Anthony Burgess - The Clockwork Testament (Or - Enderby 's End)

Heartburn was slow in coming this morning, which made Enderby, stickler for routine, uneasy. He noted also with rueful pride that, despite the emission of the night, he was bearing before him as he left the kitchen, where he had eaten as well as cooked, a sizeable horizontal ithyphallus lazily swinging towards the vertical. Something to do perhaps with excessive protein intake. He took it to a dirty towel in the bathroom, called those Puerto Rican bitches back from that dream, then gave it them all. The street was littered with them. The pimpled lout, astonished and fearful, ran round the corner. This meant that Enderby would have to drive the car away himself. He at once sold it for a trifling sum to a grey-haired black man who shuffled out of an open doorway, evening newspaper in his hand, and made his getaway, naked, on foot. Then dyspepsia struck, he took his black drops, released a savoury gale from as far down as the very caecum, and was ready for work, his own work, not the pseudo-work he would have to do in the afternoon with pseudo-students. For that he must shave, dress, wash, probably in that order. Take the subway, as they called it. Brave mean streets full of black and brown menace.

Enderby, still naked, sat at his landlady's desk in the bedroom. It was a small apartment, there was no study. He supposed he was lucky to have gotten (very American touch there: gotten) an apartment at all at the rent he was able, the salary not being overlarge, to pay. His landlady, a rabid ideological man-hater, had addressed one letter to him from her digs in Bayswater, confirming that he pay the black woman Priscilla to come and clean for him every Saturday, thus maintaining a continuity of her services useful for when his landlady should return to New York. Enderby was not sure what sex she thought he, Enderby, had, since there was a reference to not trying to flush sanitary pads down the toilet. The title professor , which she rightly addressed him by, was common, as the old grammars would put it. Perhaps she had read his poems and found a rich femininity in them; perhaps some kind man in the English Department had represented Enderby as an ageing but progressive spinster to her when she sought to let her apartment. Anyway, he had answered the letter promptly on his own portable typewriter, signing with a delicate hand, assuring her that sanitary pads would go out with the garbage and that Priscilla was being promptly paid and not overworked (lazy black insolent bitch, thought Enderby, but evidently illiterate and not likely to blow the sex gaff in letter or transatlantic cable). So there it was. On the other hand, his landlady might learn in London from librarians or in communications from members of the Californian religiolesbic sorority that Enderby was really a ( sounded suspiciously like the voice of an MCP to me, toothless too, a TMCP, what little game are you playing, dear? ). But it was probably too late for her to do anything about it now. Couldn't evict him on grounds of his sex. The United Nations, conveniently here in New York, would, through an appropriate department, have something very sharp to say about that. So there it was, then. Enderby got down to work.

Back in Morocco, as previously in England, Enderby was used to working in the toilet, piling up drafts and even fair copies in the never-used bath. Here it would not do, since the bath taps dripped and the toilet seat was (probably by some previous Jewish-mother tenant who wished to discourage solitary pleasures among her menfolk) subtly notched. It was ungrateful to the bottom. Neither was there a writing table low enough. Nor would Priscilla understand. This eccentric country was great on conformity. Enderby now wrote at the desk that had produced so many androphobic mistresspieces. What he was writing was a long poem about St. Augustine and Pelagius, trying to sort out for himself and a couple of score readers the whole worrying business of predestination and free will. He read through what he had so far written, scratching and grunting, naked, a horrible White Owl cigar in his mouth.

He came out of the misty island, Morgan,

Man of the sea, demure in monk's sackcloth,

Taking the long way to Rome, expecting -

Expecting what? Oh, holiness quintessentialised,

Holiness whole, the wholesome wholemeal of,

Holiness as meat and drink and air, in the

Chaste thrusts of marital love holiness, and

Sanctitas sanctitas even snaking up from

Cloacae and sewers, sanctitas the effluvium

From His Holiness's arsehole.

Perhaps that was going a bit too far. Enderby poised a ballpoint, dove, retracted. No, it was the right touch really. Let the arsehole stay. Americans preferred asshole for some reason. This then very British. But why not? Pelagius was British. Keep arsehole in.

On the long road

Trudging, dust, birdsong, dirty villages,

Stops on the way at monasteries (weeviled bread,

Eisel wine), always this thought: Sanctitas.

What dost seek in Rome, brother? The home

Of holiness, to lodge awhile in the

Sanctuary of sanctity, my brothers, for here

Peter died, seeing before he died

The pagan world inverted to sanctitas, and

The very flagged soil is rich with the bonemeal

Of the martyrs. And the brothers would

Look at each other, each thinking, some saying:

Here cometh one that only islands breed.

What can flourish in that Ultima Thule save

Holiness, a bare garment for the wind to

Sing through? And not Favonius either but

Sour Boreas from the pole. Not the grape,

Not garlic not the olive, not the strong sun

Tickling the manhood in a man, be he

Monk or friar or dean or

Burly bishop, big ballocks swinging like twin censers.

Only holiness. God help him, God bless him for

We look upon British innocence.

And the British innocent, hurtful of no man,

Fond of dogs, a cat-stroker,

Trudged on south - vine, olive, garlic,

Brown tits jogging while brown feet

Danced in the grapepress and the

Baaark ballifoll goristafick

That last was inner Enderby demanding the stool. He took his poem with him thither, frowning, sat reading.

Monstrous aphrodisiac danced in the heavens

Prrrrrrp faaaark

Wheep

Till at length he came to the outer suburbs and

Fell on his knees O sancta urbs sancta sancta

Meaning sancta suburbs and

Plomp

Enderby wiped himself with slow care and marched back, frowning, reading. As he reached the telephone on the bed table the telephone rang, so that he was able to pick it up at once, thus disconcerting the voice on the other end, which had not expected such promptitude.

"Oh. Mr. Enderby?" It was a woman's voice, being higher than a man's. American female voices lacked feminine timbre as known in the south of vine and garlic, were just higher because of accident of larynx being smaller.

"Professor Enderby speaking."

"Oh, hi. This is the Sperr Lansing Show. We wondered if you-"

"What? Who? What is this?"

"The Sperr Lansing Show. A talk show. Television. The talk show. Channel Fif-"

"Ah, I see," Enderby said, with British heartiness. "I've seen it, I think. She left it here, you see. Extra on the rent."

"Who? What?"

"Oh, I see what you mean. Yes. A television. She's a great one for her rights. Ah yes, I've seen it a few times. A sort of thin man with a fat jackal. Both leer a good deal, but one supposes they have to."