Grimus

by Salman Rushdie

  To find a door where none had been, a swinging slab of stone that now stood open. From the room within came the creaking, the all-pervasive creaking. Flapping Eagle walked slowly towards the sound. The dirty yellow light of oil-lamps glowed through the secret door.

  —The acoustics here are somewhat haunting, yes?

  Quick, clipped consonants and short, flat vowels. The voice of Grimus.

  —I trust you are both comfortable?

  The rocking-chair stood with its face to the closed window and its back to Flapping Eagle. He could see the head: a shock of white hair, some of it flowing over the back of the chair.

  Creak … creak … creak as the rocking-chair swayed back and forth; and another, slighter sound, a soft clicking which Flapping Eagle could not understand. He reached the rocking-chair and stood beside the man he had come so far to see.

  Grimus was knitting.

  Like, and yet unlike. Yes, their faces were alike, the aquiline nose, the deepset eyes, the firm square jaw; but Grimus was nearer Bird-Dog’s olive colouring than the white of Flapping Eagle’s sepulchritude. And their eyes spoke differently, Grimus’ distant, cool, twinkling while Flapping Eagle’s were glaring and hot. Like, and yet unlike.

  As though reading his thoughts, Grimus said:

  —My pale young shadow. That is you.

  Flapping Eagle forced the necessary words past his lips; he was finding it difficult to take up an antagonistic stance in this relaxed, amused presence.

  —You know why I am here, he said. Where is the Stone Rose?

  —I know why Virgil wanted you to come, said Grimus. That is sad, you know. For Virgil to side with the Nicholas Deggles of this world. But no matter, no matter. I hope you will make up your own mind, Flapping Eagle. You are nobody’s tool. The eyes smiled.

  —Well, then, said Flapping Eagle. Tell me why you sent Bird-Dog for me. And tell me what you have done to make her … what she has become.

  The white eyebrows rose a fraction.

  —So fast, said Grimus. Such haste. No, my friend, I will not tell you. Not, at any price, before dinner.

  Dinner was vegetarian, like Grimus; but so expertly had Bird-Dog prepared it that Flapping Eagle, a great carnivore, scarcely noticed the absence of meat.

  —Man’s origins, Grimus was saying, are those of the hunter. Thus the hunt, search or quest is man’s oldest, most time-honoured pursuit. You must feel a great sense of accomplishment to have arrived.

  Flapping Eagle looked at his sister: crushed, servile, cowering menially in a corner, ignored by her master.

  —Perhaps it’s better to travel hopefully, he said.

  Bird-Dog, who had been waiting on Grimus for an eternity now, an eternity of being ignored. She had stood it, Flapping Eagle surmised, because at least she could feel unique, the sole acolyte of the man she worshipped. At least she was significant. No wonder, then, that she grudged his arrival; she would not want to share Grimus with anyone.

  Grimus, for his part, treated her throughout the meal as subhuman, a being beneath contempt; and Flapping Eagle found himself shaping a dislike of the strange secret man.

  He was talking to Media. —I must compliment you on your strength, he said. But I fear for you. Flapping Eagle, do you not fear for her? This is not an entirely safe place. The side-effect, I mean.

  —She’s resisted it perfectly well so far, said Flapping Eagle.

  —But one can weaken, said Grimus. My dear, would you be prepared to undergo a little hypnosis? It would make you safe.

  Media looked at Flapping Eagle through ill, panicky eyes. He was thinking: Grimus is right: the Effect is strongest here. She could succumb at any moment. So, despite his reluctance to allow Grimus near her, he said: —Perhaps you’re right.

  —After dinner, then, said Grimus. You will of course be present yourself.

  —You like my home? asked Grimus, eagerly.

  —Very nice, said Media.

  —I have built it to enshrine my favourite things, said Grimus. My favourite ideas. The ash outside. The portraits of birds. It is a great pleasure to a lonely man.

  —It’s very large, said Media.

  —When I lived in K, said Grimus, I was prepared to live as modestly as the rest. But since they have forced me to withdraw, I indulge myself shamelessly.

  —Acute of you to recall the Ash Yggdrasil, said Grimus over coffee. Let me tell you of a related matter. The Twilight of the Gods, as it is known. This is an entirely erroneous term, you know. The word ragnarok, twilight, only occurs once in the entire Poetic Edda, and is almost certainly a misprint for the word ragnarak, which is the one used throughout the songs. The difference is crucial. Ragnarak, you see, means fall. Total destruction. A much more final thing than twilight. You see how one letter can warp a mythology?

  —How do you get coffee here? asked Media.

  Grimus frowned at the irrelevance. —I think, therefore it is, he said.

  Flapping Eagle imagined he looked pleased at her confusion.

  On their way out of the dining-room, Grimus bumped into Bird-Dog. She dropped the dish she was carrying. He dusted himself down at the place where their bodies had touched, looking disgusted; and said: —Bird-Dog, you are a clumsy fool.

  —Yes, Grimus, she said.

  Flapping Eagle stifled a surge of anger, remembering Virgil’s advice: Bide your time.

  The hypnosis of Media was completely successful; the post-hypnotic suggestion completely shut out the whine from her head. Flapping Eagle cheered up slightly, then thought: I wonder how much hypnosis he’s used on Bird-Dog?

  Media was asleep. Bird-Dog was concealed in her quarters. Grimus and Flapping Eagle sat in the Bird Room, amid the paintings and the stuffed and sleeping creatures.

  —Peaceful beings, said Grimus. Yet they can be trained to fight, like cocks. Simple beings, yet they say the mynah bird can tell fortunes. Amoral beings, yet some are highly moral. The albatross, for instance, is monogamous after performing its mating dance. For the rest of its natural life. Few of us could claim as much.

  —Grimus … began Flapping Eagle.

  —They feed, they breed and they die, said Grimus. All we can do is feed. Which of us do you find the superior?

  —I think it’s time, said Flapping Eagle.

  —Now you yourself, Flapping Eagle, are a strange creature. Once you were nidifugous, fleeing the nest which bore you. But not by choice, so you have once more become nidipetal. Seeking a new nest, eh? Admirable. Most admirable.

  Flapping Eagle burst out:

  —Grimus, what is this all about?

  Grimus looked mildly astonished.

  —All about, Mr Eagle? But of course it is all about death. Death, Mr Eagle—that is what life is about.

  Flapping Eagle felt suddenly very cold.

  —Whose death? he asked, fearfully.

  —My dear Flapping Eagle, smiled Grimus. Mine, naturally. Whose did you think? That is who you are: the angel of my death.

  —Put these on, said Grimus.

  —Why?

  —Because it must all be properly done, said Grimus, his hands fluttering in bird-like movements.

  So, in the Bird-Room, Flapping Eagle assumed the full ceremonial feathered head-dress and face-paint of an Axona Sham-Man, slung a bow across a shoulder and a quiver of arrows at his back, and held a ju-ju stick in his right hand. Grimus, in the meanwhile, put on a different head-dress, whose colouring exactly matched the plumage of the great bird in the largest portrait in the room.

  —And now, said Grimus. Shall we dance?

  Flapping Eagle sat in Grimus’ rocking-chair, listening, There was not much else he could do; he had seen no sign of the Stone Rose. And besides, he was curious. His head-dress hung proudly over the back of the swaying-chair and the ju-ju stick lay in his lap. Grimus circled him, walking in an odd, stilted manner, bending forward from the waist and sticking out his neck at every step, his hands at shoulder-height, his fingers moving, moving ceaselessly. There was an angular
rhythm about his movements that dizzied the eye.

  —This is the Dance of Wisdom and Death, said Grimus. Death, still, watching and listening, biding its time, good. Wisdom, circling, gesturing, revealing itself to its Doom. Good. This is how I chose to be; it is a man’s freedom to choose the manner of his going. I have chosen a beautiful Death and made it in my own image.

  His voice descended from its high pitch and his manner became conversational.

  —Ordinary men, he said, by which I mean mortal men, are made incomplete by ageing and death. As the years give them wisdom, their failing faculties make a nonsense of it, so that when Death claims them they have little to say to it. I chose to be different. Through longevity I have been able both to grow wise and to retain the faculties which add potency to wisdom. To be wise and powerful is to be complete. That which is complete is also dead. And so I wish to die. Not the paltry fizzling of mortal life, but a minutely-planned and satisfying death. An aesthetic passing on.

  The Elixir of Death, the blue release, has no power on Kâf Mountain. It was thus I conceptualized the island, for in building a life one must be conscious of its end. Who would write a story without knowing how it finished? All beginnings contain an end. Unknown to Virgil Jones, unknown to Nicholas Deggle, I planned Kâf Mountain around my death. Around you. The Elixir of Death would have been too easy, too incomplete. One cannot reveal one’s secrets to a drink. And then there is the question of the Phoenician impulse, but more of that later.

  The Mountain of Kâf, in short, is a place where death is neither natural nor easy. It must be chosen, and it must be an act of violence against the body. That, after all, is what it always is in truth.

  But the Mountain is more than this. It is the Great Experiment. Not in the sense that Virgil Jones understood it; I saw no reason to tell him my true intentions. There is every reason to tell you. You are the Phoenician Death. This is the nature of Kâf: it is an attempt to understand human nature by freeing it from its greatest instinctual drive, the need to preserve the species through reproduction. The Elixir of Life is a beautifully two-edged weapon, removing at a stroke the possibility of reproduction by sterilizing Recipients, and also nullifying the need to reproduce by conferring immortality. The island, furthermore, is plentiful and fertile. Scarcity, too, has been removed. All of which necessitates a profound change in human behaviour, a change which I believed would reveal our true natures far more exactly. It is a fine combination, sterile immortals and fertile land. A most rewarding study.

  Analysts of the mythical mountain of Kâf have called it a model for the structure and workings of the human mind. Fitting, then, that the actual Mountain should be a structure created to examine the interests (and enable the death) of one human mind.

  Though, in a sense, it is not my intention that my mind should die. This is the purpose of revealing my secrets to the chosen instrument of my death. This is the Phoenician impulse.

  When I became Grimus, I took the name from a respect for the philosophy contained in the myth of the Simurg, the myth of the Great Bird which contains all other birds and in turn is contained by them. The similarity with the Phoenix myth is self-apparent. Through death, the annihilation of self, the Phoenix passes its selfhood on to its successor. That is what I hope to do with you. Flapping Eagle. Named for the king of earthly birds. You are to be the next stage of the cycle, the next bearer of the flag, Hercules succeeding Atlas. In the midst of death we are in life.

  —What if I refuse?

  The question came unprompted from Flapping Eagle’s scared lips. Megalomania is a frightening thing to be circled by.

  —You are the next life of the Phoenix, repeated Grimus. The Phoenician Death.

  —How can you refuse? said Grimus after a pause. Consider your life: you will see that I have shaped it to this express purpose. In a sense, Flapping Eagle, I created you, conceptualizing you as you are. Just as I created the island and its dwellers with all the selectivity of any artist.

  —We existed before you found us, said Flapping Eagle.

  —Surely, said Grimus tolerantly. But by shaping you to my grand design I remade you as completely as if you had been unmade clay.

  —I don’t believe you, said Flapping Eagle, and Grimus laughed.

  —A sceptical Death, he said. Good, good. His voice rose again to its formal high pitch and his fingers fluttered more than ever.

  —Do you deny that by selecting you as a Recipient I shaped your life thenceforth? Do you deny that by taking your sister from the Axona I forced your expulsion? Do you deny that by expelling Nicholas Deggle into your continuum I guided you towards Calf Island? Do you deny that by allowing you to wander the world for centuries instead of bringing you here I made you the man you are, chameleon, adaptable, confused? Do you deny that by choosing a man similar in appearance to myself I estimated exactly the effect of such a man on Virgil and on the town of K? Do you deny that I lured you here with the Spectre of Bird-Dog? Do you deny that I have steered a course between the infinite potential presents and futures in order to make this meeting possible? (And then, dropping his voice:) Which of your Lord’s blessings would you deny?

  Flapping Eagle was shaken but not wholly convinced. He shook his head.

  —Since you do not know how to conceptualize the coordinates of your Dimension, you cannot leave the island, said Grimus. You cannot stay among Kâf’s inhabitants, bearing my face. Your only alternative is suicide, and once I have shown you my marvels you will not wish to do so.

  —Show me, said Flapping Eagle.

  Flapping Eagle stood in the room he had passed through earlier, the room with veiled objects on podia, wondering what he found most alarming about Grimus. He decided it was the childishness underlying his whole so-called Grand Design, the fulfilment of every half-formed whim, and the strangely infantile rituals he devised to amuse him, like this so-called Dance. Grimus: a baby with a bomb. Or a whole veiled arsenal of bombs. On pedestals.

  —The second part of the Dance, Grimus twittered, is a Dance of Veils. In Which Much That Is Wonderful Is Revealed.

  He stood by the first podium, a didactic, particoloured owl.

  —Beneath personality, he said, is concealed an essence. The Meta-Physicists of Oxyput VII have perfected a tool for the detection of this essence. I acquired one on my travels. It is based upon a simple concept: that Essences are of two kinds: atomic, complete, static on the one hand, or on the other, ionic, incomplete, dynamic. What might be termed Ions in the Soul. (A short laugh.) The device I am about to show you is called an Ion Eye. It can examine and record the particular Ionic structure of any Dynamic Essence. Through centuries of experimentation, the Oxyputians have analysed the meanings of these Ionic patterns. This knowledge is also at my disposal. I used it to aid me in the conceptualization of none other than a certain Flapping Eagle.

  He unveiled the Ion Eye. It was a simple black box. On its front face were rows and rows of tiny glass windows.

  —Stand in front of it, please.

  Flapping Eagle complied and at once lights appeared in the tiny windows, a complex pattern of lights.

  —Your Ionic Pattern, said Grimus, is the strongest destructive pattern I have ever seen. If one were superstitious, one could argue that it is this essence that Mrs Cramm spotted in your palm, this essence which caused your people to mistrust you, this essence which lies at the root of your misfortunes on Kâf Island. For my purposes, it made you an eminently suitable angel of death. You and your sister. Though her pattern is rather less well-defined than yours.

  Grimus moved to a pair of pedestals, which stood close together at one end of the room. He unveiled one.

  Flapping Eagle found himself looking at the Water-crystal.

  —I see you recognize this, said Grimus. Virgil’s diary. Good, good. It was through this that I found you and then tested you with the Ion Eye, through this that I followed you all the way here. But its companion is almost more interesting. It does not occur in Virgil’s diary, beca
use I concealed it from him. It is the Crystal of Potentialities. In it I can examine many potential presents and futures and discover the key moments, the crossroads in time, which guide us down one or the other line of flux. If you understand what I mean by that.

  Flapping Eagle shook his head—no—as he stared at the second, unveiled crystal globe. This was filled, not with water, but with a kind of smoke.

  —I’m afraid you always see through a bit of a haze, said Grimus. Ah, but you do not understand. Let me refer to incidents you yourself remember. Twice in the very recent past, you have experienced crossroad-points. For instance. Had I not conceptualized a protective barrier around you, you would no doubt have drowned as you floated in to the island. Obviously I allowed some water to enter your system. Verisimilitude is important. And a second moment: when you unconsciously spoke the name Elfrina to La Cherkassova. I’m sure you perceived how that one small moment changed the course of your life. Though it is fair to say that if you hadn’t made it so easy for me I’d have had to find another way of detaching you…. Anyhow. You see what I mean. Crossroad points. I have been husbanding you—and others—along the right road for a very long time now. That is what I mean when I say I have made you. I have been constructing the Perfect Dimension, in which everything goes according to plan.

  You will say: it didn’t. I didn’t anticipate the treachery of Nicholas Deggle. To which I reply: one of the greatest qualities of a well-formed Concept is flexibility. One can turn disadvantages into advantages. Thus Deggle’s expulsion became a simple way of drawing you into the net. Thus the K-people’s dislike of me helped them to react correctly towards you. (Though by denying them access to the Rose I would have fostered that dislike anyway.)

  —You denied them the Rose, said Flapping Eagle.