The Information Junkie (22 page)

How long had this figure survived? For as the bubble approached, as if bouncing on layers of water, it transformed itself into a man. And why was he alone and without a camel? I had plenty of water. How long had he been wandering?

As he approached I saw that his skin was fair which doubled my curiosity. Who was this man? On most Westerners his Arab clothes would have seemed like fancy dress but on him were completely at home.

He stopped but, instead of shaking the hand I offered, he crossed himself. I noticed the curved dagger at his waist. He was quite short; not stunted but you felt that if he could have willed himself taller—and here was somebody with a powerful will—he would have done so. He smiled shyly but confidently. The shyness based on infrequent company, the confidence based on (his) resilience.

I offered him my goatskin; he took a few short sips before handing it back. You sensed that he could have survived without it and had accepted only as a courtesy.

Deserts are timeless: time has done all it can. The landscape is desolate, boundless and clean.

We looked at each other for a while. His smile was barely formed, he was poised to respond to anything I might say—but I'd scarcely formed a thought. He offered me his hand; we shook; then he turned and walked away, as if destined, or condemned, to wander this barren place.

He seemed to want for nothing, would not ask for help, needed no one. The ultimate ascetic, I watched him go. As he receded, ripples of heat broke him up and his disintegrated figure leapt above layers of insubstantial water. He became a bubble once again, bouncing and swaying; finally a black flame. When that, too, was extinguished and I was left staring at rivers, waves, oceans of heat, I turned away. The interruption had unsettled me. I had wanted to prove myself against the extremes but had found myself wanting. When the stranger left I knew I'd found an answer. He didn't have to prove himself: he knew; and there was a relaxed certainty about his knowledge. I knew I couldn't compete so turned to walk out of the desert.

27

'What the hell is that bloody desert scene all about. Mm?'

'Hi, Anthony.
Wie geht's
?'

'
Gut, danke
. But what's the answer to my question?'

'The desert,' I said, 'is a mirror.'

'How are the gentles supposed to infer that?'

'I'm relying on their intelligence. Anyone who's got this far is not only interested but must be perceptive and intelligent.'

'Anyone who's read thus far deserves a medal. But this whole book is becoming more ad hoc by the minute. You're just making it up as you go along. Can you give me a clue about the desert?'

'Yes,' I said. 'The desert is a kind of limbo or Limbo. Small or large 'L': take your pick. It's a waiting place for those who died too soon.'

'And how long do they have to wait?'

'For ever.'

'Don't you think that's a bit unfair?'

'I didn't write the rules,' I said, then waited a while. 'Anthony, you've stopped supporting me. If you're not careful I'll write you out before the end of Part Six. I can soon find a substitute for you.'

He laughed. 'But they—or, he-she-it—wouldn't have my charm.'

'Your charm, like your fictional life, is determined by me.'

'Power always corrupts, Roderick. Why don't we work together towards a rousing end to Part Six. You know—really give the gentles their money's worth.'

'But I already know how Part Six ends. In fact, I've written it.' I paused for effect. 'And you,' I went on, 'are not in it.'

'Are you sure, Roddy? The gentles, I feel, find me a much more sympathetic character than you. At least I try to maintain for them some narrative drive—and thread. You're sometimes too obscure.'

'I don't write safe, predictable prose. I leave the gentles to do some work and to use their own imaginations. That's empowerment. As a result they feel involved. I'm not presenting them with a fait accompli but a challenge—engaging with them.'

'I've said my bit,' he said. 'Oh, by the by, could you oblige an old writer with a bottle or two? This may be heaven but there are still rules. They—the heavenly powers—think that on earth I used up too much of my future life, and drank too much alcohol. So I'm on a kind of probation—a bit like community service. If you could slip me a few
Monkey's Bums
I'll do what I can for you.'

'Viz...?'

'I could press your case. I'm not without influence. Oh, yes: there's a pecking order up here too, you know. As a first-time novelist you're going to need all the help you can get. Luck too.'

'
Zum Beispiel?
'

'For example: we might be able to arrange for your synopsis and first three chapters to land on the desk of an agent at just the right time. Good comic writing, you know Rod, is rare. Any idiot can write a drama. Take it from an ex-comic writer.'

'Ex...?'

'Not allowed to touch a pen up here. Still a probationer. But I am making mental notes.'

'So, heaven's not exactly the fulfilment of unachieved earthly ambitions?'

'No. Apparently not. But I'm still a novice.'

'How, therefore,' I went on, 'do you interpret Browning's lines: "
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?
"?'

'Ouch!' he said. 'That's an ugly piece of punctuation. Couldn't you recast?'

'Yes, but I don't want to.'

'You're bull-headed,' he announced.

'That's a new word on me.'

'It's not a neologism, Rod.' He stopped to think. 'We have, however, lost the thread. You were explaining the significance of the desert scene.'

'The desert is a mirror.'

'No, I'm not letting you get away with that. Who is the 'I' character?'

'You.'

'Me—Anthony Burgess...?'

'Yes and no. 'I' is the reader, the gentle.'

'Ah. Then who's the other chap? T. E. Lawrence? Jesus Christ?'

'Each reader will have his own idea of who
the other
is. I try to avoid descriptive passages and prescriptive prose.'

'You've lost me, youngster.'

'Something to think about, then. You have the time!'

'You push your luck sometimes.'

'Anthony, I'll just get those bottles for you.'

'Good chap. See you soon.'

*

Hi, folks, Charlie here. While Rod's in his beer cellar can we have a chat? I need your help. Mm? Yes:
your
assistance. It's in the form of a question.

When I was away playing Rod the author, were there any visitors to Wimbledon? Mm? Could you speak up please. Yeah: when Bee was alone in the house. For example when I was in that place which some people call home. Who am I thinking of? Martin or Anthony.

Has bEE—oops! I mean: Bee—has Bee been seeing Martin or Anthony for horizontal recreation?

Ah, you don't want to tell. Why not? Don't want to be the one to break the bad news? You know, they say betrayal causes madness. Has Bee betrayed me? I see, you're all—yes, gentle, you too—all sitting there with your arms folded and lips buttoned. Yes, sir, I do see you
standing
in the underground: I used the word "sitting" in a general sense. Well, if you're that pedantic I'm surprised you got this far.

Anyone. How about you—yes, young lady there, curled up on the armchair in Hampstead. Yes, blue jumper, black tights, smoking a French cigarette. Oh, hello. You have a nice smile. Mm? Did you see or hear of any hanky-panky in my absence? What's a smile supposed to mean? Oh, and do me a favour, don't blow smoke in my face. Yes: I am a reformed smoker. I know: they're the worst sort.

Oh, you'd like to give up? A couple of thoughts: you haven't always smoked, and a non-smoking man may not like to kiss you. Mm? How did I know you're between relationships? Ah, well, you could say I have knowledge which is denied you and if I tried to explain you might not believe me.

What's your name? Oh, don't be coy. Mine's Charlie. But you know that. Let me guess: Samantha...? Helena...? Nasturtium...? Vanessa...? Yeliena...? Amber...? You're smiling: is it Amber? You're blushing. Please don't be embarrassed: Amber's a lovely name. Pardon? They made fun of you at school? 'Stop, get ready, go.' 'Traffic light.' 'Caution.' You look intelligent enough to rise above that. So, what shall I call you? Amb. Just Amb? Okay.

I knew an amber girl once. Red hair, faint eyebrows, delicate eyelashes. But you're dark-haired. Mm? It's not fair because although I can see you, you can't see me.

Well, I'm short: five five and a half. What's funny—oh, the
half
...? Blond. Anyway, Amb, you've persevered with the novel so far, what do you think? Oh, you're finding it an easy read. Good. And you're surprised just how good the pace is and you want to know how it all ends? Don't we all, sweetheart. Sorry, I didn't mean that word patronisingly. It just slipped out.

But to get back to the point: did you see Martin or Anthony canoodling with my wife? No, because you can't see what happens off-stage. You can imagine, though. Ah, you think I'm just going through a funny phase. Of course, you knew about Ffion, my amber girl, because she's in the text. Yes, but the text can take us only so far. Our imaginations like to invent off-stage behaviour. Mm? Oh, you're happy to leave all that to Rod. He's the writer, you're the reader. But, Amb, at the risk of being accused of pressing a point, I want to say that the life of a novel, film, play is continuous. I don't want to get into philosophy, but the life of a good novel continues even after you've closed the book. Fictive life. Fictive reality.

Pardon...? I'm beginning to sound a bit like Rod. Well, that's hardly surprising, is it? Anyway, let's forget all the theory and get down to brass tax. Taz...? I mean, tacks. I'd like to know a bit more about you; in return I'll tell you about me. Oh, you prefer to get that info from the text? But how can I learn about you if Rod doesn't write the off-stage stuff? I should use my imagination? Oh very jocose.

Amby. Ooh, you don't like that. Okay, Amb: the only thing between us is this page. Such a small barrier. Please will you let me in—no, properly. Let me in properly to your hacienda.

Oh, Amb, by the way: did your school chums ever call you iambic pentameter? Ah, you didn't do English Lit. Studied double maths and physics. And you're an engineer. Well, an iambic pentameter is a line of poetry containing five feet—a foot is another name for a group of syllables—each foot consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed one. For example:

Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet

Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,

And death's pale flag is not advancèd there.

Mm? Yes, exactly: dee dah, dee dah, dee dah, dee dah, dee dah. And the point? Only for academic use. Otherwise useless.

Now
my
nicknames. Did anyone ever call me shorty, or shortarse? No. Pardon? Did I know I'm the same height as Martin Amis and T. E. Lawrence? And do I know what they say about short men? I don't know, Amb, what do they say? Let me guess: they always have to have their trousers taken up. No? Okay: short people have a lower centre of gravity and less far to fall. No? Engineer, eh? I know: it's easier for short men to obey Newton's First Law of Motion, which states that a body will remain in a state of uniform motion or rest until other forces act upon it.

Oh, stop teasing, Amb. What's the answer? I should come close so you can whisper in my ear. Your suggestion surely challenges all the assumptions and presumptions of the Newtonian universe. Not to mention the principles of common sense. Oh, I see. You want to trade like for like. Come on, then. Is that close enough? You're making my ear tingle. But I smell stale tobacco smoke. Oops! I'd better disengage before I plunge myself into further trouble.

Oh, coward, am I? Okay, I'm a coward. Your last thought: okay, fire away. What would happen if I went to the cellar to collect a crate of
Monkey's Bum
and Rod was already there? You'd like me to think about that and, in the meantime, you'd like to be left alone to read the book. Fair comment, Amb. Nice talking with you. Hope to chat again soon.

*

Hi, it's Rod again. So, there I was, handing Anthony a couple of bottles of
M's B
when he gave me some brain food. First he thanked me for the drinks, then:

'A word, Rod, about a word.'

'Which word, my Lord Anthony?'

'Gentle.'

'As in reader?'

'
Oui
.'

'A problem, sirrah?'

'Possibly.'

'Pourquoi, my dear knight?'

Anthony snapped the cap off a bottle and drank half in one go. Then:

'As well as an adjective and a verb, both transitive and intransitive,'—here he belched a full octave—'the word
gentle
is a noun.'

'Adjective I understand. But verb...?'

He smiled: I'd taken the bait. 'Yes, as you'd expect: to make gentle or become gentle; or handle a horse gently.'

'So far, my liege, so good. And the noun...?'

'Aye, here's the rub. By addressing your readers as gentles you are implying they are maggots.'

'That's preposterous! No, John—I mean, Anthony—
maggots?
'

'God forgive me for being a pedagogue, but 'tis true. A maggot used as angling bait.'

'So, if the gent—if
they
—found out they could be offended. But, Anthony, I was using the adjective as a noun from the —'

' —Oh, yes, old man: I know what you're doing. Bear in mind some will already know that. You're speaking to quite a mixed audience.'

I checked the word a brace of dictionaries.
gentle
in
COD
gave AB's definition;
Chambers
gave further noun definitions: well-born person (
obs
); a trained falcon; hence a peregrine falcon (
masc
tercel–gentle;
fem
falcon–gentle). Isn't AB clever...? I got back to him:

'Do you think anyone's offended?'

He finished the bottle, handed me the empty. 'No, no, old chap. Just as well you know.' He turned, bottle in hand. 'Abyssinia!'