Mood Indigo (21 page)

‘Don't we make fodder cannons here?' asked Colin.

‘We do,' said the man, ‘but we've only just completed our programme for the last war. So of course they don't work very well and have to be scrapped. As they're very strongly made it's taking us quite a time.'

There was a knock on the door and the quartermaster appeared, pushing a white sterilized trolley. Under a white cloth there was a slight bulge. This wouldn't have happened with strictly cylindrical barrels and Colin felt very worried. The quartermaster went out and closed the door.

‘Ah! …' said the man. ‘It still doesn't look as if they're right.'

He lifted the cloth. There were twelve cold blue steel barrels – and, at the end of each, a beautiful white rose was in full bloom, with drops of dew and beige shadows in the curves of its velvety petals.

‘Oh! …' gasped Colin. ‘Aren't they lovely! …'

The man said nothing. But he coughed twice.

‘There'll be no point in you coming back tomorrow,' he said after a moment's hesitation.

His fingers touched the end of the trolley nervously.

‘Can I take them for Chloe?' said Colin.

‘They'll die,' said the man, ‘if you pluck them from the steel. They're made of steel too, you know …'

‘They can't be …' said Colin.

He delicately touched one of the roses and tried to snap its stem. His finger slipped and one of the petals made a cut several inches long in his hand. His hand began to bleed and he put it to his mouth to stick the dark blood that began to pulse out. He looked at the red curve on the white petal. The man tapped him on the shoulder and gently showed him the door.

Chloe was asleep. During the day the water-lily let her borrow the beautiful creamy colour of its flesh, but while she slept it was hardly worth while, and the pink flushed back into her cheeks. Her eyes made two blue stains below her hazy brows, and from a distance it was impossible to tell whether they were open or shut. Colin was sitting waiting on a chair in the dining-room. Chloe was surrounded by many different kinds of flowers. He could spare an hour or two before going to look for another job. He wanted to take a rest so that he could make a good impression and get something really remunerative. It was almost dark in the
room. The window was now only three inches above the sill and the light crept in through a narrow slit. It fell just on his eyes and forehead. The rest of his face remained in shadow. The record-player no longer worked. Now it had to be wound up for every record and that tired him out. The records were wearing out too. You could hardly recognize the tunes on some of them. If Chloe needed something, he knew that the mouse would come and tell him straight away. Was Nicholas going to marry Isis? What kind of dress would she wear for her wedding? Who was ringing at the door?

‘Hello, Alyssum,' said Colin. ‘Have you come to see Chloe?'

‘No,' said Alyssum. ‘I've just come.'

They might as well stay in the dining-room. Alyssum's hair made it lighter there. And there were two chairs left.

‘Were you fed up?' said Colin. ‘I know what it can be like.'

‘I've left Chick there,' said Alyssum. ‘At home. He's all right.'

‘You must have something to tell me,' said Colin.

‘No,' said Alyssum. ‘I've got to find somewhere else to stay.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Colin. ‘He's redecorating …'

‘No,' said Alyssum. ‘He's got all his books all round him, but he doesn't want me any more.'

‘Did you have a row?' said Colin.

‘No,' said Alyssum.

‘He just misunderstood what you said to him. But when he's calmed down you can talk it all over with him.'

‘He simply told me that he had just enough doublezoons to get his latest book bound in nulskin,' said Alyssum, ‘and
he couldn't bear to keep me with him because he had nothing to give me and I'd grow old and ugly wearing my hands out.'

‘Of course he's right,' said Colin. ‘You mustn't go out to work.'

‘But I love Chick,' said Alyssum. ‘I'd have worn my fingers to the bone for him.'

‘That wouldn't do any good,' said Colin. ‘Nobody would allow you to – you're too pretty.'

‘Why did he kick me out?' said Alyssum. ‘Did I really used to be very pretty?'

‘I don't remember,' said Colin. ‘But I know that I'm very fond of your hair, your face and your figure.'

‘Look,' said Alyssum.

She stood up, pulled the little ring at the top of her zip, and her dress fell to the ground. It was a light woollen dress.

‘Mmmm …' said Colin.

It became very light in the room and Colin could see every inch of Alyssum. Her breasts seemed ready to take off, and the calves and thighs of her long nimble legs were firm and warm to the touch.

‘Is one allowed to kiss?' said Colin.

‘Yes,' said Alyssum. ‘I'm very fond of you too.'

‘You'll catch cold,' said Colin.

She went close to him. She sat on his knees and tears began to stream silently from her eyes.

‘Why doesn't he want me any more?'

Colin gently cuddled her.

‘He doesn't understand. You know, Alyssum, he's a good kid, all the same …'

‘He used to love me lots,' said Alyssum. ‘He thought his
books would be willing to share him with me! But that's impossible.'

‘You'll catch cold,' said Colin.

He kissed her and stroked her hair.

‘Why didn't I meet you first?' said Alyssum. ‘I'd have given you just as much love – but I can't now. It's him I love.'

‘I know that,' said Colin. ‘I love Chloe more than anyone now, too.'

He made her stand up and picked up her dress.

‘Put it on again, pet,' he said. ‘You'll catch cold.'

‘I won't,' said Alyssum. ‘And it wouldn't matter if I did.'

And she put on her dress again as if in a dream.

‘I don't like the idea of you being sad,' said Colin.

‘You're sweet,' said Alyssum, ‘but I
am
very sad. I think there might still be something I could do for Chick, all the same.'

‘Go home and see your parents,' said Colin. ‘They're bound to be pleased to see you … Or go and see Isis.'

‘Chick won't be there,' said Alyssum. ‘And I don't want to be anywhere if Chick isn't there too.'

‘He'll come,' said Colin. ‘I'll go and see him.'

‘Don't,' said Alyssum. ‘You won't be able to get in. He always locks the door.'

‘I'll see him all the same,' said Colin. ‘If not, then he'll come round to see me.'

‘I don't think so,' said Alyssum. ‘It's not the same Chick any more.'

‘Of course it is,' said Colin. ‘People don't change, only things!'

‘I don't know,' said Alyssum.

‘I'll come with you,' said Colin. ‘I've got to go out and look for a job.'

‘I'm not going that way,' said Alyssum.

‘Then I'll come down the stairs with you,' said Colin.

She was standing in front of him. He put his two hands on her shoulders. He could feel her warm neck and her soft curling hair close to his skin. He followed the outline of her body with his hands. She had stopped weeping. She did not seem to be there at all.

‘I don't want you to do anything stupid,' said Colin.

‘Don't worry,' said Alyssum. ‘I won't …'

‘Come and see me again,' said Colin, ‘next time you're fed up …'

‘Perhaps I'll take you up on that,' said Alyssum.

She looked farther inside the flat. Colin took her hand. They went down the stairs. Every so often they slipped on the damp treads. At the bottom Colin said good-bye to her. She stood and watched him go.

The latest one was just back from the binder's and Chick lovingly stroked it before putting it back in its wrapping. It was bound in rich green nulskin with the name Heartre deeply and blindly tooled into the spine. On one shelf Chick had the whole of the ordinary edition of his works. The variants, manuscripts, proofs and special pages occupied various niches set into the wall.

Chick sighed. Alyssum had left him that morning. He had to tell her to go. All he had left was one doublezoon and a piece of cheese. Her dresses in the wardrobe were getting in the way of Heartre's old clothes that his bookseller could
always work miracles and get for him. He couldn't remember the last time he had kissed her. His time was too precious to be wasted on kissing her. His record-player had had to be mended so that he could learn Heartre's lectures by heart. If the records should get broken, then the words would still be preserved.

Every one of Heartre's books was there – every one of his published works. There were luxurious bindings, books carefully protected by leather cases, golden toolings, precious editions with wide blue margins, limited printings on fly-paper and others on blank partridge or rice caper. A complete wall was reserved for them, honeycombed into cute little pigeon-holes lined with genuine high-quality suede. Each work occupied one pigeon-hole. On the wall opposite, arranged in paperback piles, were Heartre's articles and interviews, all fervently snipped from magazines, newspapers and the innumerable periodicals that he deigned to favour with his prolific collaboration.

Chick put his hand to his forehead. How long had Alyssum been living with him? … Colin's doublezoons were supposed to have helped him to marry her – but she wasn't all that worried about getting married. She was content to wait – happy simply to be with him – but you can't accept things like that from a woman – things like staying with you simply because she loves you. He loved her too. But how could he let her waste her time like that – especially now that she had given up her interest in Heartre … How could anyone fail to be interested in a man like Heartre? … A man capable of writing – and with what clarity! – anything on any subject whatsoever … Surely it would take Heartre less than a year to complete his
Encyclopedia of Nausea
. The Marchioness de Mauvoir
would collaborate with him on this – and there would be some fabulous manuscripts. But between now and then he would have to find and save enough doublezoons to keep an account going with the bookseller. Chick hadn't paid his income tax. But what he would have given them was much more useful to him in the form of a copy of
We Always Closed Our Zips
. Alyssum
would
have preferred Chick to use his doublezoons to pay his taxes, and had even suggested selling some of her own things so that he could do this. He'd said
yes
, and it had come to exactly the right price for binding
We Always Closed Our Zips
. Alyssum managed very well without her pearls.

He wondered whether to unlock the door again. She might be waiting behind it, listening for him to turn the key. But he didn't think so. Her footsteps on the stairs echoed away like a woodpecker falling asleep. She could easily go back home to her parents and pick up her studies where she had left off. After all, she wouldn't be far behind the others on her course … It's easy to catch up on missed lectures … But Alyssum hadn't done any work at all lately. She'd been too interested in Chick – in cooking things for him and ironing his tie. The taxes could be forgotten. Nobody's ever heard of people coming to chase you out of your home because you haven't paid your taxes! No, things like that don't happen. You can give them a doublezoon on account, and then they leave you alone for a few more years. Does a man like Heartre bother to pay his taxes? He probably does – yet, after all, should one, from the moral point of view, pay one's taxes so that, in return, one can have the right to be locked up because other people pay theirs to feed the police and senior civil servants? It's a vicious circle that's got to be broken – nobody should pay
any more for a long, long time, and then all the collectors would die of consumption and there'd be no more wars.

Chick lifted the lid of his double-turntabled record-player and put on two different Jean Pulse Heartre records. He wanted to listen to them both at the same time so that new ideas could spring from the meeting of two old ones. He placed himself equidistantly between the two loud-speakers so that his head would be just at the spot where the idea barrier would break. Then he could automatically preserve the results of the impact.

The needles spat on the ends of the tails of the hollow snails, lodged themselves into the depths of the grooves, and Heartre's double words began to ring through Chick's brain. Sitting in his chair he looked out of the window and noticed smoke rising here and there above the roofs in huge blue spirals. Their undersides were red, as if it were the smoke from paper burning. He watched the red slowly but surely take over from the blue. The stereophonic collision of words in his head coincided with great flashes of light, opening up a field of repose to his deep fatigue that was like lush and new-mown moss in May.

The police commissergeant pulled his whistle from his pocket and used it to strike an enormous Peruvian gong which was hanging behind him. Tipped boots could be heard galloping across the floors above, followed by continuous crashes, and six of his best men-at-arms tobogganed down the pole and burst into his office.

They got up, smacked their backsides to get rid of the dust, sprang to attention and saluted.

‘Douglas!' called the commissergeant.

‘Present!' replied the first man-at-arms.

‘Douglas!' repeated the commissergeant.

‘Present!' replied the second.

And so the roll-call went on. The police commissergeant could hardly be expected to remember the first name of every man, and Douglas was a traditional and conventional enough overture for most of them.