The Condition of Muzak

by Michael Moorcock

  “In here, Hythloday. I’ve found him, poor old chap. Just made it, too, it seems. He’s almost gone.”

  The major waited, rolling himself a cigarette as he looked down at the curled figure. There came a blundering sound from behind him and eventually a panting Hythloday crawled into view. There was not really room for all three of them. It was obvious that Hythloday at first suspected the major had been forced to defend himself.

  “He’s not dead, I hope. Was he violent?”

  “Oh, no, no.” The major smiled sadly. “As far as this chap’s concerned I’m afraid violence is a thing of the past.”

  9. THE DEATH OF HARLEQUIN

  “Ten bloody years!” Miss Brunner was incongruous in a red-and-white Malay sarong, her head tied in the kind of blue turban hat popular four decades earlier. Her breath smelled of chloroform from the Victory V throat lozenges she had taken to consuming. In wedge sandals she hobbled across a green, blue and gold Kazhak carpet to the mock Adam fireplace where old Major Nye stood looking at a collection of photographs in black and silver Mackintosh frames. Major Nye wore the uniform of his first regiment: a pale blue and yellow tunic, dark blue britches with a double yellow stripe, black riding boots with spurs, a sabre, white spiked helmet; the 8th King George’s Own Light Cavalry. He had become so frail that it seemed the uniform alone kept him on his feet. He turned, blinking mildly, raising a grey eyebrow, bending his thin good ear towards her. “Eh?”

  “I don’t think you realise how very difficult it’s been for some of us.” She stared coldly at one of the marble pillars near the tall double doors. Ceramic Siamese red and black lions returned her gaze. The whole place was a mixture of oriental styles except for the original architecture, which was Victorian Greek. “I spent nine months in a Cornish internment camp for a start!”

  “Start?”

  “Underground bunkers. They put anything under ground that will go under ground. They’re fond of holes, the Cornish. They’re afraid of the sun.”

  “Ironical, in their case. They’re like the Welsh. Mining, you see. They love it. Like the Seven Dwarves. Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to work we go…” He chuckled. Dig, dig, dig. It’s made them very rich these days, I gather. Tin, clay, gold and silver even. Oh, they’ve done it for centuries. Since before the Romans. Two thousand years at least. Give them a pick and shovel and they’ll burrow through anything. It’s instinctive. You have to admire them.”

  She had heard his racial views more than once. She sighed deeply. “Oh, yes?” She rubbed at her raw bare arm. “They’re also notoriously horrible to their prisoners—including the other Celts.”

  “True. You heard that stuff about the flint knives, I suppose, and the menhirs?”

  “I saw it,” she said. “I was lucky.”

  “Well, they’ve achieved their object. They don’t get many unwanted visitors any more. They’ve a new arethyor enthroned at Tintagel at last. I got the news this morning.”

  “Which one won?”

  “Arluth St Aubyn, naturally.” He shrugged and rubbed at his blue-veined nose. “They can’t help themselves. Ancient instincts, you see, as I say. Old habits die hard.”

  “It seems you pulled Cornelius out in time again. He owes a lot to you.”

  “Someone has to look after him when he goes walkabout.”

  Miss Brunner glanced over to the bay windows where her old lover sat, silhouetted against the light, wrapped in a Kashmiri shawl, his eyes vacant and unblinking. “Oh, Christ,” she said, “he’s dribbling. And he used to be tipped as the Messiah to the Age of Science!” She shook her head in disgust.

  “It’s his amnesia,” said Major Nye, to excuse Cornelius. “He never knows where he’s going. He just keeps revisiting certain places that have some private meaning for him, some mythological significance. He’s much better today. He keeps collapsing into catatonia, especially after one of the wandering spells. It can’t be his sister he’s looking for now. She’s perfectly safe.”

  Miss Brunner glared into the vacant face. “There are no sanctuaries any more, Mr Cornelius. There are none in the past, none in the future. I advise you to make the best of the present!”

  “Best not to disturb him,” said Major Nye. On frail legs stiffened at the knees by the boots, his spurs rattling a little, he went to stand behind Jerry’s wheelchair. “All right, old son. There, there, old lad.” He patted Jerry’s shoulder. Since he had lost his wife and family, Major Nye had found his only fulfilment in taking care of the mindless assassin. “He never believed in the possibility of sanctuary, you know. Not for years. He disdained the idea. He was born in the modern city, you see.”

  “You mean he never needed security? I’ve known him longer than you, major, and I can tell you…”

  “The city was his security, with all its horrors. As the jungle is security to the tiger, you might say. When they began to destroy his city he lost his bearings completely. For a while he evidently thought that the landscape of warfare might be a substitute, but he was wrong. It’s strange, isn’t it, how the city grew from the town which in turn grew from the encampment formed against the terrors of the wild…?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I was born in Kent.”

  “Exactly. I was born in the country. We can’t possibly understand the comforting familiarity of the city to someone like Cornelius. The worse it is, in our terms, the more he feels at one with himself. Even at the end his instinct was to hide in the heart of the city, climbing to the top of a tall building for safety, reintroducing the jungle…” Major Nye’s voice faded. He smiled tenderly at his charge.

  “He’s a wild beast. A monster.”

  “Indeed. That’s why he became such a totem to so many.”

  “I always considered his apparent sophistication, his affectation of an interest in science, to be a veneer.” Her voice became more confident as she began to feel she and the major were on common ground at last.

  “On the contrary. A creature like Cornelius takes technology for granted. It is real enough to him for it to possess a genuinely mythological significance.”

  Miss Brunner tightened her unlikely lips. “I never denied technology had a purpose…” She frowned. “A usefulness. If handled properly…”

  “You tried to use it to maintain the old order. Your friend Beesley wanted to turn it against itself, to destroy it altogether. But Cornelius enjoyed it for its own sake. Aesthetically. He had no interest in its moral significance or its utilisation. Computers and jets and rockets and lasers and the rest were simply familiar elements of his natural environment. He didn’t judge them or question them, any more than you or I would judge or question a tree or a hill. He picked his cars, his weapons, his gadgets, in the same way that he picked his clothes—for their private meanings, for what they looked like. He enjoyed their functions, too, of course, but function was a secondary consideration. There are easier cars to drive than Duesenbergs, easier, faster, cheaper planes to fly than experimental Dorniers. He found speed exhilarating, of course, but again speed wasn’t really what he cared about. He preferred airships to jetliners because airships were more romantic, he preferred Mach 3 liners and shock-wave ships because they looked nicer and because they hinted at an ambiguous relationship with space and time—that was where the mystical element came in, as with particle physics. And have you noticed how we still continue to ape the markings of animals in our clothes—particularly our traditional formal clothes? Similarly with technology. He liked the Concorde because it looked most like an eagle. To me it was all completely bewildering, to you it was something that had to be tamed, to him it was normality. He had all the primitive’s respect for Nature, the same tendency to invest it with meaning and identity, only his Nature was the industrial city, his idea of Paradise was an urban utopia…”

  “He was a snotty-nosed little backstreet nihilist,” she said. “There’s no point in dignifying his attitude.”

  “To us he was far more dangerous than any nihilist. He was
alien. He came to enjoy the bombing raids because he was interested in what the bombs would do, what sort of pictures they would make, even, as was often the case, when his own safety was threatened. His will to peace was as strong as yours or mine, perhaps stronger, but his methods of obtaining peace were personal. They became personal because we couldn’t understand what he was talking about. He was a friendly chap. He allowed us all to use him. But he gradually came to realise that our aims were incompatible. His Utopia was to us an insane technological nightmare.”

  “I can’t believe this sympathy of yours,” she snapped. She clacked across the carpet to the photographs. They were all there, all his relatives, his acquaintances. “You’re older than me. Your world had nothing at all in common with his.”

  “It probably changed just as rapidly. But I suppose it’s because I know that I’ve so little in common with him that I can sympathise.” Major Nye turned the chair slightly so that Jerry could see something of the street below, where the rebuilding work was taking place, where the bunting and the flags were going up. “Yours is an unfortunate generation, on the whole.”

  “I am, I hope, broad-minded. But one can take for granted far too much, major.”

  “Not as much as poor Cornelius. He took it all for granted. It ruined him. He wasn’t his world’s Messiah. He wasn’t the Golden Trickster. He was his world’s Fool.”

  “Is that what he’s suffering from?” She became curious, advancing again to the wheelchair, staring coldly into the drooling face. “Shock?”

  “He was shown too much of the past at once. That’s a theory, anyway. He hardly knew it existed before.”

  “And you continue to support him, you and Una Persson. Even Auchinek, who has no love for him. Why?”

  “Perhaps we thought we could maintain our humanity by studying him. In Auchinek’s case, at least, and in mine, you could say that we saw him as a model. In an inhospitable world he seemed to be at ease.” Major Nye fingered his moustache. He sucked his lips. He dismissed the notion. “No. It’s too hard for me to define. It might be much simpler than that. I need to give my loyalty to something. It’s my training, d’you see. With all his faults, he seemed the best bet. He took his world for granted, just as I had taken mine for granted—not complacently, but with the sense that, drawbacks included, injustices included, it was the best of all possible worlds.”

  “To be quite candid,” Miss Brunner began, and then was horrified to see Cornelius looking back at her through sardonic eyes.

  “You’ll never be that, I’m afraid,” said Cornelius calmly. Then the head dropped. The lips began to drool again.

  “He has these flashes,” said Major Nye affectionately.

  She clacked towards the door. “It’s disgusting. You’re both as senile as one another. You need a nurse to look after the pair of you.”

  Before Miss Brunner could reach the doors they opened and a small black-and-white cat walked in, tail erect, followed by Una Persson who came to a halt when she saw Miss Brunner. Una Persson had her Smith and Wesson .45 in her hand, half-cocked. When she recognised Miss Brunner she smiled and uncocked the pistol, slipping it back into the holster at her belt. She wore the full uniform of a Jodhpur Lancer, for she was currently in the employ of the Maharajah of New Marwar and had come up by train from Brighton only an hour before. “How nice to see you again. And what a pretty outfit.” Una bowed, the plumes in her turban nodding.

  “You’ve certainly gone all the way, dearie.” Miss Brunner was disgusted. “Did you bring your harem with you?”

  “We’re not allowed harems in New Marwar.” Una inched past Miss Brunner and offered Major Nye a broad, open smile. “Good afternoon, major. How’s the patient?”

  “Improving, I’d say.”

  Miss Brunner disappeared on angry heels. Una closed the doors. “It’s all arranged,” she said. “I do pray they won’t be disappointed.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “Hope…” mumbled the slumped figure.

  “There!” said Major Nye. “I seem to have offended Miss Brunner. I had no intention…”

  “I didn’t know she was at liberty again.”

  “I’d hardly call it liberty. Apparently she plans to found some sort of mission in London, together with Beesley and that daughter of his. They’ve fallen on hard times, those two.”

  “And I didn’t realise Beesley was back. Where’s he been?”

  “He was thrown out of Ohio, I gather. By the Sioux. Then he went to Arizona and was deported by the Navajo. He didn’t have much better luck in New Hampshire, where the Elders regarded him, rather ironically, as an atheist. According to our intelligence, and it’s always suspect, he spent a while in the West Indies where he managed to build up a small following, but eventually he was sent home on an emigrant ship and landed in Liverpool a month ago. The Chinese authorities sent him to us. So far the only state to offer him a home has been East Wiltshire. But he found out what happens to clergymen in Wiltshire, after their seven-year period of office. Some old custom they’ve revived.”

  “I appreciate this quest for national identity,” she said, “but it does seem that most traditions were dropped for the good reason that they were revoltingly cruel and stupid.”

  “Well, live and let live. Things will probably settle down.” He looked at the red, white and blue French clock on the mantelpiece. It was half-hidden behind the photographs. “You’re about half an hour late. I was hoping you’d rescue me sooner.”

  “I dropped off to see Mrs Cornelius.”

  “I thought she was coming for the festivities.”

  “I had something to discuss. She’ll be here later.”

  “Still going strong, is she?”

  “As always. Quite a celebrity in these parts now, and enjoying every minute of it.”

  “She’s still with Pyat?”

  “No. Pyat’s working with the Poles now, over in Slough. He sees her from time to time but I think Hira—what’s he calling himself?”

  “Hythloday.”

  “Yes. I might as well call myself Lalla Rookh!” She laughed. “Anyway, he’s still her main boyfriend. It gives him a lot of extra muscle in Croydon, apparently, but the Maharajah wants him to marry her and she says she’s had enough of marriage, though she’d be glad of the status. She could go to Brighton whenever she liked, then.”

  “It’s even more magnificent, I hear. Lots of gold roofs and pastel walls. Hythloday wouldn’t be marrying out of caste, would he?”

  “Mrs C. is regarded as high caste by virtue of being Jerry’s mum. My boss has entertained her to dinner several times and been proud of the honour. She, of course, was in her element. They love her. There isn’t a Sikh in Sussex who doesn’t. Of course she tends to be hated by a lot of the natives who resent her privileges and think she’s socialising above her station or sucking up to the masters, depending on their point of view, but that type of white will always bicker among themselves. I get a lot of similar spite, myself, of course.”

  Major Nye was amused. “They think you’re a bit of an Uncle Tom, do they?”

  “You could put it like that.” She took a step back from Jerry as if she inspected a painting. Her uniform was primarily white and gold with a gold-trimmed scarlet sash. There was an Indian sabre at her belt and her turban was a tall one, wrapped around a spiked metal cap, matching the colours of her uniform and with some thin bands of blue to show her rank. The plumes were also a sign of rank. For Major Nye the uniform somehow emphasised her femininity and made her seem a fraction shorter than usual. “I wish he’d perk up a bit,” she said beneath her breath. “They’ve made so many preparations.”

  “Officially we tell them he’s been asleep?”

  “Oh, certainly. But you know what legends are like. There are an awful lot of people believe that when he wakes up this time an era of peace, prosperity and co-operation between the nations will begin.”

  “The British nations, you mean? It was our fault, I suppose, for sp
eaking so highly of him.”

  “I don’t think it’s that. They needed a symbol and he’s as good as anything. After all, he was a lot of help to many of the independence movements, even before the civil war. Now there’s scarcely one of the sixty states that doesn’t have some sort of folklore connected with him. Not everything is good, of course, but most of it is. You should hear the stories the Highland anarchists tell. It’s astonishing how quickly he’s been worked into almost all of Britain’s mythologies as well as a good many others throughout the world. As if a gap existed for him to fill. There are Cornelius legends in America, Africa, Asia, Australia, throughout Europe. He’s bigger than The Beatles now.”

  Major Nye was pleased. He took a brass-plate tin from his tunic. The tin had belonged to his father. It was decorated with a relief bust of Princess Mary flanked by the initials M.M. while the borders contained pictures of stylised arms and ships and the names of various nations—Belgium, Japan, Russia, Monte Negro, Servia and France. In the top border were the words Imperium Britannicum. In the bottom border were the words Christmas 1914. The tin had originally contained a pipe, cigarettes and tobacco and a Christmas card from Princess Mary. Now it contained Major Nye’s own tobacco and cigarette papers. He began to roll himself a tiny smoke. “You don’t mind what’s happened, then?”

  “You think I should be jealous?”

  “Miss Brunner certainly is. So’s his brother.”

  “He was always a better entertainer than I was.” Una shrugged. “And I was always a better politician. He refused to make something of himself and now the world has made something of him. There’s nothing like having a common hero.”

  “And I’m nothing if not common,” said Jerry. He blinked. “It’s a bit bright in here, isn’t it?”

  They watched him carefully, expecting him to subside.

  “What’s been going on?” he asked. “You were talking about me, weren’t you?”