The Unmapped Country

by Ann Quin

  oh I see well it would have been nice to have had him with us liven things up a bit lovely boy do give him my love when you see him next Well dear it’s been lovely hearing from you and I’ll get a nice turkey I’ve got a lot of booze in yes I know dear still he drinks beer doesn’t he most men drink beer well be seeing you darling lovely to hear yes yes goodbye oh what time train will you be getting I see well I’ll wait until I hear from you on the phone yes yes goodbye darling take care of yourself and my love to

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  ‌The Unmapped Country

  ‘Good morning and how are we today?’

  ‘Bloody rotten if you must know.’

  ‘Why is that—tell me more?’

  Silence. Patient confronted psychiatrist. Woman and man. She looked at the thin hair he had carefully placed over his yellow husk. Thin lips, almost no lips. Thick hands, bunches of spiders on his knuckles. He wrote or doodled, leaning forward, back.

  ‘I don’t like your madness.’

  ‘What do you mean by that Sandra?’

  Pen poised, ready to stab yet another record. She could not see his eyes, the light bounced, spiralled in his spectacles. Black tentacles crept from his nostrils. In the distance a woman screamed.

  ‘Won’t you explain further Sandra—tell me what you are thinking?’

  She did not hear him, did not choose to, she waited with the walls for the screams to subside. She saw the hospital staff in their hygienic armour of white approach a struggling body. The raising of a needle, the filling of it, hands holding the body down, eyes unable to see when the needle would sink into the flesh. Soon the whimpering would fill in the cracks, bury itself in some closet room, behind a locked door.

  She knew he would continue writing even if she did not say anything. Every gesture noted. She looked towards the window. Out there another world; were they still there waiting? No, they had gone, and meanwhile she had to cope with this clown. Those tentacles crept out of his ears. She stared at a stain on his waistcoat, like semen between the wrinkles, above the separation over his paunch.

  ‘I really don’t like you and I have nothing more to say.’

  He smiled, showing a hole where a lizard struggled between rocks. In a space between clouds some gigantic bird wheeled, then plummeted down. White on white the snow against walls. As white as God’s beard. She closed her eyes. Prismatic colours rose and fell.

  ‘Tell me about the journey you took—why did you…?’

  ‘No.’

  Wind ruffled snow. The north wind bringing the sound of ice. She saw again three gulls circle the ship’s mast, and heard the movement of wood against ice; saw the ice bergs like fallen statues move slowly past. Points of light from islands pinpricked the disturbed darkness. Gull cries echoed the endless cries of the dead from the ocean depths. How many of the dead had she awoken from their full-fathomed dreams? Bless you all, she muttered.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  He laughed, a gasping kind of sound escaped through the hole.

  ‘That’s your reaction in analysis to me, don’t be influenced, don’t be moved, don’t be lured into reacting to me.’

  ‘It’s not how you live that matters it’s how you die that’s important.’ She said, watching him scratch the paper, a nicotine-stained finger curled round the pen, or tapped it with mechanical precision. He pulled back his sleeve and scratched his hairy wrist. She knew he was really looking at his watch.

  ‘Well I think that’s it for today Sandra.’ He took his spectacles off; perhaps his eyes went with them? She could see nothing there that might even resemble eyes.

  She escaped into the corridor, where Thomas waylaid her. At least he had eyes, washed-out blue, focusing always on some point to the left of her head.

  ‘You believe me don’t you, even if no one else does, you do don’t you?’ he said, catching hold of her arm, ‘you believe that I’m Judas Iscariot reincarnated, you see I have positive proof, the evidence is all in my book, at least it will be when I’ve written it, and God is Mrs. Carr, and my friend Bob is Jesus Christ.’

  ‘What are you going to call your book Thomas?’

  ‘God’s Joke.’

  They walked into the ward, where she joined the queue for her medicine.

  ‘Blessings on you from the Holy Mother of God herself oh Jesus Christ have mercy on your sins you cunt you bloody fucking cunt.’ Said Mrs. Carr, undoing her nightdress.

  ‘Now Annie you know you mustn’t do that—be a good girl do yourself up.’ A nurse said, placing her hand on the woman’s shoulder. Somewhere above a man groaned; somewhere else a woman laughed. Nearby a high-pitched voice cried ‘Where’s mummy where’s my mummy I want my mummy.’

  ‘May the blessed Virgin shit on you—shit shit shit.’ Shouted Annie Carr, frantic fingers plucked at her nightie.

  Sandra awaited her turn for the pills she would later spit out in the lavatory. A new patient entered the ward, screaming between two orderlies.

  ‘I don’t want to come here—what are you doing to me—I’m going home right now—leave me—let me go you can’t keep me here you have no right—no right whatsoever—I want to go home.’ The patient’s voice trailed off, rose again as white coated robots surrounded her. The needle produced, raised. The screams into inevitable whimpers, as one more person was subdued into drugged submissiveness; would later wake up, dazed, glaze-eyed, nod into helplessness before the authority of ‘feel better – that’s right – no need to worry you’re in good hands now—we’re here to help you.’

  ‘I had a dream about you last night Sandra,’ Thomas whispered, ‘where your head had been cut off, it was delivered to me all bandaged up with blood dripping through—perhaps you are John the Baptist—yes that must be it.’

  ‘But Thomas last week I was the Virgin Mary.’ He did not reply, and wandered off down the corridors of his Jerusalem.

  Sandra bent over the lavatory and watched the pills fall, she flushed them away.

  ‘Sandra—Sandra are you there—your mother is on the ’phone do you want to speak to her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She sends her love.’

  The Red Queen breathing through the tunnel. Her face at the bottom of the lavatory, grinned up. Flush her away. Sandra sat for some time in the lavatory, the only place she could be by herself and not be distracted, and go back over the journey; even so their voices interrupted ‘It’s all in the head you must realise that—in the head in the head inthehead inthehead inthehead…’ and she saw the doctor’s faceless presence behind his desk, like the painting ‘Le Principe du Plaisir’, by Magritte, except the figure in the painting was infinitely better, more pleasing. Then there was the Red Queen’s face, one eye open; even when dead her mother, no doubt, would be watching her. And Clive—what of Clive? Frightened of his own madness; seeing her actions, reactions as an interpretation of what he considered a madness just round the corner for himself. Young, younger than herself, blond and beautiful with a little old man tucked away somewhere, who popped out unexpected and snarled at her, or worse: turned away, back into his next masterpiece. Then all the spectres who possessed him throughout the night, all with different ways of snoring, various positions in sleep. She had grown to love them all, admittedly she feared a few, especially the little boy part of him that stood apart, helpless, frightened, while they in white coats pinned her down. He had never forgiven her for that, for losing control, and unable to forgive himself for allowing it to happen.

  ‘Sandra lunch is ready—Sandra are you all right—what are you doing so long in there?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing—I’m flushing my dreams away.’

  ‘Well hurry up dear lunch is being served.’

  ‘I would prefer not to have caviar today Nurse just a little of the duck with orange thank you.’

  She opened the door, the nurse looked suspiciously in.

  ‘If you want to see the remains of my dreams why don’t you look in there?’ San
dra moved aside. The nurse clicked her teeth, and took mental note of the patient’s words.

  ‘You can add to your brief that the patient did not resist to having her dreams looked at.’

  The nurse pushed the patient out, back into the ward, where the sound of knives scraped the edge of plates. Some knives remained as motionless as the person confronting the food.

  ‘May the Holy Mother of God bless you and be food for what we praise in God the fucking father and Satan in the Holy Ghost lamb brought to slaughter.’ Annie Carr shouted, pushing out her left breast, dipping it in the gravy.

  ‘Naughty Annie, now you know we told you that if you don’t behave yourself you will have to have your meals by yourself.’

  ‘Oh forgive me for what I have not done—on your bended knees and may God strike me dead if I tell lies.’ Annie Carr slid under the table, tore off her nightdress, and on all fours gave herself to the linoleum. Two orderlies rushed in. They struggled with the heaving mass of flesh. The other patients carried on eating, chatting to themselves, or each other. Sandra looked across at the young boy who had only arrived yesterday, who had not spoken a word, had not eaten anything. He stared back, through her; what dream screen did he see? Curly dark hair showed through his pyjama top. As if he knew she wanted to place her head there, her fingers in the warm moist nest, he placed his hand on the hairs, and smiled.

  ‘You must be ready for the invasion they are disguised as dwarfs and walk about in the parks, I’ve got my hammer ready for them, so at least I shall be all right, and I’m making a special bomb to destroy them.’ Said an old man at the end of the table. No one took any notice, they had heard his warnings day in, day out. The bomb he kept under the bed, at least that’s where it had been until they took it away. A contraption that had been improvised out of lead piping, ball-bearings and wire.

  Someone started crying. Another person laughed. Sandra left the table and went into the dormitory. She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘You can’t lie down now dear, it’s time for your occupational therapy—painting isn’t it for you this afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Well you can’t go to sleep now Sandra.’

  She felt under the mattress, yes the journal was still there, she took it out and began writing.

  ‘Sandra please get up now and go across for your painting session.’

  ‘Sandra it’s time to get up. Sandra your meal is ready. It’s time to go to bed. Sandra take your pills. It’s time for your treatment. Sandra get your potty. You’re late. Sandra do your homework. Pick that up. Are you in there Sandra? Don’t do that. Stop snivelling and whining like a child. Sandra do her peepees now. Sandra do her two-twos now. Sandra don’t wear your best dress. Put on that coat Sandra. Put that book down when I’m talking to you. Don’t go around like that in your bare feet you’ll get athlete’s foot. Don’t go in for petting with men Sandra it leads to other things. Sandra do you hear me…?’

  Yes I hear you all my mothers and fathers will you never stop? Stop.

  She made her way to Block C, but did not enter. Instead she walked the grounds and made paintings with her footprints in the snow. A solitary bird, a hooded midget nun, on a bare branch looked down and seemed to wink. Once she had understood the language of birds, now no longer, it took all her time to understand her own language, and that of those who attempted communication. Once there had been the subterranean language with the underground forces. If speech at all then it was the spaces between words, and the echoes the words left, or what might be really meant under the surface. She knew, had known. No longer knew. Only remembered. In the recollection, pictures, words, visions, thoughts, images built themselves into citadels, gigantic towers that toppled with the weight of it all; the top heavier than the foundations. Last events came first, the beginning at the end, or suddenly reversed, or slid into panels mid-way. Had ECT done that—damn them? She shuddered, as though the wires were attached to her head there under the branches. Branches shaped in a design by the wind. They shape one into a walky talky doll with all the correct responses. Squeeze me here and I squeak. She squeaked, and watched the nun fly off. Snow sea-sprayed on to her face.

  The boy, who never spoke, approached. He held out a box of chocolates. She thanked him. He smiled, inclined his head, like a dog, waiting for her to throw a stick. Then she saw what he was really applying himself to; he had his own stick to play with. She walked away quickly, nausea rising. The Exit gates were wide open. If she ran past the porters’ lodge perhaps… but the sound of traffic defeated her; sound of heavy Red Army boots would be out there, they would be waiting for her. She threw the chocolates into an area of untrampled snow.

  She sat in the rose arbour and opened her journal.

  Today I do not know the date

  There is snow, heavy on the surrounding hedges. I can no longer remember how long I have been here and yet I count the days for when I am discharged. They say ‘soon’. ‘You are making progress.’ It is all pretence, on their part, as well as mine.

  DIALOGUE WITH ANALYST

  A1: Come in (long pause). How are you today?

  P1: I had this dream last night.

  A2: Yes?

  P2: I was playing the piano and suddenly the keys went soft, I noticed they were my fingers, that in fact my fingers had changed into keys. I looked over the keyboard, inside the piano was my father wrapped in cellophane. He was dead, at least I thought he was until I bent over and peered closer, he rose and his hand broke through the cellophane, tried to grab me and pull me down.

  A3: Ummhuh.

  P3: And, ahh, I thought I’d bring that up. (Pause) Bring the, ahh, dream up I mean, not him, my father.

  A4: Ahh, it makes sense.

  P4: Then I had this fantasy (pause) that is, ahh (pause) after ahh I woke up.

  A5: Yes.

  P5: I would find my father and stab him in the back, which of course means I really want him to fuck me (pause) ahh and then I was angry because of the guilt.

  A6: The logical sequence.

  P6: The logical sequence, fits into the pattern (pause) doesn’t it?

  A7: More or less—yes.

  P7: Against myself primarily, but (pause) ahh well I’ve planned it all out I know where he works for some death-aid place (pause) sorry I mean ahh deaf-aid—it’s along Miller Street, and you know how crowded it can be there.

  A8: Yes it can get very crowded.

  P8: Well, ahh, I would (pause) wait for him to come out of his office at 5.30—his office isn’t actually on Miller Street but in Bond Street (pause) do you know it?

  A9: Yes, I know the street.

  P9: Well there’s a little question there, ahh, the decision of this as a possibility is becoming more crystallized.

  A10: Ummhuh.

  P10: So this fantasy has triggered all sorts of other things off (pause) for instance, ahh, if I project my father image on to someone else.

  A11: Ummhuh.

  P11: But that’s another dimension.

  A12: The other side of yourself.

  P12: Not myself at all (pause) I see the whole situation as an outsider looking on. I have not felt myself as the individual in the situation. I only see myself, what, looking as though at another person.

  A13: Ummhuh (pause). So there’s kind of, it’s sort of the existentialist approach.

  P13: I have to sort of, what, struggle around to try and find something that describes it all and the terminology used, I make no guarantee of its accuracy.

  A14: OK now Wednesday at four?

  P14: Wednesday at four.

  A15: Goodbye.

  P15: Goodbye.

  Patient and Analyst satisfied. But myself? Only impatience at his stupidity in listening and believing in the radio he switches on.

  Sandra closed the journal. Opening her mouth she waited for the snow to fall in. She heard footsteps of someone approaching. The old man shuffled by, furtively looking over his shoulder.

 
‘Ah did you see him—one of them actually here disguised as a dwarf, I must get my bomb?’

  He wandered off. In the distance she saw flames, which she went towards. A rubbish heap being burnt. She could smell the burning of flesh. Perhaps they cremated those who were never discharged? Something scurried into the bushes—a rat. She felt hungry, remembered the chocolates, and went across the lawns to where she had thrown them. Like a thief she quickly put them in her pocket. In a lavatory she crammed them two by two into her mouth.

  Disinfectant, steel trolleys, closed doors, shouts, murmurs, screams. Scurry of porters, orderlies, nurses. Patients in dressing-gowns stared out of windows, or were fascinated by something on a wall, in the stone floor. Smells of urine, cabbage and rubber. So many wards, all looking the same; corridors upon corridors. She wandered along an endless one, dark, empty. A door opened. She was pulled into a pitch-dark room. She recognised the boy’s smell—the smell of water dead flowers leave, as he pressed her against his body. She pushed him and heard him cry out. She fled.