Russell Hoban - Angelica Lost and Found

We, the three of us, went to where his red Mercedes was parked. It had doors that opened like wings.

‘Classy set of wheels,’ said Angelica. ‘This is a 300 SRL.’

‘You can depend on me for a good ride, golubchik ,’ he said (I was unable to make myself heard).

‘I believe you, Volatore.’

‘Vassily, baby.’

‘OK, Vassily Baby.’

We got in and Vassily put his hand on her leg.

She put her hand over his.

‘Don’t be shy, Vassily Baby,’ she said, and moved his hand further up her thigh (I could do nothing). ‘Have we got time for a kiss and a cuddle right here?’ she said.

‘For this there is always time,’ said Vassily, and she came into his arms (I, Volatore, felt that hot embrace.) Tasting the sweet mouth of my erstwhile love, Vassily recalled a favourite dessert of his childhood: figs with cream. That was how she tasted, his delicious Angelica.

‘ “Wild thing!” ’ she said. ‘ “You make my heart sing!” ’ (This from the woman who had declared herself my love only moments ago. Was eternal Angelica forever unreliable?)

‘I’ll get to your other parts right away.’ (The coarseness of the man!) ‘Excuse me for just a moment,’ he said as he stopped the car. ‘Call of nature.’

Vassily stepped behind a bush, dropped his trousers, there was a little straining and I, Volatore, was expelled, hitting the ground as a full-size hippogriff. Then Vassily got back in the car and drove off with Angelica.

So easily had Vassily Baby disposed of Volatore the hippogriff!

I tried to revert to the mode in which I was idea without visible form but I was unable to do it. How had the Russian been able to expel me like that? Had the idea of me become so weak that an ordinary human was stronger than Volatore the hippogriff?

Fortunately the hour was late and there was no one about. If only I could fly out of this situation! But I had no winged words to lift me. Trying hard to think small, I crept away in the dark, cursing and whimpering, seeking a place to hide.

Many scents came to me: animals; grass; trees; flowers; fresh water; wooden buildings; bushes. I smelled my way to a great park and there I hid myself in the bushes and tried to think what to do next. I was distracted by a roaring, then I realised that I was doing it: my loss was too great for words. Only roaring and the outpourings of madness could express it. To find Angelica after long centuries only to lose her after a brief moment of happiness! Only those who have possessed and immediately lost the fulfilment of their hopes and desires can know my despair.

Then my lamentation turned to rage. How could Angelica, after what had passed between us, drop me and go off with Vassily Baby! Faithless slut! How could I ever trust a woman again! No, I mustn’t think that, there must be some explanation for her behaviour that will eventually reveal itself to me. Perhaps my power had faded and needed recharging — that would explain much. But not Angelica’s acceptance of Vassily Baby as her lover.

What to do now? No idea; I couldn’t be invisible and I couldn’t fly. And I was hungry. Following my nose I found large, shaggy, horned cattle which I could have killed, but they were too big to be eaten in a single meal and I didn’t want to keep a carcass that was starting to smell. I contented myself, therefore, with such smaller cattle as I could find: frogs; toads; lizards; mice; ducklings. I required a great deal of this sort of provender, so I hunted every night in areas of the park not frequented by visitors or homeless men.

This was certainly a low period in my life and I could see no end to it. I tortured myself calling to mind Angelica, naked, waiting on all fours for me to cover her as the griffin had covered my mother.

‘Yes, Volatore,’ she had said, ‘I am your love.’

Sometimes the fog came rolling in off the bay, heightening scents and muffling sound. It rested on my face like the touch of Time’s hand and I felt lost and alone. My existence is so tenuous that it could be snuffed out like a candle by any unfriendly wind. If the vital connection between me and Angelica were broken … but I dared not think of that. Nevertheless I did think of it and everything else: the raven in whose mind I live and the tiny, tiny dancing giants in the dim red caverns of sleep. I had broken through the membrane that divided the reality of the imagination from that of the tangible world and only now did I question my right to do so. This world, whatever its reality, is held together only by consensus, by everyone’s agreeing to abide by rules arrived at by trial and error over the centuries. I had broken those rules, I was an ontological outlaw and I was suffering a just punishment.

But one foggy night I smelled — was it truly, could it be? Yes, it was! Angelica! Her voice came softly through the mist. My soul was irradiated with hope.

‘Volatore!’ she called. ‘Volatore!’

The park was deserted. I made my way to the overlook. The bridge was invisible; the foghorns hooted like lost sea beasts. There she was, my? Angelica.

‘No Vassily baby tonight?’ I said.

‘Only you and me,’ she answered.

‘For how long? An hour? Two?’

‘For as long as we’re allowed.’

‘By whom? By what?’

‘By the story that we are part of.’

‘Really! And was your time with Vassily a chapter in that story? You abandoned me and went off with him. How could you do that?’

‘At first I thought he was you. I kept calling your name but you didn’t answer. He was all over me, hot and heavy, and I lost my head. I was confused and all stirred up and I wanted satisfaction, I’m only flesh and blood after all. Can you understand that?’

‘I can understand one time, but you’ve been with him night after night.’

‘No, I haven’t. He’s not a very nice man and I got away from him after that one time. I’ve had some gallery business to catch up with and since then I’ve been looking for you. Which hasn’t been that easy. Now that I’ve found you can you forgive me?’

‘If it was only the one time.’

‘It was. Listen to this.’ She had a book in her hand, and by the light of a little torch she began to read:

‘ “ Non è finto il destrier, ma naturale ,

ch’una giumenta genero d’un grifo :

simile al padre avea la piuma e l’ale …” ’

A thrill ran through me like electricity, I felt the blood coursing through my body as my wings stiffened.

‘That’s the hippogriff in Orlando Furioso !’ I said. ‘That’s me! You’ve brought me Ariosto!’

‘So are we going to fly out of here or what?’

It took me a moment to grasp the reality of this new situation.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we’re going to fly out of here.’

‘Where to?’

I was taken aback by her direct question. I had given no thought to a destination. Back into the world of da Carpi’s painting? No, that was the reality I’d broken out of to get to San Francisco. Angelica had spoken of what we were allowed by ‘the story we are part of ’.

‘Here, then,’ I said to her, ‘is an anomaly: we purpose using Ariosto’s words to power our flight out of Ariosto’s story.’

‘But we’re already out of his story, aren’t we? San Francisco isn’t in Orlando Furioso . I’m having a hard time getting my head around this! What do you think we should do?’

I closed my eyes and the golden sunlight of Rome, its seven hills and the ruins of the Colosseum flashed into my mind.