Russell Hoban - Her Name Was Lola

‘Shisyia,’ says Indira, ‘let me hear the scale please.’

Lola sees her left hand on the fingerboard, her right hand holding the plectrum. ‘Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha, Ni,’ she sings as the sarod goes up the scale.

‘Stop,’ says Indira before Lola can come down the scale. Lola waits in silence to be told what she’s done wrong. ‘This instrument in your hands is not a machine-gun,’ says Indira. ‘You are firing off the notes like bullets and your singing is without heart. Even the smallest act, even the tuning of the sarod, must be done in the proper spirit of devotion. Let yourself always be the true vessel for the music that comes through you. Move your mind away from all bad thoughts, let it be clear and peaceful. The scale again, please. Not so fast this time. Listen to the sounds that are coming from you.’

Lola tries to clear her mind. She can’t do it. Her mind is a kaleidoscope of sounds and images. She tries to bypass these as she goes up the scale again.

‘What I hear is tension,’ says Indira. ‘Put down the sarod. For the rest of this lesson we’ll do breathing exercises.’

January 1998. Max writes:

CHARLOTTE PRICKLES ON FROG HOLLOW ROAD

Cars went very fast on Frog Hollow Road. Many hedgehogs never reached the other side. Charlotte Prickles put up a sign that said HEDGEHOG CROSSING — SLOW DOWN. But it was a very small sign and it was written in Hedgehog. Even if they saw it, drivers could not read it.

‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ says Max’s mind.

‘No,’ says Max.

‘That’s not a very cosy opening,’ says his mind. ‘Could do better?’

‘OK,’ says Max. He starts again:

The big hand of the clock is at twelve.

The little hand is at three.

It is three o’clock in the afternoon.

It is bedtime at the Frog Hollow Orphanage.

Charlotte Prickles reads the little hedgehogs a bedtime story. She reads The Hog in the Bog. Then all the little hedgehogs kneel by their beds and say their prayers. They pray that they will reach the other side of the road when they go out this evening.

‘Do we want to bring in real danger?’ says Max’s mind.

‘Hedgehogs lead dangerous lives,’ says Max.

‘Whom do they pray to?’ says his mind.

‘I don’t know,’ says Max. ‘Big Spikey, the hedgehog in the sky?’

‘Let’s bypass that for now,’ says his mind. ‘Continue.’

Max writes:

Charlotte Prickles kisses each one.

She tucks them all in.

She takes up her darning basket and

she darns all the socks with holes.

‘I like that,’ says Max’s mind. ‘That’s cosy.’

Max continues:

Then Charlotte goes to sleep.

She has a strange dream and wakes up.

She does not wake the orphans.

She goes outside and sees the moon.

It is a full moon.

The moon is the colour of pale honey.

Charlotte tastes the moon with her eyes.

She tastes it with her mouth.

The sweetness of it makes her sad.

‘Why does the sweetness of the moon make her sad?’ says Max’s mind.

‘The basic hedgehog condition is sadness,’ says Max. ‘Charlotte is thinking of how many hedgehogs have tasted the sweetness of the moon, all of them gone in the whisper of the trees and the rustling of the years.’

‘Whoa, boy,’ says Max’s mind. ‘This kind of thinking is not going to get Charlotte all the way to the bank.’

Max ignores this and carries on:

Charlotte sees the moonlit trees.

She sees the white road.

She hears the rushing of cars.

She sees the headlights.

She smells the night.

‘Where are we going with this?’ says Max’s mind. ‘Is she thinking of crossing the road? There’s an awful lot of traffic right now.’

‘The moon is kind of pulling her,’ says Max.

‘What’s on the other side of the road anyhow?’ says his mind.

‘Maybe she’s just going to the shops,’ says Max.

‘Doesn’t sound that way,’ says his mind.

‘Maybe things are better on the other side,’ says Max.

‘Steady on,’ says his mind. ‘Charlotte sounds as if she’s stoned. I don’t think she’s in a fit state to cross the road. After all, we don’t want her to get flat.’

‘I’m flat,’ says Max. ‘I’m a flat orphan.’

‘That’s no reason to piss on your meal ticket,’ says his mind. ‘Leave this for now, we can come back to it another time.’

‘I keep looking for another time,’ says Max. ‘But this seems to be the only one there is.’

February 1998. ‘Pardon the expression,’ says Max’s mind, ‘but do you think we might be flogging a dead hedgehog?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ says Max.

‘I was only speaking in a manner of speaking,’ says his mind. ‘Of course Charlotte’s not dead. But could it be that she needs a little time to regroup, reprickle, whatever? Why not leave Frog Hollow Road for the time being and catch up with Moe Levy?’

‘I don’t think he likes me,’ says Max.

‘No harm in trying, is there?’

‘There could be,’ says Max. ‘OK,’ he says to Fujitsu/Siemens, ‘let’s go back to where we left off with Moe.’

Fujitsu/Siemens suppresses a laugh and puts up the heading for Chapter Twelve, THE NEW RUCKSACK. ‘What’s that?’ says Max.

‘Moe was going to Blacks for a new rucksack,’ says his mind, ‘and you wanted him to stop by Linda Lou’s office and take her out to lunch and so on. But he didn’t want to. He’s being faithful to Lulu.’

‘He thinks he’s better than I am,’ says Max.

‘What did you expect?’ says his mind. ‘It’s not unusual for a fictional character to be a better man than the guy who wrote him.’

‘OK,’ says Max, ‘I’ll grovel as necessary. Where is he?’

‘Here,’ says his mind. Max finds himself on a road, way out in the middle of nowhere, fields on either side. It’s like that scene in North by Northwest where Cary Grant is being chased by the crop-duster plane. Heat waves shimmering off the road, everything dry, everything flat. No gas station or any place where a cold beer might be available. Far up ahead Max sees a lone figure walking away from him. ‘Yo!’ Max shouts. ‘Moe?’ The figure doesn’t turn, doesn’t stop. Max runs to catch up with him. It’s Moe all right, with his new rucksack on his back. ‘Stop!’ gasps Max.

‘What for?’ says Moe without stopping.

‘We need to talk,’ says Max.

‘Maybe you do,’ says Moe. ‘I don’t.’

‘You and your superior tone,’ says Max. ‘Without me you’d be nothing.’

‘Oh, really?’ says Moe. ‘Let’s just see what you are without me , shall we?’

‘Wait,’ says Max. ‘Give me a break. I’m sorry I misjudged you with that Linda Lou business. We’ll do it your way — no Linda Lou.’ He suddenly remembers his visit to Moe’s council flat. ‘And I’m sorry about that awful estate where you live.’

‘I don’t live there any more,’ says Moe.

‘The whole thing’s very confusing,’ says Max. ‘I never wrote you into that flat.’

‘Who did then?’ says Moe. ‘When you wanted me to take Linda Lou to lunch I said that I was going home to stretch a canvas. Home was a house in Fulham when we started, but when I got home that day it turned out to be what you saw when you came looking for me later.’

‘I honestly don’t know how that happened,’ says Max. ‘Somehow I lost the continuity thread.’

‘Right,’ says Moe. ‘And when you lost it, that estate happened by default. Without any thought on your part, it grew out of your mental and moral squalor like a boil. I’m better off homeless.’