Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

There are men from every corner of Europe lying in that ward, educated men, men who — between them — speak every European language, every tongue. But nobody knows what Hurbinek’s word means. People have their theories (certainly) but no one is entirely sure.

And nobody finds out, definitively, because Hurbinek dies (as he surely must), without his word ever being clearly interpreted, without ever experiencing that reassuring thrill of being truly comprehended. And Levi — who has seen so much, and this is merely more — shakes his head, wisely, and in that sublimely understated way of his, murmurs, ‘No, it was certainly not a message, it was not a revelation…’

It was just a word — two defiant syllables — which nobody understood.

Mass-klo .

Some things are beyond the reach of art.

Some words are meaningful beyond understanding.

It was Blaine. It was him . He made me read that book.

It’s not a criticism of the girl or anything (well, not exactly ), but don’t you just hate those people who automatically sympathise with the baddie in a book (or film, or play) simply because they think it makes them seem ‘multifaceted’?

Of course they’ll provide you with some perfectly coherent reason for their deranged stance: ‘Oh no , I always loved the Child-Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang . I mean he’s so true , so rounded . And he was probably bullied by the other children at school when he was a kid because of his misshapen nose and his chalky pallor…

‘I bet he’s great to his mother. In fact I’m pretty certain that he’s a passionate supporter of Help The Aged’s “Sponsor a Granny” scheme, but he just doesn’t go public about it (He’s far too subtle, too self-deprecating for that). My sources tell me that he sends a very regular allowance to an isolated Nicaraguan octogenarian called Rosa Francesca Velasquez. A worn-out mother of twelve. She was destitute before he stepped in…’

My God . But of course. Now I realise. You’re just so complex, so contrary, so intuitive, so fascinating …George Lucas certainly isn’t helping matters in this respect, now that Darth Vader’s suddenly been unmasked as Luke Skywalker’s father .

‘Yeah, so apparently Darth had a stutter as a boy, and it made him feel really socially inept…And then, when he had a kid of his own, he just couldn’t bring himself to express real love …’

Why can’t a baddie just be bad? And why can’t a good guy just be better?

The way I’m seeing it, the rot started at ground level: the British school system in the seventies; when they introduced mixed ability classes and abandoned streaming–

‘I’m very sorry Jimmy/Johnny/Jane, but you’re just going to have to sit quietly and read your books while I struggle for an entire lesson to get Smeg -boy here to hold his crayon properly.’

Trust Aphra to find something appealing in the money-grabbing Fletcher. Maybe she’s doing it simply to provoke. I mean to refuse — point blank — to admire a hero who fills every page with effortless light and grace and colour, in favour of some wealthy absentee landowner who — for crass, financial gain — uses his hired hands to rough-up the law-abiding local folk? Can that be logical (or emotionally sustaining)? Has she no Social Antennae ?

Bly interrupts my musings by phoning just before she knocks off work, at five. ‘I was just on the internet,’ she says, her voice full of horror, ‘reading about how Vincent Gallo — the actor…’

‘I know who Vincent Gallo is…’

(Best hair in the business, let’s make no bones about it. And biggest mouth , come to that.) ‘…Of course you do. Well, Gallo said that he wouldn’t have sex with Chloe Sevigny during the filming of Brown Bunny , because he didn’t want to catch Harmony Korine’s herpes …’

As she’s speaking I’m lounging on my bed, gingerly trying to unfurl the well-masticated back cover of the David Blaine biography.

Now hang on a minute…

The back cover — which is virtually unsalvageable — has been gnawed away just far enough to reveal a small black-and-white photograph of Blaine himself (underneath a two-page, small-type insert entitled ‘Blaine’s Challenge’, where it would appear that the enthusiastic reader — by following a series of clues dotted throughout the text — might be able to treasure hunt themselves a fantastic $100,000).

But the picture…

‘Isn’t herpes transmitted through the saliva?’ I interject distractedly.

Bly muses on this point for a second. ‘I can’t profess to be an expert on the subject…’

I hold the book slightly closer to my face.

‘Well, I’m pretty certain that the virus is related to the cold sore,’ I say. ‘Kind of like an older cousin or something. And if it is, he’s definitely going to regret that fifteen minute on-screen blow -job Sevigny gave him.’

Bly groans. ‘That’s revolting .’

(And this from a girl who thinks Harmony Korine’s genital health is an appropriate topic for conversation?)

‘Gallo’s revolting,’ I mutter, ‘and a legendary bull-shitter…Sevigny’s a babe . There’s no flies on her.’

Short silence.

Then three seconds later, ‘I’ve just thought of one,’ she yelps. ‘That lovely, catchy, pop/dance thing from the early nineties… uh …Zoe: “Sunshine On A Rainy Day”.’

‘Violent Femmes,’ I shout straight back (don’t ask me why — probably spurred on to new heights by her crushing mediocrity), “Blister In The Sun”!’

‘“Waiting for the Sun”, The Doors !’ she bellows.

Hmmn .

I quietly weigh up the pros and the cons. ‘Great idea ,’ I cordially allow her,’ but a shit track. Sorry.’

I mean whose themed mix tape is this, anyway?

Two minutes later I’m on the phone to Jalisa.

‘Who gave you my number?’ she asks tightly.

‘So you fell a little short on that pesky Elders of Zion question, huh ?’

(Not that I want to dab vinegar on the wound or anything.)

‘ Protocols of the Elders of Zion,’ she corrects me. ‘Do you have any idea what protocol is , Adair?’

‘Of course ,’ I kinda, sorta, half-lie.

‘Well, if that’s actually the case,’ she informs me primly, ‘then you’ll fully appreciate how many you’ve just breached by ringing me today.’

Pause .

‘I’m just worried about Solomon,’ I lie.

‘No you’re not,’ she corrects me.

Okay…

‘So I read the Kafka,’ I blurt out, ‘and it was fantastic. The Jew stuff’s really put this whole thing into perspective for me.’

Another pause.

‘I just wanted to say Thank You,’ I gush.

‘You do realise,’ she says carefully, ‘that my entire diatribe the other night was simply for effect.’

Longer pause.

‘You don’t realise that,’ she says eventually. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Effect?’ I eventually mutter. ‘ What effect?’

‘To piss Solomon off,’ she sighs. ‘To out- sauce the King of Sass. To out-smart the Infernal Smart-Arse. To out- Jabb er the damn Hut .’

(Was Jabba especially talkative? I don’t remember the narrative featuring a sub-plot about how extortionate his phone bills were.)