Russell Hoban - Angelica's Grotto

‘Does it matter? Actually I was thinking of the book.’

‘In the later film version Spencer Tracy had scarier teeth and Ingrid Bergman. Frederic March’s Hyde was more refined and the fiancee was very appealing although I can’t remember her name. Stevenson pre-dated Freud, didn’t he?’

‘I guess so, but can we stick to the point which was the growing influence of your Oannes aspect.’

‘Look, Leon — I’m not some kind of split personality; Oannes has the same relation to me that your opponent does if you play chess against yourself. The voice of Oannes comes from the part of me that assumes that persona in order to speak my Oannes thoughts. I’m trying not to sound crazy but on the other hand, madness is the natural state, wouldn’t you say? Sanity is a trick we learn somewhere along the way, like how to use knives and forks. Although it hasn’t said very much so far I’m hearing an inner voice again and it’s telling me new things. Shouldn’t we be pleased about that?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Mmmm what?’

‘It’s a question of what kind of new things it’s telling you. In our first session when I said that Oannes was the Babylonian god of wisdom you said that you saw him as something else — I think I have the exact words.’ He went through his notes. ‘“Deeper and darker than wisdom — he’s nothing safe, nothing explicable.”’

‘Yes, I remember that.’

‘And you’ve just said only a moment ago that you recognise your Oannes as coming from the part of you that speaks the Oannes thoughts. So what we’re talking about are new thoughts, a new outlook that’s you. Makes no difference whether you call this outlook Oannes or Popeye the Sailor — what we have here is a new you who’s dumped the old censor and is listening to the voice of “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.”’

‘Alesteir Crowley — I’ve thought of that too. I’ve even written that thought down.’

‘So a little caution might be in order.’

‘Yes, Dad, I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Do. Would you now like to fill in the bits you left out in your Oannes update?’

Klein filled him in. Dr DeVere nodded, shook his head, rubbed his face, made notes when necessary, and looked at Roger and Angelica from time to time. When Klein had joined up all the dots and coloured in the whole picture, DeVere sighed and said, ‘What’s going to happen now?’

‘I don’t know. Clearly I’m an old fool but maybe folly is the reward for having lived long enough to be old.’

‘Please, don’t dazzle me with footwork.’

‘I’m not. I can’t get her out my mind, can’t get the feel of her out of my hands, the taste of her out of my mouth. I want that canary to sing even if it can’t carry a tune.’

‘Down, Oannes!’

‘Up yours, Doc’

‘You intend to see her again? Foolish question, I suppose. I keep thinking I’m here to help you and wondering if I can.’

‘Do you remember the end of Dr Strangelove, with Slim Pickens whooping and hollering as he rides the bomb all the way down? Jumping off wouldn’t have done much good, would it?’

‘You and your movies!’ DeVere looked at his watch like a boxer listening for the bell. Finally, after trying several facial expressions, he found one that felt workable, cleared his throat, and said, ‘Oannes might well be right when he says that madness is the natural state but you must admit that the knife-and-forkery of daily life is a useful survival trick.’

‘The question is: survival for what?’

‘For the life you had before Angelica’s Grotto and Melissa. For the work you do.’

‘Really. I’ve shut myself up in a room and devoted my days and nights to other people’s work. Would you call that a good life?’

‘Time’s up. We can go into that in the next session.’

‘Saved by the bell, eh Doc? Righty-oh. I’ll send you a postcard.’

‘From where?’

‘I don’t know — maybe the Canary Islands.’

Dr DeVere shook his head, made a final note: Madness — the natural state?

‘Oannes, old thing,’ said Klein. ‘Why are you so sparing with your speech? What would it cost you to let me have a few more words now and then? On the other hand, forget that I said that; I live in fear of what you’ll make me do next.’ For a moment he saw Oannes hovering in the darkness, his long length undulating slowly, his dim face impassive. ‘Are your eyes closed? Oh God, what if they should suddenly open and look straight at me? Don’t tell me anything right now, OK? Why was I so aggressive with Dr DeVere? Hoka hey but I really must watch my mouth. Never mind. Be bold, Klein. Toujours audace. Let’s go find Melissa.’

Ordinarily he had a nap after lunch but today he stayed awake, sharp and alert as he stepped out into the world. The day was sunny and cold, a day for travel and adventure. At Fulham Broadway cars and motorcycles snarled as the lights changed from red to amber. An eastbound 14 Bus loomed, gigantically red. Another 14 followed closely behind as if intent on coupling with the first. ‘Even the buses!’ said Klein. Crossing to the Underground station he felt wild and free and crazy.

VIRGIN STATUE WEEPS, said the headline at the newsstand outside the station. ‘As well it might,’ said Klein. The entrance beckoned with its promise of darkness, its world of neither-here-nor-there. ‘Big Issue!’ shouted a vendor to those coming and going.

‘I know,’ said Klein. ‘It’s the biggest.’ He showed his pass and made his way down the stairs to the platform, holding on to the banister because of his vertigo. The sun stormed through the skylights like the eye of God. The board showed a Tower Hill train arriving in three minutes. Moving away from the others on the platform, Klein whispered into his hand.

‘Crazy Horse,’ he said, ‘I’m talking to you. In yesterday’s Times there was a photograph of the model for the Crazy Horse memorial they’re carving out of a mountain in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The caption says they’re using supersonic torches, whatever they are. Probably pneumatic drills and dynamite as well. It’s going to be the world’s largest sculpture, bigger than Mount Rushmore. They’ve been working on it for fifty years and it might take another hundred to finish. The model looks like the kind of thing you’d see in brightly coloured china on the bric-à-brac shelf of a caravan.’

‘Wheats-yew!’ cried the rails as the train approached.

‘Over and out,’ said Klein as the doors opened and he found a seat. He looked at the faces opposite, put his hand over his mouth, and whispered, ‘Every one of them is thinking something. I don’t want to be surrounded by all those thoughts.’

The silence rumbled, shook, and rattled until the train arrived at Temple. He got out at the now-familiar station with its Temple Bar Restaurant, Economist newsstand, fruit and veg, flowers, and Big Issue vendor. The day was holding steady at sunny and cold, travel and adventure. He checked the river, found it auspicious.

He walked once more past the Howard Hotel, its top-hatted doorman stern and dashing with his white gloves on his left shoulder. ‘How’s it going?’ said Klein.

‘Slow,’ said the doorman.

Klein turned into Surrey Street, passed HAZCHEM and the Roman baths, and climbed slowly towards the Strand. After the Norfolk Hotel building he paused at the one that said PICCADILLY RLY, ENTRANCE and EXIT. ‘RLY,’ he said. ‘Royal London what? Yoghurt? Youth? Yearning? Yurts? If I don’t find out I might fall through the lattice.’

Outside the glass front of what was clearly King’s College Reception he paused and swiftly muttered two or three rehearsals under his breath, then walked in, went up to the counter, and said to the young woman who sat at a computer screen, ‘What room would Melissa Bottomley be in at this time of day?’