by Angus Wilson
Yes, this must be the handsome eighteenth-century secretariat. And indeed, although he had no particular taste for architecture, he welcomed its enlightened symmetry and order in a world where he could find no bearings. But so, it seemed, did the plain youth, for there he was, a little to the side, staring at the building, seeking no doubt to find what it was that drew a tall, rich foreigner to gaze so long at so familiar an object. Nevertheless the parody in his stance was intolerable and Hamo walked on rapidly into the open square, regardless of the sweat that poured down him as he quickened his pace in the blazing sunshine. That, he thought, must be the statue. Against the sudden glare it was like a great vampire bat looming over a crouching bird, until he recognized the soutane of the priest and the clinging garments of the woman. Isolated from the converging street, the extraordinary object stood alone in a square planted with formal flower-beds. Or rather, not quite alone, for just in time, Hamo saw the vast, white-gowned figure of the Austrian Swami apparently addressing a group of mainly white disciples, a blur of sandals and beads and beards—probably the hippies, their notorious shameless nudity partly clothed for the town visit. He turned sharply towards the river, and almost collided with the drab, worm-eaten youth, who preceded him in a series of breath-taking and highly embarrassing cart-wheels along the esplanade as they descended to the sandy river-bank.
In the distance Hamo could see what he thought might be a flock of birds, some swimming, some wading at the river’s edge—but nothing of the extravagant dimensions of elongated cranes or swollen pelicans, nothing but what looked like gulls, those very prototypes of indistinguishable “birds”, dull grey and black and white, that had always made the idea of the observation of that zoological class so boring to him. However, he persisted in examining them further, through the binoculars, finding to his annoyance that his attempts at focusing were extremely clumsy. Was he losing all his skills? And then, among the groups of larger or smaller, more or less grey, more or less sharply defined grey gulls, he thought he could discern some crane-like creature with a dull scarlet head and neck. The need to make sure of what he could see pressed upon him. He strode across the firm sun-baked sand until he came to a protruding limestone rock. Up this he climbed, and carefully focusing, found that he could distinguish among the gullish tedium not only—yes, a long black-legged, grey-winged red-headed crane, its heavy bill grubbing in the mud, but two gloriously iridescent smaller birds with beaks like curved scimitars. He thought—those must be ibises. Then, surprised at his own delight, he wondered if here at last in this occupation was his refuge. Himself alone on this long stretch of river shore, for of worm-eaten youths there were no traces, and these creatures, beautiful enough to delight, strange enough to absorb, yet totally isolated from him, from all human concerns; no union but of time and place.
Yet surely exactly these fairest rarities might be threatened. Or, no, why not some rarity, less fair to his unpractised eye, some birds among the gullish crowd, for the hopeless are not only fair, but drab, yes, and foul too? In lands where he had worked no magic, where not even crops could grow to bring men out of the old stone caves, the hunters hunted desperately the disappearing wild. Conservation, preservation—to what final cranky Edens were his new-found weaknesses for the weak leading him? To refuse food to the hungry rather than to create it for them. In a land where food itself . . .
And what some food in those lands could do to men came forcefully to him, as close by he heard the familiar sounds; it had happened to him in his Asian tour. He saw—hardly to his surprise—the bone-stretched buttocks of the sad lean youth performing their uncontrollable watery task. He felt faintly sick, but it was over, and the youth was racing to the river to wash himself. As the graceful scooping and splashing ablutions were performed, Hamo was observed, standing hesitant, his head turned away, the giant now on a rock. In a minute the youth was back from the river and standing below, whistling for Hamo’s attention. Hamo looked down to see the youth holding his cock and smiling suggestively. Hamo leapt down to the other side and moved away, fast. But only for a few paces. Then, returning, he signalled to the youth to approach him. His hand went automatically to his wallet—but at the sight of the ill, lean and partly frightened smile of invitation he pushed back the notes he had already begun counting by feel in the concealment of his pocket. Instead, with mimicry worthy of Mungo Park or Livingstone, he persuaded the youth to put the binoculars to his eyes, so large and dark, even splendid in his wasted little pock-marked face. Fright was succeeded by bewilderment, for with Hamo’s focus, the youth could see nothing; with clarity came first surprised excitement and then, shortly after, boredom, for what was there to see in these birds however near they came? Then by lucky chance, a ship was steaming by. What ship it was or what was upon its decks, Hamo never knew, to call forth such excitement in the youth that he hardly acknowledged the elaborate Cook mime with which Hamo made clear that the magic glasses were his for his own keeping, a gift in perpetuity. Hamo left him gazing intently through the black matt funnels at the other larger black funnels that were slowly moving down the river.
So cleansing was the act of giving for no reward, indeed for the smallest acknowledgement, that Hamo was already half-way back to the hotel when he thought with worried surprise that he had given away Alexandra’s parting present. Yet some vague thought that this was all part of a necessary redemption from his past self kept his usual agonized conscience at bay.
And the image of Alexandra’s lost urchin-white little face as he had last seen it blended so easily into the darker, pitted wan little face so eagerly staring at the river, that he was able to forget all in present content—even the note from Mr. da Braga which the refreshingly efficient and distant Indo-Portuguese receptionist handed him. Erroll, it was clear, had in his hurry botched his errand, or at any rate the manner of it. Mr. da Braga’s letter hardly attempted to conceal his anger. Let Mr. Langmuir not worry, there would be no report in the Goan newspapers of his stay or departure. Since he had been able to find time neither for a visit to the rice-fields nor for a discussion of Goa’s outstanding contribution to the Green Revolution, there could be nothing to report, or, at most, a needless increase of the natural resentment that the local farmers had expressed, after they learned of his arrival, at his failure to inspect the technical skill they had lavished upon his hybrid.
He was, as always, upset at the element of discourtesy that had marred his visit, but even this embarrassment rapidly faded into his delight at sinking back into the taxi which, with his luggage already loaded, awaited him at the street corner, outside the hotel.
The receptionist came formally to see his departure. So coldly and formally, yet so professionally, that Hamo felt able to give the usual directions for forwarding mail, and to ask that his new address should not, however, be given to strangers. He set off upon the long journey to the airport. His driver, another Indo-Portuguese, maintained the soothing silence so that by the time they drove on to the ferry at Agacaim, Hamo had forgotten Mr. da Braga as he had much else. He reflected with a warm satisfaction, which he could feel purring within himself, that at least he had departed from somewhere without any involvement with the manner in which they employed his Magic. The deportment of the Indo-Portuguese had contributed much to this new ease, no doubt; on a journey between two lives one should associate only perhaps with those between two races.
*
He dragged himself along the ground on his belly. Soundlessly. Digging his fingers into the stony red earth so that he could get himself ready for the next silent heave, but holding all the time feverishly to the precious glasses. Then he would draw up his bare knees and press them into the ground. Finally he would slide himself forward so that his toes fitted into the sockets made by his fingers. So he moved onward to the top of the cliff from where—or so he had been told—he would look down, not far, perhaps a hundred feet, to where the white girls lay naked, and often, as now at dusk, were mounted and pierced by the naked white men. So nea
r, and with the magic glasses, he would see all—the smooth white breasts, the flat white bellies, the hair curling between the full white thighs. Sometimes, so he had been told, there were curious chains of four or more. All others had seen imperfectly: but he, with the magic glasses, would see everything, close up. But now he must go quietly, not crying out when his body grated against stones, when a bad creature stung his knee, when he cut his leg on glass embedded in the ground, when, in the gathering dusk, he passed by mistake over some thorny plant that left hot needles in his skin. The excitement had brought on the familiar churning in his bowels, but he fiercely constricted his sphincter to defer all such intrusions upon the coming great delight. Imagination and the sliding movements had combined to make his cock erect with desire, but he stopped for a moment and banged it with his hand, so that pain might override lust and put off as long as possible the delicious moments he had looked forward to all the last day.
Above all, he must move silently and as far as possible out of sight. For he knew that behind many bushes and trees there were other boys, boys from the great schools—St. Francis Xavier’s, the Fatima, the Bonastarim High—who would resent the presence of a low-caste boy, of a Sudra, who would hate with envy such a boy who had magic glasses that could see forbidden things that were hidden from them. Also there were men, men of all kinds, some very great men from the town who would kill him if they knew he had seen them there. And there was talk of gherao, of many joined together to drive these heepis from the beaches, after seeing them, of course. So the more necessary to use the magic glasses now and to use them silently.
At last, forcing back tears because in his eagerness to reach the cliff-edge he had dragged through a cruel thorn-bush, he looked down. There indeed lay a naked girl, not so beautiful as he had thought, thin, very thin, as thin as himself, but very white and smooth and long with firm breasts like great eggs that he would love to take into his mouth and to suck; there was a dark line between her folded thighs, but who could tell for sure if it was the hair that signalled the entry to paradise? Soon a man would come and enter her. Meanwhile she breathed heavily with desire, her limbs, her arms, her legs moved shamelessly with lustful greed. Her eyes were closed against her own ravishing. His own cock grew thick against his threadbare cotton dhoti, his scrotum tightened with desire. He almost tore his thumb on the rough wheel which brought the woman closer in the magic glasses.
The first pain he felt was sharp and so stinging that he thought it was some bad creature. But then he heard a stone whistling in the air before it caught him on the shoulder blade. And now another cut open the back of his neck. He clambered and groped to his feet. He started to run but a larger stone caught him on the ankle and the pain brought him to the ground. A great rock rolled against his body, pushing him to the very edge of the cliff. And now through the dying light shapes came from behind bushes, trees, boulders—blazered boys, suited men, the whole hidden world of watchers, some peeping Toms, some vigilantes, all avenging citizenry. They came at a run to where he lay, bleeding, moaning, messed with his own void. One gave the little body a kick that rolled it to the edge. Another leaned to take the precious magic glasses from him. But he held tight to them and only rolled further to avoid the theft.
Rolled and fell, fell to the rocks below where, his back broken, blood trickling from his mouth, he lay for more than an hour before he died.
Elinor, advanced in her prayana, was called from the other plane by the crashing of the body as it hit the rocks. She heard some shouts and cries from above. Wanted to go to the help of the fallen boy, from whose mouth she saw blood running. But dared not, was too frightened, too unsure of where she was, who she was, why she was in this sudden horror. Knew only a terror that her weakened body would not sustain her in flight. Put all her will into fleeing. And gathering her long towelling bath-robe about her trembling body, fled, faster even than the avenging citizenry running from the blood they had so suddenly shed.
*
The situation for the local authorities in the following week was enough to daunt even the best-trained bureaucrats. It was all that the British in the days of the Raj had meant by “out of hand”.
To begin with, the stone-breakers and indeed all the lower castes were roused to a sullenness on the edge of destructive action by the death of the boy. Then the citizenry hid their guilty fear by increasing their demands for expulsion of the hippies. From Old Goa the Catholic community, above all the Jesuit authorities, became increasingly pressing in their demands for the expulsion of the Swami and his growing band of followers as the day of St. Francis Xavier’s birth approached. The Hindu community, largely Vishnuvite, were troubled by rumours of strange Shivite devotees glimpsed in the streets, and by rumours of alien rites, Tantric orgies and strange sacrifices to Kali—a whole Dravidian religion from the South and East which defiled the gentler world of Goa.
These rumours also were not unconnected with the Austrian Swami. Yet the Swami had many friends in high places in India as well as among distinguished foreigners. Also many of the authorities themselves were disturbed by his powers and, above all, by his predictions. Few would go near the strange statue of the Abbé Faria at night for it was said that the Swami had announced that some sign would be given at this place. The Moslem community was, as always towards the end of the great fast of Ramadan, in a state of nervous exhaustion and tension. To crown all this, bands of bankrupt peasants, small-holders and unemployed labourers from the rice-fields were said to be converging on Panaji in the belief that the great rice magician had come with magic powers to give them again all the lands and yields that had been taken from them since the hybrid Magic had made rich the landowners and driven them into hunger. Nor were there wanting looks over shoulders at this time to ask who was truly loyal to India and who perhaps still yearned for the iron and velvet of Portugal. These were bad days for the authorities, especially as the Congressional elections would soon be approaching.
But an event was to take place that week which was to fill the heavy, humid, storm-bearing air with even more menacing rumours.
Elinor had come to a crisis. She had so perfected the routine of her day since she had advanced through the Swami’s classes, a routine of meditation, breathing and posture, that she had felt free for the first time to turn to the proof-reading of her Ph.D. thesis. Up to that time, every intrusion of Crashaw’s religious ecstasy, every erotic address he had made to the Virgin, filled her either with anger or with disgust for such hard egocentrism masquerading as mystic experience. It had been such a long pilgrimage, although performed in so few years—from her first awakening to religious feeling, through the Metaphysical Poets, to her present dissolution of self through the Becoming into Being—that it was hard for her to respond without wasteful, hostile emotion to what, she began to see, were the wholly erroneous hard-willed Christian devotions, which had first brought her out of the stew of her mother’s semi-Marxist sentimentalism and her father’s empty time-serving ethical rhetoric. But now at last she was secure enough in her daily discipline to do so, free enough from all emotions to read Crashaw’s burning words without any feeling other than concern for their verbal and schematic structures. If she could do this with Crashaw, to whom she had been so close that she had nearly been received into the Catholic Church, she could do it with all literature, with all life. She was ready to go back into the world, to teach people poetry and prose and drama so that they could teach others who in turn would teach others. It was a discipline of futile life that seemed truly fitting for someone who, with perseverance, would in a few years be rid of will either of body or of mind, of all the chains whether of desire or dislike. She could see what others, still attached to the world, would call the cynicism in this view; but she could only wonder at a dependence which found sentimental words like “cynicism” to describe the realistic acceptance of everything as indifferent.
She was ready, she had told Thelma, to set off for home as soon as she liked. She could even make littl
e literary jokes to Alexandra and Ned about Henry James and herself as Daisy Miller or the Princess or Chad, for such silly book talk was all that remained of those Moroccan weeks of desire for Ned and hatred of Alexandra. She was free.
And then this awful thing happened. It was only a life in a million lives, a scattering of some vital fluids and energies that would enter into other lives in the eternal process. That it was the life of a poor and ill and probably hungry boy made no difference—that was a legacy from Thelma’s sentimental radicalism. She crushed beetles and ants unknowingly under her foot every day, who knew how hungry they were? To wish it had been herself not he was an insidious vanity. She, he, it—it was all the same. Yet she could not relax, meditate, breathe without remembering that however she had denied her body it had brought lust to the boy and, through the lust of others, death to him. She fell back on dismissals that belonged to her more attached days: it was vulgar, she said, it was melodramatic, it was silly. But none of these words were to the point, even if they still had meaning for her any longer. The point was that the boy’s death, his death so near her, his pain, her fright, that horrible gurgling of the blood from his mouth that kept on sounding in her ears, all were equal with the most intense pleasures and joys she had ever known, and all were nothing.
Yet she could not feel that. For months now she had lived on increasingly little food and even less sleep, unnoticing, uncaring, and less and less aware of body and self. Now she caught a very heavy cold and felt intensely every moment of the life-cycle of the virus, so sensitive had all her membranes become. Her throat was agony, her eyes itching tear-filled lakes, her chest barred with iron, her lips bound in leather, her head a cavalry charge of horses’ hooves. She felt a disgust with every excretion from her body that even in her thoughtless pagan childhood she would have found excessively genteel, prudish, Emily Post. Insomnia became a positive horror to her, the experience of a feverish, sweaty, aching body that would not be dissolved.
