The Brooke-Rose Omnibus

by Brooke-Rose, Christine

  Sometimes however the number of the long-lost code falls from 412 to two times two equals four times two equals eight times two equals sixteen ad infinitum which makes one very desperate. Sometimes the bathroom mirror lights up in neondaylight making a desiccated skeletal alleinstehende Frau of what thirty-nine, forty-six, unless in a rosy glow of the renovating present the reflection staring up at the reflection of the invisible man behind the reflection and back at the reflection looks about Herr Oberstleutnant at that age one has no loyalties. The glint of a hint of tinted hair shines golden in the rosy glow falling over the shoulders along the silver chain that carries the man-eating giant and passer of souls in a characteristic double-negation between the bare breasts fairly firm as yet only to see and touch a little under the cherry-tree.

  The rosy glow spreads to the tap-end of the pink bath encased in black tiling. The left-hand tap has C for cold, no caldo of course natürlich and inside the pink bathtub lies a huge great SCREAM run door room bed bell push sob stuff-sheet-in-mouth sob cold sweat silence. Bell, push. Knock on door cover yourself entrez. Che desidera, signora?

  — Bagno!

  — Ma—

  — Nel bagno. Una, una, une araignée.

  — Signora?

  — Insetto. Enorme.

  — Ah. Un momento signora.

  He vanishes between the built-in cupboard painted pink and the pink black-tiled bathroom where the water caldo-freddo runs for a momento! No, no, no-con-acqua si, tutto va bene signora, solamente un piccolo ragno ah, signora che bella!

  The blue peignoir snatched from the chair in the rush to the noise of caldo-freddo has one sleeve inside out. Ma che pallida, signora. Non fa niente, buono, buono, mangia le mosche. Solamente un piccolo with insolent eyes and a great tenderness only to see and touch a little in the narrow passage between the built-in cupboard painted pink and the rosy glow of the situation so characteristic in this our masculine-dominated myth unmarked save by subtraction from the feminine with its ambivalence in the double-negation no e no.

  Structures of power, even when they appear to depend on physical force, in fact depend on the assistance and cooperation of innumerable individuals for the administration of physical force. Mesdames messieurs, nous avons entendu déjà several of our many specialists in the theory of government, in civilian defence, in the strategy of non-violence, discussing this theme, and trying to establish—in principle at least—to what extent anyone, or any idea, can persuade those who oppose a power-structure based on physical force to refuse their assistance and co-operation. In other words can non-violence force the conqueror down into the earphones in French and out into the mouthpiece in simultaneous German. I have pleasure in calling upon Monsieur le professeur Bernard Mottin, directeur de l’Institut d’Etudes Civiles et président du Congrès, notre admirable hôte dans cette belle et ancienne ville de Strasbourg.

  The brief applause of the delegates in the big hall cracks the eardrums through the earphones which have to be stretched outwards from the ears for a moment while the professeur climbs to the dais-table until the murmuring voices picked up by the microphone resolves itself into Mesdames messieurs and pause. Nous avons entendu ce matin une belle fiction. Le professeur Strauss—don’t j’admire profondément les études—has elevated our hopes with ideas which, however idealistic and indeed true in theory, bear little relation to grim reality. The fruits of conquest, he told us, depend on affirmative action by large numbers of people, hundreds and even thousands. Yet force, he told us, cannot obtain this affirmative action directly. And the professor exemplified with a vivid comparison from the animal kingdom: you can drag a horse to water, but only the horse can make his muscles work. And if he won’t drink, soon you will have no horse. We can imagine, the professor said—and indeed we have to—a militarily defenceless people completely confounding a conqueror or even a would-be conqueror—dissuading him in advance—by sitting quietly, not eating, not working, threatening to deprive him of any subjects simply by dying. He can let them die, he can even kill them. But he cannot exploit them.

  Now ladies and gentlemen, this undeniable principle remains a principle, optimistic in its ultimate ends, cruel in its application, and totally at odds with any real situation in the world past or present. We have no evidence whatsoever that live human beings, let alone horses, can so embody this principle in any behaviour sufficiently organized as to disarm a tyrant of his bureaucrats and soldiers, even less to dissuade him in advance. Human beings need to eat, to work, and to this end will either knuckle under or, more often, persuade themselves that le mensonge vital die Lebenslüge contains sufficient double-negation to reintegrate him into totality compared with so many fragile truths and lost mysteries that surround us in this our masculine-dominated civilization turned upside down into the earphones and out into the mouthpiece with a gulliverisation typical of the giant myths euphemised into a sack, a basket, a container cavern womb belly vase vehicle ship temple sepulchre or holy grail, witness le complexe de Jonas with which the lost vitality of the word goes down into the mouthpiece and out through its exits and entrances in simultaneous German to the legendary sound of music or circular dance, creating an invisible magic wall of defence undone by Achilles when he dragged Hector’s body round it anticlockwise. Non si ricorda esattamente for a fire destroyed Troy VI in 900 B.C. B.C.? Oh yes. The cloud has cleared into a fond old man well sixty-two and plus flowery love-letters full of Provençal quotations about fin amor lonhtano and all that.

  E allora the languages fraternise in Geneva where malnutrition occurs in Europe on a far larger scale than anyone has realised owing to the widespread devitalising of foods due to mass-processing, chemical fertilisers, sprays and additives as well as ignorance of diet with 48% having an average intake of nutrients well below the minimum level, itself varying from 30 mg. of vitamins daily recommended by the British Medical Association in England to 70 mg. recommended by the American Medical Association and 200 mg. by the Russian. The doctor on the dais protests at carbohydrates refined sugar white flour and fluoridation of water forbidden in Scandinavia and all civilised lands of which the World Health Association should take note while others in Paris home at last speak of the spiral as a sort of stylised maze, the maze itself having originated in the underground passages of the cave-dwellers which always led to a sanctus sanctorum, in a chthonic religion of course, going down, whereas the spiral tower of the Sumerian ziggurat belonged to a lunar culture. The ziggurat idea lies behind that of the seven-terraced city of Ekbatana and the Tower of Babel. Mesdames messieurs, you must surely know already—and if you do not I recommend you to see—Breughel’s painting of the Tower of Babel in which the letter from Venice reads Enfin! O gentildonna, douce dame aux yeux de vair! Votre merveilleuse lettre m’a rendu fou de joie. Which folie de joie goes into rhapsodies at length quite disproportionate to the brief polite note of thanks for compliments the speaker n’a pas conscience de mériter and totally at odds with any real situation in the prodigious accents of the renovating present. We have no evidence that human beings, let alone horses, can so embody the divine principle descending into any behaviour sufficiently organised to disarm a gentildonna of her furry eyes, vital double-negation simulation and other frustrations to the true end of marriage so typical in this our masculine-dominated myth turned upside down, in, out, around with a dumb show unanswered at one level and at another higher lower responded to perhaps with yearning for romance or lust atingle in the loins unless despair in knowledge of the man, exasperation cold indifference to the language of the long-lost code lying beneath layers and layers of changing sensibilities which nevertheless winds its way up surreptitiously through the centuries to undo the magic wall of defence around no more than the distant brain way up with an idle thought or two such as well, why not play a little at a mere correspondence of love six love, la gentildonna leads by five games to three in the second set.

  The visitor’s attention turns immediately to higher things such as the red star above
the pediment of a grey mockcolumned building opposite the hotel with its mere façade of columns that support nothing at all except MÁVIGAZGATÓSÁG in red. E allora the languages do not fraternise down the seven-terraced tower which has the structure of the Sumerian ziggurat.

  Unless perhaps the seven-terraced tower sits suspended between belief and disbelief at a height of twelve thousand metres outside temperature what, minus forty-nine bumping down the steps of air its under-carriage lowered and touching ground so suddenly that the fingers fondle the medal of Saint Christopher under the blouse the distant brain way up guided by white frogs with yellow discs for eyes until it comes to a standstill and up the concrete corridor into the big hall where concrete men sit hidden in high booths and consult secret lists looking up at the change in the expected person. The plastic luggage moves along the conveyor-belt unowned unmastered then suddenly half-owned again as the concrete man searches, turns out the entire contents of the suitcase this? Rollers. For the hair. Ah. And this? A hair-piece. What? Peruka. Ah. Searching and searching for the face put on and other frustrations to the true end of marriage this? Well! Searching and searching not for intimacy or liquor cigarettes diamonds drugs but ideas in dangerous print and this? A Russian phrase-book do you mind? Ah. Du lieber Gott what an unexpected tribute to the power of literature. Lirrechur etc? Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this dilapidated dining-room with galleries cupids on the corner pillars potted plants and a bulging orchestra balcony empty of perhaps balalaikas. The two thumbs press together towards the body, the fingers touch away from it forming a roof with a squat diamond-space between. So you’ve come for an East-West writers’ conference on The Writer and Communication well, how very hopeful of them. And me merely for electronics what a well-organised coincidence. And do you still communicate mein Lieb, with whom?

  Did you want it for eating love?

  Tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty place among the potted palms a group of young men in brown nylon macintoshes accompanying girls in skirts and jumpers one in apple-green frou-frou to an adjoining room where the young men take off their nylon macintoshes and dance close to their girls pre-war slow foxtrots lieber Gott has progress retrograded to a pre-war slow foxtrot orchestra depending on what you mean by progress. How long have you stayed away lost touch got out of practice or as yet ungained any confidence heart knowledge of true love memory taking off into the blue the cloud the fog? Haben Sie Butter bitte? Excuse please? May we have some butter? Bata? Er, mas-wo. Excuse, niet. Oh. Thank you. And how goes the tennis-match?

  — Oh! That. Well, one takes no notice really.

  — One does? Who exactly takes no notice 00147 Roma?

  — Oh, you mean Rome.

  — What did you think I meant?

  — Nothing.

  — Well?

  — Well, it just goes on. Presumably. In the meantime—

  — In the meantime we make love?

  — Perhaps.

  Siegfried grown totally bald somewhere between Moscow and Retrograd looks Liebes! Seriously? After all these years and despite or while waiting for Defensor Vine? You’ll strike me impotent you will.

  — Not you Siegfried.

  — You really do want things both ways don’t you?

  — Well you’ve tried hard enough to undermine what little faith remained.

  — What me?

  — Oh and him too. Everyone. And life. And Rome more than anyone. Your other advice found an echo anyway.

  — What advice?

  — To sell the cottage.

  — To sell—I don’t believe it. What, il piccolo chalet, gone?

  — Not quite yet, but going.

  — I simply don’t believe you. How much? When? How?

  — Four thousand. Someone wanted it, and approached an agent, who wrote, and, well, why not, as you said, one should save und so weiter and the rent in Paris went up to almost double after the last demand from Rome and—

  — But Liebes! I never meant it seriously. Your box your refuge and all that. And without consulting me.

  — Without consulting anyone. It just happened one morning, the letter came, and suddenly it all meant nothing. Why have two pieds-à-terre? Most conferences take place in Paris these days, apart of course from fringe activities like the Dante Centenary not to mention Writers and Communication.

  — Du Witzling. But I don’t understand you. Have you got something up your sleeve?

  — Nothing at all, just personal effects.

  — And very nice too. No seriously. Have you signed it away? Has it all gone? Il piccolo chalet?

  — Not quite. Next week in London. A Medical Congress on the molecules of memory, appropriately enough.

  — And you’ll transfer the furniture and stuff to the rue du Four?

  — Only some of it. No room as you know. The rest goes up for auction.

  — Why do I feel as if I had lost a limb? You must have gone out of your mind.

  — Or into it again. Paris has much to offer.

  — Ah, gay Paree.

  — No not that. Just living in the language of one’s childhood. Shopping in French, paying rent and taxes in French, talking to the concierge in French, walking breathing in French.

  — Hmm. You can’t Persil-schein your German layers that easily meine Liebe.

  — That doesn’t come into it.

  — Which reminds me, breathing in French, breathes yet the old French lover?

  — Man achtet nicht darauf.

  — Man doesn’t?

  — Oh, man. Man continues.

  — Poor old thing. With no encouragement at all from la belle dame sans merci? Well, gut-gut. But I don’t believe it. Even old Bertrand would give up sooner or later. Your eyes, your emerald furry eyes cannot lie. You have answered him. Nicht wahr? You enjoy it, nicht wahr, reading all that suffering stuff, it does something to you nicht wahr nicht wahr? Oh, Liebes, such an easy prey how can you?

  — Only in the most off-hand and neutral way.

  — But just non-neutrally enough to keep it going nicht wahr?

  — Stop prying and bullying.

  — Well, I feel jealous.

  — It doesn’t mean a thing.

  — No?

  — Nothing at all.

  — Except perhaps—

  — Yes?

  — The language, Siegfried. The fact that all this suffering stuff as you call it pours out in French, well, it sort of turns the system inside out, it—

  — I see. Yes, I do see. In that case, I can only bow out once again, gracefully I hope as before, as always.

  — Oh Siegfried don’t talk like that. It means nothing.

  — Hmm. Besides I’d better not attempt once more to seduce you back, not here anyway, they have the charming habit of taking photographs and sending them to one’s wife, boss und so weiter.

  — Oh.

  — I say that loudly enough to make the large-eared lady’s job easier at the next table. I wish they wouldn’t do it so obviously. Perhaps we should test her abilities and speak Arabic, not that that would flummax a bugged watch. Oh. Meine Liebe! You mean, you really, wanted to?

  — Yes.

  — As er, as a substitute?

  — How can you say a thing like that? After all these years as you say of friendship and even love.

  — Take care, Liebes, take care. Oh. Have you any fruit? Obst. How on earth do you say fruit in Russian? Des fruits. Excuse, niet, poodeeng?

  You can’t Persil-schein your German layers that easily meine Liebe. Let’s face it you destroy. All that suffering stuff you enjoy it nicht wahr nicht wahr? Aber man achtet nicht darauf. As if languages loved each other beneath their own façades, despite alles was man denkt darüber davon dazu. Then acquires alles a broken up quality, die hat der charm of my clever sweet, my deutsche Mädchen-goddess, the gestures and the actions all postponed while first die Dinge und die Personen kommen. Aber voaus und woein kommen die Personen?

  Si les psychologues ont fai
t de grand progrès dans l’étude de la mémoire et de ses diverses composantes, telles que l’enregistrement such as recording and conservation, on sait par contre bien peu sur le plan purement descriptif de ce qui se produit physiologiquement au niveau cérébral, of the modifications in the nervous tissue through which a person retains events which affect subsequent behaviour. For 2500 years since Plato on propose des images et des concepts such as wax tablets, the tracks of memory, the synaptic recording, the biochemical engraving. Mais cependant un médecin anglais Gomulicki, studying in 1953 could even then deplore the fact that not one of these terms had any real relation either with the general problem, or with any one of the known facts. How far have we progressed since then down through the earphones into the nervous tissue in French and out almost unretained by any molecules affecting subsequent behaviour in simultaneous German. Or down into the earphones over Sandra’s long lank rich auburn hair and out affecting no memory at all in sheer youth and simultaneous English.

  Mesdames messieurs je vais vous parler for the twenty minutes at my disposal, de l’hypothèse concernant les relations ARN, ADN et la mémoire, hypothèse certes séduisante et au goût du jour, mais qui manque de bases très solides. Fashionable because DNA and RNA, the molecules which play a key role in protein synthesis, valent un prix Nobel de médecine every few years for those who work on them. Séduisante à plus d’un titre cependant. Mais il semble qu’un des éléments de séduction vient un peu de ce qu’on joue sur les mots, speaking of a code retained by DNA and RNA, alors qu’on n’emploie pas ce terme pour d’autres molécules—tout simplement parceque I’ARN et l’ADN interviennent en matière de code génétique. Obviously, if we can describe everything that happens in a living organism—including memory—in chemical terms, one or several types of molecules must encode the ideas and the remembered facts. But why should we identify these code-molecules of memory with those of the genetic code?