Machines in the Head

by Anna Kavan

  Disregarding a sensational rumour that student orgies were taking place with drink, psychedelic drugs and naked girls coated in aspic, I drove around, searching for the leaders. I was waiting for the traffic lights to change colour when some heavy metal thing shattered the window beside me and flashed past my head. A six-foot lance neatly transfixed the width of the car. My face was cut, with blood getting into my eyes. I only just caught sight of a running figure disappearing among the traffic. I started off in pursuit but was held up again. When I saw another man with a lance waiting at the next corner, I whipped around, raced back to college and telephoned the police.

  It is reported that communists have approached the students who, instead of repulsing them, are letting themselves be trained and organized into smooth-functioning units, equipped with Lugers, an enlarged vocabulary, aerosols and slinky stretch-pants in glittering fabric. I passed a crowd of our girls clustered together, suspected them of concealing communists in their midst. But the glitter was too bright, I was dazzled and saw nothing clearly: in the end I was forced to avert my eyes. In the hope of luring them back to normal, I set out supplies of heroin and cocaine in the classrooms, off-duty silk shirts and luxuriant eyelashes; decorated the walls with makeup artists of top sex appeal. The results, frankly, were disappointing.

  Esmerelda opened the door of my room, looking every inch a superwoman in patent cavalier shoes with detachable buckles of red lizard and silver and holding a pretty but useless wicker fly-swatter in one hand. ‘What’s happened to your face?’ I asked her. She spoke of an emblem worn by taxi drivers in Jamiltepec to ward off the evil eye. ‘How is the situation?’ she inquired. In my straightforward, manly way, I replied, ‘Bad. The government places a sinister interpretation on the student–communist axis. It would be wise to leave while the way is open.’ Her cold eyes withered me, she hit the side of my head twice with the fly-swatter, breaking it, and then left the room. Frankly, I was puzzled by her reactions.

  I decided to prepare for the worst. In the dead of night, without telling anyone, I secreted my helicopter among dense bushes in the shrubbery at the back of the main building. There it will remain, from now on, ready for us, in case we have to make a quick getaway. Nobody ever goes there at this time of year; it’s perfectly safe, hidden behind the pendulous branches of thick evergreens.

  Shouts, screams, a mounting crescendo of threatening noise from the town sent me hurrying across the grounds. Ya-hoo-hee! Yahoo-hee! Closer shrieks came from a crawly horror in a red catsuit with insignia in four colours. Scores of pygmies closed in; each had on a steel helmet decorated with this splendid four-colour-job mushroom; each pointed a pistol at me.

  ‘Stick your hands up!’ howled a khaki character (communist?) on the all-kill wavelength, who appeared to be in command. ‘And keep them up there – my gun has real bullets in it!’ The pygmy ambush took me by surprise, preoccupied as I was with events in the town, but it was easily dealt with. I asked what they wanted, promised careful consideration of reasonable demands, which were to be made in writing.

  A sack of mail, directed to Santa, was delivered later. Sifting through the contents, through the requests for definitive trendy kaftans, avant-garde night caps, exciting fab fun-fur hoods, switched-on gear of all kinds, I found the more basic items. Junior practical fighting techniques. Guerrilla warfare for the under-sixteens, including training in hand-to-hand combat. Do-it-yourself weapons for schools: simple construction of mortars, flamethrowers, ballistic missiles. How to construct an ambush, a booby trap. Useful tips on terrorism, napalm, nuclear devices, with sections on robbery with violence, blackmail, piracy on the high seas, arson, karate.

  I saw Esmerelda walking across the snowy lawn beside the gymnasium and went out to meet her. On one wall of the gym an immature hand had daubed in white paint: Give us Guns not Games at Yule or you’ll go Ezzie. It was blasphemy. I wondered how they had dared . . . ‘Bad news.’ I prepared her gravely. ‘The juniors are defecting, ganging up with the others against us.’ I couldn’t keep it from her, she had to know. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Her eyes were arctic. I pointed silently to the painted message. ‘Oh, no . . .’ she moaned, stricken. I put my hand on her arm, looked at her with my kind, understanding expression. ‘You see? It’s hopeless. Why don’t you face the facts? Your dream is over. Come with me while we’re still free to find peace and security.’

  Ya-hoo-hee! Ya-hoo-hee! Ya-hoo-hee! A sudden chorus of blood-curdling yells split the air. I gripped her hand, pulled her along with me towards the main portico at the end of the lawn. ‘Come on – we must run for it!’ Hordes of stampeding pygmies pursued us with terrifying war cries. I heard twanging bows, cried, ‘Faster, faster!’ as their arrows showered around us. She gasped, ‘I can’t . . . my shoes . . .’ ‘Take them off. Those arrows are tipped in curare.’ On we flew, she in her stockinged feet. There wasn’t a moment to lose, their feet pounded behind us, their Indian clubs thundered on the grass. Not a moment too soon, we reached the shelter of the portico. I dragged her inside the building and locked the door. It had been a near thing.

  I said, ‘A near thing.’ She was smiling her strange smile. She had her shoes in her hand, now she put them on, while I regarded her with admiration. In her study, I read out some of the juniors’ warlike demands. She interrupted me, snatched the paper, tore it up, threw the fragments away. ‘They’ve disappointed me. I thought better of them.’ I made an attempt to explain. ‘Kids need these things nowadays. You can’t put the clock back –’ Not a moment too soon, I swung her away from the window. Seven bullets pierced it, leaving seven round holes in the glass in the shape of the Plough. Outside, pygmy figures in khaki and battle helmets danced up and down, chanting, ‘The youngest generation demands the right to participate in the war against criminal aggression.’ Pointing their guns again, they rasped, ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ We stole away through the deepening shadows over the broken glass.

  Rioting students have brought the life of the town to a standstill. Our secret informant reports that the mayor has sent an urgent request for military aid, government forces are coming, an attack can be expected on Christmas Day. On Esmerelda’s order I sent radio messages to the rebels. ‘The government will crush you and the communists together. You don’t stand an earthly chance, so surrender to us.’ I told her that they refused to listen. She said, ‘Then I shall speak to them myself. Everything must be back to normal when these government people arrive.’ She is a strange woman. She was smiling again. ‘Just watch their faces when they find us carrying on as usual. I’ll show that fool of a mayor what’s really what and who is really on top.’ I said, ‘It’ll take some arm-twisting to get the students back here.’ She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Of course, they’ll respond to my magic. I’ve mesmerized them for years.’ One has to admire such confidence. All the same, I was nervous. Suppose they’d had enough of her magic? ‘You can’t trust them,’ I tried to dissuade her. ‘They are desperate and will stop at nothing. The whole town is seething with hate and violence. For the love of God, Esmerelda, belt up. You need rest, my love. Come with me to some unexplored island or far-off plateau in the mountains, far from drug-crazed teenagers and delinquent subteens.’ Her glance was straight from the polar regions. ‘They will be here tonight,’ she said.

  Later, announcing triumphantly that the magic had worked, she ordered a buffet supper to be laid out in the dining hall. ‘They’ll never be able to resist the food, and once they start eating they’ll be easy to handle.’

  Ten minutes before the time set for the meeting, the staff assembled in that large, lofty apartment with black-and-red Aztec designs and ambiguous paintings on the walls. I was gloomy. I feared a trap. Esmerelda sat in the centre with some of the older professors; the rest of us remained standing. Would the students come? I surveyed faces; everybody was getting dubious, to say the least. Only Esmerelda looked perfectly calm, relaxed, self-assured, insulated by a shock of sheer electricity, clear-cut by Christian Dior, lean le
ggy acid-blue tights sparkled with golden paillettes, translucent gold shoes under her chair. She had just slipped the shoes off to demonstrate to us how thoroughly she was at ease. There are moments when I adore that woman. The physics professor beside her had also kicked off his shoes; but I noticed his toes were twitching – a sure sign of nerves.

  The clock struck. Zero hour. Still no students. Thought waves pulsated between the walls, sound waves were audible. Figures appeared. But who were they? Students? Communists? Or the others? They looked like our students, dressed in these boring tight jeans and sweatshirts covered with stupid cars and top-pop titles. But how could one know that they hadn’t just assumed student identity?

  Esmerelda (if she was Esmerelda) started talking to them. The girls’ glittery legs moved like running water, and I wondered what acts of violence would be perpetrated when things got going. The curtains had not been drawn, the big windows divided the walls into a series of black arcades. I saw a mysterious movement in the dark and stepped out to investigate, suspecting treachery of some kind. Sure enough, hostile figures were everywhere; we were surrounded by strategically placed mortars trained on the main building. Rushing back, I re-entered the dining hall just as people were starting to help themselves to the food. ‘Break it up! The party’s over!’ I cried. ‘Those fish fingers are poisoned.’ All over the room, forks clattered on plates, excited, angry or frightened voices shouted questions which I ignored. Grabbing Esmerelda’s arm, I muttered into her ear, ‘Come quickly! We’ve been tricked. We’re encircled by irregular troops.’ She held back, groping about on the floor for her shoes. ‘Come on! We must fly,’ I insisted, seeing her suspended above the rooftops on wide superwoman wings. With more than my usual force and determination (was it somebody else’s?) I propelled her through an inconspicuous door at the back, directly opposite the concealed helicopter. Hand in hand we sprinted across the snow, as a howling mob burst out of the building we’d left and came tearing after us. In the nick of time, I heaved her into the machine, climbed up myself. Shots exploded, everybody was yelling, flares lit distorted, unrecognizable faces, searchlights pursued us into the black unknown.

  Up, up we soared, far above questionable students, leaving the noisy commotion far behind us. The whirlybird whirled us away on our search for peace. I looked at my winged superwoman, saw no Skagerrak glint in her eyes, which were ringed by romantic lashes and painted black all around.

  What a strange woman she is. Her strangeness is a sort of charisma, a special divine gift. She’s been invited to the palace to lunch with the Queen. Her picture is on the front cover of Vogue. And then she’s so talented and intelligent. (But is she Esmerelda?)

  In my gold and purple, with my rings and robes, I feel worthy to be her companion. (But who the hell am I supposed to be?) The situation this Yuletide is somewhat obscure. I assume, however, that we are all involved in the same old concerns. (The war in Asia. This love thing.) Esmerelda and I are swinging high over the world, conveyed through a sky full of snow by eight polar bears, whose bells jingle. Gosh, I never expected a happy ending.

  STARTING A CAREER

  THIS YOUNG FELLOW, STRANGE young fellow I’d never seen in my life, walked into my room without knocking. He was wearing a shiny white helmet, was otherwise all black leather and looked a tough sort of weapon-trained man. Disliking his invasion of my living space, I demanded, ‘Who the hell are you? What’s the gatecrashing idea?’

  Without a word, he thrust a long envelope at me. I broke the enormous official seal, found inside a summons to attend Lord Legion’s court the next day. This was incredible, crazy, as I’d just started to work for the President’s party, which was the opposition. Everyone knew the President hated Lord Legion and Lord Legion hated the President. I couldn’t go near Legion’s court without losing my job. ‘It’s not for me. It must be a mistake,’ I said. ‘Or if it’s some sort of joke I don’t think it’s funny.’ I threw the document at him; he caught it neatly and flicked it back. ‘It’s for you, all right. Lord Legion doesn’t make mistakes.’ He’d disappeared before I could speak again.

  I examined the paper more closely, decided it must be genuine. No joker would have gone to the trouble of reproducing that ancient parchment and wording, even if it had been possible. Lord Legion’s court was a survival from the remote past, an anachronism, a mystery. Legion himself was a mystery man of whom nothing was known. It was a mystery what he could want with me. The longer I thought about it, the more mystified I became. Could I have offended him in some way? My conscience was clear. But it was always possible I had infringed some obsolete regulation I’d never heard of. There must be any number of idiotical laws still unrepealed which could be conveniently invoked against anybody he wished to incriminate. But why should he want to incriminate me? I was too insignificant. In fact, I was amazed that he’d even heard of me or knew anything about me. Of course, there were said to be secret devices . . .

  Nobody knew the court’s exact function; there were only rumours. People said its powers equalled those of the President, its ancient legis lature representing reactionary forces as opposed to his forward-looking, up-to-date policies. I’d never known anyone who’d had dealings with it and had always thought of it as a relic of the Middle Ages, allowed to survive because it attracted tourists. To find it suddenly invading my personal life was disturbing to say the least. My impulse was to ignore the summons. But if I did that a sergeant-at-arms or someone would probably come and arrest me, which wouldn’t do my reputation much good. Whatever I did I would be in trouble. It looked as if my career would be over almost before it began. Looking at the thing again, I read: ‘Lord Legion’s court is in session 365 days a year, sits 24 hours a day and has complete jurisdiction over all civil, military and penal affairs.’ Well, that seemed to be that. Yes, I was in trouble, all right. Bad trouble.

  It was midwinter. When I set out late the next afternoon it was snowing hard. The snow at least was on my side, keeping people indoors; there was nobody in the streets to watch where I was going. Snow was piling up everywhere, making things look strange. In the fading light, the tremendous mass of the courthouse, sombre, secretive, seemed to crouch like some fabulous monster, evoking childish nocturnal fears I had quite forgotten. Suppressing them by an effort of will, I banged my fist on the huge medieval gateway, a section of which moved to admit me. Inside, two machine-gun nests guarded the entrance, invisible from the road.

  Soldiers checked my credentials, took me across a courtyard, past another guard post and into the main buildings, where I was left with a man speaking into a telephone. Passing the instrument to me, he told me to state my business. I was determined not to appear nervous and held my head high, my chin up, while I said boldly into the mouth piece, ‘My business is with Lord Legion.’ Immediately a suave voice replied. ‘Legion speaking.’ I was staggered. I almost dropped the receiver. Fancy him answering the phone himself, just like anyone else! I would be interviewed at once, he informed me, when I gave my name.

  Promptly, a whole procession of officers-at-arms, heralds, etc. came marching along a corridor as wide as the Irrawaddy to escort me to him, with all their antique mumbo jumbo of drums, torches and tasselled trumpets. I was blindfolded, put through an odd kind of drill. Sit. Stand. Kneel. About turn. Three steps forward. Back – presumably to confuse my sense of direction, before, eyes still bandaged, I was guided along passages, through doorways guarded by sentries, up а short staircase and finally left alone to wait. Blinking in the sudden blaze of electric light, I surveyed a large room, grandly furnished with scrolled and gilded pieces of the Second Empire period, the panelled walls hung with portraits of imposing figures in archaic dress. Perhaps one of them was Lord Legion. I was curious to know what he looked like. No photographs of him were ever published; he never appeared on television. Several quite different descriptions of him were in circulation. He was said to be: a sinister dwarf, always dressed entirely in black; a very tall thin man with a blond beard; a fierce, ba
d-tempered man like a charging bull. None of these proved to be accurate.

  Magnificently dressed officers entered, many-coloured ribbons across their chests, gold cords looped over their shoulders, forming a bodyguard around a central figure so caked in white that he looked like a snowman. ‘Lord Legion!’ someone announced loudly. I clicked my heels, saluted, stood to attention, wondering why he’d gone out after speaking to me on the phone. Or perhaps the voice I’d heard hadn’t been his at all.

  He faced me in dead silence, stared at me fixedly, then, with a startlingly loud, sharp noise, clapped his gloved hands together, showering snow all over a nearby sofa. As an opening gesture it was effective, seemed to have been rehearsed. I regаrded him doubt fully, as, assisted by a dark, handsome young man in а white uniform, he began unwrapping himself, practically in slow motion, removing each garment with deliberation before handing it to his aide. All the time he was pulling off his gloves, shaking his fur hat and divesting himself of his splendid seal-lined overcoat, he kept his eyes on me as if I was a mirror in which he was watching his own reflection. It was embarrassing. I felt more than uncomfortable – distinctly uneasy.

  He was a strange-looking man, not at all like the President or any of the important people I’d met. Without his overcoat, he made an impression of cold remoteness, his dark civilian suit contrasting strangely with the gorgeous clothes and colours worn by his entourage He had thick grey hair, a large carved face with lines running up and down it and an expression I couldn’t decipher. He went on staring at me out of eyes set deep like recessed spotlights under the ridge of brows. I wished he would speak, say what he wanted with me. The silent stare was becoming rather unnerving.

  At length he sat down in an armchair covered in red velvet, and, still in silence, indicated that I was to take the chair opposite. I felt more nervous than ever, confronted so closely by that sculptured face. The silence went on and on; I was thinking I wouldn’t be able to stand it much longer, when he suddenly laughed.