by Paul Merton
II – Eternal Wanderers
People say that in 1924 it was easy to travel from Vladikavkaz to Tiflis; you simply hire a car in Vladikavkaz and drive along the remarkably scenic Georgian Military Highway. It is only two hundred and ten versts. However, in Vladikavkaz in 1921 the word “hire” sounded like a word from a foreign language.
In order to travel you had to go with your blanket and Primus stove to the station and then walk along the tracks, peering into the innumerable freight cars. Wiping the sweat from my brow on track seven, I saw a man with a fan-shaped beard standing in slippers by an open freight car. He was rinsing out a kettle and repeating the vile word, “Baku.”
“Take me with you,” I requested.
“No,” replied the man with the beard.
“Please, so I can stage my revolutionary play,” I said.
“No.”
The bearded man carried the kettle up a plank and into the freight car. I sat on my blanket beside the hot rails and lit a cigarette. A stifling, intense heat filled the spaces between the freight cars, and I quenched my thirst at the faucet by the tracks. Then I sat down again and felt the scorching heat radiated by the freight car. The bearded man stuck his head out.
“What’s your play about?” he asked.
“Here.”
I unrolled my blanket and took out my play.
“You wrote it yourself?” the proprietor of the freight car asked dubiously.
“With Genzulaev.”
“Never heard of him.”
“I really need to leave.”
“Well, I’m expecting two more, but if they don’t show up, perhaps I’ll take you. Only don’t have any designs on the plank bed. Don’t think that just because you wrote a play you can try anything funny. It’s a long journey and, as a matter of fact, we ourselves are from the Political Education Committee.”
“I won’t try anything funny,” I said, feeling a breath of hope in the searing heat. “I can sleep on the floor.”
*
Sitting down on the plank bed, the beard said “Don’t you have any food?”
“I have a little money.”
The bearded man thought for a moment.
“I’ll tell you what… you can share our food on the journey. But you’ll have to help with our railway newspaper. Can you write something for our paper?”
“Anything you want,” I assured him as I took possession of my ration and bit into the upper crust.
“Even feuilletons?” he asked, and the look on his face made it obvious that he thought me a liar.
“Feuilletons are my specialty.”
Three faces appeared out of the shadows of the plank bed, along with some bare feet. They all looked at me.
“Fyodor! There’s room for one more on the plank bed. That son-of-a-bitch Stepanov isn’t coming,” the feet said in a bass voice. “I’ll make room for Comrade Feuilletonist.”
“Okay, make room for him,” bearded Fyodor said in confusion. “What feuilleton are you going to write?”
“The Eternal Wanderers.”
“How will it begin?” asked a voice from the plank bed. “Come over here and have some tea with us.”
“Sounds good—Eternal Wanderers,” responded Fyodor, taking off his boots. “You should have said you wrote feuilletons to start with, instead of sitting on the tracks for two hours. Welcome aboard.”
*
A vast and wondrous evening replaces the scorching day in Vladikavkaz. The evening’s edge is the bluish mountains. They are shrouded in evening mist. The plain forms the bottom of the cup. And along the bottom, jolting slightly, wheels began to turn. Eternal Wanderers. Farewell forever, Genzulaev! Farewell, Vladikavkaz!
THE ROYAL SUMMONS
Leonora Carrington
Leonora Carrington (1917–2011) was a British-born Mexican artist, surrealist painter and novelist. She lived most of her adult life in Mexico City and was one of the last surviving participants in the Surrealist movement of the 1930s. Carrington was also a founding member of the Women’s Liberation Movement in Mexico during the 1970s. Like her paintings, Carrington’s short stories – many of which are autobiographical – contain references to strange creatures and alchemical rituals, as well as revealing a sharp eye for human absurdity.
I had received a royal summons to pay a call on the sovereigns of my country. The invitation was made of lace, framing embossed letters of gold. There were also roses and swallows.
I went to fetch my car, but my chauffeur, who has no practical sense at all, had just buried it.
‘I did it to grow mushrooms,’ he told me. ‘There’s no better way of growing mushrooms.’
‘Brady,’ I said to him, ‘you’re a complete idiot. You have ruined my car.’
Since my car was indeed completely out of action, I was obliged to hire a horse and cart.
When I arrived at the palace, I was told by an impassive servant, dressed in red and gold, ‘The queen went mad yesterday. She’s in her bath.’
‘How terrible,’ I exclaimed. ‘How did it happen?’
‘It’s the heat.’
‘May I see her all the same?’ I didn’t like the idea of my long journey being wasted.
‘Yes,’ the servant replied. ‘You may see her anyway.’
We passed down corridors decorated in imitation marble, admirably done, through rooms with Greek bas-reliefs and Medici ceilings and wax fruit everywhere.
The queen was in her bath when I went in; I noticed that she was bathing in goat’s milk.
‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘You see I use only live sponges. It’s healthier.’
The sponges were swimming about all over the place in the milk, and she had trouble catching them. A servant, armed with long-handled tongs, helped her from time to time.
‘I’ll soon be through with my bath,’ the queen said. ‘I have a proposal to put to you. I would like you to see the government instead of me today, I’m too tired myself. They’re all idiots, so you won’t find it difficult.’
‘All right,’ I said.
The government chamber was at the other end of the palace. The ministers were sitting at a long and very shiny table.
As the representative of the queen, I sat in the seat at the end. The prime minister rose and struck the table with a gavel. The table broke in two. Some servants came in with another table. The prime minister swapped the first gavel for another, made of rubber. He struck the table again and began to speak. ‘Madam Deputy of the queen, ministers, friends. Our dearly beloved sovereign went mad yesterday, and so we need another. But first we must assassinate the old queen.’
The ministers murmured amongst themselves for a while. Presently, the oldest minister rose to his feet and addressed the assembly. ‘That being the case, we must forthwith make a plan. Not only must we make a plan, but we must come to a decision. We must choose who is to be the assassin.’
All hands were immediately raised. I didn’t quite know what to do as the deputy of Her Majesty.
Perplexed, the prime minister looked over the company.
‘We can’t all do it!’ he said. ‘But I’ve a very good idea. We’ll play a game of draughts, and the winner has the right to assassinate the queen.’ He turned to me and asked, ‘Do you play, Miss?’
I was filled with embarrassment. I had no desire to assassinate the queen, and I foresaw that serious consequences might follow. On the other hand I had never been any good at all at draughts. So I saw no danger, and I accepted.
‘I don’t mind,’ I said.
‘So, it’s understood,’ said the prime minister. ‘This is what the winner will do: take the queen for a stroll in the Royal Menagerie. When you reach the lions (second cage on the left), push her in. I shall tell the keeper not to feed the lions until tomorrow.’
*
The queen called me to her office. She was watering the flowers woven in the carpet.
‘Well, did it go all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it went very we
ll,’ I answered, confused.
‘Would you like some soup?’
‘You’re too kind,’ I said.
‘It’s mock beef tea. I make it myself,’ the queen said. ‘There’s nothing in it but potatoes.’
While we were eating the broth, an orchestra played popular and classical tunes. The queen loved music to distraction.
The meal over, the queen left to have a rest. I for my part went to join in the game of draughts on the terrace. I was nervous, but I’ve inherited sporting instincts from my father. I had given my word to be there, and so there I would be.
The enormous terrace looked impressive. In front of the garden, darkened by the twilight and the cypress trees, the ministers were assembled. There were twenty little tables. Each had two chairs, with thin, fragile legs. When he saw me arrive, the prime minister called out, ‘Take your places,’ and everybody rushed to the tables and began to play ferociously.
We played all night without stopping. The only sounds that interrupted the game were an occasional furious bellow from one minister or another. Towards dawn, the blast of a trumpet abruptly called an end to the game. A voice, coming from I don’t know where, cried, ‘She has won. She’s the only person who didn’t cheat.’
I was rooted to the ground with horror.
‘Who? Me?’ I said.
‘Yes, you,’ the voice replied, and I noticed that it was the tallest cypress speaking.
I’m going to escape, I thought, and began to run in the direction of the avenue. But the cypress tore itself out of the earth by the roots, scattering dirt in all directions, and began to follow me. It’s so much larger than me, I thought and stopped. The cypress stopped too. All its branches were shaking horribly – it was probably quite a while since it had last run.
‘I accept,’ I said, and the cypress returned slowly to its hole.
*
I found the queen lying in her great bed.
‘I want to invite you to come for a stroll in the menagerie,’ I said, feeling pretty uncomfortable.
‘But it’s too early,’ she replied. ‘It isn’t five o’clock yet. I never get up before ten.’
‘It’s lovely out,’ I added.
‘Oh, all right, if you insist.’
We went down into the silent garden. Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves. I sang a bit to cheer myself up. I was chilled to the bone. The queen, in the meantime, was telling me that she fed all her horses on jam.
‘It stops them from being vicious,’ she said.
She ought to have given the lions some jam, I thought to myself.
A long avenue, lined on both sides with fruit trees, led to the menagerie. From time to time a heavy fruit fell to the ground, Plop.
‘Head colds are easily cured, if one just has the confidence,’ the queen said. ‘I myself always take beef morsels marinated in olive oil. I put them in my nose. Next day the cold’s gone. Or else, treated in the same way, cold noodles in liver juice, preferably calves’ liver. It’s a miracle how it dispels the heaviness in one’s head.’
She’ll never have a head cold again, I thought.
‘But bronchitis is more complicated. I nearly saved my poor husband from his last attack of bronchitis by knitting him a waistcoat. But it wasn’t altogether successful.’
We were drawing closer and closer to the menagerie. I could already hear the animals stirring in their morning slumbers. I would have liked to turn back, but I was afraid of the cypress and what it might be able to do with its hairy black branches. The more strongly I smelled the lion, the more loudly I sang, to give myself courage.
THE NEUTRAL MAN
Leonora Carrington
Leonora Carrington (1917–2011) was a British-born Mexican artist, surrealist painter and novelist. She lived most of her adult life in Mexico City and was one of the last surviving participants in the Surrealist movement of the 1930s. Carrington was also a founding member of the Women’s Liberation Movement in Mexico during the 1970s. Like her paintings, Carrington’s short stories – many of which are autobiographical – contain references to strange creatures and alchemical rituals, as well as revealing a sharp eye for human absurdity.
Although I’ve always promised myself to keep the secret regarding this episode, I’ve finished up, inevitably, by writing it down. However, since the reputations of certain well-known foreigners are involved, I’m obliged to use false names, though these constitute no real disguise: every reader who is familiar with the customs of the British in tropical countries will have no trouble recognising everyone involved.
I received an invitation asking me to come to a masked ball. Taken aback, I plastered my face thickly with electric-green phosphorescent ointment. On this foundation I scattered tiny imitation diamonds, so that I was dusted with stars like the night sky, nothing more.
Then, rather nervously, I got myself into a public vehicle which took me to the outskirts of the town, to General Epigastro Square. A splendid equestrian monument of this illustrious soldier dominated the square. The artist who had been able to resolve the peculiar problem posed by this monument had embraced a courageously archaic simplicity, limiting himself to a wonderful portrait in the form of the head of the general’s horse: the Generalissimo Don Epigastro himself remains sufficiently engraved in the imagination of his devoted public.
Mr MacFrolick’s mansion occupied the entire west side of General Epigastro Square. An Indian servant took me to a large reception room in the baroque style. I found myself among a hundred or so guests. The rather charged atmosphere made me realise, in the end, that I was the only person who’d taken the invitation seriously: I was the only guest in disguise.
‘It was no doubt your cunning intention,’ said the master of the house, Mr MacFrolick, to me, ‘to impersonate a certain princess of Tibet, mistress of the king, who was dominated by the sombre rituals of the Bön, rituals fortunately now lost in the furthest recesses of time. I would hesitate to relate, in the presence of ladies, the appalling exploits of the Green Princess. Enough to say that she died in mysterious circumstances, circumstances around which various legends still circulate in the Far East. Some claim that the corpse was carried off by bees, and that they have preserved it to this day in the transparent honey of the Flowers of Venus. Others say that the painted coffin did not contain the princess at all, but the corpse of a crane with the face of a woman; yet others maintain that the princess comes back in the shape of a sow.’
Mr MacFrolick stopped abruptly and looked at me hard and with a severe expression. ‘I shan’t say more, Madam,’ he said, ‘since we are Catholics.’
Confused, I abandoned all explanation and hung my head; my feet were bathed in the rain of cold sweat that fell from my forehead. Mr MacFrolick looked at me with a lifeless expression. He had little bluish eyes and a thick, heavy, snub nose. It was difficult not to notice that this very distinguished man, devout and of impeccable morality, was the human picture of a big white pig. An enormous moustache hung over his fleshy, rather receding chin. Yes, MacFrolick resembled a pig, but a beautiful pig, a devout and distinguished pig. As these dangerous thoughts passed beneath my green face, a young man of Celtic appearance took me by the hand and said, ‘Come, dear lady, don’t torment yourself. We all inevitably show a resemblance to other species of animals. I’m sure you are aware of your own equine appearance. So… don’t torment yourself, everything on our planet is pretty mixed up. Do you know Mr D?’
‘No,’ I said, very confused. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘D is here this evening,’ the young man continued. ‘He is a Magus, and I am his pupil. Look, there he is, near that big blonde dressed in purple satin. Do you see him?’
I saw a man of such neutral appearance that he struck me like a salmon with the head of a sphinx in the middle of a railway station. The extraordinary neutrality of this individual gave me such a disagreeable impression that I staggered to a chair.
�
��Would you like to meet D?’ the young man asked. ‘He is a very remarkable man.’
I was just going to reply when a woman dressed in pale blue taffeta, who wore a very hard expression, took me by the shoulder and pushed me straight into the gaming room.
‘We need a fourth for bridge,’ she told me. ‘You play bridge, of course.’ I didn’t at all know how, but kept quiet out of panic. I would have liked to leave, but was too timid, so much so that I began to explain that I could only play with felt cards, because of an allergy in the little finger of my left hand. Outside, the orchestra was playing a waltz which I loathed so much I didn’t have the courage to say that I was hungry. A high ecclesiastical dignitary, who sat on my right, drew a pork chop from inside his rich, crimson cummerbund.
‘Take it, my daughter,’ he said to me. ‘Charity pours forth mercy equally on cats, the poor and women with green faces.’
The chop, which had undoubtedly spent a very long time near the ecclesiastic’s stomach, didn’t appeal to me, but I took it, intending to bury it in the garden.
When I took the chop outside, I found myself in the darkness, weakly lit by the planet Venus. I was walking near the stagnant basin of a fountain full of stupefied bees, when I found myself face to face with the magician, the neutral man.
‘So you’re going for a walk,’ he said in a very contemptuous tone. ‘It’s always the same with the expatriate English, bored to death.’
Full of shame, I admitted that I too was English, and the man gave a little sarcastic laugh.
‘It’s hardly your fault that you’re English,’ he said. ‘The congenital stupidity of the inhabitants of the British Isles is so embedded in their blood that they themselves aren’t conscious of it anymore. The spiritual maladies of the English have become flesh, or rather pork brawn.’
Vaguely irritated, I replied that it rained a great deal in England, but that the country had bred the greatest poets in the world. Then, to change the subject: ‘I’ve just made the acquaintance of one of your pupils. He told me that you are a magician.’
‘Actually,’ said the neutral man, ‘I’m an instructor in spiritual matters, an initiate if you like. But that poor boy will never get anywhere. You must know, my dear lady, that the esoteric path is hard, bristling with catastrophes. Many are called, few are chosen. I would advise you to confine yourself to your charming female nonsense and forget everything of a superior order.’
