He mustn’t know I—know—did—he—it—did it. That doesn’t make sense! He mustn’t know I—know he did it—did it. He mustn’t know I did it. I didn’t do it! What? I might have.
He mustn’t know I know he did it? What? What did he do he mustn’t know I know he did, or I did he mustn’t know? I’m thinking or was thinking he mustn’t know I know he did it or I did it—what!—while he was thinking vice-versa, the opposite, I mustn’t know he knows I did it or he did it.
What’s important is I know what he’s thinking, though it’d help if I also knew what he or I did; and if I know what he’s thinking, he might know what I am, that he mustn’t know I know he stole the money. Why not? He knows he stole it. He stole money! He mustn’t know I know that! I’ve answered my own question. I don’t want him to, but why not? That can wait.
He doesn’t want me to know he did, since he believes I don’t know—what—he’s thinking. I know what he’s thinking. I know what he’s thinking! He mustn’t know I know that. Either.
How do I know that, think I know that? Go back over how I’ve come to that conclusion, or accept it’s right. If I know what he’s thinking, by whatever means, by the same means, he might know what I am. That’s appalling, yet I’m not appalled. I’m used to it. Therefore I don’t believe he knows what I’m thinking while believing I do. He might believe the same. If he knows what I’m thinking, like I know what he is, he knows I know. If he doesn’t know I know, he doesn’t know what I’m thinking, like I know what he is, though not at the present moment, unless that’s what he is—that I don’t know what he’s thinking, like he does me, except at the present moment.
I’m clutching at the straw of his belief in me—I didn’t do—I don’t believe he did—it. It’d be easier if I didn’t know I—he—did. What? Back to doubt, which is easier than what? to overcome, and I’m out, home and dry, Of course I believe you didn’t do it! How could he believe for one second I’d doubt him! I’m your friend, but it’s because I am it’d be expected I would. Others mightn’t.
You don’t have to spell it out for me.
It’d never have happened if they’d asked me to do whatever Kenneth Roy did. It probably never occurred to them. It would to Betty, for support. Robert’d’ve said I didn’t know how to do it—arrange venues and such. Could I? If Kenneth Roy could, I could learn. They could all pitch in until I did. At least I wouldn’t run off with £2000. They wouldn’t know that. When it came to an end as such things do, or when I’d got bored with it, they’d blame me, not knowing if it weren’t for me it’d’ve come to an end a whole lot sooner because of somebody they didn’t know not to trust.
He must never become director of an established theatre! I’m seeing him not only the cause of ineffectiveness from lack of firm direction but the source of corruption from his own main corruptness.
How are these things done? I never thought I’d be glad of the old boy network but I am; he must never be asked. He won’t apply if he’s not asked to. If you can’t do it, I must—write a letter or something to whoever’s responsible, the director, and if that’s him, much good will that do. I’d have to know beforehand, and since it’s you I depend on to know beforehand, it’s you I depend on to stop it without my necessarily knowing you have.
I won’t.
You won’t. Who can I work on to get their men to do what I want when my own man won’t?
I won’t. I’ll stop it.
You’ll stop him. I can leave it to you then.
I’m expecting more but Robert has reached a conclusion which he marks by walking quickly from where he was, for no better reason than he can, since, while it is towards the room door, he stops well short, in a determining profile before facing me, “Don’t you repeat what I said. You don’t repeat what I said,” repeating himself, almost, ordering me, as if I’m a child! and as he never had before, to my recollection, though I vaguely recall shortly before being ordered by other than him who, like that other, is awaiting obeisance I see no way out of giving.
“What did you say?” I’ve completely forgotten. I am a child. He’s making me a child! I’m furious with him, for doing it, with myself for giving my word under compulsion, but primarily with my man for letting him do it to me. I’m ashamed of myself, but less on realizing I haven’t given my word.
He’s surprised by my answer, incredulous of the sophistication of my acting, so much subtler than his he’s prepared to concede in this one instance because he wants to believe and is satisfied I’d displayed transparent disingenuousness wittily—he knows I’m witty—to let him know how if need be to others I’d convey opaque disingenuous avowal he’d said anything at all. Reluctant as he was to give me such credit, and my acting was better than he gave me credit for, it was either that or believe I’d completely forgotten what he’d said—which I now remember—and he can’t believe I’m that big a fool. I am, I was, and, being, think to disabuse Robert of his misinterpretation of what I said (of what he’d said) but it is complicated to explain and his interpretation has got me out of a very tricky situation he’d put me in without my giving my word I’d’ve erroneously felt obliged to keep, not to repeat what he’d said. I can repeat it. It wasn’t he who’d made me a child but my own man—I never doubted for a minute—to get me out of obeying an order, other than his that is.
Who’d I repeat it to? Betty. Helen, who might already know, from acting with him, but I think not. Betty is less likely to know, more likely for me to repeat it to. Her interest is more indirect, that of getting her plays performed, while, for the same reason, she’s more affected unknowingly by it, its consequences, than Helen. As much anyway—it’s hard to gauge. Isobil, only acting occasionally, less. Louise? There are people I can repeat it to. But Robert has asked me not to. He’s a friend. He hadn’t asked; he ordered. But he is a friend. When he no longer is, and it’s hard to conceive when he won’t be, a very long time hence—How? By attrition, by time’s passing, and one or two specific things at the end—I’d repeat what he said to Kenneth Roy, whom I don’t and wouldn’t know, of whom, but possibly not to whom, he’d said it.
We’re in the hall! I stop, to look at the room door he’s closed behind us, an action I’m presuming from our position, one of moving from, before I stopped and he stopped on my stopping, and from his propinquity to the door. We’d been going from the room—to the outside door—not to it, so far as I can judge; I’ve been in that room yet can’t remember anything that went on in it. I want to know; and will know, I’m assured. I must’ve been unconscious. I might still be.
“Have you forgotten something?”
He means a thing whereas I’ve forgotten everything, “I can’t remember coming through that door, when it was open, not when it was shut, as it is.”
“You believe you could come through it shut. Why not.”
He believes I could come through it shut! Can I? I’ve never done that. It’s possible, like a galaxy passing through another, both intact, but the probability is molecules of me would stay with the door, and of the door with me, if I didn’t get stuck halfway. He’d have to feed me until I died; and buy a new door. It’d be difficult to bury me; easier to cremate. That may be why my man does it for me, safe. “I believe I can’t. I believe you opened it, I came through, you closed it behind you, unless it’s that door,” the outside, “I’ve come through and you’re about to open that door,” the dreaded room, “are you!”
“You did it automatically. I’m seeing you to the door, that one.”
“Which? I thought you weren’t going to.”
“If you remember that,... Is that what this is about?
“That one. Are you feeling all right? You didn’t have that much to drink—you’ve been smoking!”
I don’t want to go into that!
“—unless you already had...?”
Oh if I had a drink, I must’ve been in the room and am not about to have to go in, again, if I take his word for it; he won’t be lying about that, unless—Oh!
“I have drunk. It’s not drink. I feel fine. I don’t. I feel weird.”
“So you’ll take my word for some things.
“Is it the room? You don’t like my room? You’ve been in the room before, many times.”
“And all of them like this time.”
“No. I’ll never know if you know, will I?”
“Know what?”
He smiles.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“I can do it!”
“You’ll have told Eric.”
“I’m not telling Eric this!”
He hasn’t told Helen.
“I don’t know how he’d take it. He wouldn’t.”
“I’m flattered.”
“By what? By that! How can you be flattered by that?”
“I’m flattered by your telling me what you haven’t Eric, but you’ll have to; he can’t find out you’ve told me before him.”
“He won’t find out, unless you tell him. Is that what you’re going to do? Tell Eric.
“What’ll I do? What can I do? How can I stop you?”
Murder me? Is he going to murder me? Here? In his flat? What’s he going to do with the body? my body; he doesn’t have a car. What’s he done that’s worse than murder? All I can think of is homosexuality, according to some, but not in his milieu. Could he murder me? Anybody could anybody.
“Money!”
Oh, money. I’ll take it!—better than being murdered.
“How much?”
£2000 springs to mind, for some reason. Is that too much?
“How much do I have?”
It does depend how much he has.
“I don’t have much.”
Pleading poverty. Watch this; it’ll be nothing next. He’s mean. I didn’t know I knew that. He appears generous. He is an actor.
“It might be a lot to you. How much?”
I was about to ask that.
He sounds like me—not like me—possessed, by my man. What’s my man doing possessing him? unless it’s his own man is, to collaborate with mine, in a story. If my man can possess him now, he could, he likely did, possess him then, for the story. My man’s responsible. I’m not, but he is my man and whatever he’s responsible for it’s for good reason. A story’s good reason.
“Why tell me first if it’s not money? It’s money. How—?”
I’m fed up with this! imputing his motivation to me, “Robert! I don’t want your money.” Must I be so adamant? What has he done he’s told me about I don’t know of he can believe I’d blackmail him with? Why tell me then? When did he? Wasn’t it long enough ago for him to know I wouldn’t blackmail him with it? He’s just told me. But it wouldn’t matter how long ago it was, he’d believe I would, because I always can.
Why put such power in my hands if he believes I’ll use it? He hadn’t believed. He does believe, from putting it in my hands. I might, if I knew what it was. He doesn’t know I don’t know. He knows I have it and for all he knows can use it. That’s intolerable, for him to live like that, under a Damoclean sword. Which is worse? Knowing, or not knowing? Bad enough when it falls. “All I meant was, if you haven’t told him but he finds out you have told me, he’ll think you love me more than him.”
“Is that why I told you? I did. Do I?”
“It doesn’t matter why. Irrespective of whether you did or do, you don’t want Eric thinking you do, particularly if you don’t know you do.”
“I do? You think I do? If I do,..?”
If he decides he does, it’ll be live with him next; I don’t want him. How can I put it?
“I didn’t think I did. I don’t think I do. Irrespective of whether I do or don’t, I don’t want Eric thinking I do.”
He’s off again. Is that how I sound? Is he mimicking me!
“Don’t I? You think I don’t. Why d’you think I don’t?”
“I did think you wouldn’t. I don’t. I thought, I do think, if you didn’t want him knowing what you told me, you wouldn’t want him knowing you’d told me but not him.”
“If he knew I’d told you he’d know what I told you. Is that right? I don’t want him knowing that. It’d shock him. He might move out.”
He was concerned about rent, when I was thinking love. I hope Eric isn’t listening in from behind the door of his room; it’s very quiet. He might know already. Usually Eric has music on: Puccini. He might be out. Bob wouldn’t be talking so freely if he weren’t, unless... Time’s stopped! If time were stopped, Eric couldn’t listen in anyway; only the two people involved hear each other. Eric could be standing in the hall with us and he’d hear nothing.
“He’s not deaf.”
“No, but we wouldn’t be talking. When I said ‘talking’—did I say ‘talking’?”
“‘Hearing’. You didn’t say it; you were exemplifying it by not talking. I know, but we’re not talking or hearing like that now, mostly we’re talking. Eric would hear us.
“He’s out.”
But would hear us! if he could, but he can’t. I feel like a fool, thinking time’s stopped when we’re talking, and walking, however slowly. We couldn’t be doing that if time were stopped; and I’d be imagining where I was instead of knowing, not that that’s a criterion: I do that anyway. Can do. Have done. I feel such a fool believing time had stopped, because I did believe it had
“It had.”
when it obviously hasn’t.
‘Had’? It might have in the room, but if I can so easily delude myself, I’m clutching at straws because I so want to have time stopped when I remember nothing. I can’t make something of nothing, though it is because it’s nothing I’m tempted to. Nothing could be anything and is most probably time-stopping since that is what I most forget, but that’s no proof! There is something odd about this I’m not getting.
“You don’t remember. How—?” ‘I nearly went too far.’
I’ve gone too far, inadvertently telling him what I meant to keep him from knowing since letting slip that about the door which I used to cover, cleverly I think, I could remember nothing in the room.
“I thought it’d shock you more, than Eric. It didn’t.”
He’s speiring, like I was him.
“How could anything shock you!”
“I’m easily shocked.”
“I might tell Eric.”
“Where would he go?”
“Where he is, his mother’s.”
He’s out—I’ve finally found out.
Didn’t I tell you?
I think you did. It does no harm to check. Oh dear, “Would it be in his interests to move out? Is it more in his interests to move out if he finds out what you told me, or that you told me but not him first what you told me?”
“Isn’t that the same? No. No! He wouldn’t care—wouldn’t move out because—I’d told you. He would—I don’t know he would; he might not—because of what I told you, I thought, but don’t think he would. It’s the same. It’s not. Is it? If I tell Eric—and I might not—”
He wants me not to be sure.
And he’s not telling me again what he told me if he’s not sure I know—how does he suspect I don’t?—and he wouldn’t anyway, since he’d be assuming I do know what he told me. I’m giving up.
“it’ll be a sanitized version, fit for his ears.”
That’s what Mum said! almost exactly—‘their’ instead of ‘his’—in different circumstances of a common practice that I haven’t heard since, when I thought I’d forgotten practically everything about her.
Your mother? If you can forget your mother,..!
My Aunt Nell. My childhood.
And if you can remember,..?
It’s because you’re a child! I knew! I didn’t know. I knew there was something I wasn’t getting. That’s it. Similar circumstances... I’ve read about that.
I said ‘different’. Were they similar? I’m not a child. I do feel childish.
Childlike.
What are the chances of that happening a
gain!
High.
It must’ve been difficult for him looking at a man to see a child.
Good.
‘High’! You think it’s—
‘They’re’. It’s ‘they’re’—‘chances’?—high. That doesn’t sound right.
You don’t think the chances are high.
No.
It’s ‘high, low risk’, isn’t it? That’s why you said ‘it’s’; you were thinking ‘risk’. That’s why I said ‘high’; I knew what you were thinking, and answered that.
You said ‘chances’, after you thought ‘risk—high? low? Low.’ But you said ‘good’, and that goes with ‘chances’, or with low risk, ‘good low risk’. Which is it? What were you thinking?
What’s the difference? Chances are risks.
Dadaoism (An Anthology) Page 31
