by Edward Carey
The death had come as a great surprise. The deceased had been shot, she said, at point-blank range. Seven shots. He fell to the ground. He didn’t have a chance.
Who is dead? Who was shot?
Miss Claire Higg pointed at one of the photographs, scissored from a magazine, of the man with the moustache.
Now it may be thought that such a death, the death of a fictional character, may hardly be a cause for sobbing. Generally such deaths perhaps merit a sigh, no more. Not to Miss Higg. To her that death was a genuine tragedy. To her the moustached man was a real person, her friend. Taken cruelly from her by what she believed were genuine bullets. There was even fake blood to prove it. We could not say – Don’t worry, Miss Higg, it’s only a story. The actor with the moustache is still alive and well. We could not say that. If we had attempted, Miss Higg would only have looked at us with incredulity and sighed – Poor thing, poor thing. Been in the sun, have we? No, no, we had to continue the absurd charade of consoling Claire Higg because we wanted to find out what it was that had happened between her and Anna Tap.
Anna Tap had been very kind, apparently. She had even offered Claire Higg one of her cigarettes. Smoking was a habit of the deceased. A different brand, but the effect was the same, Higg felt closer to that moustache. Anna Tap had listened, patiently it seemed, to all Miss Higg’s remembrances of the dead man. Dead character, that is, I forget myself. Miss Tap had even said that she wished she knew what such a loss felt like.
But no, Annie dear, you mustn’t mind if I call you Annie dear and not Anna. You must consider yourself lucky never to have suffered such a loss. It’s a terrible thing. I shall have to wear black now, probably until I’m dead.
You see, Miss Higg …
Call me Claire, all my friends call me Claire.
You see, Claire, I never had anyone to lose.
No one to lose? Nonsense.
You see, I’m an … orphan.
On encouraging the new resident to leave.
The next day, I had been out early and purchased from the locksmith’s, a ten minute walk from Observatory Mansions, a new door lock, which came with two keys.
Bugg and I heard Anna Tap leaving and, armed with screwdriver, chisel and hammer, we approached flat number eighteen. Outside flat eighteen was an unpleasant welcome. Tufted-haired Twenty, the Dog Woman, crouching, a little cleaner than usual perhaps, but still repellent, standing guard for her new friend. A human watchdog. She growled at Bugg, who began to sweat, and also at me. I put my hands behind my back.
We returned downstairs.
That’s it then, there’s nothing we can do.
Stupid Bugg, dense old schoolteacher, dense old tutor. A head for books, a head made of books, a head of sheets of paper, the typefaces all tiny. Skin of paper, the paper of his skin burnt with words, words that glistened under sweat. Who has read the book of Peter Bugg? No one. Who wants to read the book of Peter Bugg? No one. It remains on the library shelf. It was placed there shortly after publication, an edition of one, and no one has ever asked for it. It would be dusty, but this type of paper sweats. No one wants to borrow the book of Peter Bugg. The last pages remain blank. For the moment. It’s a book covered in black woollen material, which sags outwards at its bottom. It’s called The history of Peter Bugg, retired schoolteacher, retired personal tutor, etc. There it sits, one book in many. It’s not a love story, it’s not a thriller, there’s no murder hidden between its jacket covers, no adventure either. There’s a few pictures in amongst the pages to break up the tedious reading: one of the subject’s father, the others are all school photographs, happy, smiling boys – where are they now? That’s all. It’s rather an old-fashioned book, to be honest. Not that it was ever in fashion. Nor will it ever be. Peter Bugg was born, Peter Bugg taught, Peter Bugg breathed. Who cares?
So that’s it then, there’s nothing we can do.
There was, Peter Bugg, there was, sir, everything that could be done. I sent him out. Off you go. Go fetch a dog, one of the city dogs, a wild one, not too wild, try not to let it bite you, bring it back.
He came back crying, sweating and moaning, his nervous body terrified of what it barely managed to carry: a dog, a flea-infested puppy. I placed some raw bacon on the stairs just beneath the third floor and sent the puppy up to fetch it. The puppy fetched. But the puppy came back rushing, yelping down the stairs, sprinting for its life. After it came Twenty, Dog Woman.
There, sir, that’s what could be done.
We changed the locks of flat eighteen that day. Bugg kept the old lock. I kept one key to the new lock, Peter Bugg the other.
There.
Now she’s sure to leave.
Now I could return to work.
Work.
Of work during that morning, I have little to report. Save that I was back on my usual unusual form. I was able to achieve both outer and inner stillness and my public rewarded me tolerably well for my concentration.
Of work during the afternoon, I have a matter of some unpleasantness to report. I was quite happy until I noticed on one of the occasions when a coin was dropped (when I opened my eyes) that among my crowd of appreciators was Anna Tap. When I closed my eyes I realized that I could no longer acquire my inner stillness. When I opened them again I noticed (by following the sounds) that the coin had been dropped by Anna Tap. I blew bubbles in her direction. I closed my eyes. A coin was dropped. I opened my eyes. Anna Tap had dropped the coin. What I heard though, between coin drops, is the most unpleasant part of this history. The coins that were dropped by Anna Tap were not coins taken from her pocket. They were taken from my box of coins which lay at the bottom of the plinth. Anna Tap was taking a coin from the box and throwing it back into the box. Again and again. Each time one of these coins was dropped I felt myself forced into the action of blowing bubbles at her. I noticed, too, that during Anna Tap’s disgraceful abuse of my talents the number of my appreciators decreased. Anna Tap picked up my (hard-earned) coins some ten or twelve times during that afternoon, and during the intervals I noticed that she smiled each time a little more fully. Finally there was a long gap between coin throws and when I opened my eyes again she had left.
Temporary relief.
On my way back from work, walking this time, furious with my lack of inner peace and unable to remove the image of the smiling new resident from my brain, I found relief through an overheard conversation. Two elderly women walked and talked and stopped to look in windows:
Yes, it does look lovely on you.
It’s a family heirloom. My grandmother used to wear this sable stole. Sadly, the weather’s getting warmer and I’ll have to put it away again until winter. I almost chide the summer for being so warm, it means I can’t wear my stole. It feels so soft. Feel it.
I’m sure it’s lovely.
Feel it.
Yes, so soft.
Take it. Wear it for a while if you like.
Really?
Yes, of course.
So soft. It feels wonderful wearing it.
Look in the window there. Look at those silks!
What colours!
Do you think we dare go in?
Oh, let’s!
Darling, where’s my sable?
Just here, around my neck – Oh!
Where’ve you put it?
It was just here.
Where’s it gone? My sable stole! My stole!
I don’t know.
It’s been stolen!
Perhaps on the floor. No. Oh, no.
You bitch, you let it be stolen!
Then I felt happier (lot 987).
Peter Bugg’s betrayal.
When I had finished cataloguing my new exhibit, I travelled up to the third floor to see what had happened to Anna Tap, and found an unpleasant progression: the original door of flat eighteen had been changed, the old lock had been replaced, the new lock was nowhere to be seen.
Miss Claire Higg’s television set could not be heard, despite it being her usual vi
ewing time. Instead came the distasteful sound of talking; there were not two, but four voices. Higg had company. Two of the voices I immediately recognized. Claire Higg. Anna Tap. Of the other two, one confused me, the other confounded me. The first of these two I could not recognize at all. I had not heard it before. What was more, I could not understand a word it was saying. It was speaking, in a somewhat broken fashion, a foreign tongue. Suddenly this voice, the first voice, laughed. It was like a child’s laugh but it wasn’t coming from a child. That beautiful laugh, so natural, so disturbing in its beauty, was completely out of place there; Claire Higg’s sitting room should not have a laugh like that inside it. The second voice conversed alternately in the foreign language, but more fluently than the other voice, and then in our own language. It belonged, I am ashamed to admit – ashamed, that is, not for myself but on behalf of the owner – to a retired schoolmaster, retired personal tutor and ex-companion of mine who reeked of a hundred different smells. Peter Bugg, without a doubt. I even knocked on his flat door, labelled ten, on my way down the stairs just to make sure. No one replied to my knocking. Peter Bugg was out, call back later. Peter Bugg was out, indeed he was. Out of favour and out of his flat, upstairs with Higg, Tap, a foreigner and himself.
They’ve all been taken in by Anna Tap, all gone:
The Porter (I wasn’t concerned about this one, let him go)
The man with the bathroom scales (his pockets will weigh, each week from now, two coins less)
The girl that Francis had known for two years but never spoken to (struck off my list)
Twenty, Dog Woman (I only ever cared for one dog, and she’s been dead these many years)
Higg (wait till the next power cut)
Bugg (who cares about Peter Bugg?)
I did. Francis did. I raised my hand in the school classroom of Peter Bugg’s mind. Please, sir. Sir! Sir!
Silence.
Wait, I thought, they’ll be back. One by one, in reverse order, they’ll all come running back. Just wait. And so I waited. For three hours. And then, finally, I heard a quiet knocking on our door. And who did that knock belong to? The man with a hundred smells.
A dog collar.
Peter Bugg was, as was his custom, sweating and crying an extraordinary amount, though these I noticed were excretions of excitement and not of nervousness. He told me that a wonderful thing had happened. The lock, the lock. Some other time for that. Now! Now, Peter Bugg (not sir, this time), now! Listen, something wonderful has happened to the woman who lives in flat twenty. But the lock! Later. Listen. Sit down.
The woman who lives in flat twenty has begun to speak. I’m sure you never heard her speak. Well, she started today. At about five o’clock it happened. No sentences yet. But a communication of a kind has gradually begun. Just words. Foreign words. But being a teacher of many subjects, as I am—
As you were.
—I have managed to join some of the words together into a kind of meaning. It seems that the woman, whom I have seen about but never paid much attention to, is very attracted to dogs. At first that was the only word she came up with – just dog. In her own tongue of course. Then, with our encouragement, she went a little further. A name. Max. The name, we wondered, was it Max, short for Maximilian? When we said the name in full she yelped with excitement. A yelp that was not unlike a dog’s yelp. We tried to find out who this Maximilian was. Her husband? No. Her father? Her boyfriend? Her brother? No. All she kept saying was dog, dog. We presumed that she was stuck upon the word dog. But then she showed us a dog collar. On the dog collar was a name tag, the tag said MAX, in capital letters. Max was a dog, you see. That was what she was trying to tell us.
Fascinating. And the lock? Anna Tap’s reaction?
It was Miss Tap, the new resident, who discovered that the woman could speak, though she could not understand her, she was sure that she was speaking words, but in a different language. She asked Claire if she understood, if she spoke the language. Claire suggested, and rightly so, that I might be of assistance, explaining that I am a teacher and personal tutor—
Were a teacher. Were a personal tutor.
I could understand the woman, you see. I knew the language. And we’re trying to find out more about her. It appears she’s been in some terrible tragedy. She, as yet, seems unable to remember anything about her life except that she had a dog named Maximilian. Indeed, she clutches the damn collar to her and won’t let anyone touch it. It’s the sole clue to her life and she’s petrified that someone might steal it.
My ears pricked up. Doggy fashion.
And when we make progress the woman from twenty laughs. It’s such an extraordinary laugh, Francis, you should hear it. We’re endeavouring to find out more. She’s very stuck on Anna, won’t say a word unless she’s by her. She keeps licking her face and hands when she has the opportunity and she whines when Anna’s out of the room. I just came down to tell you. I’m going back up there now, they’re sure to be ready. Anna and Claire have been washing her; she’s in a terrible mess. She smells too, but that can all be remedied.
And the lock?
Ah, yes. The lock. I’m sorry, Francis. Shortly after you left for work, someone knocked on my door. I opened it. There stood the Porter with Miss Tap. The Porter hissed and then spoke: Give me the key to the new lock on the door of flat eighteen.
You denied having it, of course.
No. I gave him the key. Then he said: Give me the old lock to the door of flat eighteen. It seemed a trifle difficult for him to speak. His sentences were, I believe, rehearsed.
You insisted you didn’t have the old lock.
No. I gave him the lock. You know how I abhor physical violence. The threat of it was certainly there. I was sweating and crying so.
Sir!
The Porter took the key and lock and left.
Useless!
Miss Tap remained behind and had a few quiet words with me. Did you move my possessions around in my flat? I did. Do you promise never to do such a thing again? I did. Thank you, she said, and began to leave. I tried to say something, stammer a kind of apology. She turned and said, rather kindly I remember – she said – Don’t say another word. We’ll forget about it. It never happened. Besides, I am entirely convinced that you were put up to it. Goodbye, she said, and left. She came back later, enquiring about my knowledge of foreign tongues. I hope you don’t mind, Francis, not now, not now this business with the woman from twenty has cropped up. I was sure you wouldn’t mind. All that fussing with locks and keys and things suddenly seems rather petty, don’t you think?
It seemed to me now that it was most unlikely that Miss Anna Tap’s stay in flat eighteen would be a temporary one. Her arrival had changed time in Observatory Mansions. Like the arrival of Christ which ruptured time and shifted it from BC to AD, Anna Tap’s arrival and presence had somehow applied sutures to the broken years of the inhabitants of Observatory Mansions, and by doing so had, unintentionally perhaps, unleashed an inferno. Unlike Christ, Anna Tap, an amateur in controlling time, was not able to stand us on our feet and say – Forget all the yesterdays, let’s start from today and go forward. No, she was unable to do that, instead she sent us hurtling back into our pasts.
I went to bed early.
That white.
That cotton.
I slept, while above me memories began to flutter awake.
III
THE FOUR OBJECTS
The Time of Memories.
We now entered the time known as the Time of Memories, a strange time in which we residents of Observatory Mansions were forced to ingest the recollections that were sent out of each of us to knock on each other’s doors, to fly around our rooms, to swim up our nostrils while we slept. Memories were everywhere during that time, they lurked soppy-eyed or listless with unspent energy, begging for attention on door handles, on window sills, on bedheads. We could not ignore them, we listened to them, we drank them up, we swallowed them and still they would not go away. In that time fill
ed with our memories it was difficult to find the present. We did not know what the hour was, or the day, some of us even searched for the name of the month. During the Time of Memories we saw our rooms and possessions and ourselves shift through clouds of history. No object was to be trusted, for all the objects of Observatory Mansions gleefully took part in this confusing episode in our lives. If we reached for a chair, we might find that that chair was not actually there: it had been years ago, we had just remembered it, that was all.
The Time of the Four Objects.
A sub-division of that time went under the name of the Time of the Four Objects. The idea of these four, contemptible possessions entered each of our brains and once inside expanded until they were all that we could think of. A leather dog collar (with a name tag inscribed MAX), a pair of round steel-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, a black and white passport photograph of a sickly man (inscribed on its reverse – Claire, Claire, I love you so – and signed – A. Magnitt, flat nineteen, Observatory Mansions) and a wooden mahogany ruler with markings on its sides to indicate the length of inches.
The air had grown sticky with memories, we had to struggle to breathe and as we breathed we sucked in yet more memories. Everyone was remembering. Childhoods ran up the stairs of Observatory Mansions, deaths lay in our beds. In the dust of our home were minute skin particles which we had shed sometimes years, sometimes only days before. These particles began to connect themselves so that we saw the skins of our former selves take up our shapes, their former shapes, and wander about us, ghosts of skins past. Only Father, agile in his stillness, managed to gracefully step over, managed to dance around all the histories that tugged at his socks. He did it by keeping his thoughts empty, by achieving that perfect inner stillness where there are no thoughts, where memories suffocate.
