Catastrophe Practice (34 page)

She had taken off her jeans. She lay on the bed with her legs sideways.

He thought — This is a geological problem; like that of a mountain, or the surface of a brain —

He lay on the bed next to her.

There was another explosion, much closer, in and out: the sound of glass breaking.

He thought — Now if I cover her body with my body, my arms in a cross, the glass will not hurt her —

After a time, in which he had put an arm across her, there was cold air coming in; and light; and the feel of passages and tunnels.

She said ‘What was that?'

He thought — The miles and miles of rubble: the aeroplane flying away into the distance.

She said ‘Never mind'

He was looking down past her rock-forms; her strange hair,
her ear.

He said ‘A bomb.'

‘But it was close!'

He thought, as if quoting — A big one.

He rolled sideways and put his feet to the floor.

She said ‘The window's broken!'

He was trying to arrange stepping-stones with his clothes to avoid glass on the floor.

Walking on tip-toe, as if on a tightrope, he went out on to the landing. He was naked.

She said ‘Where's the baby?'

Looking back at her, where she had followed him, naked, with an arm across her breasts, like Eve —

He said ‘Lilia took the baby.'

In a smaller bedroom, at the side of the house, there was a cot, and the window blown in, and jagged splinters of glass all over the mattress.

Judith said ‘It's there that it would have been sleeping?'

He thought — But if you got back, into that Garden, you would never tell what you knew —

Judith was standing beside him in the small bedroom.

There was a light like a sword from the street outside.

He thought — Nor would you stay there?

Anderson felt his way up a stone staircase in the dark. At the top, beyond a door, there was a whirring sound. He thought — Do blind people construct a world outside? or do they see that their fingers and ears send messages just to themselves in the dark?

Pushing with his feet, and finding a landing, he saw a flickering light beneath the door. He felt for the handle, knocked, and went in. Inside, there were images flashing against a wall; a baby was being held in huge hands. In the centre of the room there was a cinema projector, whirring.

Closing the door, and groping for a chair, he sat down behind the projector. The image on the wall had changed to that of a mediaeval horseman with a lance through a dragon's throat: then to a marble statue of an old man wrestling with snakes. Beside the projector, slightly in front of him and with her back to him, was the seated figure of a woman with a pudding-basin hair-cut.

The image on the wall changed to a portrait of a head fragmented like glass: then back to the baby, where it rested, the huge hands like those of a god.

The area on which the images were thrown was cut into at one corner by a vase of flowers which stood on a bookshelf. It was as if the baby were being attacked, or tickled, by the shapes of flowers or snakes from outside.

Anderson thought — I can explain that I could get another camera that would include the frame, the flowers, the bookcase: so that it would be clear that the baby is being attacked from outside —

The image on the wall changed to an archaic statue of a man, or a god, walking forwards with his hands by his sides; his blind
eyes smiling. The flowers from outside, like flames, were almost at his genitals.

Anderson thought — Then will these be figures who will be able to try to get away from the attacks of the flowers, the bookcase —

The light suddenly faded and went out, the whirring noise ran down.

In the darkness the woman said ‘Damn.'

Anderson thought — But if they were not blind, would they be smiling?

The woman stood up. She went to the window. The town was in the dark; except a part that seemed to be burning.

She said ‘Those flowers —'

He said ‘Yes!' Then ‘— Come in from outside.'

He thought — But if you had the framework in which they would be framed, you could be smiling?

She said ‘And then the lights go off!'

He thought — A fog comes down over the heart, the mind —

The woman came back from the window. She sat in the chair, and looked at the blank wall.

She said ‘The baby looks very well.'

He said ‘He is.'

In the dark, Anderson felt around on the projector and pushed up the lever which released the film. He took the film out of its sprockets.

The old woman, who was called Eleanor, said ‘You think people want to get rid of those flowers which are, what is it, tickling them?'

He said ‘Wouldn't they?'

She said ‘Those mad, archaic people?'

He was winding the film back on to the top reel. He spun the wheel, flicking it.

He said ‘You mean, the flowers got them moving?'

He thought — But if you held such an idea in your head, like those hands round the baby —

She said ‘But when you do stand back and see yourselves —'

‘What —'

‘You think you're horrid?'

‘That's what happened —'

‘When.'

‘About five hundred B.C.'

She said ‘And do you?'

He took the reel off its holder. He put it in a can.

He thought — Of course, what she sees as her job, is talking about me.

She said ‘Before that, people hadn't been able to see themselves? You think they might want to now?'

He said ‘Perhaps if you see yourselves seeing yourselves —'

He thought she might say again — And do you?

She said ‘What was it they didn't like —'

He said ‘Well, those images.'

‘Inside the baby's head —'

‘Yes.'

‘So—'

‘They had to make things outside horrible in order to feel at home.'

They were, the two of them, sitting staring at the blank wall. He thought — Any moment now the light may come on and the projector whirr busily.

She said ‘And now, what is it that we see if we see ourselves seeing ourselves?'

He thought — We see ourselves staring at a blank wall?

He said ‘We don't like the images. But we like the fact that we can see.'

‘So —'

He thought — So can we make a light come on?

He said ‘Well, we can try to find out what's happening if we know we're in the dark.'

It seemed that the back of her head, somewhere in front of him, was staring out as if over some valley of the Nile.

He thought — Those people in the cave, when they knew that it was only shadows they were seeing on the wall, might have welcomed darkness —

She said ‘Did you hear that lecture?'

He said ‘I thought you couldn't hear it.'

He thought — They would have been afraid of the sun outside?

She said ‘What happens next?'

He said ‘When?' Then — ‘After five hundred B.C.?'

She said ‘In your film.'

He said ‘Oh. Well. The things they still do to babies. Push a stick up its nose; put a finger in its mouth, as if to pull out a hook there.'

He thought — If they saw this, and were able to talk about it —

She said ‘You know about babies?'

He said ‘I saw it being born.'

He thought — Was the sun too bright?

She said ‘But they didn't do those things to this baby.'

He said ‘They tried to.'

She said ‘They do those things to keep it alive.'

He thought — Don't we keep it alive then?

The light in the projector suddenly started up again and the motor whirred busily.

Anderson picked up the flowers and moved them away from the light on the wall.

She said ‘What made you think of the baby?'

He said ‘Oh well, you, I suppose.'

She said ‘And those huge hands —'

He thought — You don't like to think, even now, that we hurt babies?

She said ‘They're his? They're mine?'

The light in the projector went out again. Anderson went to the window. He looked out. There was the part of the town burning.

He thought — Or you mean it's this that you can't say?

A fog, like a curtain, coming down, up, down.

He said ‘When did they invent handwriting?'

She said ‘Oh good heavens, handwriting!' Then after a time — ‘About seven hundred B.C. I think. At first they wrote from right to left. Then they wrote one line from right to left and the next from left to right. Then they started writing from left to right about five hundred, I think, yes.'

He said ‘Good heavens.'

She said ‘And music, what about music?'

There was a slight explosion from somewhere beyond the rooftops, which made the windows, the walls, seem to go in and out.

He said ‘Music?'

She said ‘I'm trying to think what stopped them seeing themselves.'

He said ‘Seeing themselves seeing themselves?'

She said ‘Yes.' Then — ‘Stopped them not liking what they saw.'

He frowned. He said ‘But it didn't.'

She said ‘But you said they came to feel at home.'

A few sparks, like inverse rain, were rising above the rooftops.

He thought — To be not at home, one would have to be an orphan?

She came and stood by him at the window. They looked out.

She said ‘I'm married to him, you know?'

He said ‘Yes.'

She said Trau Professor Ackerman.'

He thought — I had it a moment ago: they are connections, those huge hands —

He said ‘What went wrong?'

She said Nothing.'

He thought — Who are my parents then?

She said ‘It was those flowers, those beautiful flowers, or sticks, do you think, coming in from outside —'

There was the curtain coming down again over his mind, his heart —

Then she said ‘So what about your girl —'

He said ‘What girl?'

She said Judith. Juliet. Why do you sometimes call her Juliet?'

He thought — It is what you know but can't say that is passed on? Like genes: like chromosomes —

After a time she said ‘What are you thinking?'

He said — ‘It's the connections, not just the images, that might be passed on.'

She said ‘And they're not horrible.'

He said ‘No.'

He wanted to explain — By this window: now: looking out into the night: the sparks coming up above the rooftops —

She said ‘He and I adored each other.'

He said ‘Yes.'

He thought — And so we are all happy now?

He left the window. He walked around the room.

He said ‘There are such coincidences!'

She said ‘Yes.'

He said ‘In the inside or outside worlds —'

Then she said ‘You said that defensively.'

‘Shouldn't I?'

‘Why?'

He thought — In those huge hands —

There was another bang, in and out, from beyond the frame of the window.

He wanted to say — That is in the outside world!

Then he said ‘Perhaps one could say things as though one were saying them in inverted commas —'

She said ‘You're a very clever young man. So yes, people want to shove a stick up your nose, your throat, your arse —'

He thought — Exactly.

Then he smiled. He thought — Did she say ‘very'?

She said ‘Language is mostly negative. Not communicating love.'

He said ‘What does communicate love?'

She said something like ‘Awa, awa, goo goos.'

He thought — I could get an image of that baby being carried through streets pursued by Herod: then sparks, or broken glass, coming in like angels from outside the frame to rescue it —

She said ‘You have to trust.'

He thought — Of course, all this would have to be kept somewhat secret.

Then she said ‘You don't want to get rid of Judith?'

He said ‘What do you mean? Of course I trust!'

Eleanor laughed. She said ‘— What do you mean, of course I don't want to get rid of Judith —'

He thought, suddenly — I could get them moving through streets, like seeds, like sperms through corridors —

He said ‘I must go and rescue the rest of my film!'

She said ‘She's quite like me.'

He said ‘It's in the Old Science Buildings.'

Lilia walked through streets with her baby on her back. The baby was in a carrier so that it faced the same way as herself. Its head was just above the level of her shoulder; so that it was as if she were a tank and the baby were her driver. She thought — We are on a road with refugees coming past: if we had remained in the building, by windows, we would have been more vulnerable.

Two bombs seemed to have gone off in the town. There was a column of smoke rising like a funeral procession above each.

Some of the people in the streets seemed to be hurrying towards where the bombs had gone off; some seemed to be hurrying away. Lilia thought — Who, would you say, will be survivors? Most of the people appeared to be purposeful and smiling. It was as if (would the Professor say?) the bombs had given them identity and location: they had something to pull against now, like goats that are tethered.

He (the Professor? Jason?) had said — The reason why good stories have so far not been happy is a technical one: shape requires delimitation: delimitation requires death.

The baby was pointing over her shoulder and was exclaiming as if at sights of interest.

She said to it cheerfully ‘— Coloured lights! Shapes! Music! —'

She had said to Jason — Then is not what you are writing good?

They were coming to a green, at the far side of which was a grey stone building. The front of this was cordoned off. The fire seemed to be in a block beyond. There were police, and firemen, inside the cordon. The crowd that had been moving with her in the street seemed to have jammed at the cordon and spread sideways like foam: then seated on the edge of the green.