Fury Fury Fury

by Salman Rushdie

  “Or, alternatively,” Dubdub pondered, “one could go in for the more commercial stuff. Valley of the Dollybirds. Or there’s the happy medium, halfway between the highbrow and the dross. Most people are middlebrow, Solly, don’t argue. They want a little stimulation but not too blasted much. Also, by the by, not too blasted long. None of your great doorstops, your Tolstoy, your Proust. Short books that don’t give you a headache. The great classics retold—briefly—as pulp fiction. Othello updated as The Moor Murders. What do you say to that?”

  That did it. Lubricated by the Waterford-Wajdas’ vintage champagne—neither of his own parents had seen fit to travel from Bombay to attend his graduation, and Dubdub had generously insisted on pouring him a glass, and refilling it frequently—Solanka erupted into an impassioned protest against Krysztof’s absurd proposals, pleading earnestly that the world be spared the literary outpourings of Waterford-Wajda, author. “Please, no obscurely menacing countryhouse sagas: Brideshead in the style of The Castle. Metamorphosis at Blandings. Oh, have mercy. Even more, regarding sex romps, restrain yourself. You’re more Alex Portnoy than Jackie Susann, who said, remember, that she admired Mr. Roth’s talent but wouldn’t want to shake his hand. Above all, from your blockbuster classics, desist. The Cordelia Conundrum? The Elsinore Uncertainty? Oh, oh, oh.”

  After several minutes of such friendly-unfriendly teasing, Dubdub good-naturedly relented: “Well, p’raps I’ll be a film director instead. We’re just off to the South of France. They probably need film directors down there.”

  Malik Solanka had always had a soft spot for goofy Dubdub, in part because of his ability to say things like this, but also because of the fundamentally good and open heart concealed beneath all the posh heehaw. Also, he owed him. At the Market Hill hostel of King’s College on a cold fall night in 1963, the eighteen-year-old Solanka had needed rescuing. He had spent his whole first day at college in a state of wild, overweening funk, unable to get out of bed, seeing demons. The future was like an open mouth waiting to devour him as Kronos had devoured his children, and the past—Solanka’s links with his family were badly eroded—the past was a broken pot. Only this intolerable present remained, in which he found he couldn’t function at all. Far easier to stay in bed and pull up the covers. In his characterless modern room of Norwegian wood and steel-frame windows he barricaded himself against whatever was next in store. There were voices at the door; he didn’t answer. Footsteps came and went. At seven P.M., however, a voice unlike any other—louder, plummier, and utterly confident of a reply—shouted out, “Anyone in there mislaid a bloody great trunk with some funny wog name on it?” And Solanka, to his own surprise, spoke up. So the day of terror, of suspended animation, ended and his university years began. Dubdub’s appalling voice, like a prince’s kiss, had broken the evil spell.

  Solanka’s worldly goods had been delivered by mistake to the college’s hostel on Peas Hill. Krys—he hadn’t yet become Dubdub—found a cart, helped Solanka haul the trunk onto it and steer it to its proper home, then dragged the trunk’s hapless owner off for a beer and dinner in the college hall. Later they sat side by side in that hall listening to the dazzlingly shiny Provost of King’s tell them they were at Cambridge for “three things—intellect! Intellect! Intellect!” And that in the years ahead they would learn most, more than in any supervision or lecture hall, from the time they spent “in one another’s rooms, fertilizing one another.” Waterford-Wajda’s unignorable bray—“HA, ha, ha, HA”—shattered the stunned silence that followed this remark. Solanka loved him for that irreverent guffaw.

  Dubdub did not become a novelist or a film director. He did his research, got his doctorate, was eventually offered a fellowship, and snapped it up with the grateful look of a man who has just settled forever the whole question of the rest of his life. In that expression Solanka glimpsed the Dubdub behind the golden-boy mask, the young man desperate to escape from the privileged world into which he had been born. Solanka tried inventing for him, by way of explanation, a hollow socialite of a mother and a boorish brute of a father, but his imagination failed him; the parents he had actually met were perfectly pleasant and seemed to love their son a great deal. Yet Waterford-Wajda had certainly been desperate, and even spoke, when drunk, of the King’s fellowship as a “blasted lifeline, the only thing I’ve got.” This, when by anyone’s ordinary standards he had so much. The fast car, the drum kit, the family spread in Roehampton, the trust fund, the Tatlerish connections. Solanka, in a failure of sympathy he later much regretted, told Dubdub not to roll about so much in the mud of self-pity. Dubdub stiffened, nodded, gave a hard laugh—“HA-ha-ha-HA”—and did not speak of personal matters again for many years.

  The question of Dubdub’s intellectual capacity remained, for many of his colleagues, unanswerable: the Dubdub Conundrum. He seemed so foolish so often—a nickname that never caught on, because it was too unkind even for Cambridge men, was Pooh, after the immortal Bear of Little Brain—yet his academic performance won him much preferment. The thesis on Voltaire that got him his doctorate and provided the launchpad for his later fame read like a defense of Pangloss—both of that imaginary worthy’s initial Leibnizian over-optimism and of his later espousal of fenced-in quietism. This ran so profoundly counter to the dystopic, collectivist, politically engagé current of the times in which he wrote it as to be, for Solanka as for others, quite seriously shocking. Dubdub gave an annual series of lectures called “Cultiver Son Jardin.” Few lectures at Cambridge—Pevsner’s, Leavis’s, no others—had attracted comparable crowds. The young (or, to be exact, the younger, because Dubdub for all his fogeyish attire had by no means done with his youth) came to heckle and boo but left more quietly and thoughtfully, seduced by his deep sweetness of nature, by that same blue-eyed innocence and concomitant certainty of being heard that had roused Malik Solanka from his first-day funk.

  Times change. One morning in the mid-seventies, Solanka slipped in at the back of his friend’s lecture hall. What impressed him now was the toughness of what Dubdub was saying and the way in which his strongly contrasting, almost Pythonesque twittishness defused it. If you looked at him you saw a tweedy fop, hopelessly out of touch with what was then still being called the zeitgeist. But if you listened, you heard something very different: an enveloping Beckettian bleakness. “Expect nothing, don’t you know,” Dubdub told them, leftist radicals and beaded hairies alike, waving a crumbling copy of Candide. “That’s what the good book says. There will be no improvement in the way life is. Dreadful news, I know, but there you have it. This is as good as it gets. The perfectibility of man is just, as you might say, God’s bad joke.”

  Ten years earlier, when various utopias, marxist, hippyish, seemed just around the corner, when economic prosperity and full employment allowed the intelligent young to indulge their brilliant, idiotic fantasies of dropout or revolutionary Erewhons, he might have been lynched, or at least heckled into silence. But this was the England in the aftermath of the miners’ strike and the three-day week, a cracked England in the image of Lucky’s great soliloquy in Godot, in which man in brief was seen to shrink and dwindle, and that golden moment of optimism, when the best of all possible worlds seemed just around the bend, was fading fast. Dubdub’s Stoical take on Pangloss—rejoice in the world, warts and all, because it’s all you’ve got, and rejoicing and despair are therefore interchangeable terms—was rapidly coming into its own.

  Solanka himself was affected by it. As he struggled to formulate his thoughts on the perennial problem of authority and the individual, he sometimes heard Dubdub’s voice egging him on. These were statist times, and it was in part Waterford-Wajda who allowed him not to run with the crowd. The state couldn’t make you happy, Dubdub whispered in his ear, it couldn’t make you good or heal a broken heart. The state ran schools, but could it teach your children to love reading, or was that your job? There was a National Health Service, but what could it do about the high percentage of people who went to their doctors when
they didn’t need to? There was state housing, sure, but neighborliness was not a government issue. Solanka’s first book, a small volume called What We Need, an account of the shifting attitudes in European history toward the state-vs.-individual problem, was attacked from both ends of the political spectrum and later described as one of the “pre/texts” of what came to be called Thatcherism. Professor Solanka, who loathed Margaret Thatcher, guiltily conceded the partial truth of what felt like an accusation. Thatcherite Conservatism was the counterculture gone wrong: it shared his generation’s mistrust of the institutions of power and used their language of opposition to destroy the old power-blocs—to give the power not to the people, whatever that meant, but to a web of fat-cat cronies. This was trickle-up economics, and it was the sixties’ fault. Such reflections contributed greatly to Professor Solanka’s decision to quit the world of thought.

  By the late 1970s Krysztof Waterford-Wajda was a bit of a star. Academics had become charismatic. The victory of science, when physics would become the new metaphysics, and microbiology, not philosophy, would grapple with the great question of what it is to be human, was as yet a little way off; literary criticism was the glamour act, and its titans strode from continent to continent in seven-league boots to strut upon an ever larger international stage. Dubdub traveled the world with personal wind effects ruffling his tousled, prematurely silvery locks, even indoors, like Peter Sellers in The Magic Christian. Sometimes he was mistaken by eager delegates for the mighty Frenchman Jacques Derrida, but this honor he would wave away with an English self-deprecating smile, while his Polish eyebrows frowned at the insult.

  This was the period in which the two great industries of the future were being born. The industry of culture would in the coming decades replace that of ideology, becoming “primary” in the way that economics used to be, and spawn a whole new nomenklatura of cultural commissars, a new breed of apparatchiks engaged in great ministries of definition, exclusion, revision, and persecution, and a dialectic based on the new dualism of defense and offense. And if culture was the world’s new secularism, then its new religion was fame, and the industry—or, better, the church—of celebrity would give meaningful work to a new ecclesia, a proselytizing mission designed to conquer this new frontier, building its glitzy celluloid vehicles and its cathode-ray rockets, developing new fuels out of gossip, flying the Chosen Ones to the stars. And to fulfill the darker requirements of the new faith, there were occasional human sacrifices, and steep, wing-burning falls.

  Dubdub was an early Icarus-like flameout. Solanka saw little of him in his golden years. Life separates us with its apparently casual happenstance, and when one day we shake our heads as if waking from a reverie, our friends have become strangers and can’t be retrieved: “Does nobody here know poor Rip van Winkle?” we ask plaintively, and nobody, any longer, does. So it was with the two old college pals. Dubdub was mostly in America now, some sort of a chair had been invented for him at Princeton, and there were phone calls back and forth at first, then Christmas and birthday cards, then silence. Until, one balmy Cambridge summer evening in 1984, when the old place was its most perfectly storybook self, an American woman knocked on the oak, the outer door of Professor Solanka’s rooms—formerly occupied by E. M. Forster—on “A” staircase, above the students’ bar. Her name was Perry Pincus; she was small-boned, dark, big-breasted, sexy, young, but fortunately not young enough to be a student. All these things quickly made a good impression on Solanka’s melancholy consciousness. He was recovering from the end of a first, childless marriage, and Eleanor Masters was some way in the future. “Krysztof and I got to Cambridge yesterday,” Perry Pincus said. “We’re at the Garden House. Or, I’m at the Garden House. He’s in Addenbrooke’s. Last night he cut his wrists. He’s been very depressed. He asked for you. Can I get a drink?”

  She came in and took in her surroundings appreciatively. The houses, little and largeish, and the humanoid figures sitting everywhere, tiny figures in the houses, of course, but also others outside them, on Professor Solanka’s furniture, in the corners of his rooms, soft and hard figures, male and female, also both largeish and small. Perry Pincus was carefully—if heavily—painted, her eyelids weighed down by heavy black eyelash extensions, and she wore full sex-kitten battle dress, a short tight outfit, stiletto heels. Not the customary attire of a woman whose lover has just attempted suicide, but she made no excuses for herself. Perry Pincus was a young Eng Lit person who liked to fuck the stars of her increasingly uncloistered world. As a devotee of the casual encounter, consequences (wives, suicides) were not her thing. Yet she was bright, lively, and like all of us believed herself to be an acceptable person, even, perhaps, a good one. After her first shot of vodka—Professor Solanka always kept a bottle in the freezer—she said, matter-of-factly, “It’s clinical depression. I don’t know what to do. He’s sweet, but I’m no good at sticking by men in trouble. I’m not the nurse type. I like a take-charge guy.” After two shots she said, “I think he was a virgin when he met me. Is that even possible? He didn’t admit it, of course. Said back home he was quite a catch. That turns out to be true, financially speaking, but I’m not the money-grubbing type.” After three shots she said, “All he ever wanted was to get a b.j. or, alternatively, fuck me in the ass. Which was okay, you know, whatever. I get a lot of that. It’s one of my looks: boy-with-tits. It gets the sexually confused guys. Trust me on this. I know.” After four shots, she said, “Talking of sexually confused, Professor, great dolls.”

  He decided he was hungry, but not this hungry, and gently coaxed her downstairs onto King’s Parade and into a taxi. She stared at him through the window with smudged eyes and a puzzled expression, then leaned back, closed her eyes, faintly shrugged. Whatever. Afterward he learned that in her own way Perry “Pinch-ass” was famous on the global literary circuit. You could be famous for anything nowadays, and she was.

  The next morning he visited Dubdub, not in the main hospital, but in a good-looking old brick building standing in green, leafy grounds a little way down Trumpington Road: like a country house for the hopeless. Dubdub stood at a window smoking a cigarette, wearing crisp, wide-striped pajamas under what looked like his old school dressinggown, a worn, stained thing that was perhaps playing the part of a security blanket. His wrists were bandaged. He looked heavier, older, but that goddamn society smile was still there, still on parade. Professor Solanka thought that if his own genes had sentenced him to wear such a mask every day of his life, he’d have been in here with bandaged wrists long ago.

  “Dutch elm disease,” Dubdub said, pointing to the stumps of trees. “Frightful business. The elms of old England, lost and gone.” Lorst and gorn. Professor Solanka said nothing. He hadn’t come to talk about trees. Dubdub turned toward him, got the point. “Expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed, eh,” he murmured, looking boyishly shamefaced. “Should’ve listened to my own lectures.” Still Solanka didn’t answer. Then, for the first time in many years, Dubdub put aside the Old Etonian act. “It’s to do with suffering,” he said flatly. “Why do we all suffer so. Why is there so much of it. Why can’t you ever stop it. You can build dikes, but it always comes oozing through, and then one day the dikes just give way. And it’s not just me. I mean, it is me, but it’s everyone. It’s you, too. Why does it go on and on? It’s killing us. I mean, me. It’s killing me.”

  “This sounds a little abstract,” Professor Solanka ventured, gently.

  “Yes, well.” That was definitely a snap. The deflector shields were back in place. “Sorry not to come up to scratch. Trouble with being a Bear of Little Brain.”

  “Please,” Professor Solanka asked. “Just tell me.”

  “That’s the worst part,” Dubdub said. “There’s nothing to tell. No direct or proximate cause. You just wake up one day and you aren’t a part of your life. You know this. Your life doesn’t belong to you. Your body is not, I don’t know how to make you feel the force of this, yours. There’s just life, living itsel
f. You don’t have it. You don’t have anything to do with it. That’s all. It doesn’t sound like much, but believe me. It’s like when you hypnotize someone and persuade them there’s a big pile of mattresses outside their window. They no longer see a reason not to jump.”

  “I remember it, or a lesser version of it,” Professor Solanka assented, thinking of that night in Market Hill long ago. “And you were the one who snapped me out of it. Now it’s for me to do the same for you.” The other shook his head. “This isn’t something you just snap out of, I’m afraid.” The attention he’d been getting, the celebrity status, had greatly aggravated Dubdub’s existential crisis. The more he became a Personality, the less like a person he felt. Finally he had decided on a retreat back into the cloisters of traditional academe. No more of all that globetrotting Magic Christian Derridada! No more performance. Energized by his new resolve, he had flown back to Cambridge with the literary groupie Perry Pincus, an unashamed sexual butterfly, actually believing he could set up house with her and build a stable life around the relationship. That’s how far gone he was.

  Krysztof Waterford-Wajda would survive three further suicide attempts. Then, just one month before Professor Solanka metaphorically took his own life, saying good-bye to everyone and everything he held dear and striking out for America with a spiky-haired doll in his arms—a special, early-period limited edition of Little Brain in bad condition, the clothes ripped, the body damaged—Dubdub dropped dead. Three arteries had been badly clogged. A simple bypass operation could have saved him, but he refused it and, like an English elm, fell. Which perhaps, if one were searching for such explanations, helped trigger Professor Solanka’s metamorphosis. Professor Solanka, remembering his dead friend in New York, realized that he had followed Dubdub in so many things: in some of his thinking, yes, but also into le monde médiatique, into America, into crisis.