Edward Aubyn - A Clue to the Exit

Still, the point was not how it made him feel but what the argument was. That’s what would provide the agenda for a midnight seminar. He was getting dangerously near the door. He could see Crystal going down the steps, followed hotly by the superfluous Jean-Paul. He must get the whole thing clear, like a diagram hanging in the translucent space of his imagination, the blueprint of a missile that would lay waste to the Great Consciousness Debate. On the one hand, the property of consciousness was not a perceptible property of the brain … Then there was the stuff about spatially defined properties … we’re doomed to vacillate between the contingency and the necessity of the connection. On the other hand … Oh dear, he was already at the steps. Well, he could only hope the whole thing would come back to him once he started talking.

‘It’s very clear,’ said Jean-Paul, pulling his suitcase out of the side of the coach, ‘our primate minds were not designed to solve the problem of consciousness.’

‘Well, quite,’ said Patrick. ‘On the one hand—’

‘I’ve decided to limit myself to being tormented by what I know,’ Crystal interrupted, ‘and not take on the further torment of what I don’t and probably can’t know.’

‘Forget the “probably”,’ said Patrick. ‘The whole thing was explained to me…’

‘We agree,’ said Crystal. ‘We agree in advance.’

‘So we’re all agreed that it’s insoluble,’ said Patrick doggedly. ‘Perhaps we should celebrate over dinner.’

‘I need some rest,’ said Crystal, with a shivering smile. Seeing her weariness, Patrick was almost grateful to hear her refuse.

After an unconvincing exchange of phone numbers, the three characters dispersed into the damp London night, each locked in their partially private and, even to themselves, partially hidden minds, but all standing firmly on the common ground of having no explanation for the real nature of this tireless and fugitive mental display.

At this point, Jean-Baptiste fetched me to say that the call had come through. I hurried to the phone and said hello.

‘Charlie! It’s Arnie Cornfield. How are ya?’

‘Arnie? I was told a woman was going to call,’ I said stupidly.

‘You only take calls from women now, you old rascal?’ said Arnie. ‘Taking it easy in the South of France, surrounded by beautiful women on some paradise island — not a bad lifestyle.’

‘What’s all this about, Arnie? Why are you calling me? Don’t tell me you’ve found a package for Smell the Flowers ?’

‘I’m working on it.’ Arnie giggled. ‘Seriously, though, the reason I’m calling, apart from the pleasure of talking to you, which it always is, is that the Movie Channel wanna do an interview with you about Aliens . The bad news is that they need to know your medical status.’

‘Well, when we met in New York four months ago, I had six months to live. You’re good at figures, Arnie; work it out.’

‘The decision is up to you…’

‘Or, rather, it isn’t up to me.’

‘We’re talking different “its”. I’m talking television; you’re talking terminal. I don’t know any tactful way to put this, so I’m just going to put it out there. Either they can do an obituary piece, which would tie in very nicely with a retrospective: this was the man who gave you The Frog Prince, Aliens with a Human Heart , and so forth; or they could do a profile, and if your health should decline totally before it gets aired, a little note at the end, “Charlie Fairburn died whenever ” — you know the type of thing; always a heartbreaker for the audience; makes it very real. They think, “My God, I loved that movie. I can’t believe the guy who wrote that has actually passed away.”’

‘Tough decision,’ I said, ‘but I’m going to make it easy for you. They can do the obituary piece without the interview. And, Arnie, don’t ever bother me with this bullshit again.’

‘Doesn’t sound like I’m going to have that many opportunities,’ said Arnie. And then, feeling he might have bared his teeth a little too nakedly, ‘I’m only trying to protect your interests,’ he pleaded.

‘Interest doesn’t come in the plural any more. It’s singular all the way to the end.’

‘Never give up hope,’ said Arnie, a million fatuously happy endings cluttering up his mind. ‘ Never ,’ he repeated, his voice cracking with emotion, ‘give up hope.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘They might discover a cure. Scientific breakthroughs are happening all the time; and, don’t forget, when it comes to medicine, money talks.’

‘That really would be a scientific breakthrough,’ I said. ‘I wonder what money would say if it could talk.’ I launched into a dialogue. ‘“I was in Joan Collins’s wallet the other day.” “Oh, were you? How is Joan? I don’t know her personally but her lawyer once used me to leave a tip at the Ivy…”’

Arnie roared with laughter at my silly fantasy. ‘Are you putting a patent on that concept?’ he asked. ‘Only, I have a writer — British guy called Ian — always looking for a concept, and I think Money Talks could be perfect for him. A couple of bills fall in love, get torn apart, reunited, solve a crime maybe, or find the autistic nine-year-old who’s hacked into a secret government installation for brainwashing air-force pilots who think they’ve seen a UFO. Only the nine-year-old, and of course the audience, know that the head of the programme is actually himself an Alien, and that the entire human race is a crop for these Alien farmers — real sinister guys; they wear dungarees but they glow in the dark. That’s what death is: the Alien harvest. And if the kid can crack the code, he can save the world and make us immortal … I’m just making this stuff up as I go along.’

‘I can tell,’ I said. ‘Anyhow, the money talks concept is all yours, or Ian’s.’

‘Can I have that in writing?’

‘Fuck off,’ I said, hanging up the phone.

After the torpedo of Arnie’s conversation, I sat dazed at my table. I watched the histrionic complaints being acted out at the bar, the islanders’ inevitable insularity, railing against ‘ le continent ’, the mock fights between men with drooping moustaches and smoker’s coughs, a fisherman pretending to storm out and then winding his way back with an aria of insults, his hand chucking spadefuls of indignation over his shoulder, and I felt the violent alienation of those moments when everyone seems so trapped in their roles that they might as well not have an imagination, a dream life, a capacity for geometry — how long shall I make this list? I couldn’t help wondering what roles I was caught up in myself. I might no longer be the alpha scriptwriter puttering around LA in his classic car, secretly delighted by the bad taste of his shirts, but wasn’t I still dying in the shadow of some giant cliché? The artiste maudit , for instance, who says, if not out loud, ‘My neglected children are scattered over the face of the earth, my body is in ruins, and my alimony payments are twenty times larger than my income, but just get a load of this paragraph about the umbrella pines.’ Or the deathbed apologist who is persuaded by the creaking of vulture-laden branches to put away childish things and have a cassock sent round from the wardrobe department. The thought of being remembered for Aliens with a Human Heart , upsetting enough in itself, was especially bitter since I’d become a human with an alien heart. I couldn’t have missed my true subject more completely.