The Unmapped Country

by Ann Quin

  They waited all day. Waited in retreats. Pursuits. Tidying rooms. Dusting the piano. Baking. Cups of tea breaks. Grandma shrieked every half-hour. Aunt Molly continued as all the days before. Combed out her hair. Plucked the strands from her dress. Rustled amongst paper. Boxes. And had two attacks between meals. The child hid behind the hedge. Watched every bus. Every car. Until the wind. Rain. Swept her back into the house. Well maybe he’s had an unexpected engagement held up in the traffic caught the flu. Aunt Sally muttered. Grandma screamed from the bedpan. Where’s Monty then what could have happened? The child sat in front of the portrait. Stared into eyes she had been told were velvet brown. She saw them as black as Aunt Molly’s dress with flecks of white he might pluck out in moments. And the wand? Well even if he didn’t appear to have one he would have it hidden up his sleeve and she alone would know his secret.

  She heard a car drive up. Stop. She ran to the window and saw a man step out. Down the path. She thought she saw a woman sitting in the car. She hid behind the curtain. Heard Aunt Sally shout. Her feet tapped from the kitchen to the front door. Monty oh Monty how lovely to see you we thought you…

  Then his voice. Rising. Falling. The child wrapped the curtain round herself. She heard the steps. The heavier tread behind the tapping go into grandma’s room. Grandma’s little voice that seemed to be quieter. Almost a gurgle. The door closed. She waited. Heard the grandfather clock strike in the hall. And knew she had missed the cuckoo clock upstairs. Perhaps…

  But the door opened. Again she heard the heavy tread. Her aunt’s voice high pitched. The man’s low. Rising. Falling. In a lowness that seemed linked to the wind coming off the sea. Well where is she Sally? I just don’t know Monty where the child’s gone perhaps she’s in the garden playing I’ll go and see. The child held her breath as she heard the tread fall into the room. Saw a shadow on the wall opposite. That moved across. Vanished. She peered round and saw the man stood near the piano. Heard her aunt call. Calling. Saw her on the garden path. Turn and enter the house. Well Monty I don’t know where she could have got to I expect she’ll be around soon are you hungry Monty I’ve got the dinner on some nice chicken andhowlongareyou…

  But he silenced her by playing the piano. The child watched him. Watched her aunt quietly take a chair and sit down. He played and hummed. Then as suddenly as he began. Stopped. Well Sally I won’t be staying too long. Oh Monty we thought… Well you see I have a concert tomorrow and I must get back tonight—just a short visit I’m afraid just to see how you all are and also pick up a few things I need this piano will be collected tomorrow also those chairs by the way what’s Molly got in her room I’ve forgotten hasn’t she that ivory table and how’s her asthma these days of course she’s getting on now has she made her will Sally you must make sure she does that I’m certain she’s got quite a little gold mine up there no one knows about eh? Yes yes Monty but I’m sorry you won’t be staying long—are you—I mean are you in need of—I’ve saved up a little for you Monty I know things get difficult for you and well…

  The child moved. Made towards the door. Ah there you are been hiding all this time from your father then come here darling my Sally hasn’t she grown come on then don’t be frightened of your own father. He moved towards her. Arms outstretched. She looked at his feet. Her own. Felt his arms enclose her. Pick her up. Swing her round. She closed her eyes. When she opened them she saw their faces below. The walls spun. Collided. She leaned away from the man whose lap she sat in. Felt his hands on her head. His body pressed against hers. Smelling of tobacco. And something else she wasn’t sure about. But she felt sure he didn’t have the wand up his sleeve. Or anywhere. He hugged her. Hugged the breath from her. My little girl my she’s quite a big girl now eh is she a good girl and is she behaving herself Sally? She saw her aunt smile. Nod. Head tilted. Little bird eyes raised towards the man who held on. Grasped. Fondled. Clutched. The child struggled. Fell away from the arms. She stood back. Looked at the portrait.

  Looked at the man who grinned down at her. His arms now limp. Hung over the leather chair arms. One hand came up. Burrowed in his pocket. Then out. He held a bright coin between finger and thumb. Look a present for you darling buy some sweeties with or something eh there’s a good girl. The child wondered if this coin had come out of her aunt’s little box she knew Aunt Sally kept these round shiny coins in a box maybe he did too. She went forward. And again came into contact with his arms. Legs. Covered in tweed. Tobacco smelling. And the other smell. Like the bottle grandma dabbed herself with. Only stronger. Much sweeter. She took the coin. Pressed the warmth into her own warmth. While the man jogged her up and down on his knees.

  Later she felt his knee under the table. After the meal he picked her up. Kissed her. Said he would come up later and tuck her up.

  She waited. The light on. Listened to the voices way down below. Until the wind rose. She heard only that caught in the chimney. She crept out. Down the stairs. And leaned against the door. Grandma’s voice wailed. Aunt Sally seemed to be crying. The third voice mumbled. The child looked through the keyhole but saw only a hand clutching a pipe. Soon not even that. She curled her toes and watched the rug lift up and down in front of the kitchen door. Until movement in the room made her run into the kitchen. Into the larder. The voices everywhere. Coming from all corners of the house. Even the wind had fled. The heavy thud of doors. Heavier tread in. Out of rooms. Lights switched on. Off. On in the kitchen. She saw her aunt empty the little box. Count the bright coins out on the table. Saw her pick them up and patter out shouting Monty Monty here before you go just a little something to tide you over for a few days. The child crouched. Breathed in the cake smells. Biscuits and candles. Smelt her own hands that had the smell of tobacco like the damp earth that lingered after her games in the garden. She heard the front door open. Close. The house was silent. She crept out. Ran up to the landing. Aunt Molly stood at the window. Half behind the curtain. She seemed to be chuckling. Hair in one long plait ended in a pink bow in the small of her back that swung from side to side.

  The child ran into her own room. Looked out of the window but saw only the gate swinging slightly. She jumped into bed. Threw the bedcover over her head. She heard Aunt Sally mount the stairs. Grandma’s voice shrieked Sally Sally when did Monty say he’d be coming again? Her aunt paused. Breathed heavily. Oh Monty will be here again soon don’t worry go to sleep now yes he’ll be back and maybe he’ll stay a bit longer have some bread pudding next time.

  The child turned over and listened. Listened until the walls. Doors. Breathed in quietness. In the dark. She gave her secret to the house.

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  ‌B.B.’s Second Manifesto

  Yeah maybe I ought to get organised, trouble is I don’t know what I really want to do. OK so I could earn five thousand a year, but I’m not ending up like those other slick ad chaps. Christ they’re so mass-consumed they can’t even shit straight. And the exhibitions these other jerks have they’re for the birds, so provincial. I want to do something no one else has ever done as good, if only to drive a van better than anyone before, thought of motor racing once, well maybe I’ll end up growing cabbages. Take my grandfather, he potters about the farm, all these years doing shit all, apart from watering a few plants, that’s why he’s lived so long. Man of ideas though, bought two trawlers for herring fishing, made anchovy paste, sold for miles around, yeah he’s really wild. It’s great out on the West Coast, ninety miles of black sand, tufts of grass, you know, surf and spray; turf like a golf course all over, yeah man it’s space alright. Only other place as good as where the Abos live, wouldn’t mind a life with them, rest of Australia like a dust bowl. They ought to shift the other zombies to New Zealand, only way to save the situation now. Yeah perhaps I am a Commie, I don’t dig Marx though, at least I’m not a Nationalist Fascist, and all that jazz, but I rather like the idea of sharing. Get a few people working for me, I produce the ideas, they perform, why not, yeah like this guy Michelangelo. Like the other night I go
t sloshed, brought back some chap, we did a painting together, that’s the real stuff, let it out first go, leave it at that, all these other crappy painters, they would be better if they used their pricks. Not that I dig this pop art, they haven’t anything to say. Now Mailer could do anything and get away with it; I suppose you’ve got to be a genius, or something, to do that, otherwise it’s sheer hard work. I worked myself sick once, didn’t want to see anyone, locked myself in my room, but this beat guy, man is he a real beat beat, didn’t care an arse hole for anyone, get pissed up, sleep on the floor, or in a chair in his clothes. Well this guy climbed out on to my window sill, and squatted there reading poetry to me all day long, till I let him in and we went to bed together. No I’m not queer, OK so I’ve fucked a few fellows, but I’m not gay. Yeah I know that place, some smart blonde chap tried seducing me, I was so innocent in those days, shit if I went there now, yeah maybe I ought to try everything, who knows. This club in New York we all went to, they stood around just staring, some in drag, quiet music and all that crap in the background, sure I’ve thought about it; maybe I ought to sleep with some guy. Told myself lately I don’t need sex any more, gone so hip I don’t think I do now. Wish I hadn’t had so many women, like a machine in the end. This chick I lived with, just a convenience, screwed her every night, again in the morning, get up at eleven and know she had cooked some breakfast, Jesus it gets so boring. She was a nymphomaniac, that was her trouble. I want it to mean something, not just sex. All these chicks dote on one, that’s why I’ve given them up. Now take these crazy negros in their white sneakers, paisley ties, two vents in their jackets and all that crap, not really wild, just conservatively wild you know, watch how they treat their chicks. One in the subway went up to this broad and said Get in there I’m going to fuck you, she did too, right there and then in the tube, isn’t that great, I mean it’s real, that’s how a movie should be made. Like I was walking down this street with a camera, I mean these are real, matches, sugar lumps, like this friend who’s making a movie about some kid wanting a pair of roller skates so she walks a big poodle. It’s all shit otherwise, look at this jerk, fourth Earl of Onslow gets a Maori whare over here, what right has he to do that, I feel like taking it straight back, what good will it do here?

  OK so this hip business is all a façade, underneath I’m just a shy regular guy, but man it takes a long time to forget a bourgeois background such as mine was, and right now I’m in the middle of a change. So I’m not going to this party, only be like the rest, petty provincial, lots of grog maybe, and chicks’ tits to pull, what a drag, they’re so square. Take that chick, why when he’s gone I bet she’ll be fucked madly by the night watchman. London makes me shit, it’s not even a city, whole of England is composed of Londons. What slobs cutting down trees like that, they really are sick, and that glass on top, who would want to climb over their crappy wall anyway? Jesus I’m getting out.

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  ‌Untitled

  (Neh Man It’s Like This)

  Neh man it’s like this I’m through with image, it’s the word now, reality that’s what I want. Take this guy with six others leaving the Bronx, cops were waiting for them, so he shot one down, just like that, man it’s real, none of this stuff these slobs care about. Look at that cat in his crappy outback outfit, what a slob. What do you think they’re thinking? Whether or not he’ll make it with her, and she’s wishing she could make it with the guy two yards away. Made it with a gorgeous nymphomaniac negress, man she was wild, crazy, in full view of the whole of New York, with the light on, man across the way cleaning his teeth, having an orgasm. OK Henry Miller. Analysing me on every withdrawal, on the floor, in the sink, she was wild. And all those pretty boys, sure it’s easy to go queer over there. No he’s not, sure he’s slept around with men, that doesn’t make him camp though. Anyway makes a change doesn’t it? Called round at 2 a.m. to say goodbye before going to Paris, guess he was in love with me at one time. Went round together in New York, until he shacked up with this guy. Yeh we went blonde together, dyed it overnight at some party so they told me. This crazy negro got into my bed, naked, slithering like a fish on a marble slab. Yeh I guess I almost went queer, didn’t want it get too involved. These slobs over here, they might look camp, but that’s as far as it goes, they don’t know how to swing man. Now take B and I, we do things together, we just swing man, doesn’t matter what it’s like, who signs it, all the same, what the hell, we paint together, he’s great, real wild. What I mean is they don’t know how to string a film together, now this guy in L.A. well he made a film about this little girl taking out her poodle in the park every morning, as big as a horse, well isn’t that great, I mean there she was with this dog, bigger than she was, but it wasn’t even a horse. Yeh I want to write, words mean more. Take the other night, out in the street, I was sliding in dog’s shit, and B. shouts Come on Man stop crapping about, isn’t that great, don’t you think I can write about that, I mean there I was in all that crap and he says stop crapping. That’s how it should be. Sure dreams come into it, but it’s got to be real, like that film of the girl with her poodle. Yeh it’s an idea, sure it’s an idea, but I would have a dog fucking the woman’s body on the beach, while the man runs into the sea without clothes, it’s wild though, really wild. Like this negress, she was an opera singer, we swung so high, man was I crazy about her, I left my balls behind me, in Madison Avenue. Say we’re not hip this way are we? Take all these slobs, in a club sucking a whisky bottle like it was a dummy, shit, they’re all sick. They always want to come back too, can’t understand it, come back to England and the Queen, who wants to live in such a crappy place? Now if I went to Cornwall, I guess I’d get to think, man this is it, this is great, and just go on sticking there, in the same old rut. Take this writer chap I know, got married to a Maori girl, lives in the Bush, how does he exist? Sydney’s the place, yeh man, in a year’s time, that’ll be it. Sure I’ll work tomorrow, for twenty-four hours after taking a pill, yeh you can get ’em on a doctor’s prescription, just go on working, getting high at the same time. I can’t give you one, last time I couldn’t get rid of this girl, man was she a sticker, stayed with me for a week, and the other night at some party she came up and slapped me, slapped me down, I was so pissed. Yeh maybe I’ll go back to New Zealand, volcano erupted the other week, almost forgotten about volcanos erupting. House on the beach, swim over to some islands climb the rocks, go water skiing, maybe get eaten by an octopus, barbecues at night, yeh maybe I’ll go over for a couple of months, then come back here.

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  ‌Living in the Present

  (with Robert Sward)

  THE LUFTWAFFE TRADITION OF ALLEGORICAL FANTASY

  As Mr. Harvey Matusow, a lying informer the Nazi leaders so derelict recanted in his False Witness, this question Telford Taylor has been unable entirely to resolve, wealth and publicity were major motives, a most useful compendium; and to these Dr. Zeligs has added psychological disorder The Fuehrer was seeking not to destroy Great Britain, but to compel her and of the recollections of those acquaintances who would speak, the German reign in Europe. On Hiss, the psychoanalysis is highly impressive Goering had promised that the Luftwaffe tradition of allegorical fantasy follows the straightforward saga pattern. And goes far to explain much that has remained bewildering. The decision raised more problems than it solved.

  WHEN SQUEEZED OR STEPPED ON THEY EXPLODE

  When he had opened the second seal several hundred servicemen were ordered into the area and there went out another horse that was red: the bomblets an Airforce spokesman and he that sat on him would not elaborate. A civilian official said the accident was caused and there went out another horse that was red. Military spokesman said the explosion would be painful and that they should kill one another. The brownish disks. He did not explain. Power was given. I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, the secret device being developed for use. Donald Spinelli of Fort Walton Beach found one. And when he had opened the fourth seal, Chocta
watchee Bay along the Florida Pan handled, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed. Mr. Spinelli, 24, was treated. Governor Tiemann manned a pitchfork. The Governor was joined by University of Nebraska College of Agriculture Dean E. F. Frolik. Both had performed. And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and to open the seals. He that sat was to look like a jasper and a sardine stone. But his fate casts no adverse reflection. It also testifies when squeezed or stepped on they explode. As Conor Cruise O’Brien has the heavens the stars the mountains. A measure of wheat for a penny. Crisp sales in recent weeks have shown a marked increase and the third part of the stars; so as the third part of them was darkened. Salt ‘n’ Vinegar flavour crisps. And the day shown an unkind critic. The name of the star is called Wormwood.

  THREE NOTABLE FICTION REISSUES

  The name of the Company has been changed. Those entrants who had the effrontery, reflecting the intention, were not so much part of this competition as to become major snack and related product manufacturers. As for the brave spirit who defined Day Vid Frost as an Israel crop failure, we suggest he patents it immediately. We are now placing a new emphasis on expansion. The Viet-Cong predictably served as an excuse. And we shall be watching out. Ram Shackle, the Indian beggar. Which will also fit in. Two olive trees. Two candle sticks. A thousand two hundred and threescore days. There have been three notable fiction reissues in recent weeks. The latest trade figures illustrate the short-run cost to the balance of payments, dearer oil, smaller exports and the delay in the shipment of goods. Others will go later. But now. A : 8)… Qa5 ? ? ; 9) ab : !, Qal : ; 10) ktb3, etc.