Aunt Mavis said ‘It certainly is funny!’
Then she laughed again as if her inside was coming out.
I said ‘Aunt Mavis come to bed.’
She leaned forward and gazed at me intently.
I thought—Anthropologists do no good by trying to explain things reasonably to strange tribes —
Aunt Mavis said ‘He had an affair with your mother, did you know?’
I thought—You shouldn’t say that!
Then—She is like someone in the electric chair.
I said ‘Who did?’
She said ‘Your uncle.’
I thought—O my prophetic soul! —
I said ‘What do you mean affair?’
She said ‘I just thought you should know.’
I thought—I bet you did!
Then—Act one, scene four or five; that old goat, that ghost, that smiling, damned villain —
She said ‘I think it had quite a lot to do with the break-up of your father’s and mother’s marriage.’
I said ‘What break-up?’
I thought—Oh what shall I do with you if I have no crucifixes, if I cannot fart at you? Put my fingers in your eyes and turn you inside out like an octopus?
After a time she said ‘Oh don’t tell me you don’t know about your father’s and mother’s marriage!’
I said ‘There’s nothing broken about my father’s and mother’s marriage. They just don’t stay together much, that’s all. There can be terrible and ridiculous things about marriages that go on all the time, can’t there?
She looked at me crookedly: then her whole face seemed to begin to fall sideways as if she were a tower with clouds rushing past her.
I said ‘What sort of affair did my mother and Uncle Bill have? Was it a good affair, bad affair, sad affair, a happy affair? Who cares about affairs? What matters is whether or not people are killing and dying with envy and resentment.’
I thought—That old fool Hamlet should have stuck his mother up the arse as well as the arras.
Then—But Aunt Mavis is not my mother?
She rocked backwards and forwards as if she were someone acting crying. Then she put her head in her hands. She said ‘I so adored your mother!’
I said ‘I bet you did!’
I began to wonder how I could continue this scene more successfully than Hamlet She was just an old woman: there might be bugging devices behind the arras.
Aunt Mavis said ‘Oh Sophie! Sophie! Forgive me!’
I walked round the room. I thought—Oh my mother, my mother, you do what you like! And my father with those girls like snakes in the long grass —
Then—Who is it I want to kill? Uncle Bill? Myself?
Then—Good heavens, Dr Anders will have a field day!
As I walked round I wondered—Where is that fourth wall which actors like to think either is or is not there; to let them preen, as if in a mirror, their awful emotions?
I said ‘When did my mother and Uncle Bill have an affair?’
She said ‘In California.’
I said ‘And what was Mrs Washbourne doing?’
Aunt Mavis took her hands away from her face. She looked quite sober. She said ‘What do you mean, what was Connie Washbourne doing?’
I thought—The point is, if we are our own audience, we could see all this is ridiculous.
I said ‘—Pushing Uncle Bill in a pram?’
Aunt Mavis got off the bed. She came and took the photograph away from me briskly.
She said ‘I thought you’d be interested!’
I thought—O Ophelia, Ophelia, can you not come quickly: can we not holds hands and run along a sea-shore that is not a painted back-drop on a pier —
Then—Actors, if they do not know that their audience is themselves, at least they know that they are acting?
Aunt Mavis put the photograph carefully back in the drawer.
I remembered—But when I used to go to the theatre with Sheila I wanted to shout—Come on, ref, break it up!
The whole performance in which Aunt Mavis and I had been involved—my coming into her room; her being on her hands and knees; the finding of the photograph of Uncle Bill and Mrs Washbourne; my wondering whether I should be reasonable; her telling me about Uncle Bill and my mother—all this seemed to be to do with an experiment about what is acting and what is not: what is behind the arras or a seaside pier: what is beyond the necessary framework of a stage; as we sit in the wings of our conscious or unconscious —
I thought—O Ophelia, let us go through streets where tanks are aiming their guns at this old barracks!
Aunt Mavis said ‘Sh!’ Then she stamped on the ground.
After a time there was a creak like a cat mewing.
She said ‘You see?’
I thought—Where did I once think: witches have cats?
I said ‘It sounds like a teddy-bear.’
Aunt Mavis went to her bed and climbed into it and pulled up the bedclothes to her chin.
She said ‘What did you do tonight?’
I said ‘Oh, nothing—’
I thought—But what if there were some demonstration by which people could know they had to act out perhaps all their ridiculous emotional dramas—somewhat formally perhaps—people bashing each other about, pulling each other’s hair, fucking their own or each other’s mothers—I mean we like these dramas—why else should we like to watch them? But at the same time we don’t—I mean we don’t like them—so, where was I—so that at the same time they wouldn’t be trapped in them—the people—the actors—they’d be saying—Look! isn’t this what you like? But also not—because, you see, this is what we’re showing you—you can also get out—by getting all this stuff out—as if on to a stage —
I said ‘I met Tammy Burns.’
Aunt Mavis said ‘Did you have a good time with him?’
I said ‘Yes, I did, really.’
She said ‘Oh well that’s good then.’
I said ‘And what did you do?’
She said ‘I wanted to be an actress.’
I said ‘And what stopped you?’
She said ‘I got stage fright.’
I said ‘Couldn’t you have given marvellous performances, if you had stage fright?’
She said ‘No, I couldn’t, it was too difficult, really.’
XIII
I said to Dr Anders —
‘Well, what happened was that Tammy Burns ordered me a drink—I hadn’t done very much: you don’t have to do very much you know: I mean I think I know about these people; what else is the point of stammering? They don’t like speaking much either. Or rather Tammy Burns told one of his hangers-on to get me a drink; or just nodded to him; he always has hangers-on, you know, I suppose to prevent other people pinching little bits off him. Well when this drink came there wasn’t one for Sally Rogers. They were doing this on purpose I suppose: Tammy Burns was just standing around: it’s his thing just to stand around: so people can watch him and want to pinch little bits; as if he isn’t a human being but a thing: this is quite powerful you know: human beings get a sort of force around them, if you look at them as things. You want to see if you’d get a shock if you touched them. I was thinking about myself I suppose. I mean, I can stand around without talking longer than anyone. As if language were a sort of insulation. Well, Tammy Burns still hadn’t said anything. He’d just ordered me a drink. So we were getting on rather well weren’t we. And I was thinking—This sort of homosexual thing, you don’t have to make anything, you don’t have to prove anything, it’s either there or it isn’t: have I said this before? But after a time Sally Rogers had to say—Don’t I get a drink?—because this wasn’t her thing, silence: but then what was she doing there anyway? I mean she’d taken me to the club. And she had her own bottle of whisky. I do think that with women you have to be proving things, don’t you? Or is this old-fashioned. I suppose you’ll say—What women? There’s only this or that woman. But don’t other people find this? I’m joki
ng! Well anyway. But it did seem as if I had to get a drink for Sally Rogers, or I had to get one of Tammy Burns’ hangers-on to get her a drink, or I wouldn’t be doing my stuff as a sort of man for her. Isn’t this awful? A man as a sort of dispensing machine; or juke-box. But if I spoke, I wouldn’t be doing my stuff for Tammy Burns: as a sort of spook I mean. So I was trapped! Grow up! But what else was the point of the evening? Of course I wanted to get off with Tammy Burns. But to have dumped Sally Rogers wouldn’t have been spook either, you see. And he was rather like the boy I had an affair with at school. All this was like a ballet. How could I move! except by some signs, or signals. So I just raised my glass, as if it were a test-tube or something, and stared at it, and waited, as if to see if there were angels or bubbles or something: if you cut out language, you see, what happens if you wait? Then after a time Tammy Burns did nod to one of his hangers-on; and the hanger-on went to get Sally Rogers a drink.
‘Well then when the time came to leave the pub or club—do you think this is unbearable? or do you think this was the sort of thing that was happening in the Tower of Babel before God sent languages?—when the time came for us to leave the club or pub all this happened again: this drama! this clash of armies! Well, isn’t it better if it’s funny? I mean, one of Tammy Burns’ hangers-on came up to me and said would I like to go back to some house they were all going to in North London or somewhere; and he didn’t say anything else I mean: nothing about Sally. And you don’t think it’s anything to do with my being a nephew of the Prime Minister, do you? because I don’t; what would Tammy Burns do with the nephew of a Prime Minister? Except to send him an autograph, perhaps, if it was paid for. Well anyway. There was all this happening again. And Sally Rogers had to say—Don’t I come too? Because she still wasn’t used to this. The spook stuff. Though she was quite a star herself I suppose. Or do you think in heterosexual things you can’t wait: you have to talk: you have to have food for your baby? What do I mean by this? You can’t talk music. Well anyway, where was I: outside that club or pub. What do you think I meant by getting food; and not being able to talk music?’
Dr Anders said nothing.
I said—‘Well, I was a bit fed up by this time. And a bit drunk too I suppose. So I thought—What if I do something sensational! like speak to Tammy Burns! a move in a chess game that has never been thought of before! except once by Capablanca in 1920. So I went up to Tammy Burns and said “Can Sally come too?” As if I were snatching the stick out of that Zen master’s hand and giving him a whack with it—’
I thought—Is it this that I will one day have to do with Dr Anders?
I said—‘So Sally and I got into his car, it was an enormous car, like you think those sort of people cannot really have but do, a car with darkened windows and little fold-out seats and we were all piled on top of each other as if we were in a telephone box; there were so many people there to stop people touching Tammy Burns; and I was on one of the little seats in the middle facing front with Sally on my knees; and Tammy Burns was behind me. And someone began stroking my hair. I suppose it was Tammy Burns. And Sally was putting my hand on her breast. All such powerful people! And I thought—But what have I to protect myself against: this is the opposite of stammering—’
I felt the white light coming down again across my heart, my mind.
There was Dr Anders’ bookcase, her frieze, the spire beyond her window.
I said—‘Well anyway, we got to this house, I don’t know whose, an enormous house in North London: with sort of Moorish architecture, you know, with tiles and things like a lavatory. Or a brothel. I mean I suppose like a brothel; in some film about the eighteen-nineties in Paris or Munich. Well anyway. And in fact there was a film going on in the house all the time: along one wall in the sitting-room: like a gigantic cinema screen; for all these people who don’t speak much, who have to have images, who try to turn themselves into things. And people weren’t paying much attention to the film; were even occasionally moving to and fro in front of it—’
I thought suddenly—Like Plato’s cave?
Then—I must remember this.
I said’—And all the people, in the half dark, sitting about, were Tammy Burns’ henchmen; and they were like primitive cave-men, yes; with this projection of their unconscious. And the film they were watching, or not watching, was a pornographic film: it went on all the time: it was in the background of their minds: but by showing it on the wall did they recognise this; did they make it any better? It was one of those films, you know, of huge arseholes and cunts and penises: boring away all the time: in the half dark, with people watching and not watching it: half moving about in front of it: like life: or was it? People just getting up to fetch drinks and snacks and things: and then settling down again: all these things in their minds, but because it was on the wall could they turn away from it? Get it out Get it out. But it had also half killed them. They were sitting around, as I sometimes do, listening to—what—music?’
I thought—For God’s sake, what is it I have against music?
I said ‘Or like gas that comes in through little pipes in the ceiling—’
I thought—Oh come on, you can think and talk like music!
I said—‘Well anyway, Sally Rogers had sat down with a few others facing the wall. Do you think this was like Plato’s cave? Watching breasts and cunts and penises? In their unconscious? But then, what was the reality, and the sun, outside. I went into a sort of alcove. I mean it was three o’clock in the morning. We were in this house in North London. With all this stuff on the wall And I did not really want to look at it. But also of course I did. We do have these memories. But there was this alcove, with a fountain and lights; as if I could be a sort of Narcissus. I mean, I wanted to find out something about myself: about survival. In this difficult world To live in it, with it; not to be beaten. By all this lunacy. Do you know those old plays where there are a courtyard and a fountain and a loggia? And a tree. And a moon. I mean this was a sort of stock stage-set. For people to remember things by. Remember what they really were, and not be beaten. So I thought—I will sit here and then perhaps something will happen against this other backdrop of my mind: such as a girl with long hair letting it down like a rope from a balcony; or that bird which came into a courtyard sliding on a shaft of sunlight —’
I thought—Why do I say it cannot be talked about?
Dr Anders made a small sound as if she might be snoring.
I said—‘Well, Tammy Burns came into the alcove. I was sitting on the parapet of the fountain looking down into the water. Or rather, Tammy Burns didn’t quite come in; he stood by the door; so that his profile was against the images projected on the wall of the sitting-room behind. All the cunts and arseholes and penises. And children, you know: dear God, this is not easy! Nor are wars, revolutions. Tammy Burns stood there with his back against the pillar: as if he were part of the stage-set: his profile cutting into the stuff on the wall behind: framing it: as if, by moving, he might appear to make it move; like a train being left by a station. And I thought I could say to him—Listen, what is it that you know? I mean, in that grotto: when you are like the Virgin Mary? And he came and sat beside me on the parapet of the fountain. He said “What do you want to do?” I said “Make a film.” He said “What sort of film?” I said “One that will be a sort of frame that one might move slightly in and out of as if it were one’s conscious and unconscious.” Our two faces were in the water which, if we kept still, remained quite clear. He said “How can you do that?” He put out a hand and touched the water. His face, his real face, shivered. I said “When you get down from that grotto, you should act, or dance, as if you were being made love to and were a bird.”’
After a time Dr Anders said ‘The perfect rapport.’
I thought—How vulgar!
Dr Anders said ‘Unlike you and Sally Rogers.’
I said ‘I haven’t told you yet about me and Sally Rogers!’
Dr Anders put her arms on the sides of
her chair—her signal that the session was nearly over.
I said ‘I haven’t even told you about Aunt Mavis!’
She said ‘But you didn’t stay with him.’
I said ‘No.’
I wanted to ask—What is it do you think I have been trying to tell you?
Dr Anders got up from her chair. She went to the door. She said ‘You were more interested in the experiment.’
I thought—The experiment of whether or not anyone understands me?
Then she said ‘I thought you were going to tell me about whether your uncle’s house was being bugged.’
I said ‘I can’t really stay interested in all that.’
Then I thought—Can’t I really not stay interested in Uncle Bill and my mother?
— All those old breasts and cunts and penises —
I said ‘You know what you once told me about the language of love—’
She said ‘What did I tell you?’
She stood with her hand on the door.
I said ‘I had been talking one day and you said—But that isn’t the language of love!—and I said—What is?—and you didn’t say anything for a time; and then you made your sort of cooing noise, or mewing, as if you were holding a baby.’
Dr Anders waited with her hand on the door.
I said ‘I haven’t even told you about my mother.’
She said ‘You haven’t even shown me your stammer.’
XIV
I thought I should go and sit in the gardens of the square where Judith Ponsonby lived: which I had been told about by Sally Rogers.
I held some sort of conversation with myself about why I wanted to sit in the square rather than to find out Judith Ponsonby’s telephone number and ring her up. I said—But if you pursue people, you do not know if it’s really them you want to get; you just know you want the pursuit. And I answered—But isn’t it this that you were saying about homosexual rather than heterosexual love: that in the latter there has to be performance, and so there has to be pursuit?
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