Guilty: The Lost Classic Novel

by Anna Kavan

  My impressions were confused and rather unfavourable. The work of building and demolition going on all around was too noisy for my country-bred ears. By day the incessant hammering was more insistent than the noise of the traffic; and at night it kept me awake, till I got used to it, and to the great livid floodlights in which tiny insect-like figures swarmed and scurried about or appeared solitary and outlined against the night sky, incredibly manipulating some mammoth machine.

  Not knowing what to do with myself, I passed much of the time aimlessly wandering about, waiting for evening, when I might or might not see Spector again. He was the only person I spoke to, apart from the staff of the hotel at which he’d installed me; for, though I’d been to see several people I’d known at school, nothing had come of these visits and I didn’t repeat them, feeling at a disadvantage without the established family backgrounds and safe futures my schoolfriends enjoyed. They, I’m sure, were puzzled by my different circumstances, unable to understand how a fellow ‘old boy’ came to be in such a position that he couldn’t even return their hospitality – for I had neither the necessary assurance nor the money to invite them to the hotel. Too late, I realized I should have kept away till I was firmly established with a flat and a job of my own; till then they’d inevitably look upon me as potentially dangerous and likely to ask favours, identifying me with all that was alien to them and outside their way of life.

  Seeing them so obviously sure of themselves, and of their world, I couldn’t help envying, though I despised myself for it, the security they took for granted and the assurance I only tried feebly to imitate. Inaction became intolerable; I couldn’t wait to start work and in my impatience prevailed upon Spector to let me curtail my holiday and begin at once. Before consenting, he repeated his warning that I would probably find the work dull and unworthy of my capabilities. Was I sure I had given the matter enough thought?

  In fact, I’d hardly thought about it at all, taking it to be settled, as though it were impossible even to consider another job. Yet I’ve no doubt I could, at that time of depleted manpower, have obtained a post quite easily for myself, on the strength of my educational background alone, and it strikes me as strange now that I never made the slightest effort to do so during those long days of boredom, if only to pass the time that hung so heavily on my hands. Partly, I suppose, it was due to my diffidence, as I had no idea how to go about it and didn’t like to ask. But I think it was even more the result of my dependence upon the man who had dominated me as long as I could remember, frightening and fascinating me by the two sides of his nature. That he had withdrawn himself from me to a great extent lately in no way lessened his power over me, an inscrutable influence from which I had no wish to escape. On the contrary, feeling insecure and alone in the world, and hurt because he hadn’t identified himself with me more closely when my parents were killed, I was desperately anxious to attach myself to him now at all costs. His offer of employment suggested, to my wishful way of thinking, an advance on his part, and I hoped an improvement in our relations would follow. Even at this age, I must have been a good deal like a lost friendly pup, coming up again and again, tail wagging, longing to become the master’s devoted slave, blind to the fact that it isn’t wanted. Such an attitude was understandable, perhaps, just now, when I was particularly alone, starting a new life, in circumstances that seemed strange and unsympathetic. Everything would come right, I thought; I’d be able to settle down contentedly once I was working for him.

  I imagined I would see more of him, and this gratified me as much as the chance to prove my loyalty, for I still derived the same pleasure from his proximity as when I was a child. I was so much under his spell again that if he’d set me to scrubbing floors I believe I would have been happy to do so. At all events, I was more than satisfied to find myself one of several junior clerks in an office in the tall building in which I was to live, which belonged to him, like the business.

  As for the flat, I was delighted with this, my first home of my own, consisting of two attic rooms and the usual ‘offices’. Not only was it a perfectly adequate bachelor apartment but it had a certain character, even charm, owing to the odd slope of the walls and ceilings and the wonderful views from all the windows. Spector had installed only the minimum of furniture, leaving me to add such decorative touches as I fancied and could afford. But all essentials were there, and the rather austere effect of the bareness pleased me. With no distractions inside, the eye was drawn at once to the view framed by each window, which was given a certain unreal romanticism by the height of the building, all that was shocking and ugly invisible now, the ruins dignified as relics of antiquity. Best of all, a door had been fitted at the top of the stairs, shutting off my domain from the storerooms and offices of the lower floors. Once this door was shut I was alone in my kingdom and, separated by six flights of stairs from the busy street life below, could sit and dream peacefully at the window, withdrawn from everything but the passing clouds and the pigeons strutting along the ledge.

  My work, as I’d been warned, was uninspiring and easy; but the novelty of it and my own conscientiousness made this unimportant. I was proud of my new status as a wage earner; only disappointed to find I was not, after all, to be directly in contact with Spector. However, he came along to introduce me to the manager, assured me of his continued personal interest and promised to visit me as often as possible; and with this I had to be content.

  Again I was impressed, as I had been at the hotel, by the extreme respect everyone showed him, which strengthened my conviction that he must be a very important person indeed, holding some influential position over and above the controlling interest in this and various other firms. Not to know what it was seemed too idiotic – incomprehensible really and barely credible, even to me. But I could not ask anyone about it, partly because my own feelings forbade it and partly because the attitude of my colleagues was unresponsive and aloof. This was a second grave disappointment to me. As much the youngest of them, fresh from school and utterly inexperienced, I’d expected to receive at least tolerant treatment, for I’m certain I gave no trouble to anyone, being industrious and most willing and never needing to be told anything twice. Indeed, the work was so elementary that I picked up all I needed to know in the first few days and thereafter saved the rest of them considerable labour by taking over much that they ought to have done.

  But, though I was always polite and obliging, they showed an unfriendliness I could only attribute to the interest Spector had showed in me, assuming that they were jealous. The only other explanation I could think of was one I always tried not to contemplate: the old theory that something ‘different’ and unlikeable about me would always prevent me from having friends. But the recurrence of this childish pattern was disturbingly obvious in the conduct of those around me, who took advantage of my industry and good nature while indicating that they despised me for these qualities.

  ‘You can’t buy our friendship by doing our work,’ they seemed to sneer, when, thanks to my help, they were able to rush away, leaving me alone in the deserted building. At times I thought I could actually see the contempt in their eyes when I handed over a pile of papers I’d dealt with for them, as much as to say, ‘The more fool you for having done it.’

  Loneliness, no doubt, made me unduly conscious of their behaviour. It was my first term at school all over again. No one responded to my overtures; no one spoke a friendly word; though, among themselves, they talked and joked like any group of lively young fellows. Only I was simply left out of their conversation – out of everything – ignored, as if I’d committed a crime.

  To withdraw into myself was the only possible course open to me, and after a time I ceased to approach them, working silently at my desk, almost as much alone in their midst as I was in my flat upstairs, where I sat for hours on end, dreaming, resorting once more to that other world which was so much more dependable than the real one. In my daydreams I was no longer a lonely, unhappy, insignificant clerk in a
city office but the hero of some sombre and tragic story, triumphing over all obstacles.

  But a fantasy life, no matter how vivid, can’t last all around the clock. During work hours I became like all the other insignificant, impecunious young men thronging the streets, the cafés, the restaurants; yet painfully aware that I was different from them, my singularity underlined every evening when they jammed the streets in home-going crowds, which gradually thinned until, when the places for eating and entertainment closed down, I was the only person left except for police and builders – in this area where private individuals were not allowed to have homes.

  The jealousy and ill feeling of my colleagues became comprehensible when I got to know more about the frightful ordeal of finding somewhere to live, which played so prominent a part in their lives and from which Spector’s influence had saved me. I couldn’t possibly blame them for envying me my conveniently situated flat, when they had to travel long distances twice daily. How could they be expected to refrain from jealousy when I had two rooms all to myself – I, a mere schoolboy no one had ever heard of – while older and far more deserving people, some of them even actually famous, couldn’t find a corner to call their own?

  To make matters worse, there was now one of those sudden incomprehensible changes of policy to which our rulers are prone: suddenly it was announced that no more large-scale building projects would be started and of those already under construction only such as were needed for official purposes would be finished, so that private people could look forward to no improvement at all in their position.

  Instead of the busy anthill appearance the city had worn since my arrival, it now promptly took on a deserted air, as the cessation of the perpetual hammering left an uneasy hiatus in our ears, which the noise of traffic couldn’t entirely fill. This official policy of inaction, of course, had a bad effect on my own situation, as it did on public morale. I noticed an increased hostility in the office; as once before, I began to suspect sudden silences when I came in; my help was only accepted mistrustfully and with reluctance; and I became quite miserable, once more convinced that I was an outcast, hated by everybody. Above all, I was distressed by thinking Spector, too, must dislike me, otherwise he would never have placed me in this invidious position; and I went so far as to see, in the coldness with which I was treated, a projection of his own animosity. My attic home, once a source of such pleasure, turned into a burden – a handicap I’d have gladly exchanged for a little kindness. And now, just when I felt most wretched, the world of imagination, too, failed me as a way of escape, for I carried about with me always the tension accumulated in the office, which I was quite unable to shake off.

  I remember an especially harassing day, when a rumour was circulating to the effect that the authorities had stopped building operations because a new catastrophe was known to be imminent. Looking at the resigned, despondent faces around me, I thought of my father’s belief that, to a sane, healthy mind, war was an evil within man’s power to avert, not the inevitable accompaniment of progress it was now supposed to be. Applying this, as I did every thought, to my own problems, I reflected upon the impossibility of normal thinking, when one was denied (like the majority of the population) the first essential of civilized life – the secure private retreat called a home of one’s own. No wonder the housing question had acquired its almost metaphysical aura, when it dominated and distorted people’s lives and thoughts.

  Gradually my ruminations had been infiltrated by awareness of something which now interrupted them altogether: a peculiarly oppressive silence had fallen upon the office. Looking up quickly, I saw that all the others had stopped working and were looking at me in silence. I was quite used to their surreptitious glances; but this open concerted stare was something new; and I noticed that, as if by some sinister prearrangement, each face wore the same accusing look. My nerves had been on edge so long that I couldn’t bear my colleagues’ wordless arraignment. Feeling I must get out of the room, I tried to stand up; but, with an elusive sense of recollection, as if I were re-enacting a scene already familiar, I found that I couldn’t move. It was the others who rose and silently filed out, leaving me there alone and confused.

  Collecting myself with a great effort, I glanced at my watch, for no special reason except that it seemed an everyday commonplace act, and saw that it was midday – they’d merely gone out to lunch as they always did; their departure had no ominous secret significance.

  At this moment one of them came in again, walking straight to his desk, which happened to be next to mine. He paid no attention to me but opened a drawer and searched in it, his head bent so that his face was hidden. I knew he was bound to look up in a second; though for the moment I couldn’t see his eyes, and the possibility of again meeting accusation in them was intolerable to me, the more so because I’d always liked the look of him better than any of them. His name was Link, and he alone seemed not to share the tough self-interest on which the others prided themselves. He was tall and thin, and his candid blue-eyed face had a look of integrity absent from theirs. I’d always been glad to have him as my neighbour, even though we rarely exchanged a word. Suddenly now I couldn’t bear to think that he shared the general suspicion and bad opinion of me and, on the spur of the moment, said, ‘I’ve decided to give up the flat. I shall tell Spector I can’t go on occupying two rooms while so many people are homeless.’

  He looked at me in surprise. I felt better now I’d declared this sudden intention. I watched him slip some small object into his pocket and then straighten up, growing taller and taller, towering above me, and again an elusive memory was briefly invoked. I forgot about it when he said, ‘Spector might not like that’, adding quickly, ‘Aren’t you coming out to lunch?’ Obviously, he had found whatever he’d come back for; yet he still seemed in no hurry to go. I told him I would eat a sandwich at my desk as I always did, not mentioning that I didn’t like to emphasize my friendlessness by going out alone among the crowds at this time of day; at night, when fewer people were about, I felt less self-conscious. ‘That’s not enough. You must lunch with me one day soon. I’ll show you a good place quite near.’ He looked at me a moment longer with a slight frown, as though his good nature were struggling with a different feeling, then turned, and, suddenly in a hurry, went out of the room.

  At any other time I’d have been delighted at this sign of relenting. But today I was too distracted and anxious to trust either appearances or my own judgement. Nor could I forget that Link, too, had joined the conspiracy of accusing eyes which had condemned me with such assured unanimity. For all I knew, his return might have been part of some plot they’d all concocted for my further humiliation. Besides, I was troubled by an unaccountable feeling of profound guilt, quite apart from the matter of the flat (which, after all, had been forced on me), as though I were culpable in a deeper sense, which would appal me if I were to face it.

  That evening, when I was so depressed I could hardly bear my own company, Spector, by some curious chance, paid me one of his rare visits; it was so long since the last that I’d ceased to expect him. Many times I’d heard steps on the stairs which I’d thought were his, but they’d always stopped lower down, so that I knew they must be those of the night-watchman or of the manager or his assistant, who sometimes worked very late, mysteriously occupied in one of the many storerooms where countless dusty papers were filed away. I didn’t even hear the footsteps this time till they were mounting the last flight towards my door, which I hurried to open. Instantly, all my troubles were gone. I still experienced this relief and pleasure whenever I met Spector; in his presence all my apprehensions faded away, as if he supplied a vital quality that I at other times lacked – with him I was no longer vulnerable and exposed; some nameless handicap which usually limited me was removed, so that I could be happy and relaxed at last.

  I remember that he was especially charming that evening, taking me out to dine, entertaining me in his usual lavish style. I believe he mentioned some cr
isis that had kept him from coming to see me before. But I paid little attention to what he said, lost in the sheer luxury of being with him and feeling that words were superfluous because there was between us the constant undercurrent of an understanding far more intimate than speech could ever achieve. Though in my daydreams I liked to play the part of a lonely hero, solitary and proud, to this man I’d relinquished myself utterly; I told myself that I would have rejoiced to show him my inmost secrets, if I’d had any, throwing myself wide open without reserve.

  Yet I could see that it was a very one-sided and, in some ways, a very odd sort of relationship. While I wasn’t with him, I was aware that it was also an uncomfortable one and possibly even detrimental to me. Though I knew so little about him, the duality which I’d discerned years before made me suspect him of possessing traits I disliked or of which I disapproved; yet I still allowed him to dominate me. I say ‘allowed’, but, of course, I couldn’t prevent it. His power over me was absolute and unchanging; I had only to see him, to come within the radius of his influence, to forget everything else and surrender completely again.

  For some time, however, I’d been firmly resolved that at our next encounter this shouldn’t happen. I’d made up my mind to discuss certain subjects with him; I wouldn’t permit my thoughts to be diverted from them just because he put over me the power of his presence.

  For one thing, I was determined to find out his official status at last, not only because it was absurd that I shouldn’t know it but also because I’d begun to suspect that he might be connected with the Athing itself – that mysterious hierarchy of anonymous individuals who ruled our lives through the public administrations, of which the Housing Bureau had lately become one of the most important. As I became better acquainted with city life, I’d gradually come to realize how extraordinary and abnormal an atmosphere, evolved out of mass emotion, now surrounded this particular branch of officialdom, an almost metaphysical atmosphere composed of hope, fear and respect, not unlike that which the Church used to enjoy.