Ivan Vladislavic - 101 Detectives

The bridle fitted snugly over my skull. It was not especially uncomfortable, as Bhuti Khuzwayo had promised. I gagged when the bit pressed down my tongue, but the mouthparts were finely wrought and the straps as supple as kid. The earplugs dangling from the headpiece were pushed into my ears. The blinkers lay as soft as petals against my temples.

The servitor squeezed my shoulder and left. Bhuti Khuzwayo pushed me down a cowpath into the audience chamber.

I felt rather than saw the space, since most of it was in shadow and I could scarcely move my head. A round, thatched room even larger than the banqueting hall, unfurnished, with grass mats underfoot.

The King was in the middle on his divan, propped up on brightly coloured cushions, with an amber light sifting down from above. I thought he was wearing a nightcap, but as I rolled closer I saw that it was a golden beret, many sizes too big for him, drooping over his ears like a failed soufflé. Bhuti Khuzwayo parked me beside the divan. Had I been able to move a limb, I might have reached out and poked the King’s belly. I gazed at his face, at the bulbous nose, the lemon-peel folds of his cheeks, the melted crescent of his chin, and tried to etch every lump and fissure on my memory. I noted the sleep in the corners of his eyes and the impress of a buckle in the flesh of his jowls. After a while, Bhuti Khuzwayo moved the chair to change my perspective, and by slow degrees, shifting from one vantage point to another, I saw every aspect of the King’s head, front, back and sides, and found myself staring once again at his face. My gaze had the weight of a fingertip: three times he opened his heavy-lidded eyes and blinked as if I had prodded him, but gave no sign that he saw me sitting before him.

There is not much more to tell. When Bhuti Khuzwayo judged that I had seen enough, he wheeled me to the reception area and unbound me, and the limousine brought me back to my hotel. Here I am now, wide awake in the small hours. An hour ago, when I sat down to make this report, I was dead on my feet. Now it feels as if I will never shut my eyes again.

DAY 4

06:10

I say I learn my lessons, Fei, but I never do. I have done a foolish thing.

After my report last night, I couldn’t sleep. My poor head was swimming with everything that had happened. I decided to go out. Remember the square I saw on my first night here, the tavern with the lanterns and the orchestra? You know me: I wanted to hear the music. I summoned the taximan from the airport, the one who said he knew the destination like the back of his hand, and he agreed to take me there.

We drove through one catchment area after another, avoiding the developments. The streets were even quieter at that late hour, empty but for shadows around a brazier or a man walking quickly with his head down. The colour had drained from everything. I asked the driver to open the window for me, and had to pay him to do it. The smell of cinnamon and standing water came into the cab. A bird call. Or an alarm? I leant my head out in the musty air and watched the dull faces of the houses slip by. Here and there a light burned dimly behind an iron grille. I could not smell the sea.

My taximan was hopeless. All his glowing maps and locators served only to disorientate him. He took me to squares where there were no taverns and taverns that were not on squares. He found three taverns that were on squares but had no orchestras. He kept pausing to consult his devices and speak to the control room.

At last, I began to feel drowsy. When we stopped at yet another crossroads, I decided it was time to go back. But before I could say so, a man stepped from the shadow of a wall and came up to my window. Papa? No. He was wearing a homburg and doublet, but the likeness ended there. Smiling broadly, without warmth. Perhaps it’s someone I met at the Fair, I thought, one of the countless pseudo-Papas, the advertising lookalikes and porn stars, the dregs of the Convention. But what is he doing here? And so shabbily dressed, with his overalls worn through at the knee.

Despite myself, I smiled back. And as I did so, he reached in through the window and took hold of my face. He had big, rough hands, and the broad fingers of a labourer, but his touch was gentle. He cupped my face in his palms, as if I were a child, and tilted my head as though he might kiss my brow. Then his grip tightened. His thumbs pressed into my eye sockets, his forefingers burrowed into my ears, the other fingers sank into my cheeks and probed the flesh below my jaw. He bore back as if he wanted to tear my face from my head.

He would have hauled me out of the cab had the taximan not pressed a button to close the window and lurched forward across the intersection. He clung to me through the gap, and was dragged along beside the vehicle, until his fingers tore loose and he fell away behind us.

The taximan stopped under a lamp and helped me staunch the bleeding. You can imagine how shocked I was. I shouted at the fellow for his stupidity and irresponsibility. But of course the fault is mine. I am the bungler. I would not let him take me to the hospital.

You should see what I look like! One of my eyes is swollen shut. My jaw is so sore I can hardly speak. I shan’t be able to eat for a week. Good thing too. I’ve had a bellyful of their protein and everything else.

This sleepless night gave me time to think. I wonder if all the travellers’ tales about this destination might be true. You know the ones I mean — I must not say too much — that they lie on principle, and eat their young, and fry strangers like us in the streets. I can well imagine it. They keep insisting that they are warm people, but their hearts are cold.

18:30

My dear, what would I do without you? I scalded myself in the shower and used all the staples and patches, as you suggested, and swallowed all the pills and smeared on all the creams, and got through the day’s business. No one was any the wiser. Are they used to seeing a face like mine in ruins? Or are they too polite — or dishonest — to say anything? This much our trade has taught me: appearances are everything. I cannot wait to get home. Please make sure Dr Shen can see me first thing on Friday. I need to be scoured, outside and in.

Five of Neville Lister’s Dead Letters were shown on Alias at the Galeria Pauza in Kraków in May 2011. This exhibition was curated by Adam Broomberg and Oliver Chanarin under the banner of Photomonth in Kraków.

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Advertising poster, Kraków, May 2011

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Dead Letters exhibition, Kraków, May 2011 (Photograph by Marek Gardulski)

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Neville Lister, Paris, 2011

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L. Sylvain to Maryvonne Jourdan, Paris, 1978

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Neville Lister, Laingsburg, 2011

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