by James Meek
Look in your kitchen, said Jack.
Bettina went into the kitchen. It had been rearranged to incorporate several chest freezers with transparent lids, piled with frozen pre-prepared breakfasts, shrinkwrapped on trays, complete with disposable plates, cups, napkins and cutlery. In one of the freezers Bettina found a severed deer’s head, complete with antlers. She took it out and dropped it into the pedal bin. The antlers stuck out and stopped the lid from closing. She went back into the breakfast room. Jack was gone.
The snow, a couple of inches, was melting on the road as it got light and the car left sharp black tracks. The branches of the sycamores lining the road were outlined in sticky snow, notched with the thaw. Beyond the farm buildings at Mains of Steel there were no more trees. After the sign reading Museum of Doubt the road climbed into the hills, the temperature dropped and there were heavy drifts. Old Tullimandy came out of the farmhouse when Jack drove past. He shouted and waved his arms. Jack drove on. Tullimandy trotted across the yard to where there was a view of the road and saw a black square, the roof of Jack’s car, speeding through the four foot drifts. It reminded him of the doctor’s computer cartoon of how his blocked artery would be cleared and he felt a pain in his chest. He walked carefully back to the house. Just as well he’d signed up for Life.
The Museum of Doubt was a low whitewashed cottage on the bare hillside with two sash windows and a slate roof. The roof was the same colour as the rocks and scree that stuck out of the snow further up the hill. There were no trees, no walls and no fences. The house had no television aerial. Coal smoke came from the chimney and one of the windows shone with electric light. Jack stopped the car so that the bonnet and the windscreen poked out of the last big snowdrift at the top of the road. He opened the sunroof and climbed out of it. The sun came round the ridge and Jack put on a pair of sunglasses. He went up and knocked on the blue-painted wooden door, under a plastic nameplate which said: The Museum Of Doubt.
She was built like a boy who grows up by the river and has nothing else to do except swim in it. She was thin and fit without being powerful or muscular. Her white face and neck came up out of a Prussian blue sweater thick as a rug and she wore black jeans and old brown moccasins. She had straight copper-coloured hair, cut short neatly. Her eyes listened to what he said but her mouth was blind.
I want to give you a demonstration, he said, sliding his foot over the threshold, stroking the bottom of the door with the tip of his shoe.
Of what? she said, opening the door wide and standing with her hands resting on the doorframe.
Of what you need, he said.
I don’t know what I need.
Then I’ve come to the right place.
No no no, said the woman, shaking her head, keeping her hands against the doorframe, shifting her weight. I don’t mean: I know I need something but I don’t know what it is. I mean: I don’t know what I need, all the time. I’m incapable of knowing what I need, or whether I need anything. I’m not sure I do. It’s my condition.
Eh? said Jack.
My husband used to say that when I tried to explain. I used to ask him why he needed things. He’d say it wasn’t always a question of needing. He’d say, supposing the folk at the British Museum started saying Do we really need all these Egyptian mummies? And they’d say We may want them but I doubt we need them. So they’d throw them out. And then it’d be What do we want with these duelling pistols and snuffboxes and Etruscan vases? What’s the point? You could never be sure you needed any of it. And all you’d be left with would be empty galleries and you’d have to call it the Museum of Doubt.
Jack stared at her for a while, took off his glasses and showed his teeth in a smile. Jack, he said. I’m Jack.
You’re a salesman, said the woman.
That’s an ugly word, said Jack. Let’s forget about selling for a while. I’ll tell you what I’ve come about. Here’s what troubles me. The world is out of harmony. The equilibrium of the cosmos is disturbed. Look at this, now.
He took a set of bronze jeweller’s scales out of his jacket and dangled them in the air in front of the woman.
This is the universe, he said.
He burrowed in his trouser pocket. His fingers dropped two pieces of lead shot onto one scale and four pieces onto the other. The scales dipped.
You see, one side has more than it needs. It’s burdened down with possessions. The spirit is heavy. It’s falling. But the other side has a lack of material things, the possessions it needs to embrace the world. It’s flying away. It’s vanishing. It’s hardly there at all, there’s so little to it. There’s something missing, something it needs. Now watch carefully.
Jack lifted one of the pieces of shot and dropped it in the other pan. The snow deadened the chime. The scales teetered and levelled.
There, said Jack. Harmony. Is that not good? Is that not desirable? There should always be harmony. The side that has too much should always be giving to the side that has too little. Is that not right? The harmony is for ever. And this – he quickly swapped pieces of shot between the pans and waggled his fingers – this is a detail, a process. It could be a revolution. It could be a gift. It could be a sale. It’s over quickly.
I told you already, said the woman. I don’t need anything.
I can show you what you need, said Jack. I can see it. What we have here, between your house and the boot of my car, is a classic disbalance. You don’t have enough, and I’ve got so much. You wouldn’t want to be reponsible for violating cosmic harmony, would you?
No, said the woman. Here’s what I mean. She took the scales from him and tilted them so the shot fell into the snow at their feet. She held the scales up in front of his eyes. Look, she said. No goods. Perfect harmony. She handed the scales back, went inside and closed the door.
Jack laughed, turned and walked a few feet away from the house. He knelt to scoop up a handful of snow and kneaded it in his hand. It fizzed, crackled and steamed. He smeared it over his face and shook his head violently from side to side like a dog which has come out of the sea. He ran back to the house and rapped on the window with his knuckles.
Adela! he shouted. Let me see the museum! I want to buy a ticket!
The door opened and the woman stood in the doorway as before. Jack stepped away from the window.
How did you know my name? said Adela.
It was written on your genes, said Jack, unsteadily. He sounded drunk.
Adela looked down at her trousers.
In invisible … ink. Jack’s eyeballs had turned almost white and he was swaying.
Are you OK? said Adela, moving a pace towards him. His face had turned the same colour as the snow-covered hills behind his head.
Help me, said Jack, sinking to his knees. His body convulsed with coughing and drops of blood sprayed from his mouth. He fell forward onto the ground and twisted onto his back.
Adela went over and knelt beside him, chewing her lip. She pressed her head between her hands.
Cold, whispered Jack. Help me.
Adela took the shoulders of his jacket in her fists and dragged his body over the threshold of her house into the hall. She closed the door. Jack began to cough again. A spurt of blood came out of one corner of his mouth. His lips parted and what appeared to be a tonguetip made of horn appeared.
Huming imma hroat, said Jack. Pu-i-ou. He dry-retched and the horn jerked a little further out. Adela saw his tongue flapping hopelessly against it.
Adela reached down and tugged the piece of horn gently. It yielded. She pulled harder and the antler slid out of Jack’s mouth like the drumstick of an overcooked chicken, along with the attached deer’s head. Adela flinched and she dropped the head onto the floor. She took a step back, swung her leg and delivered all her force to the head through the toe of her moccasin. The head leaped from the hall, out through the doorway and into the sky, spinning into a mighty curve, the antlers humming as they scratched the air. She never heard it fall. She slammed the door shut and turned rou
nd. Jack was gone.
She found him standing in the kitchen holding a cardboard box. He wasn’t coughing any more and there was no more blood around his mouth. His face was dead of movement. He didn’t blink. His eyes were big, black and blank, liquid, without subtlety, like the deer’s.
You’re better, she said.
This is for you, he said, holding the box out towards her.
We’ve been there already, said Adela. There’s no need here.
I see need. I don’t see anything here except need, said Jack. Deep within his still face an expression stirred, like a big fish far below the surface of an old lake. He began to fold the box in on itself, punching in the lid, folding down the sides until it was flat, then folding it in half over and over again until it was small enough to put in his pocket. He smiled and spread his arms out wide. His fingers fluttered in space. Adela, you’re lovely, but somewhere along the way you’ve forgotten what life is about. An empty house like this one means an empty life.
No, said Adela. You have to leave.
Adela, said Jack. Listen to me, Adela. Maybe if I say it out loud it’ll start to sink in: you haven’t got a fridge.
The house had a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. It had five pieces of furniture: a sofabed, a chair, a cupboard, a kitchen table and a stool. There was one cup, one plate, one bowl, one knife, one fork, one spoon, and one pan. There was a two-ring gas cooker. There was a drawer of clothes, another of bedding, and five books. The walls and ceilings were bare white and the floor was covered in linoleum which’d been supposed to look like varnished wood when it was new.
There aren’t any prizes for living like this, said Jack.
Living like what?
A failure. You’re suffering from PRAS. Post-religious asceticism syndrome. You think that by not having any possessions your soul becomes purified and you become a saintly being, superior to people who buy glossy magazines and furniture and collect records. That’s great. That’s what Pol Pot thought. The truth is the consumers are the virtuous ones. They express their love for life and for each other and for humanity by buying. That’s how the world becomes a richer place, full of colours. The ones who go out and shop, they’re the real noble spirits of the universe. They understand how ugly their lives would be if they didn’t buy homes and fill them with wonderful goods. You’ve got to own things, Adela, as many things as possible. It’s not a question of being poor. The fewer things you own, the less human you are, and the harder it is for you or anyone else to understand whether you’ve got a life at all.
I wish you’d leave, said Adela.
Jack’s head lolled. He lurched forward and sideways, found the stool and sat down on it. He put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands.
I’m still not a hundred per cent, he said. Can you get me some tea?
I haven’t much tea left, said Adela.
Jack pushed the heels of his hands up into his cheekbones, looked at her from under his eyebrows and laughed, a tiny, wriggling, greedy laugh, like the body of a worm kinking through a salad. Then he sat up straight, folded his hands pentitently on his lap, found the laugh and killed it. He blinked, sniffed and pinched his nose.
I see, he said.
I’ve got enough for myself. I didn’t ask you to come in.
Yes, of course, said Jack. I’m sorry. It was selfish of me to ask. I’ve behaved badly today. You can’t forgive me, of course, I don’t expect you to. Please – give me a moment, and I’ll leave.
I didn’t––
Please. Don’t speak: it’s my fault: I provoked you. A minute to collect my thoughts.
They remained like that in the kitchen for a long time, Jack sitting upright on the stool with his hands on his lap, head inclined slightly, gazing at the skirting board, Adela standing watching him in the kitchen doorway, resting her weight on one leg, gently rubbing the tips of her thumbs and index fingers together. There was no sound: no birdsong, no music, no engine, no clockwork, no running water, no wind. When Jack began to cry, Adela heard the tears moving, a noise like dust slipping down a shallow slope of brass. Jack’s back bent and his shoulders shook and he clenched his praying hands between his thighs.
Don’t do this, said Adela softly.
Tears dripped from Jack’s jaw and he rocked to and fro. His voice came lost from a roofed-in maze inside him. All the years, it said. All the days. All the hours. When Adela heard the words a memory of a dream she had never had came into her mind. There was a statue of Jack in the desert, up to his calves in blowing sand. The statue was made of soft, porous stone, deeply scored by the wind and the rain. Jack’s face was slashed with parallel diagonal lines and pocked with air bubbles. His hands were outstretched, perhaps offering some gift, but the gift had long since worn away and he looked like a leper appealing for help. Around him millions of figures wrapped from head to foot in twisted black rags were hurrying across the dunes, the cloths streaming in the wind. They carried smoking buckets of fine sand which they would dip into the ground to replenish, without stopping. Every so often one of the figures would fall and not get up, the drifting sand covering them.
Adela went to the clothes drawer, fetched a white cotton handkerchief and offered it to Jack, who took it and pressed it to his face with both hands. Adela sat on the edge of the table, looking out through the window.
My husband was in sales, she said. That was what he said to other people about what he did. It was what he told me the first time we met but he was looking at me in such a way that I thought about sailing ships. I’m in sales, he said, and I thought of him standing up in the rigging of a sailing ship with three masts and a hundred white sails, all hoisted and full in the wind, and all because of me. It was like Are you happy? Happy? I’m in sails! What he meant was he sold car components. He never said that. He said I’m in sales. Like trouble. Or debt. Or love.
I was waitressing in the daytime and clubbing at night. I had friends, good people. I was dead happy half the time. The only thing was I could never take the happiness home with me and enjoy it later, by myself, whenever I felt like it. It seemed simple enough when you had it but it wasn’t, it was complicated happiness, it had too many ingredients, the people I needed, the places I went, the right sounds, the right drugs. I did a little dealing myself and I met some people who helped me out, I turned into a restaurant manager, and I got a mortgage on a basement flat with a garden in a city. That was a change. It was painted and varnished and all the rooms were empty. I walked in the first day with an ornament I’d just bought and put it on the mantelpiece. It made the place look even emptier and I took a couple of days off work and broke the limit on all the plastic I could get. I got furniture, rugs, candlesticks, scatter cushions, little boxes. I had a passion for the little boxes. I had brass ones, teak ones, birch bark ones, laquered Japanese ones. None of them had anything in them. I wanted all the empty space I had hidden in pretty enclosures. And there were so many candlesticks. Of course I had to get matching candles to go with them.
One time I realised I hadn’t seen one of my best friends for a long time. We’d known each other for years, slept together a few times. I thought about it and decided I hadn’t seen him since I bought this monster bronze coffee table with a verdegris effect. I hadn’t missed him, either.
I was in a big pileup on the motorway in the fog. You couldn’t see the bonnet of your own car in front of you and we were all tanking along at fifty. There were three dozen cars and trucks went into each other. The cars at the front caught fire but I was close to the back and I stayed in my seat, hands on the wheel, watching the lights flashing at me on the dashboard with that ticking sound they make, listening to the screams and shouts from the fires up ahead. I turned the volume control on the radio to try to make them quieter. A man with a bare chest knocked at my window. He was covered in blood and oil and dirt and he was carrying a handful of cotton strips he’d torn from his shirt to make bandages. He asked if I was OK. He was going to be my husband.
He drove me home later in my car. I asked him to. I liked him. I could see he liked me. He told me he was in sales. I didn’t say much. I was in shock because my car was damaged and when it happened I realised that since I’d bought it, I hadn’t once gone clubbing, and it didn’t hurt.
I loved him. I loved him much too much. I loved him like dying of cancer. He didn’t feel the same. He was a good man and he loved me like a favourite dog. I mean he was really fond of dogs. But he never had one while we were together. For him it would have been like polygamy.
He was a collector, he was an enthusiast, he hoarded facts and gadgets. He collected Marvel comics, Motown records and Laurel and Hardy films on video. He had to have them all. Carpentry was another thing. He got very good at that though he never made anything we needed. He kept adding extensions to the bird table. He called it the bird table of Babel. One day, he said, the god of birds would get angry with his work and destroy it.
There was this time I tried to sit down with him and explain the way things were. I told him about how I’d replaced one of my best friends with a coffee table and swapped going out clubbing for a car. I told him how all the nice things we had in the kitchen, the copper pans and the sky blue crockery, how they were taking up space where other things used to be, a walk, a date, a sky. And he said he knew what I meant, you change as you get older, your possessions get a hold on you, and you need to own more things to be satisfied. And I said well that wasn’t exactly what I was meaning, I meant that love and owning things and having a good time were all spaced out along the same spectrum and you couldn’t take it all in at once so you tuned in to different parts and right now I was just tuned in to him. He was like a radio station that played one song and all I wanted to do was listen to it over and over again.
And he said I know what you mean.
And I said Do you?
And he said Yes, even though it’s irritating for other people and they can’t stand it, all you want is the same thing over and over again. I’ve got all the Laurel & Hardy films on video but the only one I watch is Sons of the Desert.
