Wilson Harris - Black Marsden - A Tabula Rasa Comedy

*

Goodrich bought the new shirt, cravat and a pair of sandals and left the shop with the parcels under his arm. He crossed Princes Street towards the Gardens in the valley under the Castle. A small crowd of sightseers had gathered around the floral clock waiting for the cuckoo to appear and the hour to strike. He strolled along the pavement with its high banks of flowers: one of those uncanny, slightly ominous but beautiful autumnal days which sometimes appear in the middle of summer. A misty light lay upon the hollow of the valley and he felt himself so absorbed by it that he clutched the parcels under his arm quite fiercely. The sound of a train addressed him and a puff or two of smoke inserted a pillar into the phenomenon of autumn stitched into summer.

For all these reasons, phenomenal reasons, all related to the garb of the year, Goodrich felt that this was a memorable day in the body of his life. An unforgettable day — unforgettable as a pattern of erasures and accretions, accumulations, dispersals — unforgettable not least in the purchases he had made to symbolize an eternal apparition of spirit, however denuded, however misted over, however solitary, however wedded to place and time.

A stream of people descended towards the bandstand on his left and Goodrich made his way towards the West End, ascended to the street and turned into Lothian Road. The street here was wide and the buildings seemed rather grimy but as he drew closer to the Usher Hall he recalled a concert he had attended there with Jennifer and Marsden some months before: Webern’s Symphony, something by Couperin (he had forgotten what this was), some Bach.

The greyness of the street scene lifted somewhat into the mild expansive half-autumnal, half-summer day. An unforgettable day in his life for reasons beyond a precise location or summary of events. He tightened his grip upon the parcels. A day (he smiled whimsically) of judgement and acquittal. Goodrich made his way back to the West End suddenly anxious to be home. He hailed a taxi.

*

When Goodrich arrived home, he went to his room, undid the packages and changed into his new shirt and cravat. It was quite a luxurious garment with the most delicate markings, and as he adjusted the cravat and felt the rich texture of the shirt upon him, he was possessed by the sensation of an impresario of bonfires (the fire of love, the fire of decision) wedded to inner lives and fabrics of time.

He changed into dark trousers and sandals the colour of cedar which he had also bought that morning. All he needed now he thought vividly was an impressive turban to confirm his metamorphosis into an underground bridegroom of fate.

He made his way into the hall with a sensation of the swirling currents of life come to a controlled head in him at last. It was a curious intoxication, beautifully controlled, however, beautifully decisive. Yet, though controlled, not beyond allowing him a reckless latitude. He found himself humming a disjointed version of an ancient ballad:

“He was a braw gallant

And rid at the ring

And the bonny Earl o’ Moray

He micht hae been a King.

He was a braw gallant

And played wi’ the glove

And the bonny Earl o’ Moray

He was Queen Jennifer’s love.

O lang will Black Marsden

Look frae the castle doon

Ere the bonny Jennifer Gorgon

Come ridin’ through the toon.”

There were voices in the sitting-room and when he entered Jennifer and Marsden were standing by the fireplace. He saw Marsden, in fact, first of all reflected in the mirror above. There was a look almost of satisfaction, a brooding calculating face upon him which registered quite distinctly upon Goodrich. Yet despite this a hang-dog almost Knife-like air possessed him too; above all, however, he was still steeped in the astonishing depletion of power which Goodrich had sensed over the past few days.

And now, perhaps because of this air of depletion, he seemed more than ever in line with Jennifer’s consorts — the pale young man and Ralph the mechanic and others perhaps who were nameless.

These impressions ran through Goodrich’s mind like sand. He looked away from the image in the mirror to confront Marsden and Jennifer who were both, in their turn, so astonished to see him in his new garb that they stood stock-still. Goodrich could not help noting that whatever depletion Marsden endured, Jennifer had become a creature of electric assurance and beauty.

Goodrich almost felt a hint of disapproval in their manner. Perhaps a hint of accusation — accusation that he — the world’s guinea pig — should turn peacock, a usurper of fire, of privileges. Or perhaps this was not the case. Perhaps they were a little disturbed that he appeared to be making a bid for — was it Salome’s child?

Then, as if to break the spell, Jennifer smiled. She took a few quick paces towards him and threw her arms around him. Goodrich was conscious of her perfume and the sensuous weight of her body, of the breath on her lips in the breath of his.

“Clive,” she cried before he could utter a word, “I’ve told Mardie everything. And look—” she flung one slender arm wide—“he isn’t mad. He isn’t furious with me at all. He approves of you — of my plans. I’ve told him everything — about you and me — everything….”

Goodrich felt a sudden constriction in his throat, the toppling of his body of intoxication, the toppling of his reckless ballad of intoxication. The air in the room became oppressive, choking. He pushed her away from him almost violently. “How … how … could you?” he stammered and choked.

“How could I what?” She looked at him with her brutal childlike candour. Then added urgently, “What is it, Clive? What have I done wrong?”

“Why couldn’t you tell me first what the doctor said? Why couldn’t you wait to hear from me first before telling him?” He pointed at Marsden. “It was a secret between us, remember? How could you take me for granted like this? How could you take anyone for granted like this? Why couldn’t you come to me first and hear my decision …?”

“But it’s Mardie. I told only him. Don’t you understand? No one else. There are no secrets from him. Don’t you see that? Don’t you know that?”

As she stood before him, accusing him, remonstrating with him, wholly oblivious to him it seemed (as if even when she looked at him she saw only Marsden), Goodrich could no longer suppress the words which burst from him: “Get out! Get out! Both of you. I don’t want to see either of you again.”

There was dead silence. And it seemed now to Clive that the beating of his heart was the only sound in the world. After a moment Jennifer cried, like one who had been struck a blow, “How can you be so cruel? What’s the matter with you? I want …”

Goodrich cut her short. “Get out. Get out I tell you. You want — you want — you want….” He felt almost consumed — on the brink of peril and fire. At this instant his gaze locked into Marsden’s. And a feverish pressure mounted in him to yield his ground. He was conscious also of Jennifer’s trembling accusing lips and a desire arose in him to subjugate himself to her — to them both. Then it passed and his anger and sense of betrayal kept him from moving towards them. A lifetime passed in that curious tableau of figures until Marsden and Jennifer began slowly to make their way to the door.

Before they actually left the room Black Marsden turned and looked back for the last time at Goodrich. He was still clad in his garment of consort, as if he were — for all the world to see — the faces of the pale young rider in the Royal Mile and Ralph the mechanic lover; and other faces Goodrich could not guess at, except to know that at some stage or other they too had been Jennifer’s lovers. Goodrich had the sensation that at the last moment Marsden had been defeated in securing another face — the face of Clive Goodrich….