Uniwersytet Gda ński
Michał Bocian Nr albumu: 117218
Function, Humour, Culture – a Tripartite Approach to Translating Martin Amis’s Yellow Dog
M.A. thesis written under the supervision of Prof. Wojciech Kubi ński, Ph.D., Hab.
Gda ńsk, 2007 r.
Uniwersytet Gda ński
Michał Bocian Nr albumu: 117218
Funkcja, humor, kultura – trójdzielne podej ście do przekładu powie ści Martina Amisa pt. Yellow Dog
Praca magisterska napisana pod kierunkiem naukowym dr hab. Wojciecha Kubi ńskiego prof. UG
Gda ńsk, 2007 r.
INTRODUCTION ...... 1 CHAPTER 1...... 4 1.1 TRANSLATING AS A DECISION -MAKING PROCESS ...... 4 1.1.1 The intellectual struggle of decision making...... 4 1.1.2 Translation as a game of decisions and choices ...... 5 1.1.3 The role of knowledge and experience in the decision process...... 6 1.1.4 Decision making strata: macro- and microcontext ...... 8 1.1.5 Norms in decision making ...... 9 1.2 THE FUNCTIONALIST TRADITION IN TRANSLATION...... 11 1.2.1 Identifying the functions of the source text and target text...... 11 1.2.2 The referential function ...... 13 1.2.3 The expressive function ...... 15 1.2.4 The appellative function ...... 17 1.2.5 The phatic function ...... 18 1.3 THE ROLE OF NORMS AND CONVENTIONS IN THE FUNCTIONAL APPROACH ...... 20 1.3.1 Genre conventions...... 20 1.3.2 Style conventions ...... 21 1.3.3 Translation conventions ...... 23 1.4 THE SKOPOS THEORY ...... 24 1.4.1 The definition...... 24 1.4.2 Commission in translating. The notion of translation brief...... 25 1.4.3 The role of translator dictated by the theory of skopos ...... 26 1.4.4 Assigning the skopos of the translation...... 26 1.4.5 The relation between the sender and the text...... 27 1.4.6 The relation between the sender and the reader ...... 28 1.4.7 Establishing the decoding abilities of the target text reader ...... 28 1.4.8 The relation between the fictional world and the real world ...... 29 CHAPTER 2...... 31 2.1 IN SEARCH OF A TAXONOMY OF HUMOUR ...... 31 2.2 HUMOUR IN THE FRAME OF COGNITIVE LINGUISTICS ...... 33 2.2.1 The idea of salience in approach to humour...... 33 2.2.2 Interlingual asymmetry and wordplay in translation...... 34 2.2.3 Wordplay as tension between the domains of human knowledge and experience ...... 35 2.3 WORDPLAY AND IDIOMS IN TRANSLATION ...... 36 2.3.1 Contextual use of idioms in wordplay ...... 36 2.3.2 Techniques for translating idiom-based wordplay ...... 38 2.4 HUMOUR WITHIN THE SCOPE OF PRAGMATICS ...... 40 2.4.1 Coherence ...... 41 2.4.2 Implicature ...... 41 CHAPTER 3...... 44 3.1 BETWEEN THE POLES OF FAMILIARITY AND FOREIGNESS OF THE CULTURAL EXPERIENCE ...... 44 3.1.1 Two basic concepts in the cultural approach to translation...... 44 3.1.2 The degree of the translator’s (in)visibility...... 45 3.1.3 The illusive nature of foreignisation ...... 46 3.1.4 The release of a domestic remainder...... 47 3.2 CULTURE -SPECIFIC ITEMS IN TRANSLATION ...... 48 3.2.1 The definition of a culture-specific item...... 48 3.2.2 Types of culture-specific items ...... 49 3.3 A TAXONOMY OF PROCEDURES EMPLOYED IN THE TRANSLATION OF CSI S...... 51 3.3.1 Foreignising procedures ...... 51 3.3.2 Domesticating procedures...... 52 3.3.3 Other procedures...... 53
CHAPTER 4...... 55 4.1 THE REALISATION OF FUNCTIONS IN FOUR TEXT SUBTYPES ...... 55 4.1.1 A nursery rhyme ...... 55 4.1.2 A song...... 57 4.1.3 A news item...... 58 4.1.4 An e-mail...... 61 4.2 TRANSLATION PROBLEMS IMPLICIT IN THE EXPRESSIVE FUNCTION ...... 63 4.2.1 Slang and the taboo...... 63 4.2.2 Unusual (infrequent) collocations and original metaphors ...... 75 4.3 Unconventional syntax ...... 84 4.4 THE METALINGUISTIC FUNCTION – PROBLEMS IN TRANSFER ...... 85 CHAPTER 5...... 87 5.1 WORDPLAY INVOLVING CHARACTERS ’ NAMES AND NICKNAMES ...... 87 5.2 WORDPLAY CAUSED BY GRAPHEMIC AND MORPHOLOGICAL MANIPULATIONS ...... 91 5.3 WORDPLAY BASED ON POLYSEMY ...... 93 5.4 PUNNING BASED ON THE CONTEXTUAL USE OF IDIOMS AND COLLOCATIONS...... 95 CHAPTER 6...... 99 6.1 CULTURE -SPECIFIC ITEMS IN TRANSLATION ...... 99 CONCLUSION ...... 114 ABSTRAKT ...... 116 REFERENCES ...... 118 APPENDIX A...... 123 APPENDIX B...... 170
Introduction
This thesis attempts to provide a theoretical and analytical approach, adopted to account for the problems of humour and culture in transfer that pervade the translation of Martin Amis’s Yellow Dog . The assumed approach is tripartite as the debate is permeated by the issues regarding the text and its functions, language and humour, and cultural experience of the ‘other’.
Throughout the discussion the image of translation gradually changes from the perspective of a communicative act between the sender and the receiver to the viewpoint that sees the process as intercultural negotiation of values. Due to the confines of space, however, it was only possible to hint at the issues embedded in translation perceived from the angle of ‘cultural turn’. Also, to give some insight into the mechanism of translating, the notion of translation as a decision- making process was offered.
The persona of the translator, on the other hand, emerges in the argument as a judge who in his or her decisions wields the power to abuse the message, its creator and its addressee. In the cultural context, the image of the negotiator prevails, as the translator becomes a mediator who negotiates the differences between two cultures. Finally, the decision-making process evokes the image of a player carefully planning his or her strategies to achieve a planned goal.
The first three chapters constitute the theoretical part of the thesis. This part presents the tripartite approach drawing from various aspects of studies on translation, language and humour.
The first chapter is in large measure devoted to the functionalist approach to translation which is seen as an act of intercultural communication and purposeful activity. The discussion focuses on the receiver, as the notions of textual functions and the purpose of translation are thoroughly scrutinised. At the outset of the thesis, however, an attempt is made to fathom the complexity of translation as a decision- making process. With reference to the aspects of Levy’s game theory, different types
1 of knowledge and to the issues pertaining to normative studies, translating emerges as a process of intellectual struggle of choices.
The second chapter adumbrates different facets of humour in translation from the perspective of cognitive linguistics and pragmatics. With the stress on linguistic aspects of humour a set of techniques is proffered to address translation problems resulting from contextual use of stable elements of language such as idioms or collocations. Pursuing the communicative approach, the issues of recreating the comical effect as resulting from the interchange of utterances are discussed.
In the third chapter the issues of culture raised in previous chapters are further explored as the argument oscillates between the concepts of foreignisation and domestication. The role of the translator and his emergence from transparency are reappraised. Finally, the notion of culture-specific items is introduced and followed by a tentative classification and a suggested selection of translation procedures.
The following chapters constitute the analytical and empirical part of the thesis. They intentionally refer to the theoretical ruminations of the first three chapters, and provide empirical evidence drawn from my rendition of a fragment of Amis’s novel. The translation problems analysed in chapters four to six frequently defy clear- cut categorisation. Hence, their assignment to particular chapters and sections may sometimes feel arbitrary and is by no means conclusive.
Chapter four starts with a functional analysis of four subtexts that prove to be recurrent problems in the macroscale of the whole novel. The problems of substandard and taboo expressions together with original metaphors are investigated in successive sections focusing on the expressive function. Finally, the evidence of the metalinguistic function is briefly discussed.
Meaningful names and nicknames as a problem in transfer open the chapter on humour in translation and consecutive sections are devoted to the analysis of various instances of wordplay in translation.
The last chapter focuses on the analysis of culture-specific items in translation.
2 The appendices included in the thesis contain the author’s rendition of three first chapters of Martin Amis’s Yellow Dog as well as the corresponding text of the original
3 Chapter 1
1.1 Translating as a decision-making process
1.1.1 The intellectual struggle of decision making
It is impossible to expatiate on the translating process of any literary work without considering it a decision-making and a problem-solving activity. Katharina Reiss defined interlingual translation as a “bilingual mediated process of communication” and it is hard to resist the conclusion that, since the process is mediated (and the role of the mediator is naturally ascribed to the translator), some changes in communicated message are bound to occur (Reiss 1980: 160). As Reiss observes, these fall into two categories: unintentional and intentional (Reiss 1980:160-161). She accounts for the inadvertent type of alterations in terms of translator’s competence and difference between languages. Indeed, as is the case with experienced professional translators, some situations may be handled unconsciously, especially if the translator is able to implicitly recognise the norms that govern the process of translating. Leaving translating competence aside, however, and accepting translation as a rational activity, let us for now confine the discussion to the latter category of selections. Every time we notice and recognise a problem situation we are faced with an issue demanding some form of choice, and accordingly a decision has to ensue. Arguably, having taken the selection of a source text as a starting point, this interrelation accompanies the translator throughout the entire process of translation, a process that is open-ended and rarely terminates with the printing of a “ready” target text. The position of power the translator entertains, allows him or her to carry out the task using whatever measures will seem fit. This thinking seems idealistic. Naturally, there are many underlying factors that will act against the translator’s freedom of decision. The struggle to wriggle out of these ties entails the notion of abuse of power on the part of the translator.
Let us assume at this point that the optimal and most general task of the translator is to reproduce source text for the target language receiver, taking account of semantic, pragmatic and stylistic aspects, together with the needs
4 and expectations of the target text readership. Bearing this in mind, if one embarks on translating a demanding, difficult text, the translation practice can be perceived in terms of an intellectual struggle, a struggle of choices on various levels. When the translator has to deal with non-trivial situations, in which the selection cannot be reduced to a simple mathematical relation ‘if X … then Y …’, an element of risk is involved and the question of responsibility emerges, which intensifies the idea of a challenge.
1.1.2 Translation as a game of decisions and choices
The image of a struggle invoked here may be attributed to the partial influence of the games theory applied to the decision-making process by Ji ŕi Levy (1967). Levy defined translation as a decision process which in a series of moves, “as in a game”, forces the translator to choose from a number of alternatives (Levy 2000: 148). In many respects, one has to agree with Levy and admit that translating indeed evokes associations with the attractive idea of playing a game. Suffice it to say that both notions require planning, involve strategic thinking and the concept of sacrifice is alien to neither of them. Some more complex games, for instance a good deal of strategic board games or role-playing games embedded in a plot, which can be developed by the player or a group of players, allow for many possible scenarios and instances of strategic behaviour. By the same token, they offer the chance to apply different strategies and tactics in the consecutive approaches to goals defined in the rules of the game. Similarly, there is not one and only prescribed way to approach a text to be translated, quite the contrary; but for practical obstacles we could witness a situation when a number of translators have been commissioned to translate the same source text, which would easily show how manifold readings and approaches can be. In many games it is an accepted convention that if any rule is flouted or if one of its aims is not realised, a forfeit has to be paid. It is tempting to suggest that this proves to be a very common instance in the practice of translating a literary work, as taking decisions in problematic situations always involves sacrifices at the cost of either the source text or the target text. In this way, translating emerges as a ‘knight errand’s game’ in which the ideal cannot be achieved. It is a basic truth that the goal of perfect
5 communication between cultures cannot be attained, and therefore, seems largely utopian. Linguistic and cultural constraints always cause some fraction of the message to be lost in translation. To take humour, as a classic example, it may often happen that if the translator wants to retain the humorous effect of a passage, he or she may be forced to intervene in the source text losing some of its original sense, fidelity to the author and accuracy to the source text being at stake. Or, taking a glance at the cultural lacunae stemming form the differences between the source culture and target culture, if the translator aims to dispose of this problem, he or she has to consider the loss of smoothness in reading (if the text is deliberately foreignised) or risk failing to preserve the feeling of “otherness” in the target text (if a domesticating strategy is opted for). As these examples clearly show, “victory” in translation is never total, never complete, and the nature of the decision process implies that there is always something the translator has to forgo in his moves. Success, however, can be achieved if seen in terms of the number of successful decisions and choices and, consequently, corresponding objectives they enabled to meet
1.1.3 The role of knowledge and experience in the decision process
Perceiving a single choice in a translation as a move, it seems reasonable to agree with Levy when he speaks of every move “being influenced by the knowledge of previous decisions and by the situation which resulted from them” (Levy 2000: 150).Thus, just like chess, translation may be perceived as a “game with complete information”. Nevertheless, it is not only the knowledge of the decisions in his own game, that a player should consult in his choices. A player, and therefore the translator as well, should turn to the experience gained by other players, who present it either analytically or prescriptively.
Levy (1967) singled out two components of the decision-making process: a definitional instruction and selective instructions. The former defines the paradigm, which can be characterised as a set of alternatives that are “ordered according to different criteria”, and the latter govern the selection from the set of possible choices (Levy 2000: 150). Although Levy’s instructions seem to work quite
6 well on the word level, he did not attempt to relate them to upper strata of decision- making.
In his theoretical proposals, Levy corroborates the theory of a British philosopher Gilbert Ryle, who, in his seminal work The Concept of Mind (1949), proposed the notions of declarative and procedural knowledge, which according to him are inextricably connected with decision making and problem solving activities (Ryle: 1949 as quoted in Wills 1998: 57). Declarative knowledge (knowing what 1) can be described as the awareness of some object, event or idea and comprehension of its complexity (Jonassen and Beissner 1993: 3). Hence, in the process of translation, this type of knowledge would facilitate recognizing the problem as a situation of choice from a pool of potential solutions. Yet, to apply declarative knowledge in practice, we need to know how to do it. To account for this issue, Ryle put forward the concept of procedural knowledge, which would allow translators to decide “in which situations they must apply which operative moves to attain a desired goal” (Wills 1998: 57).
In fact, it stands to reason that, while being an apprentice to the craft of translation, one is unable to take part in the decision making process without substantial awareness of “the objects of performance” 2, which can be drawn from studying the prescriptive solutions to the given problems, and/or examining how some solutions were applied in various translations. Hence, to some extent the behaviour of the translator appears to be epigonic. On the other hand, it is very important to realise that translating cannot be exclusively based on experience drawn from a number of outstanding and failed translations. Moreover, the target text should not be envisaged simply as the product of selections from sets of ready-made linguistic options. The process of translation takes place at a moment in time, and is subject to a variety of constraints that a target culture imposes on it. By the same token, the translator has to be wary of what is accepted, what is preferred in the target culture at the moment of transfer. This can be facilitated by studying what is considered
1 descriptions ‘knowing what’ and knowing ‘how’ were used by Ryle (1949) in his elucidation of the problem 2 the term is used by Jonassen and Beissner (1993)
7 appropriate and correct in a given culture. This knowledge can be subsumed under the notion of norms and shall be discussed further in this section.
1.1.4 Decision making strata: macro- and microcontext
It needs to be emphasised that the decision-making process is a complex activity that pertains not only to textual transfer but also to the range of choices that have to be made before the stage of rewriting the text from the source language into the target language. It seems convenient and reasonable to distinguish between these two strata, as, for one thing, the division can show a hierarchy of decisions made in the process, for another, this may explain the tensions between the assumed principles. The hierarchy of decision-making that was adhered to in the translation of Yellow Dog , was that which proceeds from macrocontext to microcontext, from the text level to the level of sign. The top-to-bottom analytical approach was advocated by Olivio Carbonell (1996), who claimed that to better understand how another culture perceives the world, and to recognise our own mythologies and stereotypes of that culture, it is first necessary to look at the information to be translated or interpreted from above (Carbonell 1996: 86). The translator adopts this bird’s eye view to gain a necessary insight into the way the source text functions in the source culture, but this distance also allows to examine the complexity of the target system and the expectations of its members, and to predict the shape of the future target text.
We need to bear in mind that macrocontext decisions may be responsible for the consistent translational actions at the level of microcontext. To avoid inconsistency at the lower levels, the translator may need to decide on the strategies that would be related to the entire target text. The ‘author to reader’ strategy is the most prominent instance in the case. On the other hand, faced with the problem of translating a satirical literary text generously endowed with expressive content full of cultural nuances interwoven with manifold instances of humour, one is forced to constantly formulate and reformulate the rationale for his or her selections, jumping back and forth between the source text and the target text. This leads to the emergence of tension areas, where the theoretical clashes with the pragmatic. Perhaps, it is worth
8 asking whether consistent behaviour is really a sine qua non condition for good translational performance. Toury, for instance, denies the need for full conformity between a decision made in macrocontext and every single decision in the microcontext, consequently refuting the dubious arguments of absolute regularity in translational behaviours (Toury 2000: 201). The tensions experienced in the course of work with Amis’s novel also pertain to the very process of translation. If we assume that consistency and loyalty to one strategy is a standard practice, the departure from this rule may result in bewilderment of the clever reader. In the struggle to amuse the translator has to accept these departures as part and parcel of his task.
1.1.5 Norms in decision making
At the outset of the present discussion translating was referred to as a mediated communicative process, and the two adjectives describing it imply per se that there are, generally speaking, three parties that are involved in this type of communication. They emerge as the sender, the mediator, and the receiver respectively. These parties participate in an act that exemplifies a form of social behaviour and their interaction and coexistence is coordinated by means of norms (Hermans 1996: 29-26). In a nutshell, norms constitute the domain of implicit knowledge which specifies what is perceived as adequate, accepted, appropriate in a group (and therefore in a culture), and what is seen and felt otherwise. In the process of mediation between the individual and the collective, norms can provide constraints on the translator’s actions and keep a tight rein on his or her choices. Nevertheless, they can also appear more positively as patterns of behaviour regulating actual behaviour as such, as well as its product—the target text (Schäffner 1999: 5).
The normative knowledge is essential to each and every level of decision-making, and as Toury argues, it accompanies the translator from the choice of the text to be translated to the very final choices of translation strategies in the process of rewriting (Toury 2000: 200-201). As a result, he proposes three types of norm: initial, preliminary and operational.
9 Initial, superordinate norm governs the macrocontext decision whether to subject to the source text and the norms it fulfils within the source culture, or to the norms that are present in the target culture. When the former approach is adopted, the text assumes a higher position on the scale of adequacy, which entails, however, flouting the target norms and a decline in the target text’s acceptability. If, on the other hand, the latter modus operandi is opted for, departures from the source text would be the most probable outcome, adequacy being an inevitable forfeit. Arguably, the positions on the scale of adequacy and acceptability do not have to be static for the whole target text. It seems reasonable, however, to set a direction for the process at the very beginning of the process of translation, for this would facilitate further decisions throughout the course of action.
The second type of norm, the preliminary norms, can be connected with the kind of translation policy and the directness of translation that has been decided on. Since Yellow Dog has been translated directly from English into Polish the latter is of no concern to this discussion. Translation policy may be regarded in terms of predilection for the type of the text, the choice of an individual text and author or even language in which it is written (Baker 1998: 166). These predilections and choices can stem from Even-Zohar’s vacuums in the target literary system 3 which facilitate intercultural transfer and govern the development of cultures.
Finally, the third type of norms, called operational, concerns choices made during, rather than before, the actual act of translation. Arguably, operational norms might explain the unintentional changes made while translating which are not deliberate. Often, when a problem-solution link is instantaneously recognised, there is little awareness of the whole process. Seemingly, numerous decisions are based on the conviction or belief that something simply sounds or reads better, or that it is the right way to communicate a message in the target language. The translator’s sensitivity to the target text norms appears to be essential for the acceleration of the decision process. To successfully recreate humour in translation, it is often necessary to turn a blind eye on certain prescribed ways of behaviour. The translator
3 see Even-Zohar (1978/1990)
10 has to be flexible in his conformity with the prevalent norms. Although disregard inevitably leads to abuse, the latter can be the only way to accomplish the task.
1.2 The functionalist tradition in translation
The functional approach which I will attempt to present in this section appears to be a general term for an area of research that advances the theory in which the purpose of the target text emerges as the crucial factor shaping the process of translation. Nevertheless, this way of thinking is but one strand that influenced the functional perspective in translation, whose aspects have been developing concurrently with the functionalist views in linguistic tradition (developed by J.R. Firth, J. Catford, M.Gregory), which after some time found their way into translation (Mason 1998: 29). The superior factor that unites most of these views seems to be the communicative perspective, in which translation is viewed as a “process of intercultural communication, whose end product is a text which is capable of functioning appropriately in specific situations and context of use” (Schäffner 1998: 3). Thus, the functionalist approach in its broad meaning can be loosely connected with the communicative approach. The foundations of this attitude in translation studies have been laid in 1964 by Eugene Nida, who in his seminal work “Principles of correspondence” proposed two basic types of equivalence: formal and dynamic. While the former focuses on the message, the latter strives to retain the same effect directing the attention towards the receiver and his response. Using the term ‘response’ and distinguishing different areas of the communication process, Nida stressed the communicative quality of the translation process (Nida 2000: 127-137). This turned out to be a convenient starting point for the functionalist tradition stemming from the early 1920s work of Karl Bühler and continued by K. Reiss, H. J. Vermeer and Ch. Nord up from the 1970s.
1.2.1 Identifying the functions of the source text and target text
It was Roman Jakobson’s Poetics and Language (1960), which first expounded at length the functions of language and their importance for the process of communication, presenting six functions of language: poetic, referential, expressive, conative, metalinguistic and phatic. Jakobson made the assumption
11 that functions of language are assigned to the elements of the communicative situation and the different elements of this situation are put in focus: addresser, addressee, context, etc. Later, Katharina Reiss (1980) in her translation-oriented text typology expanded on written forms of communication, and put forward the hypothesis that one of the major factor governing the process of translation is identifying the basic communicative form of the source text. Consequently, she confined her functional model to three major types: informative, expressive and operative, which were centred on the communication of content, its artistic organisation and its persuasive character respectively (Reiss 2000: 163). Although Reiss allowed for mixing of the forms, it seems rather vague how the translator could deal with a text in which the types are not realised in their “pure” form. Her belief that every author decides on one of the three forms before writing can also easily be refuted. Relying on Reiss’s text types and varieties, Chesterman (1989: 105 as quoted in Munday 2001: 74) inscribed a handful of genres into a triangle of three functions, of which I present only some below:
Figure 1.1
12
As we can see in the diagram, satire defies a definite classification to one of the three text types proposed by Reiss. Being a piece of literature, satire gives voice to the author’s attitude in certain aesthetic dimension and unquestionably drifts toward the expressive type. However, it also fulfils the operative function by attempting to elicit a certain response. Hence, with respect to the diagram and Reiss’s shrewd observation, satire emerges as a hybrid type. Yet, the distance from the informative type might be thoroughly misjudged. Are we to assume that satire cannot transmit any information? Reiss fails to convincingly account for such hybrid types in many respects. It also may be reasonably doubted whether the specific translation methods according to text types can be feasibly applied in translating such a hybrid type of text. If we followed Reiss’s tenuous arguments, we should only adhere to the predominant function in our translation. In a text of high complexity encompassing many subtexts this simply cannot be done. Arguably, Nord’s translation-oriented model of text functions seems a more feasible vehicle for facilitating the identification of functions in a text, allowing for their plurality and sub-types. His model subsumes four basic functions: referential, expressive, appellative and phatic. In this way, it draws to a large extent on Bühler’s model but is enhanced with Jakobson’s phatic function, which Nord felt lacking in the former set (Nord 1997: 40). Let me now provide a brief outline of the four types of Nord’s text functions. I will refer to the way they are realised in the source text and target text and how they are germane to particular translation problems.
1.2.2 The referential function
Nord (1997) states that we can speak of a referential function if there exists a reference to the items, entities, facts or phenomena of the world, which can naturally be fictional as it is the case in literary texts (Nord 1997: 40). This function can therefore impart information to the receiver, who is not aware of some facts. To illustrate this role with an example, the addressee of Yellow Dog is given a vivid description of the streets in Camden Town, London: “the dozen black frames of the traffic lights, the slum of cars”; then the fashion of young people, which can be observed in Camden High
13 Street: “nine-inch bricks and wigwam flares” (Amis 2003: 6). Clearly, for a reader who has not been to the place, or who has never spotted what its streets and people look like, the utterance which refers to a real world place, appears to be highly informative. However, the text very often offers information that is only to some extent anchored in reality, as is the case with the monarchy of King Henry IX. The action is set in England, which is indeed a monarchy, although the whole lineage of Englands is entirely fictitious. Sometimes the text refers directly to language or its specific use. And since Amis’s novel is substantially involved in the issues of language deterioration as exemplified in the e-mails and tabloids, and informs the reader about the state of language, Jakobson’s metalinguistic function may rightly be included in this category. Having mentioned the informative and metalinguistic sub-functions, we are left with one more component type of the referential function—the didactic one, which gives the reader an opportunity to gain some knowledge in a given field of science (Nord 1997: 40). Amis stressed that his novel is “a work of unalloyed fiction, but several of the areas it touches on involved…some light research” (Amis 2003: 340). Since the author did consult scientific books, which becomes evident in the thread of Xan Meo’s head injury and further trauma, it seems reasonable to assign at least some didactic function to this subplot.
As has been stated above, referential function may focus on objects in the real world. As Nord argues, the receiver of the message must be able to synchronise it with their vision of a specific world involved (Nord 1997: 41). If this synchronisation fails, the referential function may be realised differently in the source and target text, which often puts the translator in a problematic situation. The function poses translation problems when the source text reader and the target text reader are not equipped with the same amount of previous knowledge of the ideas referred to, as is often the case with culture-specific items. These items require additional information if they are to be retained and mark the foreignness of the text. By the same token, some information that is given implicitly in the source text, and can easily be deciphered by the source text reader, in the target text must be expressed explicitly. This may lead to the conclusion, that translating can result in the production of a target text that is far richer in its referential function than the source text.
14 1.2.3 The expressive function
As for the expressive function, Nord does not restrict it to the mere aesthetic aspects of a literary text. On the contrary, she connects it with the sender’s attitude towards the objects and phenomena of the world (Nord 1997: 41). It very often happens in a literary text, that the author expresses his personal opinions or beliefs through the voice of the narrators or characters in the fictional world. Thus we can assume that this function is sender-oriented. Naturally, judgments and evaluations may be pronounced explicitly, by means of evaluative or emotive adjectives or implicitly (with irony, for example), the latter obviously posing many problems during the process of translation.
If the narrator in Yellow Dog utters an interjection, and stops reporting the action to share his feelings or emotions with the reader, we can attribute the emotive sub- function to his utterance. At times Amis’s narrator voices his disgust and dismay in coarse language, which emphasises emotional agitation on his part. Sometimes there is a deep sense of nostalgia in the comments. Let me illustrate the point with two quotations:
(1) The rink of Britannia Junction: Parkway and Camden Lock and Camden High Street, the dozen black frames of the traffic lights, the slum of cars. Certain sights had to be got out of the way: that heap – no, that stack – of dogshit, that avalanche of vomit; (Amis 2003: 6).
(2) He thought too of the menpleasers of twenty-five years ago, their stockings, garterbelts, cleavages, perfumes. Girls were now breaking with all that. (And maybe it went further, and they were signalling the retirement of physical beauty in the interests of the egalitarian.) (Amis 2003: 7)
In the first quotation the narrator voices directly his disgust and indignation towards what he sees in the streets of Camden Town. Also one can observe there a struggle to find the best words to manifest the emotion. Nevertheless, one may argue that what one finds here is evaluative sub-function which implicitly refers to the medley
15 of young people in the streets of this London borough. The second passage exemplifies a feature of Amis’s style, namely interjectional narrative comments expressing emotions, evaluations and irony, and these instantiate sub-types of the expressive function.
With the expressive function in Yellow Dog arises the problem of offending the reader. The author of the source text aims his text at a reader, who is an individual sharing the same cultural space with the sender of the message. In the same way, Amis directs his message to people rooted in the English culture, and to a certain readership. He voices his views and personal opinions, on the assumption that the receiver has the same or similar value system. Obviously this becomes a problem in intercultural communication, where the source reader and the target reader may not necessarily share the same values, which are “conditioned by cultural norms and traditions” (Nord 1997: 42). Consequently, it follows that one can only regard the expressive function in the source text in terms of source culture value system. The distance between two cultures may be a decisive factor in the possibility of retaining the expressive force of the utterance. It also seems that opting in favour of a dose of foreignness requires the preservation of the strength of expression, norms and conventions notwithstanding. The translator cannot weaken the coarse language, however displeasing it may be, when it builds the image of a foreign culture. To illustrate the problem let me quote a classic example taken from Money , an earlier novel by Martin Amis, translated into Polish by Krzysztof Zabłocki 4:
context : a black man spotted two white men in 98 street New York and spurted an emotional comment
source text : “Fuck this shit, man”
target text : “Wyplu ń, gapcio, te gówniane smuty” (Zabłocki 1995: 216)
4 example taken from Maciej Świerkocki’s essay on translation mistakes in two novels by Martin Amis ( Swierkocki 1997: 279)
16 This example leaves the reader bewildered, as he or she is most probably aware of the racial animosities between the white and black people in New York. The sentence, which could be rendered in Polish simply as “Ja pierdole”, sounds at least awkward in this context. In the translation of Yellow Dog I aimed to retain the strong expressiveness of curse words as far as it was possible. For one thing, vulgar language intensifies the appellative function, for another it presents the world in the Yellow Dog such as it really is. Moreover, the language reflects the masculinity of the narrator and the issues of violence in the novel. That is why, I chose not to interfere with the expressiveness of the source text, although at times this may seem offensive to the assumed target reader.
1.2.4 The appellative function
Jakobson and Reiss had already argued that the text or the utterance can have an action-inducing function when they introduced their conative and operative types respectively. Nord follows their lead and calls this type of function ‘appellative’, directing it at “the receivers’ disposition and sensitivity to act” (Nord 1997: 42). When we want a person to react in this or that manner we may address him or her in a direct way. Similarly, this function can be achieved directly, for example by means of imperatives or rhetorical questions. However, persuasion may also be contained implicitly in the referential or expressive functions of a text. This can be achieved through the use of superlatives, adjectives or nouns.
Nord indicates that, since it is aimed at producing a response, this function is oriented towards the receiver (Nord 1997: 43). This fact presents yet another problem in intercultural translation as the target text reader is bound to have a different sensitivity, experience and knowledge from the source text reader. The problem becomes evident in the case of culture specific items: examples, metatextual and metalinguistic references, metaphors or comparisons which can successfully spoil the compliance of the target text with the appellative function of the source text. Thus, it seems reasonable to assume that the scope of the appellative function becomes narrower in relation to the source text. The more the text is attached to the source culture realia, the harder it is to preserve the extent of this function.
17 The amount of culture specific items in Yellow Dog seems to be copious enough to bind the novel strongly to the British culture. The fictional royal family sub- plot might be here a good example to illustrate the point. As the concept of monarchy is alien to contemporary Polish culture, the Polish reader is altogether detached from the phenomena specific to this concept. The Polish target reader may therefore not recognise its implicitly postulated redundancy. Similarly, the appellative function cannot be transferred to the target text due to such metalinguistic references as King’s conservatism in his speech: “…How could it be so arranged that such creatures play a part in God’s plen ?”, or Urquhart-Gordon’s work “on the modernisation of the King’s short ‘a’” (Amis 2003: 16)
Being a satire, Amis’s novel abounds in examples of the appellative function, especially in the form of indirect indicators. By the very definition of satire, the response that is sought for in Yellow Dog , focuses substantially on moral and ethical education of the source reader. To achieve this aim the appellative function uses humour as its tool. As James Diedrick points out, “the novel diagnoses the toxic effects of misology, misogyny, and what Amis has called ‘the entire edifice of masculinity’—and proposes laughter as an antidote. Although to some extent Yellow Dog is indeed a satire on the English society, the vices enumerated by Diedrick are shared by many cultures, including the Polish one. This implies that the appellative function may well find an addressee in the target text regardless of the cultural reality that the novel is set in.
1.2.5 The phatic function
The purpose of the phatic function is to maintain contact between the sender and the receiver. It assumes that in situations such as greetings or farewells language can be conventional as for the linguistic means it employs (Nord 1997: 44). Something that is an offer of contact and is purely conventional in the source text can become a mark of foreignness, as the target text may not recognise the convention. “—How are you? –All right. How are you?”—this customary behaviour in the source culture is rather seldom observed in the target culture. When the translator aims to retain the foreign flavour in the target text, this necessarily entails a shift in the function.
18 As it informs the reader of the cultural otherness of the text, the phatic function in this fragment is shifted to the referential one. On the other hand, if a fragment of the text displays an unconventionality of form, it may indicate that the sender had a purpose in saying something in this way (cf. Nord 1997). The import of this fact may be shown in the following conversation:
context : the protagonist, Xan Meo, enters a pub and starts the conversation
source text :
‘Good evening.’
‘All right? said the barman, as if querying the mental health of someone who still said that: good evening.’
‘Yeah, mate,’ said Meo comfortably. ‘And yourself?’
target text :
— Dobry wieczór
— Wszystko w porz ądku? — zapytał barman, jakby o zdrowie psychiczne kogo ś, kto nadal jeszcze u żywał zwrotu „dobry wieczór”.
— Tak stary — odparł Meo swobodnie. — A u ciebie?
Obviously there is nothing wrong with the polite greeting ‘Good evening’ or ‘Dobry wieczór’, but in the mouth of somebody who starts small talk in a pub this indeed sounds strange these days in both the source and target culture. The phatic function disappears then from Meo’s utterance, because of his interlocutor’s reaction described to the reader by the narrator, and gives place to the referential, metalinguistic one. This happens both in the source text and in the target text because of the same conversational norms in both cultures. There is, however, another aspect to the quoted dialogue that seems to pose a problem for the translator. The common conversational and colloquial word ‘mate’ that appears in most informal contexts sounds alien when uttered by a 47-year-old Xan Meo, who does not seem to be an old-times-friend of the bartender. Due to different conversational norms of the Polish culture, one could argue that the target language equivalent ‘stary’ proves to be redundant in the target
19 text. If the translator decided to act in this way, the phatic function of this utterance would be saved. While it is not a solitary case and the word is specific to the target culture discourse, some loss of the text’s otherness would be at stake. Having chosen to retain the culture-specific item I consented to the inevitable change of the function in the utterance, which in the target text emerged as referential, marking the foreignness of the discourse.
1.3 The role of norms and conventions in the functional approach
In the first section of this chapter we took a look at the role norms play in the decision process. Normative analysis also proves to be indispensable in the assessment of translatorial text operations. One of the purposes of translating is to establish whether the components (of both form and content) are functionally appropriate for the target text and this requires research into not only the source text, but also “the target culture’s conception of subject matter, of text classes and of genres” (Schäffner 1998: 4). Let us now then sketch the impact of norms and conventions on the functional approach to translation.
1.3.1 Genre conventions
To define the idea of genre it may be expedient to refer to Katharina Reiss’s definition of text variety which according to her is “the classification of a given text according to specifically structured socio-cultural patterns of communication belonging to specific language communities” (Reiss 2000: 165). What one may infer from Reiss’s definition is the idea that the text variety, which here we will call genre, emerges as a pattern which is recognised in a community that shares the same values. Genres seem crucial for the process of text production as writers draw from a pool of patterns to communicate their intentions. Also it would be difficult for the receivers to understand the writers’ intentions but for the existence of some conventional patterns they could utilise in their communication with other members of the society. Moreover, if there were no standardised models for the purposes of communication, ones that would work beyond the national level, the functional approach in literary translation would lose its point of reference. Genre conventions are thus “the result of the standardisation of communication practices” (Nord 1997: 53).
20 Reiss distinguishes between three types of genres: complex, simple and complementary (Reiss and Vermeer 1984: 180). Simple genres involve texts which belong to one text variety, and may be embedded in complex genres comprising many varieties. In Yellow Dog , which is a complex genre, a satire, a few simple genres are exemplified, witness a nursery rhyme, a tabloid story or an e-mail as examples. Genre conventions are to a large extent culture specific and as Nord (1997) argues, they play an important role in functional translation since: “if a target text is to be acceptable as representative of a target-culture genre, the translator has to be familiar with the conventions that the target text is to conform to” (Nord 1997: 54). If the translator compares the conventional features of the source text and the genre conventions, a need for adaptation may arise (Nord 1997: 54). This was true in the case of translating e-mails, in which conventional features (signs, numerical symbols standing for words, or parts of words) made it mandatory to be domesticated—to alter the text so that it would comply with the norms of the target culture.
1.3.2 Style conventions
The power of Amis’s writing has been claimed by many to reside in his extraordinary style. His ability to move freely within the social registers and predilection to verbal colour are at the core of the expressive function of Yellow Dog . The style of the novel was best described by Allan Hollinghurst who became awestricken by Amis’s „shifting registers, his drolleries and ferocities, his unsparing comic drive, his aesthetic dawdlings and beguilements, his wry, confident relish of his own astonishing effects” (Diedrick 2004: 227). Amis’s verbal colour creates a great potential for abuse on the part of the translator. As Nord points out „even when there are similar structures available in two languages, we often find that there is a difference in usage due to different literary traditions and conventions as to what is considered good style” (Nord 1997: 55). When style substantialises humorous effect in a novel, the translator feels it is incumbent upon him to strive to preserve it. The England’s thread of the plot exemplifies acute parodies of royal discourse where style conventions of the source text were exoticised in the target text, and this process has become conventional in itself (just consider the conventional rendering of royal titles). The names
21 in the royal discourse were, also by convention, transcribed into Polish. In cases where Amis’s propensity for meaningful names reaches into the sphere of grammar, resulting in gender confusing wordplay, style also suffers substantial impoverishment. What is more, in the target text all the instances of the narrator speaking directly to the reader conventionally dissolve the bias of second person pronoun favouring either the singular or the plural form. Similarly, the imperative form of the verb in target language also needs to be disambiguated. Compare these examples:
(1)
source text : See the young kissing and run it by your heart; if your heart rejects it, retreats from it, that’s age, that’s time – fucking with you.
target text : Spójrz na młodych całuj ących si ę ludzi i przepu ść ten obraz przez swoje serce; je żeli zostaje odrzucony i serce odwraca si ę od niego – wtedy staro ść , czas leci z tob ą w chuja.
(2)
source text : But aside from that – what? The secret purpose of fashion, on the street, the harlequinade, fashion in its anarcho-bohemian form, is to thwart the lust of your elders. Well, it’s worked, thought Meo. I don’t dig you.
target text : Ale poza tym – có ż wi ęcej? Sekretny zamysł mody, błazenada na ulicy, moda w swojej anarchicznej, ekscentrycznej formie, której celem zduszenie po żą dania starszych od was ludzi. — A jednak to daje efekty — pomy ślał Meo. Nie kumam was.
The plural form may be perceived as exerting less influence on the addressee, whereas the singular one strengthens the appellative function of the message.
Another problem pertaining to the conventions of style lurks in the author’s choice of borrowed words. French words like bijouterie , derriere , pudeur , nostalgie and Italian castello , palazzo have synonyms in English, therefore it seems reasonable to ask where this inclination stems from. Naturally, Amis may be simply striving for the precision of expression and one can argue that in the case of pudeur this is quite probable. However, it also appears that this is an example of conventional
22 strengthening of the comic effect by means of authorial irony. Purposefully italicised they mark expressive function of the text and we have to ask ourselves whether these borrowings should be literally transferred to the target text or neutralised with an equivalent word from the TT language. The latter strategy is of course safer because it averts the risk of confusion on the part of the reader. This may be an option for translating pudeur which proves to be a false friend for the TT reader. Bijouterie , nostalgie , castello , palazzo on the other hand, should be readily transparent for both the source text and the target text reader and they should have by and large the same ridiculing effect. Things get more complicated with derriere , however. Although it is sparingly used as a part of Polish literary language, this direct borrowing seems obscure and if retained in the TT, may lose its jocular character.
1.3.3 Translation conventions
As translation belongs to the sphere of communicative behaviour, we may assume that translation is also subjected to certain norms and conventions. Below the text level, these may for instance pertain to such problems as translating proper names. The names of the characters in the novel may be split into a few categories. First, if we look at the names such as John, Brendan, Clint or Ainsley, it seems reasonable to follow Hejwowski in his claim that, since they sound realistic and are appropriate for the text world and its cultural background, one should generally not attempt to translate them into target culture equivalents (Hejwowski 2004: 97). Thus, when the translator does not strive for radical domestication, which would lead to the replacement of the source culture background with that of the target culture, he or she had better not meddle with the names of the characters. Sometimes, however, we are obliged by convention to render proper names in the target language. This happens when the translator has to deal with the names of the Royal Family (‘Henry IX’ becomes ‘Henryk IX’, ‘Victoria’ becomes ‘Wiktoria’) and conventionally recognised toponyms such as ‘London’ which is replaced by the Polish equivalent ‘Londyn’. On the other hand, in his novel Amis gave his characters a number of extraordinary names which turn out to be immensely difficult to translate as they are often meaningful in the context in which they occur. Consequently, nick names like
23 ‘Bugger’, ‘And’ or the name of the Chinese concubine ‘He Zizhen’ are instances of wordplay and require special strategy to be transferred into the target forms. Some of them have to remain in their original form, as they are components of a text world which build the exoticism of the text. These may require some sort of explanation by means of extratextual glosses. Others need to be incorporated into the target text in domesticated form as they serve to evoke specific functions in the text.
1.4 The skopos theory
The skopos theory which will be outlined below constitutes a part of the theory of action, which belongs to the function-oriented approach to translating. As Christina Schäffner (1998) points out, translation in the theory of action is “conceived primarily as a process of intercultural communication, whose end product is a text which is capable of functioning appropriately in specific situations and contexts of use” (Schäffner 1998: 3). The basic premise of perceiving translating as an action is that it must have its aim, its skopos , and therefore must be seen as a purposeful activity.
1.4.1 The definition
Hans J. Vermeer in his seminal paper “Skopos and Commission in Translational Action” (1989) contended that intentionality is ingrained in all actions, and thus translating must have a goal, which emerges as the prime principle determining any translation process. He argued that the notion of skopos has more than one sense and can be applied in three ways referring to:
a) the translation process and its goal;
b) the translation result and the function of the target text;
c) the translation mode and its intention (Vermeer 2000: 224).
In this way the translator may, for instance aim, at maximally faithful rendering of the source text. On the other hand, one can decide to concentrate on the functionality of the target text and set this as the major goal in the process of translation. When the translator aims to familiarise the target text reader with the structure of the source language, this also may be his/her intention,
24 as there exist cases where literalness is precisely what the receiver needs. A moment’s reflection shows that according to the theory of skopos the end indeed justifies the means. And since Vermeer allows for a variety of skopoi, the proverb reveals a solution to the dilemmas whether to be faithful to the author or conform to the target culture expectations. From the perspective of the skopos theory, the purpose of a translation task determines the call for adaptation, defamiliarisation, or anything that may be found between the two.
1.4.2 Commission in translating. The notion of translation brief
Another point that Vermeer makes in his paper is that whether one translates as a result of his own initiative or someone else’s, “one acts in accordance with a commission” (Vermeer 2000: 229). He defines the commission as an instruction to carry out a translational action and argues that it is “precisely by means of commission that the skopos is assigned” (Vermeer 2000: 229). In the case of the fragments of translation which have been attached as an appendix to this thesis, the commission was set by the translator under academic supervision. That is why, there were certain limitations on the choice of the text imposed by the requirements connected with writing an M.A. thesis. What is more, the origin of the source text and the language the target text is translated into are governed by the norms of translation practice. The idea that one translates into one’s mother tongue is one example of such normative behaviour. It may be reasonably doubted whether Vermeer’s argument holds true in the case of literary translation. It seems more plausible to define skopos in terms of Nord’s translation brief.
Translation brief is a profile whose role is to define the instructions for the translation in terms of certain basic assumptions that one has to make before translation proper. Nord proposes that the translation brief should explicitly or implicitly contain the information about:
a) the (intended) text function(s)
b) the target text addressee(s)
c) the (prospective) time and place of text reception
25 d) the medium over which the text will be transmitted (written, oral)
e) the motive for the production or reception of the text (Nord 1997: 60).
Even if the source text is devoid of any specific motive (although translation is rarely innocent), the first four elements will always be present. However undefined the target addressee may be, the translation always has some audience and is intended to have some functions for its readers. Moreover, although the time and place of reception are not relevant in all cases, they do play an important role in case of satirical works, for example. This proves to be a convenient model for the analysis of literary translation as it allows a rough comparison between the source text and the target text that can be carried out according to the elements of the profile.
1.4.3 The role of translator dictated by the theory of skopos
Vermeer (1989) emphasises the role of the translator as an expert in translational action. He argues that “an expert must be able to say—and this implies both knowledge and a duty to use it—what is what” (Vermeer 2000: 222). Consequently, as the purpose of translation becomes the most essential factor in translating, we can witness a departure from the ‘sacred original’. Now, it is the translator who decides what role the source text is going to play in his translation. It is incumbent on the translator to decide on the degree of intertextual coherence between the source and the target text he or she is ready to forfeit to fulfil a skopos. The translator acts here as a judge which is a powerful position possibly leading to considerable abuse.
1.4.4 Assigning the skopos of the translation
In Yellow Dog Martin Amis brings together a number of themes such as gender, royal family, pornography and terrorism which he amusingly portrays and ridicules for the benefit of the reader. It can be reasonably assumed that offering wit and laughter he has a purpose behind his work: he wants to make his readers impregnable to the vices of the world and give them an opportunity to find fault in their own behaviour. In terms of functions discussed in the previous sections of this chapter, the appellative and expressive function emerge as the most conspicuous in the source text. Will the target text be able to recreate these functions and the effect
26 the original has on the primary reader? Unfortunately, linguistic and cultural differences between languages make complete equivalence of function between two texts impossible. The source text cannot be simply adopted into the target culture to evoke the same response on the part of its members. And, however close both cultures may initially seem, neither leaving the cultural realia unexplained nor intact would be feasible. Culture is rooted in language, and conversely language is the mirror of culture. Preservation of the source text functions can be achieved only to a certain extent. What is more, a new function, which played a minor role in the source text, may acquire greater importance in the target text. This may be true if we think of culture specific elements in translation which may instantiate referential function.
In my task to translate Yellow Dog , I dedicated my efforts to the preservation of the comical effect in the novel and any manifestations of spectacular wit of its author. In this way, I subjected the recreation of functions in the target text to handling of the problems of humour transfer. The secondary skopos was to give the reader a feeling of the ‘other’ in the target text as much as it is possible within the bounds of the communicative process. However, in my translation one can observe a clash of interests between these two aims, a conflict which leads to inevitable places of tension. In such situation the secondary goal gives way to the primary skopos of the translation.
1.4.5 The relation between the sender and the text
As Christiane Nord convincingly maintains, every author intends to produce a certain effect on the receivers if he or she wants to be read. However, the desired effect can only be achieved if the producer is capable of dressing it in appropriate words (Nord 1997: 85). In intercultural communication, where the sender of the message and the text producer are not one and the same person, it is the translator who interprets the message for the target text reader, verbalising in this manner the intentions of the sender. A similar relation takes place in the cinema, if the scriptwriter’s and director’s jobs are divided between two persons. The scriptwriter produces a text which is visualised by the film director, the latter trying to interpret the intention of the former. A problem emerges when the author
27 departs from the conventional paths of expression, which results in ambiguity and polysemy, so typical of postmodernist literature. This proves to be a major issue in Amis’s novel, which is innovative in some respects. Against this background emerges the inevitable conclusion that what is really translated, appears as the translator’s intuitive interpretation of the author’s intentions. In this way, the requirement postulating the identity of the producers’ intentions is evidently idealistic. The process of interpretation is bound to yield different results by different translators and it seems that as for polysemic postmodernist literature (not only poetry but also prose) one cannot have exclusive rights for the comprehension of a text.
1.4.6 The relation between the sender and the reader
As it can be seen from the translation brief model in 1.4.2 the translator has to decide on the addressee of the translation in accordance with the chosen skopos. Numerous factors can determine the choice of the audience. For instance, due to intertextuality of Yellow Dog , the translator should feel compelled to make some assumptions as for the previous reading experience of his audience. Also, the spheres of the reader’s cultural knowledge, emotiveness and sociocultural environment should be defined by the skopos of translation (Nord 1997: 85). If the presuppositions are verified by the target reader as untrue, there is a serious risk that the addressee may be offended. Thus, one must be very careful while bridging the intercultural gaps, avoiding any superfluous information, especially as far as the inter- or extra-textual glosses are concerned. On the other hand, if the background knowledge and the information in the text fail to overlap, the text may not be able to realise the functions intended by the author (cf. Nord 1997).
1.4.7 Establishing the decoding abilities of the target text reader
In “Principles of Correspondence” Eugene Nida points out that one of the three major factors determining differences in translation is the type of audience in the target culture one aims to transfer the text for (Nida 2000: 127). He distinguishes four types of the reader according to person’s decoding abilities. The first type is relevant to the decoding capacity of children, whose range of vocabulary and cultural experience is limited. The second type encompasses the standard capacity of new
28 literates, whose ability to decode written messages may be limited. The capacity of the average literate adult, who can understand written messages with relative ease falls into the third category, and the unusually high competence of specialist comes last.
These groups are by and large arbitrary and for the purposes of the translation brief, a more precise determination of the target text reader decoding capabilities may be necessary. By the very nature of the text the translator is compelled to reject the first two categories of readership proposed by Nida. This leaves us quite a wide undefined space between the average literate adult and the adult-specialist. The secondary skopos and little facilitation in the interpretive process on the part of the translator call for a fairly well educated reader who also may have had some contact with the source culture or at least is aware of some more complicated aspects of source culture realia. It may seem interesting to ponder the fact that the translator of Amis’s novel could find readership for his or her translation in people living in the source culture but not educated in the source culture language. The sociocultural aspects of the readership choice point to an issue of power dormant in the process of translation and the translator’s agenda to influence the target language culture.
1.4.8 The relation between the fictional world and the real world
The relation concerning the real world and the world presented in a literary text, depends for one thing on the markers of literariness, for another, on the distance between the cultures in question. In Amis’s novel the most apparent proof of literariness is the unbelievable story of Roynce Treynor, a corpse, who attempts to make the plane he is travelling on explode over the States. The greater the departure from reality, the more willing the readers are to accept this as a sign of literariness, as what they expect is the coherence of the elements of the fictional world, not the real world (Nord 1997: 86). In the translation of Yellow Dog , the distance between the source culture and the target culture appears to be considerable, and whereas the text world corresponds to the source culture reality, with minor elements of a third, in this case American, culture, the target receivers by and large cannot bind it to their cultural reality. The equivalence requirement that the target receiver has to understand
29 the text world of the translation in the same way as the source receivers understood the text world of the original cannot be met here. The translator, however, can attempt to either leave the world presented in the text as it is, lengthening the distance between what is fictional and what is real or keep the same distance between the two worlds by means of adaptation or neutralisation. This is determined by the skopos of translation. Arguably, the second option offers much more leeway for saving the functions of the source text. The first approach necessarily changes the realisation of some functions of the target text. It allows to preserve the otherness of the source text, however.
30 Chapter 2
2.1 In search of a taxonomy of humour
In his detailed study of humour, Władysław Chłopicki presents in outline a classification of the most important aspects of this complex notion. The search for the taxonomy of humour seems to be hindered by its diversity in form and kind, and the ideas put forth by the theoreticians, as Chłopicki notices, appear to be full of inconsistency and are often based on different (sometimes tallying with and sometimes excluding each other) criteria (Chłopicki 1995: 48). Most of these classifications show a blatant disregard for aspects pertaining to literature and translation. There is, however, one taxonomy provided by the author, which can arguably have vital impact on the approach to literature in translation, one that focuses on both form and content, the first one being especially relevant to our discussion.
John Morreall is an advocate of the incongruity theory of humour originated by a Scottish philosopher Francis Hutcheson in the 18 th c. The basic premise of this theory is the clash of contradictory or contrasting ideas that leads to an intellectual change. Morreall defines the idea of ‘amusement’ which he claims noticeably differs from other reactions to incongruity in that it does not imply the loss of control and the need to avoid or change the state of incongruity (Morreall 1987: 188-207 in Chłopicki 1995: 14). In this way Morreall, breaks the amusement free from the rule of emotions, and attributes it to people’s drive for playfulness which contributes to the growing diversity of cognitive stimuli for the brain (Chłopicki 1995: 15). This may have a vital impact for intercultural transfer as, let me venture a hypothesis, the more cognitive stimuli the brain receives the more ‘open’ it becomes to incongruities introduced by departing from target language norms or by a clash with a different culture. However, it stands to reason that some types of incongruity such as puns demand a need for some kind of resolution. Unfortunately, Morreall and most of the other scholars in the field of humour studies, examine the humour of jokes outside larger textual entities.
The incongruity in form, in the way the content is presented, appears to be most significant to the problems of translating literature. Morreall’s division (1983: 60-84)
31 will help us to delineate the aspects of humour that the translator of Yellow Dog may expect to deal with. Morreall breaks up the form into four basic categories:
a) the graphemic and phonological manipulation of a word with minimal impact of meaning
b) the graphemic and phonological manipulation of a word with a strong impact of meaning
c) manipulation of the semantic layer of a word
d) pragmatic incongruity
The first type of manipulation might result in excessive alliteration which, as is sometimes assumed, does not pertain only to poetry. Amis often employs alliteration in triplets of epithets, where it reinforces the humourous effect. Graphemic and phonological manipulations (a) are also responsible for the errors in spelling or pronunciation, besides they also can result in reordering (metathesis) of letters, syllables and morphemes. The second type of manipulations accentuates the importance of meaning and can result in rich punning effects and wordplay. It involves such aspects as homonymy, mistakes resulting in change of meaning, double senses, semantic and syntactic wordplay and bad translations. Semantics is the subject of the third kind of manipulations, abounding in paradoxes, striking similes and interference with logic. Manipulations of this kind often give freshness to the authorial style yielding original metaphors and marked collocations. Approaching meaning and sense from a new perspective, they intensify the expressiveness of the text. Finally, the pragmatic incongruity inherent in humourous dialogues often manifests itself in breaking the cooperative principle and Grice’s conversational maxims (especially maxims of quantity and manner, the former in giving too little or too much information, the latter in ambiguity and obscurity of expression). This also frequently results in exaggeration, sarcasm and irony (flouting the maxim of truth).
32 Morreall’s delineation of incongruities on the formal level is based on the traditional division of language into five layers: phonological, morphological, syntactic, semantic and pragmatic.
2.2 Humour in the frame of Cognitive Linguistics
In chapter one we spoke about language as a means of communication and on this premise we based our faith in the feasibility of the translation of a satirical text. Nevertheless, recent studies in linguistics led to the attractive idea that language is not just a means of communication with other people, but also the way in which we experience and know the world we live in, which is the basic assumption of cognitive linguistics. In this section we will look at the problems of reduplicating the cognitive structuring of the source culture in the target text, as outlined by Bistra Alexieva in her work on metaphor, polysemy and wordplay in cognitive linguistic framework (1997).
2.2.1 The idea of salience in approach to humour
One cannot disagree with Grzegorz Grzegorczyk that it is vital for the translator to be aware of the mechanisms of the reception of humour that pertain to the source text, as well as the target text addressee (Grzegorczyk 2004: 78). A skillful practitioner must be aware of certain specificity which sense of humour displays across cultures. How often can we hear a person watching a British comedy series express their distaste or lack of understanding. This kind of situation may be attributed to norms (discussed in the first chapter), but it might also be seen from the perspective of thematic significance to the receiver. Some themes are touched upon more often in some cultures than in others, and as tendency to ridicule sexual behaviour or deformities (common themes for humour in British culture) can be put down to normative differences, the propensity to mock other social groups or nations presupposes existence of these social groups and contact with other nations. Consequently, the fact of their existence strengthens the significance of these themes to the addressee of humour, it strengthens their salience.
Jerry Suls, an American scholar and another follower of incongruity theory, proposed salience as one of the factors in his model of humour appreciation (Suls
33 1972: 92, as referred to in Chłopicki 1995: 32). Suls believed that being exposed to sex or violence lowers the receiver’s threshold for perception of sexual or aggressive stimuli, facilitating the perception of these themes as being humourous (Chłopicki 1995: 33). This may have a vital influence on the way a humourous text is received in the target culture and to a large extent governs the feasibility of transfer. The idea of salience as perceived by Suls can also make an impact on the status of the translated text. Looking at the contemporary British and American literature, we may feel inclined to argue that the themes of sex and violence penetrate much deeper into the system of serious literature than it is the case in the Polish literary system.
Cognitive Linguistic can enhance our understanding of salience, moving it beyond the mere exposure to themes. In Yellow Dog many of the comical effects which pose problems to the translator are based on wordplay, therefore relying on manipulations in the sphere of language. The cognitive approach perceives wordplay, not merely as a confrontation or clash of two meanings, but also as a discrepancy between fields (domains) of knowledge and experience (Alexieva 1997: 138). In the cognitive model salience can be understood as familiarity stemming from the embeddedness of certain phenomena in our knowledge and existence. If something is familiar, it is an important and recognizable part of a domain. To provide an example, let us look at the domain of birds. A typical species of bird indigenous to the Polish countryside and associated with it is unquestionably the stork. Storks do not live in Britain, thus a typical countryside bird for a person in that culture could be for example the kestrel.
2.2.2 Interlingual asymmetry and wordplay in translation
Wordplay can occur in any language, although there are certain features of languages which defy punning. Relatively simple morphological structure of English which belongs to the group of analytic languages and its high idiomaticity can make it painstakingly difficult to transfer humour based on wordplay into a synthetic and less idiomatic language like Polish. For instance, in Polish there is a much clearer boundary separating verbs and nouns with all the information about tense or case, person and gender attached to the word. As a result, the mechanism of noun to verb
34 conversion cannot be employed in punning the way it is often done in English. What is more, languages also differ in respect of their semantic structure. A polysemous word in the source language may not be polysemous, or may be polysemous in a quite different way in the target language. Interestingly, even if we can find words in the target language which fully correspond to the source text in the matrix of senses, they may have radically different attitudes or feelings associated with them (emotive meaning) or fall into another register (Alexieva 1997: 141). Not without reason, the destruction of underlying networks of signification is a constant problem which troubles the translation of wordplay. Finally, there are interlingual dissimilarities on the phonological or graphemic levels, where “identity or near-identity of phonic and graphemic substance provides the necessary formal basis for wordplay” (Alexieva 1997: 141). If there exists no identity, often some sort of compensation is the only technique the translator can opt for.
2.2.3 Wordplay as tension between the domains of human knowledge and experience
So far, Morreall’s idea of incongruity without the need of resolution may have been a plausible one. For the benefit of further discussion, however, it stands to reason that not all instances of wordplay boil down to incongruity alone and they must have some elements of resolution that identify them as instances of punning (Attardo 1994: 143). Quite obviously, resolution can take place if we are provided with enough information and in intercultural communication this process can be distorted due to differences of the worlds and cultures we live in.
Interlingual assymetry, Alexieva points out, emerges from our conceptualisation of our knowledge and experience of the world and the way it is manifested in language (1997: 141). This conceptualisation can be systematised by the concept of domains which encompass our knowledge of the world around us. Wordplay can be plausibly explained in terms of tension between different domains. The larger the distance between two domains, the stronger the tension and comical effect we get. The feasibility of translating punning seems to be governed by the internal structuring of various domains and their interconnectedness. These two factors are based on universal cognitive and experiential models and their specific application within
35 two languages and cultures in question. Alexieva suggests that the internal structure of the domains can be influenced by “perception of entities and events” and it is here that the notion of salience (which can also be manifested in frequency) is vital. The differences in the structuring of the domains across cultures may also depend on interaction. In Yellow Dog the domain of monarchy is activated, a field of knowledge and experience foreign to the contemporary people in the target culture. Foreignness does not imply impossibility of transfer, as the interaction with a domain does not necessarily have to be direct. The contact with the domain can be mediated by the place a foreign culture occupies in the domestic context. Also, certain aspects can be mediated by literature, film or even travel. Nevertheless, effective transfer of wordplay can also depend on the stability of the structure and interconnectedness of domains. In other words, it is essential for the translator to realise the degree of flexibility of the target text readers, to make an assumption whether they will be willing to change their way of thinking and to accept the patterns from a foreign culture.
2.3 Wordplay and idioms in translation
We can define idioms as a current and frequently used group of collocated words whose meaning cannot be deduced from the particular meanings of its constituents. Idioms are sometimes called “fixed expressions” because they disallow any variation in form, therefore they can be seen as “frozen patterns of language” (Baker 1992: 63). To create a humorous effect, idioms can be tampered with and in such cases their translation proves to be a challenging task.
2.3.1 Contextual use of idioms in wordplay
Quite often idioms are not used in their ‘fixed’ dictionary form. In the source culture this usage can be observed in tabloids like “The Sun” or “Daily Mirror”, most noticeably in the headlines. Andrejs Veisbergs points out that transformed idioms account for half of all cases of idiom use (Veisbergs 1997: 156). Contextual modifications exclude these which are generated by change in grammatical rules (for example tense, case or gender) as such rule-governed adaptations of idioms rarely produce any surprise or amusement, and therefore have no stylistic value
36 for this discussion. Although contextual transformations of idioms are individual and ephemeral phenomena, they are based on general principles of idiomatic usage. By general principles I mean here linguistic features pertaining to the idiom’s structure. It is essential for the aspect of wordplay to recognise the dual nature of this structure—the ability to read the idiom compositionally, i.e. as a string of separate words, and figuratively.
There are various types of idiom transformation. They can be subsumed, however, into two major groups proposed by Veisbergs (1997). The first group deals with structural transformations, which affect both the structure and meaning of the idiom. The second group concerns semantic transformations, in which the idiom’s structure stays intact while its meaning undergoes some change. The latter type of transformations is activated by the context in which the idiom is used. Addition, insertion, allusion, ellipsis or substitution are devices used in structural transformations of the idiom. As for semantic transformation, its typical devices include extended metaphor, zeugma and dual actualisation. Zeugma is a figure of speech we use to describe the joining of two or more parts of a sentence with a common verb or noun. Dual actualisation refers to instances where both the literal and figurative reading are triggered and constitutes a most common example of wordplay in its purest form. In other transformations the clash of two semantic levels is present as well, which can be seen in the case of paronymic substitution, where one component of an idiom undergoes changes in spelling or pronunciation.
The function of wordplay is to create a comic effect and attract the attention of the reader and this is provoked by the effect of defeated expectations which takes us back to the idea of incongruity. Incongruity in wordplay of idioms is often very acute as they are unchangeable entities and any transformations are bound to play with the reader’s expectations based on prior knowledge and linguistic experience.
Finally, it is worth looking at the relationship between idiom and collocation in the contextual use. Some structures cannot be considered idioms proper, yet they undergo the same structural and semantic transformations. This is possible because collocations are also stable word combinations and when their components are
37 modified they can be used as a vehicle for wordplay. Consequently, it may be feasible to take the same approach to all fixed phrases in translation.
To recapitulate on the outlined techniques, it is perhaps worth to notice that these procedures can readily be exploited not only for the incisive analysis of wordplay stemming from contextual use of idioms, but also for an approach to punning in general. Many difficulties in translation of wordplay can be seen as resulting from triggering meaning on different semantic levels. Apart from idioms, there are other instances of fixed expressions that may be exploited for contextual transformations, and this also might be true of stock metaphors. Some of these techniques can even work for wordplay based on the contextual use of polysemy.
2.3.2 Techniques for translating idiom-based wordplay
Idioms in translation constitute a perfect example of what Nida calls “semantic adjustment”, “for the very fact that they are idioms means it is unlikely that the same type of distinctive form will have the same meaning in another language” (Nida and Taber 2003: 106). The adjustments may be of three types: from non-idioms to idioms, from idioms to non-idioms, and from idioms to idioms. Nida and Taber’s model seems far too simplified to account for all the shifts that the idiom can undergo in the process of translation. That is why, I decided to rely on the detailed classification provided by Andrejs Veisbergs (1997). Naturally, given the importance to preserve expressive function or even the exact wording of the source text, the first idea may seem to be an exact literal translation. This is unfortunately possible only in these rare cases when languages show full equivalence for both idioms and their components. Even then, however, the target language may evoke unwanted associations and undo the effect. In consequence, this technique has been excluded from the model.
Let us first look at translation by equivalent idiom and some of its aspects. Idiom to idiom seems a very plausible option to overcome obstacles of wordplay in translation. Yet, this procedure is only possible as long as idioms are pure and uncomplicated. However, Veisbergs argues, “more complicated cases of idiom transformation – those that tend to produce wordplay – usually present insurmountable
38 obstacles to this first and seemingly most straightforward translation technique” (Veisbergs 1997: 164). Still, it seems that this procedure is indeed possible in the majority of cases. Its feasibility is governed by the equivalence of source and target language with respect to source text idiom and its components, as well as the transforming elements.
The second procedure, loan translation, strives to achieve “maximum equivalence at the level of the transformed idiom’s components even though this does not result in a recognizable target language idiom or its transformation, let alone an equivalent one” (Veisbergs 1997: 164). In this way, transfer proceeds in the form of borrowing particular compositional items of the idiom. This method deprives the target text of the stability factor that provides the basis for transformation and largely impoverishes the punning character of the resulting translation. What is more, it can render the reception of the target text awkward by making the structures of the source text interfere with accepted norms of the target language. A peculiar type of loan translation of idioms is the method of extension. This technique blends an inconspicuous form of intratextual comment with a rather exact rendering of the context.
Another technique at the translator’s disposal is analogue idiom transformation. It appears to be particularly useful when the target language lacks an equivalent idiom, but offers a similar expression instead. An analogue idiom or other less idiomatic expression may differ in its form from the one in the source text, but it can still be stylistically and semantically close to the original phrase.
The technique of substitution may seem similar to the previous method of analogical transformation. Substitution, however, will replace the image to preserve the wordplay, when an analogical phrase cannot be found in the target language.
So far the techniques provided by Veisbergs (1997) have aimed at the preservation of the idiom and its transformations. The last three methods are relevant to the situations when the original idiom and its effect cannot be transferred to the target text.
39 Compensation is often used in longer fragments of texts, in cases where the unit of translation is a thread of the plot for example, rather than an isolated idiom or case of wordplay. The compensation method consists in “the insertion of a special textual device at some different place in the text to compensate for the transformed idiom’s original effect” (Veisbergs 1997: 168). Naturally, this procedure abuses the source text much more than the ones discussed earlier, as the translator liberates himself or herself from the obligation of fidelity to recreate the humorous effect.
Nevertheless, the procedure of omission goes even further, especially when the idiom and its effect is omitted altogether or even when a whole passage of a text is eliminated. In fact the omission of wordplay can take two forms. Omission in its second form can preserve the idiom but at the price of an irrevocable loss of the punning effect. This method seems a good choice if there is such an accumulation of wordplay that to preserve it all would yield an extremely strained effect, also, it may be feasible to obliterate wordplay when it plays only a minor role in the text.
Finally, let me close this detailed classification with the technique of metalingual comment. This procedure explains wordplay by means of footnotes, endnotes or parentheses etc. This technique is principally relevant to the documentary type of translation or more specifically to its philological subtype. In communicative translation it would be seen as causing too much disturbance in the reading process.
2.4 Humour within the scope of pragmatics
To continue the discussion on humour in context, let us move further to the study of language in use—pragmatics. Mona Baker defines it as follows: “it is the study of meaning, not as generated by the linguistic system but as conveyed and manipulated by participants in a communicative situtation” (Baker 1992: 217). The importance of the communicative approach, establishing a model target text reader in particular, has already been emphasised in the first chapter. The problems of translating humour in literature often go beyond the word or sentence level. Consequently, they presuppose the need of a broader approach at the textual level. This appears to be particularly vital when the translator has to deal with humour pertaining to the issues
40 deeply embedded in the source culture or when the humourous effect results from the interchange of utterances in dialogues.
2.4.1 Coherence
It is a basic truth that one cannot be amused by something one fails to understand. The fact that a fragment of a text makes sense, hinges on the reader’s ability to perceive it as meaningful by relating it to his or her knowledge and experience of the real, or fictional world. This is corroborated by Mona Baker who argues that coherence “depends on the hearer’s or receiver’s expectations and experience of the world” (Baker 1992: 219). The struggle to recreate humour in translation is often hampered by the need for textual coherence of the fictional world of a text. When a word is ingrained in the target culture realia and becomes activated with a different sense in more than one place in the text, the coherence is at stake in most of the cases (this is especially relevant to the meaningful names or nicknames) and often may require deletion of a culture-bound sense. But it is also the allusions to other fictional worlds of different texts that may become detrimental to the coherence of the narrative and the humorous effect. The translator’s drive to preserve coherence in transfer in every respect may spoil this effect by substantial enlargement or density of extra- and intratextual gloss. Moreover, too much facilitation on the part of the translator damages the balance in the process of interpretation of the text, the idea of shared fun in exploitation of the potential meanings between the addressor of the message and its addressee.
2.4.2 Implicature
In many amusing dialogues that appear in the novel the humorous effect is engendered by problems of implicature. Implicature is used to refer to what the speaker means or implies rather than what is said literally (Baker 1992: 223). Implied meaning which is not signalled conventionally, for example by use of idioms, stems from Paul Grice’s Co-operative Principle and four types of maxims that are associated with it. The Co-operative Principle in communication states that we have to make our conversational contribution “such as is required, at the stage at which it occurs, by the accepted purpose or direction of the talk exchange” in which we are engaged
41 (Grice 1975: 45). The four requirements for our contribution can be described in terms of quantity, quality, relevance and manner. The Maxim of Quantity urges us to make our contribution not more, not less, but exactly as informative as it is required for the purpose of the exchange. The Maxim of Quality forbids us to say something that we believe is false or for which we lack adequate evidence. Relevance of our contributions to a conversation is prescribed by the third maxim. Finally, the Maxim of Manner disallows obscurity of expression and ambiguity and commands brevity and order.
The outlined requirements of contributions are to be treated as features of a perfect exchange model rather than binding rules. The real significance for humour in translation stems from the fact that apart from observing them, a language user can deliberately flout one of the maxims. The product of such an action is Grice’s conversational implicature.
There are several problems the translator has to face in the context of implicatures. Conversational implicatures, as Mona Baker argues, are often indeterminate and can yield several contrastive interpretations (Baker 1992: 228). Sometimes it is hard to say what the speaker intends to convey between the lines. Naturally, the mastery of the conventional meanings of words and phrases is something that will greatly help the translator arrive at a number of possibilities of reading an utterance. Also the context of the utterance and some background knowledge can contribute to a successful establishment of the meanings. However, incompatibilities between languages can make it extremely difficult for the translator to recreate an implicature. There are cases when the translator, quite aware of the possible reading, is forced to narrow down the span of conversational implicature.
Let us look at the cases when humorous effect is generated by the flouting of the Maxim of Quantity. This intended uniformativeness can be a perfect disguise for an innocent insult. Unfortunately, the translator has to struggle against the need for explicitation which acts against the implicature. The drive towards being informative often has to be overcome as any form of explication in terms of a gloss, for example, complies with the maxim, and eradicates the comical effect. A similar
42 situation happens when the Maxim of Manner is flouted. Flouting of these maxims, together with issues of polysemy, lie at the heart of many cases of wordplay in the novel.
If we look at the maxim of relevance from the perspective of humour, we will see that its flouting often results in nonsensical utterances. Nonsense humour has often been seen as inherent to the British sense of humour and this may be a problem in its cross-cultural transfer. Nevertheless, absurd humour is rarely realised in its pure form, at least not in literary works. In Yellow Dog the instances when such kind of humour is introduced can be indicative of certain crisis of values in the western world. In his novel Amis ponders the issues of life in the post-9/11 era and particularly the threat of unreasonable violence that has been unleashed to haunt modern man in the western world. In this respect, both cultures in question are perhaps not that distant, although the source culture has experienced that threat as tangible reality. In the sick, yellow world described in the novel, the meaningful modes of human communication have been smothered and substituted by revenge, violence and exploitive forms of sexuality (Diedrick 2004: 228-229). This communication breakdown is often the subject of reflection in the dialogues and manipulations which involve conversational implicature.
43 Chapter 3
3.1 Between the poles of familiarity and foreigness of the cultural experience
3.1.1 Two basic concepts in the cultural approach to translation
In his approach to translation that investigates the cultural and political agenda behind the process, Lawrence Venuti oscillates between two heuristic concepts, or indeed translation strategies, of foreignisation and domestication. The roots of this dichotomy, which has been firmly established in the translation studies, can be traced back to the 19c. reflections on different methods of translation by Friedrich Schleiermacher.
Venuti’s views on the concept of domestication tally with Schleiermacher’s description of translation that leaves the target text reader in peace, at least as much as it is possible, and moves the author towards him (Munday 2001: 146). The recourse to this strategy entails translating in a transparent style to minimise the foreigness of the TT. Yet, the notion of domestication also involves a careful selection of a text that could easily lend itself to such a translation strategy (Venuti 1997: 241). Finally, to gain a complete understanding of the concept, let us define the notion of domestication after Grzegorz Kwieci ński, who sees it as the accommodation of the target text to established norms and conventions of target culture and language (2004: 30).
If we now turn to the other pole of the spectrum, the concept of foreignisation will reveal an entirely opposite slant. This strategy “entails choosing a foreign text and developing a translation method along the lines which are excluded by dominant cultural values in the target language” (Venuti 1997: 242). Schleiermacher saw this method as moving the reader towards the writer, leaving the latter alone as much as possible (Munday 2001: 147). To complete the conceptualisation of this strategy, let me once again refer to Kwieci ński (2001). He defines foreignisation as “the introduction into the target text of concepts and language forms that are alien to and/or obscure in the target language and culture” (Kwieci ński 2001: 29).
44 It can be seen from the above definitions that the concepts of foreignisation and domestication can be perceived from various and sundry angles. In the light of the discussion on translating authorial wit in Yellow Dog , Schleirmacher’s perspective seems particularly relevant. His understanding of the concepts seems to be more global as it leans on general fidelity to the author. Foreignisation strategy, the secondary skopos of my translation, can be seen thus as bringing the reader to the author in a struggle to preserve the expressive function throughout the text. However, the vantage point taken by Venuti and developed further by Kwieci ński, should not be underestimated. Negotiating cultural differences and balancing between the norms and conventions of the source language (and culture) and of the target language (culture), appears to be liable for application of the strategies on the local scale. This results in the heterogeneity of techniques and procedures that are applied to address the problems of humour and culture in translation.
3.1.2 The degree of the translator’s (in)visibility Lawrence Venuti (1995) exploits the concepts of domestication and foreignisation in extensive discussion of the translator’s invisibility. He uses the term not only to describe the status of the translator as regards his work on a particular target text, but also, in more general terms, to explain the translator’s situation in contemporary culture (writing from an Anglo-American perspective). Venuti perceives this invisibility as frequently being produced for one thing, by the way practitioners of translation themselves tend to translate the TT fluently into the TL, to create an illusion of transparency of the text; for another, by the way the translated texts seem to be typically read in the target culture (Munday 2001: 146). Needless to say, the strategy of domestication can be perceived here as instrumental to maintaining the translator’s invisibility as much as the foreignising method strives to leave the imprint of the translator’s persona in “highlighting the foreign identity of the source text and protecting it from the ideological dominance of the target culture” (Munday 2001: 147).
45 In mimetic literary genres such as satire, the fictional world is often quite strongly embedded in the source culture. In these texts the foreign identity is largely presupposed and unless total adaptation is aimed at, substantial amount of the cultural elements that build the text’s setting and plot, which are thus central to it, remains unaltered. It is by the approach to these features, which Venuti (2000) calls “invariant”, that the visibility of the translator is determined. The approach, in turn, is inscribed in the skopos of translation.
However, the real possibility of the imprint that the translator can leave in the target text seems to be somewhat limited. Firstly, in order to communicate the message smoothly, the translator tends to explain any cultural gaps in the text proper without recourse to extratextual techniques. This creates an illusion of transparency for many readers, who may take intratextual explication for the voice of the author. Secondly, norms and conventions prevalent in the target text will frequently impede the drive to faithfulness, disallowing innovations. Finally, any manifestations of the translator’s voice prove to be detrimental to recreating humorous and rhetorical effects. Mediated comprehension, where the solution for an incongruity is provided for the reader, in most cases tends to spoil the original pragmatic thrust.
3.1.3 The illusive nature of foreignisation Even though the ethical motivation of the literary translator repeatedly steers his or her actions towards defamiliarisation, one has to be aware of an inherent contradiction in the notion of foreignising translation. Venuti (2000) did realise that the term is rather subjective and relative, and that it still involves some domestication. He observed the discrepancy of interests between preserving the otherness and leaning towards the reader, which ultimately leads to only partial understanding of the foreign. Consequently, it transpires from his cogent argument that the role of the translator is to negotiate “the linguistic and cultural differences of the foreign text by reducing them and supplying another set of differences, basically domestic, drawn from the receiving culture, to enable the foreign to be received there” (Venuti 2000: 468). The role of the translator as a negotiator is particularly confirmed
46 in the passages rich in substandard formations—e-mail language, colloquialisms, slang, taboo or those exemplifying any stylistic deviations.
Nevertheless, Venuti was not the only scholar to perceive the illusive nature of foreignisation. George Steiner (1978) in his seminal work on translation and language, After Babel , distinguished two main currents of intention in cultural and linguistic environment. He confronted the ‘resistant difficulty’ with ‘elective affinity’, the former being “the endeavour to situate precisely and convey intact the 'otherness' of the original”, and the latter referring to the need of immediate grasp and familiarity (Steiner 1998: 412). It emerges from his compelling argument that this hiatus should not be gapped by the translator. Quite to the contrary, good translation sustains the tension, avoids steeping to adaptation and paraphrase to nourish the ‘elucidative strangeness’. “The strangeness is elucidative,” Steiner writes, “because we come to recognise it, to 'know it again', as our own” (Steiner 1998: 412-413).
3.1.4 The release of a domestic remainder It has already been pointed out that the shifting registers and stylistic ornaments constitute the backbone of Amis’s wit. The substandard variations enumerated in the previous paragraph, can be called the ‘remainder’, because they highlight the conditions of the communicative act, “conditions that are in the first instance linguistic and cultural, but that ultimately embrace social and political factors” (Venuti 2000: 471). The role of substandard in the source culture is arguably greater than it is the case of the receiving culture. Although social classes are frequently seen as a relic of the past, the variegated society has left a strong imprint on the way people speak in Britain today. Naturally, in translation these differences can only be communicated by means of domestic discourses, registers and styles, by releasing a “domestic remainder” (Venuti 2000: 471). To illustrate the problem, let me provide an example:
ST:
You know what my dad said to me?'
'What?'
47 'Nothing! Cuzzy fucked off when I was one. But me mum. Me mum said charity begins at home. And you ain't got one. Now ghiss it,' said Ainsley
TT:
Wiesz co mówił mi mój ojciec?
— Co?
— Nic! Bo spieprzył z chaty jak miałem rok. Ale moja mamusia. Mamusia zawsze mówiła, że dobroczynno ść zawsze powinna zaczyna ć si ę w domu. A ty domu nie masz. Wyskakuj z kasy.
‘Ghiss it’ is a pertinent example of a substandard form (the orthographic modification reflects the phonological variation) that releases a domestic remainder. ‘Wyskakuj z kasy’ lacks in the original sonority signifying different social background. It introduces, however, a vivid reference to criminal jargon.
The above example suggests that translating is capable of releasing a surplus of meaning, rendering the target text more idiomatic. The case of e-mail language provides an even more striking instance of a domestic remainder (see 4.1.4).
3.2 Culture-specific items in translation
3.2.1 The definition of a culture-specific item
The notion of a culture-specific item is a useful tool for the analysis of the cultural components of a text, as opposed to linguistic or pragmatic elements. Culture-specific elements are frequently perceived to be permanent entities that pose similar problems in different cultures and linguistic systems. The elements of topography, personal names, historical figures, works of art, local institutions etc. reveal only partial arbitrariness and thus one may feel there exist permanent CSIs across cultural environments. I would like to argue after Aixelá that “a CSI does not exist of itself, but as the result of conflict arising from any linguistically represented reference in a source text which, when transferred to a target language, poses a translation problem due to the nonexistence or to the different value...of the given item in the target language culture” (Aixelá 1996 : 57). Also, I feel the notion
48 of a CSI has to be distinguished from ‘cultural realia’. The latter refers first and foremost to the source culture aspects of everyday life that may prove to be obscure for the people in the target culture (Hejwowski 2004: 72). To provide a tentative definition of a CSI let me once again turn to Aixelá who defines CSIs as
Those textually actualized items whose function and connotations in a source text involve a translation problem in their transference to a target text, whenever this problem is a product of the nonexistence of the referred item or of its different intertextual status in the cultural system of the readers of the target text (Aixelá 1996 : 58)
3.2.2 Types of culture-specific items
Aixelá distinguishes between two basic categories of CSIs: proper nouns and common expressions. Usually most proper nouns adapt themselves quite regularly to translation norms and conventions. This is not exactly the case in Yellow Dog , where they are frequently employed for a specific pragmatic purpose. Numerous names in the novel, both fictional and non-fictional, seem to be suggestive or expressive, therefore we can refer to them as ‘loaded’ 5. As the analysis of my translation shows, a whole range of techniques and procedures was employed to transfer this type of CSIs. Conventional proper nouns, on the other hand, display a tendency to repeat or transcribe them. Admittedly, the second category of CSIs, common expressions, can be more difficult to detect, as they are associated with a particular language and cannot be translated literally.
Newmark (2005) discusses the cultural words dividing them into five basic categories: ecology, material culture (artifacts), social culture, gestures and habits, and finally the broadest one including organisations, customs, activities, procedures and concepts. Let me employ this categorisation with slight modifications to show the diversity of ways in which the source culture manifests itself in Yellow Dog .
5 the term used by Theo Hermans, quoted here after Aixelá (1996: 59)
49 (1) material culture
(a) Food: chowmein , Lucozade , Bovril , Remy Reserve , lychee
(b) Clothes: bricks
(c) Houses and towns: semi(-detached) , garden flat , High Street , Buckingham Palace , castello , palazzo
(2) Social culture – work and leisure
Premiership , tabloid , broadsheet , the Evening Standard , West Ham , dodgem , posh , Black Lagoon , Rangers
(3) Organisations, customs, activities, procedures, concepts
(a) Political and administrative: magistrate’s court , Teesside , House of Commons
(b) Religious: Church of England , Presbyterian Church
(c) Educational: boarding-school
(d) Health and welfare: the Royal Inverness , Headway
(e) Military: SAS
(f) Artistic: Vicwardian , trompe l’oleil
(4) Gestures and habits
Esq. (esquire)
(5) Cultural Heritage
Joseph Andrews , T.S. Eliot
50 It should be stressed here that the above delineation is only tentative and by no means complete. A complete and clear-cut categorisation for the purpose of analysis turned out to be impossible. That is why, although the last chapter of the thesis has been earmarked for the discussion on CSIs particularly, the problems involving cultural elements run through the whole analytical section of the thesis.
3.3 A taxonomy of procedures employed in the translation of CSIs
In Textbook on Translation (2005), Peter Newmark outlines numerous translation procedures that the translator is equipped with in the task of translating culture-specific items. As his taxonomy is the most detailed one, I decided to employ it as the base for the discussion and supplement it with classifications provided by Vinay and Darbelnet (2000) and Aixelá (1996).
3.3.1 Foreignising procedures
(1) Label
Label or Translation Label procedure is a tentative translation, usually a literal translation of a new institutional term, which as Newmark emphasises, “should be made in inverted commas, which can later be discreetly withdrawn” (2005: 90).
(2) Transference
In literary translation, by transferring a SL word to the TT, it allows to preserve the local colour and atmosphere of the original. The major disadvantage of transference is its emphasis on culture with substantial marginalisation of the message. When the translator faces the problem whether or not to transfer a word indigenous to the SL culture and unfamiliar in the TL, usually transference is complemented with another procedure and this compound procedure Newmark calls a ‘couplet’. Similar to Vinay and Darbelnet’s borrowing and Aixelá’s repetition.
(3) Naturalisation
This procedure adapts the SL word to the TL pronunciation, and subsequently to the TL morphology. This procedure appears to be equivalent with Aixelá’s orthographic
51 adaptation. Newmark’s naturalisation, however, should not be confused with Aixelá’s procedure known by the same name which bears similarities to cultural substitution.
(4) Through-translation (Calque)
For this procedure I prefer to use Vinay and Darbelnet’s term ‘calque’. This procedure transfers the meaning literally. The most distinct examples of calques are the names of organisations which often consist of source language words which may be transparent for the target text reader, for example: “The National Head Injuries Association”> “Krajowe Stowarzyszenie Leczenia Urazów Głowy”.
(5) Extratextual gloss
In my translation of the chosen fragment of Amis’s novel, when offering explanation of the meaning or implications of a CSI, I occasionally resorted to footnotes. I generally tried to avoid this method as it substantially impedes the reading process, however, one can witness a few instances of this procedure, where it was not convenient or feasible to confine the explanation to the text.
(6) Intratextual gloss
I preferred to resort to this procedure whenever some explication of a CSI was necessary. Utilising this method the translator includes the gloss as an indistinct part of the text, so as not to disturb the reader’s attention.
3.3.2 Domesticating procedures
(7) Cultural Equivalent
Using this procedure the translator replaces a SL cultural word with a TL one in the way that the relation between them is one of approximate cultural equivalence. Thus translated word departs from the condition of accuracy, it may, however, function as brief explanation to readers who are ignorant of the SL culture, especially, when a culture-specific item is of little importance to the coherent image of the fictional world.
52 (8) Autonomous Creation
This procedure inserts cultural reference into the TT that is nonexistent in the source text.
(9) Deletion
I resorted to deletion mainly when a CSI was thought to require too much effort in comprehension by the target text readers and any other procedure was unfeasible or unpreferable.
3.3.3 Other procedures
(10) Componential Analysis
A quite complex procedure which compares a SL word with a TL word which may have a similar meaning, but defies one-to-one idea of equivalence. It compares the words by demonstrating their common and differing sense components. While usually the meaning of the SL word is more specific than that of the TL word, one or two sense components may have to be added to the latter so that a closer approximation of meaning can be produced. I abstained from using this procedure for translating CSIs due to its inherent drive to overtranslate. One has to agree with Newmark when he calls attention to the fact that “in its striving for accuracy, it will tend to sacrifice economy and therefore the pragmatic impact, which may well be sold short” (2005: 124). However, its efficacy in resolving translation problems particular to metaphors should not be underestimated.
(11) Accepted Standard Translation
Dealing with institutional terms, one should generally resort to recognised translation, compare this example “House of Commons” > “Izba Gmin”
(12) Couplets
Sometimes the translator can combine two, three, or four procedures to tackle a single problem. Couplets are particularly useful when the procedure of transference is to be combined with the usage of a cultural or descriptive equivalent.
53 This translation procedure appears to be responsible for the significant enlargement of the target text and can lead to instances of over-translating.
(13) Neutralisation
This procedure generalises or neutralises the SL word. Neutralisation can be implemented by the use of functional or descriptive equivalent. The former employs a culture-free word, while the latter provides a description, often forming a couplet with transference. As Newmark points out, this procedure occupies the middle, the universal area between the source language or culture and the target language and culture (2005: 83). Thus, it is identical with Aixelá’s universalisation.
54 Chapter 4
4.1 The realisation of functions in four text subtypes At this point, let me provide a few examples of different text types interwoven into the narrative of Yellow Dog . Four of them seem to be significantly conspicuous:
1) nursery rhyme
2) a song
3) a news item from a tabloid
4) an e-mail
Distinguishing text types and establishing their function in the process of reading and analysis can facilitate recognition of the most prominent problems for translation. These subtexts encompass a variety of issues that will be touched upon in this chapter, as well as in the two remaining chapters of the analysis. Looking from a somewhat wider perspective may also contribute to the successful rendering of passages deeply ingrained in the source culture and/or with a strong imprint of SL. While these fragments seem to be somewhat heavily laden with translation problems, it appears that perceived and tackled as larger translation units, they can be translated with less effort and maximum effect. To confirm that, however, we should scrutinise each text type more diligently.
4.1.1 A nursery rhyme ST : 'There were too many monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell down and broke his head. They took him to the doctor and the doctor said: No more monkeys jumping on the BED!
TT : Zbyt du żo małpek fikało po łó żkach. Jednej, która spadła złamała si ę nó żka. Doktor nó żkę zbadawszy, kiwni ęciem paluszka zabronił wi ęcej fika ć im po ŁÓ ŻKACH.
55 The above nursery rhyme is an example of language used to please the senses, both through its sound and through its metaphor. The tension between the aesthetic and the expressive function, between the ‘beauty’ and the ‘meaning’, is highly conspicuous in this translation problem. Rhymes and rhythm, inherently simple in a type of text aimed at the youngest audience, act here to facilitate the learning of the verse by heart, which is the case in the narrative. Thus it seemed important to retain these markers, as they constitute the core of this particular text type. The strategy of unsightly literal translation has been abandoned in favour of aesthetically pleasing, somewhat free approach that would preserve the patterns of rhythm and rhyme and reduce the awkwardness that could be caused by adhering to the exact wording of the ST. This entailed disposal of some parts of the utterance and relevant compensation in other places. In this way the monkey broke its leg instead of head, it was not taken to the doctor, but was examined by him instead, and the monkeys were frolicking rather than jumping (which is semantically narrower). I also opted for a solution that would not rule out the possible metaphorical reading of the passage that betrays the undercurrent of the expressive function. Especially that the nursery rhyme echoes back further on in the narrative:
ST : The continuity girl, then, had not been a continuity girl. Discontinuity, radical discontinuity, was what she had signalled. How clear did it need to be? No more monkeys jumping on the bed.
The sexual connotations of the phrase “jumping on the bed” taken advantage of in the quoted passage work against any adaptive strategies for this text type. The implicit warning has to work on two levels: it must be relevant for a child, and quite literally warn him or her that innocent frolicking may lead to a bad accident; and it also must work figuratively for an adult. As domestication seemed hardly attainable in this case (due to the lack of a workable equivalent in the target culture), a more plausible foreignising strategy was opted for. As a result, the target text reader is granted with a note of imminent exoticism—the nursery rhyme about monkeys seems a little alien in the target culture.
56 4.1.2 A song
ST : 'My old men's a dustman, He wears a dustman's het, He wears cor-blimey trousers, And he lives in a council flet!'
TT : Mój stariuszek jest śmieciarzem
Śmieciarza czapk ę ma
Nosi łał-kurcze spodnie
Czynsz zapłacony, wsio gra!
The passage is a piece of popular music from 1960’s by Lonnie Donegan interwoven into the narration for the purpose of a comical effect. The song seems to be firmly embedded in the source culture, whereas in the target culture it is most probably totally unknown. Let us, however, look at the problems of equivalence. In the third line of the verse, the amusing epithet constructed of two interjections retained its original length thanks to the transliteration of the English ‘wow’ (which has become a popular borrowing into colloquial Polish) and somewhat dated ‘kurcze’ that appeared to be a perfect equivalent for the euphemistic ‘blimey’. In the fourth line the demand to be concise (arguably imposed by the nature of the text type and its simplicity) urged a lexical shift that would, however, preserve the general meaning of the line. What we can witness in this situation is a metonymical structure: brief “czynsz” (rent) stands here for “mieszkanie spółdzielcze/czynszowe” (council flat). By replacing a complex notion with its part, its single characteristic, several goals were successfully achieved. Firstly, the culture specific “council flat” was deculturalised but remained coherent from the pragmatic point of view—the King could not possibly pay the rent, so the comical effect has been retained. Secondly, the demands of the aesthetics were met as “czynsz” manages to keep the rhythm of the TT in line with the ST. Finally for the purpose of the aesthetic function an extra phrase was added at the end of the line, a colloquial and perhaps again a little obsolete “wsio gra” which keeps the rhyming pattern intact and strengthens the implication of absurdity by shifting into highly colloquial register.
57 Again the tension between the expressive and aesthetic function dominates the ST, yet one can also trace the metalinguistic function of language, which exacerbates the translational conundrum in this fragment. The metalinguistic function of language is manifested by the changes in the pronunciation of one of the characters, Henry IX, who, as the narrator comments, sounds a bit pre-war in his speech. The source text reader can observe a phonological variation as phoneme /æ/ is replaced by /e/. The appearance of this function in the source text always seems to entail a serious loss for the process of translation, as it conveys essential information about language and its usage and is therefore strongly bound to it. Whenever the metalinguistic function emerged from the source text any attempt to handle the problem by adhering to the SL was generally avoided. Neither did I attempt to provide any functional equivalent from the target culture, as diachronic analysis of Polish in the last century gives us hardly any cases of significant phonological change. Still, some compensation is offered to make Henry’s speech sound awkward to the target reader. I decided to add some palatalisation effect before Polish front open vowel /a/ reflected in writing by the preceding letter ‘i’. However, this is not an attempt to retain the metalinguistic function of the ST, which is simply out of question.
4.1.3 A news item
ST : 'The Duke of Clarence played Prince ChowMein last night, writes CLINT SMOKER ,' wrote Clint Smoker. 'Yes, Prince Alf wokked out with his on-again off-again paramour, Lyn Noel, for a slap-up Chinese. But sweet turned to sour when photographers had the sauce to storm their private room. Wan tun a bit of privacy, the couple fled with the lads in hot pursuit — we'll cashew! What happened, back at Ken Pal? Did Alf lai chee? Did he oyster into his arms and give her a crispy duck? Or did he decide, yet again, to dumpLyn (after he'd had seconds)? Sea weedn't like that — so how about a kick in the arse, love, to szechuan your way?'
TT : „Wczoraj wieczorem Ksi ąż e Clarence zagrał Ksi ęcia ChowMein, pisze CLINT SMOKER”, napisał Clint Smoker. „Tak, Ksi ąż e Alf wyskoczył ze swoj ą now ą-star ą kochank ą, Lyn Noel, na chi ńsk ą wy żerk ę. Wszelkie słodko ści przybrały jednak gorzki smak, gdy zuchwali fotoreporterzy zgotowali im nalot na pokój. Głodni odrobiny prywatno ści, uciekali przed siedz ącymi im na plecach facetami— złapiemy gor ący k ąsek. Co zdarzyło si ę w Ken Pal? Czy j ą za-licz-ił? Czy nabrał wody w usta, która spłyn ęła po nim jak po kaczce? A mo że ponownie zdecydował si ę porzuci ć Lyn w trakcie konsumpcji (ju ż po dokładce). To by jej nie smakowało – co powiesz kochanie na kopa w tyłek?
58
In this type of text we can witness a very conspicuous hyperbole of the language used in British tabloids like The Sun or Daily Mirror . The SL in this passage has been highly exaggerated as a means of criticism, hence we can surely recognise the presence of the appellative function. This overexaggerated wordplay and the choice of vocabulary from a specific culinary lexicon might unfortunately be too remote and obscure for the function to work in the target text in the way it does for the primary text. For the source culture reader of Yellow Dog it may bring the moral triumph of not steeping to read the tabloid press which degenerates the native language. This, however, would not be true for the reader in the target culture unless a sort of dynamic equivalent can be hoped for. In the English culture the register of the tabloid language is a distinctive feature, and therefore is specific to it. Can we find any distinctive features of the language in the Polish tabloid press? Do these features tie in with the ones exemplified in the source culture? The answers to the questions seemed to be negative. Thus, any attempt to draw from the language of the few Polish tabloids was abandoned in this case, as I felt that there exists a vast discrepancy in the importance of the tabloid as an element of culture in the two societies. To translate this fragment I decided to adhere to the general principle that postulates retaining the otherness of the text, which eliminates this particular operative aspect of the source text as evoked by the specific style of the passage. But there is also, it might be felt, an implicit criticism of the royal scandals which is as if a second strain of the appellative function. Although the aspect of the Royal Family is alien to the target reader it seems to me that at least to some extent the appellative function is retained in this passage. This seems possible because the target reader should generally be familiar with the idea of famous people having affairs and being haunted by paparazzi. In this way we focus more on the referential aspects of the text.
Let us then for a moment divert our attention to the problems of the referential function. The quoted passage exemplifies very strong references of the source language to the phenomena of the target culture world, namely the Royal Family, the tabloid press and its language and style, perhaps even British eating habits.
59 And while the first aspect of the British realia should be known to the target reader, the nuances of the latter ones might prove somewhat obscure, especially in the dimension of the metalinguistic subfunction. Amis in this passage offers the source text reader an insight into the mechanisms of language use in the discourse of tabloids. Can the translator make a similar understanding available to the target reader? I would like to claim here after Venuti that this is possible only by negotiating the linguistic and cultural differences of the foreign text, by the reduction of these dissimilarities and providing elements that are drawn from the target language and culture (Venuti 2000: 468). Thus the specificity of the tabloid language can only be explained in terms of the target language.
A cursory glance at the text suffices for us to notice that it is inundated with words referring to different cuisines, dishes and their ingredients: chow mein, wok, chinese, oyster, dumpling, seaweed, cashew, tuna, crispy duck, seconds—all these words are drawn from the Chinese culinary lexicon. For some of these word there are no immediate equivalents in the target language. Lai chee, chow mein, wok, sechuan are words borrowed from Chinese. And although ‘wok’ can be found in Ma ńczak- Wohfeld’s list of Anglicisms in the Polish language (2006: 167), ‘chow mein’ or ‘lai chee’ (also lychee or litchi) may be too obscure, even for a generally educated person. Yet, the exotic, Chinese, flavour seems to strengthen the comic effect of this passage. Can the other in the ST be preserved then as the element of third culture? To some extent this is feasible indeed, however it seems impossible to keep this as conspicuous as it appears to be in the ST. Nevertheless, ‘chow mein’ (being a proper name translated literally without any gloss) together with the straightforward calque ‘Chinese’ > ‘chi ńszczyzna’ and a little demanding wordplay of ‘lai chee’ > ‘za-liczi-ł’, attempt to preserve the oriental undercurrent in the text.
Now, to successfully translate this fragment, the translator, I would like to argue, has to prioritise and seek a minimax strategy in this case. It had been decided here that even though the possibilities of the receiver to coordinate the message with their model of the world are scarce, to alter the network of senses completely by highly adaptive, domesticating strategies would destroy the underlying network of signification, which according to Antoine Berman (2000) is a dominant tendency
60 in the translation of prose. The signifiers mentioned in the preceding paragraph have no particular value in themselves. The translator should not be concerned here with the literal, one-by-one transfer of these items, but with transmitting the linkage between them. As the organising principle behind this passage seems to be wordplay employing the culinary vocabulary, certain interference is a sine qua non condition. Interferences happen because of the cross-cultural asymmetry between language and the extralinguistc world it is used to denote. The punning effect of this passage is often based on homophony: wokked out – walked out, wan tun a – wanting, see weedn’t – she wouldn’t, dumpLyn – dumpling. It is often not exact, one gets the feeling that the author wants to create an amusing effect just for the sake of it. The minimax strategy that was used in the process of translation was to focus on the specific lexis (the linkage between particular items) of the passage to recreate the amusing effect rather than retain the accuracy of meaning which was felt to be of secondary importance in this case.
4.1.4 An e-mail ST : dear clint: your remarx about your childhood struck a chord, i 2 never felt th@ i was '1 of the "gang"', some of us seem 2 have been singled out. We r, in some sense, 'special'. & i no th@ if i ever find somel 2 spend the rest of my days with, then he would have 2 b 'special' 2.
TT : drogi clincie: twoye oowagi na temat dzieci ństwa ooderzyły we wła ściw ą noot ę. ya tak że nigdy nie czułam si ę cz ęś ci ą „gangu”, zday ę si ę, że niektoorzy z nas zostali wyroo żnieni. Yeste śmy w pewnym sensie „specyalni” i wiem , że je żeli znayd ę kogo ś z kim b ędę mogła sp ędzi ć resht ę moich dni, on tak że moosiałby by ć specyalny.
The secondary genre or text type that emerges from this example is an e-mail, an electronic letter which gives us a potent illustration of the metalinguistic and appellative functions of language. Some critics make a point that these passages hardly resemble the language used in real e-mails, and that they rather possess the hallmarks of the style that can be observed in mobile messaging. On the other hand, one can argue that the latter goes even further with all its linguistic idiosyncrasies such as total disregard for the conventions of spelling or the elimination of vowels between consonants. Nevertheless, these arguments seem scarcely relevant for the translator, whose role here might be to take a wider perspective and look at the potential of the source language and ponder the raison d’etre behind the primary
61 genre, the satire. The aim of the satire is to spur the reader to ruminate about the flaws of the world, of the society and the vices of people. To attract the reader’s attention, to evoke a response, the author resorts to various tools at his or her disposal. Hyperbole or exaggeration is one of the means to achieve that aim and I would like to claim that this is the case here. It seems safe to say now, that what we witness here is a parody of language with a specific appellative function.
If we look at the excerpt from the target text we shall instantaneously see that a domesticating strategy was opted for, which may be felt as a departure from the principal skopos of the translation. Let us look at the possible rendition of the source text, if we were to adhere to the course of action adumbrated at the beginning of our discussion—the idea of preserving the feeling of otherness in the target text. This may have only been achieved by a shift of function— from the appellative and metalingual to the referential one.
TT : dear Clint: twoje uw@gi n@ tem@t dzieci ństw@ uderzyły w zn@jomy @kord. j@ t@k że nigdy nie czuł@m si ę cz ęś ci ą “g@ngu”, zd@j ę si ę, że niektórzy z n@s zost@li wyró żnieni. Jeste śmy w pewnym sensie “speszyl” i wiem, że je żeli zn@jd ę kogo ś z kim b ędę mogł@ sp ędzi ć reszt ę moich dni, on tak że musi@łby by ć “speszyl”.
This was my first concept for translating this text type—to change all the letters ‘a’ into “@” (at). But then I realised that nothing had been achieved by this somewhat obvious substitution. It failed to give the text any semblance of the “other”. In the source language the sign “@” represents the word ‘at’, whereas in the target language it becomes an artificial spelling convention that can only be found in proper names, particularly nicknames, in the internet. Worse still, introduction of numbers as representation of words (e.g. 1 – one) proved impossible in the target text. It seemed now that the linguistic distance between English and Polish appeared to be greater than it had previously been assumed. Nida’s words reverberated with particular resonance: “The total impact of translation may be reasonably close to the original, but there can be no identity in detail” (Nida 2000: 126). But here, in these passages, in these text types, the details make a difference, without them the referential function could not be reproduced.
62 The foreignising strategy having been abandoned, it became quite obvious that by seeking solution to this translation problem in the domain of the target culture and target language, one had to resort to a feature of the foreign language to provide a functional equivalent for the text type in question. The language of blogs (internet diaries) borrows the spelling features of English, changing Polish sz into sh, ku into q, u into oo and so on.
Let us come back to the problem of function in this text type. It can be argued that the target text retains the hyperbolical effect: the language of e-mails is exaggerated by drawing some features from other genres (in the case of the ST it is a text message, whereas in the case of the TT a blog). The metalinguistic and appellative functions are preserved, i.e. the text comments on the corruption of the target language by highlighting its idiosyncrasies in a similar manner as the ST does; the fact that these idiosyncrasies belong to the target culture facilitates textual coherence with other parts of the narrative which, working in liaison, aim to evoke a response in the target reader. To grasp the complexity of the textual interrelations let me conclude by quoting a short passage that directly relates to the fragment at the beginning of this section.
TT : Już wcze śniej czytaj ąc wiadomo ści z ekranu zauwa żył, że jego j ęzyk ojczysty ulega coraz bardziej żałosnemu oszpeceniu. Ale nigdy w takim stopniu. Nigdy w słu żbie wzajemnego poznania i zalotów dwojga ludzi — i z tak dobr ą gramatyk ą.
4.2 Translation problems implicit in the expressive function
4.2.1 Slang and the taboo The struggle to translate language that is very often associated with strong feelings and which expresses contrast between social groups seems to be a formidable task for every translator of Martin Amis. The prose of the author of Yellow Dog abounds in colloquial expressions and swearing words that in the mouth of Amis’s characters give credibility and expressiveness to their parlance. Even the narrator can be heard resorting to taboo language to make his point forceful.
There are many definitions of slang that could be quoted here but I would like to refer to Peter Newmark’s clarification of the term:
63
A slang word is a colloquial word or expression for a common object or activity, often associated with strong feelings, usually of limited duration and therefore typical of a certain period and of a particular age group, or, decreasingly gender or social class. (Newmark 1998: 185)
Let me also quote a brief complement from the OED:
slang - language of a highly colloquial type, considered as below the level of standard educated speech, and consisting either of new words or of current words employed in some special sense.
The first most obvious premise that can be inferred from the first definition is that if the translation of slang aims to be a successful one, it should speak the language of its own time, therefore it ought to preserve the modernity of discourse. One has to be aware that slang goes quickly out of date, it is ageing with time. Naturally, the translator must be aware of times when the writer of the source text is deliberately using an antiquated term to achieve a certain effect. Then, one may choose to provide a similarly dated equivalent. Secondly, it seems plausible to argue that slang and colloquial language in the target text needs to preserve a similar degree of idiomaticity. The translator will struggle with this issue when slang enters worldplay or polysemy, especially that English in comparison with Polish is a highly idiomatic language. Last but not least, the issue of the extremism of discourse needs to be taken account in the translation of slang and taboo expressions. This aspect seems to be regulated to a large extent by the norms embedded in the target culture and target language. It might be tempting to agree here with Burridge and Allan when they point out that “language users act as self-appointed censors and take it upon themselves to condemn language that they feel does not measure up to the standards they perceive should hold sway” (Burridge, Allan 2006: 112). We need to bear in mind, however, that Amis’s “ obscenification of everyday life” and, to use John Diedrick expression, “the edifice of masculinity”, are both reflected in the language of the characters in the novel, which is often dysphemistic or blatantly offensive. In this way, there
64 arises a tension between the “verbal hygiene” 6 of the target language and the necessity to preserve the extreme language used in the novel.
If we return to the OED definition for a while, we will see that there is still to be discussed the question of the uneducated, colloquial aspect of language. Here the author’s or sender’s opinions and attitudes are often presented implicitly, interwoven into the dialogues of the novel. The translation of common speech might turn out to be misleading as the English language offers immense richness of lexical items belonging to colloquial speech, whereas Polish colloquial speech seems rather vapid in comparison. Attempts to colloquialise living language on every occasion are very often failed, as was proved by Świerkocki (1997) in his critical analysis of Zabłocki’s translations of Money , one of Amis’s earlier novels. That is why, I abandoned the idea of compensating for each and every instance when the characters of the novel “drop their aitches”, standardising the uneducated or colloquial to avoid unnecessary awkwardness.
(1)
ST : The secret purpose of fashion on the street, the harlequinade, fashion in its anarcho-bohemian form, is to thwart the lust of your elders. Well, it's worked, thought Meo. I don't dig you
TT : Sekretny zamysł mody, błazenada na ulicy, moda w swojej anarchicznej, ekscentrycznej formie, której celem zduszenie po żą dania starszych od was ludzi. — A jednak to daje efekty — pomy ślał Meo. Nie kumam was .
The strategy used in the problem above is Vinay and Darbelnet’s equivalence. There is a sense of semantic loss, however, as Polish “kuma ć” preserves only one idiomatic meaning of the English “dig”, that is “to understand”, whereas ‘I don’t dig you’ can also mean ‘I don’t like what I see’. That is why, the loss of the expressive force is also imminent. As for the modernity of the slang word, “dig” seems to be fairly old, reaching back to the 1930s, while the Polish equivalent is a relatively new word.
6 Burridge and Allan describe the term as a sense of linguistic values which makes it a part of every speaker’s linguistic competence „as basic to the language as vowels and consonants” (2006: 112)
65
(2)
ST : And when he saw two teenagers vigorously kissing — an unimaginable mesh of lip-rings and tongue-studs — he felt himself assent to it. See the young kissing and run it by your heart; if your heart rejects it, retreats from it, then that's age, that's time — fucking with you
TT : . Spójrz na młodych całuj ących si ę ludzi i przepu ść ten obraz przez swoje serce; je żeli zostaje odrzucony i serce odwraca si ę od niego – wtedy staro ść , czas leci z tob ą w chuja .
In this case, again, the strategy of equivalence was opted for. The imagery of this taboo expression was reshuffled, although the sexual connotations were preserved. Extremism seems to have been retained with a slight amplification of the comical effect here, perhaps due to a choice of a more modern expression (“lecie ć w chuja”) than the one provided in the KFD (“gra ć w chuja”), the former being a typical collocation for the word ‘time’ (“time flies”).
(4)
ST : There was a drink called a Blowjob . There was a drink called Boobjob [...] He said, ‘I’ll have a Shithead . No, a Dickhead . No. Two Dickheads.
TT : Był drink o nazwie Oral . Był drink o nazwie Anal [...] Wezm ę Kutasa , albo nie, Kutafona . Nie, dwa Kutafony.
In the above passage I resolved to retain the comical effect induced by the anaphoric structure and the play of sounds. I focused on the force of the expressive function, which resulted in imminent shifts. Firstly, the rhyming and alliterative slang words ‘blowjob’ and ‘boobjob’ were replaced by borrowings ‘oral’ and ‘anal’, which, puts all four words in the same pornographic jargon. Perhaps the only disadvantage of the choice is that ‘anal’ and ‘oral’ seem less idiomatic than the drink names in the source text and can rather obviously be extended to the neutral terms ‘anal’ and ‘oral sex’. In the two other drinks the shift is slightly less obvious. I would venture to say that the target text equivalents are somewhat more offensive. They could be equivalent with the slang word ‘prick’. Although ‘shithead’ metaphorically tallies with ‘gnojek’,
66 the poetic and the expressive functions were given priority over referential meaning here. Also, I felt the reader should feel Xan Meo saw little difference in the obscure names of the drinks he was ordering, which justifies the use of alliteration and rhyming, and the relevant strategy opted for in this place.
(5)
ST : He went on, 'I heard you was a bit tasty .'
'Then you know what to expect,' he said as levelly as he could (there was an acidic presence in his mouth). 'If you have it with me .'
TT : — Słyszałem o twoich przygodach z prawem .
— Wi ęc wiesz, czego si ę spodziewa ć — powiedział tak spokojnie jak tylko mógł (jaka ś kwaskowata obecno ść dała zna ć o sobie w jego ustach) — je żeli ze mn ą zadrzesz .
The highly idiomatic word ‘tasty’, which according to the OED means, inter alia, “to have a criminal record or to be a known criminal”, had to be rendered explicitly by the euphemistic “przygody z prawem” as there is no direct equivalent for this word in Polish. Unfortunately, the explicitation resulted in a loss of the punning effect in this dialogue, inevitably largely robbing it of its humorous effect. The adjective ‘tasty’ introduces vagueness of meaning into the dialogue, especially that it carries a sense of lusciousness or being sexually attractive (which has to be considered in terms of textual coherence with ‘to have it with somebody’ that comes in the response). Grammatically speaking, we can also see an instance of Newmark’s expansion here, since we have a whole noun phrase replacing an adjective in this case. Also, non-standard uneducated “you was” was standardised in the target text, as no compensation could be offered.
(6)
ST : ps: cheers 4 ‘readers’ richards’. a real tonic 4 the gentler 6: gr8 scott , there’s hope 4 us all!
TT : PS. 3 brawa za Ryszardy Czytelniqw, zastrzyk energii dla płci pi ękney: dobry bo że, yest yeszcze dla nas nadzieya.
67 The interjectional phrase ‘gr8 scott’ (great scott) in the co-text of extremely modern and inventive internet newspeak sounds dated and a little out of place. Was it a deliberate move on the part of the author, who might have aimed to undermine the ‘cool’, modern voice of one of his characters? Or is it perhaps the authorial idiolect emerging from Amis’s linguistic experience? Without any chance to query the author, it seems impossible to decide on either of these. Indeed, the colloquial speech, the slang we use, is deeply ingrained in our adolescence. Consequently, I chose a phrase that would be natural to me, which, however, does not belong to the highly colloquial register.
(7)
ST : Dear Donna: I am a nineteen-year-old heiress with a slender waist, a shapely derrière, and bouncers as big as your bonce, ' wrote Clint Smoker
TT : „Droga Donno: jestem w ąsk ą w talii dziewi ętnastoletni ą panienk ą, mam kształtn ą pupci ę, a cyce jak donice na twoim balkonie ” napisał Clint Smoker
Here again, Martin Amis reaches to the jargon of the tabloids to exemplify the base wit of the yellow press. The alliterative effect was compensated by the rhyme that entailed a change in the imagery of the metaphor. As a result, the slang ‘head’ (bonce) was replaced by ‘pots’ (donice) and the comical effect retained. The metaphor in the ST seems more euphemistic than its somewhat crude, more extreme equivalent in the TT. Unfortunately, it also feels more original than the TT one.
(8)
ST : Even before the first issue had hit the streets, it was universal practice, at the Morning Lark, to refer to readers as wankers . This applied not only to specific features ( Wankers ' Letters, Our Wankers Ask the Questions, and so on), but also in phrases common to any newspapering concern, such as 'the wanker comes first' and 'the wanker 's what it's all about' and 'is this of genuine interest to our wankers ?' The staff had long stopped smiling when anybody said it.
TT : Jeszcze zanim pierwszy numer wyszedł na ulice, powszechn ą praktyk ą w „Rannym Ptaszku” stało si ę nazywanie czytelników koniowałami. Dotyczyło to nie tylko poszczególnych działów ( Listy Koniowałów , Nasze Koniowały zadaj ą pytania , itd.), ale tak że we wspólnych dla dziennikarstwa
68 zwrotach typu „Nasz koniował, nasz pan”, „wszystko kr ąż y wokół koniowała”, „czy naprawd ę nasze koniowały to chwyc ą?” Pracownicy ju ż dawno przestali si ę śmia ć, kiedy kto ś u żywał tego słowa
The word ‘wanker’ has become one of the most popular and abused words in modern British English slang. Once used solely to describe an onanist, it has become a very powerful dysphemistic expression. Thus to call the readership of the tabloid press ‘wankers’ proves to be a witty insult based on polysemy. It is modern and extreme and seems a very strong point in the author’s critique of the obscenification of the modern world, including language. ‘Koniował’, stripped of the dysphemistic sense, fails to give credit to the authorial criticism and fails to render the punning effect present in the source text. To my mind, however, no other equivalent could replace the source text item better than ‘koniował’. For one thing, it is non-standard and modern enough to be strange to some readers, perhaps even amuse them with a likeness of sound to ‘konował’ (pejorative term for a doctor), for another, ‘wanker’ reappears in the text and is interwoven into wordplay where the referential meaning of the word comes to the fore, rather than the attributive one.
(9)
ST : He's just sitting out there having a drink and there's this two blokes on him. They didn't half fucking give him one . No. They give him two. I thought: that's him fucking telt . Then they give him another.'
TT : Widz ę: siedzi, pije drinka, a nad nim tych dwóch kolesi . Jeden cios im kurwa nie wystarczył, nie- nie. Sprzedali mu dwa. Mówi ę sobie: przecie ż to kurwa on. Wtedy dostał jeszcze jeden.
In this fragment of the source text we can see a story being told by one of the characters. What we witness is a sample of recorded spoken and highly colloquial style with short sentences and swearing words. We can see a lot of emotions and expressiveness, which welcomes a deeper analysis of the texts. As for ‘blokes’, it can be argued here that the provided equivalent is perhaps negatively marked, a quality the neutral ‘bloke’ does not possess. ‘Kole ś’ (buddy, pal) seems to lose the negative quality in the highly colloquial context and sounds more natural than
69 ‘facet’ or ‘go ść ’ and still more appropriate than negatively charged ‘typ’. The translation of the next two sentences revolves around the colloquial phrase “sprzeda ć komu ś cios” which is here the translator’s choice for “to give somebody one”. The choice felt to be accurate as ‘give’ belongs to the group of common verbs in English, and so does the equivalent in the target text. Moreover, “sprzeda ć komu ś cios / kos ę” is arguably a phrase deeply rooted in Polish criminal jargon. The ‘telt’ variation of past participle of the verb ‘tell’ indicates northern dialects of English (Scottish or Geordie perhaps) and had to be standarised. The adjective ‘fucking’ underwent transposition and became a noun, a very common shift for this particular item.
(10)
ST : ‘There should be two of me here. To body this fucking bloke? You come back from the Gents and he’s gangraping a waitress—all by hisself …
TT : — Powinno by ć mnie tu dwóch. Jego mam kurwa ochrania ć? Wracasz z kibla, a on w pojedynk ę odwala zbiorowy gwałt...
The first problem that the translator has to struggle with in this fragment is the utterance “to body this fucking bloke”. I searched extensively for the verb ‘body’ in a fair amount of dictionaries, both in print and in the internet, and was left at a loss how to translate this challenging word. The sentences we read in this one-sided telephone conversation lack coherence in the way that it cannot be determined what Mal’s speaker is saying. Thus the translator is forced to make a guess, albeit an educated one, about the meaning of the utterance. Urban Dictionary , unlike any published dictionaries, provided me with a very convincing definition which is “to murder someone”. On the other hand, Mal is a bodyguard and was set to protect Ainsley, not kill him, therefore, ‘to body’ might be a short form of ‘to bodyguard’. What is more, the problematic verb returns later on (13) in a context that definitely speaks in favour of the latter interpretation. More research in the internet revealed that ‘to body’ is also used in the context of American Football and means to “stop an opponent with your body”, an action the bodyguard is also required to perform at times. Without any adducible definitions of the verb ‘body’, I had to clarify
70 and standardise the utterance (I chose the extension ‘to body’ > ‘to bodyguard’) imposing my intuitive interpretation on the target reader. The colloquial ‘hisself’ was standardised without compensation.
(11)
ST : Take Snort . No bottle. After the Xan Meo business, Mal gave Snort his drink (four hundred in cash) and said, 'I'm never using you again, mate. All right?' And Snort just dropped his eyes. And then Mal said, 'So you're having that, are you? Just think, "I'll fuck up , I'll get me drink and I'll creep away"?
TT : We źmy teraz Sniffa. Zero jaj. Po załatwieniu sprawy z Xanem Meo, Mal podał Sniffowi obiecany napiwek (cztery stówy gotówk ą) i powiedział: —Koniec naszej współpracy stary. Sniff tylko spu ścił wzrok. Mal mówił dalej: — Wi ęc jak, przyjmujesz to do wiadomo ści? No tak, świetny pomysł! „Spierdol ę, wezm ę drobne i spadam?”
At the first reading the first words of the above passage seem obscure to a person who might not be acquainted with the British slang. ‘Snort’ seems to be a meaningful name here and there might be a feeling that it was invented precisely for the purpose of the first sentence—to play with the reader and to hint at Snort’s problem. ‘Snort’ is a colloquial word which means “to take (heroin) by inhalation” and has a synonym in ‘sniff’ with similar connotations. The latter one is a recent borrowing into Polish, not widely recognised, however. Nevertheless, the borrowing seem to fit perfectly as a name, while it remains meaningful (to a certain readership) and foreign at the same time, sustaining the comical effect. Words ‘bottle’ and ‘drink’ in this passage prove to be another vivid examples of the author’s linguistic wit. Both seem to strengthen the pub-talk aspect of this passage. It appears that ‘drink’ can be easily transferred with a shift in impact on the coherence of the phrase (‘napiwek’ (tip) is a small amount of money, making four hundred pounds perhaps too generous to call it a ‘tip’). ‘Bottle’, however, unfortunately misses out on its original imagery in the target text. The expression ‘no bottle’ hints at the London rhyming slang being often popularly associated with the rhyming slang term bottle and glass, meaning ‘arse' (no bottle = no arse). It was standardised here to ‘Zero jaj’ (mie ć jaja – to have balls) as another expression for the lack of courage. Quite evidently Mal’s speech emanates
71 anger in the quoted dialogue and it seemed reasonable to choose a more extreme equivalent for the verb ‘fuck up’. It gives here credibility to the villain’s language.
(12)
ST : He said, 'You're a face, incha?'
The first thing Mal had to establish was whether he was being trifled with. He was barely aware of the existence of the Morning Lark (and would have been scandalised by its contents), but he knew Clint pretty well, through the Ainsley Car connection and because of that time when he, Mal, had famously bodied topless models for six months and given interviews to various newspapers, the Lark among them. Seemed like there wasn't much harm in the bloke. Relenting, Mal said,
'Don't know about face . I'm a bodyguard, mate.'
'But you put yourself about a bit, in your time.
TT : — Ale z ciebie giciarz — zamierzał powiedzie ć to cicho, jednak jego głos nie był do tego przystosowany.
Teraz pierwsz ą rzecz ą jak ą musiał zrobi ć Mal, to ustali ć czy Smoker przypadkiem nie drwi z niego. Chocia ż był ledwie świadom istnienia Ptaszka (i byłby zgorszony jego zawarto ści ą), znał Clinta do ść dobrze za spraw ą Ainsleya, a tak że z powodu okresu w jego życiu, kiedy, on, Mal, jak powszechnie wiadomo, przez sze ść miesi ęcy był ochroniarzem nagich modelek i udzielał wywiadów ró żnym gazetom, tak że Ptaszkowi . Facet wydał si ę Malowi nieszkodliwy. Łagodniej ąc odparł:
— Giciarz? Ze mnie? Stary, ja jestem ochroniarzem.
— Ale puszczałe ś si ę troch ę swego czasu.
Yet another part of the text when the translator is forced to struggle with issues of ambiguity caused by wordplay based on polysemy or particularly by flouting of conversational maxims. Thus, first and foremost it is a problem of establishing the possible meanings the word ‘face’ in this dialogue. Due to Clint Smoker’s flouting of conversational maxims of quantity (make your contribution as informative as is required for the current purposes of the exchange) and manner (avoid ambiguity) this was an arduous task. Thanks to the indispensable Urban Dictionary it was possible to find a few senses the word may acquire in this context. Let us consider the following definitions:
72 1) the front man or con man of a group operation; usually the smoothest talker and the best looking; derived from the 80's tv show, the a-team
2) in the days of mods, the face was the top mod to look up to, as opposed to the regular tickets or numbers. you always copy the face's dance moves. the ace face is the top of the aces
3) a notorious London gangland figure with mad clout.
4) ultimate put down; epitome of any insult you want to get across
5) a term used by a heterosexual male used to describe another heterosexual male who is attractive, dresses well, presents himself well, or who clearly would be physically desirable to females. Commonly used by fraternity men to describe a new recruit or pledge who now has potential based on his perceived ability to attract females. Usage does not make or imply that the user is gay, rather that they acknowledge another man's attractiveness.
Definitions 3 and 4 seem to carry negative connotations, while the remaining ones seem to be on the positive side. Although the second sense is the only one I was able to find from the range of published dictionaries available to me (Tony Thorne’s Dictionary of Contemporary Slang ) when tested in the co-text and context of the source text, all five definitions appear to yield possible senses behind the word in question. This gives us the necessary balance that accounts for Mal’s confusion. Now the difficult task lay in finding an equivalent that would fit the parallel text in the target language. Unfortunately, being equipped with the knowledge provided by the Urban Dictionary , I realised how culture-specific this expression must be in the source text. I decided to seek an equivalent that would for one thing, have some vagueness about it, perhaps a slight bias towards a positive epithet, for another, reflect the sense embedded in the second definition. The Polish subculture ‘gitowcy’ was felt to be a good counterpart for the British mods. Better still, it offered associations with the crime world, something inherently negative and a whole range of words and phrases that could be used to describe something we like or appreciate. Thus the translator had at his disposal phrases such as “by ć git/gicio/gites” which could be employed in the solution to the problem. I assumed, however, that a coinage morphologically connected with these expressions might result in subtly ambiguous associations and meet the demands of successful transfer of the fragment. As a result I coined the neologism ‘giciarz’ as an equivalent for ‘face’, a word that introduces
73 a little imprecision of expression: ‘giciarz’ stems from positive ‘git’ but can be associated with negative ‘kiciarz’ (a liar). Naturally, there is a sense of loss here that can best be described as Berman’s qualitative impoverishment: ‘giciarz’ lacks the “iconic richness” to use Berman’s term (2000: 291). ‘Face’ evokes stylishness associated with the subculture of mods, which cannot be said of ‘giciarz’ at all.
(13)
ST : 'Dad? Who were the fucking bastards who did this to you?'
'Michael,' said Pearl.
TT : — Tato? Kim byli ci cholerni dranie, którzy ci ę tak urz ądzili?
— Michael — podniosła głos Perła.
Since the taboo expression ‘fucking bastards’ is uttered by a child I decided to mitigate the language and attenuate the offensive expression. The attenuation was felt here to be governed by norms of the target language and any stronger rendition could be regarded as too drastic and unlikely coming out of a child’s mouth.
(14)
ST : Here we are. Uh, "and have your bogroll handy for when gueststar Dork Bogarde pumps his lovepiss over the heaving norks of our very own Donna Strange". What, may I ask, is lovepiss ?'
'Semen, Chief.'
'Oh. Oh. I thought our house style was " manjuice ".
TT : O, mam. „i miejcie pod r ęką srajta śmę, gdy go ścinnie wyst ępuj ący Dork Bogarde pompuje swój sik miło ści na faluj ące balony naszej Donny Strange”. Przepraszam, ale czym wła ściwie jest sik miło ści ?
—Nasieniem Szefie.
— No tak, tak. My ślałem, że bardziej w naszym stylu byłby “ męski nektar ”.
The problem of this dialogue revolves around the language of pornography. Although pornography is undoubtedly a universal phenomenon in the modern world, the heart
74 of this industry, one may say, lies in the USA. This, of course, can also be seen in terms of the specific jargon pertaining to sex industry, and the impact it has on other languages. In this way, English sex slang is rapidly expanding producing new lexical forms (which Amis satirises in this fragment), whereas other languages borrow already rooted forms into their linguistic systems. And, as the passage in question seems to bring forth the productivity of the source language in terms of sex slang, the plausible strategy here would be not to look for the existing equivalents in the target language, but to coin new expressions to recreate the idea of productivity of language. In the light of the above, I opted for a calque (‘lovepiss’ > ‘sik miło ści’) and a calque with synonymy (‘manjuice’ > ‘m ęski nektar’).
4.2.2 Unusual (infrequent) collocations and original metaphors
(1)
ST : Xan Meo went to Hollywood. And minutes later, with urgent speed , and accompanied by choric howls of electrified distress , Xan Meo went to hospital.
TT: Xan Meo wyl ądował w Hollywood. Kilka minut pó źniej, w nagl ącym po śpiechu i przy akompaniamencie chóralnych zawodze ń zeelektryfikowanego bólu , wyl ądował w szpitalu.
The first collocation may not necessarily be a marked one in the source text, but arguably it is one in the target text. ‘With urgent speed’ simply means with haste, and perhaps could do without the intensifier ‘nagl ący’. At any rate, I decided to treat the collocation as a marked one driven by the idea to strengthen the dramatic character of the scene. Thus, the outcome of my decision is not a metaphor reduced to sense, but one which intensifies and extends the imagery by literal translation of the attributive adjective and modulation of the noun. The complex metaphor in the second clause underwent a transposition in its first part (verb to noun) in which the musical connotations were preserved; it was also generally possible to recreate the concept of a wailing siren as an extension of pain through the same image. However, the provided equivalent ‘ból’ (pain) seems to attenuate the acuteness
75 of the sentence final noun ‘distress’ (unfortunately it also sounds better and was deemed a needed shift in this case).
(2)
ST: a subtle and accurate cook
TT: subtelnym i precyzyjnym kucharzem
Collocation marked in the source text retains its status in the target text, as the procedure of literal translation is employed. Thus the created calque may sound strange for the target text reader. However, the translator placed trust in the imaginative abilities of the reader to decode the striking metaphor which emphasises perfectness and mastery of culinary skills.
(3)
ST : If he turned right he would be heading for pram-torn Primrose Hill – itself pramlike, stately, Vicwardian, arching itself upwards in a posture of mild indignation .
TT : Skr ęcaj ąc w prawo, skierowałby si ę na przetarte przez matki z wózkami wzgórze Primrose Hill, które nawet samo przypominało odwrócony wózek, gdy w stylu wiktoria ńsko-edwardia ńskim, majestatycznie wyginało si ę łukiem w gór ę w ge ście lekkiego oburzenia .
The problem the translator had to face is inherent to the style of the author and his wit. Amis often suspends the humorous effect to strengthen it by releasing it at the very end of the sentence. When he takes advantage of polysemy and punning, the reader is often forced to go back and recreate the image in his or her mind. We are left wondering what the image the author wants us to see actually is. In this way we are led up the garden path, as there often is no definite offer of reading a metaphor in which two of its components can amalgamate producing quite disparate images. If we look at the word ‘posture’ (from the perspective of the target language a false friend), we will see that it conveys three basic senses and each yields a possible collocation with indignation: a state or a situation of indignation, the stance of indignation or a pose of indignation. All three expressions belong to the domain of human feelings and it is its remoteness in relation to the domain of landscape that makes the metaphor
76 surprising and striking. What seems interesting, is the fact that at least until the 17 th c. the word ‘indignation’ was used to denote “the turning of the stomach against unwelcome food” (OED). Although the dictionary marks the meaning as obsolete, we cannot totally rule it out, as it constitutes a part of the source culture and its linguistic experience. Besides, ‘indignation’ in this dated sense collocates perfectly well with the ‘posture’ understood as ‘state’. Nevertheless, the decision had to be made and it could not act in favour of indefiniteness. Trying to reenact the possible gestures an indignant person could make, I struck upon the image of the arching movement of the head, going as if, from one shoulder to the other. The ‘posture’ understood as ‘pose’ was replaced by gest (gesture), which brings more dynamics into the image.
(4)
ST : He was happy now – a delicate state: you could feel the tingle of its stress-equations .
TT : Był teraz szcz ęś liwy: w tym ulotnym stanie, kiedy zm ęczenie materiału daje zna ć o sobie pierwszym dr żeniem .
A new image, perhaps a little less abstract, was introduced here to portray the tension of the original metaphor. In his imagery, Amis seems to draw here from the domain of physics, or more specifically from the mechanics of material. His complex metaphor defies literal translation and the transfer has to be mediated with slightly more emphasis on the sense of the expression. The abstract idea of happiness becomes literally material, a material, prone to fatigue, balance of which can be described in terms of stress equations, abstract calculations—this constitutes the first level of the metaphor. Now at the second level, the reader is invited to feel the ‘tingle’ of something abstract which is usually attributed to material things. This process of recreating the image seems to be too complex, the distance between happiness and stress-equations too remote, and therefore, if translated word by word, could spoil the expressiveness of the text. That is why, I decided to reshape the whole image, to facilitate its reception. It involved modulation with a change of perspective. The image of ‘stress-equations’ was replaced with one from the same domain, namely ‘the fatigue of material’.
77 (5)
ST : nine-inch bricks and wigwam flares
TT : ci ęż kie jak cegła buty i dzwony niczym wigwamy
A perfect example of a situation when interlingual asymmetry leads to the impairment of the comical effect conjured by the metaphor. ‘Bricks’ in contemporary colloquial English stands for heavy shoes on a thick sole, and ‘nine-inch’ would here indicate the length of the shoe to the calf. The punning effect relies on the tension between the domain of shoes and construction materials, reinforced by the applicability of the attributive ‘nine-inch’ in the two senses. Unfortunately there appears to be no equivalent word that could yield ambiguity and at the same time do justice to the satirical depiction of modern fashion trends. The idea of the length of the shoes was dropped, and as for the weight, it was rendered in terms of a simile. We can speak here of qualitative impoverishment as the message in the target text loses the iconicity of the original utterance.
(6)
ST : And when he saw two teenagers vigorously kissing – an unimaginable mesh of lip-rings and tongue-studs – he felt himself assent to it.
TT : I kiedy zobaczył dwoje nastolatków całuj ących si ę z wigorem, ow ą niewyobra żaln ą mieszanin ę zło żon ą z kolczyków na wargach i ćwieków w j ęzykach – poczuł, że si ę na to godzi.
Yet another example of qualitative impoverishment where a vibrant image has to be reduced to mere sense. Mesh brings to mind something metallic which is entangled like a wiring. ‘Mieszanina’ (mix) fails to invoke that image.
(7)
ST : Indeed, in certain mental atmospheres it was possible to believe that the island he lived on contained sixty million superstars ...
TT : Czasem, w niektórych atmosferach mentalnych , mo żna było by uwierzy ć, że na wyspie, na której mieszkał, żyło sze ść dziesi ąt milionów supergwiazd ...
78
The first collocation was virtually left intact thanks to resorting to a linguistic calque. A valid argument that could support the decision is that the metaphor easily submits to decipherment and does not interfere with the process of understanding the message. And yet the phrase itself does not possess an immediate equivalent in the target language. As for the second metaphor the demands of the norms of acceptability force the translator to reduce the metaphor to its basic sense.
(8)
ST : He stopped and thought: that feeling again. And he sniffed the essential wrongness of the air, with its fucked-up undertaste , as if all the sequiturs had been vacuumed out of it.
TT : Zatrzymał si ę i zastanowił: znowu to uczucie. Poci ągn ął nosem i poczuł nieodzown ą bł ędno ść unosz ącą si ę w powietrzu, jej zjebany posmak , jakby wszystkie logiczne konkluzje zostały z niego wyssane.
We are dealing here with an extended complex metaphor which plays with the senses in a very demanding, abstract manner. The impossibility to imagine a person able to perceive the metaphysical qualities by sniffing the air, the witty play with the sense of smell and taste, lies at heart of the comical effect here. The first part underwent the ‘sense plus image’ procedure and similarly ‘bł ędno ść powietrza’ had to be expanded and clarified with a slight modulation. The second part of the metaphor seems to be partially stripped of the image of vacuum invoked by the verb (due to a semantic gap), however, it oscillates within the same domain, as a similar image is provided.
(9)
ST : Feebly averting his face from the humours of the brandy balloons , Love continued towards them[...]
TT : Odwracaj ąc z lekka twarz od woni baniaków brandy , Kochanie dalej kroczył w ich kierunku [...]
79 This metaphor seems too obscure to be transferred literally. It may be suspected that the author may have had some punning effect in mind, especially if we consider the ambiguity behind the noun ‘humours’ in this case. Understanding humour as a liquid proves to be restricted to the anatomical context. It may be the case that we witness here an instance of semantic extension and the sense can pertain to any liquid. On the other hand, if we take the brandy balloons for people (slightly drunk perhaps or indulging in alcohol), and we can do that because of the imprecision of the immediate clause (pronoun ‘them’ leads to a lack of cohesion), the ‘humours’ can be understood as comicality or oddities—traits of Henry X’s and Bugger’s characters. One way or another, it would be painstakingly difficult to reproduce the punning effect based on these two possible meanings. OED provides a meaning of ‘humours’ that is a dead metaphor for vapours. I deemed the shift towards acceptability to be necessary and disambiguated this conundrum by choosing the latter option, therefore narrowing the reading of the metaphor
(10)
ST : [...]but Clint wielded the unreasonable strength of heavy bones .
TT : [...]Clint jednak potrafił posługiwa ć si ę niewyobra żaln ą sił ą swych ci ęż kich kości .
The word ‘wield’ belongs chiefly to the literary register and usually collocates with ‘weapon’. Here the weapon is the ‘strength of heavy bones’ thus the wielder himself. Semantically, the verb loses its literal status, its poetizing power in the target text and contributes to the impairment of the surprising metaphorical force of the original image.
(11)
ST : crocodile of children
TT : grupka dzieci id ących parami ze szkoły
80 Although ‘the crocodile of children’ has become widely accepted form in English, in dictionaries it is still marked as humorous collocation, and therefore vital to the expressive function. Unfortunately, as can be seen in the fragments of the texts above, the metaphor of crocodile was reduced to sense, and lost the comical effect of amusing imagery. It seemed a reasonable decision, however, as many target readers could be bewildered by the unfamiliarity of the collocation. This shift may be due to the lack of saliency of the animal to the target reader’s experience—after all, the crocodile is not indigenous to Europe. Thus it does not belong to the domain of the target reader’s immediate experience, the sphere which is vital to the production of metaphors. The uncommonness of the crocodile cannot be reconciled with familiar image.
(12)
ST : So many of the students suffered from eating disorders that the entire plumbing system surrendered to the ravages of gastric acid . This in turn caused a ‘ billowing fracture ’ which warped its ventilation systems.
TT : Tak wiele uczennic cierpiało na bulimi ę, że cała instalacja wodoci ągowa uległa wobec siej ącej spustoszenie siły kwasu żoł ądkowego . Efektem tego stał si ę z kolei „ dymi ący wyłom ”, który wypaczył ściany systemów wentylacyjnych.
The first sentence gives us an example of stock metaphor ‘surrender to sth’ (literal translation and no change of image) followed by a striking collocation ‘ravages of gastric acid’. ‘Ravage’ seems to be the metaphor for the effect that the caustic gastric acid has on the building (which itself is metaphorically portrayed as a living organism). In the target text I felt I should provide the sense as well as the image, so preserving the idea of ‘ravaging’ I included an agent ‘siła’ (force). Another collocation, ‘billowing fracture’ was already marked by the author in the text by being put in inverted commas. The image of fracture was replaced and at the same time intensified by ‘wyłom’ (crack), so the image is basically retained with the use of synonymy.
(13)
81 ST : Russia had trusted herself to take the car, though she already felt like a driver on a stretch of black ice : no grip on the road , and many futures vying to become her next reality .
TT : Rosja postanowiła zaufa ć sobie i wzi ąć samochód, chocia ż ju ż teraz czuła si ę jak kierowca na tafli czarnego lodu: przyczepno ść kół zerowa, przyszło ści wiele, a ka żda walczy o to, aby sta ć si ę rzeczywisto ści ą.
Again, the target text underwent a few shifts. The ‘closed’ spatial distance of ‘stretch’ in the simile changed into ‘tafla’ which feels more indefinite but facilitates imagining of the scene, the slipperiness. The effect-to-cause modulation seemed an obligatory procedure in this case. In the second part of the sentence the metaphor ‘many futures vying to become her next reality’ was divided into two parts. Thus we get a kind of extended metaphor with domains of time and human actions, where ‘futures’ stand for possible courses of events. ‘Future’, usually uncountable and therefore a deviation from SL norms, appears here in plural number and translated literally (calque) seems perhaps a little awkward.
(14)
ST: The City Hall wearing a green fishnet vest [...]
TT: Ratusz miejski ubrany jest tam w zielony siatkowany podkoszulek
The procedure chosen in this case literally transfers the same image (green fishnet vest stands here for the protective mesh on renovated buildings) with a obligatory modulation of the verb (active to passive) and was based on the belief that it is within the capability of the source text reader as well as the target text reader to unravel the metaphor.
(15)
ST : Beyond them flowed the Thames and all its klieg-lit history
TT : Za ich plecami płyn ęła Tamiza i cała jej oświetlona przez kinematografi ę historia.
82 In the target text the translator not so much eliminated the synecdochal status of the metaphor as reversed it. ‘Klieg’ refers to the carbon lamp used in making movies, and if borrowed into the TT could become rather opaque. The use of a functional or descriptive equivalent was considered here, however, was felt to be more cumbersome than poetic.
(16)
ST : Above, the moist studs of the stars, the sweating stars, seized on to spacetime
TT : Nad nimi wilgotne ćwieki gwiazd, poc ących si ę gwiazd, haruj ących w zaprz ęgu czasoprzestrzeni .
The imagery in the metaphor was slightly altered. The metaphor became enriched by associating stars with beasts of burden slaving away in a yoke. Perhaps not an obligatory change, the shift helped to give credit to the original image which, if the phrase was to be transferred literally, could render the phrase awkward.
(17)
ST : [he was a] dustbin-worrier
TT : [był] śmietnikowym workiem zmartwie ń
The efforts to preserve the punning effect resulting from graphemic and phonological similarity between ‘worrier’ and ‘warrior’ had to be relinquished here, to enable successful rendering of the neologism in the TT. The possibility of transformations of active verbs into agents in English is much greater than it is the case in Polish. Consequently, the agent in the compound had to be replaced with a metaphor. An entirely new punning effect emerges from the metaphorical extension. ‘Worek’ (rubbish bag) establishes a meaningful phrase with the preceding adjective, and is subsequently endowed with a new sense by the following complement.
83
4.3 Unconventional syntax
(1)
ST : But I go to Hollywood but I go to hospital, but you are first but you are last, but he is tall but she is small,
but you stay up but you go down, but we are rich but we are poor, but they find peace but they find …
TT : Raz l ąduj ę w Hollywood, raz l ąduj ę w szpitalu, raz jeste ś pierwszy, raz ostatni, raz facet wysoki, raz kobieta niska, raz masz z górki, raz pod górk ę, raz jeste śmy bogaci, raz jeste śmy biedni, raz odnajd ą pokój, raz odnajd ą...
With its striking antitheses, the very first paragraph of Yellow Dog brings one of the most challenging problems the translator of Amis’s novel has to face. This is yet another aspect of the text expressiveness manifested in unconventional syntax. James Diedrick suggests that in the first paragraph of the novel Amis verbalises his idea of contingency of life after 9/11 (2004: 227). The cascade of grammatical fragments of this paragraph sandwiched between the conjunctions ‘but’ proved to be a hard nut to crack. The fragments are evidently marked as the coordinating conjunction appears both in the main and subordinate clauses. It is also the commonness of ‘but’ that yields a problem in the transfer. Having a whole range of conjunctions at my disposal (ale, chocia ż, lecz), I purposefully chose modulation and changed coordinating conjunctions into adverbs (raz...raz) to retain the embeddedness and the cadence of the clauses, but first and foremost to preserve the notion of contingency that the source text structure hints at. James Diedrick also points out that the passage seems to echo the opening of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities (2004: 228):
IT WAS the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way[...]
The paragraph ends with the suspension points and the last word is missing giving the translator another “nut to crack”. It seems plausible to agree with Diedrick, who argues
84 that the missing element of this jigsaw puzzle of antitheses is ‘war’ (2004: 228). After all, the four parallel plots in the novel are full of violence and war undeniably is the epitome of violence.
4.4 The metalinguistic function – problems in transfer
ST : In hospital she thought: no the or a. In court, in jail, in church . What did these institutions have in common?
TT : Nie w konkretnym szpitalu, nie w jednym ze szpitali... po prostu w szpitalu — pomy ślała. W sądzie, w wi ęzieniu, w ko ściele. Co ł ączy te instytucje?
The fragment quoted above exemplifies the most conspicuous presence of the metalinguistic function in Yellow Dog . The source text reader can witness a direct comment on the use of articles in English. The narrator here wonders what institutions such as court, jail or church have in common that they are not accompanied by an article. The metalinguistic function was not transferred to the target text. The possibility to recreate the function would entail recourse to a documentary procedure, an extra-textual gloss for example, that would hamper the smoothness of reading for one thing, and for another it would have to involve a substantial amount of information about the source language to be provided. Since the general policies in my translation precluded documenting the use of the SL for exoticising or pedagogical purposes, the most sensible solution proved to be the focus on the content of the message.
(2)
ST : [...]Heels, ankle bracelet, and that’s it, apart from me thong.’
‘Me passion’, wrote Clint, and then went back to change that e to a y, ‘is to dress up in the shortest mini I can find and then go round all the shoeshops with no knickers on’.
TT : Szpilki, bransoletka na kostce i tak wogle to wszystko, no, poza stringami.
„Tak wogle , to uwielbiam” — pisał Clint, po czym cofał si ę aby zamieni ć „ wogle ” na „w ogóle” — „ubiera ć si ę w najkrótsz ą mini jak ą znajd ę i chodzi ć bez majtek po sklepach z butami”.
85 In my rendition of this dialogue, the metalingual function that refers to the acceptability of language use, can only be perceived through the target culture values. The differences in register in the SL are only transferable by supplying them with domestic, TL ones. Thus we can speak here of the release of a domestic remainder. The recourse to domesticating strategy entailed replacing the ‘my’/ ’me’ variation with the equivalent ‘w ogóle’/ ’wogle’. The compensation of the graphemic and phonological manipulation made the humorous effect possible to be retained.
86
Chapter 5
5.1 Wordplay involving characters’ names and nicknames
(1) Xan Meo
The name of the character was borrowed without any changes although assuming that xan stems from ‘xanthic’, Xan Meo can be read as “yellow me”. Xanthic appears in various compounds meaning ‘yellow, yellowish’ as in xanthochroid (a fair-haired or pale-skinned person) and many diseases such as xanthoma, xanthochroism and xanthopsia. The morpheme ‘xant’ can also be found in Polish words such as ‘ksantofil’ or ‘ksantopsja’, and despite the orthographic adaptation, the possibility that the target text reader will be able to decode the name’s connotations cannot be ruled out.
(2) He Zizhen
James Diedrick suggests that the name could be pronounced ‘her jejune’ (2004: 232). Henry’s Chinese mistress seems to be the dominant partner during their love trysts and the suggested original pronunciation can only reinforce the image of the King as her infant. The name of the Chinese concubine becomes employed in a passage that reflects disappearance of gender distinction which is a recurring motif throughout the novel.
ST : The King, already naked, lay helplessly on the chaise-longue, like a child about to be changed. As she removed her clothes He caressed him with them, and then with what the clothes contained. He touched him. He touched He. He was hard. He was soft. He touched him and he touched He.
TT : Król, ju ż nagi, le żał bezradnie na szezlongu jak dziecko, które czeka na przewini ęcie. Kiedy zdj ęła fragmenty garderoby, zacz ęła go nimi pie ści ć. Potem pie ściła go tym, co zawierały ubrania. Dotykała go. Dotykał j ą. On był twardy. Ona mi ękka. Dotykała go, a on dotykał j ą.
The punning effect in the passage is based on the fact that ‘He’ refers both to the Chinese woman and third person masculine pronoun, which results in the general
87 confusion of two characters in the scene. The deliberate incohesiveness of the passage could not be recreated due to the far-reaching incompatibility between the source and target text language. Polish, being a synthetic language, expresses gender distinction in the inflection of the verb, whereas in English this feature can only be seen in pronouns. Substitution or compensation, the only techniques that could possibly address this problem, were difficult to apply in this case. For one thing, it would be exceedingly difficult to provide a plausible Chinese name that could compensate for gender confusion, for another any autonomous creation and ‘hard-core’ interference with the source text might cause the domino-effect of translation problems further in the target text. As a result, the translator was forced to translate the fragment literally and forfeit the punning effect. This instance of untranslatability of humour, apart from failing to do justice to the author’s wit, largely impoverishes the expressive thrust of the novel, as it fails to reflect the blurred gender distinctions.
(3) Bugger – Brendand Urquhart-Gordon
Urquart-Gordon’s nickname, as the narrator purports, ‘derived from his initials’, exemplifies another case, where vagueness, this time of sexual preferences, was lost in the process of translation. ‘Bugger’, which is a slang expression for ‘a male homosexual’, uttered by the King in the form of imperative, also displays ambiguity on the pragmatic level. In these instances the punning effect is achieved by the possibility of reading it literally—as the reference to the character, as well as idiomatically—a vulgar expression of displeasure or annoyance. Compare these examples:
ST :
’There must be more photographs of the Princess. In other…poses.’
‘Bugger!’
‘Forgive me, sir. That was unfortunate.’
TT:
— Z pewno ści ą istnieje wi ęcej fotografii Ksi ęż niczki. W innych ...pozach
— Cholera!
88 — Prosz ę mi wybaczy ć, sir. Niefortunnie si ę wyraziłem.
ST : ‘You know, Bugger, this shakes my personal belief [...]’
TT : — Wiesz co Cholera, to wstrz ąsa moimi osobistymi przekonaniami
ST:
He said, ‘How insensitive of me, sir. Forgive me.’
‘Forgiven. Now get on with it, Bugger.’
TT :
— Prosz ę o wybaczenie, sir. Zachowałem si ę wielce nietaktownie.
— Wybaczone. Dalej z tym koksem, Cholera.
The excerpts from both texts clearly show that the translator’s choice was to preserve the wordplay for the pragmatic purposes of the dialogues. The strength of the swearing word was attenuated as ‘cholera’ was felt to be more credible and amusing in the mouth of the King. This in turn gave rise to the problem of coherence between the elements of the target text. Perhaps, if a stronger interjection/nickname had been opted for (such as ‘kurwa’), this could work better for ‘the reification’ of Brendan’s nickname in the following passage:
ST : Given the choice between chastity and the reification of his schoolyard nickname, Bugger chose chastity.
TT : Maj ąc wybór pomi ędzy cnot ą, a reifikacj ą jego szkolnego przezwiska, Cholera wybrał cnot ę.
The coherence in this passage became inevitably endangered, as the hint of Brendan’s ‘homosexuality’ was eliminated from the text. Unfortunately, to restore the coherence, it would be necessary here to remove the fragment from the text, unless some compensation (perhaps, introduction of a second nickname) could be offered.
89 Had the translator chosen ‘kurwa’ for the rendition of Brendan’s nickname, it would be very hard to explain its origin (in the source text it is derived from his initials ‘BUG’).
(4) Love
As in the previous example, the name of one of Henry IX’s servants, instantiates the problem of wordplay as pragmatic ambiguity. In the dialogues, Love functions on two levels, referring precisely to the character, and as an ingratiating element in an informal way of addressing a person (perhaps rather female than male). A translation problem arises, when, the servant’s name appears in narration, i.e. outside dialogues. Let us look at the problem in detail.
ST : The servant, Love, appeared in the distant doorway. Urquhart-Gordon had nothing against Love, but he found it awkward using his name. Who would want a servant called Love?
'Two large Remy reserve, if you would, Love,' he called.
TT : Urquhart-Gordon nie miał nic przeciwko Kochanie, ale czuł si ę dziwnie u żywaj ąc jego imienia. Kto chciałby mie ć słu żą cego o imieniu Kochanie?
— Dwa du że Remy reserve je śli mog ę ci ę prosi ć Kochanie — zawołał
In this dialogue the comical effect is induced by the situation in which ‘Love’ appears at the end of the sentence, rendering the entire request somewhat too informal and unbecoming to the stature of the King.
ST : Feebly averting his face from the humours of the brandy balloons, Love continued towards them, and still had a fair way to go. It was five past six by the time he left the room.
TT : Odwracaj ąc z lekka twarz od woni baniaków brandy, Kochanie dalej kroczył w ich kierunku i nadal został mu spory kawałek drogi do przebycia.
Here, ‘Love’ in the source text can be understood literally and figuratively, hinting perhaps at some intimacy or affection between Henry IX and Brendan. This figurative
90 meaning appears to be lost in the target text, it seems that the metaphor only could be triggered by rendering ‘love’ as ‘miło ść ’.
(5) Hottie – Henry IX
This nickname is a short form for Hotspur, one of the characters from Shakespeare’s plays. It thus acquires a sense of ‘a sexually attractive person’ which, coming out of Bugger’s mouth (‘Oh Bugger!’, ‘Oh Hotty’), also imposes certain ambiguity in relations between the King and his servant. Nevertheless, this vagueness becomes lost in the target text (as it was lost in the case of Bugger) as the word was borrowed from the source text, and no explanation in glosses was offered.
(6) Rosja Tannenbaum
If the it did not appear in the phrase “his American wife Russia”, the name could according to convention be transferred without orthographic adaptation. It seems that the source culture can accept such names more readily than the target one. That is why, the name which coincidentally refers to a country may sound less plausible. It could be argued that Russia is transparent enough in its foreign form, therefore need not be naturalised. It occurred to me, however, that with naturalisation the immediacy of the humorous effect could be retained.
5.2 Wordplay caused by graphemic and morphological manipulations
(1)
ST : [Headline] Perves Him right
TT : [Nagłówek] Dobrze sobie zrobił.
The headline for the article about the case of Walthamstow Wanker is an instance of wordplay typical of the British tabloid journalese. Headlines always pose problems in translation between Polish and English, as the latter favours verbal economy and as it was proved in the case of internet language (4.1.4) proves to facilitate manipulation of signs. The structural transformation in this case belongs
91 to the category of paronymic substitution. The original phrase ‘serves him right’ undergoes modification of its first letter, which results in an overly critical and ridiculing pun. The rendition of the punning headline in the target text is based on deidiomatisation of the idiomatic phrase “zrobi ć sobie dobrze” which is an euphemism for the act of masturbation. Dual actualisation enables the compositional reading which is a very near equivalent for ‘serves him right’. Yet, it could be argued that the solution to the puzzle in the target text demands more effort on the part of the reader and thus fails to deliver the pun with the original thrust.
(2)
ST : ‘Are you going to merry this “Lyn” of yours?’
‘You know, old thing, I don’t see how I can marry anyone .’
TT : — Czy zamierzasz po śluby ć t ę twoj ą Lyn?
— Wiesz jak jest, nic nowego. Ja po prostu nie widzę siebie bior ącego ślub z kimkolwiek.
In the above dialogue once again the translator faces problem of translating King’s pre- war accent. This time, however, phonological and graphemic manipulation yields a change of meaning. Although it has now become obsolete and rare, ‘merry’ can still appear in the form of verb (to make a person merry). Naturally, Prince Alf decodes the accent variation without a problem, which hints at a more general specificity of this feature in the source text culture and language. Namely, the dialectal diversity of the SL can lead to instances of wordplay based on homophony. In such cases, the incongruity between the graphemic and phonological level lies at the heart of the humorous effect.
(3)
ST :
‘In a couple of seasons they’ll be kicking chunks out of you down in Scunthorpe.’
‘I ain’t a slapper, mate. And I ain’t playing for…fucking Scumforpe .’
TT :
— Za par ę sezonów sam b ędziesz kopany, gdzie ś na południu w Scunthorpe.
92 — Nie jestem zdzir ą, stary. I nie zamierzam gra ć dla... dla tej pieprzonej hołoty ze Scunthorpe
Here we can witness an example of graphemic manipulation which leads to a pun on the name of the English football team. This play on words may also be accidental as was the case with King’s phonological shifts resulting in homophony. Ainsley’s speech is characterised by changes of phonemes: /n/ becomes /m/ and /th/ becomes /f/. The name of the town in North Lincolnshire and at the same time a rather minor football team appears to be too opaque for the target reader, and any interference with the name could not only fail to recreate the humorous effect but could also create bafflement and impede comprehension. Consequently, assuming that the punning effect was intentional I desisted from any attempts to meddle with the spelling of the word and decided to resort to compensation. Thus, the ‘scum’ was taken out of Scunthorpe as the product of wordplay and transposed as a noun in apposition.
5.3 Wordplay based on polysemy (1)
ST :
‘[...] It makes me feel this isn’t a home .’
‘I’ll put you in a home in a minute. Don’t be silly, Ma.
TT :
— [...] Czuj ę si ę jakby to nie był dom .
— W domu to ja ci ę zaraz umieszcz ę, w domu starców . Nie b ądź głupia Mamo.
The punning effect in the above dialogue is evoked by the polysemous nature of the word ‘home’. To rebuke his mother and turn the phrase in a humorous way, the son activates the alternative meaning of home as ‘an institution’, as ‘old people’s home’. Although the domains that the word ‘home’ draws their meaning from generally overlap in the cross-cultural context, it was intuited that the TT reader may have some problems in solving the incongruity. The problem in transfer may stem from the fact that the original phrase appears to be more stable in the source language
93 and therefore can drop the complement without a necessary change in meaning. Hence, the impact of the original rhetorical effect was weakened as the solution to the pun was provided explicitly at the end of the clause, where the noun is repeated with the complement.
(2)
ST :
‘And this is what we want you to consider. Doing Beryl.’
‘Doing Beryl?’
‘Doing Beryl. And having Donna.’
TT:
Wła śnie to chcemy by ś rozwa żył. Wygrzmocisz Beryl.
— Wygrzmoc ę Beryl? — spytał.
— Wygrzmocisz Beryl, posiadłszy Donn ę.
The humorous effect in the above fragment of conversation pertains to the issues of implicature. It is by flouting of the Maxim of Quantity on the part of Clint that Ainsley becomes confused and cannot read his speaker’s intentions. The entire conversation appears to be even more vague, owing to the idiomatic use of common verbs ‘have’ and ‘do’. If we take a brief look at how the domains of sex and violence are mapped onto each other, this can show us how to approach this translation problem. It seems quite interesting to notice that language can reflect our changing attitude towards things that used to be taboo but have become much vulgarised in the contemporary world. Sex was reduced to common activities, hence the recourse to popular verbs such as ‘do’ and ‘have’. In pornography, sex is frequently equalled with violence, and both domains make use of these everyday words in expressions such as ‘have it off with’, ‘have it with’, ‘have someone’ or ‘do somebody’. This provides ample opportunity for punning. The question is, however, to what extent the target language and culture share this feature with the primary environment. The mere fact that it was possible to recreate the conversational implicature can imply
94 that the domains of sex and violence are strongly interconnected in both languages and cultures. Although the punning effect that arises in the process of connecting these domains in the TL can frequently be hampered by verbal prefixes (for example in the strong taboo word ‘jeba ć’), “wygrzmoci ć” turned out to fulfil the task of ‘the link’ quite well.
5.4 Punning based on the contextual use of idioms and collocations (1)
ST : In a hotel room in Manchester he methodically undressed a twenty-year-old continuity girl [...] The continuity girl, then, had not been a continuity girl. Discontinuity , radical discontinuity, was what she had signalled.
TT : W hotelu w Manchesterze metodycznie rozbierał dwudziestoletni ą sekretark ę planu filmowego, której zadaniem było utrzymanie ci ągło ści pomi ędzy scenami [...]Wi ęc ta dziewczyna wcale nie zachowywała żadnej ci ągło ści. Wr ęcz przeciwnie — zapowiedziała radykalny brak ci ągło ści.
In order to retain the play on words in the passage, the phrase ‘continuity girl’ had to be translated with a couplet in which functional and descriptive equivalent are harnessed together in a clause. The description, i.e. the actual elucidation of what a continuity girl is, was necessary to retain the compositional meaning of the original phrase which becomes actualised further on in the text. The pun appears to be a complex one, as the fixed collocation undergoes both semantic and structural transformation. The solution to the incongruity, the problem of defeated expectations, is introduced gradually thanks to the intermediary sentence in the source text. In the target text, this intermediary role is played by the descriptive equivalent, thus the focus on the compositional meaning dominates the passage.
(2)
ST :
‘Is that your “ bird ”? said a voice.
[...]
‘Yeah, well it’s all I can pull these days,’ he answered.
95 TT:
— Czy to twoja „ptaszyna”? — zapytał głos.
[...]
— Tak, no có ż, to wszystko, na co mnie obecnie sta ć— powiedział.
The above excerpt gives a vivid illustration of yet another semantic transformation yielding the effect of defeated expectations. That is to say, the ambiguity of the word ‘bird’ (reinforced in the text by inverted commas), is employed here in the process of metaphorical extension, in which the figurative meaning, becomes the vehicle for the following idiom transformation. Although the idiomatic nature of ‘bird’ could easily be preserved in the TT, the idiom proved quite to the contrary. As for the choice of a feasible procedure that could be utilised to render the pun in the target text, the translator’s hands seemed to be considerably bound. The technique of analogue (or equivalent) idiom transformation would inherently involve replacing the image of the bird with a functional equivalent, this, however, would be too much of an interference with the original text as the bird, the little sparrow, appears in other paragraphs of the chapter. Consequently, trying to avoid any recourse to metalanguage, I was left with two options: either to rely on loan translation, imposing some artificial stability (‘wyrwa ć ptaszyn ę’) or to substitute the fixed expression with a less or non- idiomatic one and let the humorous effect be largely forfeit. Having balanced the advantages and disadvantages of both alternatives, I decided to pick the latter. As a result, the solution to the incongruity is less obvious and the impact of the comical effect diminished.
(3)
ST :
Now, Xan, I want to say this: don’t fall for the “two-year” myth. It’s an old wives’ tale that’s caused a lot of unnecessary pain.
[...]
Xan needed more time than he would have liked to realise that all this was in itself an old wives’ tale – or a first wife’s tale , to put it another way. This wasn’t Russia. This was Pearl.
96
TT :
[...] I powiem ci jedno: nie wierz prosz ę w cały ten mit o dwóch latach. To rozsiewany przez zabobonne żony jad , który tylko przynosi niepotrzebne cierpienie.
[...]
Xan potrzebował dłu ższej chwili, o wiele dłu ższej ni ż by sobie życzył, aby zda ć sobie sprawę, że wła śnie otrzymał próbk ę jadu od swojej żony , a konkretnie od pierwszej, byłej żony . Nie Rosja, a Perła, jawiła mu si ę przed oczami.
The above passage instantiates an interesting case of the contextual use of idiom in which both semantic and structural transformations take place. The double play on words in this fragment can be observed in dual actualisation and in substitution respectively. In the former, the non-idiomatic, compositional meaning is triggered and the latter reinforces this reading by replacing the adjective of the idiom with a more explicit synonym. To address this translation problem, a blend of two techniques was employed—loan translation and substitution. As there was no option for equivalent or analogous idiom transformation, a compositional, linear rendering seemed necessary, although it would spoil recognition of the conventional phrase which lies at the heart of the transformations. Nevertheless, to sustain the comical effect induced by dual actualisation, the recourse to an entirely different image could act as the procedure that could complement the sense. As a result, a shift of meaning brought about by replacing ‘tale’ with ‘venom’, renders the whole expression stronger and forceful. ‘Wife’, the most important component of the original idiom, was borrowed, as it was required for the pragmatic coherence of the passage. The transformation in the target text is perhaps, not as striking as in the original, but at least the punning effect in the fragment was not lost altogether.
(4)
ST : When the girls had gone Russia called for the screens to be drawn around his bed, which she then climbed into, wearing only her slip. The way she did this made him think of the phrase petticoat government …
97 TT : Kiedy dziewczynki poszły Rosja kazała zasłoni ć łó żko parawanem, a potem weszła do niego maj ąc na sobie tylko halk ę. Sposób w jaki to uczyniła, skojarzył mu si ę z okre śleniem “petticoat government”—czyli babskimi rz ądami. extratextual gloss : petticoat (ang.) to tak że halka (przyp. tłum.)
The narrator in this fragment, may be perceived to distance himself from the dual associations of the scene, thus the reader may feel superior in his or her perception of the incongruity. The difficulty in transfer dwelled here in the culture-specific nature of the phrase. Loan translation, preserving the original components of the phrase was deemed requisite for retaining the punning effect in the passage. As ‘petticoat government’ seemed too impermeable to the TT reader’s understanding, the borrowing demanded some form of explicitation. Now, it stood to reason that the reader could be referred to the footnotes only once, thus I decided to explain the CSI within the text by means of intratextual gloss. The extratextual gloss was reserved for supporting the dual actualisation behind the wordplay. Unfortunately, employing this procedure, the translator is forced to pinpoint the alternative source of associations. In this way the incongruity becomes half-solved and in large measure the comical effect is lost.
98 Chapter 6
6.1 Culture-specific items in translation (1)
ST : ‘Which book? Christ. The one about those stupid chickens who think the sky is falling. Cocky Locky. Goosey Lucy. And they all copped it from the fox, didn’t they Billie.’
TT : — Któr ą ksi ąż kę? Chryste. T ę o tych głupich kurczakach, co my ślą, że niebo si ę wali. Kogutek Filutek i G ąska Głuptaska. A wszystkie dostały manto od liska. Tak to było Billie?
The translator faces here quite a challenging task of handling a recurrent allusion to one of the Gaelic fairytales, The Chicken Little . The plot of the story can be summarised as follows:
While picking flowers one day, a gust of wind knocks an acorn onto Henny
Penny’s head. At first confused, Henny Penny is eventually convinced by the cunning
Foxy Loxy that the sky is falling. Henny Penny rushes off to inform the King that the
sky is falling and something must be done. Along the way she meets up with her
friends Ducky Lucky and Goosey Lucy and they join her on her heroic quest. Almost
to the King, Henny Penny doesn’t think that she has the courage to finish her
journey, but Ducky Lucky and Goosy Lucy assure her, that with the help of friends,
anyone can do anything. Foxy Loxy diverts them into a cave with the goal of making
the trio his dinner. Instead, Henny Penny realises that it is a trap, helps her friends
escape, and teaches Foxy Loxy a lesson so he will never take advantage of innocent
poultry again.
This story is non-existent in the target culture, and while several references to its characters are made throughout Xan Meo’s plot, it seemed reasonable to employ one of the domesticating procedures to preserve the coherence of the text. Some consideration was given to the translation by cultural equivalent, however, the search for a story that would bear a resemblance to the Gaelic one failed. Consequently, I decided to borrow from the source culture the original plot of the story with simultaneous modifications to the name of its characters (the characters as such
99 were not changed). The procedure of autonomous creation allowed to replace the foreign names with more familiar ones which preserve the conventional touch of this kind of stories. By convention, the parts of the compound names rhyme and at least one part seems to be usually loaded with some characteristics of an animal, which is sometimes achieved by a pun. And thus for instance, the wordplay in ‘Goosey Lucy’ could not be retained and Veisberg’s technique of loan translation had to be resorted to. As a result, ‘Lucy’ was deleted from the name and ‘Goosey’ was split into its components (“g ąska”+”głupi jak g ąska”). In ‘Cocky Locky’ the punning effect was lost entirely with stress laid on rhyme.
(2)
ST :[…] Meo’s face was that of a man who might step up to a microphone and give you a completely leering rendition of ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ .
TT : W najsłabszym, najbardziej przymilaj ącym si ę wydaniu, twarz Meo była twarz ą m ęż czyzny, który mógłby podej ść do mikrofonu i dokona ć całkowicie lubie żnej interpretacji dzieci ęcego hitu „Pop Goes the Weasel”.
"Pop Goes the Weasel" is a nursery rhyme which dates back to 17th century England. To most people regardless of culture background it is probably known as a silly song, popularised by Walt Disney’s cartoons. Although its melody could be recognised by some people in the target culture, its title seems unlikely to bring any associations with the actual tune. I refrained from replacing “Pop Goes the Weasel” with any cultural equivalent like “Pszczółka Maja” to introduce some exoticism into the text. To facilitate humorous reception of the passage and to make it work on the pragmatic level, an intratextual gloss was introduced. “Dzieci ęcy hit” provides the necessary information for the reader, who otherwise could not be able to notice the incongruity that stems from the clash of the “leering rendition” and a nursery rhyme.
(3)
ST : a debut collection of short stories entitled Lucozade
TT : debiutancki zbiór opowiada ń zatytuowany „Lucozade”
100 The culture-specific word was borrowed here from the source culture and the procedure can be described in terms of Aixelá’s repetition or Newmark’s transference. As the word, which is a well-recognised sports drink trademark in the UK, was employed in the text as a title of Xan Meo’s fictional book, I decided to drop the complex cultural allusion and justify this choice by the connotations that might be conjured up by the word. While the root of the item contains the chemical term for one of the carbohydrates, glucose (primarily the name of the drink contained that initial ‘g’ too), it brings associations with something sweet and palatable. I believe that leaving this item in the source text as it is, does more credit to the idea behind the title of the collection of stories. It follows quite clearly from the plot that Xan is not a serious writer and the reader may rightly assume that his work might be aimed at popular fiction audience and easy profit, and the idea of the book „having been sweetened” seems to fit in quite well. On the other hand, one has to be aware of the considerable loss of cultural information that follows from transference. To illustrate the point let me quote a passage from a magazine article on climate change by Robert Matthews, from Aston University Birmingham, where ‘Lucozade’ is upheld as a symbol of marketing makeover:
What comes to mind when you think of Lucozade? It always reminds me of sickly kids sipping the stuff while propped up in bed. That’s because I’m old enough to remember the TV ads in the 1960s, when Lucozade was sold as a tonic drink for people recovering from illness. All that changed in the early 1980s, when some bright spark in marketing twigged that this was a pretty downbeat image, and commissioned the ad agency Oglivy & Mather to do a makeover.
Out went the sickly kid, and in came the world’s fittest man: World and Olympic champion decathlete Daley Thompson. Sales tripled in just five years. And I’ll bet that most people who see Lucozade nowadays think of fit athletes and not pallid-looking kids.
I’ve always been impressed by the ability of ad agencies to change perceptions, and how they can turn even the dreariest product into a must-have (Matthews 2007: 106).
The above fragment indicates that there is much more to the associative image of ‘Lucozade’ than its morphology or the sheer fact of it being a popular sports drink. Nevertheless, it would be difficult to speculate whether the first-hand knowledge
101 of the history behind this product is shared by a more general readership or is limited to a narrow age group. In any case, the attempt to introduce an extratextual gloss was abandoned here, as it would require a substantial amount of explication that could significantly hamper the reading process.
(4)
ST : He thought: it’s like those companies called FCUK and TUNC .
TT : To jak z tymi firmami FCUK i TUNC— pomy ślał i wzruszył ramionami extratextual gloss : nazwy s ą kalamburami wulgaryzmów ‘fuck’ i ‘cunt’
In this passage we can witness one of the examples, where recourse to extratextual gloss was deemed indispensable. The translation problem resides not only in the cultural exclusiveness of these terms but also in the comical effect induced by metathesis. ‘FCUK’ stands for French Connection UK and is a very recongisable casual wear label in Britain. The wordplay with the swearing word ‘fuck’ is used in numerous clichés printed on FCUK t-shirts. This often leads to controversy, thus many batches of the t-shirts have landed on the scrapheap. ‘TUNC’, on the other hand, is somewhat more obscure, even for the source culture reader. It is of course a metathetical pun on ‘cunt’ but as a company, ‘TUNC’ is rather inconspicuous in the source culture. It may well be that Amis drew this name from Lawrence Durrell’s book by the same title or simply invented it to amplify the humourous effect. If that second item was not included in the source text, it would be perhaps possible to abandon the extratextual gloss. ‘FCUK’ seems readily transparent for the projected target text reader, especially now, when thousand of Polish people purchase their clothes in the UK.
(5)
ST : Mal breathed in and bulged his eyes and loudly whispered, ‘You’ll remember this in pain, boy. J- o-s-e-p-h A-n-d-r-e-w-s.’
TT : Mal wci ągn ął powietrze, wybałuszył oczy i gło śno wyszeptał,
— Popami ętasz bratku. J-o-s-e-p-h A-n-d-r-e-w-s.
102
Joseph Andrews, who, as it is revealed in further chapters of the novel, is a retired East End gangster who lives in the States, alludes to the first published full-length novel of the English author Henry Fielding, and indeed one of the first novels in the English language. The allusion may serve here as a vehicle of humour. One can get an impression that the reason Xan Meo gets beaten up is connected with his writing. Nevertheless, this reference can only be comprehended by well-educated source text reader. As this culture-specific item was transferred without any attempt to elucidate the allusion, the humourous effect becomes inevitably lost. However, it was felt that any endeavour to explicate the item in the footnotes could not recreate the comical effect. Instead, it was optimistically assumed that the well-educated target text reader could have heard the name, if not in the Fielding’s novel, then perhaps in its film adaptation by Tony Richardson.
(6)
ST : ‘The photograph was hand-delivered to my rooms in St James’s .
TT : Fotografia została dostarczona do r ąk własnych, do moich pokoi w St. James’s Palace
The procedure that was required in this case was transference with explicitation (repetition with addition), where the procedure can also instantiate intratextual gloss unfolding the full name of one of the royal palaces. Shortened to ‘St James’s’, the reference proves to be opaque, therefore revealing the full name was considered a necessity. There is little difference in spelling between ‘palace’ and ‘pałac’, and understanding the nature of the object should not be difficult for the target text reader. At the same time, ‘St James’s Palace’, in its foreign form, reinforces the exotic aspect of London topography.
(7)
ST : Brendan Urquhart-Gordon’s nickname, by the way, derived from his initials, Henry IX’s from his performance as Hotspur in a school production of Henry IV, Part One .
103 TT : Nawiasem mówi ąc, przydomek Brendana Urquhart-Gordona pochodził od ci ęż kiej choroby, któr ą przebył, Henryka IX natomiast od jego roli Hotspura w pierwszej cz ęś ci szkolnej produkcji Henryka IV .
Once again let us return to one of the most problematic passages of Yellow Dog . The translation problem involving wordplay on Henry’s nickname has already been discussed in Chapter 5, still, there is a cultural allusion to the Shakespeare’s play to be accounted for. Fortunately, the narrator explained the source of King’s nickname himself, which would otherwise have had to be done by the translator in a lengthy extratextual gloss. By convention the name of the play underwent orthographic adaptation, whereas Hotspur was borrowed to the target text.
(8)
ST : She was attached to certain machines, in the Royal Inverness .
TT : Podł ączono j ą do pewnych maszyn w Royal Inverness.
I decided to preserve this culture-specific item by means of repetition/transference. It becomes quite clear from the development of the story that Royal Inverness must be a hospital or a clinic. Indeed, it is an existing clinic in the capital of Scotland, Edinburgh. The possibility of adding ‘klinika’ (intratextual gloss) before Royal Inverness was considered, but ultimately the idea was dropped. It seemed to me that Amis’s vagueness (‘certain machines’) might be deliberate here, and thus needs to be preserved.
(9)
ST : This contribution posed as a letter to the paper’s agony aunt , or ‘Ecstasy Aunt’ [...]
TT : Artykuł maj ący form ę listu do gazetowej poradni „Cioci Kloci”, czy te ż raczej „Cioci Wenery [...]
This problem have already been discussed in the previous chapter but it remains to be said that due to the problem of wordplay this element is involved in, ‘agony aunt’ had to be translated with Aixelá’s procedure of autonomous creation. It has to be stressed
104 that in the target culture it is quite unusual to call an advice columnist ‘an aunt’. That is why, some additional information needed to be introduced in the text, to render the message explicit (intratextual gloss: noun phrase in apposition). ‘Aunt’ was retained here to preserve wordplay, although a new element was introduced to the phrase. We can describe it as a couplet in which calque is accompanied by autonomous creation.
(10)
ST : [...] Smoker flagged the new photosection alluded to by Desmond Heaf. It was to be called Reader’s Richards, ‘Richard’ being rhyming-slang (via Richard the Third) for bird, just as ‘Bristols’ (via Bristol City) was rhyming slang for –
TT : Z ci ęż kim sercem Smoker zaznaczył sekcj ę zdj ęciow ą, o której wspominał Desmond Heaf. Miała nosi ć tytuł Ryszardy Czytelników, gdzie Ryszard b ędąc wytworem rymowanego slangu (poprzez Ryszard III) rymuje si ę z „matki naszych dzieci”.
The problem of cockney rhyming slang in intercultural transfer is a recurring issue pertaining to Amis’s novels. It seems that there is still no general agreement to what is the best translation practice as regards rhyming slang. The translators of Amis’s work have employed diverse strategies in their approach to the problem. Zabłocki in his translation of The Information opted for linguistic calques with extratextual glosses. His choice seemed to impede the reading process, however. On the other hand, the whole concept of rhyming slang encumbers immediate comprehension which is the mechanism behind the comical effect it produces. Consequently, advancing explanations beyond text proper could substantially extend the time for the incongruity to be resolved. Krzysztof Hejwowski, the translator of The State of England , quite successfully confined his translation of rhyming slang to text proper, relying on synonymy and compensation. Encouraged by the effects these techniques yielded in his text, I resolved to preserve the striking collocation (calque) and seek a synonym for bird that would rhyme with ‘trzeci’. “Matki naszych dzieci” is not perhaps a close synonym of ‘bird’ (laska, panienka), nevertheless, it proves to be functionally convenient as it shows how the mechanism of rhyming slang works. It is perhaps easier to preserve an instance of rhyming slang that is only partially anchored in the source
105 culture (through Richard III) and is an imaginative creation of the author. The problem of translating ‘Bristols’ was evaded here, as I opted for omission. Had it played the same pragmatic role as ‘Reader’s Richards’, it would be immensely difficult to employ any different procedure than calque with one of the explicating techniques. ‘Bristols’ is a common slang expression for ‘bosoms’ (‘city’ rhymes with ‘titty’); but while Richard III in the previous example is quite transparent, Bristol City, the inferior English football team, would require a footnote.
(11)
ST : And Mal in his early (a different epoch, really) had been a royal supporter of his native West Ham : the punnet of sweet-and-sour pork on the overnight coach to Sunderland ; the frenzied, lung ingniting sprints down the King’s Road ; the monotonous appearances at the magistrate’s court in Cursitor Street . Then disillusionment had come to him, one Saturday at Upton Park .
TT : Za młodych dni (rzeczywi ście w innej epoce) Mal był lojalnym kibicem rodzinnego West Ham — kartonik wieprzowinki w sosie słodko-kwa śnym w nocnym autokarze do Sunderlandu, szalony i rozpalaj ący płuca sprint wzdłu ż Kings’s Road i monotonne wizyty w s ądzie na Cursitor Street. Jednak pewnej soboty, na stadionie Upton Park, przyszło rozczarowanie.
The whole passage abounds in CSIs pertaining to football culture and we can witness here a handful of different procedures. Firstly, it was assumed that the target text reader would know major English football teams such as West Ham and Sunderland. Consequently, the items were borrowed into the target text without any additional information. Naturally, the mutual animosities between football team fans from southern England, and these north to the M25, as well as hostilities between some London team fans, is something only a specialist in the field could be aware of. The names of the football stadiums of major premiership teams seem to be generally known even to these people in the source culture who are not very keen on football. In the target text, however, these items call for some elucidation. I decided to make it clear that Upton Park is a stadium but I refrained from pointing out that it is the home of West Ham United, as this can be inferred from the text. ‘King’s Road’ and ‘Cursitor Street’ were preserved by repetition as an integral part of London’s topography.
106 In the case of ‘magistrate’s court’ we can speak of conventional universalisation which eliminated the foreign connotations of this institution.
(12)
ST: 'The people', said Ainsley, with bitter gratitude, 'will always love Ainsley Car. They love their Dodgem , mate.
TT: — Ludzie — rzekł Ainsley z gorzk ą wdzi ęczno ści ą — b ędą zawsze kochali Ainsleya Cara. Stary, oni kochaj ą swojego „ Spychacza ”.
The metaphor in Ainsley’s nickname is an allusion to popular fairground attraction. ‘Dodgems’ or ‘bumper cars’ move on a flat track with an electric power grid above it and bump into one another. Although this attraction is known to the people in the target culture, it seems that there exists no name for it that would be widely recognised and could be employed as a cultural equivalent for ‘dodgems’. Any procedure of conservative nature was felt to be unnatural here. Consequently, the cultural specificity of the nickname had to be dropped and different, non-cultural image was provided. The procedure may be described in terms of Newmark’s translation by functional equivalent.
(13)
ST : OH MY GOD! IT’S THE TOWER ! IT’S BIG BEN , IT’S OLD TOM , IT’S BUCK PAL .
TT : O MÓJ BO ŻE! TO TOWER! NIE, BIG BEN! OLD TOM! PAŁAC BUCKINGHAM!
The translation of two first CSIs in this passage is quite straightforward as they have their recognised translations and are repeated in the target text. The abbreviated colloquial form ‘Buck Pal’ by convention had to undergo naturalisation and was reproduced with orthographic adaptation. ‘Old Tom’, however, was a tough nut to crack as it was difficult to attach the exact meaning to this phrase. The most obvious connotations lead to the famous Old Tom Gin, but whether it is the allusion to the infamous drink appears to be quite difficult to establish. Hence, the safest way to evade the problem was to borrow the item, as if it was a name of a pub.
107
(14)
ST : With a bar of soap that size, maybe you could wash all Fucktown clean…
TT : Z tak wielk ą kostk ą mydła mo żna by wypra ć z brudu całe Miasto Kurewstwa…
‘Fucktown’ refers to a porn industry enclave in San Sebastiano Valley, also known as ‘Little Hollywood’. My rendition of the name drops the ties with the source culture and offers a functional equivalent for the purpose of the comical effect of the metaphorical toponym.
(15)
ST : You’re on a one-year with them slappers up in Teesside .
TT : Masz jednoroczny kontrakt z tymi północnymi zdzirami z Teesside.
Although it cannot be conclusively ascertained, most probably the phrase refers to the Premiership football team from Middlesbrough. Teesside, a district in Northern England, is exceedingly troubled by unemployment and other social issues leading to high crime rate. The idea that playing for a team from Teesside may be way beneath Ainsley’s ambitions is lost, as no explication was provided. It was deemed that this complex allusion pertaining to the football culture in England is of minor importance to the development of the plot, and any attempt to recreate it would yield rather barren results.
(16)
ST : [...] she had even burst from the house and stridden to the Jeremy Bentham for cigarettes
TT : [...] zdarzyło jej si ę nawet wypa ść z domu i pop ędzi ć do pubu po papierosy.
The handling of the above translation problem may be considered a slight departure from the endeavours to preserve the elements of London’s topography of which Jeremy Bentham, a pub in central London, is definitely an integral part. Yet, it was felt
108 that since the name of the pub was taken after the famous English philosopher and social reformer, and refers to a person, it might cause confusion if transferred literally. On the other hand, the couplet “pop ędzi ć do pubu Jeremy Bentham” seemed to sound awkward and clumsy. That is why, universalisation, which deleted the topographical specificity, was opted for.
(17)
ST : We’re saying, we’re proving , that our reader’s richards, if any, are straight out of the Black Lagoon .
TT : Mówimy, udowadniamy, że je żeli ju ż, to wła śnie ryszardy czytelników s ą potworami z Czarnej Laguny.
The expression used in this fragment alludes to a 1954 science-fiction film Creature from the Black Lagoon . As a fairly popular term of invective it appears to be well embedded in the source culture. The film have come to be known in the target culture by its Polish title Potwór z Czarnej Laguny (a calque from English). Since the film is a classic in its own genre, an effort was made to retain the allusion. However, to make the reference to the film comprehensible, the lacking element from the title was required in the phrase. Having been made explicit, the expression keeps the original’s comical thrust and preserves the coherence on the pragmatic level.
(18)
ST : Reader, I married him. T.S. Eliot: A Reader’s Guide. Hypocrite lecteur! mon semblable, mon frere!
TT : Czytelniku, po ślubiłam go. T.S. Eliot: Przewodnik Czytelnika . Hypocrite lecteur! Mon semblable, mon frere!
This short passage appears to be heavily loaded with intratextual allusions which need to be given some consideration. The fragment starts with a quotation from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre . The French quotation comes from Eliot’s Waste Land , but it can originally be traced back to a poem by Baudelaire ‘Ad lectuer’ from Fleures de Mal . Considering the co-text and context in which these references occur, it seems
109 that with certain anticipation they encompass an implicit criticism on the idea of a ‘high-IQ moron’ Clint makes just a few sentences further in the text:
Clint had recently read a piece in a magazine which posited the emergence of a new human type: the high-IQ moron. Wised-up, affectless, and non-empathetic, high-IQ morons, according to the writer (a woman novelist), were also supercontemporary in their acceptance of all technological and cultural change — an acceptance both unflinching and unsmiling
“Reader, I married him” is the title of a novel by the feminist writer, Michele Roberts to whom Amis might be alluding here indirectly (the expression would rather be primarily recognised as Bronte’s). The quotation from Eliot, can also be read equivocally in this context. Waste Land decried against technological change and dehumanisation of the society, and in this way could also criticise the concept of the ‘high-IQ moron’. However, the actual fragment from Eliot’s epic poem, may be directed here at the woman novelist, or, indeed, at the reader of Yellow Dog . The complexity of this fragment of the text, with all the allusions and possible readings, seems to resist translation. Unfortunately, the article on ‘high-IQ moron’ remains in the sphere of the fictional world of the novel, as the original source of the reference could not be found. That is why, possible connotations with Michele Roberts remain speculative, especially that the author himself cannot be queried on this subject. The reference to the sentence from Jane Eyre was not made explicit and trust was put in the well-educated reader to unravel it himself or herself. And similarly in the case of the French expression, it was preserved without any glosses. It has its place in Władysław Kopali ński’s Słownik wyrazów obcych i zwrotów obcoj ęzycznych (http://www.slownik-online.pl/) and it was considered to be accessible to the addressee. ‘The Reader’s Guide’ was rendered by means of calque for pragmatic reasons. It may be safely assumed that the title here acts as a link between two quotations rather than an important item in literary criticism, whose title needs to be preserved.
(19)
ST : Said he took half a mil from a Malaysian businessman to throw it for Rangers last season.
TT : Mówi, że wzi ął pół melona od malajskiego biznesmena, żeby da ć dupy z Glasgow Rangers w zeszłym sezonie.
110
Again, to facilitate comprehension, the full name of the Scottish football team was provided. The problem of transferring the name of the football team was solved in the same manner as in ex. 14.
(20)
ST : ‘Our thoughts go out’, said Churchill in the House of Commons [...]
TT : Nasze my śli w ędruj ą w kierunku — mówił Churchill w Izbie Gmin[...]
Here, the translational norms of the target culture imposed the official and generally accepted rendering of the institutional term. The procedure is Newmark’s recognised translation.
(21)
ST : ‘No,no. One can’t be doing with that monkey -glends business .’
TT : — Nie, nie. Nie mo żna si ę miesza ć w cały ten biznes z miałpimi jajami.
The ‘monkey glands business’ refers to Serge Voronoff’s work on ‘rejuvenation of old men’ by grafting monkeys’ testicle tissue into the human organs. The expression was popularised in the source culture by David Hamilton in his book The Monkey Gland Affair (1986), which due to the lack of existing translation, seems to be unknown in the target culture. If translated by calque, the item becomes somewhat opaque, which only confirms its culture-specific nature. I resorted to synonymy to capture the humorous aspect of the expression without any recourse to explication. As a result, it may be more difficult for the reader to associate ‘biznes z małpimi jajami’ with the scientific experiments.
(22)
ST : The two men were in a security vehicle outside the Mansion House , where Henry was due to attend an anniversary dinner of the British Architectural Association [...]
TT : Dwaj m ęż czy źni siedzieli w samochodzie ochrony przed Mansion House, budynkiem ratusza, gdzie Henryk miał zje ść rocznicowy obiad wraz z Brytyjskim Towarzystwem Architektonicznym [...]
111 While ‘the British Architectural Association’ was transferred quite straightforwardly by means of calque, the literal rendition of the name of a famous London building, the Mansion House, calls for some commentary. In this fragment the official residence of the Mayor of London appears for the second time in the text, and this time it was feasible to give some elucidation in the text of the narrative. This benefits the target text reader, who now may be familiarised with the function of the building. As for the procedure used to translate the item, it can be accounted for in terms of Newmark’s couplet, in which transference is accompanied by cultural equivalent.
(23)
ST : There was a jar of Bovril on the counter and, balaced on its lid, a smeared tablespoon.
TT : Na blacie le żał słoik Bovrilu oraz umazana ły żka poło żna równo na pokrywce. extratextual gloss : g ęsty wywar z wołowiny
Here we can witness a testing translation problem in which a CSI poses a problem in recreating the humorous effect of the passage. Bovril is a trademark name of a thick, salty beef extract, sold in a distinctive, bulbous jar. Although it can be purchased in many European countries, this product’s consumption is largely confined to the United Kingdom. During the First World War, this ‘beef drink’ was consumed on the front lines as ‘war food’. What is more, Bovril is associated with football culture of the past and used to be commonly drunk on the terraces during matches. It also brings associations with London’s posh Groucho club whose members are mostly drawn from the media, entertainment, arts and fashion industries. This culture- specific item appears to be strongly embedded in the source text culture and employed in the text for the purpose of evoking comical effect, reflects the tension between two skopoi of my translation. The effect here stems from contrast between the low, working class image that is introduced into the royal context. To communicate the humorous point successfully, one would have to resort to a procedure that would replace the image with a surrogate from the target culture. This idea, however, seemed to be in conflict with the secondary skopos of the translation. While it was deemed essential to preserve the CSI to retain the exotic aspect of the novel’s setting,
112 the striking contrast of the image became somewhat blurred. The extratextual gloss, due to the lack of space, could not fully account for all the cultural connotations that Bovril evokes in the source culture. Consequently, explication was limited to a succinct footnote providing a terse definition of the item.
(24)
ST : He handed the transparent zipper-wallet to Henry IX, who gave it a more than averagely puzzled squint, MR BRENDAN URQUHART -GORDON ESQUIRE , and, in the top right-hand corner, Private and Confidential. 'No accompanying note. Calligraphy and the redundant " Esquire " suggest an uncouth or foreign hand, or an attempt to have us believe as much.
TT : Podał przezroczyst ą teczk ę Henrykowi IX, który rzucił na ni ą bardziej ni ż średnio zdziwionym okiem. MR BRENDAN URQUHART-GORDON ESQUIRE , a w prawym górnym rogu: Prywatne i Poufne. — Żadnej dodatkowej wiadomo ści. Kaligrafia i zb ędny tytuł grzeczno ściowy „ Esquire ” sugeruj ą niezgrabn ą obc ą dło ń, b ądź te ż kto ś chce, aby śmy tak my śleli.
The narrator’s information about the redundant courtesy title makes the preservation of the CSI necessary in this case. As no cultural equivalent could be offered, the item was borrowed into the TT and complemented with an intratextual gloss accounting for the cultural gap.
113 Conclusion
This thesis attempted to show a tripartite approach to the process of translation of Martin Amis’s Yellow Dog . Three vantage points: function, humour and culture facilitated consideration of different aspects of the process and the analysis of translation problems that occurred in the struggle to render the source text in the target language. Functionalism enabled a textual approach to the original and its translation, focusing on the type of the text and its functions. The skopos theory, which sees translation as a purposeful activity, facilitated determination of two general goals of the translation. In the task to translate Yellow Dog , efforts were dedicated to the preservation of the comical effect in the novel and any manifestations of spectacular wit of its author. Being a satire, Yellow Dog revealed substantial intricacies in the sphere of the expressive function which reflects authorial wit and sense of humour. The complexity of Amis’s discourse dwells in his astounding style, which yielded problems in translating original metaphors, striking collocations and neologisms or even syntactical oddities. In the effort to retain the original imagery and effect, the translator strived to reconcile not only the dissimilarities between two languages but also the differences in cultural knowledge and experience between the primary and secondary addressees. Authorial style in the novel revealed yet more problems in the sphere of substandard and taboo language. The translator had to act against the forces of verbal hygiene that lead to attenuation of the rhetorical effect and loss of expressiveness. Wariness of the illusory nature of foreignisation and of limited possibilities to preserve the ‘otherness’ in the target text entailed occasional departures from the secondary skopos of my translation. These departures are especially conspicuous in places of tension between two skopoi, where defamiliarisation had to give way to recreation of the comical effect. The visibility of the translator, although only sparingly manifested in extratextual glosses, was marked in countless examples of intratextual explicitation. The presence of the translator is also evident in a domestic remainder that was released in the target text. In attempts to preserve the humorous effects I generally refrained
114 from providing solutions to incongruities in footnotes. Similarly, explicitation of culture-specific elements beyond the text proper, was avoided and resorted to only when it was absolutely necessary to preserve the humorous effect. However successful my rendition of first three chapters of Amis’s novel may seem, there remains a feeling of sadness. Ortega y Gasset wrote about sorrow after failure, and as George Steiner noticed, in translation, sadness comes also after success (Steiner 1998: 314). It may be argued that only the translator of humour can truly experience the wild mood swings brought on by the struggle of choices. Success always seems partial and the comical thrust too often proves to be diminished. While at first the success of translation was felt to lie in abuse, it turned out that the prevailing norms and conventions of the target language/culture, as well as the projected image of the target text reader, frequently required toeing the mark and keeping abusive tendencies in check.
115 Abstrakt
Celem niniejszej pracy jest przedstawienie trójdzielnego podej ścia do przekładu powie ści Martina Amisa pt. Yellow Dog . Jest to próba uj ęcia najwa żniejszych problemów, które wynikły w trakcie tłumaczenia fragmentu powie ści, ze szczególnym uwzgl ędnieniem formalnych aspektów humoru j ęzykowego, ró żnic pomi ędzy kultur ą prymarn ą i docelow ą oraz funkcji j ęzyka i tekstu w danym kontek ście. W niniejszej pracy zarysowano metodologiczne aspekty przekładu jako procesu podejmowania decyzji, odwołuj ąc si ę do teorii gier, roli wiedzy i do świadczenia, a tak że zachowa ń normatywnych. Du ża cz ęść pracy odwołuje si ę do funkcjonalnych teorii bada ń nad przekładem, analizuj ąc rol ę funkcji tekstu korzystaj ąc z poj ęć funkcji j ęzyka. Znajomo ść tych że funkcji i zdolno ść ich identyfikacji pomaga w rozpoznaniu i rozwi ązaniu problemów translatorycznych, szczególnie w kontek ście humoru j ęzykowego, artystycznej kreacji autora i siły oddziaływania tekstu. W funkcjonalnym podej ściu do przekładu została tak że uwzgl ędniona rola norm i konwencji translatorycznych, stylistycznych i gatunkowych dominuj ących w kulturze docelowej. Uznaj ąc tłumaczenie jako działanie posiadaj ące wyznaczone cele, które tłumacz stara si ę zrealizowa ć, omówiono cele przekładu powie ści Amisa oraz okre ślono jego planowanego odbiorc ę. Cz ęść pracy po świ ęcona została próbie klasyfikacji formalnej humoru, która słu ży przewidzeniu problemów w mi ędzyj ęzykowym i mi ędzykulturowym transferze tekstu humorystycznego. Odwołano si ę tutaj do teorii j ęzykoznawczych z zakresu j ęzykoznawstwa kognitywnego i pragmatyki j ęzyka. Szczególn ą uwag ę po świ ęcono problemom tłumaczenia gry słów, przedstawiaj ąc szereg technik przekładowniczych do dyspozycji tłumacza. W niniejszej pracy omówiono tak że problematyk ę zwi ązan ą z poj ęciami domestykacji i defamiliaryzacji, które s ą dwiema głównymi strategiami w aspekcie kulturowym przekładu. Dokonano tak że klasyfikacji typów elementów specyficznych kulturowo i przedstawiono szereg procedur u żytych w przekładzie fragmentu powie ści Amisa.
116 W cz ęś ci analitycznej pracy, która jest empirycznym podparciem rozważań teoretycznych, omówiono konkretne problemy w przekładzie dotycz ące funkcji ekspresywnej, impresywnej i metaj ęzykowej, ze szczególnym uwzgl ędnieniem czterech typów tekstu przewijaj ących si ę przez tekst powie ści. Zebrano równie ż przykłady problemów zwi ązanych z przekładem gry słów, które nast ępnie poddano analizie. Na koniec opatrzono komentarzem wybrane elementy specyficzne dla kultury prymarnej i ukazano jak zachowuj ą si ę one w transferze mi ędzykulturowym.
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122 Appendix A
MARTIN AMIS YELLOW DOG
PART 1
CHAPTER ONE
1. Renaissance Man
But I go to Hollywood but I go to hospital, but you are first but you are last, but he is tall but she is small, but you stay up but you go down, but we are rich but we are poor, but they find peace but they find . . . Xan Meo went to Hollywood. And, minutes later, with urgent speed, and accompanied by choric howls of electrified distress, Xan Meo went to hospital. Male violence did it.
'I'm off out, me,' he told his American wife Russia. 'Ooh,' she said, pronouncing it like the French for where. "Won't be long. I'll bath them. And I'll read to them too. Then I'll make dinner. Then I'll load the dishwasher. Then I'll give you a long backrub. Okay?' 'Can I come?' said Russia. 'I sort of wanted to be alone.' 'You mean you sort of wanted to be alone with your girlfriend.' Xan knew that this was not a serious accusation. But he adopted an ill-used expression (a thickening of the forehead), and said, not for the first time, and truthfully so far as he knew, 'I've got no secrets from you, kid.' '. . . Mm,' she said, and offered him her cheek. 'Don't you know the date?' 'Oh. Of course.' The couple stood embracing in a high-ceilinged hallway. Now the husband with a movement of the arm caused his keys to sound in their pocket. His half-conscious intention was to signal an impatience to be out. Xan would not publicly agree, but women naturally like to prolong routine departures. It is the obverse of their fondness for keeping people waiting. Men shouldn't mind this. Being kept waiting is a moderate reparation for their five million years in power . . . Now Xan sighed softly as the stairs above him softly creaked. A complex figure was descending, normal up to the waist, but two-headed and four-armed: Meo's baby daughter, Sophie, cleaving to the side of her Brazilian nanny, Imaculada. Behind them, at a distance both dreamy and self-sufficient, loomed the four-year-old: Billie. Russia took the baby and said, 'Would you like a lovely yoghurt for your tea?' 'No!' said the baby.
123 'Would you like a bath with all your floaty toys?' 'No!' said the baby, and yawned: the first lower teeth like twin grains of rice. 'Billie. Do the monkeys for Daddy.' 'There were too many monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell down and broke his head. They took him to the doctor and the doctor said: No more monkeys jumping on the BED! Xan Meo gave his elder daughter due praise. 'Daddy'll read to you when he comes back,' said Russia. 'I was reading to her earlier,' he said. He had the front door open now. 'She made me read the same book five times.' 'Which book?' 'Which book? Christ. The one about those stupid chickens who think the sky is falling. Cocky Locky. Goosey Lucy. And they all copped it from the fox, didn't they, Billie.' 'Like the frogs,' said the girl, alluding to some other tale. 'The whole family died. The mummy. The daddy. The nanny. And all the trildren.' 'I'm off out.' He kissed Sophie's head (a faint circus smell); she responded by skidding a wet thumb across her cheek and into her mouth. And then he crouched to kiss Billie. 'It's Daddy's anniversary,' Russia explained. 'Where are you going,' she asked him finally, 'for your lost weekend?' 'That bar-type place on the canal. What's its name. Hollywood.' 'Goodbye, Daddy,' Billie called.
Leaving the house, he turned briefly to assess it — a customary means of assessing himself, assessing where he was positioned, where he was placed. It wasn't his style (we shall come to his style), but he might have put it this way: If fine materials are what you like, then have a feel of that fleece there, on the extravagantly deep armchair (take as long as you like: don't stint yourself). In fact, if you have an interest in real estate or fine living generally, you could do worse than take a tour of the whole house. If, alternatively, German technology is your thing, then get you to my garage, just around the side there. And so on. But it wasn't the money. If you harbour an admiration for extreme womanly beauty, then feast your eyes on my wife — the mouth, the eyes, the aerodynamic cheekbones (and the light of high intelligence: he was very proud of her intelligence). Or, if your soul melts to the vivid ardour of unusually cute, healthy and well- behaved children, you would envy us our . . . And so on. And he might have continued: But then I am the dream husband: a fifty-fifty parent, a tender and punctual lover, a fine provider, an amusing companion, a versatile and unsqueamish handyman, a subtle and accurate cook, and a gifted masseur who, moreover (and despite opportunities best described as 'ample'), never fools around . . . The truth was that he knew what it was like, being a bad husband, a nightmare husband; he had tried it the first time; and it was murder. Xan Meo walked down St George's Avenue and came to the main road (this was London, near the Zoo). In so doing he passed the garden flat, opposite, which he now seldom used. Were there any secrets there? he wondered. An old letter, maybe; an old photograph; vestiges of vanished women . . . Xan paused. If he turned right he would be heading for pram-torn Primrose Hill — itself pramlike, stately, Vicwardian, arching itself upwards in a posture of mild indignation. That route would have got him to Hollywood the long way round. If he turned left he would get there sooner and could stay there later. So he had a choice between the garden and the city. He chose the city. He turned left, and headed for Camden Town.
124 It was late afternoon, and late October. On this day, four years earlier, his decree nisi had been made absolute, and he had also given up smoking and drinking (and dope and coke. American pimps, he had recently learnt, called coke girl; and heroin boy). It had become Meo's habit to celebrate this date with two cocktails and four cigarettes and half an hour of writhing reminiscence. He was happy now — a delicate state: you could feel the tingle of its stress-equations. And he was steadily recuperating from his first marriage. But he knew he would never be over his divorce. The rink of Britannia Junction: Parkway and Camden Lock and Camden High Street, the dozen black frames of the traffic lights, the slum of cars. Certain sights had to be got out of the way: that heap — no, that stack — of dogshit; that avalanche of vomit; that drunk on the pavement with a face like a baboon's rear; that old chancer who had clearly been incredibly beaten up in the last five or six hours — and, just as incredibly, the eyes that lurked among those knucklestamps and bootprints harboured no grievance, sought no redress . . . Xan Meo looked at the women, or more particularly the girls, the young girls. Typically she wore nine-inch bricks and wigwam flares; her midriff revealed a band of offwhite underpants and a navel traumatised by bijouterie; she had her car-keys in one cheek and her door-keys in the other, a plough in her nose and an anchor in her chin; and her earwax was all over her hair, as if via some inner conduit. But aside from that — what? The secret purpose of fashion, on the street, the harlequinade, fashion in its anarcho-bohemian form, is to thwart the lust of your elders. Well, it's worked, thought Meo. I don't dig you. He thought too of the menpleasers of twenty-five years ago, their stockings, garterbelts, cleavages, perfumes. Girls were now breaking with all that. (And maybe it went further, and they were signalling the retirement of physical beauty in the interests of the egalitarian.) Meo would not say that he disapproved of what he saw, though he found it alien. And when he saw two teenagers vigorously kissing — an unimaginable mesh of lip-rings and tongue-studs — he felt himself assent to it. See the young kissing and run it by your heart; if your heart rejects it, retreats from it, then that's age, that's time — fucking with you. As he joined the long queue at the service store, for cigarettes, Meo recalled his penultimate infidelity (the ultimate infidelity, of course, had been with Russia). In a hotel room in Manchester he methodically undressed a twenty-year-old continuity girl. 'Let me help you out of those nasty hot clothes,' he said. Which was a line of his. But the line felt accurate: the damp-dog sloppy joe, the woollen tights, the rubber boots. He was seated on the armchair when she finally straightened up in front of him. There was her body, with its familar circles and half-circles, its divine symmetries, but it included something he had never seen before. He was face to face with a pubic buzzcut. Also: 'What's that doing there?' he asked. And she answered: 'It helps me have an orgasm'... Well, it didn't help him have an orgasm. Something else was hard where everything was meant to be soft: he seemed to be pestling himself — against a steel ingot. Plus a nice telltale welt (with her name and phone number on it) to take home to a wife who was, in any case, and with good reason, psychopathi-cally jealous (as was he). The continuity girl, then, had not been a continuity girl. Discontinuity, radical discontinuity, was what she had signalled. How clear did it need to be? No more monkeys jumping on the bed. He had been sleeping with Russia for four and a half years. Passion survived, but he knew it would dwindle; and he was prepared for that. Xan Meo was on his way to realising that, after a while, marriage is a sibling relationship — marked by occasional, and rather regrettable, episodes of incest.
125 Dusk was now falling; but the firmament was majestically bright; and the contrails of the more distant aeroplanes were like incandescent spermatozoa, sent out to fertilise the universe . . . On the street Meo stopped looking at the girls, and the girls, naturally, went on not looking at him. He had reached the age (he was forty-seven) where young women looked through you, beyond you, they looked through your ghost: a trite misfortune, perhaps, but definitely a point in your leavetaking, your journey to ghostdom. You whisper goodbye, goodbye — God be with you (because I won't be. I can't protect you). And yet this was not quite fully Meo's case, for he was a conspicuous man, and knew it, and liked it, on the whole. He owned a lot of physical space, tall, broad, full; his dark brown hair was no longer thick and wavy but it still covered a fair part of his head (the unguent that lent it extra mass and fixity was called Urban Therapeutic); and his eyes had rather more twinkle in them than you necessarily want to see. His face held a glow to it — a talented glow, certainly, but what kind of talent? At its weakest, its most ingratiating, Meo's face was that of a man who might step up to a microphone and give you a competently leering rendition of 'Pop Goes the Weasel'. His air seemed likely: plausible for the purpose at hand. And, more than this, he was famous, and therefore in himself there was something specious and inflationary, something bigged-up. He was, however, quietly famous, as so many are now: many are famous (and even Meo could remember a time when hardly anybody was famous). Fame had so democratised itself that obscurity was felt as a deprivation or even a punishment. And people who weren't famous behaved famous. Indeed, in certain mental atmospheres it was possible to believe that the island he lived on contained sixty million superstars . . . Meo was, in fact, an actor, an actor who had gained sudden repute by warily diversifying into another field. And the world has a name for these people who can do more than one thing at the same time, these heroic multitaskers: it calls them Renaissance Men. The quiet glow of quiet fame, then, further illumined Xan Meo. Every five minutes someone would smile his way — because they thought they knew him. He returned such smiles. The stroll to Hollywood continued — and we will stay with Meo's stroll, because it will be his last for some time. He stuck his head round the door of the High Street bookshop and complacently ascertained that his paperback (a debut collection of short stories entitled Lucozade) was still on the table marked Our Staff Recommends. Then, turning right up Delancey Street, he passed the café where Renaissance Man played rhythm guitar every second Wednesday with four old hippies who called themselves the Original Hard Edge. He cut left down Mornington Terrace — rather poorer, very much quieter: he could hear his own footfalls despite the thrashing trees he walked beneath and the submerged clangour of the rolling-stock deep down over the wall to his right. The weather was of the type that was still politely described as blustery. A ragged and bestial turbulence, in fact, a rodeo of wind — the earth trying to throw its riders. And in the street: garden furniture, twirling dustbins, bicycles and (increasingly) car doors thrown open into the path of the boost. Xan was too old for fashion, for cuts and styles; but his trousers, now, were alternately flared and drainpiped by the wind. Up ahead he picked out a figure that reminded him, or reminded his body, of his first wife — his first wife as she was ten years ago. Pearl would not have had a cigarette in her mouth and a tabloid in her armpit, and nor would her clothes have been quite so brief, so taut, so woman-crammed; but the aggressive or at least sharply defiant stance, the arms disaffectedly folded, the lift of the chin that said that all excuses had now been considered and dismissed . . . She stood, waiting, in the shadow of a dun-coloured mediumrise. Behind
126 her a male infant lingered, wiggling a stick among the exposed innards of a black plastic bag. As Meo turned to cross over the railtracks he heard her say, 'Harrison! Move your fucking arse!' Yes, most regrettable, no doubt; but with his back safely turned Meo did not deny himself a wince of laughter. He was a good modern person; was a liberal, a feminist (indeed a gyno- crat: 'Give the girls a go,' he'd say. 'I know it's asking the earth. Still, we're no good. Give the girls a go'). But he still found things funny. The woman, after all, had made her meaning plain; and it couldn't be said that she had minced her words. No: Pearl would have put it differently . . . He could see the building now, with its variegated Christmas lights, its squirming barber's pole. Sometimes a descending aeroplane can sound a warning note: one did so, up above — an organ-chord, signalling its own doom. He stopped and thought: that feeling again. And he sniffed the essential wrongness of the air, with its fucked-up undertaste, as if all the sequiturs had been vacuumed out of it. A yellowworld of faith and fear, and paltry ingenuity. And all of us just flying blind. Then he stepped forward. Xan Meo went to Hollywood.
'Good evening.' 'All right?' said the barman, as if querying the mental health of someone who still said that: good evening. 'Yeah mate,' said Meo comfortably. And yourself?' This was the thing about him: he was big, he was calm, he was comfortable. 'Where is everyone?' 'Football. England. They'll come steaming in here around eight.' Meo, who would not be around for that, said, 'You want to get those uh, plasma screens in. They can watch it in here.' 'We don't want em to watch it here. They can watch it in the Worm and Apple. Or the Turk's Head. And trash that when they lose.' The cocktail menu had been chalked up on a blackboard above a display of bottles and siphons arranged and set-dressed to resemble downtown Los Angeles. Out-of-scale mannequins of selected moviestars lurched through its streets. 'I'll have a . . .' There was a drink called a Blowjob. There was a drink called a Boobjob. He thought: it's like those companies called FCUK and TUNC. Meo shrugged. It was not his intention, now, to ponder the obscenification of everyday life. He said, 'I'll have a Shithead. No, a Dickhead. No. Two Dickheads.' Holding a glass in either hand Xan went out into the paved garden overlooking the canal where, in recent months, on a west-facing bench, usually with Russia at his side, he had consumed many a pensive Club Soda, many a philosophical Virgin Mary. And how much more solemn - how much more august and royal - his thoughts would be, pondering Pearl, alone with his cigarettes and his Dickheads . . . Meo's first glance at the motionless green channel rather too studiously confronted him with a dead duck, head down with its feet sticking up like the arms of a pair of spectacles. Dead in the water, abjectly dead: he imagined he could smell it, over and above the elderly medicine of the canal. Like Lucky Ducky or Drakey Lakey, after Foxy Loxy was done. Xan seemed to be alone in his garden. But then a dapper young man emerged from a Hollywood side-exit, with a mobile phone held to his ear; he seemed briskly bound for the street until he stopped dead and then seemed to grope his way sidewise and steady himself against the canal fencing a few feet away. He acknowledged Xan's nod with a flicker of his
127 brow and then said clearly, 'So everything we said, all the vows we exchanged, now mean nothing. Because of Garth. And we both know that's just an infatuation . . . You say you love me but I think we have different conceptions of what love really means. To me, love is something sacred, almost ineffable. And now you're saying that all that, all that . . .' He moved off, and his voice was soon lost in the hum of the city. Yes, and that was part of it, the obsceni-fication: loss of pudeur. Like the dead duck, the worldline of Xan's first marriage, that attempted universe — dead also. His divorce had been so vicious that even the lawyers had panicked. It was as if the two of them had been trussed together with barbed wire, naked and face-to-face, and then thrown overboard. Your flailings down there, your kicking and clawing: there could be no morality. When Pearl had him arrested for the third time, and he stood at the door of his service flat listening to the charges, Xan knew that he had reached the end of a journey. He had reached the polar opposite of love — a condition far more intense than mere hatred. You want the loved one dead; you want her plane to come down, and never mind about the others on board — those four hundred saps and losers . . . But they'd survived; they lived, didn't they? Xan reckoned that he and Pearl came out pretty well even. And, fantastically, they came out richer than they went in. It was the boys, the two sons, who lost, and it was to them that Xan Meo now raised his glass. 'I'm sorry,' he said out loud. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' As if in recompense for the waterbird upended in the green canal, a sparrow, a feathered creature of the middle air, hopped on to the bench beside him and, with eerie docility, began to ventilate itself, allowing its wings to thrum and purr, six inches away. The wind had departed — fled elsewhere. In the west a garish, indeed a porno sunset had established itself. It resembled a titanic firefighting operation, with ethereal engines, cranes, ladders, the spray and foam of hose and standpipe, and the genies of the firemen about their massive work of hell-containment, hell-control. 'Is that your "bird"?' said a voice. Meo acknowledged the passing of his solitude. He looked to his right: the sparrow was still agitating on the arm of the bench, testingly close to his second Dickhead. He looked up: his smiling questioner, a square-looking, almost cubic individual, stood about ten feet away in the weak dusk. 'Yeah, well it's all I can pull these days,' he answered. The man took a step forward, his thumbs erect on either side of his navel. Recognised, thought Meo. Made. 'Are you the}' Expecting that he would soon have a hand to shake, Xan got to his feet. The sparrow did not yet absent itself. 'Yes. I'm the.' 'Well I'm Mal.' '. . . Hello there,' said Xan. 'Why'd you do it, son?' At this point it became clear that Mal, despite his air of humorous regret, was a violent man. Far more surprisingly, it became clear that Xan was a violent man too. That is to say, he suffered from no great deficit of familiarity as the changed forcefield took hold. Violence, triumphally outlandish and unreal, is an ancient category-error — except to the violent. The
128 error having been made, both men would know that from here on in it was endocrinological: a question of gland-management. 'Why'd I do what}' said Meo, and took a step forward. He hoped still to avert it; but he would not be going second. 'Ooh.' He pronounced it où, as Russia Meo had, so long ago. He went on, 'I heard you was a bit tasty.' 'Then you know what to expect,' he said as levelly as he could (there was an acidic presence in his mouth). 'If you have it with me.' 'You went and named him! And I mean that, to me, that is totally, to me —' 'Named who?' Mal breathed in and bulged his eyes and loudly whispered, 'You'll remember this in pain, boy. J-o-s-e-p-h A-n-d-r-e-w-s.' 'Joseph Andrews?' 'Don't say it. You don't say it. You named him. You put him there — you placed him. In black and white.' For the first time Meo thought that something else was wrong. The calculations going on inside him might be given as follows: my five inches equals his two stone, and zero real difference in the other thing (time lived). So: it would be close. And the guy seemed too blithe and hammy for close. He couldn't be that good: look at his suit, his shoes, his hair. 'You'll remember this in pain, boy.' But there is another actor on our stage. But I go to Hollywood but I go to hospital. A man (for it is he, it is he, it is always he), a sinner, shitter, eater, breather, coming up fast on him from behind. Mal is violent, and Xan is violent, but in this third player's scowl and its nimbus you see an absence of everything that human beings have ever agreed about: all treaties, concordats, all understandings. He is palely and coarsely bald. His eyebrows and eyelashes seem to have been lasered or even blowtorched off his face. And the steam pouring from his mouth as if from a spraycan, on this not intemperate evening, reached out to arm's length. Xan heard no footsteps; what he heard was the swish, the shingly soft-shoe, of the hefted cosh. Then the sharp two-finger prod on his shoulder. It wasn't meant to happen like this. They expected him to turn, and he didn't turn — he half-turned, then veered and ducked. So the blow intended merely to break his cheekbone or his jawbone was instead received by the cranium, that spacey bulge (in this instance still quite marriageably forested) where so many noble and delicate powers are so trustingly encased. He crashed, he crunched to his knees, in obliterating defeat: his womanblood, his childblood, taken by his enemy. The physics of it sent his Dickhead twisting up and away. He heard the wet crack, the wet crack of his knees followed by the wet crack of the sliced glass. The world stopped turning, and started turning again — but the other way. Only now after a heartbeat did the sparrow rear up with the whirling of its wings: the little paparazzo of the sparrow. The sky is falling! Then the words 'Get down' and a second, fervent blow. The sky is falling, and I'm off to tell the . . . Seemingly rigid now, like the statue of a fallen tyrant, he crashed sideways into the damp paving, and lay still.
129
2. Hal Nine
The King was not in his counting-house, counting out his money. He was in a drawing- room in the Place des Vosges, absorbing some very bad news. The equerry on the armchair opposite was called Brendan Urquhart-Gordon. Between them, lying on the low glass table, was a photograph, face-down, and a pair of tweezers. And the room was like a photograph: for several minutes now neither man had moved or spoken. A vibration was needed to animate the scene, and it came: the ping of a tuning-fork, as one of the thousand facets in the icy chandelier minutely rearranged itself within that ton of glass. Henry IX said, 'What a dreadful world we're living in, Bugger. I mean, it's such a ghastly, dreadful . . . world.' 'It is indeed, sir. May I suggest a brandy, sir.' The King nodded. Urquhart-Gordon wielded the handbell. More vibrations: scandalously shrill. The servant, Love, appeared in the distant doorway. Urquhart-Gordon had nothing against Love, but he found it awkward using his name. Who would want a servant called Love? 'Two large Remy reserve, if you would, Love,' he called. The Defender of the Faith — he actually headed the Church of England (Episcopalian) and the Church of Scotland (Presbyterian) — went on: 'You know, Bugger, this shakes my personal belief. Doesn't it shake yours?' 'My personal belief was ever but a slender reed, sir.' An unlikely expression, perhaps, coming from a man shaped like a cummerbund. Bald, dark, rosy, with Jewish brains (some said) from the mother's side. 'Shakes it to the core. These people really are the limit. No. Worse. I suppose it's all part of some ghastly "ring"?' 'That is possible, sir.' 'Why did . . . How could it be so arranged that such creatures play a part in God's plen?' Love reentered and, as he approached, perhaps a dozen clocks, one after the other, began to chime the hour. An instinctively practical man, Urquhart-Gordon reflected that more work would have to be done on the modernisation of the King's short 'a'. In times of crisis, especially, it sounded almost prewar. Brendan's rosy cheeks were for a moment all the rosier as he recalled Henry's visit, as Prince of Wales, to the trade-union rest-house in Newbiggin-by-the-Sea, and the Prince at the piano singing 'My Old Man's a Dustman': 'My old men's a dustman, He wears a dustman's het, He wears cor-blimey trousers, And he lives in a council flet!' The Fourth Estate had not been slow to point out that the truth was otherwise: Henry's old man was Richard IV, and he lived in Buckingham Palace. Feebly averting his face from the humours of the brandy balloons, Love continued towards them, and still had a fair way to go. It was five past six by the time he left the room. 'Forgive me, Bugger. My mind's a blenk. Delivered . . . ?' 'The photograph was hand-delivered to my rooms in St James's. In a plain white envelope.' This envelope Urquhart-Gordon now produced from his case. He handed the transparent zipper-wallet to Henry IX, who gave it a more than averagely puzzled squint, MR BRENDAN URQUHART-GORDON ESQUIRE, and, in the top right-hand corner, Private and Confidential. 'No accompanying note. Calligraphy and the redundant "Esquire" suggest
130 an uncouth or foreign hand, or an attempt to have us believe as much. Protection will conceivably tell us more.' Urquhart-Gordon studied the King's frown. Henry IX normally wore his thick fair hair swiped sideways across his brow. But now in the royal disarray his quiff had collapsed into a baffled fringe, making his eyes look even more beleaguered and inflamed. Henry IX frowned on at him, and in response to this Urquhart-Gordon shrugged and said, 'We await further communication.' 'Blickmail?' 'Well. I would say extortion. It seems reasonably clear that this is not the work of the media, in the usual sense. If it were, then we would be looking at that photograph in some German magazine.' 'Bugger!' 'I'm sorry, sir. Or on the Internet.' With a bedraggled gesture Henry IX reached for the thing on the table. His hand wavered. 'Use the tweezers, sir, if you would. Turn it with the tweezers, sir.' The King did so. He had not seen his daughter naked for perhaps three or four years, and, over and above everything else, he was harrowed, he was bitterly moved, by how much woman was already in her, in his girlchild who still played with her dolls. This, together with the dreaminess, the harmlessness, of the face, caused her father to cover his eyes with his sleeve. 'Oh Bugger.' 'Oh Hotty.' Urquhart-Gordon looked on. A fifteen-year-old girl in what was evidently a white bathtub, with her arms up on the side, her legs folded at an angle in six inches of water: Princess Victoria, in her costume of nudity, her catsuit of nudity, adumbrating womanhood. The conspicuous tan-lines — she seemed, furthermore, to be wearing a spectral bikini — suggested summer. Urquhart-Gordon had checked the scrolled itineraries: all the Princess ever did, apparently, was go on holiday. But she had been back at boarding-school for six weeks and it was now almost November. Why, he wondered, had they waited? There was something about the Princess's expression that worried him, that additionally disquieted him: the elevation of the pupils . . . Brendan Urquhart-Gordon's nickname, by the way, derived from his initials, Henry IX's from his performance as Hotspur in a school production of Henry IV, Part One. 'Do you think,' the King said miserably, 'that the Princess and a uh, girlfriend might have been messing about with a camera, and uh . . .' 'No, sir. And I'm afraid it is highly unlikely that this is the extent of it.' The King blinked at him. The King always made you spell it out. 'There must be more photographs of the Princess. In other . . . poses.' 'Bugger!' 'Forgive me, sir. That was unfortunate. The point is: look at the Princess's face, sir. That is the face of someone who thinks she's alone. We must take comfort from the fact that the Princess was and is quite unaware of this really unprecedented intrusion. Quite innocent of it.' 'Yes. Innocent of it. Innocent of it.' 'Sir, do I have your permission to activate John Oughtred?' 'You do. Not another soul, of course.'
131 Henry IX got to his feet, and so, therefore, did Urquhart-Gordon. They fell into step together, the one so sleek, the other so lean. When the great embrasure of the central window had at last been reached, the two men looked out through the lace, through its weft and warp. Floodlights, cranes, gantries, retractable ladders: the firefighters of the Fourth Estate. It was the eve of the second anniversary of the Queen's accident. The King was expected to make a statement in the morning before flying back to England and then on to his wife's bedside. For the Queen was not in the garden, eating bread and honey. She was attached to certain machines, in the Royal Inverness. 'Well, sir. The family motto.' The family motto, impressed upon Henry IX by his father, Richard IV, and his grandfather, John II, was unofficial. In Latin it might perhaps have been Prosequare. In English it ran as follows: Get On With It. 'What have I got tomorrow? The AIDS people or the cancer people?' 'Neither, sir. The lepers.' 'The lepers? . . . Oh yes of course.' 'It could be postponed, sir. I don't see how it was arranged in the first place, given the significance of the date.' And he invitingly added, 'With your permission, sir, I will be availing myself of the King's Flight in - two hours.' 'No, I'd better go ahead and do the lepers, now I'm here. Get on with it.' Urquhart-Gordon knew the real purpose of Henry IX's visit to Paris. He was obliged to conceal his astonishment that, despite the nature of the current crise, the King evidently meant to go ahead with it (and despite the atrocious timing, the atrocious risk). Now his eyebrows arched as he made a series of fascinated deductions. 'And after the lepers - then what?' 'You should be in the air by noon, sir. There's the ceremony at Mansion House at two: your award from the Headway people.' Again Henry IX blinked at him. 'The National Head Injuries Association, sir. Then you go north,' he said, and superfluously added, 'to see the Queen.' 'Yes, poor thing.' 'Sir. I have Oughtred on hold and will liaise with him tonight at St James's. We must avoid passivity in this matter.' He shook his head and added, 'We've got to find somewhere to begin.' 'Oh Bugger.' Urquhart-Gordon had an impulse to reach out and smooth Henry IX's hair from his brow. But this would surprise the King's horror of being touched: touched by a man. 'I feel very sorry for you, Hotty. Truly I do.' Soon after that the King went off to bathe, and Brendan sat on in the drawing-room. He removed his hornrims; and there were the tumid, vigilant brown eyes. Brendan had a secret: he was a republican. What he did here, what he had been doing for a quarter of a century, it was for love, all for love. Love for the King, and, later, love for the Princess. When Victoria was four . . . The Englands were holidaying in Italy (some castello or palazzo), and she was brought in to say goodnight to the company — in robe, pyjamas and tasselled slippers, with her hair slicked back from the bath. She went to the cardtable and, on her easy tiptoe, kissed her parents, then exchanged particular farewells with two other members of the entourage, Chippy and Boy. Sitting somewhat apart, Brendan looked up from his book in rosy expectancy — as she wordlessly included him in the final transit of
132 her eyes. Then she took her nanny's hand, and turned with her head bowed. And Brendan, startling himself, nearly cried out, in grief, in utter defeat — how can I feel so much when you feel so little? All the blood within him . . . Brendan knew himself to be perhaps unusually fond of the Princess. Was it an aesthetic passion merely? When he looked at her face he always felt he was wearing his most powerful reading-glasses — the way her flesh pushed out at him like the contours of a coin. But this would not explain his condition in the Italian ballroom as Victoria went to bed without wishing him goodnight: for instance, the sullenly mastered temptation to weep. 'Goodnight, Brendan,' she had said, the following evening; and he had felt gorgeously restored. It was love, but what kind of love? These days she was fifteen, and he was forty-five. He kept expecting it to go away. But it didn't go away. Now Brendan looked again at the photograph of the Princess. He did so briefly and warily. He was wary for her, and wary for himself — for the information about himself it might give him. Of course the point was to serve her, to serve her always . . . Brendan marshalled his briefcase, preparing himself for the drive to Orly, the King's Flight to the City of London Airport, and the working supper with John Oughtred.
Eight o'clock was on its way to the Place des Vosges. Downstairs, in the alpine vault of the kitchen, the security detail frowned over its instant coffees — and its playing-cards, with their unfamiliar symbols, swords and coins from another universe. Upstairs, Love, with a white napkin draped over his forearm, was setting the table in a distant corner of the drawing-room. He was setting it for two. Fragrant from his toilet, the King felt his way from one piece of furniture to another. In this room everything you touched was either very hard or very soft, invaluably hard, invaluably soft. The house belonged, of course, to Henry IX's especial friend, the Marquis de Mirabeau. Less well known was the fact that the Marquis maintained a further apartment in the Place des Vosges . . . Now the clocks chimed, first in relay, then in unison. 'If you would, Love,' said the King. Against the wall on the landing's carpeted plateau stood a chiffonier the size of a medieval fireplace. This now began to turn, to slide outwards on its humming axis. And in came He Zizhen, greatgranddaughter of concubines. Love bade her welcome.
When the clocks chimed again He began to undress. This would take her some time. The King, already naked, lay helplessly on the chaise-longue, like a child about to be changed. As she removed her clothes He caressed him with them, and then with what the clothes contained. He touched him. He touched He. He was hard. He was soft. He touched him and he touched He. There came a ping, a vibration, from the chandelier.
3. Clint Smoker
'The Duke of Clarence played Prince ChowMein last night, writes CLINT SMOKER,' wrote Clint Smoker. 'Yes, Prince Alf wokked out with his on-again off-again paramour, Lyn Noel, for a slap-up Chinese. But sweet turned to sour when photographers had the
133 sauce to storm their private room. Wan tun a bit of privacy, the couple fled with the lads in hot pursuit — we'll cashew! What happened, back at Ken Pal? Did Alf lai chee? Did he oyster into his arms and give her a crispy duck? Or did he decide, yet again, to dumpLyn (after he'd had seconds)? Sea weedn't like that — so how about a kick in the arse, love, to szechuan your way?' 'What's this?' asked Margery, who was passing. 'Photocaption,' said Clint pitilessly, leaning sideways so she could see. Clint Smoker's screen showed a tousled and grimacing Prince Alfred and a tearful and terrified Lyn Noel fighting their way through a ruck of photojournalists and policemen in steaming Soho traffic. 'That rain's not doing her hair much good,' said Margery, who now took her place in the next workstation along. A ruddy sixty-year-old, Margery was pretending to be a glamour model called Donna Strange. She was also pretending to have no clothes on. 'Yeah well it's the drowned-cat look,' said Clint. An identikit modern uggy, Clint himself subscribed to the look-like-shit look (as he had seen it called), with closely shaved head (this divulging many a Smoker welt and blemish), a double nostril-ring in the shape of a pair of handcuffs (the link-chain hung over his long upper lip and was explorable by the petri-dish of the Smoker tongue), and a startlingly realistic, almost trompe-l'oeil tattoo of a frayed noose round the Smoker neck (partly obscured, it is true, by a further rope of Smoker blubber). And yet this man, with a laptop in front of him, was a very fine journalist indeed. Clint's shoes also repaid inspection: two catamarans lashed in place by a network of cords and cleats. 'Dear Donna: I am a nineteen-year-old heiress with a slender waist, a shapely derrière, and bouncers as big as your bonce,' wrote Clint Smoker. 'Actually not a lot,' Margery was telling one of her phones. 'Heels, ankle bracelet, and that's it, apart from me thong.' 'Me passion', wrote Clint, and then went back to change that e to a y, 'is to dress up in the shortest mini I can find and then go round all the shoeshops with no knickers on. I wait till the lad is on his little seat in front of me. You should see the way they -' He then said in his uncontrollably loud voice, 'Here, Marge, they do —' 'Donna,' said Marge, pressing the mouthpiece to her breast. 'They do have blokes serving in birds' shoeshops, don't they?' She shrugged a nod and said, 'Do you darling? Well we all feel a bit fruity in the afternoons. It's the biorhythm.' '. . . drool', wrote Clint, 'when I yank my —' Supermaniam Singh poked his head round the door and said in estuary English, 'Oi. He's here.'
By the time Clint clumped into the conference room the Publisher, Desmond Heaf, was leaning over the cover of yesterday's Morning Lark and sorrowfully saying, 'I mean, look at her. Clint: nice to see you, son. I mean, look at her. That's deformity, that is. Or obsessive surgery: Munchausen's. They're very unhappy people and they look it. See her eyes. If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times. Keep the bosoms within reasonable bounds: forty-four triple-F would do as a benchmark. I say it and I say it. They go down for a while but then they always creep back up again. And then we get this.' 'More centrally, Chief,' said Clint, 'it makes the paper too embarrassing to buy. I bet we're losing wankers.'
134 Even before the first issue had hit the streets, it was universal practice, at the Morning Lark, to refer to readers as wankers. This applied not only to specific features (Wankers' Letters, Our Wankers Ask the Questions, and so on), but also in phrases common to any newspapering concern, such as 'the wanker comes first' and 'the wanker's what it's all about' and 'is this of genuine interest to our wankers?' The staff had long stopped smiling when anybody said it. 'Well said, Clint,' said Heaf. 'We wouldn't be losing wankers,' said Supermaniam. 'You might find a blip on the rate of increase but we're not actually losing wankers.' 'Red herring,' boomed Clint. 'We're losing potential wankers.' 'I'll have Mackelyne track the figures,' said Heaf. 'Who keeps putting these bleeding great. . . dugongs in the paper anyway?' No one spoke. For the Lark was run along cooperative lines. The selection of the scores of near-naked women who appeared daily in its pages was a matter of cheerfully generalised improvisation. Naturally the editorial staff was all-male. The only women to be found in the Lark's offices were its tutelary glamour girls and the retirees who impersonated them on the hotlines. 'I don't know, Boss,' said Jeff Strite — Clint Smoker's only serious rival as the paper's star reporter. 'You get in a sort of daze after a bit. You go, you know, "Sling her in" without really thinking about it.' Clint said judiciously (and loudly), 'Some blokes do think you can't have too much of a good thing, so there's an argument for the occasional bigger bird. We've got to attract the more specialised wanker without grossing out the rank and file. It's this simple: keep the dugongs off the front page.' 'Agreed?' 'Agreed.' 'Anyway, who are we to complain?' said Heaf. Normally the Publisher had the air of a small-town headmaster — and one harassed by logistical cares to the point of personal neglect (so frayed, so meagre). But now he freshened, and said in a gurgling voice, 'Gregory, be a good lad and make a start on the beverages, would you?' Mackelyne had entered and taken his seat. They listened as he talked about the latest sales figures, the multimillion hits on the hardcore websites, the fact that the new sexlines had caused the collapse of the local telephone network, and the inevitability of the 192-page daily format. Then came the money numbers ... At the Lark, all profits were shared, with certain steep differentials. But even young Gregory, who was little more than an office boy, had plans to buy a racehorse. 'Now,' said Heaf, a while later. 'What have we got for tomorrow? Clint.' There always came this moment (and by now the empty bottles of champagne were ranked on the Publisher's desk, and the dusty air looked gaseous in the low sun, as if everyone had joined in one cooperative sneeze), this moment when the men of the Morning Lark tried to feel like journalists. There was of course hardly any news in the Lark, and no global cataclysm had yet had the power to push the pinup off the front page. Even the vast sports section did little more than print the main results; the rest consisted of girls climbing in and out of the kit of famous football clubs, girls chronicling their one-night stands with famous footballers, early and reckless photographs of models who were married to or living with famous footballers, and so on, plus a few odds and ends about adulterous golfers,
135 satyromaniac jockeys, and rapist boxers. But current events of a certain kind were covered, usually on the lower half of pages two and four. It was Jeff Strite who spoke. 'The Case of the Walthamstow Wanker,' he intoned. 'And I don't mean the Walthamstow Reader. It's an interesting story. And it ties in with our Death to Paedophiles campaign. There's this public swimming-pool, right? With a gallery? He's up there alone watching a school party of nine-year-olds. Then this old dear, you know, Mrs Mop appears. The geezer does a runner, falls down the stairs and smashes his head in. For why? His trousers are down around his ankles' 'Because he was having a . . . ?' 'Exactly. Good headline too: Pervs Him Right.' 'Excellent. And I see we've decided to go ahead,' said Desmond Heaf, 'with Wankers' Wives.'
Back at his laptop Clint resumed work on the heiress with a passion for visiting shoeshops in short skirts. This contribution posed as a letter to the paper's agony aunt, or 'Ecstasy Aunt', whose daily double-page spread was pretty well entirely composed by staff writers. Long narratives of an exclusively and graphically sexual nature were followed by three or four words of encouragement or ridicule, supposedly from the pen of Donna Strange. Readers did write in; and once in a blue moon their letters received the hospitality of the Lark's correspondence columns. These letters dramatised the eternal predicament of erotic prose. It wasn't that they were insufficiently salacious; rather, they were insufficiently universal — were, in fact, impenetrably solitary. And they were never from women . . . Then, with a heavy heart, Smoker flagged the new photo-section alluded to by Desmond Heaf. It was to be called Readers' Richards, 'Richard' being rhyming-slang (via Richard the Third) for bird, just as 'Bristols' (via Bristol City) was rhyming-slang for — 'Why'd you want those bloody handcuffs in your conk?' asked Margery, who was packing up. She was sixty; he was thirty: these facts had suddenly to be acknowledged. 'Reminds me I've got a nose.' 'Congratulations. Why'd you want reminding you've got a nose?' Especially that nose, she felt moved to add (Clint's nose was a considerable accumulation of flesh, but one uninfluenced by cartilage). 'And what's that rope in aid of?' 'I'll swing for you, Marge,' said Clint in a softer voice than usual. 'It's my identity. Now shut it.' He was still muttering viciously to himself when five minutes later his mobile sounded: the knock of a truncheon on a cell door. 'Clint? And.' And was Andrew New, one of the sempiternal figures in the Smoker universe, someone with whom he had formed the stoutest of bonds. And was Clint's pusher. And this call was out of the ordinary. And hardly ever rang Clint. Clint rang And. 'And, boy. Jesus, what's that racket? She having another go then?' 'Gaw, hark at this. "Harrison! Will you get your fucking arse into that bath!" Terrible it's been. "And! And! Come and it im!" You fucking it im! I hit im the last time. Sorry, mate. It's calming down a bit now. It's not as bad as what it sounds . . . Uh, Clint mate. I think I've got a news story.' 'Well you've come to the wrong place.' 'Yeah, but you must have contacts.'
136 'I'm tolerably well connected,' said Clint untruthfully (and loudly. People placed near him in restaurants used to ask for relocation. That was when he still went to restaurants with other people). 'Come on then. What is it?' 'You know that bloke got done last night. Xan Meo. The actor that plays the banjo or whatever the fuck it is. What do they call him.' 'Renaissance Man.' 'I was there, mate. Fact. I saw them do im! By the canal. I was down on the path where I keep me stash. He's just sitting out there having a drink and there's this two blokes on him. They didn't half fucking give him one. No. They give him two. I thought: that's him fucking telt. Then they give him another.' Clint, at stool, had read about the attack in the Evening Standard. His interest was only mildly piqued. And went on: 'Seemed it was like, you know, payback time. Seemed like he'd grassed someone up and it was payback time. They've give the name. Said he grassed up Joseph Andrews . . .' 'Well it's no use to me, mate. Unless there was any topless skirt involved. Are you going to the Old Bill with it?' 'That's no fucking use to me, is it? There ain't any reward or anything. No. I was going to flog it round the newspapers.' 'Uh, don't do that, mate.' Clint considered. 'It's not that big of a story. And you might get yourself . . . Let me put out a groper and I'll give you a call. What was the bloke's name again — the one that got grassed up?' ' "Harrison! And! And!"' And And said, 'Gaw, Jesus. Here we go. Joseph Andrews.'
Clint Smoker worked in a sick building. It should have had a thermometer poking out of its first-floor window like a barber's pole — not writhing, but trembling. In the 1970s it had ambitiously served as a finishing-school for young women hoping for preferment in the public-relations industry. So many of the students suffered from eating disorders that the entire plumbing system surrendered to the ravages of gastric acid. This in turn caused a 'billowing fracture' which warped its ventilation systems. The air was turbid with emanations, spores, allergies. Everyone at the Lark was always sneezing, sniffing, coughing, yawning, retching. They knew they felt sick, but didn't know they felt sick because they worked in a sick building: they thought they felt sick because of what they did in it all day long . . . Today the sick building gave off an olive glow; a thin rain had fallen, and its face seemed to be dotted with sweat. He shouldered his way out of there with a cigarette in his mouth. Big man: see the way the automatic doors jerked away from him in fright. Massive, pale, the flesh with the rubbery look of cold pasta; but Clint wielded the unreasonable strength of heavy bones. He kept winning these ragged brawls he kept having, on roadsides, in laybys and forecourts, with their flailings and stumblings, their miskicks and airshots. Clint's brawls were about the Highway Code: heretical as opposed to canonical interpretations. And Clint was the Manichee. 'Can you spare some change, sir?' asked the man with the HOMELESS sign. He asked it ironically: he knew Clint, and he knew Clint never gave. 'Yes thanks. You've done well for yourself. Stay at it: keep that pavement warm.'
137 If you saw Clint's jeep in your rearview mirror you'd think that an Airbus was landing in your wake. He needed a big car because he spent at least four hours a day in it, furiously commuting from Foulness, near Southend, where he had a semi. Now, Smoker lived alone. He had never found it easy to begin, let alone maintain, a fulfilling relationship with a woman. His penultimate girlfriend had ended the connection because, apart from Clint's other deficiencies, he was, she explained, 'crap in bed'. Her successor, when she ended the connection, put it rather differently but in the same number of words (and letters): he was, she said, 'a crap fuck'. That was a year ago. Clint Smoker: crap fuck. It did not enhance his sexual self-esteem. He thereafter relied on escort girls, entertained in various London hotels; and even these encounters were far from frictionless. The truth was that when it came to love, to the old old story (and face it, mate, he'd tell himself: see it foursquare), Clint Smoker had a little problem. The Foulness semi. It was a ridiculous situation. He had the cash to relocate further in. But the yearlong deprivation of a feminine presence had reduced his place to a condition of untouchable sordor. It was a wonder he kept his person clean. (The bathroom was, in fact, the only non-unbelievable part of the house.) He couldn't muck it out. He couldn't sell it. He'd have to board it up and abandon it. The sordor exerted an influence, a paralysis, a nostalgie . . . And the house was also saturated with pornography in all its forms. Clint hoisted himself up into the driving-seat of his black Avenger. He now weighed four tons and had a top speed of 160 miles per hour. A short while ago Clint had received a communication from a young woman. It was not addressed to him but to the Lark'?, Ecstasy Aunt. It began: 'dear donna: honestly, what's all the fuss about orgasms about? I've never had one and i don't want one.' Clint responded personally, to 'k' of Kentish Town, saying that he found her views 'most refreshing'. She'd e'd him back: dialogue. Ah, e-love, e-eros, e-amour; e-bimbo and e-toyboy; ah, e-wooing on the Web . . . What usually emerged (Clint found) was all vanity and shadow, inexistent, incorporeal: unreal mockery. But something told him that 'k' was a woman of substance. Smoker's cleated clog plunged down on the accelerator. Only weeks out of the showroom, the Avenger already resembled the bedroom of the Foulness semi. It smelt of new car and old man. Clint was now shouting at the truck he wanted to overtake. He quite sincerely hoped that the crocodile of schoolchildren crossing that zebra up ahead wouldn't be there when he shot by.
Soon afterwards Homeless John went home, with his HOMELESS sign. His HOMELESS sign leant against the wardrobe while he slept. It leant against the table while Homeless John's mother made his breakfast. 'You love that sign, don't you?' she said. 'Looks nice. Most of the blokes write it down with a Biro on a scrap of cardboard. That's depressing, that is. They don't even take it home with them. Chuck it away and do a new one in the morning. Couldn't do that. My sign's like a breath of fresh air.' It was true. Homeless John's HOMELESS sign was a gentri-fied HOMELESS sign. On the blond wood he had painted a yellow sun, a white moon and silvery stars; then, below, the word homeless, in capitals with double quotes: "HOMELESS". 'I wish you wouldn't, you know,' she said. 'It's just a summer job, Ma.' 'That sign.' 'What about my sign?'
138 'Everyone sees you come whistling down the street with your HOMELESS sign and your door-key. You sit here having your tea with your HOMELESS sign. It makes me feel this isn't a home.' 'I'll put you in a home in a minute. Don't be silly, Ma. Course this is home. The sign's just the tool of my trade. And it's why I'm a superstar out there: top boy. Made a fortune last week.' 'And I've heard them call you "Homeless" in the pub.' He had an idea. His estimation of his sign, already very high, climbed a further notch. 'Look at the quote marks, Ma. It's saying I'm not "really" homeless.' Homeless John's mother was adopting an expression of sorrowful entreaty. She tipped her head and told him: 'You won't stay out in the wet, will you, love.' 'Not me, Ma. I'll come home.' Which he would do. With his sign held up high against the rain.
* * *
February 14 (9.05 a.m., Universal Time): 101 Heavy
At Heathrow Airport they loaded the corpse into the hold of Flight CigAir 101 — bound for Houston, Texas, USA. The corpse's name was Royce Traynor. On February 11 the old oiler had been walking down a street in Kensington when a roofslate the size of a broadsheet newspaper came scything down at him. He died in the ambulance, cradled in the arms of his wife of forty-three years, Reynolds. Reynolds now sat in a more attractive part of the aeroplane, in seat 2B. She was tearfully drinking her second Buck's Fizz and looking forward to the moment when the Captain would switch off the no-smoking sign. Of the 399 passengers and crew on this ten-hour flight, Royce Traynor was the only one who would feel no erosion of his well-being.
CHAPTER TWO
1. The transfer to Trauma
Tender-yeared Billie Meo walked through Casualty with such fascination that the scored lino strained to feel the weight of her tread. Her slippers were landing heel-down, but there was a tiptoe in her somewhere — in the calves, perhaps. Russia Meo, when she took her daughter's hand, could feel the fractional levitation of inquisitive anxiety as, all around them, figures like distorted statues were being lowered, winched up, bent over, turned. And the noises, and the smell. It was nine o'clock before Russia called the police and started ringing round the hospitals. It was nearly ten when she learnt that her husband had been admitted to St Mary's with a closed-head injury that was thought to be minor — as opposed to major. By that time Billie was altogether caught up in her mother's agitation, and Russia felt she didn't have a choice but to let her 'come with'. (The baby, Sophie, had been down for hours — pompously at
139 peace, with her nose upturned.) Russia had trusted herself to take the car, though she already felt like a driver on a stretch of black ice: no grip on the road, and many futures vying to become her next reality. But that would be to get ahead of yourself, because the evening had become a tunnel, and there was only one possible future now — the one at the hospital. She was aware that her body was being internally tranquillised, that time had slowed on her behalf. Like Billie, she was in a state of hallucinogenic curiosity. She parked the car across the street beneath the other building, where she had given birth to both her girls. Then the Reception area, where families and parts of families sat in taciturn vigil, some groups erectly tensed, others in sprawling abandon, as if for a twelve-hour flight delay. In hospital, she thought: no the or a. In court, in jail, in church. What did these institutions have in common? Something to do with the settling of fates . . . Billie had been in hospital only twice before: on the occasion of her birth, and, more recently, when it was discovered that she had consumed half a bottle of liquid para-catemol. That had also taken place at night. Billie was in fact concluding that hospital was what automatically happened if you succeeded in staying up very late. They were now directed to Trauma.
'A head injury', said the Intensivist, 'entrains a sequence of events. We talk of the Three Injuries. The First Injury occurs in the first few seconds, the Second Injury in the first hour, the Third Injury in the first days or weeks or months. Your husband — Alex — has sustained the First Injury. It is my immediate task to prevent the Second and the Third. He lost consciousness, it seems, for about two or three minutes.' 'I thought anything over a minute . . .' 'Three minutes is not the end of the world. Although he couldn't remember his surname or his telephone number, he was lucid in the ambulance. His blood pressure was normal. The brain was not deprived of oxygen: the Second Injury. His respiration was found to be strong and regular. When there is irregular or depressed respiration in the presence of an adequate airway, the prognosis is invariably grave.' Some doctors are diffident about the power they wield. Other doctors glitter with it. Dr Gandhi (satanically handsome, it seemed to Russia, but starting to bend in on himself as he reached the middle years) happened to be a doctor of the second kind. He was gratified, he was warmed, by how intently people listened to what he said, with their imploring eyes. They were right to do so, and it was natural to fear him, to love him: he was their interpreter of mortality. What he dispensed — what he withheld . . . Billie was in the adjacent playroom. Russia could hear her. The child, too, seemed to be taking deep breaths and then holding them; she gasped and sighed as she married and severed the plastic Sticklebricks. 'Alex was reasonably lucid in the ambulance. By the time I examined him he was talking gibberish. I was not discouraged. He enjoyed obedient mobility and his eyes responded normally to light. Over the space of an hour his score on the Glasgow Scale rose from nine to fourteen, one short of the maximum. The X-ray revealed no fracture. Better still, the CT- scan revealed bruising but only minimal swelling. Which would have been the Third Injury. I administered a diuretic as a precaution. This dehydrates and thus shrinks the brain,' said Dr Gandhi, reaching out his hand and clenching it. 'He is in Intensive Care. And asleep, and breathing normally, and fully monitored.' 'And that will be that?'
140 '. . . Madam, your husband's brain has been accelerated. The soft tissue has been impacted against its container: the skull. On the front underside of the brain there are bony ridges. What are they for! Nobody knows! To punish the head-injured, it would seem. As the brain accelerates it rips and tears on this — this grater. Nerve cells may be damaged, or at least temporarily stunned. The brain, we believe, attempts to restore the deficit, using surplus cells in a process of spontaneous reorganisation. This may take time. And there are a myriad possible side-effects. Headache, fatigue, poor concentration, poor balance, amnesia, emotional lability. Lability? Liable to change. Mrs Meo, which of these four words best describes your husband's temperament: serene, easy, irritable, difficult.' 'Oh, easy.' 'Expect a tendency, in the coming weeks, towards the difficult. Would you and uh, Billie like to look in on your husband? He has been given a muscle-relaxant. I suggest you do not wake him. An hour ago my colleague tried to shine a light in his eyes. Alex was not best pleased!' Intensive Care felt like a submarine or an elderly spaceship: dark compartments where important devices whirred and ticked — electrocardiograms, panting ventilators; the churning of life and death in shapes and shadows. Smiling, the charge nurse drew back the curtain. In they crept. When she saw him Billie gave her characteristic groan of love — but there seemed to be grief in it now. Feeling a pain in her throat, Russia stooped hurriedly and lifted the child into her arms. They had him at a steeper angle than she expected. The hefty white collar he wore and the way the sheets were puffed up round his neck made it impossible to avoid the thought that he was slowly emerging from the depths of a toilet bowl; and there were wires taped to his scalp. 'Why he not awake?' 'He's asleep,' she whispered sibilantly. 'He got an ouch and he's asleep.' Suddenly his eyes opened and he was staring straight at her. She felt herself rock back: what was it? Accusation? Then focus was lost, and the lids sank slowly, obedient to a chemical torpor. 'Blow a kiss,' said Russia, 'to make it better.' As she was walking back through Reception, with that light tread, that flat-heeled tiptoe, Billie looked up at her mother and said, with unreadable contentment, 'Daddy's different now.'
'Count down from one hundred in units of seven.' 'One hundred . . . Ninety-three. Eighty-six. Seventy-nine. Seventy-two. Sixty-five. Et cetera.' 'Good. What do a bird and an aeroplane have in common?' 'Wings. But birds don't crash.' 'Can you name the Prime Minister?' Xan named him. 'Can you name the Royal Princess?' Xan named her. 'I'm going to ask you to memorise three words for me. Will you do that? They are: dog, pink, reality . . . All right. What were they?' 'Pink. Cat. Reality.'
141 His condition felt like the twenty-first century: it was something you wanted to wake up from — snap out of. Now it was a dream within a dream. And both dreams were bad dreams. That morning, with Russia present, Xan had been moved from the Intensive Care Unit to the Head Injury Ward. He had won (it seemed to him) insultingly excessive praise for slowly walking in a roughly straight line, for negotiating a flight of stairs depending only on the handrail, for ponderously combing his hair and cleaning his teeth, and for successfully getting into bed. The consumption of a fish finger, with full deployment of knife and fork, brought him further accolades. It was a dream and he couldn't wake up. But he could go to sleep, and he did so, dreamlessly. In the afternoon everything became a little clearer. There were fourteen patients in the ward, and they had all of them been split in time. Their minds had gone backwards, while their bodies had floundered on into age. The dullest chores of body-maintenance, those that normally made you numb with inanition, were hereabouts hailed as skills. For example: voidance. An unassisted visit to the toilet could win a round of applause from the staff and from all the patients who knew how to clap. (And even Sophie, at ten months, knew how to clap: a tinny, ticky sound, to be sure, but she seldom actually missed.) Then, too, there were accomplishments that were even more basic than going to the toilet — like not going to the toilet when you weren't in the toilet. Aslant the next bed but one there lay a seventy-year- old who was being taught how to swallow. And there were others, at different points along different roads, trudging off in tracksuits to the woodshop or the physiotherapy pool. And there were two or three like himself, the uncrowned kings of Head Injury — virtuosos of toothbrush and hairbrush, crack urinators, adepts of the shoelace and the beltbuckle, silky eaters: Renaissance Men. 'Do you know what the en ee oh is?' 'Meo. Neo. No.' 'Near Earth Object. Have you seen a newspaper? It rather drove you off the front page, I'm afraid. It's coming on Valentine's Day. Don't worry. It'll be close, but it'll miss.' Valentine's Day, he thought. Not a good day for this particular woman. The full orange lips against the downy pallor, the massed orange hair. And yet there was something . . . 'Could you write out a sentence for me? Any sentence.' Xan was handed a pencil and pad. His interlocutor was a forty-year-old clinical psychologist called Tilda Quant. She was having a reasonably good time, partly because it made a change from cajoling an elderly into spelling the word the, but also because this patient was indeed in the newspapers, was in show business, was a mediated individual. Tilda wasn't succumbing to the old-style reverence for fame. This was something more subliminal and interactive. Partaking of his publicity, his exposure to general observation, her own publicity was minutely enhanced. For his part, Xan thought it tremendously significant, for reasons as yet unclear to him, that Tilda Quant was a woman. She said, '"The quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog." Hm.' 'It's an exercise,' he said. 'Supposed to contain every letter in the alphabet.' 'Yes, you're a qwerty too. Qwerty? You know: qwerty uiop.' 'Oh yeah. I think I got it wrong though. The sentence. Don't see a vee in it. I could never remember that one. Even before.' '. . . You say you don't remember it, the uh, violence.' 'I do. I do. It wasn't just the rough stuff in the last few months. The whole process was unbelievably violent. I'll tell you how I felt. I thought: If I could find some very old people to sit near to, then maybe for ten seconds nothing that bad would happen. Then I wouldn't feel so incredibly frail.' She was looking at him with a new fascination. She said, 'What are you talking about?'
142 'My divorce.' 'Hah,' she said, taking notes. 'I'd call that your first dabble in cognitive dysfunction. An inappropriate response to a question that was clearly related to the assault! 'The assault? No, I don't remember the assault.' 'Do you remember the three words I asked you to memorise?' '. . . Cat. A colour: yellow or blue. Oh, and reality.'
Outside the sun was an hour above the horizon, still showing one thing to another: showing the other thing to this thing, and this thing to the other thing. He watched shadows move. They moved, it seemed to him, at the same speed as the minute-hand of the clock on the wall of the sister's office, behind her sheet of glass. This felt like a discovery: shadows moved at the speed of time . . . Xan kept thinking about his dead sister, Leda: he hadn't seen her for fifteen years, and when he went to the hospital she never woke up. His wife came, with Billie and the baby, and Imaculada. When the girls had gone Russia called for the screens to be drawn around his bed, which she then climbed into, wearing only her slip. The way she did this made him think of the phrase petticoat government . . . He responded palpably to her warmth, her breadth. This was a distant reassurance, but it soon joined the pulse of his headache, and was then lost in his exhaustion and nausea and the ambient grief of his wound. He wanted to submit to a body of moving water. He wanted to let the waves do it. Russia had put her clothes back on and was about to leave. Xan seemed to be sleeping, but as she tugged at the plastic curtain he sat up straight and eagerly pointed to the young man in the next bed along (who seemed far from grateful for the attention), saying, 'This guy here — he's a hell of a shitter. Aren't you son. Not . . . uh, overly brill at the eating and the talking. So far. But you can't argue with shitting of that quality. Boy can he shit.' Xan felt that no one seriously expected him to remember the assault. When they asked him about it (the doctor, the clinical psychologist, the easily satisfied plainclothesman), he told them that he remembered nothing between going to Hollywood and going to hospital. This is what he told his wife. And it wasn't true. He remembered it pretty well. And he remembered it as he had been promised he would remember it: in pain. Whoever hurt me, he thought (all day long), I will hurt. Hurt more, hurt harder. Whoever hurt me, I will hurt, I will hurt.
2. Doing Beryl
Five foot eight in all directions (he was roughly the size of a toilet stall), Mal Bale carefully poked a number into his mobile (it was no bigger than a matchbox, and caused him to rely on the nail of his little finger). He said to his employer, 'There should be two of me here. To body this fucking bloke? You come back from the Gents and he's gangraping a waitress - all by hisself . .. No, mate. No, I only rang for a moan. Actually he's not that bad tonight, with his injury: slows him down a bit. And the journalist's here now and he's gone a bit calmer . . . Yeah? Thanks, mate. Appreciate it.' Mal referred, in the first instance, to Ainsley Car, the troubled Wales striker. One of the most talented footballers of his generation, Car was now up to his armpits in decline; and he was only twenty-five. It was three years since he had represented his country (and three
143 months since he had represented his club). The journalist in question was the Morning Lark's Clint Smoker. Ninety-nine point nine per cent of the work of a professional bodyguard consisted of one activity: frowning. You frowned here, you frowned there. You frowned this way, that way. Got to be seen to be vigilant: got to keep frowning. Some mornings-after you'd wake up thinking: Fuck. Who nutted me last night? Like your brow was one big bruise. Only it wasn't the fighting. It was all the frowning . . . But Car was different. Normally a bodyguard protected the client from the outside world. With Ainsley, you protected the outside world from the client. Mal Bale, who had been hired by Car's agent, stood at the bar of the Cocked Pinkie, rubbing his eyes like a child. He wouldn't be called upon to do a lot of frowning. He would be called upon to do a lot of gaping — as a prelude to more concerted action. It's weird, thought Mal. Ainsley's just about controllable till the six- o'clock personality change. Half a shandy down him and he's a different bloke. His eyes go. There they sat in their booth, Ainsley and that Clint: talking business. Ainsley's fourth cocktail looked like a Knickerbocker Glory — with a child's umbrella sticking out of it. You've got to respect him as a player, Mal inwardly conceded. And Mal in his early days (a different epoch, really) had been a loyal supporter of his native West Ham: the punnet of sweet-and-sour pork on the overnight coach to Sunderland; the frenzied, lung-igniting sprints down the King's Road; the monotonous appearances at the magistrate's court in Cursitor Street. Then disillusionment had come to him, one Saturday at Upton Park. It was half-time, and they had these two mascots romping around in the corner where the kids all sit; they were plumply, almost spherically costumed, one as a pig, one as a lamb. Suddenly the pig gives the lamb a whack, and the lamb whacks him back. It was comical at first, with them flopping and floundering about. You thought it was part of the act — but it wasn't. The lamb's on his back, flailing like a flipped beetle, and the pig's doing him with the corner-flag, and you can hear the kids screaming, and there's blood on the fleece ... Up until that moment Mal had considered himself nicely pumped for the post-match ruck; but he knew at once that it was now all over. Over. Something to do with violence and categories: he couldn't articulate it, but never again would he fight for fun. Mal had recently become a dad himself, which might have had something to do with it. He heard later that the lamb had been stuffing the pig's bird, in which case the lamb, Mal believed, definitely had it coming. He consulted his watch (seven-fifteen). Darius, his relief, was due at ten.
'Over the past two years Ainsley Car and the Morning Lark have enjoyed a special relationship,' said Clint Smoker. 'Fact?' Ainsley did not demur. During his years at the top he had opened his heart to a series of mass-circulation dailies about his benders and detox programmes, about the drunken car- crashes, the wrecked hotel rooms, the stomped starlets. But that was in the days when, with a drop of his shoulder and a swipe of his boot, Ainsley could hurt whole nations, and instantaneously exalt his own. And he couldn't do that any more. These days, even his delinquencies were crap. 'There comes a point in every athlete's life', said Smoker in his loud and apparently humourless voice, 'when he has to take off his shorts and consider the financial security of his family. You have reached that point — or so we at the Lark believe.' No, he couldn't do it any more: on the park. In his early pomp, Ainsley was all footballer: even in his dinner-jacket, at an awards ceremony — if he turned round you'd expect to see
144 his name and number stitched on to his back. Ginger-haired, small-eyed, open-mouthed. In the dialect of the tribe, he was tenacious (i.e., short) and combative (i.e., dirty); but he was indubitably in possession of a football brain. His mind wasn't cultured or educated — but his right foot was. Then it all went pear-shaped for the little fella. The aggression was still there; it was the reflexes that had vanished. Usually, now, Ainsley was being stretchered off the field before the ball had left the centre circle: injured while attempting to inflict injury on an opponent (or a teammate, or the referee). The Lark's most recent in-depth interview had concerned the 'moment of madness' at a pro-celeb charity match when, with the vibrations of the starting whistle just beginning to fade, Ainsley went clattering into the sixty-six-year-old ex-England winger, Sir Bobby Miles. They broke a leg each. 'I got years left in me, mate,' said Ainsley menacingly. 'You know where I keep me pace?' And twice he tapped his temple. 'Up here. I can still do a job out there. I can still do a job.' 'Let's have some realism, Ains. Never again will you pull on a Wales shirt. You're on a one- year with them slappers up in Teesside. And they won't renew. You'll have to drop down. In a couple of seasons they'll be kicking chunks out of you down in Scunthorpe.' 'I ain't a slapper, mate. And I ain't playing for . . . for fucking Scumforpe. You know who's enquiring after me? Only Juventus.' 'Juventus? They must be after your pasta recipes. Ains. Listen. You were, repeat were, the most exciting player it's ever been my privilege to watch. When you had it at your feet coming into the box — Jesus. You were something unbelievable. But it's gone, and that's what frustrates you. That's why you're always in hospital by half-time. You've got to believe that the Lark has your best interests at heart.' 'The people', said Ainsley, with bitter gratitude, 'will always love Ainsley Car. They love their Dodgem, mate. That stands. It stands.' Resembling an all too obviously non-edible mushroom, Clint's tongue slid out of his mouth and licked the handcuffs dangling from his nose. He said, 'You're done, Ains. You're gone. You've given. It's that nagging brain injury called self-destruction. You're fat, mate. And you sweat. Look at your chest. It's like a wet-T-shirt competition. And that wedding-ring is getting smaller every week. Which brings me to my next point.' Then, his sadism more fully responding to the masochism it sensed in Car, he gestured at the waiter, saying, 'Raymond! Another drink for Tits.' Smoker paused. He was, this night, experiencing an unfamiliar buoyancy — rather to the detriment, perhaps, of his diplomatic skills. In the inside pocket of his big boxy black suit there nestled an enticing e-mail from his cyberpal, 'k'. In response to Clint's query, 'What kind of a role do you think that sex plays in a healthy relationship?' she'd e'd: 'a minor 1. have we all gone stark raving mad? let's keep a sense of proportion, 4 God's sake, it should only happen last thing @ nite, as a n@ural prelude 2 sleep, none of these dreadful sessions, i find a few stiff drinks usually helps — don't u?' Reading this, Smoker became belatedly aware that his most durable and fulfilling relationships had all been with dipsomaniacs. To put it another way, he liked having sex with drunk women. There seemed to be three reasons for this. One: they go all stupid. Two: they sometimes black out (and you can have a real laugh with them then). Three: they usually don't remember if you fail. Takes the pressure off. Common sense. 'We at the Lark reckon you've got one mega story left in you. The challenge, now, is for us to maximise that story. We've discussed various ways you could make the world sit up and listen. And this is what we want you to consider. Doing Beryl.' 'Doing Beryl?'
145 'Doing Beryl. And having Donna.' Beryl was Ainsley's childhood sweetheart. They had wed when they were both sixteen, and Ainsley had left her two weeks later, the day after his record transfer. In a ceremony largely brokered by the Morning Lark, the pair had recently remarried: the event was designed both to confirm and solidify Ainsley's triumph in his battle with alcohol. Central to the symbolism of the story was the fact that Beryl, remarkable in no other way, was spectacularly small. Ainsley himself was the shortest player in the Premier League — but he beetled over Beryl. Journalistically, it was felt that a tiny bride would shore up Ainsley's protective instincts and sense of responsibility, unlike the circus-horse blondes whom he was always brawling over, or brawling with, in various spielers and speakeasies. 'Follow me here,' elaborated Clint Smoker. 'You arrange for Beryl to meet you in your London hotel room at a certain time. Earlier in the day, at a piss-up arranged by us, you pull the top Lark model of your choice. Say Donna Strange. You take her back to your room, and you're giving her one when the missus walks in. Donna scarpers and you do Beryl.' 'Why do I do Beryl? Why doesn't Beryl do me?' 'Cause she's one inch tall. No. Come on. She's bound to give you a bit of stick.' Smoker put his head at a craven angle and said in a wheedling voice, '"You were giving that model one! You betrayed me with another bird!" All this. I mean, how much shit can you take? So then you do Beryl.' Ainsley's open mouth opened further, thus deepening the pleat between his nose and his forehead. Smoker said, 'I mean every paper'll cover that. And we'll have Donna's tits and arse all over pages one to five, Beryl's black eyes all over pages five to ten, plus an eight-page pullout soul-searcher from the man himself, Ainsley Car.' 'How much?' Smoker said how much: a jolting sum. 'All passengers to the rear of the plane!' Ainsley suddenly hollered. 'Stam back! Don't no one go near! Fuck amfrax — this geezer's got hepatitis G an an an-grenade up his arse! OH MY GOD! IT'S THE TOWER! IT'S BIG BEN, IT'S OLD TOM, IT'S BUCK PAL! NO! THE UMFINKABLE! OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GONNA- By this time several waiters had hurried through the silenced dining-room, and Mal Bale was there with his palms on Car's shoulders, pressing him back into his seat, and looking round about himself, and frowning.
There's no hard men any more, brooded Mal (this had recently become an urgent mental theme, following the matter with Xan Meo), as he made his way to the bar, two hours later: all they got now's nutters. Nutters on drugs. Take Snort: that bloke Snort. When he reached the bar and its ring of drinkers, Mal turned. Darius had been prompt. At this point Darius was on his first cranberry juice, Smoker was on his third litre of mineral water (he feared for his driving licence) and Ainsley was on his ninth cocktail. A seven- foot Seventh Day Adventist, Darius looked to be having some success in forcefeeding Ainsley with bread rolls. Take Snort. No bottle. After the Xan Meo business, Mal gave Snort his drink (four hundred in cash) and said, 'I'm never using you again, mate. All right?' And Snort just dropped his eyes. And then Mal said, 'So you're having that, are you? Just think, "I'll fuck up, I'll get me drink and I'll creep away"? You ought to take a pill called pride, son. You ought to take a
146 pill called pride.' See: no bottle. Just nutters on drugs. And playacting, too. Snort says he's ex-SAS, but all the right dogs say they're ex-SAS. Mal was now joined by Smoker of the Lark, who was looking at him oddly, as if pricing his suit. Smoker meant to say it softly, but his voice wasn't equal to saying things softly. He said, 'You're a face, incha?' The first thing Mal had to establish was whether he was being trifled with. He was barely aware of the existence of the Morning Lark (and would have been scandalised by its contents), but he knew Clint pretty well, through the Ainsley Car connection and because of that time when he, Mal, had famously bodied topless models for six months and given interviews to various newspapers, the Lark among them. Seemed like there wasn't much harm in the bloke. Relenting, Mal said, 'Don't know about face. I'm a bodyguard, mate.' 'But you put yourself about a bit, in your time. Let the Lark do this.' 'Yeah. Well. This and that. A pint of Star please, love. I could have progressed. But I didn't have the correct temperament.' Clint quietly rolled his eyes and said, 'But you've run with these blokes. You said in print that you've run with these blokes.' 'Yeah, I've known a few in my time. Ah, lovely.' 'See if this name means anything to you.' 'Goo on en,' said Mal briskly, tipping his head back and intending to neck a good few swallows of his first drink of the night. 'Joseph Andrews.' Mal emitted a sneeze of foam and dived forward with his face in his glass. 'Whoah,' said Clint, wiping the beer off his brow and pounding Mal's back with a heavy white hand. 'Yeah. See they did that bloke Xan Meo? Mate of mine witnessed it. Said they were settling a score for Joseph Andrews. Reckons he'll flog it round the newspapers.' It's gone off, thought Mal. It's all gone off.
At midnight Ainsley Car called for his crutches. Already ashore, Mal watched the troubled striker as he levered himself along the gangway, with Darius looming in his wake. Beyond them flowed the Thames and all its klieg-lit history. Above, the moist studs of the stars, the sweating stars, seized on to spacetime. 'Legless,' said Clint from behind. 'No, he'll be getting his second wind about now. Want to be off up the clubs.' Around eleven Ainsley had entered a quieter cycle, like a washing-machine. Any minute he'd be back to tumbling and fumbling and shuddering up and down. Mal looked at his watch and said, 'Time for the submarine.' And you could hear him, Ainsley, as he laboured up the slope, in a low, fiercely rigid voice, going: 'All men in level five proceed at once to level four. All men in level four proceed at once to level three. All men in . . .' Discreetly the courtesy car drew near. Mal saw with regret that Ainsley's course would take him past, or over, the poor bastard who was sitting under a lamppost with his dog in his lap .. . And this homeless person was not in the position of Homeless John, who had somewhere nice to go home to; he was a genuine carpark and shop-doorway artist, a dustbin-worrier hunkering down for his third shelterless winter. The bitch had spaniel in her blood, and smooth-haired terrier; he stroked and muttered and otherwise communed
147 with her. They looked closer than a couple: the impression given was one of intense participation in each other's being. It was almost as if the dog was his strength, his manhood, surfacing erect from his slumped body. So Dodgem poles himself into the frame and says, 'Do you fancy fifty quid?' '. . . Course I fancy fifty quid.' Out comes the money-clip and he peels off the note. '. . . Thanks very much.' 'Now. I want to ask you a favour, mate. Can you lend me fifty quid.' 'I'd rather not. To be honest.' 'Honest? You know what my dad said to me?' 'What?' 'Nothing! Cuzzy fucked off when I was one. But me mum. Me mum said charity begins at home. And you ain't got one. Now ghiss it,' said Ainsley. His voice was vibrating; his whole head was vibrating. 'Where's your pride man . . . ?' 'We ... we weren't all born with a talent like yours. You're a god, you are.' Ainsley now turned inexorably on Clint Smoker. 'I stood, mate. I stood. The National Amfem! The fucking King's there just above the dugout with tears in his eyes! With the grace of a pamfer I've put Hugalu on his arse, nutmegged Straganza, and laid it off for Martin Arris! The Twin Towers explode! With love, mate, with love!' 'They can't take that away from you, Ains,' conceded Mal. The dog looked up at the footballer with eyes of loving brown. 'Here,' he said. 'Take it, son. Go and get arseholed on Ainsley Car. Everyone stand back! That's not a dog! It's a rabies bomb! ALL PASSENGERS IN SEATS FIVE TO TEN PROCEED AT ONCE TO THE SECOND LEVEL OF THE SUBMARINE! IT'S GOING OFF, IT'S GOING OFF!' Then, like two athletes genuinely committed to winning the three-legged race, Ainsley launched his desperate hurdle into the night, Darius following, first at a jog, then at a run, then at a sprint. Clint remained, as did Mal. Mal was wondering what kind of mood Shinsala would be in when he got back to her flat. As he swung the car door shut, as he listened to the chirrup o( the lock, would he feel the excuse me of fear in his chest? Not physical fear, of course, but fear. Was fear a mood? 'You could do it by maths,' said Clint. 'Divide his weekly wage by his IQ. Something like that.' 'Clint mate,' said Mal, winding up. Smoker offered him a look of effusive contrition. In the last thirty minutes there had been a power-shift between the two men. Clint had tended, in his previous dealings with Mal, to regard him as an affable plonker obliged to earn a living with his fists. But male anger, male heat so easily translatable into male violence, had rearranged this view. Clint thought of himself as big and strong, and there were those ragged brawls of his that he always won. Still, Mal's violence was efficient, professionalised and above all righteous: it was something that Clint could never counter. At this moment Clint's fear felt to him like love - love for Mal Bale. 'Clint mate. Are you a cunt?' 'No, Mal. I'm not a cunt.' 'Now. What happens if you let me down.' 'Well, obviously the proverbial'll hit the fan, won't it. Obviously.'
148 'If you want to know how hard, give your boy Andy a call at the end of the week. All right?' 'Yeah mate. All the best then, Mal. Go easy. Take care, mate.' Clint Smoker was laughing by the time he hoisted himself on to the flight deck of his black Avenger. Adrenalin: it's very good stuff. As he put his foot down (within minutes, consecutive thought would be entirely sacrificed to motorly concerns) Clint began to compose an e-mail in his head, beginning, 'What do you say to the hoary old chestnut, Does size matter?'
3. On the Royal Train
The King was not in his counting-house, counting out his money — and the Queen was not in the parlour, eating bread and honey . . . Henry was coming south on the Royal Train. This train of his had an 'office' car, a conference car, a drawing-room car, a bedroom car, a dining-room car, a kitchen car, a staff car, a security car, and an observation car. The potentate was in the 'office' car, writing his daily letter to the Princess. Like nearly all the interiors he had ever known, it was a chamber of restless lines: absolutely nothing had been left in peace. Every plane was harassed with ornament; the walls were tiled with paintings and framed photographs, the flat surfaces infested with curios and bibelots; each panel of the ceiling insisted on its cloudscape, its putto, its madonna, its nude. Denied the freedom of vast dimension, the train was like the condition of being royal: it was always on at you and it never let you be. There were frequent and durable and much-resented delays, but the Royal Train was technically non-stop. At this stage only the King knew of the coming rendezvous, in a siding at Royston, near Cambridge, with Brendan Urquhart-Gordon, who claimed to bear both positive and negative news. 'My darling daughter,' the letter had begun . . . 'The Lepers', he now wrote, 'were rather a pain. Then the nightmare of the flight back. The turbulence over the Channel was, as always, pretty good hell. On landing, straight off to the Head Injury lot, which was a fair form of medieval torture. You have to hang round listening to people who can barely talk and say how wonderfully they're getting on. Then, in the afternoon, I went north, on the Train.' He paused. Going north had been like a journey into organic depression, a journey into night and into winter. At first, merely the obese cauldrons of the power-stations adding their clouds to the huge grey. Then the sky turned fuzzily black, with bright seams. Every now and then the sun would appear, like a miner's helmet coming down a chimney. They met the night at three-fifteen. And finally the Kyle of Tongue, strapped on to its crag in the North Sea. 'There has, alas, been no change in Mummy's condition,' Henry wrote on, his elaborate calligraphy rendered even more tremulous by the careening wheels. 'I must say I now thoroughly dread these visits. What's so heartbreaking is that Mummy is quite unchanged, as serenely handsome as ever.' He broke off, and shuddered. 'The hairdresser still attends her once a day, they still do her nails once a week, and she is of course frequently "turned". If it weren't for the ghastly wheezing of the ventilator, one might expect her to open her eyes and say, with all the old joviality, "Oh Daddy, don't just sit there! Where's my pot of tea? " As I have often said, whilst there have been cases of people emerging from "PVS" after periods of several years, we must contine to steel ourselves for the worst. The "team",
149 my darling, may be reduced from three to two, but it's still a team, you and I, my dearest one. You and I. We Two. 'The presence of the media . . .' He paused. And continued: '. . . simultaneously cheapens and confuses one's sufferings. Of course I am moved, of course I am shaken. But must I display my wounds to the camera? And this is when they are at their most respectful! "Don't be afraid to shed a tear, Your Majesty"! It makes one want to vom. More and more viscerally do I feel that the media are base violators who poison everything they touch.' He paused. How had Bugger put it? 'The Princess should be told', Urquhart-Gordon had said, 'that there may have been a breach of her privacy.' No, thought Henry: too early for that. And continued: 'It seems to me that we two ought to have a "peptalk" on this very subject, and on security in general; I will come on Saturday (5th), and we can have a lovely chat in that perfectly decent hotel.' There followed a fantastic display of diminutives and endearments. Henry then rang for Love.
At Royston they began to slow. Up ahead, in an almost invisibly fine mist, lay the siding where large-eyed Urquhart-Gordon now stood with a lone detective. And the black car, beyond, with its driver. The train was still moving when Brendan climbed aboard.
Henry IX said, 'Give me the bad first, that good may come of it.' 'The discouraging news, sir, is that the photograph is not, in fact, a photograph.' Brendan composed the sleek lines of his eager, clever face. 'It is a still.' He had mentally set aside quite a few seconds for Henry to take this in. And the King's head actually idled on its base for a full half-minute before he murmured, 'From a film.' 'Well, yes, sir. From a film.' Brendan heard Henry's sigh — long and searching, with a muted whimper at the end of it. 'From a DVD DigiCam 5000, to be precise, sir.' 'You know, Bugger: I hope this comet or whatever it is smeshes us all to smithereens.' 'It won't smash us, sir. If it hits it'll burn us.' 'Even better. Hellfire. It's no less than we deserve.' Now Brendan contemplated his monarch. It seemed a nice question: in a life so straitened, so predetermined, so locked down — you'd have thought that there was no room at all for individual variance. But Henry was an established royal anomaly. Unlike his father, Richard IV, and his brother, the Duke of Clarence, and unlike so many other males in their line, Henry had piloted no jets or helicopters, commanded no icebreakers or minesweepers, drilled no troops, bunked in no submarines, simulated no fighter-evasion sorties, parachuted athwart no mountainsides. Nor did he share his house's enthusiasm for horticulture, music, hunting, practical jokes and eastern faiths. Henry had merely loafed his way through a geography degree at Oxford and then got on with his social life. Even before he acceded, of course, his diary was plagued with 'functions', and he continued to shirk and chuck as many as he could. But the minimum was already a very great deal. Brendan thought that half the secret of the royal existence lay in the fact that it was quite unbelievably boring. You became a man of action to counterbalance this; you sought danger, exertion, intense states. And you busied yourself with arcana, with obsessional
150 crankery — anything that would fill your mind. Henry was defenceless. He simply endured it, all the boredom, like a daily dose of chemotherapy. Unlike his numerical predecessor, that glittering Renaissance prince, who was interested in astronomy, theology, mathematics, military science, navigation, oratory, modern and ancient languages, cartography and poetry, Henry IX was interested in watching television — or in staying still while it was on. Two years earlier, Brendan would have said that the King, at fifty-one, was senescent with ennui. For some reason his preternatural indolence endeared him to the million, and he had always been popular, despite everything (the gaffes, the insensitivity, the fathomless ignorance). They liked his frown, his blink, his sandy mop. Nowadays his numbers had in fact slightly dipped from their usual 75 per cent. The public didn't want to see their king trudging down hospital corridors and having fiendishly strained conversations with turbaned community-leaders. They wanted to see him fast asleep at the races. 'I went to her bedroom,' said Henry vaguely. 'It's still a zoo of cuddly toys. She's still so little, Bugger . . .' Brendan reached for and unlocked his steel briefcase. 'Sir, we're somewhat further for'ard than we were. We think we have the location.' 'The location?' 'See, sir.' Again the photograph — with the body of the Princess whited out of it. Though he recognised the propriety of the excision, Henry suffered a moment of snowblind alarm. Where had she gone? Whited out, like a mummy, like a ghost. 'I thought we 'd have to start by trawling through every bathroom in all the royal households, looking for that tub, that mirror, that basin, in that particular alignment. But Oughtred's people have rather brilliantly narrowed it down. Look, sir. To the Princess's left is a bar of soap in its dish.' Brendan paused, giving Henry time to say, 'Are you telling me that this is the only royal bathroom with a cake of soap in it?' 'No, sir.' Brendan dipped into his case and was presently unscrolling what seemed to be a poster or a silkscreen: twenty by twenty, and glossy to the point of liquefaction, and all white. 'And what may I ask is this?' 'The bar of soap, sir. Or rather a detail from it: the crest.' Henry stared into the swimming cream. 'It's rather worn down, sir, but you see the indentation. A lily. Three petals bound together. The fleur-de-lis. That's the brand the household uses at Cap d'Antibes. The Princess holidayed with you there for two weeks in August. And that, I submit, sir, was when her seclusion was surprised.' 'That's a pretty way of describing what I consider to be a capital crime, Bugger. Well then. Now what?' Brendan had never seen it before: the King with a kingly air. He said, 'With your permission, Your Majesty, Oughtred and I fly to Nice tonight.' 'Given . . . Oh, poor darling.' The two men listened to the train as it slowly rocked and knocked . . . Brendan considered. Victoria England, naturally, had already been the theme of many a national furore. The first of them erupted when she was seventeen days old: a sacked nanny claimed she had walked out because the Queen refused to practise 'demand' feeding. Six months later the country
151 was similarly divided on the question of whether the Princess was ready to be weaned. And so on. Should she be allowed to ride a training-bike indoors without a crash-helmet? Should she be eating fast food on school outings? Should she have worn 'that' miniskirt at the ill- fated 'Dunsinane Disco'? It was at this stage (the Princess was eleven) that Brendan started to detect a half-conscious salacity in the native fixation. No, not salacity: something indecent, but innocently indecent. When she turned twelve there was a sudden crossfire of think-pieces on the arguable virtues of a) sanitary napkins, and b) riding sidesaddle — in which the Princess was of course never mentioned. You could feel it gathering, building; it was on the people's mind: Victoria poised between childhood and nubility. So much disquiet, concentrated on the precious membrane of the Princess . . . Brendan thought that the relationship between the English and the Englands was incestuous and narcissistic but essentially subliminal {sub: under; limin-: threshold); down there all was obscure, sunless, moonless, starless. 'You'll see she gets this today, Bugger.' Henry now stood and moved to his desk where, using an ivory shaving-brush and a silver saucer of water, he fixed the envelope containing his letter to the Princess, adding the Royal Seal with the ring on the third finger of his right hand. Brendan gathered his things. First the blow-up, the grotesque enlargement, like a plastic tablecloth. Then the photograph itself. He was glad he couldn't see Victoria's face, with her pupils on the top left-hand corners of her eyes, which disquieted him so. He thought he knew what the Princess was doing. She was listening.
The sprawling map of the fleur-de-lis, now that was just a detail: the crest. Why, who knew? With a bar of soap that size, maybe you could wash all Fucktown clean . . . Laterally the Royal Train moved across North London, continuing west. Andy New saw it pass. He was down on the actual track (his fresh stashpoint), and he saw the curtained carriages, the crests and emblems. He thought: taxpayers' money! Not that And was much of a taxpayer . . . And was a pusher: of drugs, and of pornography. And And was an anarchist, a street-partyer, and a committed savager of junkfood restaurants during antiglobalisation riots. Two years earlier his common-law wife, Chelci, had presented him with a child: little Harrison. Having vaulted the gate, he made his way up the back slope, meanwhile fielding a call from his older brother, Nigel. Nigel had been a bit savoury in his earlier days but now he was dead straight just like any other cunt. Nigel: 'You're not still peddling that muck, are you?' And: 'The videos and that: course. Freedom of expression. But not that stuff.' Nigel: 'Because that's a no-no, that is.' And: 'Definitely no go.' Nigel: 'It's not on.' And: 'No soap whatso.' Nigel: 'I worry about you, And. On the train to Manchester.' The brothers had recently travelled to Manchester, to watch the match and see their dad. The City Hall wearing a green fishnet vest, and the cabbie's shortwave going Britannia Ridgeway, Rodger-Rodge, Oxnoble, Tango Three, Midland Dinsbury. Nigel: 'Us sitting on the floor between the compartments? Okay, there's nowhere else to sit. But I look at you and I think: He fucking loves it. Down there in the dirt with his can of lager.' And: 'What's this in aid of, Nige?' Nigel: 'I worry about you, And.' And: 'Well worry about your fucking taxes.' As he came muttering up over the bridge a voice hailed him from behind: 'I say! Excuse me! Young man!'
152 Turning, And saw a compact gent of late-middle years, wearing a chalkstripe suit with its three jacket buttons fastened, dark glasses, and a black borsalino. 'Thank you, thank you. Now. I wonder if you could very kindly direct me to . . .' With some difficulty he detached an envelope from his inside pocket. He smiled. 'How are you?' he asked heartily. 'All right. How are you?' 'I've never felt better in my life, thank you, and I'm thoroughly enjoying this spell of fine weather we're having.' One of those accents: posher than the King. 'I'm looking for Mornington Crescent, do you see. Not Mornington Terrace, Mornington Crescent. . .' Andy soon set him right. 'Ah. Thank you so much.' At this point, with an elegant rotation of the wrist, the man in the suit removed his dark glasses — to reveal the strangest eyes And had ever seen. So bright yet so pale: Antarctic blue, with yellow haloes. For a moment Andy wondered where the bloke had left his guide dog. 'Tell me. Would you be Andrew New?' 'Who wants to know?' 'My name is Semen Figner . . .' Pronouncing the name in a different voice: Slavic. And New saw that the blue eyes had foully darkened. 'Your woman is shit,' Semen Figner said normally. 'Your kid is shit.'
February 14 (10.41 a.m.): 101 Heavy
First Officer Nick Chopko: Hey, that's kind of cool . . . Flight Engineer Hal Ward: Excuse me? Chopko: See it? Second to go, runway right. Captain John Macmanaman:... Well well. The old De Hav Comet. What? Nineteen fifty-five? Where's that going? Ward: Croydon, maybe? The Aviation Museum? Macmanaman: . . . This wait is going to eat into my retirement. Chopko: Yeah. I would like to take off while I'm still quite young.
After the seventy-minute weather delay, CigAir 101 had pushed back from its stand and joined the queue on runway nine. Flight regulations insisted on a three-minute interval between ascents. But on this day, of course, all the transatlantic equipment had to be off the ground by eleven o'clock sharp. The tower decided on the Emergency Interval of 130 seconds. And the Captain coolly advised his passengers to prepare for some 'slipstream turbulence '; with slipstream turbulence, he might have gone on to say, the passenger will feel more like a mariner than an aeronaut, shouldering through heavy seas at 200 miles per hour.
Tower: One oh one heavy, you are cleared. Macmanaman: Acknowledge. Tower. Up and dirty.
153 At 10.53, 101 Heavy put its head down and went looking for the escape velocity. Reynolds Traynor was bolt upright in seat 2B. She had a cigarette in her mouth and the trigger of a lighter waiting beneath the print of her bent left thumb.
Chopko: VI . . . V2. Out of here.
The instant the tyres left the tarmac the Captain extinguished the no-smoking sign. A climbing plane normally welcomes the surge of a stiff headwind; but the headwind facing 101 Heavy, while no longer describable as a storm, was still, at forty-six knots, a severe gale. The Captain thus faced two immediate dangers, one grave, one merely very serious, with or without the slipstream turbulence and its 'funnelling' effect. The first danger was that the aircraft would go 'beneath the BUG', or the minimum flying speed, and submit to its own gravity load (resulting in a black box which consisted of a brief squall of obscenities). The second danger was that of 'nose-lift': here, the windforce meets the plane on its rising breast and renders it vulnerable to 'toppleback'. Nose-lift was what happened to 101 Heavy. Lighting a cigarette from its predecessor's trembling ember, Reynolds leaned into the aisle and looked aft. The inter-compartment curtains had fluttered up to head height. She was staring into a lift-shaft — but one thickly peopled. The women she could see wore contorted faces: bared teeth, incredulous scowls. As for the others, their brows were marked by the childish, the calflike frowns of men expecting death. 101 Heavy was twenty degrees from the horizontal (it felt more like twenty degrees from the vertical), and at maximum power, when it hit the torn air of the slipstream. At this point the locks securing the coffin of Royce Traynor snapped free from their bracket. Falling end over end for thirty-five feet, Royce powerdived into a mosaic of wall- bolted mountain bikes. Wedged at an acute angle against the cargo door, he remained more or less upright when the plane steadied and continued a shallow climb to its cruising altitude. 'Isn't it great to be above the weather?' said the man in 2A. 'I'd like to live above the weather.' 'Yeah,' said Reynolds. 'But not today.' 'Not today.' He was staring at her legs, very critically, or so it seemed to Reynolds, who liked her legs. Now he was staring at her feet. 'You shouldn't have worn heels,' he said. 'You could puncture the inflatable emergency- slide. Which might also serve as a liferaft. You're wearing tights.' '. . . That's true.' 'You shouldn't have. They're partly synthetic, you know,' he said. 'They melt and cling when they burn.'
In the hold the corpse of Royce Traynor seemed to square itself. It was ready.
154 CHAPTER THREE
1. The publicity of knowledge
For her next encounter with the Intensivist, Russia Meo wore the most expensive clothes in her possession. A customised Italian suit of black cashmere, matching gloves and bag, court shoes. She wanted to send a clear message to Dr Gandhi: if anything went wrong, she would most certainly sue. It was also one of those days when she instinctively decided to let her figure have its head. A waisted white blouse, therefore, and her most dynamic white brassière. These luxurious expanses of silk were not aimed at Dr Gandhi (they were aimed at someone else); but perhaps the components of the olive cleavage would be making a core assertion — the assertion of life, life . . . Dr Gandhi had taken due note of Russia's appearance, and derived some doctorly stimulation from it (the relative size of the nipples was what chiefly intrigued him); but he wasn't enjoying this second interview as much as he had enjoyed the first. The correlation of forces had already changed, as was now pretty well invariably the case. How much better it had been, how much more appreciated he had felt, when nobody knew anything — in the time before the publicity of knowledge. Now, instead of the sweating mutes of yesterday, you faced erratically wised-up mountebanks with half-assimilated case-histories, prognoses, quackeries. Dr Gandhi believed that it would be fractionally harder, henceforward, to get doctors to be doctors, such was the drain on the job-satisfaction. Russia Meo was of course an educated, indeed a distinguished woman, and he had never expected to be able to radiate downwards at her, like a Saturn. But nowadays (he reflected) every flop and waster in London had some four-eyed cousin or nephew prepared to scour the Web for all it knew ... So Russia pressed from question to question; and, head injuries being head injuries, with their labyrinthine sequelae, Dr Gandhi was soon reduced to a drone of equivocation. He felt a familiar frowsiness come over him, alleviated, for a moment, when Russia turned to the white sheet of the window: the tautening of her bust allowed him to conclude that the nipples would be correspondingly large. This prompted a sexual thought, one unmoderated by the simultaneous reminder that large nipples would facilitate the business — if not the actual process — of lactation. Russia, for her part, had not at all enjoyed her many hours in front of the computer, boning up on the head-injured. After reading one particular sentence ('Approach your spouse as you would a completely new relationship'), she had even burst from the house and stridden to the Jeremy Bentham for cigarettes. She smoked seven of them while making herself mistress of subsections with titles like 'Your New Domestic Life' and 'Your New Social Life', and so on. What do they mean, new? she kept thinking. (And what do they mean, your?) It is better, we always assume, to be prepared than not to be prepared — but not much better; with some eventualities, being prepared isn't any good either... Among other recent gains and accomplishments, women have naturally made considerable advances in the largely male preserve of self-centredness. And alongside the conviction that she would try her very best, there ran another — specifically, that there were some (no, many) possible outcomes, amply described on her screen, that she couldn't and wouldn't endure. She was not being ruthless, merely modern: come on. But then Russia confronted another sentence, one that made her hate herself, and weep, and valorously insufflate. The sentence
155 went, 'There is only one "miracle cure", and that is love.' And so now she said it a different way: come on. Come on . . .
* * *
As he stirred for the third or fourth time that morning, Xan Meo saw his wife, sitting, waiting, on the bedside chair. She said immediately, 'I was just reading about you. Well, not you, but people in your condition. Now, Xan, I want to say this: don't fall for the "two-year" myth. It's an old wives' tale that's caused a lot of unnecessary pain. They say that "after two years" you're not going to recover any further. It's not true, Xan. You can go on recovering for much longer than that. It can take five years! It can take ten! Ask around in your support group and you'll see that it's so!' Xan needed more time than he would have liked to realise that all this was in itself an old wives' tale — or a first wife's tale, to put it another way. This wasn't Russia. This was Pearl. She went on: 'You know, something like this, it can make you grateful for what you already have. I know I'm grateful for what I already have: a lump sum, and not alimony. Because you do know, don't you, that only twenty-five per cent of head-injured patients are in full employment three months after their accidents?' He straightened himself up and with both hands smoothed back his scattered hair; he supposed — and it was a supposition prompted or at least borne out by Pearl's smile — that he had never looked balder. Rather more generally, his cheeks and forehead seemed to be dotted with excrescences, asperities — as if, while he 'd slept, someone had sliced and daubed a loaf of bread above his face, leaving it covered with crumbs and seeds held in place by coagulating butter. He was glad that Pearl couldn't see his knees: on the inner side of either patella, visible fluid waves, like fat worms. 'Where are the boys?' he said. 'They're here?' 'They're in the caff. They'll be along . . . One of the things you'll have to steel yourself for, my darling, is a net drop in your IQ. Studies show. Shouldn't affect the acting but it won't be too clever for the writing, will it? I don't know about the rhythm guitar. You know what really worries me?' Xan waited. 'What really worries me is how it'll affect your relationship with Russia. Sitting there at dinner, you won't know what she's on about. Because that was always very important to you, in the past — her mind. You used to say so. It wouldn't matter that much if you were still with me. Not that I'd look at you now, in your state. We could just hang around staring at the wall. But with her . . .' Over in the nook by the door several head-injured young men were sitting in front of the television, watching the only human pursuit dedicated to the infliction of head injuries: the two guys in the square ring, with the shiny shorts and the gumshields. 'You've gone very quiet, Xan. I expect it's a bit of a strain, putting a few simple words together.' 'Oh I can talk all right.' 'So you can. And don't worry about the longer ones — you know, the ones with two or more syllables: they'll come.' In fairness to Pearl (and Xan, silently, within himself, had already made such a concession), it should be recorded that after reading about the attack she telephoned the hospital and
156 screamed at various people, demanding, as the mother of Xan's sons, a full and detailed diagnosis, which she got; and this she had passed on to her boys with the gentlest and most hopeful construction. Pearl was a good mother. She was not, perhaps, everybody's automatic choice as an ex-wife. But she was a good mother. 'The worst thing, they say — they say . . . The worst thing, they say, is what it does to your sex life.' A woman, it has been observed (by a woman, two hundred years ago), is fine only for herself. Man is indifferent to nuance; and the only things another woman will respond gratefully to are obvious signs of poverty or bad taste. Pearl didn't dress only for herself. She dressed for everyone — herself included. Today she wore a black leather jacket that squeaked and glistened, a snow-white cashmere sweater, and a pink flowered skirt of startling brevity (plus witchy ankle-high boots, also black, and flouncy little socks, also white). There was one more thing: one more thing she was wearing. He had known Pearl, on and off, since infancy; and the lost world of their marriage (he had come to feel) was regressive or animalistic or even prehistoric — a land of lizards. There were things that, even today, he would never dare tell Russia. For instance, the fact that after twelve years together (years qualified by month-long silences, trial separations, separate holidays, frequent fistfights, and ceaseless adultery) their erotic life continued to improve — if improve is quite the word we want. Everything else was bottomlessly horrible, by the end: they had reached a state (as one of their counsellors put it) of 'conjugal paranoia'. The two boys were long past going down on their knees and begging their parents to separate. It was not until Michael and David were well into their second and more serious hunger strike (eighty-four hours) that Xan and Pearl snapped out of it and called the lawyers. But throughout this period their erotic life continued to improve — or, to put it another way, continued to take up more and more of their time. 'It can go either way,' she said: 'your sex life. Either you're not interested — that's what usually happens. Or else you're interested in nothing else. Which d'you think it's going to be?' Xan waited. 'Let's do a little test. Ready?' He knew what was coming, and he knew where he'd look. To fix it: Pearl O'Daniel was tall and lean (and wore her auburn hair short and spiky); her hips were narrow, but her thighs were widely set, splaying upwards and outwards from the knee; and it was in the space between her legs, in this triangular absence (the shape of a capital y), that her gravity-centre lay . . . Now one of the predicates of Pearl's character was that she always went too far. Her greatest admirers would instantly admit it: she always went too far. Even in the company of those who themselves always went too far, she always went too far. And now, in St Mary's, Pearl went too far. Uncrossing her thighs and crossing her ankles, she revealed this space, and Xan, still defeatedly low in the bed, contemplated it. His ex-wife, of course, had not committed the sexual illiteracy of wearing nothing, underneath: she was wearing something, and not just anything. He was familiar with it — pearly white, and studded with stars. On the morning of the day the decree nisi came through, Xan had had the whole thing in his mouth, while Pearl looked approvingly on. 'Which is it?' she asked. 'All or nothing.' 'Of the two, I don't know, I'd have to say nothing.' 'Well done, Xan. A long word: nothing. Ah. Here are the boys.' She stood up and waved. Then from her fathomless tote-bag she removed a newspaper and stretched the page out at
157 him: three photographs — Xan, Pearl, Russia. 'She's going to give you grief about this,' she said. As his sons approached, Xan made another effort to straighten himself against the rails behind his back. Again, with trembling hands, he rearranged the trembling wefts of his hair. The bed, the whole stall here, felt like a display-case of age and ruin, in ashtray colours . . . Michael and David took up position on either side of him. They regarded their father, not with solemnity, alarm or disappointment, but with acceptance; and immediately he took comfort from it. David, the younger, kissed his cheek and said, 'I'm sorry, Dad.' Michael, the elder, kissed his cheek and said, 'Dad? Who were the fucking bastards who did this to you?' 'Michael,' said Pearl. 'Well that's it,' said Xan, who remembered, pretty much. 'You don't remember.' But he couldn't remember the impact, nor the moments leading up to it. Tilda Quant had told him that there was a fear-centre in the brain, a dense knot of neurons deep inside either hemisphere and normally associated with the sense of smell. Here was the control tower of your horrors and hauntings. Sometimes the brain could suppress the most painful memories (and military scientists, she said, were trying to duplicate the effect with a devil-pill that would quell all qualms). So now his brain was protecting him from his memory. But he wanted the memory and constantly sought it out. He wanted the smell of the memory. 'Never fear, boys. Soon I'm going to go out there', he said (in a voice, in an accent, that even Pearl found hard to recognise), 'and get them fucking dogs.'
Like somebody moving from one life to another, Russia walked along a tube of glass — one hundred feet above the road that separated the two sections of the hospital. She was leaving theory, now, and entering practice. Her anxiety, her suspense, was currently devoted to a fit of slanderous detestation aimed at Natwar Gandhi — and at all doctors everywhere. As a student of twentieth-century history, she knew about the 'chemistry', as opposed to the 'physics', of the USSR's interrogation teams, the vivisectionists of Japan; when, in 1941, the German doctors were given a free hand in their treatment of the infirm and the supposedly insane, the following phase became known as 'wild euthanasia'. Doctoring talent — healing — danced closely with its opposite. Given the chance (it seemed), these pulse-taking, brow-fondling trundlers would be wrapping up children's heads in old newspapers, and strolling about, in a collegiate spirit, with the packages under their arms. All of which they did do. But Russia, now, was hating Dr Gandhi (her chest swelled, her nostrils broadened) for his refusal to protect her from any of her fears. The prognosis was good; still, he would rule nothing out. And the glint that came into his face when he described negative outcomes: the glint of relished life-power. Yes, he must get a lot of that, in Intensive Care. While he talked, Russia found herself imagining what his senses had been trained to tolerate — unspeakable textures, fantastic stenches. Nor, as she took her leave, could she spurn the consolation that this doctor, like most other doctors, would drop down dead within a week of his retirement. It was to do with power, and when that went, they went. She pressed the button. Something dropped in her. She sighed as the lift sighed. 'No, boys,' Pearl was saying, 'Dad'll be back on his feet before we know it. And up to his old tricks again. Won't you Xan.'
158 '. . . Course I will.' 'Of course he will. Whoo-pa. Here she comes. Christ she's fat. Russia! I've been admiring your picture in the newspaper!' Explosive Anger and Irritability, Family Abuse, Grief and Depression, Lack of Insight and Awareness, Bladder and Bowel Incontinence, Anxiety and Panic, Sexual Problems, Loss of Love, Coping with Loss of Love, Letting Go . . . Russia walked on, making herself taller. The waisted blouse, the dynamic brassière, the olive cleavage: all this — just in case — had been for Pearl.
2. The high-IQ moron
What used to be funny? wondered Clint Smoker. What's funny now? And is it still funny? A hushed conference room in the sick building. On the other side of the sealed window a tubercular pigeon silently flapped and thrashed. The Chief Publisher sat at his desk with his face in his palms. For the Morning Lark was in crisis. Desmond Heaf (who made a habit of disappearing, of fading in and out of things) had returned, on a thirty-hour flight from the South Pacific, to rally his men. He eventually said, 'I simply don't see how something as extreme as this could have actually . . . What were you thinking of?' Gingerly and evasively he looked down at the double-page spread flattened out in front of him. 'Sacred heart of Jesus. I mean, it's not in nature . . .' 'When I saw the first one,' said Clint, 'I thought it was an exposé on Battersea Dogs' Home.' 'Yeah,' said Jeff Strite, 'or a "shock issue" about Romanian mental homes.' 'And the actual damage, so far?' 'This whole thing is being taken very personally,' said Mackelyne. 'There's a lot of anger out there.' 'Are we losing them, Supermaniam?' 'Judging by my e's, they're all dying of heart attacks.' 'That's good, that is,' said Heaf. 'We're killing our own wankers.' Supermaniam said, 'It's like Black Thursday.' On the Wednesday before Black Thursday, the Lark had put together a playful piece about the Guinness Book of Records and the new category saluting the biggest ever, or longest ever, male member. On the same page (with more than a little twinkle in its eye) the Lark had reproduced a twelve-inch ruler and (tongue still firmly in cheek) challenged its readers to make an invidious comparison. As an obvious tease — or so the Lark believed — the twelve-inch ruler had been renumbered to make it look like a six-inch ruler. Soon after dawn it started coming in: word of the Black Thursday suicides. Heaf said, 'Bill. You made up these pages. How did you physically bring yourself to do it?' 'When the first lot came in,' said Bill Woyno, 'I assumed they were taking the piss. When the next lot came in I must have thought, Well, this is ... this is what it's like.' 'Let's face it, lads,' said Clint, 'we've gone and strafed ourselves in the metatarsus on this one. But there's a way out of it, Chief. May I essay a marxist analysis?' 'By all means, Clint,' said Heaf with a frown of intense respect.
159 'Right. The quality broadsheets are aimed at the establishment and the intelligentsia. The upmarket tabloids are aimed at the bourgeoisie. The downmarket tabloids are aimed at the proletariat. At the Lark our target wanker is unemployed.' 'Come to the point, Clint.' 'Well: who can you pull when you're on the dole? We've delivered an insult to all our wankers — a deserved insult, but an insult. We're saying, we're proving, that our readers' richards, if any, are straight out of the Black Lagoon.' Four days earlier the Morning Lark, with considerable pomp, had launched its new feature, Readers' Richards. And the death threats had started coming in that morning. '"Your ankles will be nice and warm"', Heaf incredulously quoted, '"as you feast your todger on another array of top-grade totty, submitted by our red-blooded . . ."' He sat back. 'Sweet mother of Christ, will you look at that — that troll in the top left-hand corner.' 'I'm getting e 's from blokes who're stapling the pages together in case they see it by accident.' 'You should have a look at what we 're not using. Every last one of them takes years off your life.' 'You got to brace yourself, and even then . . .' 'There's not that many to choose from. And we're already running out.' 'Three point seven million wankers,' said Heaf weightily. 'And this is the best they can do. Well then. What's our course of action?' 'Simple,' said Jeff Strite. 'Scrap it. Without comment.' 'No. See,' said Clint, 'that's another insult. And it's not what they're after.' He pointed at the four heaped stacks of printed protests. 'They can't believe it either. They're not telling us to scrap it. They're telling us to say it isn't so.' 'And there's a road out of this, Clint?' 'Yeah, Chief. We can turn it around. Over a period of a few days we weed out the Wives and start replacing them with models.' 'What, our own girls? Bit obvious, isn't it?' 'Well, not the Donna Stranges of this world, obviously. Use more like the also-rans. And if a famous face does get in there now and then ... See, it's not overly rational, is it, their response? We've kicked them in the arse. We've insulted them. Now let's flatter them.' In the fight for the Lark's ideological soul, Clint Smoker was always alertingly radical. He alone, it sometimes seemed, had a true estimation of their typical reader. He now went on to add, 'It'll go down okay. You could fill that spread with filmstars and have a strap saying dream on, you stupid sods and it would still go down okay. The other thing we need to do is improve the decor. Not these bleeding . . . coalholes. Look at the one on the middle right.' Heaf rotated his head ninety degrees to the left, and then realigned it very slowly before jerking back from the page. Clint said, 'That could illustrate a piece about white slavery or slum housing. The whole spread could. No. We want reasonable birds on three-piece suites. Or better. And if you had them in the driveways of stately homes, I assure you, our wankers would be none the wiser.' There was a silence of about half a minute. 'Thank you for those words, Clint,' said Heaf. 'Make it so. Additional points . . . Now. All the other papers are going on about the NEO, the asteroid or whatever it is, and I'm sure our instinct was sound when we decided we'd completely ignore it.
160 But with all these earth-shaking events going on — aren't we shortchanging the wanker on current affairs? I think we should at least mention the main wars and plagues and famines and what have you. Now I know our emphasis is essentially domestic, but with the world situation as it is I can't help thinking we're slacking off a bit on our foreign news.' 'I agree, Chief,' said Strite. 'I could do with another month in Bangkok.' Everyone laughed tensely. What's funny? thought Clint. Gentle reader. Reader, I married him. T.S. Eliot: A Reader's Guide. Hypocrite lecteur! mon semblable, mon frere! dear clint: your remarx about your childhood struck a chord, i 2 never felt th@ i was '1 of the "gang"', some of us seem 2 have been singled out. We r, in some sense, 'special'. & i no th@ if i ever find somel 2 spend the rest of my days with, then he would have 2 b 'special' 2.
Clint had recently read a piece in a magazine which posited the emergence of a new human type: the high-IQ moron. Wised-up, affectless, and non-empathetic, high-IQ morons, according to the writer (a woman novelist), were also supercontemporary in their acceptance of all technological and cultural change — an acceptance both unflinching and unsmiling. So Clint was relieved, in a way, to find himself flinching and smiling, smiling and flinching, at the authorial style of his newfound penpal. In the text-messaging line, and so on, he had seen the King's English far more miserably disfigured. But never quite like this. Never, quite, in the service of mutual exploration and courtship — and with such good grammar. Clint knew about grammar. Mr and Mrs Smoker: both schoolteachers. And old hippies. Old — now dead — hippies. Dead hippies. Jesus: what happened? Still, Clint wasn't about to be critical. Clint? Critical when it came to birds? Deprived for so long oí female influence, he felt — well, these words of hers were like a lifeline to the guy. Like a lifeline. He knew that the distance between himself and the world of women was getting greater. Each night, as he entered the Borgesian metropolis of electronic pornography — with its infinities, its immortalities — Clint was, in a sense, travelling towards women. But he was also travelling away from them. And the distance was getting greater all the time. What happened? What was emanating from him, what was he giving off? He was, he thought, no uglier (and by now much richer) than the bloke you saw all over the place with his trusting female companion who was always ready to kiss his earring or stroke the nap of his fuzz or gaze into his dark glasses with a smile of roguish forgiveness. Must be nice, he thought. Ring it up when you're walking down the street: so everybody knows. 'Hello, love, it's me. I'm walking down the street. What's for dinner?' Romantic evening. Table set for two. Slip it a Narcopam in its coffee: take the pressure off. Must be nice. But it never had been nice. Even when things were bowling along all friendly, he always sensed the weight, the sinkage, the falling mercury inside his chest. Because he knew full well that they were just waiting — waiting for their chance. In bed, of course, the eternal battle was to make them feel it: to transform them with your strength. And that's what the books said women were after too, at one remove: the metamorphosis of impregnation by the strongest available male. So they were always waiting, calculating, comparing — always ready to belittle . . . This, at any rate, was what Clint kept telling himself (wash your hands of them; they're all the same; and so on). But his unconscious mind suspected otherwise. He heard from his
161 unconscious mind, sometimes. On Sunday afternoons as he lay abed licking his nasal handcuffs in the hopeless pit of his Foulness semi, he would sometimes hear it say: 'I don't know, mate. There's going to be grief. I don't know, mate. It's all going to end in tears.' She was like a lifeline to the guy: my man of the moment (& i do mean moment) is of the 'macho' type, u no: down the gym all Sat, football on Sun morning & 10nis in the afternoon. borlNG! i like a fella who drinx beer in front of the tele - with me on his lap! in bed, while we r having 6, he moans at me 2 scream, i tell him: i'm not the kind that will per4m @ your beck & call! don't ( me with TH@ sort! i suppose he thinx th@ screaming = abandon, but i don't WANT abandon, y o y, clint, do people use 6 2 infl8 their own gr&tiosity?
Although the piece of paper he had in his hand was merely a printout of an e-mail, Clint held it to his cuffed nostrils, as if hoping for an intimation of her scent. And he had read it, oh, three or four dozen times. I'm not going to mess this one up, he thought: no way. the trouble is i've never been able 2 'sack' a man. 2 anger a man. i wouldn't dare, offend a MAN? so i have 2 go on mildly displeasing him (and th@'s bad enough) till he pax his bags & moves on. how? o u no, clint - little things, i 4get 2 praise him as of 10 as i used 2. i refuse 2 wipe his p off the toilet seat, i speak up 4 myself. wh@ i'm really saying is: join the q, m8, 2 the back door! elint, i'm tired of it. let me b clear: i h8 the 'new man' 2, so 'caring' in the bedroom, 'did u finish?' 'was it good 4 u 2?' yes! 7th heaven! cloud 9! y can't people just b themselves, clint? 2 much herd instinct, 2 much falsity, 2 much pre10ce. ps: 3 cheers 4 'readers' richards'. a real tonic 4 the gentler 6: gr8 scott, there's hope 4 us all!
'Your messages are like a breath of fresh air,' mused Clint as he precomposed his reply. 'Now you've seen my ugly mug often enough in the Lark. I'm no looks snob — can't afford to be! But it would be nice to put a face to your words of wisdom. And maybe a name . . .' And she still hadn't said whether she thought size mattered. Only one thing troubled him. Market research had shown, time and time again, that the Morning Lark had no women readers. So the question remained: what sort of bird read the Lark?
He paused there, at his desk. Clint was about to begin a piece. But he paused at his desk there. '. . . Uh, is uh, is And around?' 'Who's this?' 'Uh, Pete.' 'No he ain't,' said a much smaller voice than the one he was used to. 'Harrison, careful, darling. They've got him down as missing. No, don't do that, sweetheart — there's a good boy. They've got him down as a missing person.' Clint said he was sorry to bother. He thought: Jesus - don't say Joseph Andrews. Then: pop round and cheer her up. Then: no. Leave all that out. Or: the proverbial'll — '– Ah Clint,' said Heaf. 'It's not as serious, but something else has just blown up in our faces.' 'And what's that, Chief?' 'Pervs Him Right.' 'Ah. The Walthamstow Wanker.'
162 'The same. But one crisis per day, eh? A couple of things, Clint. There's a word in your Video Review column that gave me a bit of a turn. Where are we.' He flattened the page out on Clint's worksurface. The strapline said Blinkie Bob's Video Review. In the corner was a mugshot. Not Clint, but some portmanteau imaging creation: a face grotesquely wall-eyed, and bent at an angle, tongue lolling, with two hair-matted palms loosely raised. Heaf said, 'Now where . . . ? Here we are. Uh, "and have your bogroll handy for when gueststar Dork Bogarde pumps his lovepiss over the heaving norks of our very own Donna Strange". What, may I ask, is lovepiss?' 'Semen, Chief.' 'Oh. Oh. I thought our house style was "manjuice". Oh. Well that's all right then. You know, it disgusts me, sometimes, what we do here. It does. How are things progressing with Ainsley Car?' 'Well the ice-boot's come off. Have to wait till he's playing again, for the visibility. But it's looking good, isn't it, with the new charges.' Clint remembered that Heaf didn't follow football. He went on, 'They're nicking him for match-fixing now. Said he took half a mil from a Malaysian businessman to throw it for Rangers last season. Our wankers'll hate him for that: sacrilege, Chief. Maybe we can get Beryl done during the trial.' 'Proceed as you think fit, Clint. And you said you were following through with our royal coverage.' 'I'm on it, Chief.' 'It warms your heart, doesn't it, Clint. We always assumed that the royals were felt to be an irrelevance — an anachronism. And old Queen Pam, of course, was a rather forbidding figure. But now she's been gone for two years, and what with the Princess flowering into maturity, there's been a tremendous upsurge of affectionate interest — reflected in Mackelyne's figures — across the entire spectrum of our wankership.' 'Yeah well what it is is, now that Vicky needs a bra, it's reminded them that Henry's still on bread and water. They think it's time he started getting stuck in again.' 'You think? 'Read Smoker on Saturday. Long think-piece.' 'Title?' '"Is The King Normal?"'
3. Excalibur
He was in a ridiculous situation. On the day of his birth the guns of the Royal Fleet all over the world boomed forth their joy. 'Our thoughts go out', said Churchill in the House of Commons (the Second World War was in memory yet green), 'to the mother and father and, in a special way, to the little Prince, now born into this world of strife and storm.' He was only a few hours old when he made headlines in every language and every alphabet. At school he discovered that his father's face was on the coins he presented at the tuckshop, and on the stamps he used to send his letters home. Before his visit, as a twelve-year-old, to Papua New Guinea, the island tomtoms sounded all night long. He was still a teenager when he represented his country at the funeral of Charles de Gaulle: he stood between Mrs Gandhi and Richard
163 Nixon. Then came majority, marriage, murder — and the crown: the recognition, the oath, the anointing, the investiture, the enthronement, the homage. All his personal dramas were national dramas. He was in a ridiculous situation. He was the King of England.
Henry IX was staying at the Greater House, his unheatable 300-room drum in Southern Hertfordshire. He had dined à deux with his little brother, Prince Alfred, Duke of Clarence, in the private room of a three-star restaurant on the Strand. 'The barman here, Felix, is absolutely marvellous,' he had said. 'He makes a truly splendid drink called a Scorpion. Ah, there you are. Two Scorpions! No: make that four Scorpions . . . Now tell me, dear boy. Are you going to merry this "Lyn" of yours?' 'You know, old thing, I don't see how I can marry anyone.' "Why ever not, you ass?' 'Because I'm such a disgusting lech. We all are. Except you. Old chap.' '. . . Now where are those Scorpions?' The words stayed with him. And as he sat up, alone, at home (before the fire, under a heap of rugs and dogs), waiting for Bugger's call, Henry thought: yes, true enough. And why? Prince Alfred, at forty-nine, was still the hyperactive satyromaniac he had been from the age of thirteen (when he raped his first housemaid). His father, Richard IV, had gratified epic appetites, before his late marriage; and his grandfather, John II, was a notorious debauchee. And Henry IX? By the time he reached his twentieth year, the Prince of Wales, as he then was, showed no more interest in sexual intercourse than he showed in polo or parachuting. He had a hectic and quite drunken social life, and many women friends. What, then, made him decline or ignore the countless importunities, ranging from the near-undetectable to the melodramatic, that tended to come a prince's way? It seemed to be nothing more complicated than fear of effort. A concerned Richard IV, abetted by the Queen Consort, arranged for the Prince to be visited by a lady-in-waiting — a young widow called Edith Beresford-Hale. Edith surprised Henry one night in the Kyle of Tongue. The Prince had retired after a damaging night with the forty or fifty 'guns' who had come up to scrag his wildlife. Of course, Henry himself never had anything to do with that. But he gamely went along with Edith Beresford-Hale. She bounced him around on top of her for a couple of minutes; then there was a smell of fire-tinged male changing-rooms, and Edith made a joke. Then the Prince did what the King and Queen had by no means intended. He fell in love with Edith — or, at any rate, he confined himself to Edith. Though press and public assumed that he was sleeping with at least one or two of the young beauties he frequently squired, Henry was faithful for the next five years. He looked in on Edith about three times a month. She was thirty-one, and of comfortable figure and temperament. Not unlike his mother: the tweed skirt, the hardwearing shoes. So Henry was in his mid-twenties when he began to be disquieted by a younger friend: the Honourable Pamela North. He gave Edith a house, a world cruise, and a pension, and started paying court to Pamela. On the day after the Royal Wedding (and a princely marriage, said Bagehot, was the most brilliant edition of a universal fact) Henry wrote to his brother, Prince Alfred: 'Everything was plain sailing, which was a relief. You saw when I kissed her on the balcony and the crowd went absolutely bonkers? Well, it was a bit like that in the bedroom. I felt the country's expectations on my shoulders, albeit in a rather agreeable way. I felt them urging me on. And everything was plain sailing. You know what
164 I mean: I was very good!' And how could it have been otherwise, on that night, with his blood so thrilled and brimmed by the people's love? The Prince had just turned twenty-seven when Richard was blown apart on a fishing-boat off the west coast of Ireland. Also on board was the King's cousin, who was the last Viceroy of India (and its first Governor-General); thus the murders had many claimants — Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, and so on, as well as the more obvious and proximate suspects . . . Nevertheless, this period, with all its magnified emotion (emotion magnified by fifty million), saw Henry at his erotic apogee. England celebrated the Coronation in a mood of fierce defiance and euphoria; and the power-surge, for Henry IX, was carried over into the royal bed, with its gilt posts, its four boules bearing ducal crowns, its tester of purple satin embroidered with lilies, garters and portcullises, its valance of cloth of gold. During their second honeymoon, on the Royal Yacht, as the royal couple sat at table, serenaded by a romantic medley from a band of Royal Marines, Henry smiled sternly at Pamela when the hour of retirement drew near. Sexually, being king got him safely into his thirties (for a while, one of his many nicknames was Excalibur). But by now they were 'trying' for an heir . . . After the birth of the Princess Victoria, Henry's lovelife no longer looked to the calendar and the lunar cycle: now it looked to the appointment-book. This duty-roster approach became a habit. It was, of course, a bad habit. Love was by royal appointment, just like everything else. And the male, even the royal male, the most brilliant edition, cannot do this. He cannot master it: expectation — the appointment with expectation. On top of all this, Pamela, as she got older, looked more and more unmistakably like a man. One afternoon, at five past three, the Queen Consort said, with gruff puzzlement: 'What's the matter with it, Hotty? Oh come on, this is hopeless!' . . . And that was all it took. Not a single second of his waking life had a thing in common with anyone else's, but Henry's vulnerability, at least, was universal; here he came down from the mountain and took his chances among his fellow men. What was the matter with it? Good question. From this time forth, whenever the King saw a '3pm: Pammy' on his schedule, he felt a force settle on his chest, like a harness; and it wouldn't slacken until the rendezvous upstairs had somehow been survived. He searched his memory for a precursor of this apprehension, for he knew it to be there. Yes. The hours leading up to an earlier rendezvous, also by appointment: when he went to the housemaster's study to be thrashed. But the negative epiphany — his life's cur moment — was waiting for him up in the Kyle of Tongue.
Brendan Urquhart-Gordon listened. The ringing stopped, and there were sounds of effort; and then — expressing no more than mildly hurt feelings — came a whimper of canine protest. 'Pepper, get off. Beena. Is that you, Bugger? The bally — the bally phone got stuck under Beena and General Monck. And now there are hairs all over it, and some . . . disgusting flux or other. General! Get . . . Where are you, Bugger?' 'I am being driven north-east from the Cap to Nice airport, sir. Rather fast.' To his right, beyond the forecourts of the supermarkets and hotels and petrol-stations, the modest lapping of the Mediterranean; to his left, not seen but sensed, the villa colours, the spotlights and crickets and sprinklers. Beside him sat compact, handsome, ageing Oughtred. 'Well, Bugger?'
165 'We have a crime-scene, sir. Much follows from this. We also have very compelling deductive evidence that the motive or the intention could not possibly —' 'Don't jabber your conclusions at me, Bugger. And stop sounding so pleased with yourself. I'm ill with this, Bugger, and it's not funny.' Brendan reproached himself: he had failed to dissimulate the pep of forensic success. He said, 'How insensitive of me, sir. Forgive me.' 'Forgiven. Now get on with it, Bugger. Oh a bottle of rather good red wine, if you would, Love? And one of your savoury snacks?' 'We 're on the tarmac now, sir. Can you hear the plane? . . . We're begin break up.' 'Hello? Hello?' 'Sir, this is need to know. The motive, intention, not possibly pecuniary. Media nor blackmail. Talk to.' After tapping it and shaking it, Henry slid the telephone back under General Monck; and, when Love returned, he asked him for a pack of cards. Imagine: the kings and the queens. And what are we? Tens, twos?
Celibate himself, Brendan Urquhart-Gordon was an abnormally observant friend. And Henry, in any case, presented no challenge to the imaginative powers. He was legible; he was easy to read. On a 'Pammy' day — or a day featuring 'another bally three-o'clocker', as Brendan had heard him put it — Henry would be quite useless all morning (incapable of consecutive thought), and would start yelling for brandy at about half past twelve. At five to three, up he trudged, returning at a quarter to four ... If things had gone reasonably well, then Henry would assume a put-upon but stoical air (interestingly, there seemed to be no dividend of relief). If things had gone badly, then the King's parched face bore the skullshadow of mortality. So one evening, in the library at the Greater House, Brendan looked up from a preselected report by the British Medical Association, and said casually, 'A giant step forward for mankind, wouldn't you say, sir? Potentium. The cause of so much male insecurity banished by the wand of physic. There will be no more wars.' '. . . What are you banging on about, Bugger?' 'Sir, Potentium. A male-potency drug. Tested and patented and freely available. You take it on an ad hoc basis, sir. A single pill and Bob's your uncle. There will be no more wars.' Henry stared into space for a good five minutes, blinking slowly and numbly, like an owl. Then he turned away and said, 'No no. One can't be doing with that monkey-glends business.' And that would be that. And who was Brendan to carp? He used to tell himself that he thrived on his own inhibitions. But perhaps that was personal propaganda; and the obverse would never be tested. The fact remained that the bed he spent so much time trying not to think about had an occupant, and that occupant was a passive male. No, there never was a case more pusillanimous than his own. Given the choice between chastity and the reification of his schoolyard nickname, Bugger chose chastity. So it was all over very early: when he was eight.
'After four hours in the Château, sir, I was saying to myself, "Hello, this is a bit of a frost." We'd done all twenty-seven bathrooms. No shortage of white bathtubs, and no shortage of
166 soap. But the alignments, the background colours, wouldn't match. Then I remembered the Yellow House, sir.' 'Indeed, Bugger.' 'Where the Princess often . . . bathed and changed after tennis before going on to the swimming-pool. And that, sir, was where the intrusion took place. A slat on the top section of the airing-cupboard facing the bath had been partly excised. On the shelf above the boiler we found a Vortex DigiCam 5000. The videodisc had of course been removed. Oughtred, who is still there, unsurprisingly reports that there are no prints and the registration numbers and so on have been scoured smooth.' 'So are we further for'ard, Bugger? I don't quite The two men were in a security vehicle outside the Mansion House, where Henry was due to attend an anniversary dinner of the British Architectural Association (and where he would later 'say a few words': keep up the good work and whatnot). For a moment the King seemed to submit to the oppression of his surroundings: a mobile granny-flat littered with display screens, transmitters, earphones. Right in front of his chin there hovered a poised mike, with what seemed to be a leather condom clipped to its shaft. There was a jar of Bovril on the counter and, balanced on its lid, a smeared tablespoon. 'We have more, sir. But already we can make certain deductions. The unlikelihood of any pecuniary motive. At first I thought, well, the DigiCam 5 is worth about three thousand pounds — they got it in, why didn't they get it out? And this rather handily exonerates all the staff, as I realised when I was about to corral them for questioning.' 'I don't quite follow.' 'The servants simply can't have known about it or they'd have reported it or stolen it. This was rather spectacularly confirmed by Oughtred, not an hour ago. The DigiCam 5 is amazingly portable — but not this one. The camera, sir, is inlaid with gold . . .' Henry eructed liverishly behind his hand. 'How perfectly vile all this makes me feel. My tummy's in ruins. I shall have to give my speech with my legs doublecrossed. What are they telling us, Bugger?' 'They're telling us that they're rich already and that they want something else. Not money.' 'What else have I got but money? I am a constitutional monarch and by definition I have no power. Glory, yes. But no power.' 'Is glory power?' asked Urquhart-Gordon. And he added to himself excitedly: is it negative power?
* * *
The next morning, as he cautiously overcame a cup of lemon tea (he would normally have a proper English breakfast: all the usual stuff plus lots of chops and pies), Henry IX received a communication from his private secretary:
FYI, sir. Copied out while hunched over the Château visitors' book. Please forgive informalities. Present during the Princess's stay (chronology of arrival):
Henry R; Bill and Joan Sussex; Brendan Urquhart-Gordon; Prince Alfred and Chicago Jones; Chippy and Catherine Edenderry; the Sultan and Sultana of Perak; Boy and Emma Robville; Juliet Ormonde; Lady Arabella Mont; John and Nicola Kimbolton; Joy Wilson;
167 Prince Mohammad Faed (and wives); Hank Davis; the Emir of Qatar (and wives); He Zizhen. NB: at one point there were 47 minors at the Chateau, including 15 teenage boys.
Ah, He, He, He Zizhen . . . Just over a year after the Queen's accident, Henry found himself dining alone with Edith Beresford-Hale. However easily explained (and graciously excused), the straining, trembling, wheezing fiasco that followed was enough to convince the King: all that was all over. Edith was still a widow, or rather a widow once more, and there had been other changes. For example, she was sixty-three. But Henry made no allowances, and was quite prepared to tiptoe from the scene with his slippers in his hand. 'That was a last,' he said hurriedly to himself. 'What's the matter with it, Hotty?' the Queen had asked, giving Excalibur a rough tug or two before tossing it impatiently aside. 'Oh come on, this is hopeless!' Well indeed. What was the matter with it? Then came He . . . 'May I tell you a secret?' she said in her accentless English, joining him as he smoked a cigar on a balcony of the Chinese Embassy in Paris. Henry turned (and noticed the sudden absence of his escort, Captain Mate). His universe was a gallery of strangers, and here was someone doubly other: the lavish black quiff, the fractional asymmetry of her lidless eyes (one eye happy, one eye sad), the strong teeth rather carelessly stacked into their prows. He inclined his sandy head at an avuncular angle . . . Now, to be clear: world-historical beauties (women perpetually dogged by tearful trillionaires) had come at him fairly steadily during the past twelve months. Many talented tongues had scoured — had practically drained — the royal ear. And the King might have flinched but he always leant willingly into it, hoping for an answer in himself, which never came ... He Zizhen stood on tiptoe. Then there was contact. It seemed as if a butterfly had taken up residence in his tympanum — no, make that two butterflies; and they were mating. At once his collateral heart (so torpid, so workshy, so decidedly valetudinarian) felt like a length of towel-rack. Subliminally, in his dreams, it worried him. The sexual coincidence: himself, in the Château, with the otherness of He in his arms; and, across the lawn, the Princess surprised in the Yellow House.
February 14 (11.20 a.m.): 101 Heavy
First Officer Nick Chopko: If it's designed to do it, it'll do it. God I'm tired. How about it, Cap? Flight Engineer Hal Ward: Guy was telling me he was so tired coming into Honolulu it was like he was drunk. Not just drunk but totally smashed. Captain John Macmanaman: I was reading in AUN, both pilots on a commuter fell asleep about two minutes after takeoff. Now with a sealed cockpit you don't want to ... Chopko: The attendants were screaming and banging on the door. They were practically in space when they came to. Macmanaman: Not where you want to be today . . . You know what the Aztecs called comets? 'Smoking stars.' Because of the trail, I guess. You'll get your nap, Nick. But you'll have to excuse me for a second. I want to say hello to a passenger.
'Takeoff rough enough for you?' he said. 'Ah I trust you, John,' said Reynolds.
168 In the surplice of his uniform, hat in hand, he bent to kiss her. The man in 2A briefly ogled the Captain, but then kept wrenching his head around and staring back through the porthole to monitor the performance of the wing. 'Welcome to widowworld. How are you bearing up, Rennie?' 'Good. No, I feel wonderful. There's a gap, and the end was horrible, but let's not kid ourselves. You knew him.'
In the hold, the corpse of Royce Traynor (full of wax and formaldehyde) was waiting with its teeth bared.
169
Appendix B
MARTIN AMIS – Żółty pies
CZ ĘŚĆ PIERWSZA
ROZDZIAŁ PIERWSZY
1. Człowiek Renesansu
Raz l ąduj ę w Hollywood, raz l ąduj ę w szpitalu, raz jeste ś pierwszy, raz ostatni, raz facet wysoki, raz kobieta niska, raz masz z górki, raz pod górk ę, raz jeste śmy bogaci, raz jeste śmy biedni, raz odnajd ą pokój, raz odnajd ą... Xan Meo wyl ądował w Hollywood. Kilka minut pó źniej, w nagl ącym po śpiechu i przy akompaniamencie chóralnych zawodze ń zeelektryfikowanego bólu, wyl ądował w szpitalu. Powodem była samcza przemoc. — Dobra, będę znikał — powiedział do swojej ameryka ńskiej żony Rosji. — Ooo — odparła, co zabrzmiało zupełnie niczym francuskie gdzie . — Zaraz wracam. Wyk ąpi ę je. Poczytam im. Potem zrobi ę obiad. Załaduj ę zmywark ę. A na koniec zrobi ę ci długi masa ż plecków. Okej? — A ja mog ę i ść ? — zapytała Rosja. — Wła ściwie to chciałem poby ć troch ę sam. — Chyba chciałe ś poby ć troch ę sam ze swoj ą przyjaciółk ą. Xan wiedział, że nie było to powa żne oskar żenie. Przybrał jednak min ę zbitego pieska (zmarszczenie czoła) i nie po raz pierwszy, a szczerze, na tyle, na ile mu si ę wydawało, rzekł: — Nie mam przed tob ą żadnych sekretów, mała. — ...Mm — odpowiedziała nastawiaj ąc policzek. — Czy żby ś nie wiedział, co dzi ś za dzie ń? — Ach. No tak. Stali obejmuj ąc si ę pod wysokim sufitem korytarza. W tym momencie mąż , poruszywszy r ęką sprawił, że gdzie ś w kieszeni zadzwoniły mu klucze. Ten pół świadomy gest oznaczał, że jego cierpliwo ść jest na wyczerpaniu. Xan nie przyznałby tego publicznie, ale kobiety z natury lubi ą przedłu żać zwyczajne po żegnania. Odpowiada to ich zamiłowaniu do sytuacji, kiedy ka żą ludziom czeka ć na siebie. M ęż czy źni nie powinni si ę jednak tym przejmowa ć. Kaza ć na siebie czeka ć, wydaje si ę skromnym wynagrodzeniem za pi ęć milionów lat m ęskiej władzy...Gdy schody zaskrzypiały mu nad głow ą, Xan westchn ął łagodnie. Jaka ś zło żona posta ć schodziła w dół, normalna do pasa, lecz dwugłowa i czteroramienna powy żej. Córka Meo, Sophie, trzymała si ę kurczowo boku
170 brazylijskiej niani Imaculady. W pewnej odległo ści za nimi, majaczył kształt pod ąż aj ącej samodzielnie i nieco rozmarzonej czteroletniej Billie. Rosja wzi ęła mał ą i zapytała — Chcesz pysznego jogurciku do herbatki? — Nie! — odpowiedziało dziecko. — A mo że chcesz wyk ąpa ć si ę ze swoimi zabaweczkami? — Nie! — powiedziała mała i ziewn ęła, jej pierwsze dolne z ąbki przypominały bli źniacze ziarenka ry żu. — Billie. Opowiedz Tatusiowi o małpkach. — Zbyt du żo małpek fikało po łó żkach. Jednej, która spadła złamała si ę nó żka. Doktor nó żkę zbadawszy, kiwni ęciem paluszka zabronił wi ęcej fika ć im po ŁÓ ŻKACH. Starsza córeczka otrzymała od Xana Meo nale żną pochwał ę. — Tatu ś poczyta ci, kiedy wróci — powiedziała Rosja. — Czytałem jej wcze śniej — odparł. Frontowe drzwi były ju ż uchylone. — Pi ęć razy kazała mi czyta ć t ę sam ą ksi ąż kę. — Któr ą ksi ąż kę? — Któr ą ksi ąż kę? Chryste. T ę o tych głupich kurczakach, co my ślą, że niebo si ę wali. Kogutek Filutek i G ąska Głuptaska. A wszystkie dostały manto od liska. Tak to było Billie? — Zupełnie jak żabki — powiedziała mała, nawi ązuj ąc do jakiej ś zupełnie innej bajki. — Cała rodzina zgin ęła. Mamusia. Tatu ś. Niania. I w śyśtkie dzieci. — Dobra, b ędę znikał. Pocałował główk ę Sophie (ledwo wyczuwalny zapach cyrku); w odpowiedzi prze ślizgn ęła mokrym kciukiem z policzka wprost do ust. Nast ępnie kucn ął, aby pocałowa ć Billie. — Dzi ś jest tatusia rocznica — wyja śniła Rosja. — Dok ąd si ę wybierasz na swój stracony weekend? — spytała w ko ńcu. — Do tego niby-baru nad kanałem. No jak on si ę nazywa. Hollywood. — Do widzenia tatusiu! — zawołała Billie.
Wychodz ąc z domu, odwrócił si ę na chwil ę, aby go oceni ć – zwyczajowy sposób oceny samego siebie, zajmowanej pozycji, własnego statusu . Nie było to w jego stylu (do jego stylu jeszcze dojdziemy), ale mógłby u żyć takich słów: Je żeli gustujesz w wytwornych tkaninach, dotknij proszę wełny na tym przesadnie gł ębokim fotelu (nie śpiesz si ę i nie odmawiaj sobie tej przyjemno ści). Wła ściwie, je żeli interesujesz si ę nieruchomo ściami, czy ogólnie wysokim standardem życia, dobrym pomysłem byłoby obejrzenie całego domu. Je żeli za ś twoj ą działk ą jest niemiecka technologia, nic tylko zabra ć ci ę do mojego gara żu, o tu, zaraz za rogiem. I tak dalej. Ale nie chodziło o pieni ądze . Je żeli żywisz podziw dla niezwykłej kobiecej urody, moja żona będzie uczt ą dla twych oczu – jej usta, oczy, aerodynamiczne policzki (i blask wysokiej inteligencji - był bardzo dumny z jej inteligencji). Je śli za ś twoja dusza rozczula si ę na widok promieniuj ącej energii nadzwyczaj uroczych, zdrowych i grzecznych dzieci, pozazdro ściłby ś nam naszych... I tak dalej. I mógłby kontynuowa ć: Z kolei ja jestem wymarzonym partnerem: w pół m ęż em, w pół sprawiedliwym ojcem, czułym i punktualnym kochankiem, odpowiedzialnym żywicielem rodziny, zabawnym kompanem, wszechstronnym i niewybrednym majsterkowiczem, subtelnym i precyzyjnym kucharzem, uzdolnionym masa żyst ą, który co wi ęcej (i pomimo okazji, których ilo ść najlepiej opisana mo że by ć tylko słowem „obfita”) nigdy nie romansuje... Tak na prawd ę, wiedział jak jest
171 by ć m ęż em złym, koszmarnym, próbował ju ż tego za pierwszym razem i okazało si ę to katorg ą. Xan Meo szedł wzdłu ż St George Avenue i dotarł do głównej ulicy (w Londynie, niedaleko zoo). Zaraz naprzeciw min ął mieszkanie z ogródkiem, którego, rzadko teraz używał. Czy kryło ono jakie ś sekrety — zastanowił si ę. Mo że jaki ś stary list, stare zdj ęcie, ślady kobiet, które znikły gdzie ś tam...Xan zatrzymał si ę. Skr ęcaj ąc w prawo, skierowałby si ę na przetarte przez matki z wózkami wzgórze Primrose Hill, które nawet samo przypominało odwrócony wózek, gdy w stylu wiktoria ńsko-edwardia ńskim, majestatycznie wyginało si ę łukiem w gór ę, w ge ście lekkiego oburzenia. Ta droga zaprowadziłaby go do Hollywood dłu ższ ą tras ą. Je żeli za ś skr ęciłby teraz w lewo, dotarłby tam szybciej i mógłby zosta ć dłu żej. Wybór był pomi ędzy ogrodem a miastem. Wybrał miasto. Skr ęcił w lewo i skierował si ę do Camden Town. Było pó źne popołudnie, koniec pa ździernika. Tego dnia, cztery lata wcze śniej, warunkowy wyrok w sprawie jego rozwodu zmienił si ę w orzeczenie ostateczne. Rzucił tak że palenie i picie (i traw ę i kok ę. Ameryka ńscy alfonsi, jak si ę ostatnio dowiedział, na kok ę mówili dziewczynka , a na heroin ę chłopiec ). Z nawyku Meo obchodził ten dzie ń dwoma koktajlami, czterema papierosami i półgodzinnym, skr ęcaj ącym flaki wspomnieniem. Był teraz szcz ęś liwy: w tym ulotnym stanie, kiedy zm ęczenie materiału daje zna ć o sobie pierwszym dr żeniem. Systematycznie odzyskiwał siły po pierwszym mał żeństwie. Wiedział jednak, że po rozwodzie nie dojdzie do siebie ju ż nigdy. Kierunek Britannia Junction: Parkway, Camden Lock i Camden High Street, czarne sylwetki sygnalizacji świetlnej, rzeka samochodowych pomyj. Pewne widoki musiały zosta ć usuni ęte z drogi; ta sterta – nie, ta kupa psiego gówna, lawina rzygowin; pijak na chodniku z twarz ą jak tyłek pawiana; ten stary awanturnik, który najwyra źniej w przeci ągu ostatnich pi ęciu czy sze ściu godzin dostał niewiarygodne lanie. Jego oczy — skryte gdzie ś po śród śladów pozostawionych przez knykcie i buty — równie niewiarygodnie, nie żywiły urazy, nie szukały zado ść uczynienia... Xan Meo spojrzał na kobiety, czy te ż mo że precyzyjniej, na dziewczyny, młode dziewczyny. Zwykle nosiła taka wysokie na ponad dwadzie ścia centymetrów, ci ęż kie jak cegła buty i dzwony niczym wigwamy. Odsłoni ęta talia odkrywała pasek majtek w kolorze złamanej bieli i p ępek pokaleczony przez bijouterie . Na jednym policzku kluczyki od samochodu, na drugim klucze do drzwi, pług w nosie, kotwica na brodzie, a włosy całe w woskowinie z uszu, jakby dostała si ę na nie przez jaki ś wewn ętrzny kanał. Ale poza tym – có ż wi ęcej? Sekretny zamysł mody, błazenada na ulicy, moda w swojej anarchicznej, ekscentrycznej formie, której celem zduszenie po żą dania starszych od was ludzi. — A jednak to daje efekty — pomy ślał Meo. Nie kumam was. Pomy ślał te ż o kobietach sprzed 25 lat , walcz ących o wzgl ędy m ęż czyzn, ich po ńczochach, pasach, dekoltach, perfumach. Dzisiaj dziewczyny zrywaj ą z tym. (A mo że wszystko poszło ju ż dalej, i jest zwiastunem wycofania si ę fizycznego pi ękna w imi ę egalitaryzmu.) Cho ć wydawały mu si ę obce, Xan nie pot ępiał tych widoków. I kiedy zobaczył dwoje nastolatków całuj ących si ę z wigorem, ow ą niewyobra żaln ą mieszanin ę zło żon ą z kolczyków na wargach i ćwieków w j ęzykach – poczuł, że si ę na to godzi. Spójrz na młodych całuj ących si ę ludzi i przepu ść ten obraz przez swoje serce; je żeli zostaje odrzucony i serce odwraca si ę od niego – wtedy staro ść , czas leci z tob ą w chuja. Gdy chc ąc kupi ć papierosy stan ął na ko ńcu długiej kolejki w sklepie, Meo przypomniał sobie swoj ą przedostatni ą zdrad ę (do ostatniej zdrady oczywi ście doszło z Rosj ą). W hotelu w Manchesterze metodycznie rozbierał dwudziestoletni ą sekretark ę planu
172 filmowego, której zadaniem było utrzymanie ci ągło ści pomi ędzy scenami. — Chod ź, pomog ę ci si ę wydosta ć z tych okropnych gor ących ciuchów — wydeklamował typow ą w takich scenach kwesti ę. Tym razem tekst jednak zdawał si ę by ć dosy ć trafny: długi workowaty sweter niczym mokry włochaty pies, wełniane rajstopy, gumiaki na nogach. Siedział w fotelu, kiedy w ko ńcu stan ęła przed nim wyprostowana. Oto jej ciało, ze swymi znajomymi kr ągło ściami i półkr ągło ściami, boskimi symetriami. Posiadało jednak co ś, czego jeszcze nigdy nie widział. Siedział twarz ą w twarz z wygolonym łonem. — A co to tutaj robi? — zapytał. — Pomaga mi szczytowa ć. No có ż, jemu nie pomogło szczytowa ć. Tam gdzie wszystko powinno by ć mi ękkie, tkwiło co ś innego, twardego; zdawało mu si ę, że tłucze w sztab ę stali. Do tego jeszcze ładna, wiele mówi ąca karteczka (z jej imieniem i numerem telefonu), nic tylko zabra ć ze sob ą do domu, do żony, która i bez tego była psychopatycznie zazdrosna (tak jak i on), i w sumie słusznie. Wi ęc ta dziewczyna wcale nie zachowywała żadnej ci ągło ści. Wr ęcz przeciwnie — zapowiedziała radykalny brak ci ągło ści. Czy konieczne były dalsze tłumaczenia? Zabronił wi ęcej fika ć im po łó żkach . Sypiał wtedy z Rosj ą ju ż cztery i pół roku. Nami ętno ść przetrwała, ale wiedział, że stopnieje i był na ten moment przygotowany. Powoli docierało do Xana, że po pewnym czasie mał żeństwo staje si ę niczym zwi ązek dwojga rodze ństwa, naznaczony przez sporadyczne i raczej godne po żałowania epizody kazirodztwa. Zapadał zmierzch, lecz firmament był majestatycznie jasny; smugi kondensacyjne pozostawione przez bardziej odległe samoloty objawiały si ę niczym roz żarzone plemniki, wysłane, aby zapłodni ć wszech świat... Na ulicy Meo przestał patrze ć na dziewczyny, a one naturalnie szły nie spogl ądaj ąc na niego. Osi ągn ął wiek (miał czterdzie ści siedem lat), kiedy dziewczyny patrz ą przez ciebie, za ciebie, patrz ą przez twojego ducha; pech do ść powszechny by ć mo że, ale z pewno ści ą jaki ś powód do po żegnania i podró ży do królestwa duchów. Szepczesz „do widzenia, do widzenia”, „niech Bóg b ędzie z tob ą” (bo ja nie b ędę. Nie mog ę ci ę chroni ć.). Jednak że w przypadku Meo, nie w tym była rzecz. Rzucał si ę w oczy, miał tego świadomo ść i sprawiało mu to satysfakcj ę. Zajmował du żo fizycznej przestrzeni: wysoki, szeroki, pełny. Jego ciemne, br ązowe włosy nie były ju ż tak g ęste i kr ęcone jak niegdy ś, ale nadal zakrywały poka źną cz ęść głowy (mazidło, które nadawało im dodatkowej grubo ści i sztywno ści nazywało si ę „Urban Therapeutic”), a jego oczy miały wi ęcej błysku ni ż człowiek chciałby zobaczy ć. Od jego twarzy bił pewien blask, blask talentu z pewno ści ą, ale jakiego rodzaju? W najsłabszym, najbardziej przymilaj ącym si ę wydaniu, twarz Meo była twarz ą m ęż czyzny, który mógłby podej ść do mikrofonu i dokonać całkowicie lubie żnej interpretacji dzieci ęcego hitu „Pop Goes the Weasel”. Jego poza zdawała si ę by ć podobna — jakby wiarygodnie chciał wywoła ć po żą dany efekt w danej chwili. Co wi ęcej, był sławny, dlatego te ż było w nim co ś fałszywego i nadymanego, coś napuszonego. Był jednak sławny w ten cichy sposób, w jaki du żo ludzi jest dzi ś sławnych, a sławnych jest wielu (i nawet Meo pami ęta czasy, kiedy prawie nikt nie był sławny). Sława tak si ę zdemokratyzowała, że życie w cieniu zacz ęło by ć postrzegane jak swego rodzaju ubóstwo czy kara. I ludzie, którzy nie byli sławni, zachowywali si ę jakby rzeczywi ście sławni byli. Czasem, w niektórych atmosferach mentalnych, mo żna było by uwierzy ć, że na wyspie, na której mieszkał, żyło sze ść dziesi ąt milionów supergwiazd... Meo był w rzeczywisto ści aktorem, który zdobył nieoczekiwany szacunek, ostro żnie przenosz ąc cz ęść swoich zainteresowa ń w innym kierunku. A świat ma ju ż imi ę dla ludzi,
173 którzy potrafi ą zaj ąć si ę wi ęcej ni ż jedn ą rzecz ą na raz, nazywa tych bohaterskich „wielozadaniowców” Lud źmi Renesansu. Cichy blask cichej sławy, i jeszcze wi ęcej jupiterów na Xana Meo. Co pi ęć minut kto ś u śmiechał si ę w jego stron ę, bo wydawało im si ę, że go znaj ą. Odwzajemniał te u śmiechy. Spacer do Hollywood ci ągn ął si ę dalej – pozosta ńmy przy tej przechadzce, poniewa ż dla Meo b ędzie to ostatnia na jaki ś czas. Wetkn ął głow ę przez drzwi jednej z ksi ęgarni na High Street, by z samozadowoleniem stwierdzi ć, że mi ękka okładka jego ksi ąż ki (debiutancki zbiór opowiada ń zatytułowany „Lucozade”) wci ąż widnieje na stoliku oznaczonym „Nasza ksi ęgarnia poleca”. Skr ęcaj ąc w prawo w Delancey Street, min ął kawiarni ę, gdzie co drug ą środ ę, on, Człowiek Renesansu, wraz z czterema hipisami z „The Original Hard Edge”, przygrywał akordy na gitarze. Ści ął drog ę w lewo, w dół troch ę biedniejszej, du żo spokojniejszej Mornington Terrace; mimo d źwi ęku uderzaj ących o siebie gał ęzi drzew pod którymi szedł, mimo zduszonego dzwonienia taboru kolejowego gdzie ś gł ęboko w dole za ścian ą po jego prawej stronie, słyszał własne kroki. Panowała zawierucha – tak, do ść dyplomatycznie, okre śla si ę ten typ pogody. Szarpi ąca i zwierz ęca turbulencja, wła ściwie rodeo wiatru, z ziemi ą usiłuj ącą zrzuci ć swoich je źdźców. A na ulicy, meble ogrodowe, wiruj ące śmietniki, rowery i (coraz cz ęś ciej) drzwi samochodów wyrywane wprost na drog ę powietrznego dopalacza. Xan był za stary, aby interesowa ć si ę mod ą, krojami i stylami, lecz teraz jego spodnie, pod wpływem wiatru, przybierały na zmian ę posta ć dzwonów i rurek. W oddali przed sob ą wyłowił kształt, który przypominał mu, czy te ż jego ciału, pierwsz ą żon ę, jej obraz sprzed dziesi ęciu lat. Perła, co prawda, nie miałaby papierosa w ustach i brukowca pod pach ą, ani jej ubrania nie byłyby tak krótkie, tak obcisłe, tak kobieco-wypchane. Lecz agresywna, b ądź przynajmniej przekorna postawa — ramiona skrzy żowane w zniech ęceniu, uniesiony podbródek — mówiła, że wszelkie wymówki zostały ju ż rozwa żone i odrzucone... Stała, czekaj ąc w cieniu mrocznego kilkupi ętrowego budynku. Za jej plecami p ętało si ę małe dziecko, chłopiec, merdaj ący patykiem w wywalonych wn ętrzno ściach czarnego plastikowego worka. Gdy Meo skr ęcił, żeby przej ść przez tory kolejowe, usłyszał jej krzyk: — Harrison! Rusz swoj ą pieprzon ą dup ę! Tak, to bez w ątpienia godne ubolewania, lecz bezpiecznie odwróciwszy si ę, Meo nie mógł odmówi ć sobie lekkiego u śmieszku. Był dobrym, nowoczesnym człowiekiem, liberałem i feminist ą (zwolennikiem ginekokracji w rzeczy samej, — Niech dziewczyny spróbuj ą — powiedziałby dodaj ąc — Wiem, że to tylko pobo żne życzenie. Wszak że my jeste śmy do bani. Niech dziewczyny spróbuj ą). Ale nadal bawiła go cała sytuacja. Kobieta wyraziła si ę jasno, a nie mo żna było powiedzie ć, by przebierała w słowach. Nie, Perła uj ęłaby to inaczej... Widział teraz budynek, wraz z jego ró żnobarwnymi lampkami świ ątecznymi i wij ącym si ę słupkiem salonu fryzjerskiego. Czasami zni żaj ący pułap samolot mo że wyda ć ostrzegawczy ton. Jeden z nich, gdzie ś tam w górze, wydał taki d źwi ęk, akordem organów oznajmiaj ąc własn ą zagład ę. Zatrzymał si ę i zastanowił: znowu to uczucie. Poci ągn ął nosem i poczuł nieodzown ą bł ędno ść unosz ącą si ę w powietrzu, jej zjebany posmak, jakby wszystkie logiczne konkluzje zostały z niego wyssane. Żółty świat wiary i strachu, marnej pomysłowo ści. A my wszyscy p ędzimy przeze ń jak ślepcy. Uczynił krok do przodu. Xan Meo poszedł do Hollywood.
174 — Dobry wieczór — Wszystko w porz ądku? — zapytał barman, jakby o zdrowie psychiczne kogo ś, kto nadal jeszcze u żywał zwrotu „dobry wieczór”. — Tak stary — odparł Meo swobodnie. — A u ciebie? O to wła śnie chodziło: był postawny, spokojny, czuł si ę swobodnie. — Gdzie s ą wszyscy? — Futbol. Anglia. Wparuj ą tu cał ą zgraj ą koło ósmej. Nie b ędąc na tyle rozeznany, żeby to wiedzie ć, Meo powiedział — Przydałyby si ę tu te, hmm, ekrany plazmowe. Mo żna by było i tu ogl ąda ć. — Nie chcemy żeby ogl ądali tutaj. Niech sobie ogl ądaj ą w Worm and Apple, albo w Turk’s Head, niech tam urz ądzaj ą demolk ę po przegranym meczu. Nad wystawionymi butelkami i syfonami, zaaran żowanymi tak, by imitowa ć śródmie ście Los Angeles, kred ą wykaligrafowano na tablicy menu. Nieproporcjonalne manekiny wybranych gwiazd filmowych przetaczały si ę przez ulice miasta. — Wezm ę... — Był drink o nazwie Oral. Był drink o nazwie Anal. To jak z tymi firmami FCUK i TUNC 7 — pomy ślał i wzruszył ramionami. Nie miał zamiaru rozmy śla ć w tej chwili nad tym jak bardzo obsceniczne jest codzienne życie. — Wezm ę Kutasa, albo nie, Kutafona. Nie, dwa Kutafony. Trzymaj ąc w obu r ękach po drinku Xan wyszedł do wybrukowanego ogródka nad kanałem, gdzie w ostatnich miesi ącach, na ławce skierowanej na zachód i z Rosj ą u boku, skonsumował w zamy śleniu wiele szklanek wody sodowej, wiele filozoficznych Krwawych Mary. A jednak jak że bardziej uroczyste, jak że bardziej wzniosłe i majestatyczne były jego my śli, gdy rozmy ślał o Perle samotnie, tylko ze swoimi papierosami i Kutafonami... Pierwsze spojrzenie na zielony nieruchomy kanał zbyt dokładnie postawiło go w obliczu stercz ącej nogami do góry martwej kaczki, ze stópkami niczym zauszniki okularów. Martw ą w wodzie, żało śnie martw ą — wyobraził sobie, że wyczuwa jej zapach, gdzie ś tam ponad prastar ą magi ą kanału. Jak Kaczk ę Dziwaczk ę czy Kaczorka Głodomorka, po tym jak Lisek Urwisek został ukarany za sw ą zbrodni ę. Wydawało si ę, że Xan jest sam w ogrodzie. Lecz wtedy z bocznego wyj ścia Hollywood wyłonił si ę elegancki młody m ęż czyzna z telefonem komórkowym przy uchu. Zdawał si ę szybko zmierza ć w stron ę ulicy, kiedy nagle stan ął jak wryty i mo żna było odnie ść wra żenie, że posuwa si ę po omacku w bok, i z metr, dwa dalej przytrzymuje si ę ogrodzenia kanału, by nie straci ć równowagi. Odebrał kiwni ęcie Xana mrugni ęciem powieki i wyra źnie powiedział: — Wi ęc wszystko co sobie powiedzieli śmy, nasze zar ęczyny, wi ęc teraz tamto wszystko nic nie znaczy. Z powodu Gartha. I oboje wiemy, że to tylko zauroczenie... Mówisz, że mnie kochasz, mnie si ę jednak wydaje, że zupełnie inaczej rozumiemy, czym jest miło ść . Dla mnie miło ść to co ś świ ętego, prawie niewypowiadalnego. A teraz mówisz, że to wszystko, że to wszystko... Odszedł a jego głos wkrótce zgin ął w szumie miasta. Tak że takie sceny miały swój udział w obscenizacji codziennego życia, która w tym wypadku objawiała si ę utrat ą wstydliwo ści. Mierz ąca w kosmos linia świata pierwszego mał żeństwa Xana była teraz martwa niczym wspomniana kaczka. Jego rozwód był tak zaciekły, że nawet adwokaci spanikowali. Wygl ądało to jak gdyby dwoje nagich ludzi zwi ązano twarz ą w twarz drutem kolczastym, a nast ępnie wyrzucono za burt ę. Wymachujesz r ękoma, kopiesz, szarpiesz – tutaj nie ma
7 nazwy s ą kalamburami wulgaryzmów ‘fuck’ i ‘cunt’
175 miejsca na moralno ść . Kiedy Perła po raz trzeci poszła na policj ę, kiedy stał w progu wynajmowanego mieszkania słuchaj ąc przedstawianych mu oskar żeń, wiedział, że jest u kresu podró ży. Osi ągn ął przeciwny biegun miło ści, stan o wiele bardziej intensywny od nienawi ści. Pragniesz wtedy śmierci ukochanej osoby, chcesz żeby jej samolot spadł, i niewa żne, że s ą tam przecie ż inni pasa żerowie, tych czterystu frajerów i nieudaczników... Ale prze żyli, żyli, czy ż nie? Xan uwa żał, że on i Perła wyrównali mniej wi ęcej rachunki i byli kwita. Co niebywałe, wyszli z tego bogatsi, niż byli wcze śniej. To chłopcy, dwaj synowie, przegrali i za ich zdrowie teraz pił. — Przepraszam — powiedział gło śno, — Przepraszam. Przepraszam. Wróbel, pierzaste stworzenie gdzie ś ze środka przestworzy, jakby w rekompensacie za przewróconego do góry nogami ptaka w zielonym kanale, wskoczył na ławk ę obok niego i w odległo ści jakich ś dwudziestu centymetrów, z niesamowit ą potulno ści ą, pocz ął si ę wietrzy ć, pozwalaj ąc swoim skrzydłom furkota ć i trzepota ć. Wiatr uciszył si ę, pomkn ął gdzie ś indziej. Na horyzoncie nastał jaskrawy, wr ęcz pornograficzny, zachód sło ńca. Przypominał tytaniczn ą akcj ę walki z ogniem: eteryczne samochody stra żackie, d źwigi, drabiny, pył wodny i piana z w ęż y i kolumn wodnych, stra żacy, niczym ba śniowe d żiny, kr ążą cy wokół swego ogromnego dzieła ujarzmienia i powstrzymania ogni piekielnych. — Czy to twoja „ptaszyna”? — zapytał głos. Do Meo dotarło, że chwila samotno ści wła śnie si ę oddala. Spojrzał w prawo, tam wróbel miotał si ę ci ągle na por ęczy ławki, wyzywaj ąco blisko drugiego Kutafona. Spojrzał w gór ę. Człowiek, który rzucił pytanie, u śmiechał si ę. Na tle wczesnego zmierzchu, trzy metry od niego stał barczysty, prawie kwadratowy osobnik. — Tak, no có ż, to wszystko, na co mnie obecnie sta ć— powiedział. Męż czyzna uczynił krok do przodu, z kciukami wyprostowanymi po obu stronach p ępka. Rozpoznany, pomy ślał Meo. Gotowy. — Jeste ś? Xan wstał oczekuj ąc, że za chwil ę b ędzie miał u ścisn ąć człowiekowi r ękę. Wróbel nadal jeszcze był na miejscu. — Jestem. — Tak wi ęc jestem Mal. — Witam — odparł Xan — Dlaczego to zrobiłe ś chłopcze? W tym momencie stało si ę oczywiste, że Mal, pomimo żartobliwego i ubolewaj ącego tonu, jest człowiekiem gwałtownym. Co bardziej zadziwiaj ące, okazało si ę, że Xan tak że był gwałtownym człowiekiem. To znaczy, nie cierpiał z powodu jakiego ś wi ększego braku znajomych uczu ć, gdy zmienione pole siłowe zacz ęło działa ć. Przemoc, tryumfuj ąco dziwaczna i nierzeczywista, to pradawny bł ąd kategorii – lecz nie dla tego który j ą zadaje. Popełniwszy bł ąd, obaj wiedzieli, że odtąd jest to ju ż kwestia endokrynologii, zarz ądzania gruczołami. — Że co niby miałem zrobi ć? —zapytał Meo i przyst ąpił krok do przodu. Nadal miał nadzieje, że tego uniknie, ale nie zamierzał zaczyna ć jako drugi. — Ooo. Wymówił to jak où , podobnie jak Rosja Meo tak dawno temu. Mówił dalej — Słyszałem o twoich przygodach z prawem.
176 — Wi ęc wiesz, czego si ę spodziewa ć — powiedział tak spokojnie jak tylko mógł (jaka ś kwaskowata obecno ść dała zna ć o sobie w jego ustach) — je żeli ze mn ą zadrzesz. — Poszedłe ś i wypowiedziałe ś jego imi ę! I chodzi o to, że to, dla mnie, to jest całkowicie, dla mnie — — Jakie imi ę? Mal wci ągn ął powietrze, wybałuszył oczy i gło śno wyszeptał, — Popami ętasz bratku. J-o-s-e-p-h A-n-d-r-e-w-s. — Joseph Andrews? — Milcz. Tego imienia si ę nie wymawia. Ty je wypowiedziałe ś. Umie ściłe ś go tam — umiejscowiłe ś. Czarno na białym. Meo po raz pierwszy pomy ślał, że nie zgadza si ę co ś zupełnie innego. Obliczenia zachodz ące gdzie ś w jego wn ętrzu mogłyby przedstawia ć si ę nast ępuj ąco: moje trzyna ście centymetrów niweluje jego trzyna ście kilogramów i żadnej znacz ącej ró żnicy wieku. Wi ęc szanse byłyby wyrównane. A ten kole ś zdawał si ę zbyt beztroski, zbyt pewny siebie. Nie mógł by ć a ż tak dobry: spójrzcie na jego garnitur, jego buty, włosy. — Popami ętasz bratku. Lecz na naszej scenie pojawia si ę kolejny aktor. Raz l ąduje w Hollywood, raz l ąduje w szpitalu. M ęż czyzna (poniewa ż to on, to on, to zawsze jest on), ten co grzeszy, sra, je, oddycha, zbli ża si ę do niego szybko z tyłu. Mal jest brutalny i Xan jest brutalny, lecz jaki ś nimb i wilcze spojrzenie trzeciego gracza, wskazuj ą brak jakichkolwiek kompromisów, do jakich ludzkie istoty kiedykolwiek potrafiły doj ść we wszystkich traktatach, konkordatach, porozumieniach. Był blady i wulgarnie łysy. Jakby jego brwi i rz ęsy wypalił z twarzy jaki ś laser albo palnik. W ten bezwietrzny wieczór para lec ąca z jego ust, niczym z aerozolu, si ęgała na długo ść ramienia. Xan nie słyszał kroków; usłyszał jednak świst wa żonej w r ęku gi ętkiej, okutej płytkami pałki. Nast ępnie ostre d źgni ęcie dwóch palców w rami ę. Nie miało tak si ę sko ńczy ć. Oczekiwali, że si ę odwróci. On jednak tego nie zrobił. Odwróciwszy się do połowy, zmienił gwałtownie kierunek i uskoczył. Tak wi ęc cios, który miał jedynie złama ć mu ko ść policzkow ą, czy te ż szcz ękę, trafił na czaszk ę, to przestronne wybrzuszenie (w tym wypadku całkiem zalesione, co mogło przyci ągn ąć potencjaln ą żon ę), w którym tak ufnie zamkni ęto tak wiele szlachetnych i delikatnych mocy. Zwalił si ę z nóg, z chrz ęstem spadł na kolana zmieciony pora żką. Krew jego kobiety, krew jego dziecka wzi ęta przez jego wroga. Prawa fizyki sprawiły, że jego Kutafon obracaj ąc si ę poszybował w gór ę i gdzie ś na bok. Usłyszał mokry trzask. Mokry trzask w kolanach, a po nim mokry trzask tłuczonego szkła. Świat przestał si ę kr ęci ć, po czym zacz ął ponownie, w drug ą stron ę. Wróbel, dopiero teraz, w jednym okamgnieniu, podniósł si ę śmigaj ąc skrzydłami. Mały wróbelek paparazzo. Niebo si ę wali! Potem słowa „Na dół” i drugi żarliwy cios. Niebo si ę wali, a ja wyruszyłem, aby ostrzec... Pozornie sztywny, niczym pomnik upadłego tyrana, zwalił si ę na bok i le żał nieruchomo na mokrym bruku.
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2. Hal Dziewi ęć
W tej chwili Król nie odliczał pieni ędzy w swym biurze rachunkowo ści. Był w salonie na Place des Vosges, zmartwiony jakimi ś bardzo złymi wiadomo ściami. Naprzeciw w fotelu siedział koniuszy Brendan Urquhart-Gordon. Na niskim stole, pomi ędzy nimi, do góry nogami, le żała fotografia, a tak że pinceta. Przez te par ę minut, kiedy żaden z m ęż czyzn nie poruszył si ę, ani nie odezwał, pokój tak że zdawał si ę przypomina ć jak ąś fotografi ę. Aby o żywi ć t ę scen ę potrzebna była jaka ś wibracja. Nadeszła. Brzd ęk kamertonu, kiedy jedna z tysi ąca fasetek w lodowym żyrandolu delikatnie zmieniła miejsce, gdzie ś po śród tej tony szkła. — O Cholera. W có ż za okropnym świecie przyszło nam żyć. To znaczy, có ż za koszmarny, straszny... świat — rzekł Henryk IX. — W rzeczy samej, sir. Czy mog ę zaproponowa ć brandy, sir. Król przytakn ął. Urquhart-Gordon trzymał w dłoni dzwonek. Jeszcze wi ęcej skandalicznie przenikliwych wibracji. W odległych drzwiach pojawił si ę słu żą cy Kochanie. Urquhart- Gordon nie miał nic przeciwko Kochanie, ale czuł się dziwnie u żywaj ąc jego imienia. Kto chciałby mie ć słu żą cego o imieniu Kochanie? — Dwa du że Remy reserve je śli mog ę ci ę prosi ć Kochanie — zawołał. Obro ńca wiary, który w rzeczywisto ści był głow ą, zarówno Ko ścioła anglika ńskiego (episkopalnego), jaki i Ko ścioła szkockiego (prezbiteria ńskiego), mówił dalej: — Wiesz co Cholera, to wstrz ąsa moimi osobistymi przekonaniami. A twoimi nie? — Moje osobiste przekonania zawsze były tylko trzcin ą na wietrze, sir. Powy ższe okre ślenie, zabrzmiało raczej nieprawdopodobnie, w ustach m ęż czyzny o kształtach szarfy do smokingu. Był łysy, rumiany, a swój Żydowski intelekt (niektórzy twierdzili) odziedziczył po k ądzieli. — Wstrz ąsa nimi dogł ębnie. Ci ludzie naprawd ę nie znaj ą granic. Nie. Gorzej. My ślę, że mo że za tym si ę kry ć jaka ś upiorna szajka. — Całkiem mo żliwe, sir. — Dlaczego... Jak to si ę dzieje, że takie potwory dostały rol ę w boskim plianie? Kochanie ponownie wszedł do salonu i kiedy zbli żył si ę, kilkana ście zegarów zacz ęło, jeden za drugim, wybija ć godzin ę. Instynktownie praktyczny Urquhart-Gordon, doszedł do wniosku, że nale ży poczyni ć wi ęcej stara ń w celu ulepszenia królewskiej wymowy. W krytycznych momentach mówił on prawie jak ludzie pół wieku temu. Rumiane policzki Brendana przez chwil ę nabrały jeszcze wi ęcej koloru, kiedy wspomniał wizyt ę Henryka, jako Ksi ęcia Walii, w domu wypoczynkowym zwi ązków zawodowych w Newbiggin-by- the-Sea, podczas której śpiewał „Mój staruszek jest śmieciarzem”: Mój stariuszek jest śmieciarzem Śmieciarza czapk ę ma Nosi łał-kurcze spodnie Czynsz zapłacony, wsio gra! Czwarta władza nie czekała zbyt długo i zwróciła uwag ę, że rzeczywisto ść jest zgoła inna. Staruszkiem Henryka był Ryszard IV, żył w Buckingham Palace, a czynszu nie płacił w ogóle.
178 Odwracaj ąc z lekka twarz od woni baniaków brandy, Kochanie dalej kroczył w ich kierunku i nadal został mu spory kawałek drogi do przebycia. Było pi ęć po szóstej, gdy wychodził z pokoju. — O Cholera. Wybacz , mam pustk ę w głowie. Dostarczona...? — Fotografia została dostarczona do r ąk własnych, do moich pokoi w St. James’s Palace. W białej kopercie. Urquhart-Gordon wyci ągn ął j ą teraz z walizki. Podał przezroczyst ą teczk ę Henrykowi IX, który rzucił na ni ą bardziej ni ż średnio zdziwionym okiem. MR BRENDAN URQUHART-GORDON ESQUIRE, a w prawym górnym rogu: Prywatne i Poufne. — Żadnej dodatkowej wiadomo ści. Kaligrafia i zb ędny tytuł grzeczno ściowy „Esquire” sugeruj ą niezgrabn ą obc ą dło ń, b ądź te ż kto ś chce, aby śmy tak my śleli. S ądz ę, że sam haracz powie nam wi ęcej. Urquhart-Gordon badał wzrokiem zmarszczone czoło Króla. Zwykle grube i jasne włosy przecinały z ukosa brew Henryka, lecz teraz spoczywaj ąca w królewskim nieładzie fryzura à la Pompadour rozpadła si ę w skotłowan ą grzywk ę, nadaj ąc jego oczom jeszcze bardziej zn ękanego i rozpalonego wyrazu. Henryk IX spojrzał na niego krzywym okiem, a w odpowiedzi Urquhart-Gordon wzruszył ramionami i rzekł: — Czekamy na nast ępny kontakt. — Szantia ż? — Có ż. Powiedziałbym raczej wymuszenie. Wydaje si ę całkiem oczywiste, że tym razem to nie robota mediów. Gdyby tak było, widzieliby śmy teraz zdj ęcie w jakim ś niemieckim magazynie. — O Cholera! — Przykro mi, sir. Albo te ż w internecie. Jakby ci ęż ką od wilgoci r ęką, Henryk IX si ęgn ął po le żą cą na stole fotografi ę. Jego r ęce dr żały. — Lepiej u żyć pincety, sir. Prosz ę obróci ć to pincet ą. Król tak zrobił. Nie widział swojej córki nagiej od trzech, czy mo że czterech lat i przede wszystkim czuł si ę teraz gorzko poruszony, udr ęczony wr ęcz faktem, jak wiele kobieco ści tkwiło w dziecku, które nadal bawiło si ę lalkami. Owe zgryzoty, razem z rozmarzon ą i niewinn ą twarz ą córki, sprawiły, że zasłonił oczy r ękawem koszuli. — O Cholera! — O Hotty. Urquhart-Gordon przypatrzył si ę bli żej. Pi ętnastolatka siedziała w kału ży, z r ękoma zaczepionymi na kraw ędzi czego ś, co najwyra źniej musiało by ć biał ą wann ą. Z nogami skrzy żowanymi uko śnie, w swym kostiumie nago ści, w tej opo ńczy nago ści, Ksi ęż niczka Wiktoria kryła sw ą kobieco ść . Co wi ęcej, musiała chyba nosi ć jakie ś bikini-widmo. Odznaczaj ące si ę linie opalenizny przywodziły na my śl lato. Urquhart-Gordon sprawdził harmonogramy podró ży. Zdaje si ę, że jedyn ą rzecz ą któr ą Ksi ęż niczka zwykła si ę zajmowa ć, były wyjazdy na wakacje. Ale teraz, ju ż od sze ściu tygodni, przebywała w szkole z internatem i był ju ż prawie listopad. Ciekawiło go, dlaczego zwlekali. Co ś w wyrazie twarzy Ksi ęż niczki ukazywało dodatkowe zmartwienie i niepokój. Podniesione oczy... Nawiasem mówi ąc, przydomek Brendana Urquhart-Gordona pochodził od cięż kiej choroby, któr ą przebył, Henryka IX natomiast od jego roli Hotspura w pierwszej cz ęś ci szkolnej produkcji Henryka IV . — Czy my ślisz — Król zacz ął ponuro — że Ksi ęż niczka i jej hmm, przyjaciółka mogły bawi ć si ę aparatem i hmm...
179 — Nie, sir. Obawiam si ę, że sprawy zaszły dalej. Król mrugn ął ze zdziwieniem. Zawsze kazał sobie wszystko tłumaczy ć. — Z pewno ści ą istnieje wi ęcej fotografii Ksi ęż niczki. W innych ...pozach — Cholera! — Prosz ę mi wybaczy ć, sir. Niefortunnie si ę wyraziłem. Rzecz w tym, sir, prosz ę spojrzeć na twarz Ksi ęż niczki. Ma twarz kogo ś, komu wydaje si ę, że jest sam. Musimy pocieszy ć si ę faktem, że to bezprecedensowe naruszenie prywatno ści Ksi ęż niczki miało miejsce bez jej wiedzy. Musiała by ć całkowicie tego nie świadoma. — Tak. Nie świadoma tego. Nie świadoma tego. — Sir, czym mam pana pozwolenie na aktywowanie Johna Oughtreda? — Tak. Nikogo wi ęcej, oczywi ście. Henryk IX wstał. Urquhart-Gordon wstał tak że. M ęż czy źni, jeden szczupły, drugi elegancki, zrównali krok. Kiedy dotarli wreszcie do wielkiej framugi środkowego okna, spojrzeli na zewn ątrz przez w ątek i osnow ę koronkowych firanek. Reflektory, żurawie, dźwigi i wysuwane drabiny — oto stra żacy Czwartej Władzy. Było to w przeddzie ń drugiej rocznicy wypadku Królowej. Oczekiwano, że rano, zanim Król poleci z powrotem do Anglii i stanie u ło ża swej żony, zło ży o świadczenie. Poniewa ż Królowa nie przebywała w ogrodzie, nie jadła chleba z miodem. Podł ączono j ą do pewnych maszyn w Royal Inverness. — A wi ęc, sir. Motto rodzinne. Motto rodzinne, przekazane Henrykowi IX przez ojca, Ryszarda IV oraz dziadka Jana II było nieoficjalne. Po łacinie mogłoby brzmie ć: Prosequare . W ich j ęzyku brzmiało nast ępuj ąco: „Dalej z tym koksem”. — Jakie plany na jutro? Ludzie z AIDS czy ci od raka? — Ani jedni, ani drudzy, sir. Tr ędowaci. — Tr ędowaci?... A tak, oczywi ście. — Mo żna ich przeło żyć, sir. Po pierwsze, je śli spojrze ć na wag ę jutrzejszej daty, nie wiem jak mogło doj ść do ustalenia tego terminu. I dodał kusz ącym głosem: — Z pa ńskim pozwoleniem, sir Królewska Eskadra b ędzie gotowa za powiedzmy...dwie godziny. — Nie. Lepiej odwale tr ędowatych skoro ju ż tu jestem. Dalej z tym koksem. Urquhart-Gordon znał prawdziwy powód wizyty Henryka IX w Pary żu. Czuł si ę zobowi ązany ukry ć swe zdziwienie, że Król pomimo obecnego kryzysu (i pomimo okrutnego braku wyczucia sytuacji i potwornego ryzyka), najwidoczniej nie miał zamiaru przerywa ć pewnych rzeczy. Kiedy doszedł do kilku fascynuj ących wniosków, jego brwi wygi ęły si ę ostrym łukiem. — No dobrze, najpierw tr ędowaci, a co potem? — Powinien pan, odlecie ć przed południem, sir. O drugiej w Mansion House jest uroczysto ść . Odbiera pan nagrod ę od ludzi z Headwaya. Henryk IX ponownie mrugn ął zdziwiony. — Krajowe Stowarzyszenie Leczenia Urazów Głowy, sir. Potem jedzie pan na północ — powiedział i zbytecznie dodał — odwiedzić Królow ą. — Tak. Bidulka. — Sir. Trzymam Oughtreda w gotowo ści. Nawi ąż e z nim osobisty kontakt dzi ś wieczorem w pałacu St James. Nie mo żemy by ć bierni w tej kwestii. Pokr ęcił głow ą i dodał. Musimy znale źć co ś, od czego mogliby śmy zacz ąć .
180 — O Cholera. Urquhart-Gordon poczuł impuls aby wyci ągn ąć r ękę i odgarn ąć mu włosy z brwi. To jednak obudziło by w Królu wstr ęt do bycia dotykanym, bycia dotykanym przez męż czyzn ę. — Współczuj ę ci Hotty. Szczerze. Wkrótce potem, Król wyszedł by za żyć k ąpieli, a Brendan usiadł w salonie. Zdj ął okulary w rogowej oprawie. Wida ć było teraz jego czujne obrzmiałe oczy. Brendan miał sekret. Był republikaninem. Wszystko co tu robił, co robił tu ju ż od ćwier ć wieku, czynił dla miło ści Króla, a pó źniej, dla miło ści Ksi ęż niczki. Kiedy Wiktoria miała cztery latka... Pa ństwo Englandowie bawili na wakacjach we Włoszech (w jakim ś castello czy palazzo) i w szlafroku, pi żamie i kapciach z fr ędzlami, z włosami ulizanymi do tyłu, przyprowadzono j ą po k ąpieli, aby powiedziała towarzystwu „dobranoc”. Stąpaj ąc lekko na palcach, podeszła do karcianego stolika, pocałowała swoich rodziców, po czym po żegnała si ę indywidualnie z Chippim i Boyem, którzy wchodzili w skład królewskiej świty. Siedz ąc troch ę na uboczu, z rumie ńcem pełnym oczekiwania, Brendan podniósł wzrok z nad ksi ąż ki, wtedy na koniec bez słowa obj ęła go przelotnym spojrzeniem. Nast ępnie wzi ęła nianie za r ękę i odwróciła si ę skłoniwszy głow ę. A Brendan zaskakuj ąc samego siebie, niemal że wykrzykn ął, w bólu, całkowicie zdruzgotany – jak to si ę dzieje, że ja czuj ę tak wiele, kiedy ty nie czujesz nic? Cała krew w nim... Brendan był świadom, że lubi Ksi ęż niczk ę w sposób wyj ątkowy. Czy była to jedynie nami ętno ść natury estetycznej? Kiedy patrzył na jej twarz zawsze czuł si ę tak, jakby miał na oczach najsilniejsze okulary do czytania. Jej ciało napierało na niego niczym kontury monety. Nie mo żna jednak tym wszystkim wytłumaczy ć stanu, w jakim znalazł si ę we włoskiej sali balowej, kiedy Wiktoria nie życzyła mu „dobrej nocy” — na przykład ledwie opanowanej pokusy wybuchni ęcia płaczem. — Dobranoc Brendan — powiedziała nast ępnego wieczora i poczuł si ę cudownie odbudowany. To była miło ść , ale jakiego rodzaju? Była wtedy pi ętnastolatk ą, a on liczył sobie czterdzie ści pi ęć lat. Oczekiwał, że to przejdzie. Na pró żno. Teraz Brendan ponownie spojrzał na zdj ęcie Ksi ęż niczki. Krótko i nieufnie. Był nieufny wobec niej i nieufny wobec siebie, wobec tego, czego mógł si ę dowiedzie ć o sobie. Oczywi ście celem było słu żenie jej, słu żenie jej zawsze... Brendan uroczy ście wyciągn ął walizk ę, przygotowuj ąc si ę do wyjazdu do Orly na lotnisko Królewskiej Eskadry w londy ńskim City i kolacji w interesach z Johnem Oughtredem. Na Places de Vosges dobiegała ósma. Na dole pod wysokim sklepieniem kuchni, grupa ochrony marszczyła brwi nad kubkami kawy rozpuszczalnej i tali ą kart z nieznanymi symbolami, mieczami i monetami z innego świata. Na pi ętrze Kochanie z serwetk ą przewieszon ą przez rami ę nakrywał do stołu w odległym k ącie salonu. Nakrywał dla dwóch osób. Pachn ący po porannej toalecie Król kroczył po omacku mi ędzy meblami. W tym pokoju wszystko, czego si ę dotkn ęło było albo bardzo twarde, albo bardzo mi ękkie, bezcennie twarde, bezcennie mi ękkie. Dom nale żał oczywi ście do Markiza de Mirabeau, wyj ątkowego przyjaciela Henryka IX. Mniej znanym faktem było, że Markiz posiadał kolejne mieszkanie przy Place des Vosges... Zegary wybijały godzin ę. Najpierw na zmian ę, pó źniej unisono. — Je żeli mógłbym ci ę prosi ć Kochanie — rzekł Król. Przy ścianie, na pokrytym dywanem płaskowy żu półpi ętra, stała szyfoniera rozmiarów średniowiecznego kominka. Zacz ęła teraz obraca ć si ę powoli, przesuwaj ąc si ę na swej brz ęcz ącej osi. Zza szyfoniery wyszła He Zizhen, prawnuczka wszelkich konkubin.
181 Została przywitana przez Kochanie. Kiedy zegary ponownie zacz ęły bi ć, He zacz ęła si ę rozbiera ć. Zaj ęło jej to troch ę czasu. Król, ju ż nagi, le żał bezradnie na szezlongu jak dziecko, które czeka na przewini ęcie. Kiedy zdj ęła fragmenty garderoby, zacz ęła go nimi pie ści ć. Potem pie ściła go tym, co zawierały ubrania. Dotykała go. Dotykał j ą. On był twardy. Ona mi ękka. Dotykała go, a on dotykał j ą. Zadzwoniło. Wibracja żyrandola.
3. Clint Smoker
„Wczoraj wieczorem Ksi ąż e Clarence zagrał Ksi ęcia ChowMein, pisze CLINT SMOKER”, napisał Clint Smoker. „Tak, Ksi ąż e Alf wyskoczył ze swoj ą now ą-star ą kochank ą, Lyn Noel, na chi ńsk ą wy żerk ę. Wszelkie słodko ści przybrały jednak gorzki smak, gdy zuchwali fotoreporterzy zgotowali im nalot na pokój. Głodni odrobiny prywatno ści, uciekali przed siedz ącymi im na plecach facetami— złapiemy gor ący k ąsek. Co zdarzyło si ę w Ken Pal? Czy j ą za-liczi-ł? Czy nabrał wody w usta, która spłyn ęła po nim jak po kaczce? A mo że ponownie zdecydował si ę porzuci ć Lyn w trakcie konsumpcji (ju ż po dokładce). To by jej nie smakowało – co powiesz kochanie na kopa w tyłek? — Có ż to? — zapytała przechodz ąc obok Margery — Podpis pod zdj ęciem — powiedział bezlito śnie Clint, pochylaj ąc si ę na bok, żeby mogła zobaczy ć. Ekran Clinta Smokera ukazał potarganego Ksi ęcia Alfreda z wykrzywionymi ustami i przera żon ą Lyn Noel przebijaj ących si ę przez tłum fotoreporterów i policjantów, wśród paruj ącego ruchu uliczek Soho. — Ten deszcz wpływa niekorzystnie na jej fryzur ę — powiedziała Margery, która wła śnie zaj ęła miejsce za biurkiem obok. Rumiana sze ść dziesi ęcioletnia Margery udawała, że jest atrakcyjn ą modelk ą Donn ą Strange. Udawała tak że, że jest naga. — No có ż, ma wygl ąd przemoczonego kociaka — powiedział Clint. Wygl ąd Clinta, niczym oble śnego typa z portretu pami ęciowego, mógł zosta ć zaszufladkowany jako ‘do dupy’ (widział, że u żywano takiego okre ślenia). Dokładnie wygolona głowa (zdradzaj ąca wiele plam i pr ęg), podwójny kolczyk w nosie w kształcie pary kajdanek (ła ńcuszek od nich wisiał nad dług ą górn ą warg ą i był w zasi ęgu przypominaj ącego szalk ę Petriego j ęzyka), poza tym niepokoj ąco realistyczny, prawie jak trompe l’oeil, tatua ż przedstawiaj ący postrz ępiony stryczek wkoło szyi (co prawda, cz ęś ciowo zakryty przez kolejn ą p ętl ę — fałd tłuszczu). A jednak ów człowiek z laptopem przed nosem był naprawd ę dobrym dziennikarzem. Buty Clinta tak że były warte ogl ędzin: dwa katamarany zacumowane przy u życiu sieci sznurów i knag. „Droga Donno: jestem w ąsk ą w talii dziewi ętnastoletni ą panienk ą, mam kształtn ą pupci ę, a cyce jak donice na twoim balkonie” napisał Clint Smoker. — Wła ściwie to prawie nic — Margery mówiła do słuchawki jednego z telefonów. — Szpilki, bransoletka na kostce i tak wogle to wszystko, no, poza stringami. „Tak wogle, to uwielbiam” — pisał Clint, po czym cofał si ę aby zamieni ć „wogle” na „w ogóle” — „ubiera ć si ę w najkrótsz ą mini jak ą znajd ę i chodzi ć bez majtek po sklepach z butami. Czekam kiedy kole ś usi ądzie na tym małym stołku przede mn ą. Powinna ś zobaczy ć jak oni...” Po czym powiedział niekontrolowanie gło śno — Słuchaj Marge, czy s ą ...
182 — Donna — odpowiedziała Marge przyciskaj ąc mikrofon słuchawki do piersi. — W sklepach z butami damskimi obsługuj ą faceci, prawda? Potwierdzaj ąc, skin ęła głow ą oboj ętnie i powiedziała — Naprawd ę kochanie? No có ż, ka żdy jest bardziej napalony popołudniami. To kwestia biorytmu. — ... ślini si ę — pisał Clint — kiedy szarpi ę swój — Supermaniam Singh wetkn ął głow ę przez próg i powiedział z akcentem znad uj ścia Tamizy: — Ej! Przyszedł.
Gdy Clint wszedł dudni ącym krokiem do sali konferencyjnej, wydawca Desmond Heaf pochylał si ę nad „Rannym Ptaszkiem” ze smutkiem mówi ąc: — Spójrzcie na ni ą. Clint, miło ci ę widzie ć chłopie. No spójrzcie na ni ą. Przecie ż to czyste kalectwo. Czy te ż syndrom obsesyjnej chirurgii Munchausena. S ą bardzo nieszcz ęś liwe i wygl ądaj ą na takie. Spójrzcie na jej oczy. Powtarzałem ju ż wiele razy, powtarzam ponownie. Utrzymywa ć rozmiar piersi w rozs ądnych granicach: rozmiar czterdzie ści cztery, potrójne F byłby dobrym punktem odniesienia. Powtarzam to i powtarzam. Spadaj ą na jaki ś czas ale potem z powrotem id ą w gór ę. A potem dostajemy co ś takiego. — W sposób zasadniczy Szefie — powiedział Clint — czyni to kupowanie gazety zbyt kr ępuj ącym. Zało żę si ę, że tracimy koniowałów. Jeszcze zanim pierwszy numer wyszedł na ulice, powszechn ą praktyk ą w „Rannym Ptaszku” stało si ę nazywanie czytelników koniowałami. Dotyczyło to nie tylko poszczególnych działów ( Listy Koniowałów , Nasze Koniowały zadaj ą pytania , itd.), ale tak że we wspólnych dla dziennikarstwa zwrotach typu „Nasz koniował, nasz pan”, „wszystko kr ąż y wokół koniowała”, „czy naprawd ę nasze koniowały to chwyc ą?” Pracownicy ju ż dawno przestali si ę śmia ć, kiedy kto ś u żywał tego słowa. — Dobrze powiedziane Clint — rzekł Heaf. — Traci ć koniowałów raczej nie b ędziemy — rzekł Supermaniam. — Wida ć lekki skok w gór ę, tak że w rzeczywisto ści nikogo nie tracimy. — A co to ma do rzeczy? — zagrzmiał Clint. — Tracimy potencjalnych koniowałów. — Powiem Mackelyne’owi niech prze śledzi dane liczbowe — powiedział Heaf. — Tak w ogóle, to kto mi ci ągle wrzuca te wielkie cholerne... kaszaloty do gazety. Nikt si ę nie odezwał. Wszak „Ptaszek” był prowadzony metodami kooperacji. Wybór dwudziestu prawie nagich kobiet, które pojawiały si ę codziennie na stronach gazety, był spraw ą wesoło i szeroko rozumianej improwizacji. Oczywi ście kadr ę redaktorsk ą stanowili wył ącznie m ęż czy źni. Jedynymi kobietami, które mo żna było znale źć w redakcji „Ptaszka”, były jego patronki – modelki, a tak że emerytki, które si ę w nie wcielały na gor ących liniach telefonicznych. — No nie wiem Szefie — powiedział Jeff Strite, jedyny powa żny rywal Smokera do posady głównego reportera. — Po kilku stronach człowiek staje si ę troch ę oszołomiony. Nie maj ąc dosłownie tego na my śli, mówi sobie: „wali ć j ą” i daje sobie spokój. Clint odpowiedział w sposób wywa żony (i gło śno) — Niektórzy kolesie naprawd ę uwa żaj ą, że dobrego towaru nigdy za wiele, jest to wi ęc argument za tym, żeby czasami wrzuci ć jak ąś wi ększ ą panienk ę. Musimy przyci ągn ąć bardziej wybrednego koniowała, nie obrzydzaj ąc stałych klientów. To proste: trzyma ć kaszaloty z dala od strony głównej. — Zgadzamy si ę?
183 — Zgadzamy. — Tak czy inaczej, komu mamy si ę skar żyć? — powiedział Heaf. Zwykle Wydawca wywy ższał si ę jak jaki ś małomiasteczkowy dyrektor szkoły, którego tak dr ęcz ą problemy natury logistycznej, że nie potrafi zadba ć o samego siebie (tak wyn ędzniały, tak wyczerpany). Ale teraz z nowym wigorem rzekł bulgocz ącym głosem: — Gregory stare ńki, b ądź tak dobry i zajmij si ę napojami, co? Mackelyne wszedł i zaj ął swoje miejsce. Słuchali, gdy mówił o najnowszych wynikach sprzeda ży, multimilionowych sukcesach na hardcorowych stronach internetowych, o tym, jak nowe seks-linie spowodowały zarwanie si ę lokalnej sieci telefonicznej, a tak że o nieuchronno ści dziennego, 192-stronicowego formatu gazety. Potem przyszedł czas na arytmetyk ę pieni ęż ną... W „Ptaszku” wszystkie zyski były dzielone, podział ten jednak był kra ńcowo nierówny. Niemniej jednak nawet Gregory, który był niewiele wi ęcej ni ż go ńcem, planował zakup konia wy ścigowego. — Dobrze — powiedział Heaf chwil ę pó źniej. — Co mamy na jutro? Clint. Zawsze przychodził ten moment (i do tej chwili puste butelki po szampanie stały w szeregu na biurku Wydawcy, a w niskim sło ńcu, pełne pyłu powietrze, zdawało si ę by ć jeszcze bardziej lotne, jak gdyby wszyscy poł ączyli si ę w kooperatywnym kichni ęciu), w którym m ęż czy źni z „Rannego ptaszka” próbowali poczu ć si ę dziennikarzami. Oczywi ście, w „Ptaszku” nie było praktycznie żadnych wiadomo ści i żaden globalny kataklizm nie zdołał jeszcze sw ą moc ą wyprze ć golizny z pierwszej strony gazety. Nawet ogromny dział sportowy ograniczył si ę do drukowania tylko najwa żniejszych wyników; reszt ę stanowiły dziewczyny wbijaj ące si ę w stroje znanych klubów piłkarskich, tylko po to, by zaraz si ę rozebra ć, dziewczyny prowadz ące kroniki swoich jednorazówek ze znanymi piłkarzami, wczesne i odwa żne zdj ęcia modelek, które wyszły za znanych piłkarzy, czy te ż po prostu mieszkały z nimi i tak dalej, plus jakie ś resztki o cudzoło żnych golfistach, d żokejkach nimfomankach i bokserach gwałcicielach. Co prawda, jakie ś tam bie żą ce wydarzenia były przedstawiane gdzie ś na dolnych połówkach stron drugiej i czwartej. Jeff Strite odezwał si ę pierwszy. — Sprawa Koniowała z Walthamstow — wyrecytował. — I nie mam tu na my śli Czytelnika z Walthamstow. Interesuj ąca historia. No i pokrywa si ę z nasz ą kampani ą „ Śmier ć pedofilom”. Wi ęc mamy publiczn ą pływalni ę. Z balkonem? Siedzi tam sobie sam i ogl ąda grup ę dziewi ęciolatków. No i wiecie, nagle pojawia si ę kochana starsza kobieta, Pani Mop. Facet bierze nogi za pas, spada ze schodów i rozwala sobie łeb. Dlaczego? Bo spodnie ma opuszczone do kostek. — Poniewa ż wła śnie walił sobie...? — Wła śnie. B ędzie te ż dobry nagłówek: „Zrobił sobie dobrze”. — Doskonale. I widz ę, że zdecydowali śmy zaj ąć si ę Żonami Koniowałów. — powiedział Desmond Heaf
Siedz ąc znów przy swoim laptopie,Clint kontynuował prac ę nad ow ą bogat ą panienk ą, która uwielbiała chodzi ć w krótkich spódniczkach po sklepach z butami. Artykuł maj ący form ę listu do gazetowej poradni „Cioci Kloci”, czy te ż raczej „Cioci Wenery”, zajmował dziennie dwie strony i w cało ści tworzony był przez zespół redakcyjny. Za długimi opowiadaniami o charakterze obrazowo-seksualnym, i tylko takim, szły trzy, cztery słowa zach ęty, b ądź drwiny, rzekomo pióra Donny Strange. Owszem, listy przychodziły tak że od czytelników, i nawet czasem, od świ ęta, mogły cieszy ć si ę gościnno ści ą rubryki korespondencyjnej. Dramatyzowały odwieczne kłopoty prozy erotycznej. Nie chodziło o brak spro śno ści, problem le żał raczej w braku ich
184 powszechno ści, w ich niedost ępnym osamotnieniu. Listów nigdy nie przysyłały kobiety... Z ci ęż kim sercem Smoker zaznaczył sekcj ę zdj ęciow ą, o której wspominał Desmond Heaf. Miała nosi ć tytuł Ryszardy Czytelników, gdzie Ryszard b ędąc wytworem rymowanego slangu (poprzez Ryszard III) rymuje si ę z „matki naszych dzieci”. — I po co ci te cholerne kajdanki w nochalu? — zapytała Margery pakuj ąc si ę do wyj ścia. Ona sze ść dziesi ęciolatka, on trzydziestolatek. Nagle koniecznym stało si ę przyj ęcie tego faktu do świadomo ści. — Przypominaj ą mi, że mam nos. —Gratuluj ę. Dlaczego chcesz, żeby jaka ś rzecz przypominała ci, że masz nos? Zwłaszcza — co ś skłoniło j ą do dodania — taki nos (nos Clinta był sporym nagromadzeniem ciała, nieukształtowanym jednak przez chrz ąstk ę). — A niby czemu słu żyć ma ten sznur? — Zadyndam na nim przez ciebie Marge. — odpowiedział ciszej ni ż zwykle. — Taki mam image. A teraz sko ńcz. Nadal mamrotał w ściekle do siebie, kiedy rozbrzmiał dzwonek komórki, który okazał si ę odgłosem policyjnej pałki uderzaj ącej o drzwi celi. — Clint? And. Andrew New, w skrócie And, był jedn ą z odwiecznie obecnych postaci w otoczeniu Smokera, osob ą z któr ą utworzył najsilniejsz ą z wi ęzi. And był jego osobistym dilerem. Ten telefon był dosy ć niezwykły. And nigdy nie dzwonił do Clinta. To Clint dzwonił do Anda. — And, chłopie. Jezu, co to za raban? Twoja stara znowu zaczyna? —Bo że. Sam posłuchaj. „Harrison. Ładuj t ę swoj ą cholern ą dup ę do wanny!” To było straszne. „And! And! Chono wlej mu!” — Sama mu wlej! Ja go lałem ostatnio. Przepraszam ci ę stary. Troch ę ju ż ucichło. Chocia ż mo że tego nie słycha ć, ale nie jest a ż tak źle. Hmm, my ślę stary, że mamy histori ę. — Có ż, pukasz nie do tych drzwi. — Dobrze, ale przecie ż musisz mie ć jakie ś kontakty. — Jestem zno śnie ustosunkowany — rzekł Clint nieszczerze (i gło śno. W restauracjach, ludzie siedz ący w pobli żu niego, prosili o inny stolik. Było tak, gdy jeszcze jadał w restauracjach z innymi lud źmi). — No dobrze, dawaj. Co tam masz? — Wiesz, chodzi o tego kolesia, którego wczoraj załatwiono. Xana Meo. Aktora, który gra na banjo, czy jak to tam si ę kurwa nazywa. No jak na niego wołaj ą. — Człowiek Renesansu. — Ja tam byłem stary. Naprawd ę. Widziałem jak go łoj ą. Nad kanałem. Szedłem ście żką do miejsca, gdzie chowam mój mały zapasik. Widz ę: siedzi, pije drinka, a nad nim tych dwóch kolesi. Jeden cios im kurwa nie wystarczył, nie-nie. Sprzedali mu dwa. Mówi ę sobie: przecie ż to kurwa on. Wtedy dostał jeszcze jednego. Clint, siedz ąc na kiblu, przeczytał o napa ści w londy ńskim Evening Standard. Nie wzbudziła w nim wi ększego zainteresowania. And kontynuował: — Wszystko wygl ądało, no wiesz, na jak ąś zemst ę. Może kogo ś zakapował i teraz nadszedł czas rewan żu. Nawet podali imi ę. Powiedzieli, że zakapował Josepha Andrewsa... — Nic mi po tym stary. Chyba, że była tam jaka ś topless panienka. Idziesz z tym do psiarni? — Nic mi kurwa po tym, nie? Nawet nie ma żadnej nagrody, czy czego tam, nic nie daj ą. Nie. Zamierzałem opchn ąć to gazetom.
185 — Hmm, nie rób tego stary — odparł z zastanowieniem Clint. — Materiał nie jest a ż tak gor ący. I mo żesz si ę wpakowa ć ... Wy ślę kogo ś, kto obmaca spraw ę i odezw ę si ę. Jeszcze raz, jak nazywał si ę ten kole ś którego zakapowano? „Harrison! And! And!” And odpowiedział: — Jeny! Jezu... znowu si ę zaczyna. Joseph Andrews.
Clint Smoker pracował w chorym budynku. Z okna na pierwszym pi ętrze zamiast wij ącego si ę słupka salonu fryzjerskiego, powinien wystawa ć termometr, nie wij ący si ę a dr żą cy. W latach siedemdziesi ątych budynek ambitnie słu żył jako prywatna szkoła dla dziewcz ąt, które miały nadzieje na wysokie stanowiska w przemy śle public relations. Tak wiele uczennic cierpiało na bulimi ę, że cała instalacja wodoci ągowa uległa wobec siej ącej spustoszenie siły kwasu żoł ądkowego. Efektem stał si ę z kolei „dymi ący wyłom”, który wypaczył ściany systemów wentylacyjnych. Powietrze było m ętne od emanacji, zarodników, alergii. W „Ptaszku” nieustannie dało si ę słysze ć kichni ęcia, kaszel, poci ąganie nosem, ziewanie, torsje. Wiedzieli, że s ą chorzy, nie wiedzieli jednak, że dzieje si ę tak, poniewa ż pracuj ą w chorym budynku: my śleli, że czuj ą si ę chorzy z powodu tego, co przez cały dzie ń robili... Dzisiaj chory budynek dawał oliwkow ą po świat ę: troch ę popadało i jego oblicze zdawało si ę by ć zroszone potem. Z papierosem w ustach przepchał si ę przez tłum. Wielki m ęż czyzna: wystarczy spojrze ć jak automatyczne drzwi odskakuj ą przed nim ze strachu. Masywny, blady, z ciałem gumiastym niczym zimny makaron; Clint jednak potrafił posługiwa ć si ę niewyobra żaln ą sił ą swych ci ęż kich ko ści. Na poboczach, podwórkach, w zatoczkach, stale wygrywał nierówne burdy w których uczestniczył, pełne młócek, potkni ęć , spudłowanych kopni ęć i uderze ń w powietrze. Awantury Clinta dotyczyły kodeksu drogowego, jego heretyckiej, w przeciwie ństwie do kanonicznej, interpretacji. A Clint był manichejczykiem. — Czy ma pan mo że jakie ś drobne, sir? — zapytał m ęż czyzna z tabliczk ą BEZDOMNY. Zapytał ironicznie: znał Clinta i wiedział, że nigdy nie dawał. — Owszem. Ty widz ę, te ż troch ę uzbierałe ś. Tak trzymaj: ogrzewaj dalej ten chodnik. Gdyby ście zobaczyli jeepa Clinta we wstecznym lusterku, pomy śleliby ście, że wielki Airbus l ąduje tu ż za wami. Potrzebował du żego samochodu, poniewa ż z wściekło ści ą doje żdżaj ąc do pracy z bli źniaka w Foulness, sp ędzał w nim przynajmniej kilka godzin. Smoker mieszkał teraz sam. Nigdy nie było mu łatwo zacz ąć ambitnego zwi ązku z kobiet ą, nie mówi ąc ju ż o jego utrzymaniu. Przedostatnia dziewczyna zako ńczyła zwi ązek, poniewa ż, oprócz innych deficytów Clinta, było z niego, jak powiedziała, „gówno w łó żku”. Jej nast ępczyni, kiedy tak że zako ńczyła zwi ązek, uj ęła to troch ę inaczej, aczkolwiek tak samo zwi ęź le: powiedziała, że był „gównianym jebak ą”. To było rok temu. Clint Smoker: gówniany jebaka. Przydomek ten nie zwi ększył w nim poczucia własnej warto ści. Od tego czasu polegał na dziewczynach z agencji, z którymi zabawiał si ę w ró żnorakich londy ńskich hotelach; i nawet tym spotkaniom daleko było do bezkonfliktowych. Prawd ą natomiast było, że je żeli ju ż przychodziło co do czego, do miło ści ( i pogód ź si ę z tym stary — mówił sobie — b ądź ze sob ą szczery), Clint miał mały problem. Bli źniak w Foulness. Idiotyczna sytuacja. Miał kas ę, żeby si ę przeprowadzi ć gdzie ś bli żej miasta. Jednak że roczna nieobecno ść kobiety doprowadziła jego dom do stanu niedotykalnego syfu. Cudem było, że siebie utrzymywał w czysto ści. (Łazienka była jedyn ą cz ęś ci ą domu pozbawion ą aury niewiarygodno ści). Nie mógł go wysprz ąta ć. Nie
186 mógł sprzeda ć. Musiałby zabi ć okna i drzwi dechami i wynie ść si ę. Brud wywierał wpływ, parali ż, nostalgi ę... Na dodatek dom przesi ąkn ął wszystkimi rodzajami pornografii. Clint wdrapał si ę na siedzenie swojego czarnego Avengera. Wa żył cztery tony, a jego pr ędko ść maksymalna wynosiła 260 kilometrów na godzin ę. Przed chwileczk ą otrzymał wiadomo ść od młodej kobiety. Nie była zaadresowana do niego, a do Ciotki Wenery z „Ptaszka”. Zaczynała si ę tak: „droga donno, szczerze, o co chodzi z całym tym zamieszaniem wokół orgazmu? Nie miałam nigdy orgazmu i wcale mie ć nie chc ę.” Clint odpowiedział „k” z Kentish Town osobi ście, mówi ąc, że uwa ża jej pogl ąd za „przyjemn ą odmian ę”. Odemejlowała mu: pokonwersujmy. Uhm, e-miło ść , e- eros, e-romans, e-cizia, e-żigolak; uhm, e-randki w sieci... Zwykle okazywało si ę (odkrył), że wszystkie te rzeczy s ą cieniem rzeczywisto ści — jałowe, nieistniej ące, niematerialne: niczym zmy ślona kpina. Co ś jednak mówiło mu że „k” jest kobiet ą rzeczywist ą. Podbity korkami chodak uderzył w pedał gazu. Nie min ęło kilka tygodni, od kiedy Avenger wyjechał z salonu, a ju ż przypominał sypialnie bli źniaka w Foulness. Zapach nowo ści i starych ludzi. W tej chwili Clint wrzeszczał na ci ęż arówk ę, któr ą chciał wyprzedzi ć. Zupełnie szczerze żywił nadziej ę, że kiedy przemknie obok niej, przez przej ście nie b ędzie w tym momencie przechodziła grupka dzieci id ących parami ze szkoły.
Wkrótce potem, nios ąc tabliczk ę BEZDOMNY pod pach ą, Bezdomny John poszedł do domu. Gdy spał, tabliczka stała oparta o szafę. Stała oparta o stół, kiedy matka Bezdomnego robiła mu śniadanie. — Ty chyba kochasz ten napis — powiedziała. — Wygl ąda ładnie. Wi ększo ść ludzi pisze długopisem na jakim ś skrawku kartonu. To przygn ębiaj ące. Nawet nie bior ą ich potem ze sob ą do domu. Wypieprzaj ą je i rano robi ą nowe. Ja bym tak nie mógł. Mój napis jest jak powiew świe żego powietrza. To prawda. Tabliczka BEZDOMNY Bezdomnego Johna była tabliczk ą o podwy ższonym standardzie. Na jasnym drewnie namalował żółte sło ńce, biały ksi ęż yc i srebrzyste gwiazdy; a poni żej słowo „bezdomny”, du żymi literami i w cudzysłowiu — „BEZDOMNY” — Wolałabym, żeby ś dał sobie z tym spokój — powiedziała. — To tylko wakacyjna praca, mamo. — Z t ą tabliczk ą. — Co z ni ą? — Wszyscy widz ą jak gwi żdżą c chodzisz ulic ą, z tabliczk ą BEZDOMNY i kluczami do domu. Siedzisz tu sobie ze swoj ą tabliczk ą i pijesz herbatk ę. Czuj ę si ę jakby to nie był dom. — W domu to ja ci ę zaraz umieszcz ę, w domu starców. Nie b ądź głupia Mamo. Oczywi ście, że to jest dom. Ten napis słu ży tylko jako narz ędzie w moim fachu. I dlatego jestem tam gwiazd ą. Jestem na topie. Zbiłem fortun ę w zeszłym tygodniu. — Słyszałam, że mówi ą na ciebie „Bezdomny” w pubie. Miał pomysł. Jego ocena napisu, i tak ju ż wysoka, skoczyła o stopie ń wy żej. — Spójrz na cudzysłów Mamo. Napisane jest, że tak naprawd ę nie jestem bezdomny. Matka Bezdomnego Johna przybrała smutny i błagalny wyraz twarzy. Przechyliła głow ę i powiedziała — Ale nie b ędziesz stał na deszczu, kochanie? — Nie ja mamo. Wróc ę do domu. Co rzeczywi ście zwykle czynił. Trzymaj ąc tabliczk ę nad głow ą i chroni ąc si ę przed deszczem.
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14 lutego (9:05 czasu uniwersalnego) : Lot 101
Na lotnisku w Heathrow załadowali ciało do ładowni maszyny lotu CigAir 101 zmierzaj ącej do Houston w stanie Texas, w USA. Royce Traynor — tak si ę nazywało. 11 listopada ten stary potentat naftowy szedł ulic ą w londy ńskim Kensignton, kiedy dachówka, wielko ści du żego formatu gazety, spadła na niego lotem kosz ącym. Zmarł w karetce, w ramionach swojej czterdziestotrzyletniej żony Reynolds. Reynolds siedziała teraz w bardziej atrakcyjnej cz ęś ci samolotu, na siedzeniu 2B. Ze łzami w oczach piła drugiego drinka z szampanem i sokiem pomara ńczowym, oczekuj ąc momentu, kiedy kapitan wył ączy napis „zakaz palenia” Podczas dziesi ęciogodzinnego lotu z 399 pasa żerów wraz z załog ą, tylko Royce Treynor nie odczuł, że jego dobre samopoczucie ulega pogorszeniu.
ROZDZIAŁ DRUGI 1. Przej ście w traum ę.
Młodziutka Billie Meo przeszła przez oddział urazowy z tak ą fascynacj ą, że podłoga pokryta linorytem z trudem usiłowała odczu ć ci ęż ar jej kroków. Gdzie ś wewn ątrz niej, by ć mo że w łydkach, co ś poruszało si ę na paluszkach, chocia ż kapcie l ądowały na linoleum pi ętami. Kiedy Rosja wzi ęła córk ę za r ękę, poczuła nieznaczn ą lewitacj ę poł ączonego z niepokojem zaciekawienia; podczas gdy wkoło nich zni żały si ę, pochylały, odwracały, podnosiły si ę niczym zniekształcone pos ągi, postaci. A jeszcze odgłosy i zapachy. Dobiegła dziewi ąta, zanim wezwała policj ę i zacz ęła dzwoni ć po szpitalach. Nie min ęła dziesi ąta, kiedy dowiedziała si ę, że jej m ęż a przyj ęto z urazem zamkni ętym głowy do szpitala St Mary, z urazem okre ślonym jako lekki, w przeciwie ństwie do ci ęż kiego. Do tego czasu Billie podchwyciła całkowicie poruszenie matki i Rosja nie miała wyj ścia, jak tylko pozwoli ć jej „pój ść ” ze sob ą. (Sophie z zadartym noskiem spała w pompatycznym spokoju ju ż od kilku godzin). Rosja postanowiła zaufa ć sobie i wzi ąć samochód, chocia ż ju ż teraz czuła si ę jak kierowca na tafli czarnego lodu: przyczepno ść kół zerowa, przyszło ści wiele, a ka żda walczy, aby sta ć si ę rzeczywisto ści ą. Uczyniła tak, zdaj ąc si ę na własny instynkt. Wieczór stał si ę tunelem, którego wylot stanowił w tej chwili tylko jedn ą mo żliw ą przyszło ść — t ę która czekała na ni ą w szpitalu. Zdawała sobie spraw ę, że jej ciało uległo wewn ętrznemu wyciszeniu, że w jej interesie czas zwolnił swój bieg. Podobnie jak Billie, znajdowała si ę w stanie halucynogennej ciekawo ści. Zaparkowała po drugiej stronie ulicy, pod drugim budynkiem, w którym urodziła obie dziewczynki. Nast ępnie izba przyj ęć . Tam rodziny i bliscy czekali w cichym czuwaniu, niektórzy wyprostowani i spi ęci, inni całkowicie zrezygnowani, jak pasa żerowie na lotnisku w obliczu dwunastogodzinnego opó źnienia. — Nie w konkretnym szpitalu, nie w jednym ze szpitali... po prostu w szpitalu — pomy ślała. W s ądzie, w wi ęzieniu, w ko ściele. Co ł ączy te instytucje? Tam rzekomo rozstrzygaj ą si ę losy ludzi... Billie w szpitalu była wcze śniej tylko dwa razy: przy okazji własnych narodzin i ostatnio, kiedy odkryto, że spo żyła pół butelki paracetamolu w płynie.
18 8 Tak że i tamto wydarzenie miało miejsce w nocy. Rzeczywiście Billie mogła doj ść do wniosku, że kiedy nie pójdzie si ę spa ć wcze śnie, nieuchronnym nast ępstwem jest wizyta w szpitalu. W tej wła śnie chwili skierowani zostali na urazówk ę. — Ka żdy uraz głowy ci ągnie za sob ą pewn ą sekwencj ę wydarze ń — obja śnił pracownik OIOMu. Dlatego mo żna mówi ć jakby o trzech urazach. Pierwszy nast ępuje w kilku pierwszych sekundach, drugi w przeci ągu pierwszej godziny, natomiast trzeci podczas pierwszych dni, tygodni czy miesi ęcy. Twój m ąż — Alex — doznał pierwszego urazu. Wzi ąłem na siebie nie cierpi ące zwłoki zadanie niedopuszczenia do wyst ąpienia drugiego i trzeciego urazu. Wygl ąda na to, że stracił przytomno ść na jakie ś dwie, mo że trzy minuty. — W ka żdym razie na wi ęcej ni ż minut ę... — Trzy minuty to jeszcze nie koniec świata. Chocia ż nie mógł sobie przypomnie ć własnego nazwiska i numeru telefonu, w karetce był przytomny, a ci śnienie miał w normie. Mózg nie został nie dotleniony, jak ma to miejsce podczas urazu drugiego. Oddech miał miarowy i gł ęboki. Kiedy wyst ępuje nierytmiczne lub słabe oddychanie, przy dostatecznie udro żnionych drogach oddechowych, rokowania zawsze s ą pesymistyczne. Niektórzy lekarze nie wierz ą w moc jak ą władaj ą. Inni za ś żyj ą w jej blasku. Tak si ę składa, że Dr Ghandi (Rosji wydał si ę szata ńsko przystojny, cho ć wkraczaj ąc w wiek średni pocz ął si ę lekko garbi ć) nale żał do tej drugiej kategorii. Czerpał satysfakcj ę i przyjemno ść , gdy ludzie z błagalnym wzorkiem i przej ęciem słuchali jego słów. Ich reakcja była słuszna i l ęk przed nim, miło ść do niego, były czym ś naturalnym, wszak to on interpretował ich śmiertelno ść . Wydawał i wstrzymywał leki, udzielał porad, zatajał prawd ę... Billie siedziała za ścian ą w pokoju zabaw. Rosja słyszała jej odgłosy. Wydawało si ę, że mała gł ęboko wdycha powietrze i trzyma w płucach nie wypuszczaj ąc; sapała i wzdychała, gdy ł ączyła i rozł ączała plastikowe klocki. — Alex był wzgl ędnie przytomny w karetce. Zanim go zbadałem, gadał od rzeczy. Nie zniech ęciłem si ę jednak. Jego ko ńczyny poruszały si ę sprawnie i posłusznie, a wzrok prawidłowo reagował na światło. W przeci ągu godziny jego wynik w Skali Glasgow wzrósł z dziewi ęciu do czternastu punktów, czyli o jeden mniej od maksimum. Prze świetlenie nie wykazało żadnych złama ń. Co wa żniejsze, cho ć tomografia wykazała stłuczenie, opuchlizna była znikoma (byłaby oznacznikiem trzeciego urazu). Tak na wszelki wypadek przepisałem jeden z diuretyków. Ma on działanie odwadniaj ące i w ten sposób obkurcza mózg — tłumaczył dr Gandhi, obrazuj ąc to zaci śni ęciem dłoni. — Jest na intensywnej terapii. Śpi. Oddycha normalnie, a jego stan jest w pełni monitorowany. — I to tyle? — Prosz ę pani. W mózgu pani m ęż a doszło do akceleracji. Mi ękka tkanka została wgnieciona w ściany swojego pojemnika — czaszki. Na przedniej dolnej powierzchni mózgu znajduj ą si ę ko ściste wypustki. Na có ż one tam s ą — nikt tego nie wie! Wydawa ć by si ę mogło, że s ą kar ą dla pacjenta z urazem głowy. Gdy w mózgu dochodzi do akceleracji, rozdziera si ę on i rozrywa o t ę... tark ę. Komórki nerwowe mog ą by ć uszkodzone, b ądź przynajmniej czasowo ogłuszone. Wierzymy, że mózg usiłuje uzupełni ć ten deficyt, wykorzystuj ąc nadliczbowe tkanki w procesie spontanicznej reorganizacji. Mo że on troch ę potrwa ć. Oczywi ście istnieje mnóstwo mo żliwych efektów ubocznych. Ból głowy, wycie ńczenie, słaba koncentracja, zaburzenia równowagi, amnezja. Proces ten mo że by ć tak że odpowiedzialny za labilno ść emocjonaln ą. Labilno ść ? Podatno ść na zmiany. —
189 Czy mo że mi pani powiedzie ć, które z tych czterech słów, najlepiej oddaje temperament męż a: spokojny, łatwy, dra żliwy, trudny. — Zawsze był łatwy w po życiu. — W nadchodz ących tygodniach, prosz ę oczekiwa ć u m ęż a skłonno ści w kierunku trudnego temperamentu. Czy chciałaby pani i... hmm Billie zajrze ć do m ęż a? Dostał środki na rozlu źnienie mi ęsni. Sugeruj ę jednak, aby go nie budzi ć. Godzin ę temu jeden z lekarzy próbował za świeci ć mu w oczy latark ą. Alex nie był zachwycony. Na OIOMIe mo żna było si ę poczu ć jak na łodzi podwodnej, czy w starym statku kosmicznym. Ciemne pomieszczenia, gdzie szumiały i pikały wa żne urz ądzenia: elektrokardiogramy, dysz ące wentylatory, gdzie życie i śmier ć kotłowały si ę w mieszaninie kształtów i cieni. Kiedy dy żurna piel ęgniarka u śmiechaj ąc si ę odsłoniła zasłon ę, wkradły si ę do środka. Kiedy Billie zobaczyła tat ę, wydała typowe dla niej miłosne st ękni ęcie — lecz teraz, w jej głosie wyczuwalna była nutka żalu. Z bólem w gardle, Rosja pochyliła si ę gwałtownie, by wzi ąć dziecko na r ęce. Poło żyli go pod wi ększym k ątem ni ż si ę spodziewała. Widz ąc masywny biały kołnierz i sposób w jaki prze ścieradło pi ętrzyło si ę wokół jego szyi — nie mo żna było pozby ć si ę wra żenia, że oto Xan, ze skalpem całym w kabelkach, powoli wyłania si ę z muszli klozetowej. — Czemu tata śpi ący? — Śpi — wyszeptała świszcz ąco — Ma ałka i śpi. Nagle otworzył oczy i pocz ął gapi ć si ę wprost na ni ą. Poczuła wyra źnie, jak zakołysała si ę do tylu. Co miało znaczy ć owo spojrzenie? Oskar żenie? Wzrok Xana rozbiegł si ę jednak, a powieki powoli przykryły oczy, posłuszne chemicznemu odr ętwieniu. — Po ślij tacie buziaczka — powiedziała Rosja — żeby wyzdrowiał. Kiedy lekkim chodem, małymi krokami na płaskich obcasach, szła z powrotem przez rejestracj ę, Billie spojrzała na ni ą i z niezgł ębionym zadowoleniem powiedziała: — Tatu ś si ę zmienił.
— Prosz ę odlicza ć siódemkami od stu w dół — Sto... dziewi ęć dziesi ąt trzy. Osiemdziesi ąt sze ść . Siedemdziesi ąt dziewi ęć . Siedemdziesi ąt dwa. Sze ść dziesi ąt pi ęć . Et cetera. — Dobrze. Co maj ą wspólnego ptak i samolot? — Skrzydła. Ale ptaki si ę nie rozbijaj ą. — Czy mo żesz poda ć nazwisko premiera? Podał. — Czy mo żesz poda ć imi ę królewskiej córki? Podał. —Poprosz ę ci ę teraz o zapami ętanie dla mnie trzech słów, dobrze? Oto one: pies, ró żowy, rzeczywisto ść ... Dobrze. Mo żesz powtórzy ć? — Ró żowy. Kot. Rzeczywisto ść . Jego stan mo żna by przyrówna ć do stanu ludzi żyj ących w dwudziestym pierwszym wieku: człowiek chce si ę obudzi ć, otrz ąsn ąć z tego wszystkiego. Jakby śnił we śnie, a oba sny były koszmarami. Tamtego poranka, gdy Rosja była przy nim, przeniesiono Xana z OIOMu na oddział urazów głowy. Zdobył (tak mu si ę zdawało) obra źliwie przesadn ą pochwał ę za powolne przej ście w mniej wi ęcej prostej linii, za pokonanie jednej kondygnacji schodów
190 pomagaj ąc sobie tylko por ęcz ą, za niezgrabne uczesanie włosów i umycie z ębów oraz za pomy ślne poło żenie si ę do łó żka. Skonsumowanie paluszka rybnego z u życiem no ża i widelca przyniosło mu kolejne wyrazy uznania. Był we śnie i nie mógł si ę obudzi ć. Mógł jednak poło żyć si ę spa ć, co te ż uczynił — bezsennie. Po południu wszystko stało si ę troch ę bardziej wyra źne. Na oddziale le żało czternastu pacjentów i wszyscy cierpieli na rozszczepienie w czasie. Ich umysły cofn ęły si ę, podczas gdy ciała brn ęły w wiek starczy. Najnudniejsze obowi ązki wzgl ędem własnego ciała, które zwykle sprawiaj ą, że człowiek dr ętwieje z apatii, tutaj nazywano umiej ętno ściami. We źmy na przykład wypró żnianie si ę. Samodzielna wizyta w toalecie mogła wywoła ć aplauz personelu i wszystkich, którzy wiedzieli jak klaska ć. (I nawet dziesi ęciomiesi ęczna Sophie wiedziała jak klaska ć: z pewno ści ą był to słaby i pusty metaliczny odgłos, niemniej jednak jej dłonie mijały si ę nad wyraz rzadko). Ale były tak że osi ągni ęcia o wiele bardziej podstawowe ni ż załatwienie si ę — takie jak nie załatwienie si ę, kiedy załatwia si ę kto ś inny. W poprzek przedostatniego łó żka le żał siedemdziesi ęcioczteroletni m ęż czyzna, którego uczono jak przełyka ć. Byli te ż inni, na ró żnych stopniach zaawansowania, na ró żnych drogach, ubrani w dres, powłóczyli nogami na sal ę rehabilitacyjn ą zaj ęć praktycznych, b ądź na fizjoterapi ę na basenie. Było dwóch czy trzech takich jak on — nie koronowanych królów urazu głowy, wirtuozów szczoteczki i grzebienia, doborowych urynatorów, adeptów sznurówki i paska od spodni, wytrawnych konsumentów: Ludzi Renesansu. — Czy wiesz co oznacza skrót „en ee oo”? — Meo. Neo. No? — Obiekt Bliski Ziemi. Widziałe ś gazet ę? Obawiam si ę, że zepchn ął ci ę troch ę ze strony głównej. Pojawi si ę w Walentynki. Nie martw si ę. B ędzie blisko, ale przejdzie bokiem. — Walentynki — zastanowił si ę. Dla tej kobiety nie jest to zapewne szczególnie miły dzień. Zbite w mas ę włosy o oran żowym odcieniu i pełne pomara ńczowe usta, w kontra ście z blad ą cer ą pokryt ą meszkiem. A jednak było w niej co ś... — Czy mógłby ś napisa ć mi jakie ś zdanie? Jakiekolwiek— spytała. Xan dostał ołówek i bloczek papieru. Jego rozmówczynią była czterdziestoletnia psycholog kliniczna Tilda Quant. Bawiła si ę do ść dobrze. Po cz ęś ci dlatego, że stanowiło to pewn ą odmian ę od nakłaniania starszych ludzi do literowania trzyliterowych wyrazów, ale tak że, poniewa ż ten pacjent rzeczywi ście pojawiał si ę w gazetach, był jednym z ludzi show-biznesu, indywiduum, na które zwrócone s ą „oczy i uszy” mediów. Tilda nie ulegała staromodnej czci, jak ą otacza si ę sław ę. Kierowała si ę czym ś bardziej pod świadomym i opartym na interakcji. Cz ęstuj ąc si ę cz ęś ci ą jego sławy, która wystawiała człowieka pod powszechn ą obserwacj ę, sfera jej własnego rozgłosu nieznacznie poszerzyła si ę. Ze swojej strony Xan, z powodów jeszcze sobie nie znanych, uwa żał fakt, że Tilda była kobiet ą, za ogromnie wa żny. — „Taki jeden chudy lisek Xavier wskoczył na br ązowego muflona” — przeczytała z zastanowieniem. — Takie ćwiczenie — odparł — Powinno zawiera ć wszystkie litery alfabetu. — Tak, ty te ż jeste ś qwerty. Qwerty? No wiesz: qwerty uiop. — Aaa. Tak. My ślę jednak, że mam bł ąd — stwierdził Xan. Nie ma tam pe. Nigdy nie mogłem zapami ęta ć pe. Nawet wcze śniej. — ... Mówisz, że nie mo żesz zapami ęta ć... ee... przemocy.
191 — Mog ę. Mog ę. Ale nie chodziło tylko o przemoc. Cały proces był niewiarygodnie brutalny. Powiem ci, jak si ę czułem. My ślałem, że je żeli znajd ę jakich ś bardzo starych ludzi przy których b ędę mógł usi ąść , wtedy mo że przez dziesi ęć sekund nic złego mi si ę nie stanie. Nie czułbym si ę wtedy tak niewiarygodnie słaby. Patrzyła na niego z fascynacj ą. — O czym ty mówisz — zapytała. — O rozwodzie. — Ha! — powiedziała notuj ąc — Nazwałabym to twoj ą dziewicz ą k ąpiel ą w kognitywnej dysfunkcji. Nieodpowiednia odpowied ź na pytanie w oczywisty sposób zwi ązane z pobiciem. — Z pobiciem? Nie, nie pami ętam żadnego pobicia. — Pami ętasz te trzy słowa, które prosiłam aby ś zapami ętał? — ... Kot. Jaki ś kolor: żółty czy niebieski. Aaa i rzeczywisto ść .
Na zewn ątrz sło ńce ju ż od godziny górowało nad horyzontem, nadal pokazuj ąc co ś czemu ś: pokazuj ąc tamtemu czemu ś to co ś, a tamto co ś temu czemu ś. Patrzył jak poruszaj ą si ę cienie. Zdawało mu si ę, że poruszaj ą si ę z tak ą sam ą szybko ści ą, jak pokazuj ąca minuty wskazówka zegara na ścianie znajduj ącego si ę za przeszkleniem pokoju siostry. Było to jak odkrycie: cienie poruszaj ą si ę z pr ędko ści ą czasu... Xan nie mógł przesta ć my śle ć o swojej zmarłej siostrze Ledzie. Nie widział jej przez pi ętna ście lat, a kiedy pojechał do szpitala, nigdy wi ęcej si ę nie obudziła. Przyszła żona z Billie, niemowl ęciem i Imaculad ą. Kiedy dziewczynki poszły Rosja kazała zasłoni ć łó żko parawanem, a potem weszła do niego maj ąc na sobie tylko halk ę. Sposób w jaki to uczyniła, skojarzył mu si ę z okre śleniem “petticoat government” - czyli babskimi rz ądami. Ewidentnie zareagował na ciepło Rosji, jej otwarto ść . Pokrzepienie, chocia ż do ść odległe, wkrótce wł ączyło si ę w pulsuj ący ból głowy, by nast ępnie zgin ąć w wyczerpaniu, nudno ściach i otaczaj ącym wszystko bólu samej rany. Chciał podda ć si ę nurtowi płyn ącej wody. Chciał pozwoli ć, aby poniosły go fale. Rosja ubrała si ę i zbierała do wyj ścia. Xan zdawał si ę spa ć, ale gdy poci ągn ęła za plastikow ą zasłon ę, usiadł wyprostowany i z zapałem wskazał na młodego m ęż czyzn ę, łó żko obok (który bynajmniej nie był wdzi ęczny za okazane mu zainteresowanie), mówi ąc: — Tamten kole ś to dopiero jest zasraniec. No nie chłopcze? Niezbyt, hmm, błyskotliwy w gadce czy jedzeniu. Jak dot ąd przynajmniej. O jako ść jego srania jednak, spiera ć si ę nie mo żna. Kurde. Ty wiesz jak on sra?!
Xan czuł, że nikt powa żnie od niego nie wymaga, aby pami ętał pobicie. Kiedy go o to pytali (lekarz, psycholog kliniczna, zawsze usatysfakcjonowany tajniak), mówił im, że nie pami ęta nic pomi ędzy drog ą do Hollywood, a drog ą do szpitala. Tak te ż powiedział żonie. Kłamał. „Tak wi ęc, jestem Mal” — tak powiedział tamten facet. „Tak wi ęc, jestem Mal.” Ktokolwiek mnie skrzywdził — rozmy ślał (przez cały dzie ń), zostanie skrzywdzony. B ędę krzywdził bardziej, ranił mocniej. Ktokolwiek mnie skrzywdził, skrzywdz ę go, skrzywdz ę.
192 2. Grzmoc ąc Beryl
Mal Bale miał sto siedemdziesi ąt pi ęć centymetrów wzdłu ż i wszerz (na oko był rozmiarów kabiny w toalecie). Uwa żnie wstukiwał numer w klawiatur ę swojej komórki (była niewi ększa ni ż pudełko zapałek, co sprawiało, że musiał polega ć na paznokciu najmniejszego palca u r ęki). Powiedział do pracodawcy: — Powinno by ć mnie tu dwóch. Jego mam kurwa ochrania ć? Wracasz z kibla, a on w pojedynk ę odwala zbiorowy gwałt... Nie, stary. Nie, dzwonie tylko, żeby troch ę poj ęcze ć. Wła ściwie to dzisiaj nie jest z nim, z t ą jego kontuzj ą, tak strasznie — troch ę go spowalnia. Kiedy przyszedł ten dziennikarz, troch ę przycichł... Tak? Dzi ęki stary. Doceniam. W pierwszej kolejno ści Mal mówił o Ainsleyu Carze, strapionym problemami walijskim napastniku. Kariera Cara, jednego z najbardziej utalentowanych piłkarzy swojego pokolenia, si ęgn ęła niemal że dna. Min ęły trzy lata, odk ąd ostatni raz reprezentował swój kraj (a trzy miesi ące, odk ąd reprezentował swój klub). Wspomnianym dziennikarzem był Clint Smoker z „Rannego Ptaszka ”. Na prac ę profesjonalnego ochroniarza w dziewi ęć dziesi ęciu dziewi ęciu procentach składało si ę marszczenie czoła. Marszczenie tu i tam, marszczenie tak i siak. Trzeba marszczy ć czoło, trzeba pokazywa ć, że jest si ę czujnym…. Czasami nast ępnego dnia po robocie budzisz si ę i my ślisz — kurwa! Kto waln ął mi z ba ńki tym razem? Tak jakby twoje czoło było jednym wielkim siniakiem. Tyle, że żadnej bójki nie było. Wszystko przez całe to marszczenie... Ale Car był inny. Zwykle taki goryl chronił klienta przed światem zewn ętrznym. Z Ainsleyem u boku, to świat zewn ętrzny trzeba było chroni ć przed klientem. Wynajęty przez agenta Cara Mal Bale stał przy barze w Cocked Pinkie tr ąc oczy jak dziecko. Nie wymagano od niego zbyt du żo marszczenia twarzy. Wymagano natomiast tępego wzroku i lekko rozwartych ust — jako preludium do wła ściwego, koncertowego popisu. — Dziwne — pomy ślał Mal. — Do zmiany osobowo ści, do której dochodzi o szóstej, Ainsley ledwie daje si ę kontrolowa ć. Wleje pół shandy w gardło i jest zupełnie innym facetem. Ot ępienie zasnuwa mu oczy. W pubie Ainsley i Clint siedzieli w swoim boksie, obgadywali interesy. Ze stercz ącą dzieci ęcą parasolk ą, czwarty koktajl Ainsleya wygl ądał jak Knickerbocker Glory. Trzeba szanowa ć go jako gracza — przyznał Mal w duchu. Za młodych dni (rzeczywi ście w innej epoce) Mal był lojalnym kibicem rodzinnego West Ham —kartonik wieprzowinki w sosie słodko-kwa śnym w nocnym autokarze do Sunderlandu, szalony i rozpalaj ący płuca sprint wzdłu ż Kings’s Road i monotonne wizyty w s ądzie na Cursitor Street. Jednak pewnej soboty, na stadionie Upton Park, przyszło rozczarowanie. Wła śnie sko ńczyła si ę pierwsza połowa, a w k ącie, gdzie siedziały wszystkie dzieciaki, hasały dwie maskotki; stroje miały pulchne, niemal sferyczne — jedna była śwink ą, druga owieczk ą. Nagle świnka zdzieliła owieczk ę, a ta oczywi ście nie pozostała jej dłu żna. Z pocz ątku, kiedy si ę tak rzucały i miotały, wygl ądało to dosy ć komicznie. Pomy śleliby ście, że to jeden z punktów programu — jednak nic bardziej bł ędnego. Niczym przewrócony żuk, owieczka wyl ądowała na plecach, młóc ąc powietrze nogami, podczas gdy świnka tłukła j ą kijkiem z kornera. Dzieci krzycz ą, wełna we krwi. A ż do tej chwili Mal uwa żał si ę za dobrze napompowanego do pomeczowego młyna, teraz poczuł jednak, że nadszedł kres jego kariery. Koniec. Było to w jaki ś sposób zwi ązane z przemoc ą i kategoriami. Nie potrafił tego wyrazi ć, ale nigdy wi ęcej nie miał si ę ju ż bi ć dla zabawy. Mógł mie ć z tym zwi ązek
193 fakt, że Mal sam ostatnio stał si ę ojcem. Pó źniej słyszał, że owieczka posuwała śwince lask ę, czym, jak uwa żał Mal, definitywnie sobie na wszystko zasłu żyła. Sprawdził godzin ę (siódma pi ętna ście). Jego zmiennik Darius miał przyby ć o dziesi ątej.
— Przez dwa ostatnie lata Ainsley Car i „Ptaszek” byli w wyj ątkowych stosunkach — powiedział Clint Smoker. Prawda? Ainsley nie wniósł sprzeciwu. Podczas dni na szczycie otworzył swe serce dla całej serii wysoko-nakładowych dzienników, opowiadaj ąc o bibach i detoksach, wypadkach po pijaku, zdemolowanych pokojach w hotelach, zdeptanych gwiazdkach ekranu. Ale miało to miejsce jeszcze w czasach, gdy pchni ęciem z barku i machni ęciem buta mógł powala ć całe narody, jednocze śnie wnosz ąc na wy żyny własny. Teraz to wszystko min ęło. Obecnie nawet wykroczenia, których si ę dopuszczał, były gówniane. — Nadchodzi taki czas w życiu ka żdego sportowca — powiedział Smoker dono śnym i wydawałoby si ę ponurym głosem — kiedy musi ści ągn ąć spodenki i wzi ąć pod uwag ę finansowe bezpiecze ństwo swojej rodziny. I dla ciebie nadszedł ten czas Ains, tak przynajmniej uwa ża si ę w redakcji Ptaszka. Na murawie nie dawał ju ż rady. W całej swojej wczesnej świetności, Ainsley był piłkarzem absolutnym: nawet kiedy był ubrany w smoking na ceremonii rozdania nagród, mo żna by oczekiwa ć, że gdy si ę odwróci, jego imi ę i numer b ędą widniały na plecach. Ry że włosy, małe oczy i otwarte usta. W śród swoich mówiono o nim, że jest zwarty (tzn. niski) oraz waleczny (tzn. gra nieczysto); jednak niew ątpliwie w posiadaniu „piłkarskiego intelektu”. Umysł Cara nie był światły i wykształcony, jego prawa noga — jak najbardziej. Jednak wkrótce wszystko si ę schrzaniło w karierze naszego małego kole żki. Nie chodziło o brak agresji, to refleks wyparował. Zwyczajem stało si ę teraz, że nim jeszcze piłka opu ściła środek boiska, Ainsley opuszczał boisko na noszach: kontuzjowany podczas próby kontuzjowania przeciwnika (kolegi z zespołu czy s ędziego). Najnowszy dogł ębny wywiad w „Ptaszku” dotyczył „chwili szale ństwa” jakiej dopu ścił si ę podczas charytatywnego meczu gwiazd. Zanim jeszcze osłabły wibracje pierwszego gwizdka, Ainsley ze stukotem wpadł na sze ść dziesi ęciosze ścioletniego byłego skrzydłowego, reprezentanta Anglii, Sir Bobbiego Milesa. Złamali nog ę... obaj. — Mam jeszcze par ę lat przed sob ą, stary — powiedział gro źnie Ainsley. — Wiesz w czym mnie jeszcze nie przegonili? Dwukrotnie uderzył palcem w skro ń. — Tutaj nadal prowadz ę, Clint. Wci ąż potrafi ę dobrze kopa ć. Potrafi ę kopa ć. — Spójrzmy prawdzie w oczy, Ains. Nigdy, nigdy wi ęcej nie wło żysz koszulki z walijskim godłem. Masz jednoroczny kontrakt z tymi północnymi zdzirami z Teesside. Wiesz, że nie przedłu żą . B ędziesz musiał spa ść . Za par ę sezonów sam b ędziesz kopany, gdzie ś na południu w Scunthorpe. — Nie jestem zdzir ą, stary. I nie zamierzam gra ć dla... dla tej pieprzonej hołoty ze Scunthorpe. Stary, wiesz kto jest mn ą zainteresowany? Nikt inny jak Juventus. — Juventus? Zainteresowany? Chyba twoimi przepisami na pasta. Ains. Słuchaj. Byłe ś, powtarzam: byłe ś, najbardziej ekscytuj ącym graczem, którego dane mi było ogl ąda ć. Kiedy szedłe ś z piłk ą w pole karne — Je-zuu! Byłe ś niewiarygodny. Ale to ju ż przeszło ść i wła śnie tego nie mo żesz strawi ć. Dlatego zawsze l ądujesz w szpitalu przed ko ńcem pierwszej połowy. Musisz uwierzy ć, że „Ptaszek”, działa w twoim najlepszym interesie. — Ludzie — rzekł Ainsley z gorzk ą wdzi ęczno ści ą — b ędą zawsze kochali Ainsleya Cara. Stary, oni kochaj ą swojego „Spychacza”. To pewnik. Pewnik, rozumiesz?
194
Zbyt wyra źnie przypominaj ąc niejadalny grzyb, j ęzyk Clinta wy ślizgn ął si ę z ust i polizał kajdanki dyndaj ące u nosa. — Koniec z tob ą Ains. Odpadłe ś. Rozpadasz si ę. Cierpisz na dr ęcz ący uraz mózgu zwany samounicestwieniem. Jeste ś gruby, stary. Pocisz si ę. Spójrz na swoj ą klat ę. Przecie ż ty wygl ądasz jakby ś brał udział w konkursie mokrego podkoszulka. A twoja obr ączka robi si ę mniejsza z ka żdym tygodniem, co z kolei przywodzi na my śl kolejn ą kwesti ę. Wtedy, z sadyzmem jeszcze pełniej reaguj ącym na skłonno ści masochistyczne, które wyczuwał u Cara, kiwn ął barmanowi mówi ąc: — Raymond. Jeszcze jednego dla Pana Cycatego. Smoker przerwał. Tego wieczora odczuwał niezwykł ą pogod ę ducha, co raczej przyniosło uszczerbek jego, powiedzmy to, zdolno ściom dyplomatycznym. W kieszeni jego kanciastej czarnej marynarki sadowił si ę wygodnie n ęcący e-mail od cyberkole żanki „k”. W odpowiedzi na pytanie: „yak s ądzish, yak ą role sex odgrywa w zdrowym zwi ązq?” odklikała mu: „mał ą. 1. czy wshystkim nam kompletnie odwaliło? zachowaymy yaki ś rozs ądek co do proporcyi, na miło ść bosk ą, to powinno by ć ostatni ą rzecz ą przed snem, naturalnym preloodium do snu, a nie yedn ą z tych okropnych sesyi. zwykle kilka mocnych drinkoow a, nie?” Czytaj ąc to, Smoker zbyt pó źno zdał sobie spraw ę, że wszystkie najtrwalsze zwi ązki, w których si ę realizował, miał z dypsomaniaczkami. Innymi słowy, lubił seks z pijanymi kobietami. Mogły by ć ku temu trzy powody. Po pierwsze: po alkoholu wszystkie głupiej ą. Po drugie: czasami urywa im si ę film (i mo żna mie ć z nich wtedy niezły ubaw). Po trzecie: zwykle nie pami ętaj ą je żeli ci nie wyjdzie, co zmniejsza presj ę. Zdrowy rozs ądek. — Uwa żamy w redakcji, że został jeszcze w tobie potencjał na jedn ą mega histori ę. Wyzwaniem dla nas jest nadmucha ć j ą. Przedyskutowali śmy ró żne sposoby jak zmusi ć świat, aby zainteresował si ę i posłuchał. Wła śnie to chcemy by ś rozwa żył. Wygrzmocisz Beryl. — Wygrzmoc ę Beryl? — spytał. — Wygrzmocisz Beryl, posiadłszy Donn ę. Beryl była ukochan ą Ainsleya jeszcze z czasów dzieci ństwa. Pobrali si ę, kiedy oboje byli szesnastolatkami. Zostawił j ą dwa tygodnie pó źniej, dzie ń po rekordowym transferze. Ostatnio, podczas ceremonii, w której w du żym stopniu pośredniczył „Ptaszek”, ponownie poł ączyli si ę w ęzłem mał żeńskim. Wydarzenie miało potwierdzi ć i umocni ć triumf Ainsleya w walce z alkoholem. Kluczowym dla tej historii był fakt, że Beryl nie odznaczała si ę niczym szczególnym, poza spektakularnie małym wzrostem. Ainsley górował nad ni ą gro źnie, cho ć był najni ższym graczem w Premier League. Z dziennikarskiego punktu widzenia uwa żano, że male ńka żona, w przeciwie ństwie do nieokiełznanych blond cyrkowych klaczy, o które, b ądź z którymi, nieustannie si ę awanturował w ró żnych kasynach i melinach, stanie si ę podpor ą dla jego instynktów opieku ńczych i poczucia odpowiedzialno ści. — Posłuchaj co nast ępuje — Clint przeszedł do szczegółów. — Umawiasz się z Beryl na spotkanie o umówionej godzinie, w pokoju jednego z londy ńskich hoteli. Wcze śniej tego dnia, na zaaran żowanej przez nas balandze, wyrywasz, wedle własnego upodobania, jedn ą z czołowych modelek „Ptaszka”. Powiedzmy Donn ę Strange. Zabierasz j ą do swojego pokoju i posuwasz j ą kiedy nagle wchodzi żona. Donna daje dyla i grzmocisz Beryl. — Dlaczego ja grzmoc ę Beryl? Czemu nie ona mnie? — Poniewa ż ona ma cal wzrostu. Nie, no daj spokój. Ju ż ona na po tobie pojedzie. Smoker w poni żeniu pochylił głow ę i powiedział czaruj ącym głosem: „ R żnąłe ś t ę
195 modelk ę! Zdradziłe ś mnie z inn ą lask ą!” Przecie ż wi ęcej gówna nie ud źwigniesz, przyznaj. I wtedy j ą wygrzmocisz. Wpół otwarte usta Ainsleya otworzyły si ę jeszcze szerzej, pogł ębiaj ąc w ten sposób fałd ę pomi ędzy nosem a czołem. — Chodzi mi o to, że ka żda gazeta kupi taki temat. Pierwsze pi ęć stron wypełni ą tyłek i cycki Donny, kolejne pi ęć czarne oczy Beryl, do tego o śmiostronicowa wkładka z rachunkiem sumienia m ęż czyzny, to znaczy twoim Ainsley. — Ile? Smoker udzielił odpowiedzi: wstrz ąsaj ąca suma pieni ędzy. — Wszyscy pasa żerowie proszeni s ą na tył samolotu! — Ainsley nagle zacz ął wrzeszcze ć. — Odsu ńcie si ę. Ani kroku bli żej. Pieprzy ć w ąglik — ten facet ma wirusowe zapalenie w ątroby i granat w dupie . O MÓJ BO ŻE! TO TOWER! NIE, BIG BEN! OLD TOM! PAŁAC BUCKINGHAM! NIE! NIE DO POMY ŚLENIA! BO ŻE! ZARAZ WSZYSCY — Zanim kilku kelnerów przebiegło przez ogarni ętą cisz ą sal ę jadaln ą, Mal Bale ju ż był przy Ainsleyu. Naciskał dło ńmi na jego ramiona, marszczył brwi i rozgl ądaj ąc si ę dokoła, wgniatał go w siedzenie.
— Nie ma ju ż prawdziwych twardzieli — rozmy ślał Mal (ostatnio, po całej sprawie z Xanem Meo, ta my śl stała si ę dla niego pilnym tematem do rozwa żań) id ąc do baru dwie godziny pó źniej — zostały tylko świry. Świry na dragach. We źmy Sniffa na przykład, go ścia o imieniu Sniff. Kiedy doszedł do baru otoczonego pier ścieniem pij ących, skr ęcił. Darius był punktualny. W tej chwili Darius był na etapie pierwszego soku żurawinowego, Smoker ci ągn ął trzeci ą ju ż butelk ę mineralnej (obawiał si ę straci ć prawo jazdy), a Ainsley dopijał dziewi ątego drinka. Wygl ądało na to, że siła, któr ą Darius ( mierz ący ponad 210 centymetrów adwentysta dnia siódmego) wkłada w karmienie Ainsleya bułkami, daje jakie ś post ępy. We źmy teraz Sniffa. Zero jaj. Po załatwieniu sprawy z Xanem Meo, Mal podał Sniffowi obiecany napiwek (cztery stówy gotówk ą) i powiedział: —Koniec naszej współpracy stary. Sniff tylko spu ścił wzrok. Mal mówił dalej: — Wi ęc jak, przyjmujesz to do wiadomo ści? No tak, świetny pomysł! „Spierdol ę, wezm ę drobne i spadam?” Chłopcze, powiniene ś za żyć tabletk ę zwan ą dum ą . Tak, tabletk ę zwan ą dum ą. Widzicie. Zero charakteru. Tylko świry na dragach. I do tego jeszcze nierzadko udaj ą. Snif mówi, że był kiedy ś w SAS, ale teraz ka żdy łajdak tak powie. Do Mala doł ączył Smoker ze „Ptaszka”, patrz ąc na niego dziwnie, jakby chc ąc wyceni ć jego garnitur. — Ale z ciebie giciarz — zamierzał powiedzie ć to cicho, jednak jego głos nie był do tego przystosowany. Teraz pierwsz ą rzecz ą jak ą musiał zrobi ć Mal, to ustali ć czy Smoker przypadkiem nie drwi z niego. Chocia ż był ledwie świadom istnienia „Ptaszka” (i byłby zgorszony jego zawarto ści ą), znał Clinta do ść dobrze za spraw ą Ainsleya, a tak że z powodu okresu w jego życiu, kiedy, on, Mal, jak powszechnie wiadomo, przez sze ść miesi ęcy był ochroniarzem nagich modelek i udzielał wywiadów ró żnym gazetom, tak że „Ptaszkowi”. Facet wydał si ę Malowi nieszkodliwy. Łagodniej ąc odparł: — Giciarz? Ze mnie? Stary, ja jestem ochroniarzem.
196 — Ale puszczałe ś si ę troch ę swego czasu. No i pozwoliłe ś Ptaszkowi rozpu ści ć o tym plotk ę. — Tak. No có ż. Robiło si ę ró żne rzeczy. Kochana, szklaneczk ę Stara, prosz ę. Mogłem si ę rozwin ąć w tym kierunku. Ale chyba nie miałem wła ściwego temperamentu. Nic nie mówi ąc Clint przewrócił oczami. — Niemniej jednak, zadawałe ś si ę z ró żnymi kolesiami. — Znało si ę kilku swego czasu. Ach, jeste ś cudowna. Dzi ękuj ę. — Posłuchaj, czy to imi ę co ś ci mówi. — Dawaj — odparł Mal szybko, przechylaj ąc głow ę do tyłu z zamiarem wzi ęcia kilku gł ębszych haustów pierwszego tego wieczora piwa — Joseph Andrews Gwałtownie przechyliwszy si ę do przodu, l ąduj ąc twarz ą w szklanicy, Mal prychn ął pian ą z ust. — Prrr. Spokojnie. — Powiedział Clint ścieraj ąc piwo z czoła i ci ęż ką biał ą dłoni ą klepi ąc Mala w plecy. — Widzisz. Załatwili tego faceta, Xana Meo. Mój kumpel wszystko widział. Mówili co ś o wyrównywaniu rachunków za Josepha Andrewsa. Zastanawia si ę czy nie opchn ąć tego gazetom. — No to teraz si ę zacznie — pomy ślał Mal. Wszystko szlag trafił.
O północy Ainsley Car poprosił o swoje kule. Pozbierawszy si ę zawczasu, Mal obserwował popadłego w depresj ę napastnika, jak d źwigał si ę wzdłu ż kładki, z kształtem Dariusa majacz ącym gdzie ś za nim. Za ich plecami płyn ęła Tamiza i cała jej o świetlona przez kinematografi ę historia. Nad nimi wilgotne ćwieki gwiazd, poc ących si ę gwiazd, haruj ących w zaprz ęgu czasoprzestrzeni. — Jest nie źle podci ęty. — rzucił Clint z tyłu. — Nie, za chwileczk ę złapie drugi oddech. Chce zrobi ć rundk ę po klubach. Około jedenastej Ainsley wszedł w spokojniejszy cykl, zupełnie jak pralka. W ka żdej chwili mo żna było spodziewa ć si ę, że powróci do koziołkowania, potykania i telepania si ę w gór ę i w dół. Mal spojrzał na zegarek i powiedział: — Już czas na łód ź podwodn ą. I gdy Ainsley mozolnie wdrapywał si ę na wzniesienie, dało si ę słysze ć jego w ściekły, nieugi ęty głos: — Wszyscy ludzie na poziome piątym maj ą natychmiast uda ć si ę na poziom czwarty. Wszyscy ludzie na poziomie czwartym maj ą natychmiast uda ć si ę na poziom trzeci. Wszyscy ludzie na… Samochód dla go ści zbli żał si ę dyskretnie. Z żalem Mal zauwa żył, że trzymaj ąc si ę obranego kierunku, Ainsley przejdzie obok biedaka, który pod lamp ą siedział z psem na kolanach. … Poło żenie tego bezdomnego osobnika nie było podobne do sytuacji Bezdomnego Johna, który miał miły k ącik we własnym domu. Ten facet był prawdziwym artyst ą parkingów i bram, śmietnikowym workiem zmartwie ń, szukaj ącym miejsca do zainstalowania si ę na trzeci ą ju ż zim ę bez dachu nad głow ą. Suka była miesza ńcem spaniela i terriera gładkowłosego. Głaskał j ą, mamrotał do niej, obcował z ni ą na wszystkie sposoby. Wydawali si ę by ć sobie bli żsi ni ż para kochanków. Nie dało si ę odeprze ć wra żenia, że ka żde z nich wnosi ogromny wkład w egzystencj ę współtowarzysza niedoli. Wygl ądało to prawie tak, jakby pies był jego sił ą, m ęsko ści ą, wyłaniaj ącą si ę ze sztywnym ogonem sponad przygarbionego ciała. Tak wi ęc „Spychacz” odpychaj ąc si ę kulami wpada w kadr niczym narciarz i mówi: — Chcesz pi ęć dziesi ąt funciaków?
197 — …No pewnie, że chce Spada gumka spinaj ąca banknoty i r ęka oddziela jeden papierek. — Dzi ękuj ę bardzo. — A teraz kolego chciałbym ci ę prosi ć o przysług ę. Czy mógłby ś po życzy ć mi pi ęć dziesi ąt funciaków? — Wolałbym nie, je śli mam by ć szczery. — Szczery? Wiesz co mówił mi mój ojciec? — Co? — Nic! Bo spieprzył z chaty jak miałem rok. Ale moja mamusia. Mamusia zawsze mówiła, że dobroczynno ść zawsze powinna zaczynać si ę w domu. A ty domu nie masz. Wyskakuj z kasy. Jego głos wibrował: cała głowa wibrowała. Gdzie jest twoja duma człowieku…? — Nie wszyscy…nie wszyscy urodzili śmy si ę z takim talentem jak twój. Ty jeste ś bogiem. Ainsley nieuchronnie odwrócił si ę w stron ę Clinta Smokera. — Stałem, stary. Stałem. Hymn narodowy! Jest tam nawet pieprzony król, stoi ze łzami w oczach, zaraz ponad ławk ą rezerwowych! Z wdzi ękiem pantery posyłam Hugalu dup ą na muraw ę, kiwam Straganz ę i wykładam piłk ę Matinowi Arrisowi. Bli źniacze wie że eksploduj ą. Miło ści ą, stary, miło ści ą! — I tego ci nikt nie odbierze Ains — przyznał Mal. Pies spojrzał na piłkarza kochaj ącym spojrzeniem br ązowych oczu. — Prosz ę — powiedział. — We ź to chłopcze. Id ź i ur żnij si ę w trzy dupy na koszt Ainsleya Cara. Wszyscy cofn ąć si ę! To nie pies! To bomba z w ścieklizn ą. WSZYSCY PASA ŻEROWIE SIEDZ ĄCY NA MIEJSCACH OD PI ĄTEGO DO DZIESI ĄTEGO NATYCHMIAST PROSZENI S Ą NA DRUGI POZIOM ŁODZI PODWODNEJ! ZACZYNA SI Ę! ZACZYNA SI Ę! Nast ępnie niczym dwóch sportowców, szczerze pragn ących wygra ć wy ścigi w workach, pu ścił si ę w noc op ęta ńczym biegiem przez przeszkody. Darius za nim, wpierw truchtem, potem biegiem, w ko ńcu sprintem. Clint i Mal pozostali na miejscu. Mal zastanawiał si ę, w jakim humorze b ędzie Shinsala, kiedy wróci do jej mieszkania. Czy zamkn ąwszy drzwi samochodu i wysłuchawszy świergotu centralnego zamka, usłyszy „Halo! Jestem tu!” z ust strachu czaj ącego si ę gdzie ś w piersi. Nie fizycznego oczywi ście, wszak strachu. Czy strach jest nastrojem? — Mógłby ś doj ść do tego drog ą matematyczn ą — powiedział Clint. — Dziel ąc tygodniowe zarobki przez iloraz inteligencji. Co ś w tym stylu. — Clint, chłopie — odparł Mal prowokuj ąco. Clint rzucił mu spojrzenie pełne wylewnej skruchy. W przeci ągu ostatnich trzydziestu minut doszło do zmiany układu sił pomi ędzy dwoma m ęż czyznami. W dotychczasowych kontaktach z Malem, Clint skłaniał si ę ku temu, aby uwa żać go za przyjaznego idiot ę, zmuszonego pi ęś ciami pracowa ć na swoje utrzymanie. Ale samcza zło ść , samczy ferwor, tak łatwo daj ące si ę przeło żyć na samcz ą przemoc, zmieniły ten pogl ąd. Clint uwa żał si ę za du żego i silnego, a jego kariera pełna była niezmordowanych burd i awantur, które zawsze wygrywał. Mimo to, przemoc Mala była skuteczna, sprofesjonalizowana i sprawiedliwa: była czym ś, z czym Clint nie miał szans si ę mierzy ć. W tej chwili strach wydał mu si ę miło ści ą, miło ści ą do Mala Bale’a. — Clint. Czy z ciebie jest pizda chłopie? — Nie Mal. Nie jestem pizd ą. — No ja my ślę. Co si ę stanie jak mnie zawiedziesz.
198 — No có ż. Na pewno zrobi si ę przysłowiowy gnój, no nie? — Je żeli chcesz wiedzie ć jak wielki, zadzwo ń do tego swojego Andy’ego pod koniec tygodnia. Okej? — Dobra stary. Najlepszego w takim razie. Jed ź ostro żnie i uwa żaj na siebie. Wdrapuj ąc si ę do kabiny swojego Avengera, Clint śmiał si ę do siebie. Adrenalina to niesamowita sprawa. Dodaj ąc gazu (w przeci ągu kilku minut my śli coraz bardziej oddawały si ę sprawom motoryzacji), zacz ął komponowa ć w my ślach e-mejl, my ślał nad pocz ątkiem: „Co powiesz na starego s ędziwego kasztanka. Czy wielko ść ma znaczenie?”
3. W królewskim poci ągu
W tej chwili Król nie odliczał pieni ędzy w swym biurze rachunkowo ści, Królowej nie było w salonie, nie jadła chleba z miodem. Henryk podró żował na południe królewskim poci ągiem. W skład poci ągu wchodził wagon biurowy, wagon konferencyjny, salonka, wagon sypialny, wagon stołowy, wagon kuchenny, wagon dla personelu, wagon ochrony oraz wagon obserwacyjny. Potentat siedział w wagonie biurowym i jak co dzie ń, pisał list do Ksi ęż niczki. Podobnie jak wi ększo ść wn ętrz które kiedykolwiek poznał, gabinet ten uderzał go zewsz ąd niecierpliwymi kształtami: absolutnie nic nie zostało pozostawione w spokoju. Ka żdą płaszczyzn ę molestowała jaka ś ozdoba; niczym glazura w łazience, ka żdą ścian ę pokrywały obramowane obrazy i fotografie, ka żdą płask ą powierzchni ę opanowały cymesy, rarytasy i bibeloty; w ka żdy panel sufitu uparcie wci śni ęty chmurnawy pejza ż, jakie ś putto, madonna, akt. Pozbawiony swobody jak ą daje ogrom rozmiaru, poci ąg sam jawił si ę istot ą królewskiego atrybutu: zawsze si ę człowiekowi narzucał i nigdy nie dawał spokoju. Zdarzały si ę cz ęste, trwałe i nie lubiane opó źnienia, chocia ż, technicznie rzecz bior ąc, Królewski Poci ąg je ździł non stop. Na tym etapie, niedaleko Cambridge tylko król wiedział o nadchodz ących rendez-vous, gdzie ś na bocznicy w Royston, z Brendanem Urquhartem-Gordonem, który twierdził, że przynosi wie ści zarówno dobre jak i złe. „Moja droga córeczko,” tak zaczynał si ę list… „Z tymi tr ędowatymi, to samo zawracanie głowy”, pisał. „Pó źniej jeszcze koszmar powrotnego lotu. Turbulencje nad Kanałem jak zwykle dały popali ć. Po wyl ądowaniu, pojechałem prosto do towarzystwa urazów głowy — średniowieczne tortury w czystej formie. Człowiek musi si ę szwenda ć wokoło i słucha ć ludzi, którzy ledwie potrafi ą artykułowa ć, mówi ąc jakie to wielkie i wspaniałe post ępy uczynili. Po czym, po południu, udałem si ę poci ągiem na północ.” Przerwał. Droga na północ zdawała si ę niczym podró ż w krain ę nierozł ącznego przygn ębienia, podró ż w środek nocy, w środek zimy. Z pocz ątku, jedynie obłe kształty magicznych kotłów elektrowni, dodaj ące kł ęby dymu do unosz ącego si ę nad nimi ogromu szaro ści. Nast ępnie niebo przybrało posta ć m ętnej czerni, poprzetykanej jasnymi szczelinami. Co jaki ś czas, pokazywało si ę sło ńce przypominaj ące żółty hełm górnika schodz ący w dół komina. Noc zastała ich o trzeciej pi ętna ście. Wreszcie Kyle of Tongue przypi ęta do swej grani na Morzu Północnym. „Niestety zdrowie Mamusi bez zmian”, pisał dalej Henryk, a jego misterna kaligrafia stała si ę jeszcze bardziej dr żą ca z powodu przechyłu, z jakim jechał teraz poci ąg. „Przyznam si ę, że bardzo teraz boj ę si ę tych wizyt. Mamusia wcale si ę nie zmieniła, jak
199 zawsze otacza j ą błogie pi ękno i to najbardziej łamie mi serce.” Nagle przerwał i wzdrygn ął si ę. „Fryzjer nadal odwiedza j ą raz dziennie, nadal przychodz ą raz w tygodniu by piel ęgnowa ć jej paznokcie, no i jest oczywi ście cz ęsto ‘przewracana’. Gdyby nie to okropne rz ęż enie respiratora, człowiek mógłby spodziewa ć si ę, że otworzy oczy i z dawn ą jowialno ści ą powie: — Och! Tatu śku nie sied ź tak! Gdzie mój imbryczek herbaty? — Jak ju ż cz ęsto mówiłem, chocia ż zdarzały si ę wypadki wyj ścia ze stanu trwałej śpi ączki po okresie kilku lat, nadal musimy by ć przygotowani na najgorsze. Chocia ż nasza dru żyna, kochanie, mo że zosta ć zredukowana z trzech do dwóch osób, nadal jeste śmy i b ędziemy dru żyn ą, ty i ja najdro ższa. Ty i ja. We dwoje.” „Obecno ść mediów…” Zawahał si ę, po czym podj ął dalej: „…m ąci ludziom w głowach i deprecjonuje ludzkie cierpienie. Oczywi ście, jestem poruszony. Oczywi ście, jestem wstrz ąś ni ęty. Ale czy musz ę pokazywa ć swoje rany obiektywom? Wtedy wła śnie okazuj ą najwi ęcej szacunku. — Prosz ę nie skrywa ć łez Wasza Królewska Mo ść ! A ż paw człowiekowi przychodzi do gardła. I mój instynkt coraz bardziej podpowiada mi, że media tworz ą nikczemni gwałciciele, którzy zatruwaj ą wszystko czego si ę dotkn ą.” Przerwał. Jak to uj ął Cholera? „Trzeba powiadomi ć Ksi ęż niczk ę, rzekł Urquhart- Gordon, że mogło doj ść do naruszenia jej prywatno ści.” — Nie — zastanowił si ę Henryk — za wcze śnie na to — po czym pisał dalej. „Wydaj ę mi si ę, że aby podnie ść si ę nawzajem na duchu, powinni śmy o tym porozmawia ć, a tak że o sprawach bezpiecze ństwa ogólnie; przyjad ę pi ątego, w sobot ę, i mo żemy uci ąć sobie pogaw ędk ę w tym całkiem przyzwoitym hotelu.” Nast ąpiła fantastyczna rewia zdrobnie ń i czułych słówek. Wówczas Henryk zadzwonił na Kochanie.
W Royston zacz ęli zwalnia ć. Gdzie ś przed nimi, w nieprzejrzystej g ęstej mgle, le żała bocznica, gdzie razem z samotnym detektywem stał wielkooki Urquhart-Gordon. A jeszcze dalej czarny samochód z kierowc ą. Poci ąg nadal si ę toczył, gdy Brendan wspi ął si ę do środka. — Najpierw złe wie ści, mo że wyjdzie z nich co ś dobrego — powiedział Henryk IX. — Zniech ęcaj ącą nowin ą, sir, jest fakt, że w rzeczywisto ści fotografia okazała si ę nie by ć fotografi ą. Przebiegłe rysy twarzy Brendana uło żyły si ę w sprytn ą i wyczekuj ącą min ę. — Okazała si ę by ć klatk ą. Odliczył w my ślach kilka, całkiem sporych, chwil, aby Henryk miał czas przyj ąć ten fakt do świadomo ści. A głowa Króla rzeczywi ście tkwiła bezczynnie na swej podstawie przez pełne pół minuty, dopóki nie wymamrotał: — Z filmu. — Tak, sir. Oczywi ście z filmu. Brendan usłyszał westchniecie Henryka: długie i przenikliwe, zako ńczone przytłumionym kwileniem. — Mówi ąc precyzyjniej, wykonan ą DVD DigiCam 5000, sir. — Wiesz co, Cholera. Mam nadziej ę, że ta kometa, czy cokolwiek, roztrzaska nas wszystkich w drobny mak. — Za pozwoleniem, sir, raczej nas nie roztrzaska. Je żeli w nas uderzy, wszyscy spłoniemy. — Nawet lepiej. Ognie piekielne. Zasługujemy na nie, o tak.
200 Brendan przypatrywał si ę swemu monarsze. Pewna trafna w ątpliwo ść zaprz ątała mu głow ę: mo żna by pomy śle ć, że kiedy życie jest tak trudne, kiedy wszystko zdaje si ę by ć z góry ustalone, nie ma miejsca na odmienno ść jednostki. Nie mniej Henryk wyrobił sobie pozycj ę „królewskiej anomalii”. W odró żnieniu od swojego ojca, Ryszarda IV, brata Ksi ęcia Clarence oraz wielu innych m ęż czyzn w tej linii królewskiej, Henryk nie pilotował odrzutowców czy helikopterów, nie dowodził lodołamaczami, trałowcami, nie musztrował żołnierzy, nie miał własnej pryczy na łodzi podwodnej, nie przeprowadzał symulacji nalotów bombowych w ucieczce przed my śliwcami i nie przelatywał na spadochronie przez stoki gór. Ani te ż nie dzielił dynastycznego entuzjazmu do ogrodnictwa, muzyki, polowa ń, kawałów i wierze ń wschodu. Henryk ledwie przebimbał si ę przez okres studiów geograficznych na uniwersytecie w Oxfordzie i dalej kontynuował życie towarzyskie. Oczywi ście zanim jeszcze wst ąpił na tron królewski, jego terminarz wypełniła plaga uroczystości, a on migał si ę i wykr ęcał od nich tak cz ęsto, jak tylko mógł. W tym wypadku jednak, nawet minimum oznaczało bardzo wiele. Brendan uwa żał, że połow ę tajemnicy, któr ą kryło królewskie życie, stanowił fakt, że było ono niewiarygodnie nudne. By zbalansować t ę nud ę, trzeba było sta ć si ę człowiekiem czynu, szuka ć niebezpiecze ństw, wysiłku fizycznego, wszystkiego, co intensywne. Człowiek starał si ę zgł ębia ć sekrety i tajemnice, zajmowa ć si ę tym, co obsesyjnie ekscentryczne, czymkolwiek zdolnym całkowicie zaj ąć aktywnie umysł. Henryk był bezbronny. Po prostu znosił cał ą t ę nud ę cierpliwie, jak dzienn ą dawk ę chemioterapii. Inaczej ni ż jego numeryczny poprzednik, ów wspaniały renesansowy ksi ążę , który pasjonował si ę astronomi ą, teologi ą, matematyk ą, sztuk ą wojskow ą, nawigacj ą, krasomówstwem, j ęzykami staro żytnymi i współczesnymi, kartografi ą i poezj ą, Henryk IX interesował si ę ogl ądaniem telewizji, b ądź te ż siedzeniem w bezruchu przy wł ączonym odbiorniku. Dwa lata wcze śniej Brendan powiedziałby, że pi ęć dziesi ęciojednoletni Król starzeje si ę ze znu żenia. Z jakiej ś przyczyny jego nadludzka indolencja zjednała mu sympatie milionów i mimo wszystko (pomimo gaf, niewra żliwo ści i niezmierzonej ignorancji), zawsze był popularny. Lubili gdy marszczył brwi, mrugał oczami; lubili jego piaskow ą czupryn ę. Chocia ż, je śli chodzi o ścisło ść , jego 75-procentowa popularno ść odrobin ę spadła ostatnimi dni. Społecze ństwo nie chciało patrze ć, jak ich monarcha wlecze si ę przez szpitalne korytarze, ani te ż jak prowadzi piekielnie napi ęte rozmowy z oturbanionymi przywódcami społecznymi. Chcieli ogl ąda ć Króla śpi ącego jak kamie ń na wy ścigach konnych. — Byłem w jej pokoju — powiedział nieprzytomnie Henryk. — Nadal wygl ąda jak zoo, pełne milu śkich zabawek. Ona jest taka mała Cholera… Brendan si ęgn ął po stalow ą teczk ę i otworzył j ą. — Sytuacja wygl ąda nieco lepiej ni ż ostatnio, sir. Zrobiono jej to pod gołym niebem. — Co jej zrobiono? — Prosz ę zobaczy ć, sir. Ponownie fotografia — z biał ą plam ą zamiast konturów ciała Ksi ęż niczki. Chocia ż Król uznał wyci ęcie jej kształtów za gest przyzwoity, przez moment spanikował my śląc, że cierpi na śniegow ą ślepot ę. Gdzie ona jest? Biała jak mumia, jak duch. — My ślałem, że szukaj ąc tamtej wanny, tamtego lustra, tamtej umywalki, w takim akurat ustawieniu, b ędziemy musieli zacz ąć od przeczesania ka żdej łazienki w królewskich rezydencjach. Ale ludzie Oughtreda doskonale zaw ęzili list ę prawdopodobnych miejsc. Prosz ę spojrze ć, sir. Na lewo od Ksi ęż niczki wida ć mydło w mydelnicy Brendan przerwał, daj ąc Henrykowi czas na odpowied ź.
201 — Czy chcesz mi powiedzie ć, że jest tylko jedna królewska łazienka w której znajduje si ę mydło? — Nie, sir — Brendan zanurkował do teczki i po chwili rozwijał co ś, co zdawało si ę by ć plakatem czy sitodrukiem, o wymiarach pi ęć dziesi ąt na pi ęć dziesi ąt, błyszcz ące niczym w fazie topnienia i całe białe. — A có ż to niby ma by ć? — Kostka mydła, sir. Czy mo że raczej, jej fragment — klejnot rodowy. Henryk gapił si ę w ta ńcz ącą przed jego oczami śmietan ę. — Jest troch ę zu żyte, sir, ale wida ć karbowanie. Lilia. Trzy płatki zebrane razem. Lilia herbowa. Ten znak u żywany jest w rezydencji w Cap d’Antibes. W sierpniu Ksi ęż niczka sp ędzała tam z panem dwutygodniowe wakacje, sir. Jak mniemam, wtedy wła śnie została zaskoczona w chwili osamotnienia. — O Cholera, ubrałeś w pi ękne słowa to, co ja nazwałbym zbrodni ą godn ą stryczka. No dobrze. Co teraz? Król przyj ął królewsk ą poz ę — tego Brendan nigdy jeszcze nie widział. — Za pozwoleniem, Wasza Królewska Mo ść , lec ę dzi ś wieczór z Oughtredem do Nicei. — Dobrze… Oj, biedaczka! We dwoje słuchali stukaj ącego wolno i kołysz ącego deszczu… Brendan zastanawiał si ę. Naturalnie Victoria England była ju ż powodem niejednego zamieszania w pa ństwie. Pierwsze z nich wynikło, kiedy miała siedemna ście dni: zwolniona niania twierdziła, że jej strajk był powodem tego, że Królowa odmówiła karmienia „na żą danie”. Sze ść miesi ęcy pó źniej kraj został podobnie podzielony, tym razem wzgl ędem tego, czy Ksi ęż niczka jest gotowa na odstawienie od piersi. I tak dalej. Czy powinno jej si ę pozwala ć na je żdżenie na rowerze wewn ątrz pałacu, bez kasku ochronnego? Czy powinna jada ć w fastfoodach na wycieczkach szkolnych? Czy powinna nosi ć a ż tak krótk ą mini w tym nieszcz ęsnym „Dunsinane Disco”. Wła śnie na tym etapie (Ksi ęż niczka miała jedena ście lat) Brendan pocz ął wyczuwa ć w tej narodowej obsesji pół świadom ą lubie żno ść . Nie, nie lubie żno ść : co ś nieprzyzwoitego, niewinnie nieprzyzwoitego. Kiedy stała si ę dwunastolatk ą, nagle znalazła si ę w krzy żowym ogniu felietonowych debat na temat dyskusyjnych zalet a) podpasek higienicznych, i b) jazdy konno po damsku — w których to debatach o Ksi ęż niczce oczywi ście nie było ani słowa. Mo żna było poczu ć, jak owa my śl si ę gromadzi, narasta, jak nie mo że opu ści ć ludzkich głów: Victoria w pół drogi mi ędzy dzieci ństwem, a wiekiem małżeńskim. Niespokojna i skoncentrowana na cennej błonie Ksi ęż niczki… Brendan s ądził, że zwi ązek mi ędzy Anglikami, a Englandami był kazirodczy i narcystyczny, cho ć w gruncie rzeczy subliminalny ( sub : pod; limin -:próg); tam na dole wszystko było niewyra źne, bezsłoneczne, bezksi ęż ycowe, bezgwiezdne. — Cholera. Dopilnujesz aby jeszcze dzi ś to dor ęczono. Henryk wstał i podszedł do biurka, gdzie, u żywaj ąc p ędzla do golenia z ko ści słoniowej i srebrnego spodka z wod ą, zakleił kopert ę zawieraj ącą list do Ksi ęż niczki, dodaj ąc Królewsk ą Piecz ęć pier ścieniem z trzeciego palca prawej r ęki. Brendan zebrał swoje rzeczy. Najpierw groteskowe, podobne do obrusa z ceraty, powi ększenie. Nast ępnie sam ą fotografi ę. Cieszył si ę, że nie musiał ogl ąda ć twarzy Wiktorii, źrenic w lewych górnych k ącikach jej oczu, które tak go niepokoiły. Wydawało mu si ę, że wie co Ksi ęż niczka robiła. Nasłuchiwała.
202 Na rozci ągaj ącej si ę bez granic mapie herbowych lilii, klejnot był tylko szczegółem. A niech to, któ ż mógł wiedzie ć. Z tak wielk ą kostk ą mydła mo żna by wypra ć z brudu całe Miasto Kurewstwa… Jad ąc prostopadle na zachód, poci ąg przecinał północny Londyn. Andy New widział, jak przeje żdża. Był przy samych torach, gdzie skrył swój mały zapasik i widział okna wagonów z firankami, klejnoty rodowe i godła. Pieni ądze podatników — pomy ślał. Nie to żeby sam płacił podatki… And był dealerem narkotyków i pornografii. And był tak że anarchist ą, ulicznym imprezowiczem i oddanym łupie żcą barów szybkiej obsługi podczas antyglobalizacyjnych zamieszek. Dwa lata temu jego konkubina Chelci sprezentowała mu dziecko: małego Harrisona. Przeskoczywszy przez barierk ę, wspi ął si ę na nasyp jednocze śnie odbieraj ąc telefon od swojego starszego brata Nigela. Nigel swego czasu sam był nie lada smakoszem, teraz jednak był czysty jak ka żda inna cipa. Nigel: „Chyba nie handlujesz znowu tym gównem?” And: „Kasetami i reszt ą — pewnie. Wolno ść ekspresji. Ale prochy — co to, to nie.” Nigel: „Trzeba mówi ć temu nie” And: „O tym si ę nie mówi, si ę wie.” Nigel: „To nie do przyj ęcia.” And: „Mowy nie ma.” Nigel: „Martwi ę si ę o ciebie, And. W poci ągu do Manchesteru.” Bracia ostatnio przejechali si ę do Manchesteru, aby obejrze ć mecz i zobaczy ć si ę z ojcem. Ratusz miejski ubrany jest tam w zielony siatkowany podkoszulek, a taksówkarze robi ą kursy tylko do pi ęciu knajp: Britannia Ridgeway, Rodger-Rodge, Oxnoble, Tango Three, Midland Dinsbury. Nigel: „ Że siedzimy w korytarzu mi ędzy przedziałami? No dobrze, ale nie było miejsc gdzie indziej. Patrz ę na ciebie i tak sobie my ślę: on to kurwa uwielbia. Po śród śmieci — z puszk ą piwa w r ęku. And: „Na co ci to, Nige?” Nigel: „Martwi ę si ę o ciebie, And.” And: „Kurwa, martw si ę o rachunki do zapłacenia, nie o mnie.” Kiedy mamrotaj ąc przechodził przez most usłyszał okrzyk za plecami: — Halo! Przepraszam! Halo, młody człowieku! Odwracaj ąc si ę And ujrzał m ęż czyzn ę solidnej budowy ciała, w pełni średniego wieku. Miał na sobie garnitur w kredowe paski, z marynark ą zapi ętą na trzy guziki, ciemne okulary i kapelusz. — Dzi ękuj ę. Dzi ękuj ę. Czy byłby pan tak uprzejmy i skierował mnie na… Z pewn ą trudno ści ą wyj ął kopert ę z wewn ętrznej kieszeni. U śmiechn ął si ę. — Jak leci — zapytał serdecznie. — W porz ądku. A panu? — W życiu nie czułem si ę lepiej, dzi ękuj ę. Nie mog ę si ę nacieszy ć t ą wspaniał ą pogod ą, która nam si ę dzi ś trafiła. Jeden z tych osobliwych akcentów: bardziej napuszony ni ż królewski. — Widzi pan, szukam Mornington Crescent. Nie Mornington Terrace, Mornington Crescent… And wytłumaczył mu drog ę. — Och. Dzi ękuj ę panu z całego serca. W tej że chwili, eleganckim ruchem nadgarstka, m ęż czyzna w garniturze zdj ął z oczu okulary, aby odsłoni ć najdziwniejsz ą par ę oczu jak ą And widział w życiu. Tak jasne, a za razem tak blade: antarktyczny bł ękit z żółt ą aureol ą. Przez moment Andy zaciekawił si ę, gdzie ten facet zapodział psa przewodnika. — Prosz ę mi powiedzie ć. Czy to pan jest Andrew New?
203 — A kto pyta? — Nazywam si ę Semen Figner … Wymówił imi ę i nazwisko jakim ś innym głosem: zabrzmiało słowia ńsko. And zobaczył jak niebieskie oczy plugawie pociemniały. — Twoja kobieta jest gówno warta — Semen Figner powiedział zwyczajnie. — Twój dzieciak jest gówno warty.
14 lutego (10:41 rano): Lot 101
Pierwszy oficer Nick Chopko : Hej, to całkiem niezłe... In żynier lotu Hal Ward : Słucham? Chopko : Widzisz go? Drugi w kolejno ści, prawy pas. Kapitan John Macmanaman : No prosz ę. Stary De Hav Comet. Z pi ęć dziesi ątego pi ątego? Gdzie on si ę wybiera? Ward : Mo że do Croydon? Muzeum lotnictwa? Macmanaman : …Pr ędzej przejd ę na emerytur ę, ni ż si ę st ąd zwiniemy. Chopko : Racja. Naprawd ę chciałbym wystrartowa ć dopóki jestem jeszcze młody.
Po siedemdziesi ęciominutowym opó źnieniu spowodowanym zł ą pogod ą, CigAir 101 wycofał ze stanowiska i doł ączył do kolejki na pasie startowym numer dziewi ęć . Regulamin lotu nakazywał zachowa ć trzyminutowe odst ępy mi ędzy startami. Lecz dzisiejszego dnia oczywi ście, wszystkie maszyny transatlantyckie miały by ć w powietrzu przed jedenast ą. Wie ża kontroli zgodziła si ę na wyj ątkowy odst ęp 130 sekund. Kapitan chłodnym głosem polecił załodze przygotowa ć si ę na turbulencj ę spowodowan ą wej ściem w ślad aerodynamiczny; podczas tej że turbulencji, kapitan mógłby kontynuowa ć, pasa żer przebijaj ąc si ę przez wzburzone morze z pr ędko ści ą 320 kilometrów na godzin ę, czuje si ę bardziej jak marynarz ni ż lotnik.
Wie ża: jeden zero jeden, macie pozwolenie Macmanaman: Prosz ę o potwierdzenie. Wie ża: macie pozwolenie na start.
O 10:53 samolot lotu 101 pochylił dziób i czekał na osi ągni ęcie pr ędko ści ucieczki. Na siedzeniu 2B Reynolds Treynor siedziała sztywno jakby połkn ęła kij. Czekała z papierosem w ustach i z lewym kciukiem zgi ętym nad cynglem zapalniczki.
Chopko: V1…V2. Zmywa ć si ę!
W chwili, kiedy koła oderwały si ę od asfaltu, Kapitan wył ączył „zakaz palenia” Nabieraj ący wysoko ści samolot zwykle napotyka podmuch silnego wiatru z przeciwka; wiatr który napotkał lot 101, chocia ż nie mógł ju ż nosi ć miana nawałnicy, nadal, przy 46 w ęzłach był ostr ą wichur ą. W ten sposób Kapitan stan ął przed dwoma bezpo średnimi zagro żeniami, jednym śmiertelnie powa żnym, drugim tylko bardzo powa żnym, niebezpiecze ństwami niezale żnymi od turbulencji wywołanej śladem
204 aerodynamicznym i zwi ązanego z ni ą efektu wiru powietrznego. Pierwsze zagro żenie stanowiło zej ście maszyny „poni żej BUG”, czyli minimalnej pr ędko ści lotu i poddanie si ę przeci ąż eniu (czego efektem była czarna skrzynka, która zawierała krótk ą nawałnic ę przekle ństw). Drugie zagro żenie tyczyło si ę „podniesienia dzioba”: w tym przypadku, siła wiatru zderza si ę ze spodem samolotu, co mo że doprowadzi ć do wywrócenia maszyny brzuchem do góry. W przypadku Lotu 101 nast ąpiło wła śnie podniesienie dzioba. Odpalaj ąc kolejnego papierosa od dr żą cego żaru poprzedniego, Reynolds wychyliła si ę w stron ę przej ścia i spojrzała w stron ę ogona. Zasłony mi ędzy przedziałami łopotały na wysoko ść głowy. Gapiła si ę w stron ę szybu windy, który zapełniony był ludźmi po brzegi. Kobiety, które spostrzegła, miały wykrzywione twarze: wyszczerzone z ęby, grymasy pełne niedowierzania. Je śli chodzi o reszt ę pasa żerów, pomarszczone jak u dzieci, jak u ciel ąt czoła, nale żały do ludzi oczekuj ących śmierci. Odchyliwszy si ę dwadzie ścia stopni od poziomu (chocia ż wydawało si ę, że pr ędzej było to dwadzie ścia stopni od pionu) i osi ągn ąwszy pełn ą moc silników, lot 101 uderzył w rozdarty ślad aerodynamiczny. W tym momencie wszystkie rygle zabezpieczaj ące trumn ę Royce’a Traynora, wyrwały si ę z oku ć. Koziołkuj ąc dziesi ęć metrów w dół, Royce dał nura w mozaik ę przypi ętych do ściany rowerów górskich. Wci śni ęty ostro niczym klin w drzwi luku baga żowego, pozostał mniej wi ęcej wyprostowany, kiedy samolot wyrównał lot i począł dalej wspina ć si ę na wysoko ść docelow ą. — Cudownie jest by ć ponad pogod ą, nieprawda ż? — powiedział m ęż czyzna z miejsca 2A. — Chciałbym żyć ponad pogod ą. — Owszem — odpowiedziała Reynolds — ale nie dzi ś. — Nie dzi ś. Otaksował krytycznym spojrzeniem nogi Reynolds, czy te ż mo że jej si ę zdało, gdy ż lubiła swoje nogi. Teraz gapił si ę na jej stopy. — Nie powinna była pani ubiera ć szpilek — powiedział. — Mogłaby pani przebi ć nadmuchiwany trap, który mo że słu żyć tak że jako tratwa ratunkowa. Pani nosi rajstopy. — …Tak, to prawda. — Nie powinna pani. Wie pani, s ą cz ęś ciowo syntetyczne — powiedział. — Topi ą si ę i przywieraj ą do ciała, kiedy płon ą. Ciało Royca Treynora wydawało si ę prostowa ć w ładowni. Było gotowe.
205
ROZDZIAŁ TRZECI
1. Upublicznienie wiedzy
Na kolejne spotkanie z lekarzem z OIOMu Rosja Meo wło żyła najdro ższe ubrania, jakie tylko miała. Skrojony na zamówienie włoski kostium z czarnego kaszmiru, dopasowane do niego r ękawiczki, torebk ę i czółenka. Chciała przekaza ć dr Gandhiemu czyteln ą wiadomo ść : je żeli cokolwiek pójdzie nie tak, wytocz ę szpitalowi proces. Był to tak że jeden z tych dni, kiedy podejmowała instynktownie decyzj ę, aby przyprawi ć swojej figurze odpowiednie „rogi”. St ąd biała wci ęta w talii bluzka i niezwykle efektowny stanik. Chocia ż wystawne połacie jedwabiu nie były mierzone w Gandhiego (były mierzone w kogo ś innego), jednak zawarto ść oliwkowego dekoltu mogła by ć podstaw ą afirmacji — afirmacji życia, życia… Gdy Rosja pojawiła si ę w gabinecie, Dr Gandhi zwrócił na ni ą nale żną jej uwag ę, doznaj ąc przy tym niejako lekarskiego pobudzenia (zaintrygował go głównie wzgl ędny rozmiar sutków). Z drugiej wizyty nie czerpał ju ż jednak takiej przyjemno ści, jak za pierwszym razem. Podobnie jak w ka żdym innym przypadku, doszło ju ż do zmiany układu sił. Jak że lepiej było, jak że bardziej doceniany si ę czuł, gdy nikt niczego nie wiedział — w czasach, gdy wiedza medyczna nie była jeszcze upubliczniona. Dzi ś ju ż ci ęż ko napotka ć pracuj ącego w pocie czoła niemow ę, zamiast niego masz nieobliczalnie szczwanego szarlatana emanującego znachorstwem, prognozami i wpół-przyswojon ą wiedz ą o historii choroby. Gandhi wierzył, że z powodu nacisku na zadowolenie z pracy, odrobin ę ci ęż ej będzie odt ąd sprawi ć, aby lekarze byli lekarzami. Rosja Meo była oczywiście osob ą wybitn ą i wykształconą i nigdy nie oczekiwał, że b ędzie mógł promieniowa ć na ni ą z góry niczym Saturn. W dzisiejszych czasach jednak, ka żdy nieudacznik i paso żyt w Londynie miał jakiego ś czterookiego kuzyna czy siostrze ńca gotowego przetrz ąsn ąć w sieci ka żdy zakamarek, aby zdoby ć wszelkie informacje na dany temat… Tak wi ęc Rosja napierała na niego kolejnymi pytaniami, a poniewa ż urazy głowy s ą tym czym s ą, z całymi labiryntami nast ępstw, które za sob ą ci ągn ą, Gandhi został wkrótce ograniczony do monotonnego unikania jednoznacznych odpowiedzi. Poczuł jak ogarnia go znajoma duszno ść , złagodzona na chwil ę, gdy Rosja odwróciła si ę do białej szyby w oknie: widok jej j ędrnych piersi pozwolił mu wywnioskowa ć, że sutki musz ą by ć odpowiednio du że. Perspektywa ta zrodziła seksualne pragnienie, którego nie poskromiła jednoczesna my śl, że du że sutki ułatwiłyby spraw ę — a mo że i sam proces — laktacji. Je śli chodzi o Rosj ę, długie godziny sp ędzone przed monitorem na wkuwaniu materiału z zakresu urazów głowy nie dały jej ani krzty przyjemno ści. Po przeczytaniu jednego ze zda ń (Podejd ź do swojego mał żonka, jak do osoby, z któr ą dopiero zaczynasz nowy zwi ązek), zdarzyło jej si ę nawet wypa ść z domu i pop ędzi ć do pubu po papierosy. Wypaliła siedem, powoli staj ąc si ę mistrzyni ą podpunktów o takich tytułach jak „Twoje nowe życie w domu” czy „Twoje nowe życie towarzyskie” etc. Co oni chc ą powiedzie ć przez „nowe” — zastanawiała si ę. (i co maj ą na my śli przez „twoje”). Zawsze zakładamy, że lepiej jest by ć przygotowanym zawczasu — ale nie wiele lepiej; zawsze istnieje taka ewentualno ść , że i uprzednie przygotowanie nic nie da… Na tle ostatnich osi ągni ęć i dokona ń, kobiety poczyniły naturalnie znaczne post ępy w dziedzinie egocentryzmu, który jeszcze niedawno był w du żym stopniu m ęsk ą domen ą. Razem z przekonaniem, że da z
206 siebie wszystko, szło jeszcze jedno prze świadczenie, mianowicie, na monitorze w pełni opisanych było kilka (nie, mnóstwo) mo żliwych skutków urazu, których nie mogłaby i nie dałaby rady znie ść . Nie była bezwzgl ędna, była jedynie nowoczesn ą kobiet ą: nie, no dajcie spokój. Ale wtedy natrafiła na kolejne zdanie, które sprawiło, że zacz ęła siebie nienawidzi ć, płaka ć i wydycha ć powietrze niczym kowalski miech. A zdanie szło tak: „Istnieje tylko jedno cudowne lekarstwo, a jest nim miło ść .” Teraz wi ęc troch ę zmieniła ton: nie, no dalej. Dalej…
Przekr ęcaj ąc si ę po raz trzeci czy czwarty tego ranka, Xan ujrzał żon ę siedz ącą na krze śle przy łó żku. Gdy tylko zobaczyła, że nie śpi, powiedziała: — Wła śnie o tobie czytałam. No mo że niezupełnie o tobie, ale o ludziach w twoim stanie. I powiem ci jedno: nie wierz prosz ę w cały ten mit o dwóch latach. To rozsiewany przez zabobonne żony jad, który tylko przynosi niepotrzebne cierpienie. Mówi ą, że po okresie dwóch lat, dalsza poprawa stanu jest niemo żliwa. To nie prawda, Xan. Stan mo że ulec poprawie jeszcze długo po upływie dwóch lat. Nawet po pi ęciu, czy dziesi ęciu latach! Popytaj w swojej grupie wsparcia, a sam si ę przekonasz. Xan potrzebował dłu ższej chwili, o wiele dłu ższej ni ż by sobie życzył, aby zda ć sobie spraw ę, że wła śnie otrzymał próbk ę jadu od swojej żony, a konkretnie od pierwszej, byłej żony. Nie Rosja, a Perła, jawiła mu si ę przed oczami. Mówiła dalej: — Wiesz, takie rzeczy mog ą sprawi ć, że poczujesz si ę wdzi ęczny za to, co ju ż masz. Przynajmniej ja wiem, że jestem wdzi ęczna za to, co mam: du żą sum ę pieni ędzy, a nie alimenty. Przecie ż zdajesz sobie chyba spraw ę, że tylko dwadzie ścia pi ęć procent pacjentów po urazie głowy powraca do pełnego zatrudnienia trzy miesi ące po wypadku? Wyprostował si ę i przygładził r ękoma zmierzwione włosy; miał wra żenie, że nigdy nie wygl ądał bardziej łyso ni ż teraz — przypuszczenie pobudzone, b ądź przynajmniej potwierdzone przez u śmiech Perły. Jego policzki i czoło raczej dosy ć obficie pokryte były naro ślami i liszajami, jak gdyby kto ś w czasie snu pokroił i pokruszył mu bochenek chleba nad twarz ą, pozostawiaj ąc j ą wysmarowan ą okruchami i ziarnami, które na miejscu trzymało ścinaj ące si ę masło. Cieszył si ę tylko, że Perła nie widziała jego kolan: po wewn ętrznej stronie rzepki, widoczne wodniste fałdy wiły si ę jak grube glizdy. — A gdzie chłopcy — zapytał. — S ą tutaj? — S ą w bufecie. Przyjd ą… Jedn ą z rzeczy, na które b ędziesz musiał si ę przygotowa ć kochanie, jest spadek IQ. Tak mówi ą badania. Bez znaczenia, je śli chodzi o granie, ale popisa ć, to sobie nie popiszesz, myl ę si ę? Nie wiem jak z graniem na gitarze. Ale wiesz co mnie martwi? Xan czekał. — Tak naprawd ę martwi mnie, jak twój stan wpłynie na zwi ązek z Rosj ą. Siedz ąc w domu przy obiedzie, nie b ędziesz wiedział, o czym ona gl ędzi. A przecie ż zawsze wła śnie jej umysł był dla ciebie najwa żniejszy. Przynajmniej tak mówiłe ś. Nie miałoby to żadnego znaczenia, gdyby ś nadal był ze mn ą. Nie my śl sobie jednak, że chciałabym na ciebie spojrze ć w takim stanie. Mogliby śmy tak sobie siedzie ć i gapi ć si ę na ścian ę. No ale z ni ą… W k ącie przy drzwiach kilku młodych ludzi po urazie głowy siedziało przed telewizorem ogl ądaj ąc jedyne ludzkie przedsi ęwzi ęcie po świ ęcone całkowicie wywołaniu
207 urazu głowy u drugiego człowieka: dwóch go ści w błyszcz ących szortach i z wkładkami na zęby na kwadratowym ringu. — Zrobiłe ś si ę bardzo cichy Xan. Pewnie sklecenie kilku prostych słów jest dla ciebie wielkim wysiłkiem. — Mog ę mówi ć. — A jednak. A. Nie martw si ę o dłu ższe zdania — no wiesz, zło żone z wi ęcej ni ż dwóch słów — przyjd ą z czasem. Oddaj ąc sprawiedliwo ść Perle ( Xan po cichu, gdzie ś w sobie, zgodził si ę na takie ust ępstwo), trzeba odnotowa ć, że przeczytawszy o ataku, zadzwoniła do szpitala i wydarła si ę na kilka osób, żą daj ąc, jako matka jego dzieci, pełnej diagnozy, któr ą te ż dostała i przekazała swoim synom z delikatn ą i pełn ą nadziei interpretacj ą. Perła była dobr ą matk ą. By ć mo że nie ka żdy wybrałby j ą od razu na ex-żon ę. Była jednak dobr ą matk ą. — Mówi si ę, że najgorzej, ale zaznaczam: mówi się … Mówi si ę, że najgorzej odbija si ę taki uraz na życiu erotycznym. Kobieta, jak zauwa żono (jak zauwa żyła inna kobieta dwie ście lat temu) jest pi ękn ą tylko dla samej siebie. Ludziom oboj ętne s ą niuanse i oczywiste oznaki biedy i złego gustu są jedynymi rzeczami na które inna kobieta zareaguje z wdzi ęczno ści ą. Perła nie ubrała si ę tylko dla siebie. Ubierała si ę dla wszystkich —wł ączaj ąc siebie. Dzi ś miała na sobie błyszcz ącą i piszcz ącą czarn ą skórzan ą kurtk ę, snie żnobiały sweter z kaszmiru i ró żow ą, kwiecist ą spódniczk ę zaskakuj ąco krótkiej długo ści (do tego buty za kostk ę jak u czarownicy, tak że czarne i falbaniaste, krótkie skarpetki, tak że białe. Było jeszcze co ś: jeszcze jedna rzecz, któr ą miała na sobie. Z przerwami, znał Perł ę od niemowl ęctwa; a ich stracony świat mał żeństwa (tak poczuł) był regresywny, zwierz ęcy czy nawet prehistoryczny — był światem jaszczurek. Były takie rzeczy, o których nie odwa żyłby si ę powiedzie ć Rosji nawet dzi ś. Na przykład faktem było, że po prze życiu razem dwunastu lat (liczonych miesi ęcznymi okresami milczenia, separacji podczas procesu, oddzielnie spędzanymi urlopami, cz ęstymi bójkami i nieustannym cudzołóstwem) ich życie seksualne nadal polepszało si ę, je żeli polepszało jest słowem, którego szukamy. Wszystko inne było bezdennie okropne, koniec ko ńcem osi ągn ęli stan (jak okre ślił jeden z terapeutów) mał żeńskiej paranoi. Etap błagania rodziców na kolanach o rozwód dwaj chłopcy mieli już dawno za sob ą. Dopiero gdy mali przechodzili drugi i bardziej powa żny strajk głodowy (osiemdziesi ąt cztery godziny) mał żonkowie otrz ąsn ęli si ę i wezwali prawników. Ale przez cały ten okres ich życie seksualne ulegało ci ągłej poprawie, czy te ż ujmuj ąc to inaczej, zabierało im coraz wi ęcej czasu. — To działa tylko w dwie strony — powiedziała — mówi ę o seksie. Albo nie jeste ś zainteresowany, i tak dzieje si ę najcz ęś ciej. Albo nie interesuje ci ę nic innego. Jak my ślisz, jak b ędzie z tob ą? Xan czekał. — Zróbmy mały test. Gotowy? Wiedział co si ę zaraz stanie i wiedział w któr ą stron ę zaraz spojrzy. Obrazuj ąc: Perła O’Daniel była wysoka i szczupła (a jej kasztanowe włosy krótkie i kolczaste); jej biodra wąskie, ale uda rysowały si ę szeroko, rozkładaj ąc si ę od kolana szeroko w gór ę i na boki; i wła śnie w miejscu pomi ędzy jej nogami, gdzie ś w środku tej trójk ątnej absencji (w kształcie drukowanego y) le żał jej środek ci ęż ko ści... Nale ży pami ęta ć, że predykatem charakteru Perły, był fakt, że zawsze posuwała si ę za daleko. Nawet jej najwi ęksi wielbiciele z miejsca by przyznali: zawsze posuwała si ę za daleko. Nawet w towarzystwie
208 ludzi, którzy zawsze posuwali si ę za daleko, ona posuwała si ę jeszcze dalej. Tak że i teraz w szpitalu St Mary, posun ęła si ę za daleko. Rozkrzy żowuj ąc uda i krzy żuj ąc kostki, odsłoniła owo miejsce, które Xan nadal le żą c nisko na łopatkach, kontemplował. Jego była żona nie dopu ściła si ę seksualnego nieuctwa i nie ubrania czegokolwiek pod spód: ubrała co ś, a nie po prostu co śkolwiek. Znał to — perłowo białe na ćwiekowane gwiazdkami. Tego poranka, kiedy przybyło orzeczenie absolutne, Xan miał to w ustach, a Perła patrzyła z aprobat ą. — No i jak jest z tob ą — zapytała. — W któr ą stron ę jest u ciebie? — Nie wiem w któr ą, je żeli miałbym wybra ć, musiałbym chyba powiedzie ć, że w ogóle. — Brawo, Xan. Twoje pierwsze zło żone zdanie. A, s ą i chłopcy — wstała i pomachała. Poczym wyj ęła ze swej bezdennej torby gazet ę i rozło żyła nad nim stron ę: trzy zdj ęcia — Xan, Perła, Rosja. — B ędzie ci suszy ć przez to głow ę — powiedziała. Kiedy pojawili si ę synowie uczynił kolejny wysiłek aby wyprostowa ć plecy o por ęcz za plecami. Ponownie dr żą cymi dło ńmi poprawił dr żą ce nici swych włosów. Jego łó żko, cała jego przegroda przypominała jak ąś gablot ę z ekspozycj ą niedoł ęstwa i upadku, w kolorach jak z popielnicy... Michael i David zaj ęli miejsca po obu stronach łó żka. Nie patrzyli na niego z powag ą, niepokojem czy rozczarowaniem, lecz z akceptacj ą i natychmiast si ę tym pocieszył. Młodszy David pocałował go w policzek i rzekł — Przykro mi, tato. Starszy Michael pocałował go w policzek i rzekł — Tato? Kim byli ci cholerni dranie, którzy ci ę tak urz ądzili? — Michael — podniosła głos Perła. — Có ż tak to bywa — powiedział Xan, pami ętaj ąc całkiem sporo — człowiek nie pami ęta. Ale nie mógł sobie przypomnie ć uderzenia, ani samych wydarze ń, które do niego doprowadziły. Tilda Quaint powiedziała mu, że w jego mózgu jest o środek strachu, gruby supeł neuronów gł ęboko wewn ątrz jednej z półkul, który normalnie powi ązany jest ze zmysłem powonienia. Tam mie ści si ę wie ża kontrolna waszych l ęków i koszmarów. Czasami mózg mo że zdusi ć najbardziej bolesne wspomnienia (i naukowcy wojskowi, jak powiedziała, próbuj ą powieli ć efekt jak ąś diabelsk ą pigułk ą, która miałaby stłumi ć wszelkie skrupuły). Tak wi ęc teraz mózg Xana chronił go przed własn ą pami ęci ą. Ale on chciał odzyska ć t ę pami ęć i stale jej poszukiwał. Chciał poczu ć zapach wspomnienia. — Nie obawiajcie si ę chłopcy. Wkrótce wyjd ę — powiedział głosem, z akcentem, który nawet Perle wydawał si ę ledwo rozpoznawalny — i dostan ę tych skurwieli.
Jak kto ś przechodz ący z jednego życia do drugiego, Rosja przeszła środkiem szklanej rury, która ł ączyła dwie sekcje szpitala 30 metrów nad ziemi ą. W tej chwili zostawiała teori ę za sob ą i wchodziła w etap praktyki. Jej niepokój, jej niepewno ść były w chwili obecnej po świ ęcone przypływowi obel żywego wstr ętu wymierzonego w Natwara Gandhiego — wszystkich lekarzy na świecie. B ędąc studentk ą historii dwudziestego pierwszego wieku, wiedziała o „chemii” w odró żnieniu od „fizyki” zespołów przesłuchuj ących w ZSRR, japo ńskich wiwisekcjonistów; kiedy w 1941 roku niemieccy lekarze otrzymali woln ą r ękę w leczeniu niedoł ęż nych i rzekomo obł ąkanych, wynikiem tego był okres „dzikiej eutanazji”. Talent lekarski — leczenie —
209 ta ńczyło z czym ś całkowicie sobie przeciwnym. Gdyby tylko da ć im szans ę (zdawa ć by si ę mogło), te mierz ące puls, narcystyczne, opieszałe konowały zawijałyby dzieci ęce główki w stare gazety i przechadzałyby si ę z akademick ą manier ą z pakunkami pod pachami. Wszystko to oczywi ście miało miejsce. Rosja jednak w tej chwili nienawidziła Dr Gandhiego (wyd ęta klatka piersiowa, nozdrza poszerzone), poniewa ż odmówił jej obrony przed wszelkimi obawami jakie j ą nawiedzały. Rokowania były dobre, aczkolwiek nie mógł niczego wykluczy ć. I ta iskra w jego oku, kiedy opisywał mo żliwy czarny scenariusz: iskra rozkoszowania si ę sił ą życiow ą. Tak, z pewno ści ą ma jej du żo pracuj ąc na OIOMie. Kiedy mówił, Rosja przyłapała si ę na tym, że wyobra ża sobie jak wiele jego zmysły zostały wyuczone znosi ć — nieopisane faktury ludzkiej skóry, niewyobra żalne fetory. Nie mogła te ż, gdy wychodziła, wzgardzi ć pociech ą, że ten że lekarz, jak wi ększo ść lekarzy, padnie trupem w przeci ągu tygodnia od chwili przej ścia na emerytur ę. Ma to zwi ązek z sił ą i kiedy ta odchodzi, oni tak że odchodz ą. Nacisn ęła guzik. Co ś w niej opadło. Westchn ęła wraz z westchni ęciem windy.
— Nie chłopcy — mówiła Perła — zanim si ę obejrzymy tata b ędzie z powrotem na nogach. Znowu b ędzie kombinował po swojemu. Czy ż nie tak, Xan? — No pewnie, że b ędę. — No pewnie, że b ędzie. Hura! No prosz ę, kto tu idzie. Chryste, jaka ona gruba! Rosja! Wła śnie podziwiałam twoje zdj ęcie w gazecie! Wybuchowy Gniew i Dra żliwo ść , Maltretowanie Rodziny, Przygn ębienie i Zgryzota, Brak Świadomo ści i Zrozumienia, Mimowolne Oddawanie Moczu i Stolca, Niepokój i Panika, Problemy Seksualne, Utrata Miło ści, Uporanie si ę z Utrat ą Miło ści, Rezygnacja… Rosja szła dalej próbuj ąc sprawi ć wra żenie wy ższej. Wci ęta w talii bluzka, niezwykle efektowny stanik, oliwkowy dekolt: wszystko to — na wszelki wypadek — wymierzone było w Perł ę.
2. Debil o wysokim IQ
Co kiedy ś śmieszyło ludzi? Zastanawiał si ę Clint Smoker. Co śmieszy ich teraz? Czy te rzeczy nadal s ą śmieszne? Cichy pokój konferencyjny w chorym budynku. Z drugiej strony zaplombowanego okna trzepotał i łopotał cicho gru źliczy goł ąb. Wydawca Naczelny siedział przy biurku z głową zanurzon ą w dłoniach. Gdy ż „Poranny Skowronek” przechodził kryzys. Aby zmobilizowa ć swoich ludzi, Desmond Heaf (który nabrał zwyczaju znikania, płynnie niczym wyciszany powoli dźwi ęk) wrócił trzydziestogodzinnym lotem znad południowego Pacyfiku. W ko ńcu odezwał si ę — Po prostu nie mie ści mi si ę w głowie jak co ś tak ra żą cego mogło naprawd ę… O czym wy my śleli ście? Nieufnie i wymijaj ąco spojrzał w dół na przestrze ń dwóch stron rozpłaszczon ą przed jego nosem. — Jezusie przenaj świ ętszy! Przecie ż to jest wbrew naturze… — Gdy zobaczyłem pierwszego — powiedział Clint — my ślałem, że chodzi o ujawnienie jakiego ś skandalu w schronisku dla psów w Battersea. — Wła śnie — rzekł Jeff Strite — albo o jak ąś szokuj ącą afer ę w rumu ńskich zakładach psychiatrycznych. — Jakie ś faktyczne straty jak dot ąd?
210 — Ludzie bior ą t ę spraw ę bardzo do siebie — odparł Mackelyne. — S ą bardzo źli. — Tracimy ich, Supermaniam? — Sądz ąc po tym co klikaj ą, chyba masowo zdychaj ą na atak serca. — Nie, no cudownie, cudownie — powiedział Heaf. — Zabijamy własnych koniowałów. — Przypomina to troch ę Czarny Czwartek — dodał Supermaniam.
W środ ę poprzedzaj ącą Czarny Czwartek, „Ptaszek” zamie ścił żartobliwy artykuł o Ksi ędze Rekordów Guinnessa i nowej kategorii hołduj ącej najwi ększemu b ądź najdłu ższemu m ęskiemu członkowi kiedykolwiek. Na tej samej stronie (nie dalej jak w odległo ści mrugni ęcia okiem) „Ptaszek” umie ścił trzydziestocentymetrow ą linijk ę (nadal obstawiaj ąc, że wszystko jest tylko żartem) i rzucił wyzwanie swoim czytelnikom, aby dokonali niewdzi ęcznego porównania. W celu oczywistej prowokacji — tak przynajmniej wierzył „Ptaszek” — trzydziestocentymetrowa linijka została przenumerowana w taki sposób, aby wygl ądała na pi ętnastocentymetrow ą. Wkrótce po świcie, zacz ęły przychodzi ć: wie ści o czarnoczwartkowych samobójstwach. — Bill. Zrobiłe ś te strony. Jak to fizycznie mo żliwe, że zmusiłe ś si ę, aby to uczyni ć — zapytał Heaf. — Kiedy nadszedł pierwszy rzut — zacz ął mówi ć Bill Woyno — zało żyłem, że to tylko głupie żarty. Kiedy przyszła kolejna porcja, nie wiem, musiałem pomy śle ć, że… no có ż, taka chyba jest rzeczywisto ść . — Chłopaki, spójrzmy prawdzie w oczy — powiedział Clint — strzelili śmy sobie w stop ę tym posuni ęciem. Ale, szefie, widz ę wyj ście z całej tej sytuacji. Czy mog ę zaproponowa ć analiz ę marksistowsk ą? — Ale ż prosz ę ci ę bardzo, Clint — odparł Heaf marszcz ąc brwi w wyrazie gł ębokiego szacunku. — Dobrze. Wysokiej jako ści broadsheets celowane s ą w establishment i inteligencj ę. Ekskluzywne tabloidy w mieszcza ństwo. Tanie tabloidy celowane s ą w proletariat. W „Ptaszku” mierzymy w koniowała bezrobotnego. — Do sedna Clint. — Wi ęc: kogo poci ąga bezrobotny facet? Zniewa żyli śmy wszystkich naszych koniowałów — zasłu żyli na to, prawda — ale zniewaga pozostaje zniewag ą. Mówimy, udowadniamy, że je żeli ju ż, to wła śnie ryszardy czytelników s ą potworami z Czarnej Laguny. Cztery dni wcze śniej „Ranny Ptaszek”, z wielk ą fet ą, wystartował ze swoim nowym pomysłem: Ryszardy Czytelników. Od samego ranka do redakcji zacz ęły przychodzi ć śmiertelne pogró żki. — „Twoje kostki b ędą ciepłe i przyjemne” — cytował sceptycznie Heaf — „gdy nasycisz swojego smoka kolejn ą porcj ą pierwszej klasy towarku nadesłanego przez naszych gor ącokrwistych…” Rozsiadł si ę w fotelu. — Matko naj świ ętsza, spójrzcie na to — na tego trolla w lewym górnym rogu. — Kolesie mi tu klikaj ą, że zszywaj ą strony ze sob ą, żeby nie trafi ć na to przez przypadek. — Powiniene ś rzuci ć okiem na materiał, którego nie zamie ścili śmy. Na widok ka żdej z nich czujesz si ę o kilka lat młodszy. — Musisz si ę zebra ć w sobie, a nawet wtedy… — Nie ma a ż tyle, żeby przebiera ć. I tak si ę ju ż ko ńcz ą.
211 — Trzy przecinek siedem miliona koniowałów — powiedział Heaf donio śle. — I tylko na tyle ich sta ć. No dobrze. Co teraz robimy? — Proste — odparł Jeff Strite. — Wycofujemy. Bez komentarza. — Nie. Widzicie — zacz ął Clint — była by to kolejna zniewaga. Nie tego chcą. Wskazał na cztery zwaliste sterty wydrukowanych protestów. — Oni tak że nie mog ą uwierzy ć. Nie chc ą, żeby śmy to wycofywali. Chc ą, żeby śmy powiedzieli, że to nieprawda. — I jest wyj ście z tej sytuacji, Clint? — No pewnie, szefie. Mo żemy jeszcze wszystko wyprowadzi ć na prost ą. Przez okres kilku tygodni pozb ędziemy si ę Żon i zaczniemy wymienia ć je na modelki. — Co, własnymi dziewczynami? Troch ę zbyt oczywiste, nie uwa żasz? — Có ż, rzeczywi ście mo że nie typem Donny Strange. My ślałem bardziej o modelkach drugorz ędnych, usuni ętych w cie ń. No a je śli ju ż od czasu do czasu jaka ś znana twarz si ę rzeczywi ście pojawi… Widzisz, ich reakcja chyba nie jest zbytnio racjonalna? Dali śmy im kopniaka w dup ę. Zniewa żyli śmy ich. Teraz trzeba im podkadzić. W walce o ducha ideologii „Ptaszka”, Clint Smoker zawsze prezentował żwawy radykalizm. On sam, czasami mogło si ę wydawa ć, miał najlepsze odczucie, kim jest ich typowy czytelnik. Teraz dodał: — Na pewno to połkn ą. Mo żna cał ą rozkładówk ę wypełni ć gwiazdami ekranu i wstawi ć pasek mówi ący marzcie sobie dalej głupi frajerzy i nawet wtedy to połkn ą. Druga rzecz ą, któr ą musimy si ę zaj ąć jest poprawa dekoracji. Dajmy sobie spokój z tymi cholernymi... piwniczkami. Spójrz na t ę w środku po prawej. Heaf obrócił głow ę o dziewi ęć dziesi ąt stopni w lewo, nast ępnie powoli pozwolił jej powróci ć na swoje miejsce, zanim gwałtownym ruchem odskoczyła do tyłu. — Mogłyby ilustrowa ć materiał o białym niewolnictwie albo miejskich dzielnicach slumsów — powiedział Clint. Razem z cał ą rozkładówk ą. Nie. Chcemy zno śne laski, fotele, sofy. Nawet co ś lepszego. I nawet jak umie ścimy je na podjazdach pi ęknych posesji, zapewniam ci ę, nasze koniowały nie załapi ą o co chodzi. Na jakie ś pół minuty zaległa cisza. — Dzi ękuje za te słowa, Clint — powiedział Heaf. Zrób tak. Kwestie poboczne… Dobra. Wszystkie inne gazety nadaj ą o NEO, tym asteroidzie, czy czym tam, i jestem pewien, że instynkt podpowiadał nam dobrze, kiedy zdecydowali śmy si ę całkowicie zignorowa ć ten temat. Jednak że maj ąc na uwadze wszystkie te doniosłe wydarzenia, które maj ą miejsce w chwili obecnej, czy nie wystawiamy naszych koniowałów do wiatru? Wydaj ę mi si ę, że powinni śmy chocia ż wspomnie ć o najwa żniejszych wojnach i plagach i głodach i czym tam jeszcze. Zdaje sobie spraw ę, że nacisk kładziemy na sprawy w gruncie rzeczy wewn ętrzne, wszak maj ąc na uwadze obecn ą sytuacj ę na świecie, nie mog ę przesta ć my śle ć, że troch ę odpuszczamy, je śli chodzi wiadomo ści z zagranicy. — Zgadzam si ę, Szefie — powiedział Strite. — Dobrze by mi zrobił kolejny miesi ąc w Bangkoku. Wszyscy wybuchli pełnym napi ęcia śmiechem. — Co w tym zabawnego — pomy ślał Clint. Drogi czytelniku. Czytelniku, po ślubiłam go. T.S. Eliot: Przewodnik Czytelnika. Hypocrite lecteur! Mon semblable, mon frere!
212 drogi clincie: twoye oowagi na temat dzieci ństwa ooderzyły we wła ściw ą noot ę. ya tak że nigdy nie czułam si ę cz ęś ci ą „gangu”, zday ę si ę, że niektoorzy z nas zostali wyroo żnieni. Yeste śmy w pewnym sensie „specyalni” i wiem , że je żeli znayd ę kogo ś z kim b ędę mogła sp ędzi ć resht ę moich dni, on tak że moosiałby by ć specyalny.
Całkiem niedawno Clint przeczytał w którym ś z magazynów artykuł manifestuj ący powstanie nowego typu jednostki ludzkiej: debila o wysokim IQ. Według autora (kobiety powie ściopisarki), tacy zimni, nie-empatyczni m ędrkowie, debile o wysokim IQ, s ą nadzwyczaj na czasie, akceptuj ąc wszystkie przemiany techniczne i kulturowe, akceptuj ą je niezachwianie i bez u śmiechu na ustach. Tak wi ęc w pewien sposób Clint poczuł ulg ę, zdaj ąc sobie spraw ę, że nieustannie śmieje si ę i wzdraga, wzdraga i śmieje si ę z autorskiego stylu swej mejlowej przyjaciółki. Ju ż wcze śniej czytaj ąc wiadomo ści z ekranu zauwa żył, że jego j ęzyk ojczysty ulega coraz bardziej żałosnemu oszpeceniu. Ale nigdy w takim stopniu. Nigdy w słu żbie wzajemnego poznania i zalotów dwojga ludzi — i z tak dobr ą gramatyk ą. Clint wiedział co nieco o gramatyce. Pan i pani Smoker: oboje nauczyciele szkolni. W dodatku starzy hipisi. Starzy — teraz martwi — hipisi. Martwi hipisi. Jezu: co si ę stało? Mimo to, Clint nie potrafił by ć krytyczny. Clint? Krytyczny, gdy mowa o panienkach? Tak długo pozbawiony m ęskiego wpływu, czuł — có ż, jej słowa były dla faceta jak lina bezpiecze ństwa. Jak lina bezpiecze ństwa. Wiedział, że odległo ść miedzy nim, a światem kobiet powi ększa się. Kiedy ka żdej nocy, wkraczał do tej borgesia ńskiej metropolii elektronicznej pornografii — gdzie wszystko jest niesko ńczone b ądź nie śmiertelne — w pewnym sensie podró żował w kierunku kobiet. Ale zarazem owa podró ż przybierała kierunek odwrotny. A odległość zwi ększała si ę cały czas. Co si ę stało? Có ż takiego wydzielał, czym emanował. Nie uwa żał si ę za brzydszego od typu faceta, którego widzi si ę teraz wsz ędzie, razem z ufnie towarzysz ącą kobiet ą, która zawsze gotowa jest pocałowa ć jego kolczyk, czy te ż pogładzi ć meszek zarostu, b ądź rzuci ć łobuzerski u śmieszek przebaczenia w czer ń jego okularów. Mogłoby by ć całkiem nie źle — pomy ślał. Dzwonisz, kiedy idziesz ulic ą i wszyscy mog ą ci ę słysze ć. „Cze ść kochanie, to ja. Id ę ulic ą. Co na obiad?” Romantyczna kolacja. Stolik dla dwojga. Ukradkiem wrzucasz Narcopam do jej kawy: rozlu źnia napi ęcie. Mogłoby by ć nie źle. Ale nigdy nie było. Nawet kiedy wszystko toczyło si ę w całkiem przyjaznej atmosferze, zawsze czuł ci ęż ar, jakby ton ął, czuł jak jaka ś rt ęć opada gdzieś wewn ątrz jego klatki piersiowej. Poniewa ż doskonale zdawał sobie spraw ę, że po prostu czekaj ą — czekaj ą na swoj ą szans ę. W łó żku nieustann ą walk ą było oczywi ście sprawi ć, że co ś poczuj ą: zmieni ć je swoj ą sił ą. Tak że i według ksi ąż ek kobiety wła śnie tego szukaj ą, w jednym zbli żeniu: metamorfoza zapłodnienia przez najsilniejszego dost ępnego samca. Wi ęc wyczekiwanie, kalkulowanie i porównywanie było na porz ądku dziennym — tak jak i gotowo ść pomniejszania… W ka żdym razie, Clint tak sobie wmawiał (daj sobie spokój; wszystkie s ą takie same; i tak dalej). Ale jego pod świadomy umysł podejrzewał, że jest inaczej. Czasami pod świadomy umysł przemawiał do niego. W niedzielne popołudnia, kiedy le żał w łó żku w kompletnym chlewie swego mieszkania w Foulness li żą c kajdanki pod nosem, czasami słyszał jak mówi: „Nie wiem stary. To si ę źle sko ńczy. No nie wiem, stary. To wszystko sko ńczy si ę płaczem.” Była dla faceta jak lina bezpiecze ństwa:
213 ftej chwili (i naprawd ę mam na my śli chwil ę) mam mena typu „maczo”. no wiesh: siłka przez cał ą sob, noga w nd rano i tenis po połoodniu. nuDA. lepszy byłby ju ż kolo, który siedzi przed tele ze mn ą na kolankach i wali brofce. jak si ę kochamy, y ęczałby mi do oocha żebym krzyczała. mówie mu: nie yestem yedn ą z tych co odgryway ą yak ąś rol ę na ka żde skinienie. nie wrzucaj mnie do yednego wyadra z nimi! przypuszczam, że dla niego krzyk = zapami ętanie. NIE chc ę zapami ętania. Dlaczego clint, dlaczego ludzie u żywaj ą sexu jako karmy dla swoyey pretensyonalno ści.
Chocia ż kawałek papieru w jego r ęce był tylko wydrukiem e-maila, Clint podsun ął go sobie pod skuty kajdankami nos, jakby miał nadzieje poczu ć jej zapach. Przeczytał go tak że, o tak, trzy albo cztery dziesi ątki razy. Nie mam zamiaru spieprzy ć wszystkiego tym razem – pomy ślał: nie tym razem. problem ftym, że nigdy nie byłam w stanie ‘zwolni ć’ faceta. wku źwi ć ich. Nie odwa żyłabym si ę. urazi ć FACETA? wi ęc musiałam stopniowo dra żni ć go (samo to ju ż jest gro źne) dopooki nie spakuye walizek i si ę nie wyniesie. jak? no wiesz, clint — duperelami. Zapominam chwali ć go tak cz ęsto yak kiedy ś. odmawiam ścierania sików które zostawia na desce klozetowey. wyra żam własne opinie. naprawd ę mówi ę: doł ącz do tłumu, który czeka przed tylnym wey ściem. jestem ju ż tym zm ęczona. powiem wprost: nienawidz ę tak że tych nowoczesnych facetów, ‘troskliwych’ w łó żku. „doszła ś?”, „dobrze ci było?” tak! w 7 niebie. pieye z zachwytu. dlaczego ludzie nie mog ą by ć sob ą. za du żo instynktu stadnego, zakłamania, pretensyonalno ści. PS. 3 brawa za Ryszardy Czytelniqw, zastrzyk energii dla pci pi ękney: dobry bo że, yest yeszcze dla nas nadzieya.
„Twoje mejle s ą jak powiew świe żego powietrza” — Clint zastanawiał si ę gło śno, kiedy układał w głowie odpowied ź. „Pewnie ju ż napatrzyła ś si ę na moj ą brzydk ą g ębę w „Skowronku”. Nie jestem snobem je śli chodzi o wygl ąd — nie mog ę sobie na to pozwoli ć. Miło by jednak było nada ć twarz twoim słusznym opiniom. A mo że imi ę…” I nadal nie powiedziała, czy uwa ża, że rozmiar ma du że znaczenie. Gn ębiła go jedna my śl. W przeszło ści badania rynkowe ci ągle pokazywały, że „Ranny Ptaszek” nie ma czytelników w śród kobiet. Wi ęc pozostawało pytanie: jakie laski czytaj ą „Ptaszka”.
Zrobił przerw ę, siedz ąc przy biurku. Wła śnie miał zacz ąć pisa ć artykuł. Jednak siedz ąc przy swoim biurku, wstrzymał si ę. — … ee, czy ee, czy zastałem Anda? — Kto mówi? — ee, Pete. — Nie ma go — odpowiedział znacznie cichszy ni ż zazwyczaj głos. — Harrison, ostro żnie kochanie. Jest na li ście osób zaginionych. Nie, nie rób tego słonko — grzeczny chłopczyk. Umie ścili go na li ście osób zaginionych. Clint przeprosił za kłopot. Pomy ślał: Jezu — tylko nie mów Joseph Andrews. Potem: wpadnij do niej i pociesz j ą. Nast ępnie: nie. Nie wtr ącaj si ę. B ądź: jak mówi przysłowie, g… — Umm, Clint — powiedział Heaf. — Nie jest a ż tak źle, ale co ś innego wybuchło nam w twarz.
214 — Có ż takiego, szefie? — Zrobił sobie dobrze. — Aa. Koniował z Walthamstow. — Ten sam. Ale po jednym kryzysie na dzie ń, co? Par ę spraw Clint. Jedno słowo w Recenzjach Filmów troch ę mnie zaskoczyło. Gdzie to jest. Rozło żył stron ę na biurku Clinta. Nagłówek brzmiał Recenzje Filmowe Blinky Boba. W rogu widniało zdj ęcie twarzy. Nie była twarz ą Clinta, lecz jakim ś niejednolitym tworem: nachylona pod k ątem, o groteskowo wybałuszonych oczach, wywieszonym j ęzorze, z włochatymi dło ńmi uniesionymi swobodnie do góry. Heaf mówił dalej: — Gdzie żesz…? O, mam. „i miejcie pod r ęką srajta śmę, gdy go ścinnie wyst ępuj ący Dork Bogarde pompuje swój sik miło ści na faluj ące balony naszej Donny Strange”. Przepraszam, ale czym wła ściwie jest sik miło ści? — Nasieniem Szefie. — No tak, tak. My ślałem, że bardziej w naszym stylu byłby m ęski nektar. Hmm. Nie ma sprawy. Wiecie, czasami to co tutaj robimy napawa mnie obrzydzeniem. Naprawd ę. Jak id ą sprawy z Ainsley Carem? — Có ż. Zdj ęli mu opatrunek z lodu. Trzeba poczeka ć, do czasu kiedy ponownie zagra, poprawi to znacznie widoczno ść . Ale sprawy wygl ądaj ą dobrze, z nowymi zarzutami. Clint przypomniał sobie, że Heaf nie interesuje si ę piłk ą no żną. Kontynuował. — W tej chwili chc ą go przymkn ąć za ustawianie meczów. Mówi, że wzi ął pół melona od malajskiego biznesmena, żeby da ć dupy z Glasgow Rangers w zeszłym sezonie. Nasze koniowały b ędą go za nienawidzi ć za takie świ ętokradztwo Szefie. Mo żna by wzi ąć Beryl podczas procesu. — Zrób to co uwa żasz za stosowne, Clint. Mówiłe ś, że kontynuujesz w ątek rodziny królewskiej. — Pracuje nad tym Szefie. — Aż ciepło si ę robi na sercu, nieprawda ż? Zawsze my śleli śmy, że ludzie uwa żaj ą rodzin ę królewsk ą za co ś zupełnie bez znaczenia, jaki ś anachronizm. A stara Królowa Pam, była przecie ż raczej gro źną postaci ą. Nie ma ju ż jej mi ędzy nami od dwóch lat, a bior ąc pod uwag ę fakt rozkwitaj ącej w wiek dorosły Ksi ęż niczki, mo żna zaobserwowa ć niesamowity przypływ szczerego zainteresowania (wida ć to wyra źnie w liczbach Mackelyna) przechodz ący przez całe spektrum naszego koniowałstwa. — No có ż, jest jak jest, trzeba pami ęta ć, że Vicky potrzebuje stanika i to przypomniało im, że Henry nadal żyje o chlebie i wodzie. Uwa żaj ą, że powinien porz ądnie zabra ć si ę do roboty. — Tak my ślisz? — Przeczytaj sobotniego Smokera. Długa i wnikliwa analiza. — Tytuł? — „Czy Król jest normalny?”
215 3. Excalibur
Był w idiotycznej sytuacji. W dniu jego urodzin działa Królewskiej Floty na całym świecie huczały z rado ści. „Nasze my śli w ędruj ą w kierunku - mówił Churchill w Izbie Gmin ( pami ęć o Drugiej Wojnie Światowej nadal była świe ża) - matki i ojca oraz w sposób szczególny do młodego Ksi ęcia, wydanego na ten zwichrowany i zwa śniony świat. Min ęło zaledwie kilka godzin od jego przyj ścia na świat, kiedy jego imi ę znalazło si ę w nagłówkach gazet, w ka żdym j ęzyku, w ka żdym alfabecie. W szkole odkrył, że twarz jego ojca zdobi monety, które wydawał w sklepiku szkolnym, oraz znaczki, których u żywał śląc listy do domu. Przed wizyt ą dwunastolatka w Papui Nowej Gwinei, tam-tamy na wyspie rozbrzmiewały przez cał ą noc. Był nadal nastolatkiem, kiedy reprezentował swoje pa ństwo na pogrzebie Charlesa de Gaulla: stał pomi ędzy pani ą Gandi i Richardem Nixonem. Potem przyszła matura, mał żeństwo, masakra - a tak że korona: uznanie, przysi ęga, namaszczenie, inwestytura, intronizacja, hołd. Wszystkie jego osobiste tragedie były tragediami narodowymi. Był w idiotycznej sytuacji. Był Królem Anglii.
Henryk IX zatrzymał si ę w Greater House, w swojej nie ogrzewanej trzystupokojowej chałupie w południowym Hertfordshire. Wcze śniej spo żył obiad a deus ze swoim młodszym bratem, Alfredem, Ksi ęciem Clarence, w prywatnej sali trzygwiazdkowej restauracji na londy ńskiej Strand. — Tutejszy barman, Felix, jest po prostu wspaniały — powiedział. Przyrz ądza naprawd ę świetne drinki zwane Skorpionami. O jeste ś. Dwa Skorpiony! Nie, niech b ędą cztery… A teraz powiedz mi drogi chłopcze. Czy zamierzasz po śluby ć t ę twoj ą Lyn? — Wiesz jak jest, nic nowego. Ja po prostu nie widzę siebie bior ącego ślub z kimkolwiek. — Oh ty głupku, dlaczego nie? — Bo jestem oble śnym zbere źnikiem. Wszyscy jeste śmy. Poza tob ą. Stary druhu. — No gdzie s ą te Skorpiony? Jego słowa zawisły w powietrzu. Kiedy w domu (przed kominkiem, pod stert ą koców i psów) czekaj ąc na telefon od Kurwy, nie kładł si ę jeszcze spa ć i pomy ślał: tak, du żo w tym racji. Dlaczego? Ksi ąż e Alfred w wieku czterdziestu dziewi ęciu lat, nadal był tym samym hiperaktywnym satyromaniakiem, którym stał si ę w wieku trzynastu lat (kiedy zgwałcił pierwsz ą pokojówk ę). Jego ojciec, Ryszard IV, zaspokajał ogromne apetyty, zanim wst ąpił w pó źny zwi ązek mał żeński, a jego ojciec z kolei, Jan II, był notorycznym rozpustnikiem. A Henryk IX? Zanim wkroczył w wiek dwudziestu lat, Ksi ąż e Walii, którym wtedy był, okazywał tyle samo zainteresowania co grze w polo czy skakaniu na spadochronie. Jego życie towarzyskie było pijackie i zwariowane, miał te ż wiele kole żanek. Co w takim razie skłaniało go aby odmawia ć czy ignorowa ć niezliczone przypadki natr ętno ści, które miały zwyczaj pojawia ć si ę na ksi ążę cej drodze, od tych prawie niewykrywalnych pocz ąwszy, a sko ńczywszy na i ście melodramatycznych? Zdawało si ę, że nie jest to nic bardziej skomplikowanego od strachu przed jakimkolwiek wysiłkiem. Zatroskany Ryszard IV pod żegany przez mał żonk ę, zorganizował spotkanie z dam ą dworu - młod ą wdow ą, Edith Beresford-Hale. Jednej nocy w Kyle of Tongue, Edith zaskoczyła Henryka. Ksi ąż e udał si ę na spoczynek po szkodliwej nocy z czterdziestoma czy pi ęć dziesi ęcioma „strzelbami”,
216 które przyjechały, aby sponiewiera ć jego faun ę. Oczywi ście sam Henryk nie miał z tym nic wspólnego. Ale dzielnie radził sobie z Edoth Beresford-Hale. Poobracała nim troch ę nad sob ą przez par ę minut, a potem dało si ę czu ć zabarwiony ogniem zapach m ęskich przymierzalni, a Edith sypn ęła żartem. Ksi ąż e zrobił co ś, czego ani Król ani Królowa nie przewidzieli. Zakochał si ę w Edith - bądź w ka żdym razie, zwierzył si ę jej. Chocia ż prasa i opinia publiczna zakładały, że sypiał z przynajmniej jedn ą z dwóch pi ękno ści, którym cz ęsto towarzyszył, Henryk pozostał wierny przez nast ępne pi ęć lat. Zagl ądał do Edith jakie ś trzy razy w miesi ącu. Miała trzydzie ści jeden lat, miłe usposobienie i całkiem mił ą dla oka figur ę. Nie ró żniła si ę tym od swojej matki: tweedowa spódniczka, wytrzymałe buty. Tak wi ęc Henryk był ju ż w połowie miedzy dwudziestk ą, a trzydziestk ą, kiedy zacz ęła go niepokoi ć młodsza kole żanka: Czcigodna Pamela North. Sprawił Edith dom, rejs dookoła świata i emerytur ę, sam natomiast zacz ął zaleca ć si ę do Pameli. W dzie ń po Królewskim Weselu (a ksi ążę ce mał żeństwo, tak jak powiedział Bagehot, jest najwspanialszym wydaniem powszechnego stanu rzeczy) Henryk napisał do swojego brata, Ksi ęcia Alfreda: „Wszystko okazało si ę bułk ą z masłem, co za ulga. Widziałe ś jak tłum zwariował, kiedy pocałowałem ją na balkonie? Có ż, troch ę podobnie było w łó żku. Czułem oczekiwania narodu na barkach, cho ć raczej w przyjemny sposób. Czułem jak mnie ponaglaj ą. A wszystko okazało si ę bułk ą z masłem. Ty wiesz o czym mówi ę: byłem bardzo dobry”. A jak że mogłoby by ć inaczej, tamtej nocy, gdy krew jego była tak podekscytowana i do ostatniej kropli wypełniona miło ści ą narodu? Ksi ąż e wła śnie sko ńczył dwadzie ścia siedem lat, kiedy Ryszard wyleciał w powietrze na łodzi rybackiej przy zachodnim brzegu Irlandii. Na pokładzie znajdował si ę tak że kuzyn Króla, który był ostatnim wicekrólem Indii (i pierwszym Naczelnym Gubernatorem tego kraju); st ąd znalazło si ę wielu rzekomych odpowiedzialnych -Muzułmanie, Sikhowie, Hindusi itd. Ale tak że bardziej oczywi ści i bardziej bliscy podejrzani… Niemniej jednak, ten okres spot ęgowanych emocji (spot ęgowanych przez pi ęć dziesi ąt milionów), był erotycznym apogeum Henryka. Anglia świ ętowała Koronacj ę w atmosferze dzikiego buntu i euforii; oraz przypływu mocy, gdy ż Henryk IX, został przeniesiony do królewskiego ło ża, ło ża o pozłacanych słupach, czterech kulach nosz ących korony ksi ążę ce, ze zdobionym liliami baldachimem w kolorze purpury, ze wst ęgami i kratami, z falbaniastym prze ścieradłem szytym ze złotego sukna. Podczas drugiej podró ży po ślubnej, kiedy para mał żonków siedziała przy stole na Królewskim Jachcie, a zespół Królewskich Marines bawił ich uszy romantyczn ą mieszank ą serenad, Henryk u śmiechn ął si ę surowo do Pameli, gdy zbli żyła si ę godzina udania na spoczynek. Z seksualnego punktu widzenia, bycie królem zrobiło z niego trzydziestolatka (przez chwil ę Excalibur stał si ę jednym z jego wielu przydomków). Ale teraz „starali” si ę o nast ępc ę tronu… Po narodzeniu Ksi ęż niczki Wiktorii, życie miłosne Henryka nie było ju ż podporz ądkowane kalendarzykowi czy fazom ksi ęż yca: teraz podporz ądkowane było terminarzowi. Podej ście do spraw prosto z grafika dy żurów stało si ę zwyczajem. Oczywi ście złym zwyczajem. Miło ść stała si ę spełnieniem obowi ązku, tak jak wszystko inne. A samiec, nawet królewski samiec w najwy śmienitszym wydaniu, nie mo że tak post ępowa ć. Nie mo że zapanowa ć nad oczekiwaniami, spełnieniem i oczekiwaniami. Na dodatek Pamela wraz z wiekiem bez dwóch zda ń przypominała coraz bardziej m ęż czyzn ę. Jednego popołudnia, pi ęć po pi ątej królewska mał żonka burkn ęła ze zdziwieniem: — Co z tob ą nie tak Hotty. Daj że spokój, przecie ż to żenuj ące!
217 I nie trzeba mu było ju ż wi ęcej. Nie było sekundy w jego życiu na jawie, która miałaby cokolwiek wspólnego z życiem innego człowieka, ale przynajmniej wra żliwo ść Henryka, nie odró żniała go od innych ludzi; oto zszedł z góry i spróbował swych szans po śród rodaków. Wi ęc co było z nim nie tak? Dobre pytanie. Poczynaj ąc od tej chwili, kiedykolwiek Król widział „trzecia po południu: Pammy” w swoim terminarzu, czuł jak jaka ś siła naciska mu na klatk ę piersiow ą, niczym uprz ąż , i nie popuszcza dopóki nie przetrwa tego rendezvous. Szukał w pami ęci poprzedniej obawy, wiedział bowiem, że j ą tam znajdzie. Tak. Godziny przed jaki ś wcze śniejszym spotkaniem, tak że umówionym: kiedy poszedł do gabinetu kierownika internatu odebra ć ci ęgi. Ale negatywne objawienie — najparszywsza chwila jego życia — nadal czekała na niego w Kyle of Tongue.
Brendan Urquhart-Gordon słuchał. Dzwonienie ustało, nast ąpiły głosy wysiłku, a potem — wyra żaj ąc tylko lekko zranione uczucia—nadeszło skomlenie brzmi ące niczym psi protest. — Pepper, zła ź. Beena. Czy to ty, Cholera? Kurka wodna, telefon ugrz ązł pod Been ą i Generałem Monckiem. No i teraz cały jest w psiej sier ści i w jakiej ś… oble śnej wydzielinie czy czym tam. Generale! We ź… Gdzie jeste ś, Cholera? — Wioz ą mnie na północny wschód od Cap na lotnisko w Nicei, sir. Raczej z du żą pr ędko ści ą. Po jego prawej stronie, za parkingami supermarketów, hoteli i stacji benzynowych, delikatny chlupot Morza Śródziemnego; po jego lewej, nie widziane, lecz wyczuwane kolory willi, reflektory, świerszcze i zraszacze. Przed nim siedział zwarty, przystojny, podstarzały Oughtred. — Co jest, Cholera? — Mamy miejsce przest ępstwa, sir. Wiele spraw z tego wynika. Mamy tak że dowody dedukcyjne, raczej nie do odparcia, świadcz ące o tym, że motyw b ądź zamiary nie mogły najprawdopodobniej — — Przesta ń mi tu papla ć o swoich wnioskach, Cholera. I daruj sobie ten ton samozadowolenia. Nadal jest to dla mnie bolesne, Cholera, i nie uwa żam tego za zabawne. Brendan czynił sobie wyrzuty: nie potrafił zamaskowa ć wigoru zwyci ęstwa medycyny sądowej. Powiedział: — Prosz ę o wybaczenie, sir. Zachowałem si ę wielce nietaktownie. — Wybaczone. Dalej z tym koksem, Cholera. O i butelk ę, raczej dobrego wina, je żeli mog ę ci ę prosi ć Kochanie. I jedn ą z tych twoich przepysznych przek ąsek? — Jeste śmy ju ż na płycie lotniska, sir. Czy słycha ć samolot?… Zaraz zacznie nas rozł ącza ć. — Halo? Halo? — Sir, trzeba wiedzie ć. Motyw, zamiary, raczej wykluczone, że natury pieni ężnej. Media ani szanta ż. Porozmawia ć z. Opukawszy telefon i potrz ąsn ąwszy nim, Henryk wsun ął go z powrotem pod Generała Moncka; a kiedy powrócił Kochanie, poprosił go o tali ę kart. Wyobra źmy sobie: króle i damy. A kim my jeste śmy? Dziesi ątkami, dwójkami?
Brendan Urquhart-Gordon, sam trwaj ący w seksualnej abstynencji, był niezwykle spostrzegawczym przyjacielem. W ka żdym razie Henryk nie stanowił wyzwania dla jego wyobra źni. Był czytelny; łatwy w interpretacji.
218 W jednym z dni „Pammy” - czy te ż w dniu, który wyró żniała „kolejna cholerna trzecia po południu” (Brendan słyszał jak u żywa tego zwrotu) - Henryk miał w zwyczaju by ć bezu żytecznym cały poranek (niezdolnym do my ślenia cho ćby przez chwil ę), i zwykł był wszczyna ć wrzask o brandy około pół do pierwszej. Za pi ęć trzecia, wlókł si ę do góry, powracaj ąc za pi ęć czwarta… Je żeli sprawy poszły źle, wtedy królewska twarz przybierała trupi odcie ń śmiertelno ści. Tak wi ęc, jednego wieczora, w bibliotece w Greater House, Brendan podniósł wzrok sponad jednego z uprzednio wybranych raportów Brytyjskiego Towarzystwa Medycznego i powiedział od niechcenia: — Ogromny krok w dziejach ludzko ści, nie s ądzi pan, sir? Potentium. Przyczyna tak wielu męskich l ęków przep ędzona jednym machni ęciem ró żdżki medycyny. Ju ż nigdy nie b ędzie wojen. — …Co ty tam Cholera znowu przynudzasz? — Potentium, sir. Lekarstwo na m ęsk ą potencj ę. Przetestowane, opatentowane i szeroko dost ępne. Stosowane dora źnie, sir. Jedna tabletka i szafa gra. Ju ż nigdy nie b ędzie wojen. Henryk patrzył si ę w przestrze ń przez dobre pi ęć minut, mrugaj ąc powoli i dr ętwo, niczym sowa. Poczym odwrócił głow ę i powiedział: — Nie, nie. Nie mo żna si ę miesza ć w cały ten biznes z miałpimi jajami. I to by było na tyle. I komu miał Brendan utyskiwa ć? Zwykł był mówi ć sobie, że hamowanie samego siebie dobrze mu słu ży. Ale by ć mo że była to jego osobista propaganda; a inna droga nigdy nie miała by ć przetestowana. Nie zmienia to faktu, że ło że, o którym ci ągle próbował nie my śle ć miało swojego wła ściciela, a tym wła ścicielem był pasywny samiec. Nie, nigdy nie istniał bardziej l ękliwy przypadek człowieka. Maj ąc wybór pomi ędzy cnot ą, a reifikacj ą jego szkolnego przezwiska, Cholera wybrał cnot ę. A wi ęc wszystko sko ńczyło si ę dosy ć wcze śnie: kiedy miał osiem lat.
— Po czterech godzinach sp ędzonych w Chateau, sir, mówiłem sobie „Hej, no niezła klapa”. Przeszli śmy ju ż przez wszystkie dwadzie ścia siedem łazienek. Nie wykryto ani braku białych wanien, ani braku mydła. Ale brakowało zbie żno ści linii, nie pasowały kolory tła. No i wtedy przypomniałem sobie o Żółtym Domu, sir. — No wła śnie, Cholera. — Gdzie Ksi ęż niczka cz ęsto… za żywała k ąpieli i przebierała si ę po grze w tenisa i przed pój ściem na basen. I wła śnie tam, sir, miało miejsce wtargni ęcie. Listewka w górnej cz ęś ci suszarki od strony wanny została cz ęś ciowo wyci ęta. Na półce nad bojlerem znale źli śmy Hortex DigiCam 5000. Wideodysk oczywi ście usuni ęto. Oughtred, który nadal jest na miejscu, donosi jak te ż si ę spodziewali śmy, że nie ma żadnych odcisków, a wszystkie numery i co tam jeszcze, zostały starte na gładko. — Czy uczynili śmy wi ęc Kurwa jakie ś post ępy? Chyba nie do ko ńca… Dwaj m ęż czy źni siedzieli w samochodzie ochrony przed Mansion House, budynkiem ratusza, gdzie Henryk miał zje ść rocznicowy obiad wraz z Brytyjskim Towarzystwem Architektonicznym (i gdzie pó źniej miał powiedzie ć „kilka słów”: kontynuujcie dobr ą prac ę i co tam jeszcze). Przez chwil ę wydawało si ę, że król poddaje si ę naciskowi otoczenia: babciny pokój na kółkach za śmiecony ekranami, nadajnikami, słuchawkami. Tu ż przed jego podbródkiem unosił si ę w zawieszeniu mikrofon, z czym ś co zdawało si ę
219 by ć skórzanym kondomem przypi ętym do jego trzonu. Na blacie le żał słoik Bovrilu 8 oraz umazana ły żka poło żna równo na pokrywce. — Mamy tego wi ęcej, sir. Ale ju ż teraz mo żemy wyci ągn ąć kilka wniosków. Znikome prawdopodobie ństwo motywu natury pieni ęż nej. Z pocz ątku my ślałem, có ż, DigiCam 5 jest warta z trzy tysi ące funtów — skoro ju ż j ą wnie śli, to dlaczego nie zabrali jej z powrotem. Fakt ten dosy ć dogodnie oczyszcza z zarzutów cały personel, co u świadomiłem sobie zaganiaj ąc ich na przesłuchanie. — Chyba nie bardzo rozumiem. — Słu żą cy po prostu nie mogli wiedzie ć nic o kamerze, gdy ż albo by o niej donie śli, b ądź te ż ukradliby j ą. Oughtred potwierdził to w do ść spektakularny sposób niecał ą godzinę temu. Kamera DigiCam 5 jest niesamowicie przeno śnym urz ądzeniem — ale akurat nie ta. Ona jest cała w złocie, sir… Henryk bekn ął niezdrowo zasłaniaj ąc si ę r ęką. — Jak podle si ę przez to wszystko czuj ę. Mój brzusio jest wrakiem. B ędę musiał wygłosi ć mow ę z podwójnie skrzy żowanymi nogami. Co oni chc ą nam powiedzie ć, Kurwa? — Chc ą nam powiedzie ć, że s ą bogaci i pragn ą czego ś innego. Nie pieni ędzy. — Có ż innego posiadam prócz pieni ędzy? Jestem monarch ą konstytucyjnym i z definicji nie posiadam władzy. Chwał ę, o tak. Ale żadnej władzy. — Czy chwała jest władz ą — zapytał Urquhart-Gordon. I dodał, mówi ąc sam do siebie: czy jest władz ą w rozumieniu negatywnym?
***
Nast ępnego poranka, kiedy ostro żnie przezwyci ęż ył fili żank ę herbaty cytrynowej (zwykle zjadłby typowe angielskie śniadanie: normalny zestaw plus mnóstwo kotletów i zapiekanek), Henryk IX odebrał wiadomo ść od swojej prywatnej sekretarki:
Do Pana wiadomo ści, sir. Przepisane słowo w słowo garbi ąc si ę nad ksi ęgą go ści Chateau. Prosz ę wybaczy ć nieformalno ść . Obecni podczas pobytu Ksi ęż niczki (chronologicznie od przyjazdu):
Henry R; Bill i Joan Sussex; Brendan Urquhart-Gordon; Ksi ąż e Alfred i Chicago Jones; Chippy i Catherine Edenderry; Sułtan i Sułtanka z Peraku; Boy i Emma Robville; Juliet Ormonde; Lady Arabella Mont; John i Nicola Kimbolton; Joy Wilson; Ksi ąż e Mohammad Faed (i żony); Hank Davis; Emir Kataru (i żony); He Zizhen. NB: w jednym momencie w Chateau przebywało 47 nieletnich, w tym 15 nastoletnich chłopców.
Ach, He, He, He Zizhen… Lekko ponad rok po wypadku Królowej, Henryk znalazł si ę przy stole sam z Edith Beresford-Hale. Jakkolwiek łatwo dało si ę to wytłumaczy ć (i miłosiernie wybaczy ć), wyt ęż one, dr żą ce, sapi ące fiasko, które nast ąpiło potem wystarczyło, aby przekona ć Króla: te rzeczy ju ż si ę sko ńczyły. Edith nadal była wdow ą, czy mo że została ni ą ponownie, a były te ż inne zmiany. Na przykład, miała teraz sze ść dziesi ąt trzy lata. Jednak Henryk nie brał na to poprawki i był jak najbardziej przygotowany oddali ć si ę na paluszkach z kapciami w dłoni. — Ostatni raz — powiedział w po śpiechu do siebie. — Co jest z nim nie tak, Hotty — zapytała Królowa, szorstko
8 g ęsty wywar z wołowiny
220 poci ągaj ąc za Excalibur raz czy dwa i odrzucaj ąc go na bok w zniecierpliwieniu. — Daj spokój, to bezsensu! W rzeczy samej. Co było z nim nie tak? Potem przyszła He… — Czy mog ę powiedzie ć ci co ś w tajemnicy — zapytała swoim nienagannym angielskim, doł ączaj ąc do niego, kiedy palił cygaro na balkonie Chi ńskiej Ambasady w Pary żu. Henryk odwrócił si ę (i zauwa żył nagły brak jego ochroniarza, Kapitana Mate’a). Jego otoczenie było obc ą mu publik ą, a tu nagle kto ś w dwójnasób inny: wystawny czarny pompadour, minimalna asymetria czarnych oczu bez powiek (jedno oko szcz ęś liwe, drugie smutne), mocne z ęby raczej niedbale uło żone na dziobie. Henryk przechylił sw ą rudo-blond głow ę pod i ście ojcowskim k ątem… Wyja śnijmy co ś sobie: pi ękno ści które zapisały si ę w historii świata (kobiety stale prze śladowane przez płaczliwych trylionerów) nacierały na niego całkiem nieprzerwanie przez ostatnie dwana ście miesi ęcy. Wiele utalentowanych j ęzyków szorowało — praktycznie osuszało — królewskie ucho. A Król mógł si ę wzdryga ć, ale jako ś zawsze skłaniał si ę ku temu, czekaj ąc gdzie ś w sobie na reakcj ę, która nigdy nie przyszła… He Zizhen stan ęła na paluszkach. Potem nast ąpił kontakt. Wydawało si ę jakby motyl zasiedlił si ę gdzie ś za membran ą ucha — albo lepiej, dwa motyle; dwa parz ące si ę motyle. W jednej chwili jego równoległe serce (takie apatyczne, leniwe tak zdecydowanie słabowite) wydawało si ę by ć szeroko ści wieszaka na r ęcznik. Pod świadomie, w snach, martwiło go to. Seksualny zbieg okoliczno ści: on sam, w Chateau, z uczuciem inno ści trzyma He w ramionach, a po drugiej stronie trawnika Ksi ęż niczka zaskoczona w Żółtym Domu.
14 Lutego (11.20 rano): Lot 101
Pierwszy Oficer Nick Chopko: Je żeli zaprojektowano go, aby to zrobił, zrobi to. Bo że, jestem zm ęczony. Co ty na to, Kapitanie? In żynier Lotu Hal Ward: Guy mówił mi, że był tak zm ęczony przylatuj ąc do Honolulu, że czuł si ę jakby był pijany. I to nie wstawiony, lecz kompletnie nawalony. Kapitan John Macmanaman: Czytałem w AUN, że obaj piloci w samolocie lokalnych linii zasn ęli w jakie ś dwie minuty po starcie. Kokpit jest szczelnie zamkni ęty od wewn ątrz i raczej nie chcemy… Chopko: Stewardessy krzyczały i waliły w drzwi. Byli ju ż prawie w przestrzeni kosmicznej, kiedy si ę ockn ęli. Macmanaman: Nie chciałby ś tam dzisiaj dotrze ć… Wiecie jak Aztekowie nazywali komety? „Dymi ące gwiazdy”. Przez ich ogon, chyba. B ędziesz mógł si ę zdrzemn ąć Nick. Ale wpierw musicie mi wybaczy ć na sekund ę. Chc ę przywita ć si ę z kim ś z pasa żerów.
— Jak tam start? Wystarczaj ąco wyboisty — zapytał. — Och. Ufam ci John — odpowiedziała Reynolds. Ubrany w uniform niczym w kom żę , z czapk ą w dłoni, nachylił si ę, aby j ą pocałowa ć. Męż czyzna na siedzeniu 2A rzucił Kapitanowi przelotne lubie żne spojrzenie, ale wkrótce ponownie wiercił si ę w fotelu wygl ądaj ąc przez okno i kontroluj ąc funkcjonowanie skrzydła. — Witamy w świecie wdów. Jak sobie radzisz, Rennie?
221 — Dobrze. Nie, czuj ę si ę wspaniale. Jest uczucie pustki, a koniec był makabryczny, ale nie oszukujmy si ę. Znałe ś go.
W luku ciało Royce’a Traynora (pełne wosku i formaldehydu) oczekiwało z obna żonymi zębami.
222 Gda ńsk ……………………….
Oświadczam, że wersja papierowa pracy dyplomowej pt. ……………………………
…………………………………………………………………………………. zgodna jest z wersj ą elektroniczn ą zał ączon ą na płycie CD, zapisan ą w formacie Microsoft Word (.DOC) i Adobe Acrobat (.PDF).
…………………………………. podpis autora pracy dyplomowej
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Ja, ni żej podpisana(y) o świadczam, i ż przedło żona praca dyplomowa została wykonana przeze mnie samodzielnie, nie narusza praw autorskich, interesów prawnych i materialnych innych osób .
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