Christine Brooke-Rose - The Brooke-Rose Omnibus

— Well, the noise, ma’am, and the dust.

— Or are you … ill?

— Oh, no, no, not at all, I assure you. I love my work. I’m so grateful to you. Nineteen months, you see, it’s demoralising. I once took a degree in Creative Thought.

The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord. The stone in the left nostril is an alexandrite perhaps, blue-green by day, with purple shafts. The wide lips are edged with mauve, they purse in mock reproach that bears a strong resemblance to the real thing. It hurts, down the back of the neck, then forwards, spreading throatwise through the chest.

— You don’t have to impress me, you know, I love people as they are. And I’m glad I’ve been of help, not just for Lilly’s sake but for your own. Now, are you going to be all right? I don’t think you should be working up here all alone, that wasn’t the idea at all. And in a pink bathroom too, right at the top of the house.

— It’s nice, this pink marble.

— Oh, do you like it? It’s very old-fashioned, it must have been put in when the house was built I shouldn’t wonder. It’s all going to be changed into a hairdressing salon for my guests. Right through into the next room.

— What colour?

— I haven’t thought yet. Black probably. Though that’s not very original. Or purple. I’m very fond of purple. But I really can’t think what Mr. Swaminathan was doing, putting you up here, all alone in a pink bathroom. I must speak to him.

— No, no, please don’t, he’ll think –

— He won’t think anything, he’s my servant. One has to speak to them, you know.

— But I thought –

— Well don’t. A pink bathroom at the top of the house, really. No wonder you fainted. Sheer introversion. And I had him trained in human relations, mind you, he should have known better.

— Mrs. Mgulu –

— Yes?

— I beg you not to speak to him. I like it up here. And I like Mr. Swaminathan.

— I see. But work is a social function. You must learn to relate, you know. I’ve taken a special interest in you for Lilly’s sake, and for your own, and from now on you’ll do as I say.

— Yes ma’am.

— I’m going to keep my eyes open.

— Yes ma’am.

The eyes strike deep, a rich chromatic chord, that echoes in the blood long after it has come and gone.

Whereas no amount of positive evidence can ever conclusively prove a hypothesis, no evidence at all is needed for a certainty acquired by revelation. Why him? That’s a very good question. Why now? That is an ignorant remark. In an age of international and interracial enlightenment such as ours revelation is open to all, regardless of age, sex, race or creed. It is not, however, compulsory. It’s entirely up to you. Just fill up this form and queue here.

Mrs. Ned’s arms throw her laughter about, it rebounds against the kitchen walls and she catches it. The goitre moves slowly up and down as she relishes the idea. It is possible, after all, to act out these things. With a little concentration, she can be made to give the correct reply. The evening breeze moves the bead curtain imperceptibly, so that through it the slanted glow from the setting sun can be seen reflected in the verandah glass of Monsieur Jules’s bungalow. The red stone floor is dark and still.

— You provoked it you know, your unconscious did, I mean, the fainting, and her coming in just in time to find you.

— Lilly, you shouldn’t have said that. Why didn’t you let Mrs. Ned say it? She was going to.

— No, I wasn’t. I was going to say that it’s an external circumstance. That’s what they call it. So you be careful.

— Of course you’re under-nourished as well. That’s what Mrs. Mgulu said when she told me. Lilly, she said, he’s undernourished. She gave me these pep pills for you, they’re rather hard to come by, they’re better than the national ones, she said.

— Isn’t the whole world?

— Oh Mrs. Ned, don’t be morbid. I think I’ll open that tin of pineapple after all.

— I’m not morbid. It always helps me no end to think of those six point two people to the square metre in Sino-America. I don’t know how they stand up to it, I really don’t. Afro-Eurasia’s being much cleverer. I mean, it helps me to think how fortunate we are. I didn’t mean –

— No, of course not.

— Yes I will open that tin of pineapple, to celebrate.

Mr. Swaminathan has returned from the Mgulu Farming Estate up-country. He has not nodded and will not nod ever at any time, but the pain, though unallayed, is less acute. He continues to indwell, swaying slightly from side to side, sharing the observation of phenomena. Other people, however, also say the necessary things, from time to time, and no evidence is needed to prove that these things have been said by just these people. With a little concentration from within it is possible after all, to divide oneself and remain whole. At least for a time. There is a record which can be beaten.

— Though of course, there is the spiritual hunger, as you were saying, and that I can’t deny.

— There are plenty of remedies.

— Oh, you’re a great one for remedies, Lilly, I know. But in the end they’re more dangerous than the original –

— Have a slice of pineapple.

— Well, that is kind of you. I was going to say cachexy. Can you spare it? I mean, it was for him, wasn’t it?

— Why him?

— That’s a very good question.

— Why now?

— That is an ignorant remark.

Mrs. Ned’s arms throw her voice about, her laughter rebounds against the wall and she catches it excitedly. As for the squint it seems a little wide this evening, the blue mobility of the one eye calling out the blueness of the temple veins and a hint of blue in the white skin around. The skin around the eyes, both the mobile eye and the static eye, is waxy.

But Mr. Swaminathan dwells within, swaying from side to side, aching his absence from the sharing of phenomena.

The floor is almost finished. The other workers have left. From this position, laying the marbled thermoplastic tiles on the last strip of floor between the wash-basins and the dressing-tables, it is possible to distinguish the dark legs of the hairdressing assistants from those of the guests as they step across from time to time in variously coloured shoes, for the hem of their pale orange overalls just comes within the outer orbit of downcast absorption. The guests, however, wear black slipovers. It is necessary to raise the eyelids a fraction to include a serial of long black legs that shoot out, in variously coloured shoes, each leg supported below the knee by another which rests vertically on the thermoplastically marbled floor. Different sizes and darknesses of thigh are underlined variously in red or pink or black. The floor is almost finished, the other workers have left and the salon is functioning in embryo, for a few guests only. The floor is scattered with snippets of dark cut hair, mostly wet and curved, but they dry quickly, and when they dry they thicken out. Some are almost circular. A few are silvery pink or green. A pink and yellow boy in pink and yellow cotton trousers sweeps the snippets with a miniature broom and brings them together in a grey funeral pyre, the colours merging with the dust. The hairdresser himself is a small dark man in candy-stripe trousers, with delicate black hands and large brown lips thickly pursed in concentration. Mrs. Mgulu wears golden shoes, and a girl in an orange overall with piled gold hair is lathering her thrown-back head, the neck-line dark and taut, the chin well up and rounded, the lips protruding above it and beyond them the wide nostrils. The gold setting of the alexandrite is just visible on the left nostril. The marbled thermoplastic tiles are purple, with a streak of pink.