The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz

by Russell Hoban

  Jachin-Boaz, please contact Boaz-Jachin.

  A telephone number and box number were given. Jachin-Boaz wrote them down.

  “Jachin-Boaz, please contact yourself turned around,” said the bookshop owner. “An odd message.”

  “What do you mean, myself turned around?” said Jachin-Boaz.

  “The names,” said the bookshop owner. “Jachin-Boaz, Boaz-Jachin.”

  “My son,” said Jachin-Boaz. “He's not me turned around. I don't know who he is. I don't know him very well.”

  “Who can know anybody?” said the bookshop owner. “Every person is like thousands of books. New, reprinting, in stock, out of stock, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, rubbish. The lot. Different every day. One's lucky to be able to put his hand on the one that's wanted, let alone know it.”

  Jachin-Boaz watched the bookshop owner walk out of the hospital looking modestly carefree and comfortable, tried to remember when he had last felt easy in his mind. Soon I'll be out of stock, he thought. All the books that I am. And out of print too, for good. Leaving a new son behind. No way back. A wave of terror flooded his being. No, no, no. Yes. No way back. Goddam her. Goddam both of them — the one he had left and the one who now stood between him and the one he had left. No going back. He didn't want to be a father again. He wasn't yet finished with being a son, and here was the last moment coming closer with every beat of his heart, that beating that he was aware of most of the time now. His heart and all the other organs in his tired body, no rest for forty-seven years. And the imminent final rest intolerable to think of. The last moment will be now, she had written.

  He tried to find hiding places from the terror in his mind so that the letter writer and the tightly furled man would not complain of his clanging, and he avoided anyone else's company. He availed himself of as many tranquillizers as the nurses would give him, slept as much as possible, entertained himself with sex fantasies, sang songs mentally. The song that became habitual had only one word: lion. Lion, lion, lion, sang his mind to dance rhythms, battle tunes, lullabies.

  He did not write to Boaz-Jachin or call him on the telephone. When the doctor made his rounds Jachin-Boaz spoke reasonably and cheerfully, said that the rest had done him good and that he was eager to get on with his life.

  “Toddy,” said the doctor. “There's a world of tickerence between the way you tock now and the way you ticked before, eh?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Jachin-Boaz.

  “New ticksponsibilities coming up now, eh?” said the doctor. “Tockspectant father, I hear. Best of tock, you know. Smashing young tickly you've got there. Saw her before she left.”

  “Thank you,” said Jachin-Boaz.

  “No more tockolence, I hope,” said the doctor. “Won't do, you know, in her tickition.”

  “Good heavens, no,” said Jachin-Boaz.

  “Good boy,” said the doctor, gripping Jachin-Boaz's shoulder hard. “That's the ticket.”

  At the end of his third week in the hospital Jachin-Boaz was discharged. He watched his feet as he walked through the corridors to the front door, careful to walk like a man wearing shoes.

  As he was going out he met the doctor who had treated his wounds coming in with a police constable, a social worker and a male nurse all gripping him firmly.

  “Bloody wogs defiling our women,” said the doctor. “Atheists, cultists, sexual deviants, radicals, intellectuals.”

  “Cheerio,” said the nurse when he saw Jachin-Boaz. “All the best, and don't come back too soon.”

  “What's wrong with the doctor?” said Jachin-Boaz.

  “Went for his wife with a poker,” said the nurse. “She said it was the first time he'd touched her with anything stiff for a long time.”

  “Whore,” said the doctor. “She's a whore.” He stared at Jachin-Boaz. “He's got a lion,” he said, “and nobody does anything about it. The authorities turn a blind eye. See him smile. He's got a lion.”

  The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)

  -33-

  When Boaz-Jachin heard the roar it came to him that there was in the world only one place. That place was time. The lion was in it and he was in it. He knew now that he must have known it when he shouted into the darkness and the ferry's white wake spreading astern. He must have known it always, from the time he had first seen the frowning face of the dying lion biting the wheel. He had made his feeble attempt at maintaining the fiction of ordinary reality, had placed the advertisement in the trade weekly. But it was towards the lion that he had been moving the emptiness in him these many miles. And it was the lion's call that he had waited for here in this city.

  He put his guitar in the case, picked it up, and walked in the direction of the sound, listening past the footsteps, voices, trains and echoes. Again the roar. It came from a particular direction and seemed to be in him at the same time. No one else seemed to hear it, no one paused to listen or to look at him as if the sound were emanating from him. Listening and seeing nothing he followed through the corridors, up the stairway and the escalator to the street, smelling hot sun, dry wind and the tawny plains.

  Past the traffic, past the buses, lorries, cars, footsteps, voices, airplanes overhead, boats on the river he listened, walking slowly. Everything that is lost is found again, he thought. The father must live so that the father can die. In him were all the faces, all the voices since he had first looked at the motionless stone in which the dying lion bit the wheel, all the skies and days, the ocean that had brought him to the time in which the lion was and he was. He walked, and in his mind he sang his wordless song.

  West he followed the roar, seeing nothing, and south towards the river and its bridges. Found again, lost again, he thought. The father must live. Time flowed through him. Being was. Balanced he flowed with time and being, following the lion, his face cleaving the air, his mind singing wordlessly.

  Alone among those he walked with on the streets he listened to the roar that led him on, came to the embankment. Spanned by its bridges the river flowed beneath the sky. Boaz-Jachin did not hear the roaring again. He sat down on a bench facing the river, took out his guitar and played lion-music softly.

  The day faded, the moon appeared in the sky and in the river. Boaz-Jachin played his guitar, waiting.

  The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)

  -34-

  On the morning after his first night at home Jachin-Boaz awoke without an erection. Hello, infinity, he thought. He remembered now that most of the time for the last few weeks he had not had an erection on waking. He sighed, thought of yellow leaves falling, quiet bells in monasteries, cool tombstones, poets and composers who had died young, pyramids, broken colossal statues, dry wind in the desert, grains of sand blowing, stinging, time.

  Last night they had made love, and as always it had been good. Someone had felt good — he, she, it, they. Jachin-Boaz wished them all the best of luck in their new venture. The earth had to be populated with people for the aloneness to wear. Congratulations.

  Gretel was still asleep. He put his hand on her belly under the blankets. One more brain to hold the world in. One more world-carrier. Like a disease the world was passed from one to the other, each to suffer alone. And yet — tiny sunrise, catch it before it's gone — the aloneness was in fact no worse than it had ever been. Even now with death coursing through him with every beat of his heart it was no worse. Secure in the womb he had been alone. The terror that was now was then as well. The terror inseparable from the primal salt, the green light through the reeds. The terror and the energy of life inseparable. Secure with his wife and son he had been alone, pulling the blankets of every day over his head to shut the terror out.

  Here, anchorless and lost in this time with Gretel he was alone with the terror but no more alone than the person-to-be in her womb. Sunrise, caught. Night again. Hello, night. No darker than ever. No darker than before I was. No darker than for you in her belly before your beginning. It takes a mill
ion noes to make one yes. Who said that? I said it.

  He got out of bed, stood up naked, stretched, looked at the not-yet-morning light in the window, listened to birds singing. I said I'd tell her, he thought.

  He said he'd tell me, thought Gretel with her eyes closed.

  He gently uncovered her, kissed her belly. I've told her, he thought.

  He's told me, thought Gretel. What? She kept her eyes closed, heard Jachin-Boaz in the bathroom, heard him dressing, making coffee, going out. I don't think he bought meat, she thought. I don't think he took meat with him.

  Summer, thought Jachin-Boaz. Seasons pass, the air on my face is mild, the day that is coming will be a summer day. This is better than my selfish rage in the hospital. There is no magic, nothing and no one to help me. Cool before the dawn I must do it alone, up from nothing, out of nothing. In his hand was the rolled-up master map. Across the street stood the lion. Jachin-Boaz took from his pocket an envelope addressed to Gretel, a check in it payable to her for all the money in his account. He posted it in the letterbox near the telephone kiosk. The telephone kiosk was still lit. The chestnut tree, wet with morning, was in full leaf. The lion-smell hung stilly in the air.

  “No meat,” said Jachin-Boaz to the lion. He turned and walked towards the river. The lion followed. As on the first day, a crow flew overhead. Jachin-Boaz came to the bridge, turned right, walked down the steps to the part of the embankment below street level. On his left were the parapet and the river, on his right the retaining wall. Behind him the steps to the bridge, ahead of him a railing at the edge of the stonework and the water stairs. The lion followed. Jachin-Boaz turned and faced him.

  No magic. Reality unbearable, inescapable. Violent death. Violent life. Being beyond all reasonable bounds. Being unbounded, terrifying, violent medium of death and life, indifferent to both, contemptuous of mortal distinctions. Frowning brows. Amber eyes luminous and infinite. Open jaws, hot breath, pink rasping tongue and white teeth of the end of the world. Jachin-Boaz smelled the lion, saw him breathe, saw the breeze stir his mane, saw the muscles taut beneath the tawny skin. Immense, the lion, dominating space and time.

  Distinct, forward of the air around him. Immediate. Now. Nothing else.

  “Lion,” said Jachin-Boaz. "You have waited for me before the dawns. You have walked with me, have eaten my meat. You have been attentive and indifferent. You have attacked me and you have turned away. You have been seen and unseen. Here we are. Now is the only time there is.

  “Life,” said Jachin-Boaz. He took one step to the left. “Death,” he said. He stepped back to the right. “Life,” he said, looked calmly at the lion, shrugged.

  “There are no maps,” said Jachin-Boaz. He unrolled the map in his hand, rolled it the other way to flatten it, lit a match, set it afire. Flames danced up. He dropped the map as the flames consumed it, oceans and continents darkened, writhing in the fire.

  “No maps,” said Jachin-Boaz.

  He remembered Boaz-Jachin as a baby, laughing in his bath in the sink. He remembered his wife singing. He remembered the feel of Gretel's belly against his mouth, remembered Boaz-Jachin as a boy standing outside the shop and looking in through the window, his small mysterious face shaded by the awning. He remembered the palm trees and the fountain in the square.

  “No way back,” said Jachin-Boaz.

  As long before, words appeared in his mind, large, powerful, compelling belief and respect like the saying of a god in capital letters:

  TO SING IN THE PRESENCE OF A LION

  Jachin-Boaz looked into the eyes of the lion. Someone was coming down the steps from the bridge with a guitar, was playing the guitar, was playing lion-music.

  Jachin-Boaz was not trembling. His voice was firm. He was surprised at how strong his voice was, how pleasing. He sang:

  Lion, lion, ten thousand years,

  Ten thousand more and still

  The motion of your running,

  Tawny, great, the motion of your running

  Printed on the air.

  The earth upon your amber eyes, lion,

  Ten thousand years, ten thousand more.

  Dead the kings are, lion,

  Fleshed with earth their bones,

  The earth upon your amber eyes,

  Like a window you looked through it, lion.

  The wheel you died on turns, you rise.

  The river and the bridges, lion,

  Crossings always, birds of morning,

  The motion of your running,

  Tawny, great upon the air.

  The air was dense and shimmering, thick with time. The taste of salt was in the mouth of Jachin-Boaz, Boaz-Jachin. Ocean behind him, the father saw the lion through the green light in the reeds, ceased to be himself, and only was. A channel through which life surged up, returned again to earth, to ocean. Immense in him a million rising noes to make one yes. No words. No no great enough. Jachin-Boaz opened his mouth, Boaz-Jachin opened his mouth.

  The sound filled all space like a river in flood, a great river of lion-colored sound. From his time, from the tawny running on the plains, from the pit and the fall and the oblong of blue sky overhead, from his death on the spears in the dry wind forward into all the darknesses and lights revolving to the morning light above the city and the river with its bridges the lion, father, son sent his roar.

  “Right,” said the police constable on the bridge, speaking into the little two-way radio he held. “Right. I am standing at the north end of the bridge. I am facing west, looking down the steps. There are two men there with a lion. Right. I know. The lion is loose. I am dead sober. I am in my right mind. What I think we need here is the fire brigade with a pumper. Big net too, stout one. Chaps from the zoo with a strong cage. Ambulance too. Yes, I know this is the second time. As quick as you can.” The constable looked up and down the bridge, chose a position from which he could climb a lamp-post or jump into the river, and waited.

  More, thought Jachin-Boaz. This is not yet all. I have not yet gone all the way. I have not yet become unaware of the beating of my heart, have not yet eaten up my terror, not yet been angry enough. Let it come, let it happen. Words in his mind again:

  TO RAGE WITH A LION

  Nothing else was enough. No more thought. His mouth opened. Again the roar. He or the lion? He smelled the lion. Life, death. He hurled himself at the immensity of lion.

  Boaz-Jachin leaped from the other side on to the lion's back, his face against the coarse mane and hot tawny skin, his arms embracing, fingers clutching raging death.

  Jachin-Boaz, Boaz-Jachin screamed in blinding fires of pain, raw nerves and ripped flesh flaming, muscles torn, ribs cracking, lion-entered, lion-killed, lion-born, howling in millennia of pain, impossibly absorbing infinities of lion. Blackness. Light. Silence.

  Their arms were around each other. They were whole, unhurt. There was no great beast between them. The day was bright on the river, the air was warm. They nodded to each other, shook their heads, kissed, laughed, cried, cursed.

  “You're taller,” said Jachin-Boaz.

  “You're looking well,” said Boaz-Jachin. He picked up his guitar, put it in the case. They walked up the steps, turned down the street towards Jachin-Boaz's flat. The fire brigade pumper and a red car passed them flashing and blaring. The ambulance, a police car, a police van, a van from the zoo, all flashing and blaring.

  “You'll have breakfast with us,” said Jachin-Boaz. “I don't mind being a little late for work today.”

  The police constable came forward as the pumper, the ambulance, the cars and vans screeched to a stop. In a moment he was the center of a circle of policemen, firemen, ambulance and zoo people, and his superintendent. The little dark man from the zoo sniffed the air, looked from side to side, bent to study the pavement.

  The superintendent looked at the constable, shook his head. “Not twice, Phillips,” he said.

  “I know how it looks, sir,” said the constable.

  “You've got a good record, Phill
ips,” said the superintendent. “Good prospects for promotion, a fine career ahead of you. Sometimes things get to be too much for all of us. Marital problems, economic pressures, nervous strain, all kinds of worries. I want you to talk to a doctor.”

  “No,” said the constable. He put the two-way radio carefully on the bridge parapet.

  “No,” he said again. He took off his helmet, set it down beside the radio.

  “No,” he said once more, took off his tunic, folded it neatly, laid it on the parapet beside the helmet and radio.

  “There was a lion,” he said. “There is a lion. Lion is.”

  He nodded to the superintendent, passed through the circle as it parted on either side of him, and walked away down the street in his shirt sleeves.

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