The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)
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He played lion-music, and he sang. He sang without words, sang only with the modulations of his voice rising and falling, light and dark in the dry wind, in the sunlit desert under the ground in the great city.
Beyond the footsteps, beyond the trains and echoes he heard a roar that flooded the corridors like a great river of lion-colored sound. He heard the lion.
The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)
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No lion. Nothing. A faint smell of hot sun, dry wind. The green lawn darkening, empty in the twilight. Ha ha, said the twilight. Fading, fading.
Jachin-Boaz stood on the empty lawn with his fists clenched. I might have known, he thought. I was there, I was ready, high on a great cresting wave. Gone. The chance missed. He’s gone. I won’t see him again.
He went slowly back inside. The men who had laughed by the door looked at him warily from a distance.
“How’re we feeling?â€� said one of the male nurses, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. “We’re not going to be acting up any more this evening, are we? We don’t want to be plugged into the wall, do we? Because a little E.C.T.-time is just the ticket for smoothing out the wrinkles in our brow and settling us down nicely.â€�
“Feeling fine,â€� said Jachin-Boaz. “No more acting up. All settled down. Don’t know why I made such a fuss.â€�
“Lovely,â€� said the nurse,’ squeezing the back of Jachin-Boaz’s neck. “Good boy.â€�
Jachin-Boaz walked slowly back to his bed, sat down. “What’s E.C.T.?â€� he asked the letter writer.
“Electro-convulsion therapy. Shock treatment. It’s lovely. From time to time when the faces get too many for me I act up and they let me have it. Ever so soothing.â€�
“You like it?� said Jachin-Boaz.
“Can’t really afford any other kind of a holiday, you know,â€� said the letter writer. “It scrambles the brain nicely. One forgets a good deal. Sometimes it takes months for everything to come back. Everyone ought to have a portable E.C.T. box, like a transistor radio. It isn’t fair to leave a chap all alone and unprotected at the mercy of a brain. Brains don’t care about you, you know. They do just as they like, and there you are.â€�
“Transistor, transbrothers, transfathers, transmothers,â€� said the tightly furled man. “Real rock. Groovy. ‘No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.’ Sometimes there’s nothing but Sundays for weeks on end. Why can’t they move Sunday to the middle of the week so you could put it in the OUT tray on your desk? No. Bloody bastards. Let the shadow cabinet work on that for a while, and the substance cabinet too. Man is a product of his Sundays. Don’t talk to me about heredity. Darwin went to the Galapagos to get away from the Sunday drive with his parents. Mendel pea’d. Everybody tells a boy about sex but nobody tells him the facts of Sunday. Home is where the heart is, that’s why pubs stay in business. Forgive us our Sundays as we forgive those who Sunday against us. Parent or child, no difference. Lend me a Monday, for Christ’s sake.â€� He began to cry.
“Today isn’t Sunday,â€� said Jachin-Boaz.
“Yes it is,â€� said the tightly furled man. “It’s always Sunday. That’s why business was invented — to give people offices to hide in five days a week. Give us a seven-day week, I say. It’s getting worse all the time. Inhuman bastards. Where’d your lion go?â€�
“Away,â€� said Jachin-Boaz. “He won’t come back. He only shows up on weekdays, and it’s always Sunday here.â€� He smiled cruelly, and the tightly furled man cried harder and burrowed into the blankets and covered up his head.
There would be no more lion for him here, Jachin-Boaz knew. The great cresting wave of rage had not been honestly earned, had been artificially forced up in him by the sly teasing of those who had no lion of their own. He would have to be good, be quiet, muffle his terror and wait for his rage until he was out of here. He would have to hide the clanging in him when it came again, would have to wear his terror like quiet gray prison garb, let everything flow through him indifferently.
From that time on his walk became like that of many other patients. Even when wearing shoes he seemed to go barefoot, ungirded, disarmed. The smell of cooking sang defeat. He nodded, humbled.
“How’s it ticking?â€� said the doctor when his feet brought him around to Jachin-Boaz again.
“Very well, thank you,� said Jachin-Boaz. From now on he would remember to answer as if the doctor were speaking real words.
“Tockly,â€� said the doctor. “I told you ticks would tock themselves out, didn’t I?â€�
“Indeed you did,� said Jachin-Boaz. “And you were right.�
“Someticks all it tocks is a little tick,� said the doctor. “My tockness, ticks get to be too tock for all of us someticks.�
“They do,� said Jachin-Boaz.
“Tick,â€� said the doctor. “That’s when a good tock and some tick and tocket will tick tockers, and then a fellow can tick himtock toticker.â€�
“Right,� said Jachin-Boaz. “Peace and quiet will work wonders, and I am pulling myself together.�
“That’s the ticket,â€� said the doctor. “We’ll tick you out of tock in no tick.â€�
“The sooner the better,� said Jachin-Boaz.
“What’s all this about lions then?â€� said the doctor with every word clear and distinct.
“Who said anything about lions?� said Jachin-Boaz.
“It’s difficult to have any secrets in a place like this,â€� said the doctor. “Word gets around pretty quickly.â€�
“I may very well have said something about a lion at one time or another,â€� said Jachin-Boaz. “But if I did I was speaking metaphorically. It’s very easy to be misunderstood, you know. Especially in a place like this.â€�
“Quite,� said the doctor. “Nothing easier. But what about the bites and the claw-marks?�
“Well,â€� said Jachin-Boaz, “everyone’s entitled to his own sex life, I think. Some people fancy black rubber clothes. Consenting adults and all that is how I feel about it.â€�
“Quite,â€� said the doctor. “The thing is to keep it in the privacy of one’s own home, you know. I’m as modern as anyone else, but it’s got to be kept off the streets.â€�
“You’re right of course,â€� said Jachin-Boaz. “Things get out of hand sometimes.â€�
“But the claw-marks and the bites,â€� said the doctor. “They certainly weren’t made by any human partner.â€�
“Animal skins,â€� said Jachin-Boaz, “can be got with claws and teeth, you know. It’s been disposed of since. Really, I’m terribly ashamed of the whole thing. I just want to get back to my job and settle down to a normal life again.â€�
“Good,â€� said the doctor. “That’s the way to talk. It won’t be long now.â€�
Gretel came to visit Jachin-Boaz. He had scarcely thought of her since being admitted to the hospital and would have preferred not to have to think about her just now. He was amazed at how young and pretty she was. My woman, he thought. How did it happen? It’s dangerous to have balls but there’s something nice about it.
“They’re letting me out tomorrow,â€� she said.
“What did you tell them?� said Jachin-Boaz.
“I said that it was all sex. You know how it is with us hot-blooded foreigners. I said that I thought you were running around with other women and that my jealousy had driven me wild and that somehow I found myself in the street with a knife in my hand.�
“And they’re willing to let you go?â€�
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bsp; “Well, I said that I mightn’t have been so upset ordinarily, but being pregnant as I was it was all too much for me. And the doctor said oh well, of course, poor dear and unwed mother and all that. And the doctor said what about the father, and I said not to worry, that everything was all right but we couldn’t get married until you had a divorce. And he patted my hand and wished me all the best and said he hoped I’d not be going about with knives any more and I said certainly not and they’re letting me out tomorrow.â€�
“That was a very good touch, the pregnancy,� said Jachin-Boaz.
“Yes,� said Gretel. “It was. I am.�
“Am what?�
“Pregnant.�
“Pregnant,� said Jachin-Boaz.
“That’s right. I was two weeks overdue and had a test just before coming to the loony bin. I never found an opportune moment to tell you about it the day they brought us in. Are you happy about it?â€�
“Good God,� said Jachin-Boaz. “Another son.�
“It could also be a girl.�
“I doubt it. With me it’ll always be fathers and sons, I think.â€�
“What I said about getting married, you know, was just for the doctor. I don’t care about that.â€�
“It’s something we have to think about, I guess,â€� said Jachin-Boaz.
“We don’t have to think about it right now, anyhow,â€� said Gretel. “How do you feel about being a father again?â€�
“I’m happy about the baby,â€� said Jachin-Boaz. “I don’t know how I feel about being a father again. I don’t know how I feel about being a father even once, let alone twice.â€�
“It’ll be all right, whatever happens,â€� said Gretel. “A mighty fortress is our something.â€�
“What do you mean, whatever happens?�
“If you leave me. Or if the lion …â€�
“Do you think I’ll leave you?â€�
“I never know. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll love you anyhow, and so will the baby. I’ll tell him about his father, and he’ll love you too.â€�
“Do you think the lion will kill me?�
“Do you want the lion to kill you?�
Jachin-Boaz looked at Gretel without answering.
“What is there to say about a lion?� she said. “There are no lions any more, but my man has a lion. The father of my child has a lion.�
Jachin-Boaz nodded his head.
“Maybe,â€� said Gretel, “if you go out to meet it again …â€�
“I’ll tell you,â€� said Jachin-Boaz.
“All right,â€� said Gretel. “When I get home I’ll do some house-cleaning so the flat can welcome you properly. You’ll be out soon, I should think. I shan’t come to visit unless you ring me up. You have a lot to think about.â€�
“I do,â€� said Jachin-Boaz. He kissed her. My woman, he thought. The mother of my child. I’m an unwed father, and my heart may stop beating at any moment.
The owner of the bookshop came to visit Jachin-Boaz again. “You’re getting to be quite popular,â€� he said, and showed him an advertisement in the book trade weekly:
Jachin-Boaz, please contact Boaz-Jachin.
A telephone number and box number were given. Jachin-Boaz wrote them down.
“Jachin-Boaz, please contact yourself turned around,� said the bookshop owner. “An odd message.�
“What do you mean, myself turned around?� said Jachin-Boaz.
“The names,� said the bookshop owner. “Jachin-Boaz, Boaz-Jachin.�
“My son,â€� said Jachin-Boaz. “He’s not me turned around. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know him very well.â€�
“Who can know anybody?â€� said the bookshop owner. “Every person is like thousands of books. New, reprinting, in stock, out of stock, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, rubbish. The lot. Different every day. One’s lucky to be able to put his hand on the one that’s wanted, let alone know it.â€�
Jachin-Boaz watched the bookshop owner walk out of the hospital looking modestly carefree and comfortable, tried to remember when he had last felt easy in his mind. Soon I’ll be out of stock, he thought. All the books that I am. And out of print too, for good. Leaving a new son behind. No way back. A wave of terror flooded his being. No, no, no. Yes. No way back. Goddam her. Goddam both of them — the one he had left and the one who now stood between him and the one he had left. No going back. He didn’t want to be a father again. He wasn’t yet finished with being a son, and here was the last moment coming closer with every beat of his heart, that beating that he was aware of most of the time now. His heart and all the other organs in his tired body, no rest for forty-seven years. And the imminent final rest intolerable to think of. The last moment will be now, she had written.
He tried to find hiding places from the terror in his mind so that the letter writer and the tightly furled man would not complain of his clanging, and he avoided anyone else’s company. He availed himself of as many tranquillizers as the nurses would give him, slept as much as possible, entertained himself with sex fantasies, sang songs mentally. The song that became habitual had only one word: lion. Lion, lion, lion, sang his mind to dance rhythms, battle tunes, lullabies.
He did not write to Boaz-Jachin or call him on the telephone. When the doctor made his rounds Jachin-Boaz spoke reasonably and cheerfully, said that the rest had done him good and that he was eager to get on with his life.
“Toddy,â€� said the doctor. “There’s a world of tickerence between the way you tock now and the way you ticked before, eh?â€�
“Yes, indeed,� said Jachin-Boaz.
“New ticksponsibilities coming up now, eh?â€� said the doctor. “Tockspectant father, I hear. Best of tock, you know. Smashing young tickly you’ve got there. Saw her before she left.â€�
“Thank you,� said Jachin-Boaz.
“No more tockolence, I hope,â€� said the doctor. “Won’t do, you know, in her tickition.â€�
“Good heavens, no,� said Jachin-Boaz.
“Good boy,â€� said the doctor, gripping Jachin-Boaz’s shoulder hard. “That’s the ticket.â€�
At the end of his third week in the hospital Jachin-Boaz was discharged. He watched his feet as he walked through the corridors to the front door, careful to walk like a man wearing shoes.
As he was going out he met the doctor who had treated his wounds coming in with a police constable, a social worker and a male nurse all gripping him firmly.
“Bloody wogs defiling our women,� said the doctor. “Atheists, cultists, sexual deviants, radicals, intellectuals.�
“Cheerio,â€� said the nurse when he saw Jachin-Boaz. “All the best, and don’t come back too soon.â€�
“What’s wrong with the doctor?â€� said Jachin-Boaz.
“Went for his wife with a poker,â€� said the nurse. “She said it was the first time he’d touched her with anything stiff for a long time.â€�
“Whore,â€� said the doctor. “She’s a whore.â€� He stared at Jachin-Boaz. “He’s got a lion,â€� he said, “and nobody does anything about it. The authorities turn a blind eye. See him smile. He’s got a lion.â€�
The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)
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When Boaz-Jachin heard the roar it came to him that there was in the world only one place. That place was time. The lion was in it and he was in it. He knew now that he must have known it when he shouted into the darkness and the ferry’s white wake spreading astern. He must have known it always, from the time he had first seen the frowning face of the dyi
ng lion biting the wheel. He had made his feeble attempt at maintaining the fiction of ordinary reality, had placed the advertisement in the trade weekly. But it was towards the lion that he had been moving the emptiness in him these many miles. And it was the lion’s call that he had waited for here in this city.
He put his guitar in the case, picked it up, and walked in the direction of the sound, listening past the footsteps, voices, trains and echoes. Again the roar. It came from a particular direction and seemed to be in him at the same time. No one else seemed to hear it, no one paused to listen or to look at him as if the sound were emanating from him. Listening and seeing nothing he followed through the corridors, up the stairway and the escalator to the street, smelling hot sun, dry wind and the tawny plains.
Past the traffic, past the buses, lorries, cars, footsteps, voices, airplanes overhead, boats on the river he listened, walking slowly. Everything that is lost is found again, he thought. The father must live so that the father can die. In him were all the faces, all the voices since he had first looked at the motionless stone in which the dying lion bit the wheel, all the skies and days, the ocean that had brought him to the time in which the lion was and he was. He walked, and in his mind he sang his wordless song.
West he followed the roar, seeing nothing, and south towards the river and its bridges. Found again, lost again, he thought. The father must live. Time flowed through him. Being was. Balanced he flowed with time and being, following the lion, his face cleaving the air, his mind singing wordlessly.
Alone among those he walked with on the streets he listened to the roar that led him on, came to the embankment. Spanned by its bridges the river flowed beneath the sky. Boaz-Jachin did not hear the roaring again. He sat down on a bench facing the river, took out his guitar and played lion-music softly.
The day faded, the moon appeared in the sky and in the river. Boaz-Jachin played his guitar, waiting.
The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russell Hoban(1973)