A Very Private Life

by Michael Frayn

  The flight takes over an hour! And when they land Uncumber discovers that they have done only the first 4000 miles! There is a long wait for a connection—a rocket which turns out to be even more ancient and ramshackle than the first, and which departs two hours behind schedule. By the time she reaches the rocketport at 515–214 she has been travelling for nearly seven hours, and she is too exhausted to feel anything any more. She literally staggers through the airlock into a travelling house, finds the houseowner can’t understand a word she says, and only just has the presence of mind to show him Noli’s number written out on a slip of paper before she collapses back on to the air couch and weeps with fatigue, overcome by the sheer nastiness of the world she has had to traverse.

  The physical transportation of the body evidently demands a mental and physical stamina which she simply doesn’t possess. And the whole business of finding Noli and explaining herself when she reaches the number still lies ahead!

  In the dark

  When Uncumber steps out of the travelling house at 515–214–442–305–217 she steps into pitch blackness—the unlit airlock to the house, as she assumes. Standing in the little pool of light from the doorway of the travelling house, she reaches out to feel a wall to guide her. Her exploring hand sinks deeper and deeper into the darkness, the door of the travelling house shuts behind her, a cool current of air moves about her, and all at once she realizes that the darkness is unwalled. She is outside, in the open! There has been some terrible mistake! She turns back to the travelling house, but already it is lifting away into the night.

  She is paralysed with panic, unable to move, unable even to utter more than a wavering, inarticulate gasp of terror. The darkness and coldness of the outside night stretch indefinitely away from her in every direction! She is lost in the blackness, dissolved into nothingness by it. A violent trembling, half fear and half cold, seizes her, and she clutches the sheet about her, standing stock still and trying not to breath, so as not to draw the cold and the darkness and all the infections of the raw air into her lungs.

  She has seen darkness before, of course. As a child she sometimes used to cover up the dim sleeping lights at night to see what it was like. And the time she explored the emergency stairs—that had been in the dark. But all this was inside, with other human beings—and the possibility of light—close at hand.

  This unlimited, inextinguishable darkness of the open world is entirely different. This is the ultimate nothingness which the whole of human endeavour strives to keep at bay. How will the Kind People find her out here, in the middle of nowhere?

  Gradually her naked terror subsides into something more like wretchedness. Sheer disbelief that any day could be as horrible as this one has been—and even if it could, that it could happen to her—overwhelms her. Misery tightens her chest; tears well out of her eyes. She hears great sobs arise and go out into the empty dark. They sound as if they belong to someone else—not hers at all.

  After a while she stops crying, and takes her dark glasses off to wipe them. At once she finds that the blackness around her is not quite as totally black as she had thought. Of course! To see in the dark you take your dark glasses off! She laughs aloud at her stupidity—a sobbing, hysterical laugh.

  Not that what she can see is very reassuring. The first thing is the sky, a luminous grey overarching the blackness, and silhouetted against it the tangled branches of trees. She is in the forest! But gradually, as she becomes accustomed to the idea that seeing is after all possible, she perceives that there are no trees immediately around her. She is in a sort of clearing; the ground at her feet is flat. She bends down and stares at it through the darkness. Dimly, she makes out straight lines and angles. It is manmade—of tiles, perhaps, or bricks. They are cracked and uneven, with patches of dirt on them, and dark vegetation forcing its way through. She feels a deep sense of solace. This is not quite the primeval nothingness after all; the human race has passed this way.

  As she crouches there, gazing at the surface of the ground and shivering inside her sheet, she becomes aware of a faint, regular sound in the air, which immediately seems familiar to her. Shhh, it goes, followed by a silence. Then: shhh. And again: shhh.

  With great clarity the memory of those family holidays comes back to her—of certain evenings just after sunset, when the wind had dropped. Of course; she is somewhere very close to the sea!

  She peers carefully around her into the darkness, trying to pick out some visible sign of the sea among the trees, feeling that the situation may not be impossible after all, and sees for the first time the great white figure that is standing immobile scarcely ten feet away, silently watching her.

  She draws a violent, rasping breath and feels her heart drop out of her body.

  She stands stock still. So does the white figure.

  A full minute goes by. Then, as the first freezing flush of terror subsides, she remembers that her eyes are exposed. She scrambles her dark glasses back on. How terrible to have stood naked before this great white beast!

  For another minute she peers at the figure through the darkness of the lenses. She is shaking now as the reaction to her terror sets in. With the idea that she might be able to bring the confrontation to an end by edging imperceptibly away, she shakily moves an inch or two backwards, then waits to see if there is any reaction from the figure. There is none. She slides her feet a few more inches—and stumbles painfully on the upraised edge of a tile. She freezes, holding her breath. But still there is no reaction.

  Gradually she backs away, risking a little more speed as the figure sinks back into the darkness, becomes a white blur, then just a faint patch of luminosity against the black of the forest—then nothing at all. She feels herself breathing again, as if she had riot known for some time what breathing was.

  But suddenly she stops. Some strange pricking at the back of her neck makes her turn round—and there, right in front of her, towering over her, is another white figure! His nose is eroded; part of his jaw is missing; his eyes are dark pits gazing sightlessly out over her head.

  She screams—or hears a scream arising from where she is standing. She turns and runs—or finds herself running. The blackness rushes past her; the scream pursues her. She stumbles agonizingly upon unevennesses in the ground. Branches snatch at her face and hair; stones lacerate her soft feet. She runs until some sort of stone barrier rises in front of her at about the height of her waist and stops her progress. She lets herself fall across it and rest on it, gasping: “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh …”

  It’s ridiculous, she sees that, because she knows now what those white figures were. They were statues—old, colourless statues made of stone and eroded by time and weather. The stonework upon which she is leaning is a balustrade. She is in some sort of ancient garden—the kind of thing one sees in tapes of Shakespeare and Mwanumba—now long abandoned and overgrown.

  Gradually she stops saying “Oh, oh, oh, oh …” She gets her breath and straightens up. She tries to work out some plan of action, but as her panic subsides, so her weariness returns. Should she try to make her way back to the point where she got out of the travelling house? She’s no idea how far she has run, or in which direction it was. She would like to lie down on the ground, she is so deeply tired; but her revulsion against coming into contact with the filth and contamination of the earth penetrates even her exhaustion.

  As a compromise between doing nothing and moving at random, it occurs to her to find out where the balustrade goes. She takes her dark glasses off again and begins to feel her way along it, her whole body jerking violently each time her foot presses down on something sharp. Lumps of dark, appalling vegetation force her away from it, but each time she manages to find it again. Every now and then it turns a corner, and on most of the corners an overgrown urn rises. She passes two more statues—one headless, one fallen—but feels scarcely a tremor of unease about them.

  Eventually the balustrade leads her to a more open place, where the shushing of the sea is loude
r and a tangy breeze stirs against her face. An orange moon is just rising through the layers of dust, casting a faint, tepid light over the tangle of vegetation and broken stone. The balustrade leads downwards, and she makes out a flight of shattered steps descending to some lower level of darkness.

  Bending at each step to see where she is putting her feet, she starts down them. She is about halfway down and is feeling with her toe for the next step, when there is a sudden double explosion—kra-KRACK!—of unbelievable loudness. It seems to come from the air just above her head, and it is followed by a sound like the rushing of wind.

  She starts violently and puts all her weight on the exploring forward foot, half catching the edge of the step and half missing it. The foot turns over with a sharp stab of pain, and she falls forward into the darkness. Step after step catches her on the knees, breasts, and elbows as she comes tumbling down. Then the flat ground at the bottom strikes her a heavy blow across the back, knocking all the wind out of her, and she comes to rest.

  She is not surprised—indeed, scarcely interested—to find that she is lying alongside two intertwined human beings. Neither of them is wearing dark glasses; two pairs of naked eyes gaze with fear and astonishment into hers.

  She tries to make some remark which will sum up the situation briefly.

  “Oh!” she says. “Ohhhhhhhhh …!”

  Her two bedfellows get to their feet and hastily pull on items of clothing which are lying scattered about the ground. She herself hurriedly pulls on the dark glasses which she still has in her hand.

  “Mel,” says one of her neighbours—the man—in an embarrassed voice. “Mel modrost…. Mel san san…. Mel … Mel …”

  To the palace

  The two of them half-carry Uncumber, carefully wrapped in her sheet, through the ruined garden. She is groaning and sobbing; her ankle is incredibly painful, and she isn’t used to pain. She feels in general like a doll which has been thrown violently back and forth in some children’s game. “Nonnu,” say her bearers soothingly. “Nonnu san san tek.”

  They emerge at last from the undergrowth of the garden into an open space where there are lights and the sound of human voices. On the far side of this clearing an extraordinary structure is dimly visible. It towers above them as they approach it, magnified by the uncertainty of the soiled moonlight—a massive cliff of stone, complicated with flights of stairs, great pillars, ledges, scrolls, and pediments. There are immense ornate windows, many of them roughly boarded up, with light showing through the chinks between the boards. The word to describe the building comes to Uncumber almost at once; it is a palace.

  On the first and broadest flight of stairs, which lead up from the ground into the heart of the cliff face, sit a number of people, talking and laughing. At the sight of Uncumber and her bearers they shout out questions.

  “Til leltomaron chomni fec tozas!” explain her bearers, disengaging arms from Uncumber and pointing back into the garden.

  “Noy? Noy?” asks everyone incredulously, gathering round in excitement. One of them takes something out of a little box and makes a flame. It spurts up with a hiss and lights up the circle of staring faces. All of them have naked eyes. More animals! Uncumber is suddenly unsure whether she still has her own dark glasses on. Her arms are caught round her rescuers’ shoulders; she twitches her nose desperately and inconclusively.

  “Where are my glasses?” she begs miserably.

  “Noy? Noy?” asks everyone anxiously.

  “My glasses! Have I got my glasses on?”

  They carry her up the stairs and between the great pillars, everyone talking seriously about her and shouting at her solicitously. More and more people gather round, lighting little flames and peering into her face. “Til leltomaron, til huahuaron, chomni fec tozas!” everyone explains to the newcomers.

  At the top of the steps they fling open a worn wooden door, which judders against its frame. Uncumber finds herself in the light—and back inside again. But an odd inside! Odder even than the rocketport. She catches a glimpse of a worn stone floor, a staircase, and a number of doorways. Children come running down the stairs—funny little scraggy children, wearing various bits of clothing, with dirty faces and dirty feet. They come running towards the new arrivals and stand around, silently staring at Uncumber. Women appear in the doorways, wiping their hands on their grimy skirts and shouting after the children. When they see Uncumber and her bearers they jerk their heads up interrogatively.

  “Til huahuaron chomni fec tozas!” shouts everyone, pointing out into the garden.

  “Sil … sil …” murmur the women, gazing at Uncumber and shaking their heads at the profundity of it all. “Fec tozas? Sil … Sil …”

  Uncumber at last gets an arm free and feels her glasses. They are still on her face. The gesture arouses everyone’s interest, and people try to explain it to one another.

  “Okon” they agree. “Okon chem chem.”

  She puts a hand to her breasts and her knees to reassure herself that they are still intact.

  “Fonfaron,” agrees everyone. “Fonfaron chem chem…. Lemnon chem chem.”

  They carry her into one of the rooms and lay her gently on a bed. The room is quite large, with a high ceiling that disappears into the shadows, but it is so crammed with things that its size seems inadequate. There are three beds; a large, square table; innumerable shabby chairs of every possible description; cupboards; heaps of clothing; metal cooking pots; a children’s cot. … Uncumber has never seen such a conglomeration of unattached objects in one place before.

  Everyone packs into the room and crowds round the bed, gazing down at her. To avoid looking at their naked eyes, she stares at the bare electric bulb hanging down from the shadows of the ceiling. Someone lifts her damaged ankle and tests it. She cries out feebly. “Sekar,” interprets everyone, nodding wisely. They bind up the ankle and wash her cuts. Someone lifts her head and pours a little liquid into her mouth. It runs down her throat like fire, making her choke and gasp. She sits up, pushing the glass away. The drink is like nothing she has ever tasted.

  “Na, tavonil, tavonil!” protests everyone. “Novos—viski! Konyak!”

  She can’t bring herself even to think what they might be saying. She feels like laughing hysterically, and does so. Everyone gazes at her sombrely. It’s like the time she took the Hilarin. She feels she might go on laughing forever—and at once stops and begins to weep instead.

  If this is a palace, she thinks, all these dirty, scruffy, densely packed people—all these animals—must be kings and queens.

  Her prince appears

  Suddenly Uncumber realizes that she knows one of the queens!

  The sad woman with the hair hanging flatly down on either side of her face, who is standing at the foot of the bed gazing at her with such intent anxiety, is the one she saw in her holovision chamber when she was trying to call Noli!

  “I know you!” cries Uncumber, sitting up in the midst of her tears. She would like to put her arms around the woman’s neck and call her Mother, she feels such a rush of recognition and affection for her. Everyone looks first at Uncumber and then at the queen, who blinks uncertainly and shifts from foot to foot. Uncumber is appalled that the woman doesn’t recognize her at once.

  “Don’t you remember?” she says. “We spoke to each other on the holovision.”

  The queen is clearly embarrassed to be picked out and addressed with such directness. She drops her eyes and looks sidelong at the other kings and queens.

  “The holovision!” says Uncumber desperately. “Holovis!”

  Everyone understands this.

  “Ah, holovis!” they all repeat, nodding encouragingly to Uncumber. Some of them gesture to indicate the shape of a holovision chamber; others point at the floor, perhaps to indicate that there is a holovision chamber on the floor below. But the sad queen merely looks confused and anxious to dissociate herself from any connection with either Uncumber or the holovision.

  “Rago holovis,”
she mutters, flapping it away with her hands. “Orolavi holovis…. Cheshnimini holovis.”

  Everyone talks at once, advancing explanations to one another. One thing is plain to Uncumber already: she has found 515–214–442–305–217. The whole palace is 515–214–442–305–217! No wonder such a variety of people answered her calls! And no wonder everyone she saw on the holovision was bare-eyed; they’re all outside class. She might have worked it out for herself.

  She shouts over the noise. “Noli! Noli! Noli!” She is determined to be heard. The word is her one point of contact with these people, her passport, as the sight of the sad queen at last informs her, to the world of kings and queens.

  And it works. As soon as they hear what she is saying, all the kings and queens stop shouting and gaze at her in astonishment.

  “Noli!” they repeat to each other. “Sishti ‘Noli’! Skava ‘Noli’!”

  And they all smile at her and repeat the name and even laugh in the pleasure of their recognition. The name is passed back through the crowd to those still jammed in the doorway and the hall outside, until she can hear them shouting the name up the stairs.

  Now everyone is very cheerful. Ten people talk to her simultaneously, waving their arms and smiling. The glass is held solicitously up to her lips again and more of the burning fluid tipped down her throat. When she chokes, half a dozen hands thump her back.

  The crowd parts, and a short, bald middle-aged man with a hairy chest, muscular shoulders, and no shirt is pushed through to the foot of the bed. He keeps looking up anxiously at the taller people all round him, blinking his soft brown eyes at them as they explain the situation to him.

  “Noli!” cries Uncumber, sitting up.