroom door to the left of the entrance stuck in the nineteenth century or the paved ramp to the right. Sometimes the squares of rubble have walls with pillars at the centre contemporary with the Hittites unless the wash-basin stands on one leg lilac green blue yellow showing a new development. According to Blegen some men enjoy imparting their enthusiasm to furry-eyed ladies of thirty-nine and plus not one of which deserves a moment of attention. The younger interpreters however Joceline English into French and Sandra vice versa with un amour de soutien-gorge qui pigeonne formidablement and even Robert German into French get more surrounded with more tributes to their youth. They seem a different species altogether who learn from listening and live simultaneously all channels alert on all levels unless they merely block off different ones as yet unknown and unimportant or reduce them all to
manageable
size with poise and instant knowledge. Nevertheless some sort of homage gets paid to mere seniority perhaps from the specialist on Stonehenge and Mycenae who says the walls do not form an arc but a polygon. An earthquake destroyed Troy I you can tell by the fact that in this air-conditioning and other circumstances of pressurised excitation you have nothing to declare such as love desire ambition just personal effects like furry eyes qui font trembler mon coeur de fol espoir. A fire destroyed this second city. A fire destroyed Troy VI in 1250 B.C. But the wall here remains and almost certainly formed part of Troy VII, the famous wall you know. A fire destroyed Troy VI in 900 B.C. You can tell by the fact that in these circumstances of emptiness freedom has its inebriating attractions as the body floats in a suspension of ideas transmitted from one microphone to another at a speed of five thousand centuries per minute because the things understood slip away together with the need to understand. During all those years our techniques have improved let me see how long have you stayed away, got stuck in the
nineteenth
century, lost and never gained your confidence your heart your memory your mind until it comes to a standstill? We have many more interpreters now so that they remain more based on Headquarters in the distant brain way up where most conventions take place these days apart from fringe activities like the Freud Centenary and Congresses of
Archaeologists
in Izmir (Ancient Smyrna) who say structural? Oh I see, the imagination. How fascinating. And where do you go next?

Paris as Headquarters of simultaneous interpreters and international organisations occupied with the advancement of learning peace intercontinental missiles rationalisation in the utilisation of wood cultural irrigation for the
under-developed
areas such as pilot and associated projects for fundamental education with missions sent to Afghanistan the Philippines Siam and Syria seminars in Brazil with special stress laid on the Declaration of Human Rights contains the small flat in the rue St. André where children shout ouvre les jambes Véronique or crapaude vieille poire j’m’en fous and other such air-conditioning for loyalty love lust ambition marriage not to mention the tall façade opposite with such small enthusiasms behind it. Yes, I notice, you always sit like that, even in this armchair, your ankles crossed and all your fingers touching. Unless you smoke too much.

— Well, it does reduce the smoking.

— And have you closed the circuit?

Siegfried grown almost bald somewhere between
Byzantium
and Constantinople with a paunch pahr dessue lives married to a nice Dutch girl based on Hamburg but why Siegfried? Or rather why Hamburg? Didn’t you like the freedom of the air? Oh well, my spouse insisted you know just as yours had you more or less immobilised in Regency
London
after the first few months or weeks of making love in the hard bed area of Berlin Rothenburg Frankfurt, where again, Paris, Beirut, Istanbul? But I travel still despite and she has to show more understanding for the old Wanderlust than you did if I may say so poor man. Yes, I travel in electronics as other people travel in simultaneous interpretation. Not that I know anything about electronics mind you except that they contain the future in a way that interpretation however simultaneous of nineteenth century type bumbling can’t. We live in an age of transition wouldn’t you agree and must cope as best we can. But otherwise it doesn’t make much difference from the old racket, one learns as one sells at the highest level in English German Dutch. I have acquired a smattering of Dutch by marriage, have you? Oh no, you acquired a smattering of English nicht wahr Liebes?

— Uw zwemvest bevindt zich onder uw stoel.

— Dit zwemvest kan dienen voor een bewusteloos persoon. And how goes the bewusteloos persoon?