Boating for Beginners

by Winterson, Jeanette

  THE MANUSCRIPT

  From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, have been my sole occupation. My attention is attracted by the structure of the human frame, and indeed any animal endued with life. Whence, I asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? To examine the causes of life we must first have recourse to death. I have become acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this is not sufficient. I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. I am forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel houses... After weeks of incredible fatigue, I have succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I have found it in my own kitchen. Searching for nourishment, I groped in the deepfreeze while outside a terrible thunderstorm split the heavens. Wearily I took out a slab of Black Forest Gâteau and a scoop of ice cream, not noticing in my feeble state that both were in a state of nauseating decomposition. As I picked up my spoon I glanced down at the filthy mess and, realising my error, turned to cast the substances into the bin. At that moment a fork of lightning shattered my window and blasted the plate in my hands. I dropped it and jumped back, thankful for my life. Then, before my eyes, a curious, frightful, intoxicating motion rocked the plate back and forth. I saw new life forms struggle their way to the surface of what had once been vile slime. The bolt of lightning, more powerful than any current I had yet generated, had sparked off vital cells from aimless bacteria. I rushed to where the plate lay, and cradling it in my arms, ran back to my laboratory. As I examined the life forms I imagined how it must have been, millions of years ago, when the same act had created the earth and all her inhabitants. Exhaustion stole away further investigation. My last act before falling into a senseless sleep was to turn off the deepfreeze so that I would have more of those precious bacteria...

  I cannot continue; my calculations are incorrect. I have created beings, yes; but they, wretched creatures, are little more than imbeciles. I have taken dead bodies, filled them with bacterial charge: but either they explode, or they become nothing better than songbirds, hooting, grinning and calling after me. I am teaching them to play the spoons because I can think of no better occupation. Worst of all their skin has a sickly white hue, doubtless a sign of their origins. Perhaps I should have used less ice-cream? One of them I have tried to train as my cook, but his poor addled brain can produce nothing more than quantities of semolina. I lie awake at night, listening to their racket, unable to bring myself to destroy them...

  I have very little money; all my profits are being eaten up by my obsession. I cannot even afford to repair my boats. When the warm weather comes I will set my creatures to selling ice cream on deck. A cruelty, but my work must go on... .

  I am coming to hate the sight of a refrigerator. Last night, sleep-walking, I bumped into my deepfreeze and awoke crying for mercy. My eyes rolled wild in my head; I took an axe and tried to cut the vile thing down, but its enamel proved the defeater of me. I will never again eat frozen food...

  No one can conceive the variety of emotions that now bear me onwards. I have resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make a being of gigantic stature; that is to say about eight feet high and proportionally large. Such a being will be able to withstand the current. A new species will then bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures will owe their existence to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I will be able to claim theirs...

  It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life one by one, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning, the rain pattered dismally at my panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open. It breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. Immediately the thing sat up on the table and asked for semolina.

  When I told it I had none it flew into a rage and threatened my very life. I trembled as I watched it stand carefully on those legs I had chosen and begin to comb its hair with hands I had made. I had desired it to live with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished and horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created preening itself, I rushed out of the room and threw myself on my bed in my clothes. I slept, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams: a prisoner within a huge fridge-freezer forced to live on ice cream and Black Forest Gâteau. I tried to flee, but my efforts were foiled by the ever-closing door of the fridge. I started from my sleep with horror, a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and then, holding up the curtain around my bed, I saw the thing itself, dressed all in white, with a long white beard and an ice-cream pallor. I cursed the day I had thought of using vanilla essence as a moisture for the brain. The creature smiled serenely, told me that he was more powerful than I could possibly imagine and was about to leave for a holiday to see the world. I reached out my hand to detain him, but he vanished...

  Months have passed. He has taken to living in a cloud. I realised that I must bargain with him, and so we have invented something we call Fundamental Religion. That is, he claims to have made the world and everything on it, and I go along with that as his chosen spokesman. It will make me rich, and perhaps give me a chance to regain control. He still needs me. He's powerful beyond measure but doesn't know which knife to use for pâté. As long as he needs me, I have a hold...

  Desi put down the manuscript. She couldn't believe it. Noah had made the Unpronounceable by accident out of a piece of gâteau and a giant electric toaster. No wonder he hated frozen food. It began to make sense. But why didn't the Unpronounceable just destroy him? Surely by now he must have learned to negotiate the cutlery? And why were they so keen to make the movie? As she was thinking, she saw a piece of paper wedged on top of the manuscript. She read it. It was a memo, very badly typed, from someone called Lucifer, and it warned Noah that he'd better be at the Gaza Strip to meet the Unpronounceable right after the press conference. Desi was horrified — and consumed with curiosity. She scrambled up and ran back into the library. The conference was to finish in fifteen minutes. If she left now, she might make it ahead of them and find somewhere to hide.

  Mrs Munde was seeking compensation. She had just lost her arm in the Hallelujah Hamburger machine and she didn't like it. It had all happened very suddenly. One minute she was funnelling away singing a little song about love and the lack of it, and the next — whoosh, the thing had scooped her up and made six neat quarterpounders out of her left arm. Mrs Munde was aghast. She had never lost an arm before, and she couldn't be expected to cope with it. On top of the shock, it was beginning to hurt. She rushed up to the big house and met Ham coming out of the press conference. He looked tense.

  'How much is an arm worth?' she demanded.

  'Mrs Munde, I have no time for philosophy right now,' he said politely, edging past her.

  This was not the right response and Mrs Munde started to cry, pointing at the same time to her stump.

  'Oh my God,' breathed Ham. 'Did you do that in the machine?'

  Mrs Munde nodded and cried all the more. Really, she was fed up of being stoic; what she wanted now was sympathy. Ham glanced at his watch.

  'Suppose I give you a new job. Suppose I make you Editorial Advisor to one of my newspapers? Suppose I give you a lump sum tax free? Well? If you agree, we'll say no more about it.'

  Mrs Munde fainted and was carried inside by two orderlies. When she came round it was almost night. Her stump had been bandaged and there was a fat envelope by her bed. She tore it open with her teeth. Inside was a set of instructions about her new job: where she should go, what she would have to do. Then there was a thick wodge of notes and a piece of paper for her to sign saying that the accident had nothing to do with any machines belonging to the House of Trust and Fortitu
de Group. She couldn't sign it because she had been left-handed, but she was so excited about her new role in life that she decided to forget the little incident and put it down to an act of God.

  And so it was that the next day Mrs Munde packed up her little spotty handkerchief and set out for the offices of NAFF (No Artificial or Frozen Food). This newspaper looked after the interests of the great Unpronounceable as far as the daily reading public were concerned. Noah felt it important to have a stronghold in the media.

  As Mrs Munde arrived at the offices they were laying out the next day's issue. On the front cover was a picture of a husband and wife standing proudly over their dismantled freezer: 'We did use to row,' said the husband, 'and always at mealtimes, but until we heard about YAHWEH we never realised it was because of the frozen food we were eating.' The wife said that since she had given up her part-time job to concentrate on cooking properly for herself and her husband, she'd felt happier and more fulfilled. «Course I miss the girls at work, but you have to make sacrifices, don't you?'

  Beneath the editorial was a report by NAFF scientist Pierre Puree detailing beyond doubt the discovery that the use of frozen foods led to disruption in the marital home. 'We're all tempted by the odd packet of petits pois, but how quickly that becomes ready-meals and oven chips, how quickly that leads to the wife being out somewhere, the children neglected and rebellious, and the husband forced to fend for himself.' NAFF president Lady Olivia Masticater, at the time on holiday in Andorra, had sent back a telegrammed comment on the masterly research of Pierre Puree. She said, 'There is now every reason to believe that frozen food has contributed to the rise of feminism, premarital sex and premature hair loss.'

  Page two carried a feature entitled The Teenagers Who Are Saying No', a salutary overview on young people who were coming to terms with their cravings for frozen food, particularly the sticky sweet variety. Derek, an articulate sixteen-year-old from a wealthy family, summed up the problem. 'You get depressed at school, or something goes wrong with your girlfriend, or you find out your maths teacher is a homosexual, and you think: I'll just have one little slice to keep me going. Next thing, you've eaten nearly a whole gâteau, and then you open another one and pretty soon you can be on six or seven a day. Then you have to start stealing the money to afford them.'

  NAFF promised more clinics and more advice centres for teenagers who wanted to get off frozen food.

  Mrs Munde leafed through the rest of the paper. It was very impressive.

  'So what do I have to do?' she asked the secretary.

  'Well, we'd like you to start with some market research. We've got this questionnaire to help a person discover whether they're really hooked or just a nibbler; and we've got a book for parents whose children want a freezer for a wedding present; and we've just published this, written by our president. It's called The Freezer Generation: A Study in Tyranny. I think it's going to be decisive in our campaign. I mean when you know how you've been conned by the adverts you won't be able to give a freezer away, let alone sell one.'

  'Well, we all look forward to that day,' said Mrs Munde fervently. 'So shall I read all this and devise my campaign?'

  'If you would,' said the secretary. 'And when you do start on the highways and byways remember to tell us your success rate, so that we can print it in the paper. Good luck. We've never had an editor on street duty before.'

  No they hadn't; but then no one had lost their arm in a hamburger machine for the glory of the Lord before. So, really, it was cause and effect.

  Desi made it to the Strip and found a convenient crevice. She wasn't sure where the cloud would land but she reckoned it would need a stretch of flat, and accordingly she chose the flattest stretch and waited. She didn't have to wait long. Noah's limousine came careering across the sands, with Japeth, Ham and Shem sitting on the back. 'So they're in on it too, the bastards,' she thought, realising that if she didn't know, Rita and Sheila probably didn't either. Noah was driving and looking for all the world like an enervated cue ball. The car screeched to a halt and the four sat in silence, licking their lips and watching the sky. Suddenly the wind began to blow, piling sand into their faces and sweeping it into Desi's hideout. She was terrified she would start to cough. Then the cloud appeared, brilliant white and seven times brighter than the sun. Desi could not help but be impressed. To think this guy had started out as ice cream. There was a flash; and what Desi guessed to be the great Unpronounceable himself - but dimmed, for mortal purposes - floated out and hovered above the side. He waved for Noah to come forward.

  'Hello, mother. How are you?' (At this greeting the angels snickered, knowing how YAHWEH talked about Noah behind his back.)

  'I'm very well. Yes, we're all very well. What can I do for you?'

  'You know damn well what,' snapped the Lord, reverting to type. 'What's going on with this film? I'd said I'd put my name to the books but we made no arrangement about a film. I haven't got a contract, have I?'

  'I wasn't sure where you were staying,' faltered Noah. 'You know how you move around... 'I will not work with that rabbit woman — what's her name, Bunny Mixomatosis? She makes me sick. I hate that show of hers. I don't know why we watch it.'

  ('But we like it, we like it,' chorused the neutered angels who couldn't really help being voyeurs.)

  'You lot shut up,' shouted the Lord, then turned back to Noah. 'Tell me the plot. Who's in it, and what do I get out of it?'

  Noah tried. He was at his best, explaining the subtleties of the rabbit's text, how closely it was based on Genesis or How I Did It. He told God about the forthcoming booked-up tour to York and Wakefield. Finally he gave way to despair. 'It's for your Glory.'

  'And your bank balance. Well, I don't want to be involved.'

  Noah realised that the Lord was miffed and sulking.

  'Oh, come on YAHWEH. Be a sport. You can't do this to me. I've fixed it all up. I've paid out a lot of money, and — ' he faltered again and this time tears filled his eyes,' — and I'm your mother.'

  There was an emotional moment, then the great Unpronounceable pulled himself together. 'You say you've built this huge boat, this ocean-going ark? And you can fill it with a pair of all the animals we've got and still have room for a few people?'

  Glumly Noah nodded his shiny head and God started scribbling things on a piece of paper. 'Well then,' proposed the Almighty, 'Why don't we do it for real? I'm fed up of this world and its whingeing scrounging pop-art people. Why don't I flood the place and we'll start again. We can change the book, put it out under a new cover, stick a bit on the price. No one will know because they'll all be dead. Oh, all except you lot,' he added hastily. 'I wouldn't drown my own family, would I?'

  'But what about my tour company? What about my inventions?' pleaded Noah, beginning to prostrate himself.

  'What about my chain of restaurants?' demanded Ham. 'I've put a lot of work into those places, gonna have them all up and down the motorways with little fruit machines and magazine racks and car stickers.'

  'No you're not,' thundered the Lord, 'and before you try and interrupt again, just remember my motto: «I AM THAT I AM, YAHWEH THE UNPRONOUNCEABLE.»'

  'But I thought of that for you,' shouted Noah from the floor of the desert.

  'I know you did mother,' conceded the Lord. 'You were wasted as a boat builder. You should have been in advertising right from the start. But that's not my fault is it? I wasn't around to advise you. Now listen, I'm going to start raining this place into a designer lake on Friday. You had better pack up your miserable belongings and prepare to be liquidated. Once we've got rid of the old world we're going to have a lot of work to do, and if you lot don't come up with some ideas to make me coherent to future generations I'll take your ocean-going ark and smash it.'

  'This is no way for a son to treat his mother!' yelled Noah petulantly, as he climbed back into the car. 'You'll be hearing from my solicitor.'

  But the cloud had already taken off.

  Desi didn't move. She was
too horrified even to think clearly. Did this mean the world was about to come to an end, just when everyone thought they were making a movie? She had to get back and warn people. Gloria — where was Gloria? Then Desi remembered. Gloria had been sent to Bees of Paradise to collect animals. She had to get a train and see her, and in the meantime, she had to make sure that none of her family found out what she knew.

  'Why the shit does YAHWEH want to do this?' she asked, hitting a rock.

  'Flood myths,' said the orange demon, hopping down in front of her. 'Flood myths are very potent things; humankind can't resist them. I knew this was going to happen right from the start. Don't you know that men always pee on the fire? That's why they were sent out to hunt in the old days, and much more sensible it was too; but now, have you ever known anyone have the power and not use it?'

  At supper that evening Gloria hailed Bunny Mix across a crowded throng of eager guests and proposed that Marlene help her out in the animal search.

  'Has she had any training?' asked the famous novelist, overlooking the fact that Gloria herself had had none, apart from being the owner of a pet elephant.

  'Oh yes,' enthused Marlene. 'I have such a way with animals. Look at this,' and to Gloria's horror she pulled the stuffed lovebird out of her bag. 'My bird loves me so much he can't bear to stay at home without me. Now, have you ever seen anything like this before?'

  Clearly Bunny hadn't, and she backed away as though she might be bitten.

  'Oh, don't mind him,' laughed Marlene. 'He won't hurt you, he's a real dream,' and she balanced the unfortunate thing on the edge of her spinach dish.

  'Marlene,' chaffed the rabbit of romance, 'you are not allowed to bring pets, however well trained, into this health spa. But I will ignore your indiscretion and yes, you may help Gloria if she feels it's necessary. But remember, this is an indulgence and only because I feel it may improve your very nervous condition,' and she swept away.