Strip the Willow

by John Aberdein

  I feel I exist through you, he said. Maybe we only exist through each other? Go, Twiglet. Can we talk about this? he said. We’ll see. I want us to ride together, he said. Beat it! I already probably love you, he said, I’ll write better poems. On yo hoss, cowboy. Ride you into the sunset, if that’s what you want. It’s the middle of the night, she said, I’m not some pitiful sex-maniac. Pity, he said. I tried to dry your shoes, she said. On the canvassy, plasticy side aren’t they? Tigers, he said. Lightweight. Tiger Cubs. Right, said Lucy.

  The first breath he took, as he walked past the round Sisyphus sculpture, crystallised in his lungs. Then his first exhalation rose like a speech-bubble, empty as happiness. He thought of a name for her: X-maniac.

  He was barely three steps further, when he remembered he’d forgotten to even mention Swink. Forgotten to seek her advice, enlist her aid. Those powerful bastards across the road, about to con the water and oil from everybody, and thieve half the planet. He swung round. He spun in the snow. But spun again. Leave it. Nothing. What could you do? They’d gone through each other pretty damn quick, and come out on the other side. Or at least she had. The cold hit him.

  She stopped and looked into his eyes.

  – Wild, he said.

  – So why the Nothing at the end? Did you tell it that way to Tam? It wasn’t nothing, it was a lot more than nothing—

  – You say that now, he said.

  – It was, I assure you. A lot more—

  – Good, he said. I’m going to sleep in your bed tonight. Don’t worry, on top of the covers. We needn’t open any more pages.

  – I feel you should come in, said Lucy.

  – Only one thing, he said. I can’t promise anything.

  – What’s new? she said. Between me and you.

  april 10

  pretending the world exists

  – I’m not going in today, she said.

  – Really? I’m glad.

  – I should.

  – We should do lots of things.

  – I should be angry with you but I’m not.

  – Oh ditto, he said. Absolutely totally ditto.

  He kissed her forehead.

  – Sorry I pressed on your skull, your head, a couple of times.

  – The excitement. Everything’s understandable when you’re excited.

  – Was it good for you?

  – When?

  – Whenever. Now, then—

  – Lucy—

  – Why did you tell Tam everything about us?

  – I didn’t tell Tam, as such. I was in intensive care.

  – Sounded more like intensive grilling.

  – No. The surgeon managed to hook up some of my broken wires and a lot of stuff went across real fast, apparently. A wonder Tam was able to change reels quick enough, you’d think he’d have lost some.

  – Why did it stop? You must have been like Homer on speed.

  – Told you. Mankind cannot stand too much reality.

  – Did Tam say that?

  – One of the Tams. TS Eliot.

  – I’m glad in a way, but I think he’s a user. Your Tam.

  – You tell him.

  – He’s already gone, I checked. Tam’s fled the coop.

  – Oh.

  – Or at least he’s left Left Luggage.

  – You going to phone your work?

  – Don’t start talking about work, said Lucy.

  – The world exists, I am reliably informed.

  – Don’t, she said.

  – I won’t. It’s just a defence. Talking big, pretending the world exists. When we know it’s only us creates it.

  – I’m going to forget Guy and make breakfast, said Lucy. And turn up the fire. And the stove. And we’re going to feast today, as though it’s the last day on earth.

  – Jings.

  – You so deserve it. Total crumb—

  – Now read on, he said. With any luck we’ll find out the hero’s name. Probably not Jumpy or Crumb. Or Twiglet, I shouldn’t think.

  – Will we? said Lucy.

  – Did Tam and you ever meet?

  – Tam? said Lucy. Don’t be ridiculous. Never. Two days ago was the only time.

  – You’ll maybe meet him some time.

  – Yes, she said. I’d like to ask him one or two things.

  – Likes of what? he said.

  – How much was tape and how much inspiration.

  – Perspiration too. He was never shy of that, you could smell it off him.

  – I find it incredible, your family, they’ve not kept in touch? said Lucy.

  – Maybe they did try, initially. But I’m such a loser. A loser of the place, of tracks and names. I can’t remember going to my island. I can remember being there. I can’t remember coming away.

  – Do you want to try tracking them tomorrow? Andy, Annie, Amande, Northfield. The clues are there.

  – They might be dead. They might be hoping I am. I like the way you do the voices.

  – Do you think Tam meant to write a play? said Lucy.

  – Who knows.

  – One folder to go; I’ll read straight on.

  – Be my host, he said.

  what do we know about memory anyway?

  Jim was suddenly happy again, plain leapingly happy. He existed at last. He could change his mind and the whole direction of his life. He could turn round, go straight back, snow flying from his heels, and tell her. Without knocking. Straight in and tell her about Swink, his fatal plan to rob the city blind. Together they would fight him and his kind to the death. Their love, invincible together. And no more nonsense about running. The Runner was okay as an identity for the first three-four hours of the New Year, but now he could put that behind him as adolescent. Horizons were moving faster than that. But would she have him? What did she accept of him, apart from sex?

  – Ouch, said Lucy.

  For her he didn’t exist, not fully. They didn’t know each other’s names. She’d hinted thin. It was a hint, maybe more than a hint. So he couldn’t go back to X-maniac, not with any sureness, and, tail between legs, could hardly go home. He was all over the place. His feet were free to levitate, or gravitate, in successive instants. They would be out looking for him, once they discovered his snowy footsteps. They would lie in wait, overpower him easily, and thrust him into a whorl in the river. The Dee was a lovely river, but he had no desire to explore its depths.

  – I haven’t even checked the weather yet, said Lucy.

  – Keep the curtains closed, he said. In case it’s sunny. Busie old fool.

  – Marvell?

  – Donne, I think.

  – Donne, I think. You know perfectly well.

  – With my memory?

  – What do we know about memory anyway? said Lucy.

  – That we haven’t mostly forgotten. Mother of the Muses, one hundred and ten per cent. Total Mother.

  don’t you ever listen?

  He could have done with the snow starting again, but it didn’t. A car’s lights swished past. He felt himself in very plain view. New tracks in the middle of the night would be pretty few. He got concrete overcoat into his head. It was the kind of thought you couldn’t really get rid of. Did they fit you for one, a concrete overcoat, while you were still alive? Did you have to watch, while they mixed it by hand?

  – So is that it? Is that what happened to your skull? Did they beat you up?

  – I don’t know what happened to me. Don’t you ever listen?

  He started through the mesh of streets, Morningfield, Forest Road. He heard a figure catching him up. He started zig-zagging. Hamilton Place, Fountainhall. He didn’t run, his knees were stiff again. The figure was catching him up determinedly. Hello, said the man. I’m Zander Petrakis. I wish you a Good New Year. Oh, said Jim, Happy New Year. You sound more sober than the people from whom I have recently departed, said Zander Petrakis. I am more sobered by some I’ve recently left, said Jim. Your university lecturers and their husbands and wives, said Za
nder. Not my university, said Jim, not any more. I tried to talk to them of philosophy, they talked to me of bun, said Zander. What kind of bun? said Jim. Black, said Zander. I talked to them of my native Crete, about Icarus, they talked to me of fleein. Fleeing? said Jim. They were good enough to spell it for me, said Zander. Fleein. It is a New Year custom, to get fleein. I talked to them of the Minotaur. One claimed they have a Maze in Aberdeen but the climate militates against Minotaurs, he said. They asked if I was settling in. I said the duty of an intellectual is not to settle in, but to oppose. Oh, said Jim. Perhaps you will come along to tonight’s meeting, continued Jim. INCOSOLOV. What is INCOSOLOV? said Zander. The Interim Committee to Solve Lovelesssness, said Jim. I will go along to oppose it, said Zander. First we must extend and endure lovelessness. Oh, said Jim, I don’t fancy that.

  I am more on the side of the beetles, said Zander. Only creatures with hard shells that can live under stone can survive nuclear war, that is well-known. And survive the other war too, he added. Vietnam? said Jim. No, the unclear war on which the young are embarked, the war of sentiment against sense, fashion against discipline, mumbo-jumbo against the material facts. I was, said Jim, going to ask your help. What for? said Zander. They’re going to sell off the water and sell out the city, said Jim. They should get a few drachmas, said Zander. It seems quite solid. Not sell it, sell it out. I am aware of the distinction, said Zander. To the Yanks, said Jim. This is what happens in war, said Zander. But we’re not at war, said Jim. The Americans are, said Zander. Even when they are isolationist and full of Mr Monroe’s doctrine, they still attack. Only it’s more insidious. Not that the Vietnamese are complaining of insidiousness.

  Jim filled the stranger in with what he knew, but realised there were still big gaps. And so what do you do now? said Zander. Go to the police? The newspapers? My father’s a councillor, said Jim. Perhaps he is part of the conspiracy? said Zander. You’ve obviously never met him, said Jim. In Crete sometimes these things resolve themselves, said Zander, sometimes never. Most people now are not so vigilant. The more democracy spreads, the more they expect solutions to be a kind of guaranteed magic. To be truthful, even in the old days, venturing into a labyrinth to kill a minotaur was not that popular. The trade between social good and personal extinction is easier to make in hot blood than in cold. Well mine’s cold, said Jim. I need to find a caff or something. It sounds as though these people think they have found the golden one, said Zander.

  However, I must continue my walk. I will think about your problem. It is easier to think walking. You can find me at the old University, where they specialise in bun and wine and sitting down mulling. Ask for Zander. Are you the only one? said Jim. The only. A few subsidiary Sandys. Ask for Zander Petrakis, Assistant Lecturer in European Philosophy. Thanks, said Jim. They had zigzagged further into the town. Thomson Street, Watson Street, Short Loanings, Leadside Road.

  get oot o ma feet!

  As soon as Zander left his side, the night seemed bristling. Richmond Street. He could even smell it. Hutcheon Street. There was something in the air that shouldn’t be. Sharp and pungent. He came to a halt under a high brick building. There was orange in the top left window. Orange danced in the adjacent window. Painted white, high along the full length of the building he could make out COMBWORKS. Uncle Hugh worked here. He used to deliver fags in a van, till his eyes let him down. Uncle Hugh had taken him round. Orange flame was in four windows when the first window broke.

  Fire curled out a fierce tongue that licked off part of the C. Almost you could read it as TOMBWORKS. But the next two windows broke and OMBWORKS it had to be.

  Ivory combs didn’t burn, but they didn’t make combs of ivory now; elephants fell for different reasons. Combs of tortoiseshell didn’t catch fire, nothing about a tortoise ever did. Even the modern keronyx, and nuroid and aberoid, that Uncle Hugh praised, were non-inflammable. Not like packing straw, oily machine rags, and pitch-pine stairs and floors.

  Flames surged down, flames shot up.

  ORKS the legend read now, as the flames raced along. He bet from which window the fire would burst forth next. Second floor, sixth along. Wrong, seventh. Bottom floor, sixth along. Wrong, fifth. Top floor, twelfth along. Correct. More and more glazing melted or gave a shocking crack in the dance of heat, flame, smell, smoke and destruction.

  Three fire engines arrived from King Street and blocked part of his view. He moved to the side. But there wasn’t much shouting. The crowd as it gathered was awed. It wasn’t really a people fire. There was no-one working. Oh, but where was the watchman! They perched a man and a limp canvas hose on a turntable ladder, which spun and shot him skywards to pish like a boy on a bonfire. He thought of Ludwig again. He guessed a canvas hose wouldn’t have worked too well in the firestorm at Hamburg.

  He smelt it coming before he saw it. Really acrid. He put a flap of his floppy coat to his face as a filter. His Tigers got warm, hot, instantly hotter. He looked down. Rivers of plastic – black, pink, lime, scarlet, jade, azure and indigo in streaky, garish whirls, treacling and twining over each other like garter snakes in the mating season – were flowing from the fire.

  His shoes would be moulded, then they’d be melted. He’d fall and be psychedelic in fifteen seconds. That wasn’t his scene. He hopped it.

  writing to your family

  When he arrived at the beach, there was a solitary figure down on her haunches. Lucky there was a decent moon. She seemed to be drawing in the sand, her back to the land. He went down, to try and scour the tackiness off his shoes. Aberdeen Beach was not a beach that held much driftwood, so she was using her finger. She looked round as she heard him approach. Happy New Year, he said to her. Thank you, sir, she said, New Year later. Ah, he said, so you’re not out celebrating? Celebrate each day, said the Chinese woman. Go to beach, face East, do Tai Chi. Great, he said, my name’s Jim.

  Lucy paused, then let it go.

  My name Bing Qing, she replied. Brilliant, that’s a lovely name, he said. Thank you, Jim. What are you writing? said Jim. She made two bent strokes intersecting, then a straight line across. Crab? said Jim. Zhei shi nu. Jesh shi, excuse me? Zhei shi nu. And she pointed to herself. Oh, writer, artist? She drew it once more. Woman, see? Woman on knee. Alongside nu she drew a swaddled form. And this? said Jim. Zi, child, answered Bing Qing. Woman and child. Together mean good, excellent. I think the tide is coming in, he said. Always somewhere tide come in, always somewhere tide leaving, said Bing Qing. So why did you leave? said Jim. In China many instruction, not many wisdom. You wonder why I write on sand? In my country, sand permanent as bone. Red Guard hate me, hate family. My father is high civil servant, put dung on field. How can China become great if it does not value intelligence? said Jim. Mao say, said Bing Qing, only if wrong idea destroyed in intelligent person can China become great. Do you agree? said Jim. No. Wrong idea. Wrong idea in all must be avoided. Lao Tze teach this.

  Do you work here? said Jim. Work Yangtse River on Bridge Street. Is it hard work? Six year since uncle set up in city. Accept now, many patron. A hundred last night good tipping. One party loud, make big joke. About Chow Mao, so funny for us, and sexual about duck. These people weak, my staff unhappy. Do you send your family money? said Jim. Money not reach. I send poem from sand. When we share beauty, world has justice. Simple as that? said Jim. More simple than god in heaven. I call my poem Somehow Somewhere. I don’t know how to approach that, said Jim. Will know later. Goodbye, Jim, I must write to family now.

  He walked up the bleak Boulevard without looking back, looking at the hard immediate city skyline of turrets, towers, Town House spire and university. As he walked towards the town, he noted how the skyline shot up quick to mask the hills.

  – Go on, he said. I like Bing Qing. When I need peace, I try to imagine her. Yet I only came across her once.

  – Perhaps that distinguishes her, said Lucy. But that’s it. That’s the second folder.

  – Fancy writing to your family like that. On sand.


  – Straight on?

  – Yes, we seem to be coping.

  nice man

  Spermy McClung couldn’t wait to be away. The Spare Me had been slipped for the last four weeks of the herring season, after a fouled prop burst the gland, buggered the gear box and left her trailing across a skerry. Now she rocked at Pocra Quay, while he was wending his way north to Fraserburgh on crunch-white roads in a blue Bedford van to pick up the dregs of his laid-off crew. If he couldn’t find his regular crew, he might have to take on pierhead jumps.

  – Excuse me, said Lucy. I’m tempted to say, Who is this spunky fella?

  – Didn’t Tam mention him in an earlier folder? Spermy McClung?

  – Oh yeah, got him. Jim’s special something or other.

  A problem like that was nothing to him. As he said himself, they didn’t call him Spermy Jed McClung for nothing. He paid them. I dinna care what state ye’re in, get in the fuckin van.

  – Nice man, Mr Spermacetti, said Lucy.

  Jesus, Jed, said Alec. I ken, I walk on water, said Spermy. All I’m askin is, get in the fuckin van. Tak a dram, Jed, it’s the New Year. Ye ken I never touch poison. C’mon. Whit’s the panic? said Alec. The panic is, said Spermy, we’ve been lyin on the slip the last month. I got Hall’s tae launch her special yesterday. The rivets are still glowin in her keel and belly. Ye widna sit here rottin your liver, when ye could be oot makkin a pay? One day, Jed, one day in the year. Collect your gear next time ye’re doon, I’ll get somebody else. Okay, okay, said Alec. Smart then, said Spermy. I’ll be back at five when I’ve picked up young Gibby and them.