Patrick White - The Vivisector

‘Your change, sir— please. And Mr Sitsky has your parcel.’ It was the pink-rinsed hair-do talking at him as if he was deaf, clinking with a coin too, on the marble.

Use had carved the butcher’s chopping block to look like a work of art. In all the refrigerated shop, with its staff who bossed you in your own interest, the wooden block was his one comfort.

He had half a mind to catch a bus in William Street, or hail a taxi; but hesitated: hadn’t they walked all the way to Sunningdale, him and Mumma in the old days, Mumma always with a baby in her? Besides, he felt so fit. Must have looked it too: several women pretended they weren’t taking an interest, you could tell by their mouths, always tell when you were being undressed for a quick one before hubby stuck his key in the lock. He couldn’t let himself think when or how he had last enjoyed a fuck. He was above it.

In London she had played, into their K.271, but ‘the D minor’. And Brussels. And Paris. Mum Volkov, inexorably, kept Rhoda ‘posted’.

The night Ruffles was supposed to be sick unto death, Rhoda remembered something deadly funny: I really oughtn’t to tell you, because it’s — well, shall we say — humorous. The reason Mrs Volkov wanted you to have the complimentary ticket for Kathy’s concert is that, when she saw you in the bus, she recognized a lost soul. She’s slightly psychic, you know. Not too psychic when she opened her legs to that legendary Russian.

On entering the suburb to which they all belonged, he spat down into the part of it which some of the locals refer to as Shitters’ Lane. The dust-coloured houses were congesting along the irregular skyline, the air condensing on his eyelashes. He wiped them with the last of the good silk Sulkas Mrs Olivia Hollingrake had presented.

It would be a thankful homecoming. Shed Rhoda’s infernal bag, which had no possible connection with any part of him, but which he had accepted without question. Perhaps because he liked to make little inessential purchases, especially from grocers: champignons au beurre okra medium natural artichoke hearts (or were bottoms a better buy?).

On Saturday afternoons she used to serve behind the counter for a shilling or two.

This was where he began falling down falling falling. It was nothing to fall and reach the pavement.

They began running spilling out so many too many people around him.

I might suffocate, he wanted to shout up at them, but found he couldn’t, or push them back, he couldn’t, he was bound, his strength wasn’t strong enough to burst the iron.

Then the big starling-woman flapping out of the window from behind the tins of Campbell’s Soup the Old Fashioned Hop Scotch.

‘Are you all right?’

His tongue was stuck.

‘Arr Cec cec the gentlemen sick ring the ambulance Cec Cec-urrlll? ’

A draught of cold sawdust. The starling hovered didn’t watch to touch him wasn’t her kind of worm.

‘Howdyer do it? Never rung for an ambulance in me life.’

Knew the slack-looking man. Knew his apron.

‘How do I know? Oh Lord! Dial Triple O and see what happens. ’

Angry. Not a starling after all. A gull growing out of her purple-green-black. utbus in gold as you floating out.

When he returned they were all at it an irregular fence around him he was getting accustomed to it growing on the pavement.

‘She says it’s old Duffield the artist. She knows him well. Friend of Mr Cutbush.’

‘You don’t say!’

The gull-starling flapped and screeched still not touching not prepared to be deceived by any pseudosewage.

‘Someone must fetch his sister. Cec?’

‘Is it a coronry?’

‘No, it’s a seizure.’

‘Isn’t it the same?’

‘Give the poor bloke a chance. You’re treading on ’is ’and.’

‘Oh, Lord, Cec! It’s his sister’s blue plastic bag. I recognized it. Rhoda Courtney’s.’

‘They say they’re very close — Miss Courtney and Mr Duffield. ’

‘Who—“Miss”? Don’t ask me! ’

‘Poor little thing — don’t it make yer flesh creep!’

‘’Ere, you ladies are gunner trample the man.’

‘It’s a coronry.’

‘No. I told yer, didn’t I? It’s a stroke.’

‘What about the doctors?’

‘We rung for the ambulance. It’ll take ’im to the Casualty.’

‘Sister Mary Veronica, she’s in charge. She’s Mrs O’Hara’s cousin.’

‘They put Jock in the Recovery Ward. That means you’re gunner die. ’Is mother don’t know.’

‘You ladies! ’

Knew their shoes down to the last crack the least bunion.

The slack man returning you recognized the Utbus apron put a cushion under your head. Strong though hairless wrists. By now withered thighs kneeling. Queens probably better nurses they have to try harder. And this was this was — cutbush. Couldn’t apologize.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a stroke.’

‘Tt tt!’

All steps twittered then rooted at his crossroads was becoming.

‘Mrs Cutbush recognized ’is sister’s blue bag.’

‘ Aahheuggh! What is ut?’

‘Must ’uv rolled outer the bag.’

‘It’s only a heart.’

‘A sheep’s heart!’

‘Must ’uv bought it for the cat.’

‘A heart’s nice stuffed for tea.’

‘Couldn’t come at it! Look at the veins!’

‘Don’t kick it, Mrs Mac!’

‘Nasty thing! Looks so dead!’

‘It’s Mr Duffield’s property.’

Not his. He wasn’t dead. The colours vibrating. Too vivid. The extra indigo sky above casseta houses the drab human drabs. Noises too tambourines great bong gongs of brass never got the clap ever and o-boes good word the bells bells bells

Hang on to the last and first secret indigo.

‘The ambulance is here, Mrs Cutbush.’ As they shuffled him out on a tambourine.

In something too neat for a bed.

‘He’s been unconscious for two days. He’s my brother. He’s had a stroke.’

‘Arr!’

The noise vibrating disintegrating distributed itself in pins and needles throughout his body.

Rhoda’s voice a little drill. ‘I’ve never owned a floor-polisher. How often do you have to renew the wax?’

‘When it looks dirty, dear.’

Must burst the too-clean curtains all around him.

A woman or sister a same white did just this.

‘Why, Miss Courtney, didn’t you notice? He’s recovered consciousness. ’

Rhoda’s face ought to look less looking more frightened.

‘He is. Isn’t he? Yes, sister.’

Too many sisters Rhoda Lena the nameless starch.

‘You must talk to him from time to time, Miss Courtney. You never know how much gets through to them.’

Rhoda’s gar gargoyle looking petrified down. ‘Yes, sister.’

Sister went. Rhoda perched. Where is lean old bloody Lena?

‘Do you hear me, Hurtle? Ruffles died. I didn’t even cry. I think you can reach a point where you’re beyond crying. And all my cats have always been dirty, selfish, cruel, lazy. Don’t know why I ever kept them. Except you’ve got to have something. And men were never interested.’

Rhoda didn’t believe he in any way worked not certainly by earwork. Didn’t believe other sisters. Only herself.

‘Oh, dear! Do you think the others in the ward will have heard the rubbish I started talking? You forget these are only curtains.’

Not not this pale painfully vibrating ice encasing two of them he hear he couldn’t help couldn’t fend Rhoda’s eyes her eyes pricks her hiss pissing testing temperature of ice reducing to melt.

‘I was only ever interested in men. Not their minds — their minds are mostly putrid — but their bodies. Their lovely strong straddling legs. Their backs. Whatever else they know — whatever feeds their vanity — they can’t know about their own backs.’