Lanark

by Alasdair Gray

  7. This remark is too ludicrous to require comment here.

  8. But the fact remains that the plots of the Thaw and Lanark sections are independent of each other and cemented by typographical contrivances rather than formal necessity. A possible explanation is that the author thinks a heavy book will make a bigger splash than two light ones.

  9. In this context to butter up means to flatter. The expression is based upon the pathetic fallacy that because bread tastes sweeter when it is buttered, bread enjoys being buttered.

  10. The president in question was Felix Fauré, who died in 1909 upon the conservatory sofa, not office sofa, of the Elysée Palace.

  11. The township of Wumbijee is in southern Queensland, not new South Wales, and even at the present moment in time (1976) is too small to support a local dentist. In 1909 it did not exist. The laughing gas incident is therefore probably apocryphal but, even if true, gives a facetious slant to a serious statement of principle. It will leave the readers (whom the author pretends to cherish) uncertain of what to think about his work as a whole.

  12. Had Lanark’s cultural equipment been wider, he would have seen that this conclusion owed more to Moby Dick than to science fiction, and more to Lawrence’s essay on Moby Dick than to either.

  13. As this “Epilogue” has performed the office of an introduction to the work as a whole (the so-called “Prologue” being no prologue at all, but a separate short story), it is saddening to find the “conjuror” omitting the courtesies appropriate to such an addendum. Mrs. Florence Allan typed and retyped his manuscripts, and often waited many months without payment and without complaining. Professor Andrew Sykes gave him free access to copying equipment and secretarial help. He received from James Kelman critical advice which enabled him to make smoother prose of the crucial first chapter. Charles Wild, Peter Chiene, Jim Hutcheson, Stephanie Wolf Murray engaged in extensive lexical activity to ensure that the resulting volume had a surface Consistency. And what of the compositors employed by Kingsport Press of Kingsport, Tennessee, to typeset this bloody book? Yet these are only a few out of thousands whose help has not been acknowledged and whose names have not been mentioned.

  CHAPTER 41.

  Climax

  He looked down, startled, at Libby, who lay curled with her legs under her in the angle between wall and carpet looking unconscious. She was a gracefully plump, dark-haired girl. Her skirt was shorter and blouse silkier than he remembered, and her sulky slumbering face looked far more childish than the clothes. She opened her eyes saying “What?” and sat up and glanced at her wristwatch. Without blame she said, “You’ve been hours in there. Hours and hours. We’ve missed the opera.”

  She held out a hand and he helped her up. She said, “Did he feed you?”

  “He did. Now I would like to speak to Wilkins.”

  “Wilkins?”

  “Or Monboddo. On second thought, I would prefer to see Monboddo. Is that possible?”

  She stared at him and said, “Do you never relax? Don’t you ever enjoy yourself?”

  “I did not come here to relax.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  She walked down the corridor. He followed, saying, “Listen, if I’m being rude I apologize, but I’m very worried just now. And anyway, I’ve always been bad at enjoying myself.”

  “Poor old you.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Lanark defensively. “Some very nice things have happened to me, even so.”

  “When, for instance?”

  Lanark remembered when Sandy was born. He knew he must have been happy then or he wouldn’t have rung the cathedral bell, but he couldn’t remember what happiness felt like. His past suddenly seemed a very large, very dreary place. He said tiredly, “Not long ago.”

  In the hall beside the lift doors she halted, faced him and said firmly, “I don’t know where Monboddo and Wilkins are just now. I expect they’ll drop in later when the party starts, so I’ll give you some advice. Play it gelid. I see you’ve got it bad, Dad, but the hard sell is no go on day one when everybody’s casing each other. The real hot lobbyists start cashing their therms halfway through countdown on day two. And there’s something else I’d like to tell you. The Provan executive pays my salary whether I stay with you or not. If you want me to vanish say ‘vanish’ and I’ll vanish. Or else come for a quiet drink with me and talk about anything but this general bloody awful assembly. Even their language gives me the poxy nungs.”

  Lanark stared at her, seeing how attractive she was. The sight was a great pain. He knew that if she let him kiss her petulant mouth he would feel no warmth or excitement. He looked inside himself and found only a hungry ungenerous cold, a pained emptiness which could neither give nor take. He thought, ‘I am mostly a dead man. How did this happen?’ He muttered, “Please don’t vanish.”

  She took his arm and led him toward the gallery saying slyly, “I bet I know one thing you enjoy.”

  “What?”

  “Bet you enjoy being famous.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Modest, eh?”

  “No, but I’m not famous either.”

  “Think I’d have waited all these hours outside Nastler’s door if you’d been an ordinary delegate?”

  Lanark was too confused to answer. He pointed to a silent crowd of black-suited security men on each side of the glass door and said, “What are they doing here?”

  “They’re staying outside to make the party less spooky.”

  Though nearly empty the gallery throbbed with light rhythmical music. In the night sky outside the window the pink-tipped petals of several great chrysanthemums were spreading out from golden centres among the stars and dipping down toward the floodlit stadium where tiny figures thronged the terraces and crowded upon dance floors, one at each end of the central field. The chrysanthemums faded and a scarlet spark shot through them, drawing a long tail of white and green dazzling feathers. The floor along the window was furnished with piles of huge coloured cushions. The floor above that had a twelve-man orchestra at one end, though at present the only player was a clarinettist blowing a humorous little tune and a drummer softly stroking the cymbals with wire brushes. The floor above that had four well-laden buffets along it, and the top floor had many empty little chairs and tables, and a bar at each end, and four girls sitting on stools by one of the bars. Libby led Lanark over to them and said, “Martha, Solveig, Joy and the other Joy, this is you-know-who from Unthank.”

  Martha said, “It can’t be.”

  Solveig said, “You look far too respectable.”

  Joy said, “Shall I put your briefcase behind the bar? It’ll be safe there.”

  The other Joy said, “My mother is a friend of yours, or says she used to be.”

  “Is she called Nancy?” said Lanark glumly, handing over the briefcase and sitting down. “Because if she is I met you when you were a baby.”

  “No, she’s called Gay.”

  “Don’t remind him of his age,” said Libby. “Be a mother yourself and mix us two white rainbows. (She’s good at white rainbows.)”

  Solveig was the largest of the girls and the other Joy was the smallest. They were all about the same age and had the same casually friendly manners. Lanark was not very conscious of them as distinct people but he was soothed by being the only man among them. Libby said, “We’ve got to persuade Lanark that he’s famous.”

  They all laughed and the other Joy, who was measuring drops of liquor into a silver canister, said, “But he knows. He must know.”

  “What am I famous for?” said Lanark.

  “You’re the man who does these weird, weird things for no reason at all,” said Martha. “You smashed Monboddo’s telescreen when he was conducting a string quartet.”

  “You fought with him over a dragon-bitch and blocked the whole current of the institute,” said Solveig.

  “You told him exactly what you thought of him and walked straight out of the council corridors into an intercalendrical zone.
On foot!” said Joy.

  “We’re mad keen to see what you do tonight,” said the other Joy. “Monboddo’s terrified of you.”

  Lanark started explaining how things had really happened, but the corners of his mouth had risen and were squeezing out his cheeks and narrowing his eyes; he could not help his face being contorted, his tongue gagged by a huge silly grin, and at last he shook his head and laughed. Libby laughed too. She was leaning on the bar, her hip brushing his thigh. Martha told him, “Libby’s using you to make her boyfriend jealous.”

  “No I’m not. Well, just a bit, I am.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend?” asked Lanark, smiling.

  “The man with the glasses down there. The drummer. He’s horrible. When his music isn’t going right for him nothing goes right for him.”

  “Make him as jealous of me as you like,” said Lanark, patting her hand. The other Joy gave him a tall glass of clear drink and they all watched him closely as he sipped. The first sip tasted soft and furry, then cool and milky, then thin and piercing like peppermint, then bitter like gin, then thick and warm like chocolate, then sharp like lemon but sweetening like lemonade. He sipped again and the flow of tastes over his tongue was wholly different, for the tip tasted black currant, blending into a pleasant kind of children’s cough mixture in the centre and becoming like clear beef gravy as it entered the throat, with a faint aftertaste of smoked oysters. He said, “The taste of this makes no sense.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s delicious.”

  They laughed as if he’d said something clever. Solveig said, “Will you dance with me when the music starts?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about me?” said Martha.

  “I intend to dance once with everybody—except the other Joy. I’m going to dance twice with the other Joy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because being unusually kind to someone will give me a feeling of power.”

  Everyone laughed again and he sipped the drink feeling worldly and witty. A small man with a large nose arrived and said, “You all seem to be having a good time, do you mind if I join in? I’m Griffith-Powys, Arthur Griffith-Powys of Ynyswitrin. Lanark of Unthank, aren’t you? I only just missed you this morning, but I heard you’d been hard at it. It was good to know somebody was knocking the gelid lark. We’ve had too much of that. You’ll be sounding off loud and clear tomorrow, I hope?”

  The gallery was filling with older people who were clearly delegates or delegates’ wives, and others in their thirties who seemed to be secretaries and journalists. There were more red girls too, though few of them now wore the whole red uniform. Groups were forming but the group round Lanark was the largest. Odin, the pink-faced morose man, came over and asked, “Any luck with His Royal Highness?”

  “None. In fact he said he wasn’t a king at all but a conjuror.”

  “Young people must find the modern world very confusing,” said Powys, patting Martha’s arm paternally. “So many single people have different names and so many different people have the same name. Look at Monboddo. We’ve all known at least two Monboddos and the next one will likely be a woman. Look at me! Last year I was Arch Druid of Camelot and Cadbury. This year, what with ecumenical pressure and regionalization, I’m Proto-Presbyter of Ynyswitrin, yet I’m the same man doing the same job.”

  Odin said in a low voice, “Here comes the enemy.”

  Five black men of different heights entered, two in business suits, two in military uniform and the tallest in caftan and fez. Martha shivered and said, “I hate the black bloc—they drink nothing stronger than lemonade.”

  “Well, I love them,” said Libby stoutly. “I think they’re charming. And Senator Sennacherib drinks whisky by the quart.”

  “What I can’t take is bloody Multan’s air of superiority,” said Odin. “I know we sold and flogged his ancestors, which proves we’re vicious; but it doesn’t prove he’s much good.”

  “Is that Multan?” said Lanark. The blacks had descended to the next floor and were standing at one of the buffets. “Excuse me a minute,” said Lanark. He passed quickly through the other groups, descended three or four steps and approached the black bloc. “Please,” he said to the tall man in the fez, “are you Multan of Zimbabwe?”

  “Here is General Multan,” said the tall man, indicating a small man in military uniform. Lanark said, “May I speak to you, General Multan? I’ve been told you … we might be able to help each other.”

  Multan regarded Lanark with an expression of polite amusement. He said, “Who told you that, man?”

  “Nastler.”

  “Don’t know this Nastler. How does he say we be useful?”

  “He didn’t, but my own region—Greater Unthank—is having trouble with—well, many things. Almost everything. Is yours?”

  “Oh, sure. Our plains are overgrazed, our bush is undercultivated, our minerals are owned by foreigners, the council sends us airplanes, tanks and bulldozers and our revenues go to Algolagnics and Volstat to buy fuel and spare parts to work them. Oh, yes, we got problems.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t expect help from your sort, man, but I listen hard to anything you say.”

  Multan held a plate of sweet corn and chopped meat in one hand and ate delicately with the other for a minute or two, closely watching Lanark, who could now hear the dance orchestra playing very loudly, for the nearest groups had fallen silent and an attentive and furtive murmuring came from the rest of the gallery. Lanark felt his face blush hotter and hotter. Multan said, “Why you go on standing there if you got nothing to say?”

  “Embarrassment,” said Lanark in a low voice. “I started this conversation and I don’t know how to end it.”

  “Let me help you off the hook, man. Come here, Omphale.” A tall elegant black woman approached. Multan said, “Omphale, this delegate needs to talk to a white woman.”

  “But I’m black. As black as you are,” said the woman in a clear, hooting voice.

  “Sure, but you got a white voice,” said Multan, moving away. Lanark and the woman stared at each other then Lanark said,

  “Would you care to dance?”

  “No,” said the woman and followed Multan.

  Suddenly, on a note of laughter, all the conversations started loudly again. Lanark turned, blushing, and saw the two Joys laughing at him openly. They said “Poor Lanark!” and “Why did he leave the friends who love him?” Each linked an arm with him and led him down steps to a side of the dance floor where Odin, Powys, the other girls and some new arrivals had gathered. They received him so genially that it was easy to smile again.

  “I could have told you it was useless talking to that bastard,” said Odin. “Have a cigar.”

  “But wasn’t it exciting?” said Libby. “Everybody expected something gigantic to happen. I don’t know what.”

  “The opening of a new intercontinental viaduct, perhaps,” said Powys jocularly. “The unrolling across the ocean of a fraternal carpet on which all the human races could meet and sink into one human race and get Utopia delivered by parachute with their morning milk, no?”

  “Congratulations! You’ve done something rather fine,” said Wilkins, shaking his hand. “The rebuff doesn’t matter. What counts is that you put the ball fair and square into their arena and they know it. One of you girls should get this man a drink.”

  “Wilkins, I want to talk to you,” said Lanark.

  “Yes, the sooner the better. There are one or two unexpected developments we must discuss. Shall we breakfast together first thing tomorrow at the delegates’ repose village?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You don’t mind rising early?”

  “Not it all.”

  “Good. I’ll buzz your room before seven, then.”

  “Please, sir,” said Solveig very meekly, “please can I have the dance you promised me earlier, please, please?”

  “In a wee while, dearie. Let me fini
sh my drink first,” said Lanark kindly.

  As he sipped a second white rainbow he looked out at the starry field of the sky where rockets bloomed, tinting thousands of upturned faces in the stadium beneath with purple, white, orange and greenish-gold. He was leaning on a rail guarding the drop to the lowest and narrowest floor and he also saw in the window a dark distinct reflection of himself, the captainish centre of a company standing easily in midair under the flashing fireworks and above the crowd. He nodded down at the people below and thought, ‘Tomorrow I will defend you all.’ He brought the cigar to his lips, turned round and carefully surveyed the gallery. His group was still the largest, though Wilkins had left it and was moving among the others. Lanark even saw him pause for a word with Multan. He thought tolerantly, ‘I must keep my eye on that fellow; he’s a fox, an ecological fox of the first water…. Fox? Ecological? First water? I don’t usually think in words like these but they seem appropriate here. Yes, tomorrow I will talk to Wilkins. There will be some shrewd bargaining but no compromise. No compromise. I’ll play it by ear. I’ll play it hot, gelid, dirty, depending on how he deals the deck. I’ll cash every therm in my suit, and then some, but no compromise! If a region’s to be thrown to the crocodiles it won’t be Unthank; upon that I am resolved. Monboddo is afraid of me: understandably. The hell with the standings, the top rung is up for grabs! All bets are off, the odds are cancelled, it’s anybody’s ballgame! The horses are all drugged, the track is glass … what is happening to my vocabulary? This cigar is intoxicating. Good thing I noticed: stub it out, stay calm, sip your drink…. I know whythis is called a white rainbow. It’s clear like water, yet on the tongue it spreads out into all the tastes on an artist’s peacock palette (badly put). It contains as many tastes as there are colours in the mother of pearly stuff lining an abalone seashell. Poetry. Shall I tell the other Joy? She mixed this drink, she’s standing over there, what a clever attractive little … I used to prefer big women but … oh, if my hand were between her small …’