Imago Bird

by Nicholas Mosley

  I would have to work out more of the details; and of the story. But what makes stories boring is the way things happen one after the other without any freedom; there’s no chance of anything being different Whereas in life what’s interesting is how so many things happen all at once; and it’s by this, and by what you are, that you choose; you can’t choose this or that to happen perhaps, but you can choose what you are to be interested in. And so make lively. This, if not action, is always possible. And perhaps it’s a caring or not for everything that is the choice: not for this or that or for only loved ones; but caring or not for everything because caring is just caring and the only other choice is not.

  Now there’s something I’ve just thought of here that may not work. What if the audience were told that they themselves could affect the outcome; were told that by pressing a lever or button or something by their seats they might make happen or not happen (I was going to write happy!) what they wanted to make happen (or happy!) on the screens—would the crusader live or die; would the wife or not go off with her lover. And the levers or buttons would be connected to nothing of course; except to a machine that would record the members of the audience’s decisions. But this would be the point: it would be like life. People would know of course that everyone else would be pulling levers; so that they should not be surprised when things did not turn out as they liked. But still, what they had chosen would be recorded: and it would be this—this is the point: this is what their influence is!—that might affect them; in their own bodies, their minds. The film of course would be just whatever the film-maker had made of it; like God; but people would still be making what they wanted of themselves; by their decisions; and this would be possible, because they would know their decisions which had been recorded. They would know—You get what you want, you see: in yourselves, look—you are this or that sort of person! You want these other people to live or die! You want yourselves to be lively or deathly. This would be the nudge, you see, recorded: both in, and affecting, their minds: and also the outside world —

  For what if one had a big enough computer in fact so that the audience did affect possible outcomes on the screen; or in the world, according to averages; is this like life? With everyone pulling their own levers; and so seeming to balance out into entropy. But still, there is liveliness. And this would be in the minds of people who, by what they have ever been, by what they have made of themselves, do feel free; and so see that they stand back from entropy; and by giving it a nudge, might tip the scales down one side or the other. But this would require some learning.

  Well, it’s five o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting in Embankment Gardens and I’m cold and my pencil has run out and I’m having to sharpen it with my fingernails.

  I enjoyed our meeting the other day.

  Love

  Bert

  P.S. Do you know the story of Plato’s cave? Well, why didn’t the people in the cave think of something like using their fingers to make shadows on the wall? Then might not what was going on outside in the sun have come into the cave to see what was funny?

  I thought of a few more PSs but my pencil was so blunt it was behaving like an india rubber.

  I needed a stamp and an envelope.

  I thought—Perhaps I will be able to swap my rope and pyjamas for a stamp and an envelope at some stationers.

  It was really later than five o’clock in the morning. It had been five o’clock when I had started.

  Soon, I could ring up Dr Anders.

  I walked up and down by the river.

  I thought—What have I given birth to? Some baby that, like my screen, has two heads? And an eye between?

  — Will it come up like the sun, or like the face of a drunk man from behind a table —

  Dr Anders had left me her telephone number. When the time came to telephone her, I had to reverse the charges because I had no money. I found out from the operator that the number was in Cambridge.

  ‘Dr Anders?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is—’

  ‘Hallo.’

  I did not quite know if I was stammering. I seemed to be listening.

  ‘I’m sorry to telephone you so early.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘And I’m sorry I’ve had to reverse the charges.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I haven’t any money.’

  ‘Then why are you sorry?’

  I thought—Here we go again! Good heavens!

  I said ‘I felt terrible last night. But now I’m better. But I thought I’d ring you anyway.’

  She said ‘What sort of terrible?’

  ‘Well, suicidal.’

  ‘What did you feel?’

  ‘As if I wanted to cut my head off. With a guillotine. To stop myself thinking or feeling.’

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  I said ‘And then it all got tied up, as usual, with sex.’

  She said ‘But now it’s better.’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  She said ‘What did you do last night?’

  I said ‘I had dinner with Uncle Bill and Aunt Mavis.’

  She said nothing.

  I thought—All right! But I’ve got out! Haven’t I?

  I said ‘Then I went down on to the embankment and wrote something I’m quite pleased with.’

  She said ‘Good.’

  I thought—Well, is that all? Is a birth so simple?

  She said ‘I’ll be back on Friday.’

  I said ‘I thought it was Monday.’

  She said ‘No, it’s earlier.’

  I thought—Well, that’s even better.

  Then—My two-headed baby will be all right?

  She said ‘Have you got anything to do tonight?’

  I said ‘Yes as a matter of fact, there’s the Annual General Meeting of the Young Trotskyites.’

  She said ‘Will you go to the Annual General Meeting of the Young Trotskyites?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  She said ‘It sounds like the title of a song.’

  I thought—What an extraordinary thing for Dr Anders to say!

  She said ‘Oh yes, and ask your Uncle Bill for money.’

  I said ‘Why is the Annual General Meeting of the Young Trotskyites like the title of a song?’

  She said ‘It reminds me of when I was young.’

  Then—‘Tell me about your baby, what you have written, on Friday.’

  XXII

  The Annual General Meeting of the Young Trotskyites was held in a dance hall which had been specially arranged for the occasion: a long table had been put on the stage where bands usually played, and rows of seats had been spread over the dance floor. There were families in neat and quiet rows as if they had once, years ago, heard rumours of a divine visitation but now what they more appreciated was the outing.

  Above the table on the stage was an enormous banner announcing that Trotsky had been killed in 1940.

  I was still taking care for some reason or other that people should not recognise me: so I had waited in the streets till I thought the meeting had started—these meetings always started late because like this the audience might be encouraged to imagine a divine visitation—and then I hurried in and sat on a chair on an outside aisle behind a pillar. I thought—Do I imagine myself as an angel, waiting in a courtyard?

  Of course, the meeting had not started.

  On the platform was Brian Alick; and, briefly, Sally Rogers.

  I thought—But did not Sally suggest that she was no longer a friend of the Trotskyites? This would not, of course, mean she was no longer a friend of the Trotskyites; but why had she bothered to suggest it?

  One of the odd things about these Trotskyites was that although they claimed to be a revolutionary movement they were always going on about what had happened in 1940. I wondered—But might not this, to them, be as important as the question of whether or not the Holy Ghost had two fathers?

  There were all these quiet, composed pe
ople like clones waiting to be sent out into the world and take it over. I thought—But they should be ideas, not people?

  Sally Rogers had been talking with Brian Alick. They had seemed like conspirators plotting against the bare back wall of a stage.

  I thought—But they should be watching the audience as if it were their unconscious to see whether or not the time had come for their ideas to go out into the world —

  The meeting had not yet started; apparently because there was some slight disturbance at the door.

  That morning, afternoon, I had gone to a public library. I had managed to get from the librarian some clean paper and an envelope. I had copied out my letter to Tammy Burns.

  I had wondered—Am I using words in a way that will give birth to things in the mind whether or not there is the sort of cinema screen I am writing about?

  The librarian had also given me a new pencil; but would not accept my pyjamas and rope in exchange. So I had thought—It would not be proper to ask her for a stamp.

  Then—How, in my film, would I get someone to give me a stamp?

  — Once, I would have stammered?

  But I did not want to stammer.

  I had carried my bulging envelope through streets and had thought—Now, in this strange city, what other escaped prisoners will recognise and make friends with me —

  Brian Alick came forward on the platform. He said ‘Comrades—’

  I thought—But if he is Sheila’s lover, could I not, in my film, hoist him with a corner of my smile coming out from my screen; and leave him slightly above his platform like St Theresa?

  ‘Comrades, we have been informed by our friends here, the police—’

  He paused as if to let the audience make sure he was being funny —

  ‘— that they have had a message that a bomb has been placed in the auditorium. Now I myself give this story absolutely no credence whatsoever—’

  Another pause: so that the audience might know he was being serious —

  ‘—nor, I am glad to say, do the police.’

  I thought—So the audience, blown to and fro, thinks nothing, feels nothing; admires the technique.

  ‘I regard it as just one more attempt at disruption on the part of I shall not say our enemies but I shall not also say our friends in the Revolutionary Movement—’

  Brian Alick frowned, severely.

  I thought—The point is that no one is exactly sure what he wants to say; so they are open to just the technique.

  ‘However, I believe I should give this warning so that anyone who wishes can leave the auditorium.’

  Brian Alick gazed round.

  — Is it you? Is it you? —

  Then he sat down behind the table.

  I thought—What is it that is actually happening then?

  People were unmoved and unmoving in the audience: I thought—Do they believe, if they are elect, what does it matter if they die?

  After a time Brian Alick stood up again.

  ‘Then shall we get on with the meeting?’

  For some time the faint disturbance at the door had been increasing. I thought it was to do with the police and the bomb.

  ‘Comrades, we are gathered together for this our anniversary—’

  Once I had been with Sheila to a street meeting of the Young Trotskyites when they had been attacked by the Patriotic Front. There had been a fight in which people seemed to be reaching for each other’s faces as if to snatch trophies there. One man had wrapped his coat around him and had run into the restraining arms of police as if he was bouncing on a trampoline.

  ‘—to reaffirm the programme of this our revolutionary movement—’

  There were one or two people moving up the aisles like security men. Voices had been raised by the door.

  I thought—But if the proper environment for all this is the mind —

  The people each side of Brian Alick on the platform were watchful as if they had machine-guns.

  — It is you—It is you —

  ‘—but first, you will bear with me if I deal with some business still in our midst.’

  I thought—This is all some allegory; of something for which we have no language.

  Brian Alick began to refer to people who might or might not have betrayed Trotsky in 1940.

  I thought—Politicians, like theologians, have as yet no way of talking directly about things that are in their hearts and minds.

  Brian Alick’s speech continued. Sometimes he shouted: sometimes his voice sank low. I found it difficult to hear his words. I thought—He is spraying us with bullets: like romantic music —

  Then—It is something like music we can take back to make us lively in our minds —

  Then, turning in my mind away from Brian Alick’s speech and thinking—But if I stay here will I be like one of those bodies curled up when the lava comes down: is it enough just to turn like Tammy Burns with my profile to the music —

  — So that when the machine-guns open up from the people on the platform —

  — How many want to save themselves? Or from a bomb? —

  — To take hold of the levers of their hearts and minds and climb up on them as if notes of music were a ladder —

  — So that when the bullets come over from the people with machine-guns —

  — Duck —

  — Bullets bounce off water —

  — Then look for a hand in the rubble —

  — Is it you: is it you —

  — A hand, where you thought was a trinket —

  — As in Shakespeare’s recognition plays when the hand comes alive and takes your own —

  — After the wind has blown the rest of the leaves into the trenches they have dug for themselves —

  — Hullo, hullo, I wondered if you remembered me —

  — Oh yes, I’ve never loved anyone else you see —

  There was still this disturbance at the door. Then I turned and saw Judith Ponsonby.

  She was in a seat off the aisle about three or four rows behind me. She was smiling and nodding at me; as if she had been trying to make me turn round for some time.

  I looked back at the platform.

  I thought—What happens when you win? When the ball slots into the right hole —

  — when the arrow flies by itself to the centre of the target; when you have not been thinking; when you have been your own music —

  I turned back and smiled at Judith Ponsonby.

  — with her bright child’s face that with a broken wing would lead others to the precipice for the sake of her children —

  Brian Alick had begun to shout like a man either in, or for, a strait-jacket.

  — between the pillars of the dance hall that sort of shaft coming down: a dove with an olive branch pointing to a landfall —

  — a girl with arrows and the bow-string against her breast —

  The disturbance at the door seemed to have been caused by a man with dark wiry hair trying to get in. He was now coming down the aisle towards us.

  I thought—She has moved on from those shaggy men like cinema technicians who were at Sally Rogers’ party —

  — Changing from one screen to another —

  — Still laying hold of her —

  — But now, I must not lose her.

  The man with the wiry hair had taken hold of Judith Ponsonby and was trying to pull her from her seat.

  I stood up.

  One of the security men came up and took hold of the man with the wiry hair.

  Judith Ponsonby, between them, seemed to shrug her shoulders at me.

  I thought—She is like the girl in Petrouchka.

  Brian Alick paused for a moment in his speech: then went on shouting.

  I followed Judith Ponsonby and the man with wiry hair and the security guard up the aisle and towards the door.

  Then—But where do we go now? She has been blown like a sycamore seed; we are whizzing up the cliff with the wind taking us —

  By the
exit door, halfway into the street, there was an argument again between the various men round Judith Ponsonby. The security man had been joined by a policeman. Judith Ponsonby turned from the man who was holding her as if she were Jonah half out of the whale.

  ‘Hullo —’

  ‘Hullo —’

  ‘I wondered if you remembered me.’

  She said ‘Oh yes, I was looking for you, you see!’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I said ‘Can you have supper?’

  I thought—To pay for it, I can murder some old woman like a pawnbroker.

  She said ‘Oh I’d love to, but I seem to be sort of tied up as you see!’

  I said ‘Shall I rescue you?’

  She said ‘Oh will you please!’

  She looked despairing.

  I thought—But have I not known she would have to hurt me.

  Then she said ‘But not just yet’

  I said ‘I’ll ring you.’

  She said ‘Will you promise?’

  Then she picked the man’s hand carefully off her arm as if it were a burr. She began looking in her pockets.

  I thought—She controls things as those people do with telephone wires underground —

  Then I said ‘Can you by any chance lend me some money to buy a stamp?’

  She said ‘If you promise to give it back.’

  She pulled from her pocket a five-pound note. She held it out to me.

  I said ‘That’s too much.’

  She said ‘The last seven numbers on it are my telephone number.’

  I said ‘How extraordinary!’

  She said ‘Yes isn’t it.’

  I said ‘What are the odds against that?’

  She said ‘Millions, I suppose.’

  I said ‘Yes, they would be.’

  I took the note, carefully.

  She said ‘But I might have gone to live at the place, you know, specially where there is this number.

  I said ‘Like those men who buy cars.’

  She said ‘Exactly.’ Then—‘But that would have been almost as difficult.’

  I said ‘But now I won’t be able to use it to get a stamp.’

  She said ‘No you won’t, will you.’

  The man with the wiry hair and the security guard and the policeman were watching us.