Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

Solomon shakes his head. ‘No way . That’d be like singing a song without knowing the melody.’

‘Oh.’

My face drops, disconsolately.

Solomon sighs.

‘Okay then,’ I retract, ‘just a tiny taste. A tiny taste.’

( God , am I this boy’s patsy , or what?)

Solomon pads off to grab a muddle of cutlery — we each select our weapon of choice — and he’s just about to dive in (the yams. He loves yams), when I raise a warning hand…

‘One possibility,’ I murmur, ‘worth bearing in mind, is that it was no accident she left this behind today.’

‘ Huh ?’

‘Spiked.’

‘Ouch.’

Solomon withdraws, then he whistles, then he peers down, fondly. ‘Bud will know,’ he says, reaching out a tender hand to the savage beast’s muzzle, ‘he’s a ludicrously fussy eater.’

‘Talking of hunger,’ Jalisa says, sipping on her wine as Solomon slowly waves tiny portions of Aphra’s food in front of Bud’s twitching snout, ‘I heard someone attacked Blaine today.’

‘They did, too,’ I confirm, ‘climbed right up the Support Tower. Pilfered his water. Tried to yank out his colostomy bag…’

‘ Hard core,’ Jalisa whistles.

‘I was there ,’ I continue excitedly, ‘on site, when it happened, but I didn’t actually see —’

‘Ah,’ Solomon solemnly interrupts me (Yeah. Try and say that in a fast wind), ‘blinded by the stench of pussy, were we?’

I accord this comment all the credit it deserves (none — the mixed-metaphor is a dubious device at the best of times. I mean blinded by a stench ? I ask you) and from here on in I dutifully address all further conversational snippets to Jalisa, exclusively. ‘I was having a chat with this fruit-loop — just a few minutes before the attack,’ I say, ‘who was labouring under the illusion that the whole anti-Blaine thing is actually a mask for widespread anti- Jewish feeling…’

‘Anti-schmanti,’ Solomon grumbles.

Jalisa grins. ‘Poor Solomon’s worried ,’ she goo-goos (almost tickling him under the chin). ‘He guards his Social Oppression jealously , in case there isn’t quite enough to go around…’ (Solomon shows his irritation by clucking his tongue at Bud, whose nose — he suddenly decides — has drawn slightly too close to a tub).

‘Anyhow, Kafka was a Jew,’ Jalisa casually continues.

‘Pardon?’

‘Kafka,’ she repeats (not a little patronisingly), ‘ Franz Kafka. The writer. His short story, “A Hunger Artist”, was the inspiration behind this entire thing.’

It was?

‘You didn’t know that?’ she purrs, then tops up her wine, smugly.

‘Isn’t Kafka German?’ I ask (struggling to disguise my furious bemusement — I mean I saw Orson Welles’ cartoon version of The Trial when they played it on Channel 4, late-nite. Shouldn’t that be enough for this harpy?).

She rolls her eyes, ‘German Jew , dumbo.’

‘He lived mainly in Prague , I believe,’ Solomon boredly interrupts.

We both ignore him.

‘And I don’t know if you happened to catch his earlier TV shows,’ Jalisa continues, warming to her theme, ‘but the whole Jewish angle is definitely significant in Blaine’s general psychology. He used to have this — frankly kinda strange —“radical-rabbi” look (was well into it: black clothes, black hat)…And when I saw him on the news the other week and they asked him how he was preparing for his ordeal, he said something like, “My biggest inspiration has been reading the work of Primo Levi. Those people went through real trials.”’

She pauses. ‘ Those people,’ she explains, as if to a dim 4-year-old child, ‘The victims of the Holocaust …’

She pauses again. ‘The Jews? ’

(Yeah. Thanks . Think we just about sorted that one out.)

Bud (as she rattles on) has given his seal of approval to at least 70 per cent of the dishes at the table (all credit to the animal and everything, but I’ve actually seen him devour other dogs’ shit in the park, so forgive me if I don’t consider fastidiousness his watchword ). He tips his head (somewhat ironically) at the bowl of green mango. Solomon pushes it aside.

‘You seem very well informed…’ I fight back manfully (yes, I’m eaten up with rage-I mean overanalysing Blaine is my hobby, isn’t it? How dare this haughty faux-African queen muscle in on it?). ‘A big magic fan, are we?’

‘ Her ?’ Solomon sniggers. ‘This is Jalisa , man. She only became interested in Blaine when he pulled his Art Trousers on.’

Art Trousers?

Art Trousers?

(So who exactly designs those unwieldy sounding garments?)

‘Here’s another irony,’ Jalisa continues, pinning Solomon to his chair with a Death-Star smile. ‘Harmony Korine is filming the video, yeah?’

I nod, smugly (now this I do know…). ‘Talented director of the legendary Julien Donkey-Boy …’ I swank.

‘Did you see it?’ she asks.

Uh …(damn, damn, damn her).

I slowly shake my head.

‘Well it’s basically a film about family dysfunction,’ she explains. ‘The lead is this young kid — Julien — who’s a little simple, I guess. But the star of the show is no less a man than Werner Herzog …’

She pauses, as if waiting for the significance of this fact to utterly pole-axe me (I remain politely unpole-axed). ‘The legendary German film director,’ she clucks. ‘ You know… Nosferatu, Cobra Verde, Fitzcarraldo ?’

She quickly and efficiently tucks a stray frond of hair into her headscarf. ‘I mean if you actually stop and think about it, there’s quite a fascinating intellectual art- link here…’

(My face — for your information — is a picture of total bewilderment at this point.)

She turns to Solomon, almost excitedly, ‘Remember Fitzcarraldo ?’

Solomon nods, boredly.

(Solomon remembers it? He does ?)

She turns back to me again. ‘Basically it’s this wonderful story about a rich madman — played by the superlative German actor, Klaus Kinski — who has this crazy idea to build an opera house in the middle of the Amazonian rainforest. The film is about his futile attempt to fulfil his dream. The project turns into an absolute disaster when the river they’re using to transport all their materials dries up (or something - I don’t entirely remember the details) and they end up dragging this huge, huge boat, full of wood and building equipment, over a massive hill. People are crushed and killed. It’s a total catastrophe…’

She pauses for a moment, thoughtfully. ‘And when you’re actually watching the film…’ she eventually continues.

‘Does it have subtitles?’ I ask (she immediately delivers me the kind of look which could easily maim a small child).

‘When you’re actually watching the film,’ she repeats, ‘it’s almost difficult to believe that the disaster isn’t really happening , you know? It’s kind of like the film itself is part of the catastrophe…’

She smiles (at her own genius, no doubt). ‘And the fact is that it was . Herzog got a guy called Les Blank to make Burden of Dreams —which is a documentary — about the making of Fitzcarraldo , to illustrate this point. I mean Herzog’s a kind of madman, too, just like his main character — he’s equally obsessed. The entire project was wildly over budget, the locations were virtually unreachable, it was incredibly dangerous, and the whole production spiralled into terrible chaos…’