by David Lodge
One redeeming feature of the expedition was that I saw Gloucester Cathedral for the first time. It’s not huge, but beautifully proportioned, built of mellow Cotswold stone, with a remarkable square Perpendicular tower that has delicate fretted stonework running round the top like a balustrade. The cloisters are exquisite – among the finest in the country my Visitor’s Guide claimed, and with justification, I should say. Edward II is buried here. All I know about him is from Marlowe’s play, which may not be reliable, but makes him seem like a real person who once lived and breathed, not just a name in a history book. It seemed extraordinary to stand beside the remains of somebody who lived seven hundred years ago, and know who he was. If Ralph Messenger is right, the atoms of his dust are indestructible. But it is my mind that preserves his identity, and makes a connection between us.
As I trod the worn paving of the ancient aisles, pausing at intervals to admire fine brasses and carved statuary, another literary association came to mind. In The Golden Bowl Charlotte and the Prince begin their adulterous affair at Gloucester, delaying their return to London from a country houseparty on the pretext of viewing the cathedral – and there’s a reference to the tomb of Edward II, I’m sure. Did they really visit it, to give circumstantial plausibility to their story when they returned to their respective spouses, or did they spend every stolen moment in their room at the inn selected by the resourceful Charlotte? I don’t have the novel to hand to check. James probably doesn’t say, anyway.
I had lunch afterwards at the Cosy Pew Café, just round the corner from the Cathedral, poring over every word in the guide because I had brought nothing else with me to read. I wondered despondently if this was the spinsterish future that awaits me: collecting cathedrals and reading at the table in twee restaurants. Perhaps buying the new swimming costume was some kind of instinctive gesture of resistance to such a fate. In which case, let us shave ourself uncomplainingly.
8
What is it Like to be a Freetail Bat?
By M*rt*n Am*s
WELL, WE HANG out a lot during the day. We hang out in caves, crevices, under eaves, inside roofs, anywhere that’s dark and warm. Caves are favourite. We hang from the ceiling and crap on the floor, only it seems like we’re hanging from the floor and crapping on the ceiling because we’re upside down. Crapping when you’re upside down is an art. The crap generates heat as it decomposes; also, of course, a smell.
When it gets dark we go out to eat, insects mostly. We gobble them up on the wing, using our radar equipment. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beepbeepbeepbeep POW! It’s cool. I can zap two fruitflies inside a second, flying blind. Tom Cruise, eat your heart out.
Then we go back to the cave and crap on the floor. We also crap during flight, to reduce the weight we’re carrying. You could say that crapping was one of our chief occupations in life. Eating insects and crapping.
Sex is not so hot, to be honest. We only fuck for six weeks in the year – the whole colony is on heat at the same time. You can imagine the scene: thousands of guys milling about in the cave frantically trying to cram twelve months’ screwing into a lousy six weeks. You can seriously damage your health.
The women are only interested in one thing: your sperm. They have some sort of gynaecological trick of secreting it inside their snatches until such time as they want to get pregnant. Then they all fuck off to a nursery cave in some warm spot to have the kids. Only women and children are allowed inside. Back in the male cave we hang out and make do with clawjobs.
I wouldn’t mind if the women looked after the newborn kids properly. But when they go out to eat they leave the kids on their own, in unsupervised playgroups, rolling about and fighting with each other, amongst all the bat poo and insect corpses and fruit husks on the cave floor. Or else they hang them in rows on the walls and ceiling and sometimes the poor little fuckers fall off their perches and onto the deck, or they try to fly before their radar is properly tuned and have accidents, crashing into the walls and each other. Our infant mortality rate is a disgrace.
If you survive the nursery, though, life expectancy is quite good. You can expect to live for ten years. I’m nine and a half.
What is it Like to be a Vampire Bat?
By Irv*ne W*lsh
We goat back to the auld cave aboot the same time, Gamps n me, jist is the sun wis rizin. Scotty wis back already, hangin from the ceiling feelin sorry for hisself. Ah hud goat ma fix from one ay they Highland bullocks that feel like shagpile rugs on legs, n Gamps hud foond a sheep wi its throat torn oot by a fox, the jammy cunt, but Scotty hud goat fuckall.
‘There wis this field full ay coos,’ Scotty said, ‘but the cunts kept wakin up fore I cood sink ma teeth into em.’ I kenned well thit Gamps didna believe him. ‘Gie us soom ay your blood, Gamps,’ Scotty sais. ‘Ye mustve goat gallons oot ay that sheep.’
‘Fuck oaf, Scotty,’ sais Gamps. ‘Ye wouldna gie fuckall to me the other night when I wis skint.’
‘I tole ye, Gamps, ah couldna, ahd digested it by the time ah goat home.’
‘Lyin cunt,’ said Gamps. ‘N I doant believe you went oot last night neither. Ye’ve bin skivin here waitin fir us tae bring hame the blood.’
‘Tha’s nae true, Gamps, ah wiz oot all night, ah jist dinnae have any luck.’ Scotty turns tae me. ‘Dannyboy,’ he sais, ‘gie’s soom ay yirs, fir the luv ay Goad.’
‘No way, Scotty,’ ah sais.
‘Och c’moan, Dannyboy, ah’m disprit,’ he sais. ‘Ah’ll pay ye back double next time I score.’
He wiz shakin all ower fit tae shed his wings, n his fangs wis chatterin together like chopsticks, sae I took pity on the radge and sicked up aboot fifteen mill ay blood intae his gob. He gulped it doon n collapsed on a pile ay auld shite on the flair wi a sigh of relief. ‘Goad bless ye, Dannyboy,’ he seis. ‘Ye saved ma life.’
‘Whit’s the matter wi yir technique, Scotty?’ ah sais. ‘Whir did ye try t’ bite them coos?’
‘In the neck,’ he sais.
‘That’s nae guid,’ ah sais, geing Gamps a wink. ‘Ye have tae go fir the arsehole.’
‘The arsehole?’ he sais wonderingly.
‘Aye the wee ring ay soft tender flesh between the pelt n the hole issel,’ I sais. ‘Ye creep up behind yir bullock n lick his arsehole with yir tongue, likesay its one ay his mates rimmin him. Then ye sink yir fangs in very gentle. The cunts love it.’
‘Heh, heh,’ Scotty laughs. ‘Them bullocks must be queer as fuck.’
‘Ay course they are,’ says Gamps. ‘Every cunt kens thit. They’re all HIV positive.’
‘Whit?’ Scotty started tae shake again. ‘Are ye tellin me thit blood’s infected?’ he sais.
‘Why d’ye think I wanted to git rid of it?’ I sais.
‘Ye cunt! Ye’ve murdered me!’ he screamed, n he started gaggin n retchin n stickin his claws down his throat to try and sick up the blood. Gamps n me wiz pishing oursells laughin.
‘Ye daft radge,’ sais Gamps to Scotty at last. ‘How cood bullocks be bufties when they’ve hud thir bollocks cut off?’
What is it Like to be a Bat?
By S*lm*n R*shd**
What kind of question is that, sir? With all due respect, what would you say if I asked you, ‘What is it like to be a man?’ You would undoubtedly reply, ‘It all depends on what kind of man.’ What race, what colour, what class, what caste, what situation in life? Likewise with bats. We are of many kinds. There are short-tailed bats and long-tailed bats, several varieties of free-tailed bats, the spotted bat, the pallid bat, the Western mastiff bat, the slit-faced bat, the hollow-faced bat, the Old World leaf-nosed bat, the mouse-tailed bat, the horseshoe bat, the bulldog bat, the funnel-eared bat, the smoky bat, the disk-winged bat, the Old World sucker-footed bat, the Dobson’s moustache bat, and the common bat, to name but a few. We all have our distinctive habits and habitats.
Myself, I am a temple bat. I belong to a colony inhabiting the Surya Deula temple at Konarak, on the Bay of Bengal. How I come to be hanging from
the coat hook of a toilet in the first-class cabin of this Air India jumbo jet is a long story, involving a tourist’s camera-case, an errant sleeping tablet, and a faulty airport X-ray machine. The camera-case was carelessly left open and empty on the pedestal of one of the carved columns of the Surya Deula last Wednesday evening, that dusky time when we temple bats emerge from our nooks and crannies in the crumbling sandstone and sift the warm silky air for tasty midges, crunchy mosquitoes, juicy fruitflies and other entomological dainties . . . The bats’ Happy Hour, you might say. But, alas, no hour is happy for me. What is it like to be a temple bat? Bloody hell, as far as I am concerned, if you will pardon the expression, sir.
My fellow bats, you see, are perfectly content with their existence because they don’t know they are bats. As you have observed, I possess the gift of speech, whereas my brothers and sisters have only the gift of squeaks. Furthermore, I have a memory, whereas they do not. They don’t know that they were men and women in their previous incarnations, and that they have been relegated to this level of the great chain of being for the sins they committed in their former existence. But because of some accident, some blip or slippage in the normal process of transmigration, I am cursed with consciousness, a human mind in a bat’s body, making my punishment a million times worse.
Contrary to popular belief, sir, bats are not totally blind, we can distinguish day from night and the vague shapes of things, but the rich detail of the world’s forms and colours is a closed book to us. So I can only ‘see’ the interior of this toilet by reconstructing it from memory: the stainless steel hand basin, the subtly lit mirror reflecting coloured bottles of complimentary after-shave and eau de Cologne, the horseshoe-shaped tissue-paper covers thoughtfully provided to protect one’s buttocks from contact with the common toilet-seat – you are availing yourself of this convenience at the moment, perhaps. No, I beg you, sir, please don’t discommode yourself, there is no need to be embarrassed – your bare knees are just a faint pale blur to my limited vision . . . I am able to picture the interior of this cubicle in every detail only because I was once a frequent flyer in these gleaming machines myself. A film producer frequently shuttling between Bollywood and Hollywood, I lolled in the sumptuously upholstered seats of Nabob Class, cosseted by smiling supple-hipped sari’d air hostesses plying me with champagne, caviare and hot towels. The most delectable and gullible of these young ladies I would arrange to meet in their off-duty hours after landing, promising them roles in my upcoming productions, though not revealing that these had titles like Asian Babes – Sex Slaves, Pussy Vindaloo, and Pilau Talk. Yes. I was a producer of porn movies aimed at the Indian market – Simla Pinks’ stag nights, Bombay businessmen’s after-hours entertainment, video rentals for sad, frustrated bachelors . . . Nothing really filthy, I hasten to say, no cum-shots, no violence, just simulated consensual sex and a little masturbation. But nothing would turn my customers on more readily than the sight of an obviously well-brought-up Indian girl degrading herself in this fashion. Nothing would turn me on more readily, to tell you the truth (I was what you might call a hands-on producer). I’m afraid I lured many an innocent maiden into a life of shame, with flattery and bribery and trickery. And now I suffer for it . . . You have visited the Surya Deula, perhaps? Yes? You remember the sculptures? Yes, I am told that they are unforgettable. Unfortunately I omitted to visit the site myself in my previous incarnation. You can perhaps imagine the frustration for someone of my tastes and background, of having the eyesight of a bat in the presence of the greatest monument of erotic sculpture in the world?
What is it Like to be a Blind Bat?
By S*m**l B*ck*tt
Where? When? Why? Squeak. I am in the dark. I am always in the dark. It was not always so. Once there were periods of light, or shades of darkness. Squeak. There would be a faint luminosity from the mouth of the cave. When it faded I knew it would soon be time to leave the cave, with the others, to go flittering through the dusk. Squeak. Now it is always dark, uniformly dark. Whether at any given moment it is dark outside my head as well as inside, I do not know. All I know, if know is the word, and it is not, is that I can see nothing. I can feel, hear, smell, but not see. Squeak. I can feel the ledge which the claws of my hindlegs grip. I can hear my squeaks as they depart and rebound, and distinguish them from the constant din of other squeaks tintinnabulating around the walls of this place. Squeak. I can smell the reek of ammonia rising from the floor, if floor is what it has. Perhaps I am suspended above a lake of ammonia, but I think not, for I have never heard anything like a splash after voiding my bowels, unless the surface of the lake is so far beneath me that the sound of ordure hitting it does not carry to my ears.
I can feel with my foot-whisker that there is another beside me. He has a foot-whisker too, I feel it brush against me from time to time. Squeak. I say he, it could be a she for all I know, there is no way of telling, unless I were to fumble under its folded wings with my foreclaw to ascertain whether there are two holes there, or a hole and a prick, and such an action might be misinterpreted. Squeak. Better to remain in a state of uncertainty. Uncertainty is unpleasant, but certainty can be worse. I would prefer to be uncertain that I am blind, but that is the only thing I am certain of, because it was not always uniformly dark. Squeak. Once there were shapes, I’m sure there were shapes. Dark shapes against a less dark background. When I was very young my mother took me with her when she went hunting, in her pouch. Squeak. I clung to her nipples as she soared and swooped through the gloaming, scooping up insects, and I remember the shapes of things that she flew between, above, beneath. Now there are no more shapes, only touch, smells, sounds. I have lost shapes for ever. When? Why? How? Squeak.
9
‘THEY MAY BE quite clever as parodies,’ Ralph says. ‘I really can’t judge, because I don’t read much contemporary fiction. I haven’t got the time. But –’
‘You should read Helen’s novels, Messenger,’ says Carrie. ‘They’re very good.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ says Ralph. ‘And one day I shall make up for the omission.’
‘I’d much rather you didn’t,’ says Helen. ‘But go on.’
‘I was going to say, as attempts to answer the question they’re hopelessly anthropomorphic.’
‘What’s anthropo – what’s it mean?’ Simon asks.
‘Bzzzz!’ Mark makes a noise like the interrupt buzzer in a TV quiz show. ‘Treating non-human things as if they were human.’
‘Very good, Polo,’ says Ralph. ‘It’s like the animals in Walt Disney films, Sock.’
‘What was the question?’ Carrie asks.
‘“What is it Like to be a Bat?”’ says Helen. ‘It’s the title of a philosophical article.’
‘Yes, it sounds like one,’ says Carrie.
‘Another philosopher recently posed the question, “What is it Like to be a Thermostat?”’ says Ralph.
‘It’s OK, on and off,’ says Mark, raising some chuckles.
‘Good one, Polo,’ says Ralph.
‘He was joking, I presume, this philosopher?’ says Helen.
‘No,’ says Ralph. ‘He was perfectly serious. If consciousness is information processing, then perhaps anything that processes information, in however humble a way, should be described as conscious. Pan-psychism, it’s called in the trade. The idea is that consciousness is a basic component of the universe, like mass and energy, strong force and weak force. I don’t really buy it myself.’
‘Why not?’ Helen asks.
‘It has a whiff of transcendentalism about it. People who are keen on it tend to be kindly disposed towards oriental religion.’
‘Why don’t you want Messenger to read your books?’ Emily asks Helen, with frank curiosity.
Helen seems a little discomfited by the question. ‘It’s just that when people read your books because they know you, it tends to distort the reading experience. Especially if they don’t normally read literary fiction.’ She turns to address Ralph. ‘I’m surprised
you don’t, though, since you’re so interested in consciousness. It’s what most modern novels are about.’
‘Oh, I read some when I was younger,’ Ralph says. ‘The early chapters of Ulysses are remarkable. Then he seemed to get distracted by stylistic games and crossword puzzles.’
‘What about Virginia Woolf?’
‘Too genteel, too poetic. All her characters sound like Virginia Woolf. My impression is that nobody has improved on Joyce in that line. Am I right?’
‘Probably,’ says Helen. ‘The stream of consciousness novel as such is rather out of fashion.’
‘I’m getting out, I’ve had enough,’ says Carrie.
‘Of the tub, or of consciousness?’ says Ralph.
‘Both,’ says Carrie.
The conversation is taking place in the hot tub in the back garden of the Messengers’ country cottage. The ground slopes quite steeply away from the rear of the house, and a timber balcony has been constructed with steps that lead down to the garden. Halfway down there is a kind of mezzanine deck in which a redwood tub, some seven feet in diameter and five feet deep, has been fitted flush with the surface. A bench runs round the inner circumference, on which Helen and the Messenger family are companionably seated, hip to hip. The hot water bubbles up between their legs and sends wraiths of steam into the cold air. It is late afternoon, or early evening, and already dark. The only illumination comes from the blue lights fitted inside the tub below the waterline, and the lanterns with thick amber glass cowls fixed at intervals on the staircase and along the decks.
Carrie clambers out of the tub, steadying herself with a hand on Ralph’s shoulder. The water streams from her tight, dark swimming costume and pallid heavy limbs. She wraps herself in a towelling robe and thrusts her feet into a pair of rope-soled mules. ‘Time you kids got out too,’ she says.
