Imago Bird (17 page)

I said ‘Is there anything else you have to tell me?'

He said ‘I really wanted to pick your brains—'

I thought—I will slide down on that shaft of sunlight —

— Like a bird on a tea-tray —

On the ground, beside a bench, at the place where people rested in their walks beside the river, I had noticed an evening paper blown by the wind. On its front page, slightly muddied,
there was a picture of a man lying on his back with what seemed to be a gag in his mouth. Above the picture was a huge headline—
Perhaia Slain.

I climbed down from the parapet. I picked up the newspaper.

Mr Perhaia had been such a nice, quiet man. He had been found in the boot of a car, with a rope round his neck.

Jake Weatherby said ‘You may be able to help your uncle.'

I said ‘How.'

The photograph of Mr Perhaia did have something wrong about the mouth.

Jake Weatherby said ‘There are people putting pressure on him.'

I said ‘Dear God!'

The newspaper said that Mr Perhaia's body had been mutilated.

I put the newspaper back on the ground.

I thought—O bury him beneath the tree —

Jake Weatherby said ‘They cut the poor bugger's balls off.'

I was going towards the road.

I said again ‘Is there anything else you want to tell or to ask me?'

He said ‘I can't talk to you like this.'

I said ‘How can you talk to me?'

I thought—Oh damn, damn, what can I do for Mr Perhaia?

He said ‘Where are you going?'

I was going towards where the traffic ran thickly. It was like molecules of gas that other molecules might or might not get through.

I thought—Run, run —

I said ‘To the Tate Gallery.'

He said ‘Why?'

I said ‘To look at the people who are balancing on wires and jumping through hoops.'

He said ‘You know, you're in trouble; can I help you?'

I dodged through the traffic. He stayed behind.

I thought—Molecules are like sea-gulls: they peck at you; some of you do, and some do not, get through.

I rang up Sheila. I said ‘Sheila, for God's sake, what have you told Brian Alick?'

Sheila said ‘What do you mean, what have I told Brian Alick?'

I said ‘I told you some joke. About my uncle getting money from the Libyans.'

She said ‘I thought you said it was the Liberals.'

‘That was a joke too. You were doing that thing about pretending to get something out of me—'

Then I thought—But was it not Sally Rogers that I said the thing to about the Liberals?

However—Does any of this matter, if language has broken down?

Sheila said ‘Look, I can't talk about it now.'

I said ‘Have you got that man with you?'

‘Which man?'

I said ‘The one in a white burnous like a Liberal—'

She rang off.

I stood in the call box.

I thought—But if one made enough jokes might one not keep the world on course as if with little jets when the bomb goes off?

I rang up Sally Rogers. I said ‘Sally, you know I told you some joke about my Uncle Bill getting money from the Liberals—'

She said ‘I heard you said it was the Libyans.'

I thought I might say—On a dark night, can you tell the difference?

She said ‘As a matter of fact it's your Trotskyite friends who get money from the Libyans.'

I could not think of what to say to this —

— Oh I see! —

Or—Aren't the Trotskyites your friends then?

Sally said ‘When are you coming to see me?'

I said ‘I don't know. There's a man in a burnous on a bicycle following me.'

She said ‘Well mind you don't end up like Perhaia.'

I rang off.

I was in a call box near Westminster Cathedral.

I thought—Well, I did try to be serious, didn't I?

Then—But where are those seeds growing, from what is buried beneath the tree —

I picked the receiver up again. I thought—Dial any old number and listen, and one would hear more sense than I get from Sheila or Sally Rogers —

There were a lot of loud clicks against my ear and then a booming noise as if pipes in a basement were having trouble.

I put the receiver down.

I thought—There are people sitting in underground cells in California who have worked out all the telephone codes and they can send messages round the world just by making clicking noises and blowing whistles —

— So, could not someone clever enough, witty enough, get himself plugged in to where he wanted and say what he wanted and then —

— as if with little jets —

— alter the world —

Could I put this into a film?

I banged the coin box of the telephone to see if any money might come out.

I thought—Once in a million million: those are fair chances, aren't they?

I needed money if I was to go on a journey.

I went out of the call box. I thought I might drop in on Sheila. I wanted to make love. I needed some bearings, before my journey.

I could explain to Dr Anders—But it is not sophisticated people who are witty: it is Cockneys and Jews and black people —

Then—Do I really mean that they are not sophisticated in trying to save the world?

I found I had not got enough money even to go by underground
to Sheila's house.

I thought I would walk; and bang on coin boxes every now and then to lessen the chances.

For how else do we live; these people who make jokes; and try to keep the world on course? Ask the wolf in at the door? And he will not come, because we are not privileged?

It was such a cold day. I thought—The summer is over, when I was fed by Dr Anders and then made love to Sheila.

I found that I did miss Dr Anders when she was away. There was an ache in my head, heart, balls; as if something were being born there.

I thought—I will make love to Sheila again: then for a while this burden of thinking will be aborted —

— We are wandering Jews? Flying Dutchmen? This élite of non-privileged people?

— If I looked under the lids of dustbins, would I find a genie in a bottle —

— Or should I sing and dance, and pass my head round on a platter —

— When it rains it rains —

Occasionally I did an entrechat.

I thought—But you would have to keep things secret, wouldn't you, all you non-privileged people: or else the privileged would want to take away from you even the non-privileges that you have —

There were people on the pavement who did not pay much attention to me, or indeed to anyone who did not seem to come from Andromeda.

I thought—Being on the trail of meaning is so embarrassing!

When I got to Sheila's house there was the entryphone on her door and a little button with her name beside it as if she had gone up one rung on the social ladder and was now a prostitute.

The door was not locked; so I pushed and went in.

I thought I might say—I'm MI5. I'm
mc
²
—

Sheila was not in her room. There were the two bed-frames on the floor. I thought—From these breasts I once used to hang.

I began to move around the room looking on Sheila's shelves and in cardboard boxes. I thought—It is now clear in my mind
that people do this because they can't think of anything else —

Underneath some stockings, in one of her cardboard boxes, I found the three or four letters that I had written to Sheila. They were rolled in a cylinder with an elastic band around them.

I took the letters and sat down on the bed.

I thought—But if there really were this man, underground, plugged in to all the communication systems of the world; what, after he had made his clicks and his whistles, would be his message?

I read—
A revolution to be permanent would have to be aesthetic.

I thought—Well that's all right, isn't it?

Then—Did I get that from my father or my mother?

I heard footsteps on the stairs. I put the letters in my pocket.

I thought—I don't want them to pinch my message.

When Sheila came in it was as if she were not surprised to see me. I could not understand this. Then she acted as if she had suddenly remembered she ought to be surprised.

She said ‘Look, I've got to talk to you.'

I said ‘Yes everyone tells me that.'

She said ‘What do you know about the Libyans.'

I said ‘Nothing.' Then—‘Sheila, what on earth does it matter if you get money from the Libyans?'

She said ‘Why do you say that?'

I said ‘Libyans was just something that came into my head.'

She said ‘Have you told anyone?'

I said ‘No.'

She said ‘Has anyone followed you here?'

I thought I could say—Sheila, Sheila, we once used to go and collect sea-shells on the beach where Blake saw visions —

Or—Yes, as a matter of fact, I was followed by a small fat man like a film director —

I said—‘I don't know if anyone followed me. And I don't know why things come into my head. Except it's interesting what does seem to have a counterpart in the outside world—'

Sheila went out of the room, slamming the door.

I thought that now I could lie back on the bed and read my letters.

I began to have some nostalgia about Sheila. She had been a girl with smooth shiny skin; her waterline protected from torpedoes —

I read—
Only what is aesthetic contains revolutions within itself.

I thought—Well —

Then—But Sheila's footsteps went upstairs, not down.

I put my letters back in my pocket. I got up and opened the door. I went out quietly onto the landing. I looked up.

I thought—From an upstairs room she could have seen me arriving; and so not have seemed surprised?

There were faint voices coming from upstairs. One of them was a man's and the other might have been Sheila's.

I thought—She has been living up there all the time with that man like the famous actor?

I put my hand round my throat and made a strangling noise.

I thought—But this is not my message to the world!

I might kick against the banisters and say—Plasterboard! Plywood!

I went down the stairs making a banging noise. I could explain—A heavy body is being dragged down! I am being kidnapped!

I thought—It is true, I'm not upset —

— And I don't mind if this is condescending.

In the street there was an enormous dustcart going past with its mouth open at the back like a dragon's arse. I wanted to make a noise like a wolf, following it.

Then I crossed the street and went down a small alley between two houses opposite. I thought that from here I could watch the front of Sheila's house; to see what would happen, or who would come out.

I thought—Libyans! Liberals! These privileged people are not witty —

Then—Phantoms are what are dropped by dustmen out of dragons' arses.

While I was watching the front of Sheila's house a boy on a skateboard came whizzing down the road and as he passed the dustcart he swerved so that a car that was going the other way
nearly ran over him. The man in the car yelled and the boy banged on the bonnet of the car and then the car pulled away with a backfire and a screech of tyres.

I thought—What, no pistol shot? No secret-service man like President Nixon?

Then—I must ask Dr Anders —

There was the street again quiet and mysterious as a film set.

I was half hidden behind a fence down the alley-way opposite Sheila's house.

I wanted to get an answer from Dr Anders about whether or not in the outside world —

A window on the second floor of Sheila's house opened and Sheila looked out.

Beside her was a man.

I had been thinking—There are these connections?

The man was Brian Alick.

I thought—Then it is he who has been living with her upstairs all the time?

— And the man in white overalls, when he did, or did not, go to make a telephone call —

— Yes, I see.

— What do I see?

A cat came and rubbed itself against my legs.

I thought—This cat, that is like a teddy-bear, once belonged to witches —

Then—It doesn't matter, here, what I do not see —

Sheila's head disappeared from the window.

I thought—Now, in a film, there would be something old-fashioned like a nun with a pram and jackboots showing beneath her habit —

— So, in the outside world, you make up things to look sinister when you fear that nothing is happening?

After a time the front door of Sheila's house opened and Sheila and Brian Alick half came out. They looked up and down the street carefully. Then they seemed to shelter again behind the front door of the house.

I thought—They are like targets at a fun-fair?

Sheila and Brian Alick appeared again. They ran to a small car
parked in the road. Brian Alick climbed into the driving-seat: Sheila got in beside him. They drove away, fast.

I thought—That is all then?

I came out of the alley and began the journey back towards Cowley Street.

I tried to concentrate on the film I would one day make: in which things would happen as they did in fact happen; as if at random, but you have to make up patterns to live or to die —

But if you make them, who are you, there have to be patterns? You can't make, if they are you, you can only find?

Then—Why did the people in Plato's cave not come out into the sun —

— Was it because there was some old Zen master standing behind them with his stick and saying—If you say I am holding the sun I will hit you with it and if you do not say I am holding the sun I will hit you with it —