Observatory Mansions: A Novel

by Edward Carey

  Emma’s exterior.

  Emma, never married, was never referred to as Miss something, just Emma, only Emma. That’s what I called her, that’s what everyone called her. She lived on her own in a small cottage on the edge of the village. Emma wore black. All-dressed-in-black Emma. Always black. Home-made black clothes. Black beret, black shirt, black skirt all the way down to her ankles. Thick black material, even in summer. Itchy. Emma smelt. I spent many days searching for the particular ingredient that might describe the stench. I found it in the kitchen. Emma smelt like boiled carrots. Emma had long grey hairs hanging from her face, as if she had dipped her chin in a cobweb. Emma’s skin was the worst thing. When she first came to Tearsham Park I was afraid of her. I was afraid of her beard, her clothes, her smell – but most of all it was Emma’s skin that terrified me. I often closed my eyes so I would not have to look upon her skin. Difficult to describe Emma’s skin. Ingredients for a description of Emma’s skin:

  Take one orange. Peel it.

  Leave it for several days in the summer sun.

  The orange in the sun loses colour, turns white and develops thick, deep wrinkles. It diminishes in size. Open the orange out and, taking one of the thick, wilted and creased segments, tear it in half. Inside, at its very centre, is a tiny piece of the orange that used to be – still fleshy, still clutching to a little juice. Were I to have peeled Emma, I think that somewhere deep within her, past all that thick seemingly dead cover, I might have found a little life, a little blood.

  I didn’t like Emma. Not at first. I wanted her to leave, I made a fuss, I banged things about. Later I’d pray for her to live for ever, but first I’d beg for her to die painfully during the night. And yet, through my child’s mind, I thought there was little hope for such an exit, for despite her hoary exterior her eyes betrayed more energy, more life than could be found in my youthful body.

  Liquorice hours.

  Blacked out and bearded Emma closed and locked the nursery door behind her. She did not smile at me. She regarded me briefly, but without expression. She sat down. She opened her (black) bag, took out a tin of tobacco and a wad of black liquorice rolling papers. She rolled a cigarette. She sat smoking. She took a small (black) plastic ashtray from her bag, put it on the table in front of her, and filled it with ash. When the cigarette was finished (this took some time and she smoked it almost until its dampened end burnt her fingers) she tapped her fingers on the table. She was waiting for something to happen. I sat at the other end of the table waiting for whatever it was that was meant to happen to happen. Silence. Emma took a piece of liquorice from her bag and noisily sucked it. Finally that too was gone. She sat still. I waited. Nothing. She rolled another black cigarette. She smoked on in silence.

  My first Emma day was counted out with cigarettes and liquorice. She did not speak. I did not grunt, just watched. Hours of watching with just cigarette and liquorice consumption for diversion.

  When the small black tips had filled the ashtray and her bag of liquorice seemed to have been emptied, Emma stood up again, she pushed the chair neatly under the table, walked to the window, opened it, emptied her ashtray, replaced it in its black home, closed the window, unlocked the door, exited and locked the door again. That was my first day with Emma.

  The echo.

  For days two and three with Emma read day one. Twice more. The fourth day brought a new experience.

  I was not enjoying my hours with Emma. I was restless. I was waiting for her to do or say something. I fidgeted. I swung my legs up and down under the table. I began stamping my feet. Emma looked up, she nodded. I stamped my feet harder, she began clumping her (black) clogs. We made a terrific din. We banged on. Her wooden shoes made impressive thumps on the floor. When I stopped stamping, she stopped her clumping. Silence again. She lit another cigarette. I stood up, ran to the nursery door and pummelled my fists hard against it. I groaned. I whined. I yelled. Only when I had quietened down a little did I realize that Emma was clapping and smiling even. She held out a piece of liquorice, clearly for me to eat. I took it. I threw it on the floor, I stamped on it, I flattened the damned black thing. She took another piece out, dropped it, squashed it under her clogs. I screamed. Emma screamed, just as loud and just as panicked. I graced her with an infuriating whine. She did her best to respond to it but hers lacked my resonance. I stopped screaming and whining, there was little hope in those gestures. Emma only copied my sounds and showed no fear of noise. In any case, nobody had come running to save me.

  Emma spoke:

  Frrrrr. Fffffrrrrr.

  I looked at her offended. I understood. If I was to leave the nursery it would only be after a performance of the noise: fffrrrrrr.

  I learn to talk.

  Fffff-rrrrrr, instructed Emma.

  Ffffff, attempted Francis.

  Rrrrrr.

  Errrrr.

  Rrrrr.

  Rrrrr.

  Fffffrrrrrr.

  Ffffff.

  Rrrrr. Fffrrrr.

  Ffffrrr.

  Aaaaaa.

  Aaaaaah! (I knew this one.)

  Fffrrrraaaaarrr.

  Ffffaaaarrr.

  Ffffrrraaaarrr.

  Ffffrrraaaarrr.

  Fffffrrraaarrrnnnn. Nnnn.

  Nnnn.

  Ffffrrrraarrrnnn.

  Ffffrrraaarrrnnn.

  Ssssss.

  Ssssss.

  Frarrrnsss.

  Frarrnssss.

  Iiiiiii, sssss.

  Iiiiissss.

  Fraarrnssiiissss.

  Ffraaarrrnssiiisss.

  Francis.

  Frarncissss.

  Francis.

  Frarncisss.

  Francis.

  Francis.

  (Pause.)

  Francis. Francis. Francis. Francis. Francis.

  Francis.

  Francis!

  And Emma pointed at me. I was that sound. I was this – Francis. Said I: Francis. And pointed to myself. Emma held out her wrinkled and cold hand. I flinched. She took my hand and placed it in hers. We shook hands. Francis and Emma shook hands.

  Meeting Mother.

  Emma unlocked the nursery door. We went to visit Mother in the drawing room. Francis, I said. Mother kissed me all over my face and stroked my hair, she said to me: Mother, Mummy. Say Mummy. Francis, I said.

  Skip some months, and many pieces of liquorice.

  I could talk. I could deliver sentences. I could speak with anyone and comprehend their responses. I had entered, with regret, the world of communication. But I would not have remained there were it not for one thing …

  The nursery days’ entertainment.

  Clump, clump, clump! The confectioner, the tobacconist, the audio-library was on her way. In she came. She shook my hand. We bade each other good morning. She sat. She rolled a cigarette – too slowly, she knew what I was waiting for, she was doing it purposefully. She took out her matches – too slowly, too slowly. The first one blew out before it had achieved its function – she had let it blow out, deliberately, I was sure of it. The second one lit the cigarette. She took a long drag. Smoke left her mouth. Silence.

  What shall we do today?

  That’s it. That’s what I was waiting for.

  A story, a story, I cried. That’s what I wanted always forever.

  Emma’s stories became more complicated and fascinating the more I learnt to speak. Emma’s stories had been passed down from generation to generation – always changing slightly from mother or grandmother to child. Emma had heard many of the stories she told from her grandmother: she learnt them by heart then embroidered them or forgot parts and replaced the missing segments with her own additions. Often I’d demand her to repeat certain tales again and again – sometimes she’d change the ending or leave it open for me to finish. How can I explain Emma’s stories? They were alive. They moved. They lived! They were a swirling mass of colours and smells that could never be caught. They shifted shape, swallowed themselves whole, contradicted themselves
, ends chased beginnings, they leapt off at tangents or into other stories as if switching trains, hurled in strange directions, forgot themselves, remembered themselves, metamorphosed from romances to tragedies and back again by way of comedy. I heard of princes and princesses, of stepmothers, of donkeys that shat gold, of dragons, magic kingdoms, beasts, bluebeards, witches, goblins, ogres, trolls and many other phantasms.

  As well as the standard fairy-tale characters, Emma added her own. And of her own tales, a certain group began, not in some imagined kingdom but in Tearsham Park. These tales would often start with – They didn’t know it up in the nursery, but down below in the library, something extraordinary had begun to happen to Mr Orme. My father, absent-minded and mysterious, who we saw so often around the house staring into nothingness or crouched with intense curiosity in front of some object or other, became with Emma’s help, the most magical of characters. Emma would tell of Father’s adventures.

  When Father had been ordered out for a walk by my mother, Emma would tell me he had gone on safari into strange, distant lands where people had heads in their stomachs; when we saw him in the parkland fascinated by molehills, Emma would send him deep beneath the earth where odd, hairy people lived; or she would summon gales to fly Father up into the sky to visit the strange weightless people who lived in the clouds. And I almost believed all these stories. Looking at Father they seemed entirely plausible.

  The ending of a thousand tales.

  On a certain day Emma was late. I went down to tell Mother. She told me to wait in the nursery, Emma would come. But when she didn’t come, I went. Emma’s front door was shut but unlocked. I let myself in. Emma was sitting in front of her fireplace. The fire had exhausted itself many hours earlier. Emma’s eyes were closed. With her eyes closed, her one sector of energy was absented. She looked as if her skin was made of burnt paper and her clothes of cigarette ash. If I blew I was sure her head would sink into her chest and the two parts, connected and unreadable as Emma, would soon float down to what was once Emma’s feet, and then all Emma, old Emma, would lie tidy in a little mound waiting to be swept away. The spent fire would look like her twin sister. But I did not blow. Emma did not subside; I’m just thinking my childish thoughts.

  I tugged her elbow. Emma did not look up.

  The library was closed, the stories were padlocked under her stiff tongue and would come out to play no more. All the creatures from trolls to princesses, all her heroes and adventures had sunk down her throat into the abysses of her stilled organs, amongst blood that had lost the idea of action. Emma was a dead thing. The centre of her lips were burnt, she had been smoking a liquorice-papered cigarette when she had died and it had gone on living after her. It had extinguished itself in the cooling blood of her mouth, it had heated her lips while the rest was going cold. The last warm place on the person who had taught me how to speak and to think, how to use my imagination and how to conceive histories, had been the lips and the tip of her celebrated tongue.

  On a table by the fireplace was a tin of tobacco and a wad of black cigarette papers, I took them for my friends, I gave them to my pockets (lots 44 and 45).

  But Emma was still to be found in the neglected graveyard of the church. I sat, that day, looking at the tombstone:

  EMMA

  Our second conversation.

  I became aware of the new resident standing in the church porch, smoking a cigarette, looking at me.

  You’ve been following me, haven’t you?

  No, thank you.

  Why have you been following me?

  I’m laying flowers at the grave of a friend.

  No. Do you want something from me?

  You’d better be out by the end of the week.

  I’ve no intention of leaving.

  It’s been known for people to change their intentions.

  I won’t.

  It’s been known that people who promise never to change their intentions actually do change their intentions.

  Well, I won’t.

  We’ll see.

  Are you trying to threaten me?

  You may come across unforeseen obstacles.

  You really are an exceedingly malicious little man.

  If you have to put it like that, I prefer the word malignant. In any case, I’m taller than you.

  I won’t be frightened.

  We’ll see.

  The Porter said you were slightly backward, is that true?

  I’ve had enough of this conversation. (I began to leave.)

  Is it the truth?

  The Porter knows nothing about me. (I began to leave hurriedly.)

  My name is—

  I’ve no need for names!

  Oh, you’ll need this one, Francis Orme. Learn it.

  I’m not listening!

  My name is Anna Tap.

  The findings of Peter Bugg, retired schoolmaster,

  retired personal tutor, etc.

  Peter Bugg was waiting for me when I returned that day, just after my second conversation with the new resident who now, I was forced to understand, went by the name of Anna Tap. Peter Bugg was puzzled. Puzzlement in the guise of drops of sweat and tears trickled out of him. Had he been into Anna Tap’s temporary residence? He had. Had he made an inventory of her possessions? He had. He held the sweaty list in his sweaty hands. Had he moved the objects into new positions? He had. He promised. Though, he said, it had been difficult. Heavy objects? No. Too many objects? No. Delicate objects? No.

  He showed me the list of his findings:

  An inventory of the possessions of Anna Tap,

  18 Observatory Mansions.

  Temporary resident.

  Bed 1

  Sheets, pillowcase (of each) 4

  Pillows 2

  Blankets 2

  Towels (white, identical) 3

  Chairs (identical design – Prussian blue, plastic, metal frame) 2

  Tables (identical design, Formica top, metal frame) 2

  Coat (black) 1

  Blue dresses (identical) 8

  Black lace-up shoes (flat soles, all identical) (pairs) 3

  Socks (black, identical) (pairs) 8

  Undergarments (bras, knickers) (pairs) 8

  Spectacles case (empty, steel) 1

  Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, deodorant (of each) 1

  Bottle of pills (labelled DIHYDROCODEINE TARTRATE) 1

  Suitcase (black) 1

  These were all the objects to be found in flat eighteen. I insisted that there must be more. Some writing implements, some letters? Some photographs, books, periodicals? No. Some paintings, posters, ornaments? None. He had not searched everywhere. He insisted that he had. The only things he neglected to place on his list were, he said, various items of food. He also added that she had no kitchen machines. No refrigerator, no cooker. The food, he said, was either fresh or in tins. All to be eaten cold.

  The difficulty poor Peter Bugg had was in arranging Anna Tap’s possessions in such a way that would make them look as if they had assumed new positions. His first attempts at moving dresses and shoes (which were distributed, before he arrived, in various different places throughout her flat) had resulted in the flat looking identical. As if Peter Bugg had not been there at all.

  I did not touch the undergarments. Though I noticed that the knickers had tiny little white bows on them. The bows made me feel sad, I’m not sure why.

  He did not move the bed either. Too heavy. The chairs he did move, but afterwards they did not look as if they had taken up dramatically different positions. They were both identical. In the end Peter Bugg chose not to be subtle about his displacing. He moved the bed linen into the living room. He moved all the dresses and shoes into the dining room. He placed all the washing items (towels, toothpaste, etc.) in the kitchen and all food in the bathroom. The spectacles case (empty) he placed in the spare bedroom. But he did not, he maintained, touch the undergarments.

  The procedure had been further complicated for poor Peter Bugg by
the pink rubber gloves that I had pressed him to wear. The gloves, he said, had made his hands even more sweaty. What’s more he was very nervous about his tasks and sweated and cried a great deal during their enactment. Wiping his forehead or his eyes with rubber gloves proved of little use, the rubber wouldn’t soak up the wet.

  The lack, and the similarity, of Anna Tap’s possessions worried us deeply. The repetition of the items, we eventually decided, was the choice of a tidy, too tidy, mind. They also showed a remarkable lack of vanity or love of objects. We managed to convince ourselves that Anna Tap’s somewhat frugal style of living was only temporary. The rest of her belongings were sure to follow on shortly. We would, of course, ensure that Anna Tap had left us before they arrived, more items would only encourage her to reside with us for longer; personal effects give people a sense of security. We were pleased that she had not completed the business of moving in. This meant, happily, that there was less to move out.

  We heard Anna Tap returning to her temporary home, and then, a little later, a sudden scream came down to us from the third floor.

  Down below, in flat six, Bugg and I smiled.

  A death upsets us more than the bereaved.

  At the appointed hour, during the evening news, when we went to pay a visit on Miss Higg to inform her of our progress, we heard talking coming from inside her flat. The voices, there were two, did not belong to a television set. The voices belonged to Miss Claire Higg, television anchorite, and Anna Tap, temporary resident of flat eighteen.

  Two hours later, during the next news broadcast, we received an explanation. Claire Higg had suffered a distressing loss. There had been a death. We were surprised, we could not remember her having any friends or relations, we could not imagine anyone whose death might have upset her. The news of the death had caused her to scream. It was Claire Higg who had screamed and not Anna Tap on entering her temporary residence, as we had first believed. She had opened her flat door to scream, hoping that that scream would reach the ears of Peter Bugg or even Francis Orme. She wanted some company. She needed consoling. But the company she had required had not been forthcoming. Instead she had been visited by Anna Tap. Claire Higg was quick to point out that, unlike Peter Bugg and Francis Orme, Miss Tap had immediately come to console her.