The new chambers were larger than the old, but dark and Close-ceilinged. There was a tiny mildewed hearth area along with a Bed and ottoman. And a hooked rug with patches missing—a sad archipelago of wool.
Quickly they were back in the coach and Bess said, “Drury Lane, please,” to the driver, and the horses jolted forward, while, back in the compartment, Jack and Bess fell over each other again, scrambling to get their hands on anything of each other’s that they could, panting in joy.
*1 Knowing
*2 Private parts
*3 Thank God I don’t have to field a question from Sullivan now.
*4 Narrator declines to give further details. To my mind, further evidence of document’s authenticity.
I will say, however, that this is a quite unique instance of figurative language. In eighteenth-century pornography, evasion or metaphor in this manner is uncharacteristic.
See, for example, John Cleland, Fanny Hill: “Her fat brawny thighs hung down, and the whole greasy landscape lay open to my view.” Or, “For the first time did I feel that horn-hard gristle battering against the tender part.” Euphemism there may be in Fanny Hill, but not the teasing aestheticizations of figurative language.
*5 Now, this interests me quite a bit.
The figurative constellation of genitals and wolves comprises (some might argue) one of the defining erotic constellations of Western modernity.
—A topic on which, incidentally, I have been accused of obsessing!—
Forgive me this fixation, but who could dispute that the description of genitalia as a “wolf” brings to mind Freud’s famous “Wolf Man” case (some artistic license taken here):
Russian aristocrat Sergei Pankejeff: I wake with nightmares. There are wolves sitting in the tree outside my window.
Freud: Naturally, those wolves are your father, your castrating hateful father. He wants to come inside, bite off your dick and run into the woods with it, then he’ll go fuck your mother.
According to Freud, the dream recalls an event from Sergei’s childhood, when, in a spell of summer flu, he woke from a nap in his parents’ room and saw his father giving it to his mother. The primal scene.
The array of feelings this occasioned in him—jealousy, desire, etc.—inaugurated a desire to get fucked by his father accompanied by the simultaneous realization that to have that he’d need to be castrated like his mother. The ensuing anxiety takes shape as the wolf-nightmare.
But the real interest comes later. Circa 1968.
At which point Deleuze and Guattari were like: fuck Freud; genitals aren’t about parents. They’re about enclosure and privatization. Let me put this in terms appropriate to the eighteenth century. Just like you can’t pick up a wilty, shit-coated carrot from the burbling sewer and eat it, because the sewer is regulated by the city and the Nightsoil Concern—well, for Deleuze and Guattari your genitals are enclosed as well. Except instead of anti-vagrancy laws, your genitals are enclosed (and privatized) through the institution of the family and also through psychoanalysis, which insists that all your anxieties have to be traced back to Oedipus and how much you hate your father and want to sleep with your mother. Or how much you want to get fucked by your father in the style of your mother, etc.
Basically Deleuze and Guattari are formulating an anticapitalist theory of genital vagrancy.
And so they reimagine the scene of the Wolf-Man’s analysis as such:
Pankejeff: I wake with nightmares. There are wolves sitting in the tree outside my window.
Deleuze and Guattari: Look, you Russian aristocratic fuck, those wolves are the Bolsheviks, those wolves are the multitudes, those wolves represent all the terror and the possibility of the social world, the common folk who are waiting outside your window to extinctify you and your kind. And for this reason not every nightmare you have is about Mommy and Daddy and all that same shit all the time.
Do you know what else Deleuze and Guattari said? This is actually relevant, because it’s a non-Oedipal theory of fucking. They said,
“[W]henever someone makes love, really makes love, that person constitutes a body without organs, alone and with the other person or people. A body without organs is not an empty body stripped of organs, but a body upon which that which serves as organs [wolves, wolf eyes, wolf jaws?] is distributed according to crowd phenomena, in Brownian motion, in the form of molecular multiplicities.”
Don’t be perplexed by the weirdness of these claims. It’s just that making love is not really about getting your organs serviced. Rather, when you’re making love, the organs that have been forced into this Oedipal narrative get rearranged. Rewritten. Sort of liberated (there’s some debate around how liberated; just bracket that for now). And that rewriting—that’s making love. Actually, it’s kind of like the epigraph to this manuscript—“Love’s mysteries in souls do grow, / But yet the body is his book.” The body is written (like a book is written)—or rewritten—in the process of making love. I mean, if you’re “really” making love.
*6 Mercifully, in the absence of Sullivan’s pestering, I am in a position to decline to estimate how far inside her he is. Anyone who really wants to know these specifics has clearly never made love.
12.
The Tower Menagerie—a small, cramped enclave—a corner of greasy shadows and sharp, explicit odors—sat at the far base of the Tower Wall. Here had been established a wretched but profitable Enterprise for the once-yearly entertainment and diversion of the Common mobs of London.
At the end of an impatient line sat the barker; beyond him, animals squawled and brayed, kicking up dust in their pens. Children splashed their hands at the water’s edge, slapping at the Thames, spraying each other with muck.
An anxious aristocrat bustled quickly past the line, several children in tow.
“This ’s a horrific carnival to entertain the city’s most despicable rabble. Don’t gaze upon it,” he announc’d to his too-handsomely attired children, orbiting him like Expressionless, gas-filled balloons.
Beyond all this sound was another sound. The secret Braying of the animal-commodities. Hideous contorted wails floated over the Menagerie: Was we born or was we made? Shrill squawks, and, again, Was we born or was we made? Then a jowly roar: We was born-made, born-made. And next, miserable ghoulish Sobbing.
Jack was fighting the urge to break every lock and cage open when the barker’s shout—“Come one, come all!”—shook him back into focus.
Jack shudder’d in his coat. The quicker they could case the Menagerie, the better. Centinels were beginning to fill the streets on their night shifts, sleepy, sour-faced, and eager to crack skulls.
“Twelve p, mate,” snapped the barker as they made their way to the front.
“S-since when?”
The Tower Guard shrugg’d. “Admission’s more for grungy snabblers*1 and lascars.”
Jack peek’d ’round the Guard’s shoulder at the coves and doxies perambulating the cages bunched together at the edge of the Thames. A knot of rogues congregated by a miserable white-haired Sea-Bear slumped on the ground with its paws wedged under the floor of the cage, reaching for the filthy shore.
“The whole Mob is grungy snabblers,” Jack grumbl’d.
“Thieves they may be, but them’s thieves of the better sort.” The barker nodded at the Sea-Bear’s group.
“Wild’s crew,” Bess mutter’d. Then, to the barker—“You’ve barely got twelve animals in there as it is— Unless you count your better sort of thieves.”
Jack scann’d the wharf, marking escape routes.
“Twelve animals it may be”—the barker rais’d his voice to advertise to the crowd—“but they’re twelve of the finest. We’ve three lions, one panther, two tigers, an eagle, a Turkish hawk, two leopards, and that Sea-Bear—lately brought from the King’s expeditionary team in Greenland. In additio
n, we’ve a Lion-Man—a beast never before seen on England’s shores. Very intelligent animal. Well worth your pence.”
Bess produced twelvepence, and they entered, though they hung at the edges, out of sight of Wild’s gang.
Jack took long stock of the infernal Conditions of the eagle, fasten’d by leather thongs to a beam. It recall’d Kneebone’s to him—his flight from servitude—and he wished the same for the bird. To break headfirst through the iron bars of the cage, taking to the sky in an angled, lurching Arc.
Wild’s gang rumbled down to the farthest cage in the Menagerie, the Lion-Man’s cage. Knit tight-in with their heads down, conferring. Jack and Bess veer’d the opposite direction around the other cages, with each creature looking more pathetic than the last. The Tigers scuffed at the dirt with gangrenous paws. The Lions had scabby patches of fur missing. The Turkish Hawk was more mite-gnawed than feather’d.
“Jack.” Bess shook his shoulder. “Wild’s gang’s leaving.”
The Lion-Man was a despondent creature. As Jack and Bess clos’d in, it was clear he was a burly human with fur coming unglued from his forearms*2 and down the sides of his pale, naked ribs. He sat, silently, on a tree stump, his legs splayed beneath the bursting Globe of his gut. Other than a largish forehead, which lent a ghoulish Aspect, he appear’d quite ordinary.
“Well, he’s just a gumm’d-up rogue.”*3
The Lion-Man sat wordlessly, regarding his own knees. Jack wondered whether the man had lost the power of speech—if he too suffered from language snared in the hot tunnel between mouth and lung.
“This one is very intelligent.” The Keeper appear’d from a hut behind the cages, gray hair flying, and a distinct penumbra of gin hov’ring about his person. At the sight of the Keeper, the Lion-Man trundled back to a dark corner of the cage.
“He’s of the group Anthropomorpha, as outlin’d in Ray’s Synopsis methodica animalium quadrupedum. A face wrinkled as if with old age; huge, broad, yellow teeth; nail-bearing, clawed hands and feet; hollowed eyes; long hairs upon the brows; and a body as big in circumference as a man’s (though, I should add, near three times as strong)—”
“We’re not interest’d in your classifications—” began Jack.
“However,” the Keeper continu’d, oblivious with gin, “that particular ape, as well you should know, was described by Ray as without rationale, or Reason.”
“Threepence to allow us to discourse with him privately—?” Bess pressed the coin into the Keeper’s palm.
The Keeper cough’d—inspected his palm—“Ah! Good night sir, Madam”—and stumbl’d drunkenly back towards the hut.
The Lion-Man re-emerged from the shadowed corner of the cage.
“We must speak to you,” said Bess, “rogue to rogue.”
“We’ll free you!” blurted Jack.
The Lion-Man heav’d a sigh, and out rang a voice quite English and cultured.
“In a Menagerie surrounded by all the King’s Guard?”
“I’m Sheppard, you know.”
“Even Sheppard, I’m afraid, would be unable.” He squint’d at Bess. “Madam, if you would be so kind as to provide me with a dram from the flask I can so plainly see you’ve left peeking from your waistcoat, I would happily indulge you in all Manner of rogue-to-rogue discourse as would satisfy your curiosity.”
Bess reached for her flask while the Lion-Man produced a battered tin cup from the ground. She unscrew’d the top, poured into the outstretched vessel, and return’d the flask to her side pocket. Arranged herself on the tuffet where Wild had been. Jack leaned against the bars at Bess’s side. A brisk wind came off the Thames.
“Sir, we very much appreciate you taking the time. We haven’t much, so I’ll go right to the point. We’ve been appris’d of your existence by this”—she produced Evans’ note from her cloak pocket and pass’d it to him—“this Note. It seems both you and we are Connect’d in our acquaintanceship with a J. Evans. And perhaps with certain of his…experiments?”
“We’re immensely eager to know more,” added Jack.
The Lion-Man paced and sipp’d. He turn’d the paper over in his hands—commenced to sit again on the stump at the edge of the bars.
“I am advertised by the Menagerie,” he began oratorically, “as one of the group Homo troglodytes—the Keeper was wrong in his introductions. Of course, none of these so-called species exist. But he was wrong, even, in his fictions. The Menagerie has painted me as one of the nocturnal cave-dwelling apes postulat’d to inhabit the inner regions of the Pulau Seribu islands off Nusantara (or ‘Jayakarta,’ as they call it) but never before seen by Englishmen until a contingent from the East India Company discovered me in the course of a trading Mission to the region.
“None of this, of course, is true.” He rearrang’d himself on the stump, crossing one hairy leg over the other. “In any case, to answer your question: Have you yet heard of Kojo Bekoe Okoh?”
Bess shook her head.
“To explain Evans, I have to start with Okoh.”
*1 Plunderers, thieves
*2 Likely horse glue, England’s barbaric contribution to the otherwise gentle history of adhesives (e.g., birch, sap).
*3 The terrible history of human zoos is not a secret to anyone. Although this text departs from the usual history in one significant detail: the Lion-Man appears to be Anglo.
13.
“Kojo Bekoe Okoh”—the Lion-Man clear’d his throat and sat forward—“was born near Akim in 1699, and captured by the Royal African Company at the age of seventeen with the intention of sending him aboard the Temperance, bound for the West Indies. Possessed of a brilliant mind and a Disdain for authority, Okoh glimps’d an opportunity to evade this dreadful Outcome during a delay at port: the Temperance had met with extremely inclement Weather en route from Liverpool, and in the hectic Activity of repairing its hull for departure, Okoh escaped his bondage and fled as a hired sailor on a Mughal trading ship en route to Portugal. Just off the Azores, however, the ship ran aground. Only Okoh surviv’d, through canny manipulation of a piece of board and considerable navigational Sensibilities. He took shelter in the Isles ’til he was accosted there by a British East India Party and—it being ascertain’d that he was a skillful seaman—press’d into labor on a Vessel call’d the Katherine, under the direction of Captain John Hunter—a notoriously rough man, dislik’d by most of his crew.
“Young Okoh made several trading journeys under Hunter, quickly proving himself to be a Favorite among the more independent-minded of the crew, particularly those who were most dissatisfied with Hunter’s exhausting searches for each journey’s utmost profit. On one such journey—the crew Overwork’d and beginning to grumble of mutiny belowdecks—Hunter determined to extend the planned voyage, overshooting the Katherine’s original destination to Bombay on the rumor of an unclaimed quantity of muslin at the port of Masulipatnam. When the Katherine reached port, however, the muslin—and indeed, the East India Company factor—were nowhere in sight. The entire port was quiet. This ought to have been Hunter’s clue to turn the ship about. And yet, his greed, etc.
“Hunter sent out a search party of two to explore further inland. There, in the fountains of the market courtyard, the Emissaries were accost’d by a crowd of European female pirates who—having slain the East India Company factor and all his agents—demanded the Emissaries swear Allegiance to piracy or be murder’d as well. One swore Allegiance. One did not. The pirate crew (along with the one consenting Emissary) thence return’d to the Katherine, where they discover’d the higher-ranking officers laying about sous’d and sun-puffed on the deck. These they quickly overtook with Surprise. Some were dispatch’d with knives to the throat. Others scrambled for Safety. In the wretched, dingy lower hold, to which the African and lascar sailors were consign’d, Okoh and his comrades heard the Commotion. The moment of mutiny had at last come. They
organiz’d themselves into their own battalion.
“With nowhere to hide, the remaining officers fled from the pirates to the lower hold. Okoh was ready. Flanking the threshold, he and his comrades captured the crew when they burst through. They gave them the same option as the Emissaries had been given: pledge allegiance to the emerging band of mutineers, or be turned over to the pirates above deck. Few pledged. Many were killed.
“From thence, Okoh and his comrades flooded up to the deck and join’d with the pirates. There was much rejoicing.
“The Captain, oblivious, was alone in his quarters supping on roast sailfish and warm brandy (and undoubtedly boxing the Jesuit). Okoh and the mutineers storm’d Hunter’s chamber, where they easily overpowered him with Surprise, and tied him to his bedposts.
“Okoh may have wanted to kill Hunter outright, but he gave Hunter the opportunity to turn pirate with ’em. The Captain spat in Okoh’s face. He refused in the name of his holy God Commerce and the necessity of arriving to Bombay for his trading schemes. He was eager to return thence to Liverpool for his payment.
“Without further hesitation, the pirates cut off the Captain’s head and threw it to the fish.
“That night, the Katherine rais’d the skull and crossbones, and the new freebooter Society celebrated, regaling each other with Fantasies of living free of the East India Company. The lascar mates told stories of especially pleasant weather and calm waters in the sea north of the Masalembu islands.
“The crew sailed south. They came to be lost many times, but as Okoh was good with Constellations, he proved a capable Navigator. On their route, they encountered several British and Dutch Company ships. The pirates direct’d the mutineers in the particulars of ship-raiding, and they gain’d more comrades and supplies in this manner, leaving a slaw of bloodied Company faithfuls in their wake. Still, it was a long and hot journey. Not all of the freebooters survived, though the pirates try’d remedies to preserve as many as possible. Wormwood and sage added to cider to strengthen the constitution. Pastes of garlick with butter. Clove and fig for Wakefulness. They drank water with as much salt in it as they could bear. They ate sage moistened with vinegar in the mornings as breakfast, and chew’d wood sorrel to stave off hunger throughout the days.
Confessions of the Fox Page 22
