“This is where we do our daily purge. It’s just amazing. I know it looks kind of yuck, and it is really, but afterwards it’s just awesome.”
They were standing outside a clay hut where inside, a group of ten natives was kneeling on bamboo mats, drinking a tea made out of tobacco. It looked horrid, and by the expressions on everyone’s faces, it must have tasted so too. They all took turns drinking the rank looking liquid, and barely a second or two after they did, they each bent over to the small clay pots in front them and vomited. One after the other, they all hunched over themselves and retched as hard and as visceral as they could. The Old Man had never been so disgusted. He took felt his stomach churn and his face was no different to theirs. Seeing this, Charisma smiled.
“Our fears and our torments sit not only in the dark crevices of our minds, but they make their homes in the pits of our stomachs. The stomach is the gateway to the mind. It is the bridge to our thoughts and feelings. By purging like this,” she said, talking about this mass vomiting as if it were some kind of colloquial dance, “we can reach the farthest regions of the subconscious mind and though we are purging our stomachs, we are also purging all those worries and regrets and sorrows the sediment in our thoughts and cast a bleak shadow on our illuminated selves.”
She looked so proud as if this were some prized recital.
“The toilet,” said The Old Man.
“Oh wow, of course, yes.”
She looked a little disappointed having to leave.
But still, she kept that smile.
“Trust me after your first purge you will be completely changed.”
“I imagine.”
“The first is always hardest. Once you get past the taste and the smell and the feeling of wanting to be sick, the act of purging is actually, apart from being a medicinal catharsis, quite relieving. I mean afterwards of course, but the act itself, it feels so… wow! You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” he said, winding the long lace in his pocket. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“You are going to fit in here like a hundred percent awesome. Do you know that fairies are real?”
She took him out of the camp and up a little track. It was muddy so he had to dig the ends of his shoes in so we wouldn’t slip. He hoped like hell it was mud.
“So, number ones go over there,” she said, pointing to some barren trees and scattered scrub. “And number two you get a choice.”
She looked so pleased.
“Either way, we use everything.”
“Use?”
“In nature, there is no such thing as waste. Everything is cycled. Nothing is dirty or rude. Everything has an awesome reason and a purpose - even your poop.”
“I just want to know where I can, you know…I don’t really care or want to know what you or….”
“So you can use one of these buckets,” she said, taking a smallish clay container and handing it to The Old Man. It had a terrible funk that was hard to pin down, but it wasn’t that hard considering the theme of the conversation. “So some natives like to poo directly into these buckets here and we let it dry in the sun for a day or two. And then pop it straight into the veggie patch. We pop on the poop,” she said, laughing. “It’s really good, especially for the lettuce and tomatoes.”
The Old Man wondered for a second, whether it would have hurt being on that exploding bus. Would The Driver have felt the heat or the pressure first? Would he have even heard the bang? Would he have felt pain, or would everything have just gone black, quiet and numb?
“Or you can poop in one of the holes here. Now we try to reuse the same holes as much as possible so once you do your business you just sprinkle a bit of sand and dirt on top and leave it ready for the next person. This is our compost site so eventually, we will use most of this rich soil in…you guessed it…the veggie patch. When you’re done here I’ll show you where we bathe. So which is it? Are you a bucket man or a compost squatter?”
She looked so excited to find out which.
“And you don’t have any normal toilets?”
It was a last-ditch effort, but it was worth a shot.
“What’s normal about anything in city life, I mean really. I know it looks kind of strange but once you give it a go…”
She was already pulling her dress up to her waist and crouching over the small clay bucket. She looked at The Old Man the entire, explaining how to keep balance and how to be sure of where he was doing his business. By the ease in which she held herself there alone, and by how calmly she hovered over the small bucket, it was clear that she was no novice. This, like any one of the other activities in this community, was something she took seriously – like an art or an illness.
Her face blossomed with pride.
“Honestly, anything that you can squat for, you really should.”
The Old Man grabbed a shovel and headed off into the minefield. Not in any of his ninety-two years had he imagined having to shit in the woods – in his pants maybe but that could be trumped up to an accident or over-drinking. This was not, in any way, how he had imagined the bus ride ending up.
“You’re doing super awesome. So proud of you.”
She was yelling from the other side of the field – if you could call it that. It was as if he were picking strawberries and she was gladly calling out the best kind of grasp, and from how he swayed like an unsteady barge, how best he could position his upper body to better support his wobbling legs.
“Sometimes it helps to hum a song.”
“I can assure you it does not,” said The Old Man to himself.
It was the worst eleven minutes of his life – having to crouch over a half-filled hole, scared to death of falling backwards. This is why toilets always backed onto walls. It didn’t matter what angle he was on, there was always the risk of falling.
“You did awesomely,” said Charisma.
Beneath his furious exterior, there was boiling river of shame, and inside of it floated his drowned dignity. “I better not see that in my bloody salad,” he said.
“Do you believe in aliens?” she asked.
It wasn’t easy trekking back down the path. The Old Man’s loafers slipped about on the muddy steps, and his legs were already embattled and sore. The whole way, though, every stressed and pained manoeuvre of it, Charisma was right there in his ear unable to hep herself. She rambled on in directionless manner, sometimes confusing herself, often contradicting herself, and sometimes, and on more than one occasion, startling herself – sometimes with the weight of her unforeseen revelations, and others by the sun catching in her jewellery and making her believe that she was receiving messages, or possibly the co-ordinates for doorways into fairy kingdoms.
“So I had this dream, and it wasn’t so much a dream as it was an awakening into one of my past lives. I was a mystic…”
She paused for a second – a look of sheer surprise etched on her face.
“I know, right? I guess my spirit is so evolved that in my reincarnations I am or have been as it seems, for a great time, been present and needed in the world as a seer of some kind or another. It is really an incredible burden, but it explains my kinship with nature and this feeling I always had, in all of my lives, that even though all spirits are one, and no one being is above or beyond another, as a seer, it is my responsibility to not only live with but to watch over and be a kind of spiritual mother to everyone that I encounter.”
With her head bowed and her hand on her heart, she looked honoured, but also, more than a tad overwhelmed. She sighed lightly, passing barely a breath over her lips. But if one listened intently, with as much mindfulness as she did, they would hear in that gentle breeze of her breath, the extent of her burden – that for centuries she had had to be more special and more awesome than everyone in the world – and the universe even – so that she could make them feel loved and special. So that she could help make their lives awesome too.
“So I woke up from this dream, or this past life encount
er as I call them, and I see it there, sitting on the end of my bed – a grey!”
The Old Man was waiting for a noun. He didn’t want to. He just wanted to get back to camp and do his best to remember this trail so he could do it alone when he had to. But that incessant girl just hanged there in manic suspension at the end of an adjective, and it was driving The Old Man nuts.
“I knew it was a grey, I just knew it.”
“A grey what?” thought The Old Man.
He cursed himself now for following along.
“It was in the shape of my cat King Henry, but I knew it was an alien, just by the way it was looking at me. And besides, King Henry always slept beside me on his own pillow, he never sat on the end of the bed – that’s how I knew a grey had entered his feline body and was trying to communicate with me, possibly about something that was about to happen or maybe they were channelling my knowledge from my subconscious mind and using it to power their ships, or maybe even to plants the seeds of new civilisations in countless other different worlds, galaxies and dimensions.”
The story continued until they got back into camp, and it only stopped when The Old Man snuck into his own hut and fell asleep. He lay heaped on his cold and rigid bed, but he did so as if it were made of clouds and duck’s feathers. This was the first chance of sleep he had had since the killing re-started. As he lay there, absolutely spent, Charisma crouched beside him and continued her story, whispering to his unconscious mind.
The Old Man slept for a day and a half. Such was the extent of his exhaustion that he didn’t dream once. When he woke, though, he had vicious hunger. It ached in his stomach, and it ached too in the back of his mind. He could smell dinner being prepared and instantly his mouth started to salivate. He didn’t know, though, whether he should eat first, or kill someone. Such was the ache in his belly.
XXXI
There were thirty places in the dinner hut, but counting The Old Man, there were thirty-one people - one placemat short.
“Not a worry,” said Charisma, taking one for the team once again. “Standing while eating is actually great for food passage and overall…”
Nothing could discourage her attitude, not even a steaming bowl of lentils. As the others dug in, Charisma slowly walked around the dinner hut touching each person on their shoulder, interrupting their meal with a wink and a smile. Though the bowl burned her hands and though she was divorced from the group itself, Charisma smiled because she was amazing, and she knew that.
“There’s a spot here,” said a young man.
His name was Greg, and beside him sat his wife. Her name was Hillary. They weren’t young in the way that kids were young, but they were young in the eyes of married folk. Hillary looked every bit a native. Her hair on her head grew as thick and wild as the hair under her arms, and there was just as much muck on her knees and beneath her fingernails as there was on the ground beneath her feet. And like all natives, she hadn’t the slightest bother. Greg, on the other hand, looked as if he remembered the simple joys of hot water and basic sanitation. He was grubby, yes, but not to the extent of his wife. His was just passing dirt. Hers looked like it had been lathered on like some primitive war paint.
“Excuse me,” he said, “there’s a free spot here.”
Charisma looked over, and yes, there was one free spot.
“No, that’s the place of Snapping Turtle.”
“Who?” asked Greg.
“Gavin,” his wife responded. “You know, the one with the…”
She made some kind of lurid gesture as if the man were known by some horrible personal habit – one that is seldom said out loud. All of the natives had been given names by Charisma to help them be unhinged from their former, unsatisfactory lives.
“Oh, him,” said Greg.
His name was Sleepy Willow, but still, he only ever answered to Greg.
“He wasn’t at morning purge,” said one native.
“So very true,” said another.
Both natives looked at one another and smiled. Agreeance was a strong trait in this community and it was one that was met with generous praise. They both left their seats and met in the middle of the hut, gave each other a high five, and then went back to their hot lentil soups.
Charisma watched how everyone sat at the places, looking each other in the eye and talking with such passionate and attentive accord. Oh, how she wished she could be laid out in the middle of that attention. How she wished she could be their platter of discourse. She watched them and for the first time in such a long, long time, things did not feel as awesome as they appeared to be.
“That’s fine guys; I’m super cool standing here. No worries at all.”
“She looks pissed,” said Greg.
“You wouldn’t get it,” said Hillary.
“Is it a vagina thing?”
“Douche.”
They bickered with one other until eventually they finished their soups and gave each other a light kiss. It wasn’t anything passionate. It wasn’t even longing or endearing. It was just a quick peck, like a sparrow, fishing for beetles and worms.
“Love you,” said Hillary, her mouth covered in mud and kale.
“Love you too, babe,” said Greg, stating an apparent fact. “How you doin?” he said, reaching his hand across the table to The Old Man. “My name’s Greg.”
“Sleepy Willow,” said Hillary, soft yet belligerently.
For the record, her name was Flustered Buttress.
“Yeah, it’s Greg. So what’s your name?”
“Pleased to meet you, Greg,” said The Old Man.
He shook his hand and went back to his soup. The Old Man ate food like old men did. He sipped and he slurped. It sounded rancid and horrible. Were he five years old, he would have been scolded and punished somehow. Instead, he was an old man, and old men deserved respect no matter how much of a cunt they were. Respect and pity ran a fine line in old age. It was a resource to be milked.
“You don’t look like the rest of these folk.”
The Old Man barely looked up from his plate.
“It was this or counselling,” said Greg. “And I suggested counselling.”
“So you don’t buy into this hippy bullshit?” asked The Old Man.
You could tell that he meant no disregard.
“Fuck no,” said Greg.
And you could tell that he didn’t either.
“Looking forward to getting back, to tell you the truth.”
The Old Man slurped the last of his bowl and then looked around as he would, at a restaurant or a diner, expecting someone to offer him some service.
“Little help?” he said.
“What’s up?” asked Greg.
It felt like he’d just made a friend. ‘Don’t fuck it up’ he thought.
“I’d like some seconds,” replied The Old Man. “I’m nowhere near full.”
“There’s no seconds, mate. Food here is all rationed. Bit less actually since you guys arrived. If it’s any consolation, after this is group hugs and then puppet theatre.”
He might have been taking the piss, or he might have been deadly serious. It was too hard to tell now. He’d put up a front for so long. It was hard to see the blurred line between enthusiasm and mockery. Either way, he smiled, gave two thumbs up and hated himself that little bit more.
The Old Man stared at his empty bowl.
“You’re having me on,” he said.
His hungry belly said a great deal worse.
“Communal living, mate.”
“One for all,” said Hillary.
“And all for one,” said the rest.
“And rainbows and unicorns,” shouted Charisma, managing the last word.
The Old Man hadn’t thought of cannibalism, not until today.
“Charisma normally sits there,” said Hillary.
“And?” said The Old Man.
Were he forty years younger, she would have given him a piece of her mind.
“I was just saying, i
s all. Just trying to start a conversation. Jeeze, Louise.”
“She looks fine,” said The Old Man.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” said Charisma. “Simply awesome.”
“It’s not the point,” said Hillary.
It was obvious that this had nothing to do with an empty seat.
“Honey,” said Greg.
“Yes, darling, “said Hilary.
Each as patronising as the other.
“How about we just let it be?”
“How about you listen for once?”
“What?”
Hillary stormed off from the table. It was loud and dramatic. It was the kind of exit that deserved a round of applause or at the very least, an awkward and apologetic explanation.
“Women, right?”
The Old Man shrugged his shoulders. He was busy looking at everyone else’s nearly finished bowls. Beside him, though, sat a girl, and she looked at him with cold and hungry eyes – not for his friendship or affection, but for the generosity of his callous and vicious cruelty.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said.
He did, though, he just said as such. There was someone but she rarely came up in conversation. It had been so long, he might even have forgotten her name altogether, though her face haunted his every waking dream.
“We hit a bit of a patch,” said Greg, being far too open.
The Old Man though opened his ear. He nodded which meant, “Go on.”
Really, he just wanted to hear of another man’s sorrow. He wanted to hear of heartbreak and suffering. He wanted to hear a spell of misery and ruin. He wanted – more than another bowl of lentils – a touch of the blues.
“Everything just got to be more of the same. We’d have sex like once every couple of months at most. Sometimes there would be this spurt like two or three days in a row, but they were always followed by these really long dry spells.”
The Old Man looked every bit the caring friend. He had hardly the demeanour of a psychopath. He nodded, he winked, he smiled, and he even shook his head in disbelief at all the right points. A good story teller was like an old record. One had to be experted in placing the needle gently and in the right part of the story. And The Old Man cared for nothing more than the soft and warm crackle that hummed beneath a man’s unfortunate woe. He sat back in his chair with his thumbs entrenched in his pockets, listening to every word. It was good, yes, but it wasn’t the blues.
London When it Rains Page 16
