'Taking the last part first: no. Taking the first part last: I do
know. I've sussed him. We've spoken on several occasions and he's asked my advice.'
Belinda said, 'But the novel's a mess. No one's going to publish this self-indulgent drivel. Even if you did bring it to a professional conclusion, we still wouldn't be read—and thus brought to life—by anyone.'
'Belinda, my dear character, fictive life is continuous. It doesn't end when someone closes the book. Your life persists even if Sir Roderick dries up. Trust me, you are very much alive.'
B and I looked at each other, touched each other before gingerly feeling Anthony, in the same way that the apes cautiously explore the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. We certainly felt alive; so did Burgess. He said:
'Sentio, ergo sum. I feel, therefore I am.'
'But,' said B, 'suppose Rod is listening to this?'
'Trust me,' said Burgess. 'He slumps in front of the IBM every afternoon. Pretends to be working. When he wakes up he'll find he's written more than he thought.'
'But,' I protested, 'logic demands that he'll see through our scheme.'
'Take the word of an old man. Rod's stuck, blocked at the moment, and would resort to anything to stimulate the wordflow. I think I can truthfully say that I know him as least as well as I know myself. He'll hit the word-count button, see his total's crept up and allow the three of us autonomy. No questions asked.' Burgess paused, unsure whether to commit his next thought to words. He did: 'You know, he's a bit of a whore.'
I didn't understand his last assertion but, noting our looks of concern, he continued:
'I'm sorry to be the one to disabuse you, but writers don't write, authors don't authorise.' He stood for emphasis. 'Perhaps the most we can say is that scribblers (do) scribble.' His faintness had disappeared; he was now animated. 'Books may be written, but novels,' he aphorised—repeating the word in affirmation—'novels write themselves.'
He spotted a scrap of paper on the table. 'Who wrote this—The biro is mightier than the gun—?'
'That was Martin.'
'Amis...?' said Burgess.
'Yes. He tried to kill me with a gun-pen.'
B turned on me. 'You lied!' I didn't like her new expression. 'Martin here? When?'
(Why so emphatic?) 'Honestly, B, he was here—on Boxing Day—dressed in a French Resistance style coat, not unlike Anthony's.'
'A brilliant boy,' said Burgess.
'No longer a boy,' I said. 'Now very much the man. Amis the Younger has transformed into Amis the Elder.'
B said, 'That's as may be.'
I said: 'That's as is.'
23
Barked your shin, my liege...? Carouse with a Monkey's Bum.
'Sir Roderick!'
'Ah, my Lord Burgess of Moss Side. How goes the world, sir, now?'
'Why, see you not?'
Burgess swings his arm around indicating characters on the battlefield, some dead, others with varying degrees of injury.
'What news, pray?'
Lord Burgess jumps down from his horse pulling, from beneath his breastplate, a typescript. He holds it high. 'Know you this?'
I blush. You always recognise your own work.
'The King bade me hither this sorry sight to see.'
'A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.'
Burgess again swings his arm around surveying the mess on the battlefield.
'And what is the King's command?'
'His Majesty finds your script wanting. He commands me ask why Sir Roderick dispenses with the reader.'
'How means His Majesty?'
'His Highness concludes that this work neither for man nor beast is writ.'
'Nay, not so swift, my Lord. Thy word order approaches that of the barbarous Hun. Pray, tell me plain, what doth the King say?'
'Oh I have passed a miserable night, so full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, that, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night though 'twere to buy a world of happy days—!'
'What means my lord?'
'I began to read when candles were lit and could not leave off till dawn's first chink across the battlements came.'
'And your conclusions?'
'This script is at once its own sequel and prequel.'
'How prequel, my lord?'
'Nay, first think upon this. Not only its own sequel and prequel but its own critical response too. The King begs me discover, does Sir Roderick thus make a case for his independence?'
'I do not understand this word prequel. It sounds like a French ladies' word of jest—mere mouth odour, or, worse, the nether breath of drunken fools who fain have filled their bellies with rhubarb, senna or purgative drug. Prequel...? A fie upon this word! I spit upon your prequel!'
'Sir Roderick, it is not well that you and I should meet upon such terms as now we meet.'
'Not well? Not good? I have no argument with the King but serve him sure and true. It is Lord Anthony that false report doth bring. Hie thee hence, thou lily-livered fool; hie thee hence, false thane. Hie thee thither, cream-faced loon—darken not my door again!'
'But what of the reader? Consider the gentles. Words alone do not a novel make.'
'Aphorisms, brave Burgess? Thou wouldst with words dally and dabble? I must check thy entry with Margaret Drabble.'
'Dabble with Drabble, fair knight...? Speak plain.'
'I will pay a cleric to check thine entry in the Collected Folios.'
'Folios?'
'Aye. The Oxonia Companion to Albion's Literature.'
'Oxenford? Surely the fine lady from Cantabrigiensis came?'
'Indeed the good Lady Margaret at Cantab hath studied but moved her allegiance this great work to produce.'
'I know the work: 'tis fine, and a mighty.' Burgess paused; was he playing for time? 'Know you,' he went on, stepping closer, 'whether she had benefit of the Infernal Machine?'
'Infernal...?'
'Aye: Caxton's contraption.'
'Indeed, but it could not cope withal. Therefore she had to press teams of clerics and scribes.'
'A brave lady and a great.' There was another question on his lips but he'd procrastinated enough. I said:
'To the matter: my clerics will check your entry in Lady Drabble's work and thus the truth discover. I sense thou trickest me. Sir Roderick is your plaything.'
Burgess laughs—almost as massively as Sir John Falstaff: 'Oh, come, come, old man.'
'Where's your Elizabethan language now?'
'Only trying to make a point, Roddy. Shall we continue in Anglo-Saxon?' I nodded; he started: 'When that Aprill with his shoures soote...'
'...was made glorious summer by this sun of Yorke.'
'Hang on,' said Burgess. 'Our nether garments are conjoined.' He took a large breath. 'Let's keep this simple. My point is: you seem to be dispensing with the reader.'
'No,' I said. 'Most of them are still with us: we have their attention.'
'But they will need a pay-off.'
'They'll have one.'
Burgess came closer, his point the better to make. 'Sir Rod, I must warn you. Take the example of Christopher Priest: after writing The Affirmation he was barren for years. Think on't.'
'I have nothing to lose.'
'Yes—and you'll gain nothing, either. This is an opportunity.'
'Okay,' I said. 'Give me back the MS and I'll take a look.'
He handed it over: tatty but mine own.
'What are all these stains?'
'Oh, variously, tea, coffee, water, gin, vodka, red wine, white wine, white rum, dark rum, Scotch whisky, Irish whiskey, egg-flip, egg-nog, advocaat, beer, lager, ale, porter, stout, mead...' He took a breath. 'Also tincture of elephant's tusk; a litre of something young French and impudent; oh, yes: and the remains of your bottle of Monkey's Bum.'
'Time for a Tiger?'
'Hast one?'
'Nay: I jest.' He looked disappointed: I'd re-ignited his thirst and memories of the East. 'A
rise Sir Knight. Thou hast drunk well, even to the lees.'
We (both) left a silence. I broke it:
'You see: they are still with us.'
'Ah, well, at least they're not down at (the) Woolwich or the Old Ox and Box.'
'There is, I assure you, a narrative thread. There is a definite connection between the scenes. And it's not tenuous: no ghost-writing here.'
'But, as I said before, I may not be the ideal guide.'
'You'll do,' I said. 'For the nonce.'
'There are plans for me?'
'Yes, but not blueprints. You disappear at the end of Part Six as Martin did at the end of Part Three.'
'And who will be your guide through Parts Seven to Nine?'
'How did you know my thoughts?'
'It's no use getting old if you don't develop a sixth sense, and, anyway, a bird in the bush is not necessarily a pig in a poke.'
'Anthony—an aphorism for every occasion—Burgess!'
'Oh, I can aphorise with the best. Neologise too: that's my true bent—real creativity. The rest is derivative, mere rearranging of existing atoms, molecules, DNA...'
'And creation—or true creation, as you call it—brings us closer to God?'
'Ooh. I'd be careful with that one. And don't put words into my mouth: my name's not Graham Greene. Anyway, I said creativity not creation. Remember I'm a lapsed Catholic. I'll go this far: sometimes, when we create, we glimpse the divine.'
'And art...?'
'Ooh—don't get me started on art.'
'But,' I persisted, 'another route to a glimpse of the divine is via good art?'
'Good art? Good art?' Burgess smiled and stepped forward, offering me his index finger.
'Pull that.'
'What'll it do?' I asked.
'Take a risk.'
I did. Anthony emitted a posterior riposte.
His finger remained extended. 'Harder!' he challenged.
I pulled again. This time the knuckle cracked and he released wind of staggering complexity. He smiled, the pedagogue: 'Good art—good fart.'
I backed away, shaken, holding my nose.
'Sometimes,' Burgess went on, 'words—why are you running away? Stand still, man—words, I say, are best left to speak for themselves. We should never try to explain the sound of one hand clapping. Like the analysis of humour—it's something you just don't do.'
Still debilitated, I coughed, but the remains of Anthony's emission clung to the air. The gas, had it been visible, would have appeared as thick, slow-moving layers of the darker shades of green, with brown highlights. But that picture would have been wasted on a daltonian.
'What's the matter?' he said. 'You have the pallor of a corpse.'
Still holding my nose, and weakened, I wafted my hand laterally.
'Oh,' he boasted, 'that's nothing. Enderby was a pale copy of me. I was punished by wind. There is a whole glossary of flatus: blow a raspberry—raspberry tart—fart. Or—'
'—I must,' I insisted, 'get back to my MS. There's a story to continue.'
I'd spoiled his didactic moment. But he swiftly refocused:
'Indeed, a story to complete, a plot to unravel, and at least two characters to revive. They're waiting for you.'
'Are they okay?'
'Yes, yes. I paid them a visit in Wimbledon. Found them alive but not playing tennis. Not yet, at any rate...'
'Have they forgiven me?'
'I've done most of the groundwork—the footings, to use the vernacular—now you must build.'
'Rather than build, Anthony, I want to discover. Not a builder will I be, rather an archaeologist, a potholer or an investigator of troglodytism. I don't use bricks, but an excavating trowel.'
'God speed that trowel.' He paused, looked up at the sun. 'Now it's time for my siesta.'
'Sixth hour...? Short nap...? Little sleep...? You and the word little—surely an oxymoron...?'
Would Anthony say, I'm not an Oxymoron: I'm proud to be a Mancunian...? No: he'd already remounted his fictive horse and turned in the direction of Wessex.
'Fare thee well,' I shouted.
'Ciao,' he called and rode off.
'I hope,' I yelled, 'that your vita remains dolce.'
He stopped, turned, rode back, dismounted and, with pedagogic precision, said, 'Spero che la tua vita rimane dolce.'
'Pardon?'
'I hope your life remains sweet.' He paused for effect: the best was to come: 'However, the idiom you're looking for is: Tante belle cose.'
'I'll remember that,' I lied. (When would I ever use it?)
He remounted the metaphorical horse, turned it through three hundred and sixty degrees, raised the beast onto its hind legs, urged it to neigh, and shouted:
'Arrivederci!'
'Ciao, Tony.'
He glowered, waved and galloped off—the impossible Lord Burgess of Moss Side.
24
So, drenched in sweat in the middle of the Kalahari desert, I recalled how I'd got here. The advertisement in The Times had hooked me:
HUNGRY FOR ADVENTURE?
BORED WITH THE NANNY STATE?
CAN YOU HANDLE RISK?
I'd called the telephone number and left my details for Annette on the answerphone. I forgot all about it until one day my wife said:
'Who's Annette?'
Nmbmba now read his watch and pointed the gun at my forehead. My sphincter muscles opened and I filled my trousers. Why would he not just get it over and done with? He lowered the barrel so that it covered my left eye. I lost control of my bladder too and soaked myself.
Nmbmba looked down, sniffed and laughed. 'You're ready,' he said.
I fought to distract myself by thinking of Annette. She'd worn a pale green pullover and a bra which as well as providing an unnatural uplift also rendered her breasts conical. Twin Everests. Her blonde hair was streaked with a variety of darker shades and her eyes were heavily made up with green shadow and black liner.
'Say your prayers,' said Nmbmba.
Please God, make it swift. Forgive me for killing people. I'd lost my bravery. There was no escape. I kept my eyes closed so that the rebels couldn't witness my fear and I wouldn't see their pleasure. Fear took over my whole body—no, my whole psyche: I was fear.
I felt him remove the gun from my eye and stand back. This is it. Rat atat tata tata tata tata tata tata tata tata. Swift death.
I didn't feel the first bullets but sensed a strong hot wind blowing past my legs. I slumped, yet was still alive. Why am I not dead? I remember thinking.
Now it kicked in: an ocean of distress; and, where before I'd been all fear, now I was all pain. My knees had crumpled—as if a hot knife had sliced through them and I now stood on stumps. But I could still feel the boots on my feet. Was he torturing me to delay the finish?
'CUT!'
'Okay, Mitch? How about you, Peter?'
Peter said, 'Fine.' I whispered, 'Fine.' But when I came to stand I discovered that I really had messed my pants, front and back. I was more than embarrassed: I was ashamed. Who could I tell? I smelt awful. I decided I'd just have to butch it out and took Dusty to one side.
Of course we weren't in the Kalahari but in Nevada. I still hadn't adapted to the heat and had probably eaten one bowl of bacon and beans too many. Perhaps I had food poisoning. Standing in the shower was like being reborn.
Filming was cancelled for the rest of the day and once I'd been checked over by the doc—no serious illness—I was allowed back to work after a few days' rest.
But what had made me take this final challenge? Why did I still feel I had to prove myself against the worst that could be thrown at me? Why not simply settle now and live off the interest of my investments?
This, I decided, would be my last. I was finding it increasingly difficult to separate my persona from the personae of the characters I played. Time to stop. Time to cut. Time to run. And I wouldn't be sorry to see the back of this location.
*
But I was not an actor: I was a
soldier. This was not fantasy but reality. When I opened my eyes the rebels had gone but they'd shot through my kneecaps. I now hoped that the pain and loss of blood would swiftly finish me. I'd seen wounded men attacked by vultures but surely birds couldn't survive in this scrub?
Delirium, caused by heat, thirst, fear and loss of blood, must have produced the fantasy about shooting a film. Could I now remain lucid and just slide into death as you slip into sleep? Or would fate twist the knife and make me suffer more delusions before the inevitable? Would it matter? Was this, indeed, my punishment?
Because death was no longer avoidable I was not afraid. But it seemed an inconvenience. Death was easy: all you had to do was close your eyes and let it happen. Passive not active. I still had time, I thought, to come to terms with God. Excitement had been my religion. Getting high on fear was easy but this was a new feeling—I was little more than a sensation junkie. No longer gambling with death, I was saying hello to it. I wouldn't be walking away from this stunt, lighting a cigarette and laughing with relief as normality rushed back into my heart.
I recalled seeing a film set in Africa, starring Robert Taylor and based, I thought, on a story by Hemingway. The Killers—or The Snows—of Kilimanjaro. Taylor's courage is tested by the natives. While he stands coolly smoking a cheroot they throw spears in his direction. A grown-up game of dare. Successive spears land closer to him but always miss. He's proved his point—he's unafraid. That's now who I wanted to be: Robert Taylor, cool under pressure, and surviving until the last reel. Then kiss the pretty girl and ride off into the sunset.
The sun was beginning to descend. My tongue—now massive in my mouth—felt like parched leather or rough-sawn wood. My knees were ice-cold as if someone had sliced through them and inserted blocks of hot ice before pushing the stumps back together. It was, I now knew, only a question of time.
I tried to imagine how Robert Taylor—or Hemingway—would have coped. Ernest would have crawled out of the desert, bagging a couple of big animals on the way, and would have emerged—his great grizzled self—proud, massive, testosteronic. Could I crawl? Or was I already dead and in that limbo between earth and heaven? No: limbo, I remembered, was an antechamber, Hell's staging-post. I'd done wrong; this was the punishment: to spend an eternity in an intermediate state. Why had I not listened as carefully to my religious education as I had to my English?
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