Bradbury, Malcolm - The History Man.txt

by The History Man (lit)

  Howard drives back toward the stage and scene of his own. In the kitchen, Barbara is absent; he hears water running in the bathroom. He sets to, and opens bottles; he walks about the house, arranging furniture, setting out spaces and counter-spaces. The darkness is down already; he stands in his bedroom, while glow lights the battered houses opposite, and fixes lights. Barbara comes out of the bathroom, and he goes in. He strips and takes a bath, powders himself, and goes through into the bedroom to dress. Barbara is in there, putting on a bright silvery dress. 'Is it all right?' she says. 'Where did you get it?' asks Howard. 'I bought it in London,' says Barbara. 'You never tried it on for me,' he says. 'No,' says Barbara, 'I offered, but you'd not got time.'

  'It's nice,' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Barbara, 'he had very good taste.' Barbara goes out of the bedroom; Howard begins to dress himself, smartly, neatly, for the fray. The children come in, and run around. 'Will the people make as much mess as they did last time?' asks Martin. 'I don't think so,' says Howard, 'not so many of them.'

  'I hope nobody jumps out of the window again,' says Celia. 'Nobody jumped out of the window,' says Howard. 'Someone just hurt himself a bit.'

  'Uncle Henry,' says Martin. 'Is he coming?'

  'I don't know,' says Howard, 'I'm not sure who's coming.'

  'Supposing nobody comes,' says Celia, 'who'll eat all that cheese?'

  'Not me,' says Martin. 'Oh, lots of people will come,' says Howard, 'you'll see.'

  And lots of people do come. The cars roar in the terrace. Howard goes to the front door to open it for the first guests; the bright lights from the house fall across the damaged pavements, and shine on the debris and demolition of the street. The guests walk into the glow, towards the step; here is Moira Millikin, carrying her baby, and behind her the Macintoshes, each of them bearing a baby in a carrycot; Mrs Macintosh, when she did deliver, delivered in bulk, and had twins. Barbara comes down the hall, wearing her silvery showpiece and a large Russian necklace, her hair done in a social bun. 'Your lovely parties,' says Moira, coming inside, taking off her cape, showing her pregnant bulge, 'Can we stick this one somewhere?'

  'And these,' says Mrs Macintosh, looking very thin, with just a small loose bounce at the stomach where not all fitness is back. 'Hello, Kirks,' says Macintosh, taking off his macintosh, 'Are we the first ones again?'

  'Great to see you, come inside,' say the hospitable Kirks, a welcoming couple, both at once. No sooner are the first arrivals in the living-room, with drinks, talking breastfeeding, when more guests arrive. The room fills. There are students in quantities; bearded Jesus youths in combat-wear, wet-look plastic, loon-pants, flared jeans, Afghan yak; girls, in caftans and big boots, with plum-coloured mouths. There are young faculty, serious, solemn examiners of matrimony and its radical alternatives; there are strangers from the Kirks' general acquaintance--a radical vicar, an Argentinian with obscure guerrilla associations, an actor in moleskin trousers who has touched Glenda Jackson in a Ken Russell film. Minnehaha Ho has come, in a cheongsam; Anita Dollfuss, with her big brown dog on a string, is here, fresh from months of sleeping through seminar after seminar. Barbara, in her bright green eye-shadow, her silvery dress, appears here and there, with her plates of food: 'Eat,' she says, 'it's sociable.' Howard goes about, a big two-litre bottle hanging on the loop from his finger, the impresario of the event, feeling the buoyant pleasure of having these young people round him, patched, harlequinned, embroidered, self-gratifying, classless, citizens of a world of expectation, a world beyond norms and forms. He pours wine, seeing the bubbles move inside the glass of the bottle in the changing lights of his rooms. The party booms; a jet out of Heathrow roars over the top of the town; a policecar heehaws away on the urban motorway; in the abandoned houses opposite the little lights flicker, and behind them the expanding urban waste.

  Inside the party grows, thickens, becomes fissiparous. Space fills up; activity is forced back through the premises, into new rooms with new colours on the walls and hence new psychic possibilities, rooms with new tests to perform, for there is food spread on a table in the dining-room, and a space for dancing in the Victorian conservatory, and recesses of intimacy and silence upstairs. Somewhere someone has found a record-player and set it going; somewhere else in the house a guitar is playing. 'Hi,' says Melissa Todoroff, arriving in a tartan dress, 'I salute the radical hero. I think you're wonderful, I think you're tops.'

  'Let me take your coat,' says Howard. 'Thanks,' says Melissa. 'Now. Where do I go to get laid?' In the hall the bra-less girl from Howard's seminar, still bra-less, is explaining the philosophy of Hegel in detail to the actor who has laid hand on Glenda Jackson, and has now laid hand on the bra-lessness. 'It's eminently a dialectical portrait,' says the girl. 'Don't pinch.' In the living-room, the familiar group or coterie from the Radical Student Alliance stand together in a corner, solemn, looking a little like the scene at the Last Supper after the guests have risen. They are being accosted by Miss Callendar, who wears a bright thin caftan, and has let loose her hair, and is saying, 'Hello, what have you all come as?' In the Victorian conservatory, where the dancing is desultory, Barbara stands in silver, talking to Minnehaha Ho, who is wide-eyed and solitary against the wall. 'What kind of contraceptive do you use?' Barbara is asking, in her sociable concern. On the landing Felicity Phee, in her same long skirt, is talking to Dr Macintosh. 'The awful thing is,' says Felicity, 'I thought I'd found out where I was and now I'm there it's not where I am at all. If you see what I mean.'

  'I do,' says Dr Macintosh sagely, 'that's it, isn't it? Existence never stops. The self keeps going on, endlessly.'

  'Oh, _I know,_ Dr Macintosh,' says Felicity, 'you're so right.' In one of the rooms off the upstairs landing, a mattress that Howard has thoughtfully laid out beforehand is squeaking in one of the familiar rhythms of the universe.

  There is turmoil in the hall; Anita Dollfuss's dog has bitten the radical vicar, and compassionate persons take him away upstairs for treatment. 'I'm sorry, Howard,' says Anita, 'you'll stop inviting me. He tried to pat him. He should have patted me.' The dog pants happily at Howard, who says: 'That reminds me, you've not seen Dr Beamish, have you?'

  'No, I haven't,' says Anita Dollfuss, in her long long dress, her hair in its Alice headband, 'I don't think he's here.' He walks about with his bottle, upstairs, downstairs; Henry has clearly neglected to come. An uneasy instinct takes him to the closed door of the guest bedroom. He taps; there is no answer. He opens the door; the room is dark. The window is in place. 'Do you mind, please?' says the voice of Dr Macintosh, 'I'm afraid this is occupied.'

  'I'm sorry,' says Howard. 'It's Howard,' says Felicity. 'We don't want you, Howard. Why don't you find your Miss Callendar?' He goes downstairs again into the party. There is no Henry, there is no Flora, and now, it seems, there is no Barbara; the spread of food is devastated, and the hands that tend it seem to have found other, better pastures. With hostly compunction, Howard goes into the kitchen. He stands in front of the wallpaper celebrating the lines of onions and garlics; he stands in front of the pine shelves, with their scatter of selected objects: the French casseroles, the row of hand-thrown pottery mugs in light brown, the two pepper-mills, the line of deep blue Spanish glasses from Casa Pupo, the dark brown pot saying _Sel._ In front of him, in a rush basket, lie ten long French loaves; Howard stands at the pine table, and neatly, crisply he slices the crusty bread. The room is his, but then the door opens. Myra Beamish stands there, wearing a dress that looks as if it has been made from sacking. 'There you are,' she says, coming in, 'you look like an extremely trendy peasant. Where's Barbara?'

  'I don't know,' says Howard, 'she seems to have disappeared, so I'm doing this.'

  'Oh, ho,' says Myra, sitting down on the edge of the table in her sacking dress. 'Well, never mind, you seem to be doing a great job. Do you cook too?'

  'I have a few specialities,' says Howard. 'Well, Howard, I must try them sometime,' says Myra.

  'Has Henry come?' asks Howard. 'No, Henry
's not coming,' says Myra, 'he's sitting at home very depressed because he can't get on with his book.'

  'I thought he saved most of his notes,' says Howard. 'He may have saved them,' says Myra, 'but with one arm in a sling and the other broken and in plaster he can't really write very well.'

  'I suppose not,' says Howard, 'but he could come to a party.'

  'Well, Howard,' says Myra, 'he doesn't want to see you. He does blame you, you know. You did encourage them.'

  'But he's usually so good at seeing the other point of view,' says Howard, 'and politics isn't a bloodless business.'

  'I thought it was horrible,' says Myra, 'all those screaming people. I panicked, I ran out.'

  'Any sensible person would have panicked,' says Howard. 'You're teasing,' says Myra, 'you know I'm very bad about these things. I know I'm very square.'

  'But anyway you came, Myra,' says Howard. 'Well, I don't do all that Henry wants me to do,' says Myra, 'in fact, I rather do what he doesn't want me to do. I felt like seeing you, you lovely man.' There is a stir on the table; Myra suddenly leans forward and kisses Howard, catching him obliquely on the nose. 'That's to say Merry Christmas,' she says. 'Ah,' says Howard, 'Merry Christmas to you.' Myra bends seriously over her black handbag, and dips down into it. 'I don't suppose,' she says, taking something from the bag, 'I don't suppose you still remember that time in my bedroom.' Howard looks at her; she has taken out a mirror, and, her head down, her nose shining under the overhead light, she is inspecting her lipstick, her mouth open in an O. 'A very long time ago, Myra,' says Howard. 'I know you've been everywhere since then,' says Myra, 'toured the parish. But come again sometime, won't you? It would be different. I was silly then. I'm not so bloody bourgeois now. I know what I missed.'

  'But what about you and Henry?' asks Howard, 'I thought you were back together again.'

  'You and Barbara are back together again,' says Myra, 'but you have an advanced marriage. It doesn't keep you on a very tight rein, does it? We did hear all the rumours about what Mr Carmody found out.'

  'Don't believe all that,' says Howard. 'No, Barbara and I have learned to accept each other's lifestyles.'

  'You mean Barbara's learned to accept yours,' says Myra, 'or has to, for want of a better.'

  'It works both ways,' says Howard. 'Anyway,' says Myra, 'Henry's got to accept mine. We're back together, Howard. But on my terms, Howard boy, on my terms. It's one of those intelligent marriages, now.'

  'But what does Henry get from it?' asks Howard. 'Is it fair to Henry?'

  'I don't understand you, Howard,' says Myra, 'this unwonted concern. Henry had Flora Beniform. So I can do what I like. Isn't that right?'

  'Oh, Flora is primarily therapy,' says Howard. 'Oh, I know you've been round there, too,' says Myra, 'Flora is primarily the classic bitch done up in modern dress. But I'm sure you are too, Howard.'

  'A bitch?' asks Howard. 'No,' says Myra, 'therapy. And we all need treatment. It's the age of treatment. I'm asking for some.'

  'But I can't help thinking about Henry,' says Howard, 'how is he? He's depressed, he's helpless, doesn't he need you?'

  'This isn't like you, Howard,' says Myra. 'I'm concerned for Henry,' says Howard. 'You hold him in contempt,' says Myra, 'you and your cohorts break his arm and smash his nose, when he's trying to do something moderately decent. You despise his mores. And then, when nobody needs it, you express concern for him. He'd rather be without it, Howard. Devote it to me.'

  'Yoo-hoo, baby,' says Melissa Todoroff, standing a little unsteadily in the doorway in her tartan dress, 'how about splashing some of that wine you're hiding into my glass?'

  'I'm sorry, Melissa,' says Howard, picking up a bottle. 'Or maybe you should just pour it, right, down, my, little throat,' says Melissa Todoroff, coming into the room. 'Am I neglecting you?' asks Howard, pouring wine. 'You sure are,' says Melissa, putting an arm through his, 'you haven't come near me for ages.'

  'How's the party?' asks Howard. 'There are things going on out there,' says Melissa, 'that would make your nipples pucker. Well, hi there, Myra. How's it going?'

  'I'm just going,' says Myra, picking up her bag, 'I'd better go back to Henry, hadn't I?'

  'Uh-huh, uh-huh,' says Melissa, watching as Myra walks out of the door, in her sack-like dress, 'did I do something?'

  'I don't know,' says Howard, detaching his arm, and beginning to slice bread again, 'of course you did once throw a bread bun at Henry.'

  'Oh, God, I did, that's right,' says Melissa Todoroff, with a gay, hacking chuckle, 'and then we trampled him underfoot. Is she sore?'

  'I don't know whether Myra's sore,' says Howard, 'but...'

  'But Henry sure is sore,' says Melissa, 'he has a sore face and a sore arm and a sore ass and he's sore.'

  'That's right,' says Howard. 'Well, he got in the way of justice,' says Melissa, 'you know what they say, if you don't like the heat, get out of the kitchen. Maybe that's why she got out of the kitchen.'

  'Maybe,' says Howard. 'Oh, boy, wasn't that a day?' says Melissa Todoroff, reminiscent, 'I really blew my mind. What a trip. Freedom and liberation seemed really real. The people chanting, the crowds roaring, all crying for goodness. It was Berkeley, Columbia, Vincennes. We were all so beautiful. Then, zap, with the bread bun. Things were so wide open and easy. Will we ever be like that again?'

  'It was only a couple of weeks ago, Melissa,' says Howard. 'You know what they say,' says Melissa, 'a week's a long time in politics. Fantastic. There was action then. People really felt something. But what happened to it?'

  'It's around,' says Howard. 'You know what's the matter with people now?' says Melissa, very seriously, 'They just don't feel any more.'

  'Not the way they did last week,' says Howard. 'They sure don't feel_ me_ any more,' says Melissa. 'The night's young,' says Howard. 'Not as young as it used to be,' says Melissa. 'But I mean, seriously, who, anywhere, now, is getting down to the real, root, radical problems of the age?'

  'Who?' asks Howard. 'I'll tell you whom,' says Melissa, 'nobody, that's whom. Who's authentic any more?'

  'You seem pretty authentic,' says Howard, slicing bread. 'Oh, God, no, Christ, really, do I?' says Melissa Todoroff, agonizing. 'Do I really seem like that to you? I'm not, How, it's just a front. I'm more authentic than these other bastards, but I'm not authentic the way I mean authentic.'

  'You are, Melissa,' says Howard. 'You're giving me shit,' says Melissa Todoroff, 'you're a good guy but you're giving me shit.' Melissa Todoroff walks towards the door, precariously carrying her glass of wine; she says, 'I'm going right back there into that party and then, wow, watch out.' At the door she stops. 'I don't care what your friends say about you, you're a good guy,' she says, 'a radical's radical. And if you really work at it, you could be a radical's radical's radical.'

  Howard stands for a while longer, in the kitchen, slicing his hostly bread; then, the chore done, he walks back into his own party. It has changed, grown weak at the centre, active at the circumference. In the living-room, where the main illumination is the flashing string of lights on the children's Christmas tree, there is torpor; a few people lie about, chatting, in varieties of intimacy. In the Victorian conservatory, there is desultory rhythmic dancing; junior members of faculty bounce and rock in the near-darkness. In the dining-room, the piles of bread and cheese stand in a state of neglect; Howard's dutiful ministrations are no longer needed. The party's momentum is clearly elsewhere, in nooks here and there, in the upper parts of the house, in the garden, perhaps even in the waste land beyond. A few people are going, in the hall; there in the hall stands a figure wearing an anorak and a large orange backpack, from which protrude various large objects. 'I'm off now, Howard,' says Felicity Phee. 'Someone's giving me a ride to London. I've cleared out all my stuff.'

  'I'll see you next term,' says Howard. 'I don't know whether you will see me next term,' says Felicity. 'Haven't you sort of passed me up?'

  'Well, we'll meet in class,' says Howard. 'I doubt it,' says Felicity
. 'I went to see Professor Marvin today, and asked him to find me a new teacher.'

  'Oh, I don't think he'll do that,' says Howard, 'after the trouble with George Carmody.' Felicity looks at him; she says, 'I really don't think you'd better stand in my way. I mean, I know as much as anyone about what happened with George Carmody. Do you plan to get rid of me too?'