Tom Mccarthy: Men in Space

18 [eighteen] minutes after activating the transmitter from the listening post in my vehicle, I heard Subject enter the room in which it had been placed. He offered slivovice to an Associate whose identity I could not ascertain. Associate accepted. I could distinguish the sound of a cork being slipped from a bottle and 2 [two] glasses being poured, then a clink as the glasses came into contact with one another. Subject opined that Czech liquor tastes like toilet water; Associate concurred. Subject informed Associate that supplies of Rakia would be delivered to them later that night, alongside supplies of Stolichnaya vodka, pronouncing “Stolichnaya” in a tone of voice that called into question the product’s authenticity and provenance. Associate bemoaned the unavailability of sour-milk yoghurt in Prague’s retail outlets; Subject claimed it was not possible to export this product, since it invariably goes off when it leaves Bulgarian soil. Associate argued that there was no reason it should do so; Subject insisted that his assertion was true nonetheless, citing in its defence a newspaper article he had read about an attempt to reproduce this very type of yoghurt in a laboratory in America, an attempt which, he informed Associate, had proved unsuccessful, to the bewilderment of the scientists involved.

The conversation continued in this vein for 41 [forty-one] minutes, during which time repeated popping, pouring and clinking sounds indicated to me that more slivovice was consumed. Topics discussed included the breakdown and distribution, by nationality, of street prostitutes in Prague One; the possibility of Skoda being taken over by a Western automobile manufacturer in the near future; the changes in car licence plates to be expected after the splitting up of Czechoslovakia next month; the large number of Yugoslavians who have sought refuge in Prague following the outbreak of war in their country; the maximum height, in storeys, from which one could reasonably expect to survive a fall; and other subjects I was not able to follow due to deficiencies in my Bulgarian — although the whole dialogue was, needless to say, recorded and has been submitted to the relevant bodies for further scrutiny.

Eventually their deliberations were interrupted by a buzzing which I took to be that of Subject’s doorbell. Subject greeted this sound with approval. He instructed Associate to help him unload a car; they left the room, and no further audio surveillance was possible that night. Despite Associate’s scepticism, it seems to me that Subject’s claim about the yoghurt is credible. The earth’s conductivity and electromagnetic field vary substantially from one place to another, as every radio operator knows. I left my listening post soon after 2 [two] a.m. and, returning to CCP Headquarters …

* * * * *

Nicholas Boardaman is dreaming of ships. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them are in transit: old ones, iron and wood, moving and at the same time packed together so tightly that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. Decks form a jumble of walkways you could scramble and zigzag over endlessly; gaffs and mizzen booms point in all directions; masts jostle and list; bowsprits trespass across alien foredecks; main booms parry yards so multiple and various they don’t even have names, at least not names he knows. The rigging, a cacophony of intersecting lines, buzzes and hums, a switchboard. Perched in a crow’s nest made of some transparent material that curves round his head, Nick looks down on the scene as though watching a performance — some tragedy, or farce, whose outcome he already knows — play itself out. We’ve been here , he thinks: we’ve seen all of this before …

A man is shuffling and tapping his way across one of the decks below him, preparing to speak: an old man, looking up at him. His mouth moves and important words come out, but these don’t reach Nick’s eyrie. Struggling to catch them, he pushes and twists his way free of the nest and plunges down onto the deck of what turns out to be a luxury cruise liner. Think Love Boat, Monkey Business . Chandeliers hover over marble staircases; shuffleboard courts are marked out on deck; liveried waiters glide by balancing trays of cocktails over their shoulders; sequins pop from ladies’ ball gowns and roll across polished floorboards, making a raspy sound.

Nick finds himself in a tuxedo, playing cards against a suave middle-aged man named Zachary. The stakes have risen dangerously high, and gone far beyond mere money: as other players fold, Nick finds himself betting head to head with this Zachary, wagering all his fluid against the other’s hand — every last drop in his body, or perhaps even the world. What’s worse, Zachary is cheating: holding Nick’s eyes with his own, his fingers deftly slip from his white glove a card whose surface Nick can’t quite discern. There’s some kind of figure on it, dots around him, then instructions … Nick can’t quite make it all out — but he knows, and so does everyone around him, that this is the trump card: Zachary’s won. Nick jumps up to complain, but Zachary edges back the lapel of his smoking jacket to reveal a pistol nestling by his armpit, trumping Nick again. As waiters whisk the cards away, Zachary, smirking, siphons Nick’s fluid from him, storing it in a lower-deck swimming pool to which only he and those like him have access.

The ship’s approaching land now. Speakers strung to its masts pronounce the words the old man spoke a few moments ago: I gape in sympathy towards Eramia . They blare the line out repeatedly, but it’s different each time: Agape in symphony towards Erania … As the ship slows down, its great engines send shudders up from far below the Plimsoll line. Chandeliers, floors, staircases vibrate. Railings lose their solidity and flutter like the wings of dragonflies or humming birds. The surfaces of cocktails become choppy. Behind the ring of elegant people who have gathered round the card table, a trapped albatross is floundering …

It’s the rattling that wakes him. It’s worked its way up from the tram tracks in the street five floors below, wormed its way through bricks and girders, through the mattress’s cheap styrofoam, the feathers of the pillow wedged beneath his head and of the duvet wrapped around him, made his own flesh rattle. He opens his eyes and sees dried-out paintbrushes shaking against the sides of jars on shelves, a spoon’s handle drilling round the rim of a coffee cup sitting on the floor. The rattling lasts for five, six seconds and then dies away.

Nick rolls onto his back and looks up. There are other feathers too: above the grid of black wires that criss-cross the smog-stained skylight, pigeons are strutting and cooing. Dirty. One of them is sliding on its claws against the glass’s incline as it tries to gain a foothold. Nick’s mind replays a cartoon in which a hunter (or was it a bear?) races up a mountain slope in pursuit of a wily, agile fox without realizing that his steps are only keeping him stationary as his feet slip off the thick-packed snow; eventually the hunter/bear looks down, stops running and turns towards the camera, casting a pathetic glance before he plummets backwards, pzanggg! , into a valley with no bottom. The cartoon gives way to images of Michael Jackson moonwalking in ‘Billie Jean’, then unfit joggers waddling along rubber treadmills, then Nick’s sister’s hamster frantically spinning his wheel, feet grabbing and releasing rung after rung, nose perpetually sniffing ten o’clock — then, finally, the big wheel here in Prague.

The wheel’s in Holešovice, in the National Exhibition Park, behind the AVU buildings. Akademie Výtvarných Umění : Academy of Fine Art. Nick feels an anxious wave surge through his chest up to his dull, hung-over head: what’s the time? They might be there already, waiting for him. He gets up, stumbles to the toilet, pisses. In the main room the phone rings. It’s probably them. To the rush and plash of yellow liquid plunging into brine he pictures all the students in the studio, impatient, angry, Kolář flipping through his notebook to find someone to replace him, Dana stabbing her chunky fingers into the dialling disc holes of the payphone in the lobby, waiting for him to pick up so that she can shout at him. Perhaps he should just let it ring: they’ll think he’s on his way. He has to pass the phone to get back to his room. He’ll just skirt by it, throw some clothes on …