Russell Hoban - Her Name Was Lola

‘Deny everything,’ says Max’s mind.

‘I cheat,’ says Max, ‘but I don’t lie.’ Saying it out loud. Did he mean to?

‘So you’ve slept with her,’ says Lola.

‘I’m afraid so,’ says Max.

‘Stop there,’ says his mind, ‘or you’ll be doing more harm than you can ever undo.’

‘Say more,’ says Lola. ‘I need to know the whole thing so this day can be complete.’

‘She’s …’ Max pauses as he looks into the abyss.

‘O my God,’ says Lola. ‘Don’t say it. Say it.’

‘Pregnant,’ says Max.

‘Pregnant!’ says Lola. She recoils as if she’s been smacked in the face with a dead mackerel. ‘You bastard! And while your baby’s growing in her belly you crawl on top of me and do me one more time for good measure. You’re disgusting. Stupid, stupid me! I brought you here and we did our stupid little ritual because I thought I was your one and only and you were mine. I thought I was your destiny woman — that’s what you called me in the Coliseum Shop and everyone turned to look, remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘And this would be our destiny child,’ says Lola.

‘We need to talk about all of this,’ says Max feebly.

‘No, we don’t.’ They’re in the car now, the Jaguar snarls, leaps forward with a VROOM, and they’re off to the Weymouth Road and up to the A3 5.

Max can’t think of anything useful to say and Lola preserves a stony silence as she looks straight ahead into the darkness and the yellow motorway lights. Names and numbers of exits grow large in front of them, small behind them. Arrows point to right and left, up and down. ‘You’re driving too fast,’ says Max. ‘Remember, we’ve had quite a bit to drink.’

‘Yes,’ says Lola.

‘Where did the raven go?’ thinks Max as the car veers off the motorway, plunges down an embankment, and crashes into something concrete with numbers on it.

April 1997. Afternoon. ‘What about the raven?’ says Max.

‘All I know,’ says his mind, ‘is that Noah sent it forth and “it went to and fro until the waters were dried up from off the earth”.’

‘What then?’ says Max. ‘I want to know more.’

‘That’s all it says in Genesis, just what I told you.’

‘Maybe,’ says Max, ‘that raven is still out there, looping the loop, doing aerobatics, flying up a storm.’

‘Well, they are great flyers,’ says his mind. ‘This one must have gone crazy, cooped up in the Ark for almost a year. So I expect it would loop the loop and so on when it got out of there.’

‘What about Mrs Raven? There were two of everything but this bird took off on his own and was never heard from again. Mid-flood crisis? What?’

‘Don’t know,’ says Max’s mind.

‘The mountains of Ararat,’ says Max, ‘are they behind the boiler?’

‘Yes.’

‘But the raven’s not behind the boiler.’

‘Nevermore,’ says Max’s mind.

‘Hello,’ says a nurse. ‘Welcome back.’

‘It’s great to be back,’ says Max. ‘Where?’

‘Poole Hospital,’ says the nurse. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Not sure,’ says Max. ‘When is this?’

‘Sixth of April,’ says the nurse.

‘When did I get here?’ says Max.

‘Twenty-second of March.’

‘Not today.’

‘Right.’

‘What?’ says Max.

‘You’ve been in a coma and you’ve just come out of it.’

‘Lola?’

‘Lyla,’ says the nurse.

‘What Lyla?’ says Max.

‘Me Lyla,’ says the nurse. ‘I thought you were speaking my name.’ She shows him her name badge: LYLA MURPHY.

‘I wanted to ask about my girlfriend, Lola Bessington,’ says Max. ‘She was driving the Ark. Cark. Car.’

‘No injuries other than minor cuts and bruises and she was a bit shaken up,’ says Lyla. ‘She tested over the limit and had a summons to answer. She was discharged a couple of days after she was admitted. Her parents came and picked her up.’

‘She’s pregnant. Is the baby all right?’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Could you try to find out for me, please?’

‘OK.’

‘When can I go home?’

‘Probably in a day or two. They might want to do a follow-up EEG but I doubt it. I’ll see if I can find out about the other. Stay quiet for a while, OK?’

‘OK. Thanks, Lula Mae.’

‘Lyla, me.’

‘Sorry. Names move around behind the boiler.’

‘What boiler is that?’

‘The big black lying-down one.’

‘With names behind it?’

‘Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, Dubhe.’

‘I was thinking of going to Dubai,’ says Lyla. ‘Nurses make good money there.’

Later she reports that there was nothing about pregnancy in Lola’s admission report. Max takes this to mean that she’s been told not to tell him anything.

That afternoon he’s moved out of Intensive Care to a ward with three other men, all of them old. One of them keeps wetting the bed. His name is Byron. Another stares at Max and moves his mouth but no words come out. He’s Neville. The third is Fred. He was in the submarine service in World War II. ‘Were you ever hit by depth charges?’ says Max. ‘Wouldn’t be here if we’d ever taken a direct hit,’ says Fred. ‘Close ones sometimes, the plates would start to buckle and you’d get some water coming in but you’ve got to expect that sort of thing from time to time.’

A nurse called Laura takes Max’s temperature, blood pressure and pulse. She gets an oxygen reading from a thing clipped to his finger. ‘How am I?’ says Max.

‘Blood pressure’s a little low,’ says Laura, and writes up his chart.

‘You’ve got to expect that sort of thing from time to time,’ says Max. Lying on the bottom and maintaining silence, he waits for the depth charges, feels the shock of the explosions, sees the water spurting in as the plates buckle.

‘Seven three eight five, seven two seven seven,’ says a male voice, very refined.

‘I’m calling Lola Bessington,’ says Max. ‘Have I got the right number?’

‘Miss Bessington’s calls are being diverted to this number,’ says the voice.

‘Whom am I speaking to, please?’ says Max.

‘This is Poole,’ says Poole.

‘Poole is where I’m calling from. This is Max Lesser.’

‘Yes, Mr Lesser. Was there anything else?’

‘Can you tell me how she is?’

‘No,’ says Poole. ‘I am not able to do that. Goodbye.’

‘Chambers,’ says a crisp female voice answering Max’s next call.

‘I’d like to speak to Basil Meissen-Potts, please,’ says Max.

‘Who’s calling, please?’ says Ms Crisp.

‘Max Lesser.’

‘Mr Meissen-Potts is out of the country at present.’

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘Try again in two weeks.’

‘Thank you,’ says Max, and rings Poole again.

‘Seven three eight five, seven two seven seven,’ says Poole.

‘Max Lesser again,’ says Max. ‘Can I speak to Lady Bessington?’

‘Lady Bessington cannot be reached at this time,’ says Poole.

‘Lord Bessington, then?’

‘I’ll have to put you on hold for a moment,’ says Poole. Silence. No music.

The next voice has a Victorian moustache and wears a sola topi. ‘Bessington here,’ it says, switching a riding crop against its boot.

‘Lord Bessington,’ says Max, ‘this is Max Lesser. I was hoping to talk to Lola.’

‘Yes, no doubt you were.’

‘Can you at least tell me how she is?’

‘I’m a rather busy man,’ says Lord Bessington, ‘but if you’d like to speak to my secretary I’ll try to squeeze you in for a horsewhipping.’