Christine Brooke-Rose - The Brooke-Rose Omnibus

The thin freckled left hand lies limply on the neighbouring human thigh. The thigh too is thin, and wrapped in faded grey denim which creases like an old tree-trunk. The creases multiply toward the loin, converging and vanishing into it. Something is missing. The dirty canvas shoe has a hole where the big toe presses and no shoe-lace. The shoe was once white but is now grey and yellow and brown. The other shoe, half hidden by the left foot which is crossed over it, may be in holes and grey. Its rubber sole gapes on the left side. Something is missing. Under the bony wrist the creases start, and multiply towards the loin, like the innumerable legs of a large spider. That’s it. And yet the pale green corridor is full of flies, buzzing in the heat making heads negatively shake, hands wave, knees twitch, feet stamp though not necessarily all at once. Sooner or later the fly will straddle the high blue vein on the gnarled hand and the Bahuko nurse will emerge in pink and white calico and call out an identity and the thigh will slope up into a vertical position, slowly or suddenly according to the age and the humour and the health, according to the degree of sanguinity or melancholia, according to the balance or imbalance of hope and despair.

— Mrs. Mgulu, of Western Approaches. Ah yes, she is much given to writing little notes, is Mrs. Mgulu.

The metal grill splinters the bland Asswati face as the eyes move slowly from right to left under the heavy lids. The fly settles on the right corner of the stalwart lips, that twitch the fly away. In the left arc of the nose with the right eye closed,

— Excuse me but that letter is addressed to the doctor.

— Occupation?

— Well, doctor I suppose.

— You suppose?

— Oh you mean me. Odd job man. At the moment.

— Previous occupation?

— Psychopath.

— Psy.. cho.. path … Sponsor, Mrs…. Mgu … lu. Right. Go up the corridor, second left to Out-Patients, wait there till you’re called.

At the back of it all, Mr. Swaminathan sways weakly from one side to another like a dying metronome. You see, he says, sooner or later the sequence will occur. There is a movement in the neighbour’s neck of one who is about to talk. Sometimes it is sufficient merely to say perhaps or I don’t think so or how very interesting, as the case might be, for the sequence not to occur. It is easy enough in the negative. The fly lands about ten centimetres away from the hand that holds an invisible bunch of flowers. You should write to her, you know, it would be quite in order, she is much given to writing little notes. She takes an interest. The tiled floor is mottled. The dirty canvas left shoe has no shoelace and a hole where the big toe presses. The rubber sole of the right shoe gapes beneath the left foot that is crossed over it. Dear Mrs. Mgulu. Since you are given to writing little notes, may I take it upon myself to reciprocate and ask you to take a further interest. The sequence with Mrs. Ned was a failure, despite the tender, incestuous appeal of white within a black man’s world. Dear Mrs. Mgulu. Since you have so kindly taken an interest in my welfare I would like to tell you that the sequence with conventional weapons is about to begin. Mr. Swaminathan, however, still ticks away at the back like a dying metronome, despite the flood of your, despite your generous and devoted efforts to dislodge him. It is not merely that I desire you physically, which is understandable in any circumstances, but that he watches me desire you, he occupies me with you like a sneak and a small-time spy and I would prefer him out of the way. I would prefer to give myself entirely over to desiring you, for sometimes it is sufficient to desire intensely. I hope therefore that the conventional weapons sequence will have some result and shall inform you of further progress as it occurs.

Dear Mrs. Mgulu. Open the flood-gates please, I want to die.

— Excuse me, do you happen to know what that green door is at the end?

— No, I don’t.

— All the other doors are white, you see. And that one’s green.

The neighbouring human thigh, empty of hands, is wrapped in faded grey denim and creased as an old tree-trunk. The neighbour has crossed his arms on his chest. And yet the pale green corridor buzzes with flies that make heads negatively shake, hands wave, knees twitch, feet stamp, not necessarily all at once though all at once in the sudden awareness of these gestures having occurred for some time. They should know that people with kidney trouble find it difficult to use their voice, the voice gets lost and little, the effort involved produces monotonous low noises that go on and on and suddenly get loud and bear no relation to the real thing, whatever it is, which could be communicated. After which they are swallowed back in shame. People with kidney trouble do not like people.

— I never said you had kidney trouble. Your eyelids are the right colour.

— But doctor –

— Psychosomatic. Or sciatica. I’ll give you some pills to cheer you up. Next please.

— It can’t be the lavatory because that’s here.

— I suppose not.

— And it’s not the doctor and it can’t be offices.

— No.

— Do you think it’s one of the wards?

— I don’t know.

The floor is mottled all the way to the pairs of feet lined up opposite, in canvas shoes, with legs denimed or bare.

— It isn’t marked. I mean they usually have a name, don’t they, a benefactor or someone.

— Yes.

— It can’t be the theatre either, that’s upstairs. Or the X-ray room. That’s at the back near Physiotherapy.

— Is it.

The Bahuko nurse emerges from the doctor’s door in pink and white calico and the neighbouring thigh tenses. A name is called out. The thigh relaxes. A large pale lady in a black cotton dress rises slowly from further down the line, collects innumerable bags and waddles in, all basketed around. The freckled hands lie limply on each of the neighbour’s thighs. And yet the pale green corridor is full of flies, buzzing in the heat.

— And yet, you know, I’ve seen them going in and coming out of that door.

It is not merely that I desire you intensely, but that I want to die. Sometimes it is insufficient to disimagine. It is not possible at all. The thing exists and floods the consciousness. I would prefer him out of the way, since he might drown, if you would be kind enough to tell him. He is your servant and one has to speak to them. The thing exists and we cannot pretend that it does not. I hope therefore, and shall inform you of further progress as it occurs.

— Excuse me but would you do me a favour?

The conventional weapons are ranged all round, pointing downwards and converging. The lights above the microscopes glare a heavy heat.

— Did you say yes?

— Yes. What is it?

— When you go in there, could you ask them, oh the nurse will do, it doesn’t have to be the doctor.

The neck is freckled, the face a greenish, yellowish colour, the hair ginger. The eyelids are pink and swollen, the skin beneath the eyes trembles slightly.

— Ask them what?

— Well, about that door. I’ve tried but they never tell me anything. They go all mysterious whenever I ask a question. You know, evasive. As if I had no right to ask, as if there were a secret sect and I wasn’t initiated, you know what I mean. But I’ve been coming here a long time, six years, close on. I swear to you that door wasn’t there when I first came. Have you been coming a long time?

— No.

— Oh, well, I expect you’re just lucky then. They’d probably answer you. You may have been initiated for all I know.

All the dancers on the ballroom floor are dressed in black to mourn the death of the Governor. The faces and hands of the gentlemen are black, the faces, shoulders and arms of the ladies are black, all glowing with vitality, and every gentleman holds one lady at arm’s length, jerking tremulously, then convulsively as the ladies quiver and quake in their shimmering black gowns. The Governor’s wife watches benignly through a gold lorgnette, her eyes two gold-framed pictures on a dark velvet wall. Through the gold lorgnette the dancers quiver on the ballroom floor which is as round as the eye of a microscope. The dancers lean backwards, putting out their bellies, and then forwards, bouncing out their behinds in dignified postures and a steady rhythm. Mrs. Mgulu, hand on hip, leans her plunging neck-line forward in a dignified posture and a steady rhythm and says let me introduce, no, but really, you haven’t got a clue, have you?