Mercier and Camier (10 page)

This should greatly simplify matters, said Mercier.

And they talk of law and order, said Camier.

We would never have hit on it alone, said Mercier.

Best now go to Helen's, said Camier.

Indubitably, said Mercier.

Are you sure we were not seen? said Camier.

Chance knows how to handle it, said Mercier. Deep down I never counted but on her.

I don't see what difference it makes, said Camier.

You will, said Mercier. The flowers are in the vase and the flock back in the fold.

I don't understand, said Camier.

They went then mostly in silence the short way they had still to go, now exposed to the full fury of the wind, now through zones of calm, Mercier striving to grasp the full consequences for them of what had chanced, Camier to make sense of the phrase he had just heard. But they strove in vain, the one to conceive their good fortune, the other to arrive at a meaning, for they were weary, in need of sleep, buffeted by the wind, while in their skulls, to crown their discomfiture, a pelting of insatiable blows.

V

Evening of the eighth (?) day.

At Helen's.

The umbrella.

Next day at Helen's.

Pastimes.

Next afternoon in the street.

The bar.

Mercier and Camier confer.

Result of this conference.

At Helen's.

Next day noon in front of Helen's.

The umbrella.

Looks at the sky.

The umbrella.

More looks at the sky.

Ladysmith.

The umbrella.

More looks at the sky.

The umbrella.

Mercier departs.

Mercier's encounters.

Mercier's mind.

The chains.

VI

Same evening.

Last bar but one.

Mother Church and artificial insemination.

The giant barman.

Mercier's contribution to the controversy of the universals.

The umbrella, end.

The bicycle, end.

In the street.

The ingle-nook.

The hose and the blowpipe.

The wind.

The fatal alley.

The sack.

The gulf.

The fatal alley.

Distant lands.

The fatal alley.

The constable.

The gulf.

“The flowers are in the vase.”

The wind.

The endocranian blows.

A road still carriageable climbs over the high moorland. It cuts across vast turfbogs, a thousand feet above sea-level, two thousand if you prefer. It leads to nothing any more. A few ruined forts, a few ruined dwellings. The sea is not far, just visible beyond the valleys dipping eastward, pale plinth as pale as the pale wall of sky. Tarns lie hidden in the folds of the moor, invisible from the road, reached by faint paths, under high overhanging crags. All seems flat, or gently undulating, and there at a stone's throw these high crags, all unsuspected by the wayfarer. Of granite what is more. In the west the chain is at its highest, its peaks exalt even the most downcast eyes, peaks commanding the vast champaign land, the celebrated pastures, the golden vale. Before the travellers, as far as eye can reach, the road winds on into the south, uphill, but imperceptibly. None ever pass this way but beauty-spot hogs and fanatical trampers. Under its heather mask the quag allures, with an allurement not all mortals can resist. Then it swallows them up or the mist comes down. The city is not far either, from certain points its lights can be seen by night, its light rather, and by day its haze. Even the piers of the harbour can be distinguished, on very clear days, of the two harbours, tiny arms in the glassy sea outflung, known flat, seen raised. And the islands and promontories, one has only to stop and turn at the right place, and of course by night the beacon lights, both flashing and revolving. It is here one would lie down, in a hollow bedded with dry heather, and fall asleep, for the last
time, on an afternoon, in the sun, head down among the minute life of stems and bells, and fast fall asleep, fast farewell to charming things. It's a birdless sky, the odd raptor, no song. End of descriptive passage.

What is that cross? said Camier.

There they go again.

Planted in the bog, not far from the road, but too far for the inscription to be visible, a plain cross stood.

I once knew, said Mercier, but no longer.

I too once knew, said Camier, I'm almost sure.

But he was not quite sure.

It was the grave of a nationalist, brought here in the night by the enemy and executed, or perhaps only the corpse brought here, to be dumped. He was buried long after, with a minimum of formality. His name was Masse, perhaps Massey. No great store was set by him now, in patriotic circles. It was true he had done little for the cause. But he still had this monument. All that, and no doubt much more, Mercier and perhaps Camier had once known, and all forgotten.

How aggravating, said Camier.

Would you like to go and look? said Mercier.

And you? said Camier.

As you please, said Mercier.

They had cut themselves cudgels before leaving the timber-line. They made good headway, for their age. They wondered which would drop first. They went a good half mile without a word, no longer arm in arm, but each keeping to his side of the road whose whole width therefore, or nearly, lay between them. They opened their mouths simultaneously, Mercier to say, Strange impression sometimes—, and Camier, Do you think there are worms—?

Pardon, said Camier, what was that you said?

No no, said Mercier, you.

No no, said Camier, nothing of interest.

No matter, said Mercier, let's have it.

I assure you, said Camier.

I beg of you, said Mercier.

After you, said Camier.

I interrupted you, said Mercier.

I
interrupted
you
, said Camier.

Silence fell again. Mercier broke it, or rather Camier.

Have you caught a chill? said Mercier.

For Camier had coughed.

It's a little early to be sure, said Camier.

I do hope it's nothing, said Mercier.

What a beautiful day, said Camier.

Is it not? said Mercier.

How beautiful the bog, said Camier.

Most beautiful, said Mercier.

Will you look at that heather, said Camier.

Mercier looked with ostentation at the heather and whistled incredulously.

Underneath there is turf, said Camier.

One would never think so, said Mercier.

Camier coughed again.

Do you think there are worms, said Camier, the same as in the earth.

Turf has remarkable properties, said Mercier.

But are there worms? said Camier.

Shall we dig a little hole and see? said Mercier.

Certainly not, said Camier, what an idea.

He coughed a third time.

The day was indeed fine, at least what passes for fine, in those parts, but cool, and night at hand.

Where shall we pass the night, said Camier, have we thought of that?

Strange impression, said Mercier, strange impression sometimes that we are not alone. You not?

I am not sure I understand, said Camier.

Now quick, now slow, that is Camier all over.

Like the presence of a third party, said Mercier. Enveloping us. I have felt it from the start. And I am anything but psychic.

Does it bother you? said Camier.

At first no, said Mercier.

And now? said Camier.

It begins to bother me a little, said Mercier.

Night was indeed at hand, and a good thing for them, without perhaps their yet admitting it, that night was at hand.

Hell, said Mercier, who the devil are you, Camier?

Me? said Camier. I am Camier, Francis Xavier.

I might well ask myself the same question, said Mercier.

Where do we plan to pass the night? said Camier. Under the stars?

There are ruins, said Mercier, or we can walk till we drop.

A little further on they did indeed come to the ruins of a house. A good half-century old by the look of them. It was almost night.

Now we must choose, said Mercier.

Between what? said Camier.

Ruin and collapse, said Mercier.

Could we not somehow combine them? said Camier.

We shall never make the next, said Mercier.

They walked on, if it could be called walking. Finally Mercier said:

I don't think I can go much further.

So soon? said Camier. What is it? The legs? The feet?

The head rather, said Mercier.

It was now night. The road vanished in darkness a few yards ahead of them. It was too early for the stars to give light. The moon would not rise till later. It was the darkest hour. They stood still, all but hidden from each other by the width of the road. Camier approached Mercier.

We'll turn back, said Camier. Lean on me.

It's my head, I tell you, said Mercier.

You see shapes that do not exist, said Camier. Groves, where none are. Strange animals loom, giant horses and cows, out of the murk do you but raise your head. High barns too and enormous ricks. And all more and more blurred and fuzzy, as if you were going blind before your very eyes.

Take me by the hand if you wish, said Mercier.

So hand in hand they retraced their steps, the big hand in the little, in silence. Finally Mercier said:

Your hand is clammy and you cough, perhaps you have senile tuberculosis.

Camier did not answer. They stumbled on. Finally Mercier said:

I hope we have not overstepped it.

Camier did not answer. There are times when the simplest words are slow to signify. Here “it” was the laggard. But do him justice, soon he called a sudden halt.

It's a little off the road, said Mercier, we may have passed it unawares, so black is the night.

One would have seen the track, said Camier.

So one would have thought, said Mercier.

Camier advanced, drawing Mercier in his wake.

Keep level with me for God's sake, said Camier.

Consider yourself fortunate, said Mercier, that you don't have to carry me. Lean on me, those were your words.

True, said Camier.

I decline, said Mercier, not wishing to be a burden. And when I lag a little you berate me.

Their progress was now no better than a totter. They overflowed on the bog, with risk of fatal consequences, to them, but nothing doing. Soon falls began to enter into play, now Camier accompanying Mercier (in his fall), now the reverse, and now the two collapsing simultaneously, as one man, without preconcertation and in perfect interindependency. They did not immediately rise, having practised in their youth the noble art, but rise in the end they did. And even at the worst moments their hands kept faith, although no knowing now which gave and which received the clasp, so confounded the confusion at this stage. Their anxiety (regarding the ruins) was no doubt in part to blame, and regrettably so, being ill–founded. For they came to them in the end, to those ruins they feared perhaps far behind them, they even had the strength to gain their inmost parts till these were all about them and they lay there as in a tomb. It was only then, sheltered from the cold they did not feel, from the unvexing damp, that they accepted rest, sleep rather, and that their hands were freed to go about their old business.

They sleep side by side, the deep doze of the old. They will speak together yet, but only at haphazard as the saying is. But did they ever speak together otherwise? In any case nothing is known for sure, henceforth. Here would be the place to make an end. After all it is the end. But there is still day, day after day, afterlife all life long, the dust of all that is dead and buried rising, eddying, settling, burying again. So let him wake, Mercier, Camier, no matter, Camier, Camier wakes, it's night, still night, he doesn't know the time, no matter, he gets up and moves away, in the dark, lies down again a little further on, still in the ruins, they are extensive. Why? No knowing. No knowing such things any more. Good reasons are never lacking for trying somewhere else, a little further on, a little further back. So good in the event that Mercier follows suit, at much the same moment no doubt. The whole question of priority, so luminous hitherto, is from now on obscure. There they are then lying, or perhaps merely crouching, at a reasonable remove from each other compared to their customary cleavings. They drowse off again, or perhaps simply lose themselves in thought. Before dawn in any case, well before, one of them gets up, say Mercier, fair is fair, and goes to look if Camier is still there, that is in the place where he thinks he left him, that is in the place where in the first instance they had dropped as one. Is that clear? But Camier is no longer there, how could he be? Then Mercier to himself, Well I never, the little rascal, he has stolen a march on me, and picks his way through the rubble, his eyes agoggle (for the least ray of light), his arms like antennae probing the air, his feet fumbling, gains and climbs the track leading to the road. Almost at the same moment, not precisely, that wouldn't work, almost, a little sooner, a little later, no importance, hardly any, Camier executes the same manoeuvre. The pig, he says, he has given me the slip, and gropes his way out with infinite precautions, life is so precious, pain so redoubtable, the old skin so slow to mend, out of this hospitable chaos, without a single word or other sign of gratitude, one does not return thanks to stone, one should. Such roughly must have been the course of events. There they are then back on the road, appreciably recruited in spite of all, and each knows the other is at hand, feels, believes, fears, hopes, denies he is at hand, and can do nothing about it.
Now and then they halt, all ears for the footfalls, footfalls distinguishable from all the other footfalls, and they are legion, softly falling on the face of the earth, more or less softly, day and night. But in the dark a man sees what is not, hears what is not, gives way to imaginings, there is no sense in giving heed, and yet God wot he does. So it may well be that one or the other stops, sits down on the side of the road, almost in the bog, to rest, or the better to think, or the better to stop thinking, good reasons are never lacking for coming to a stop, and that the other catches up, the one left behind, and seeing this kind of shade does not believe his eyes, at least not enough to run to its arms, or to kick it arse over tip into the quags. The sitter sees too, unless his eyes are closed, in any case he hears, unless he has gone to sleep, and taxes himself with hallucination, but half-heartedly. Then gradually he rises and the other sits, and so on, you see the gag, it can last them all the way to town, each yeaing and naying the other to no avail. For needless to say it is townward they are bound, as always when they leave it, as after long vain reckonings the head falls back among the data. But beyond the eastering valleys the sky changes, it's the foul old sun yet again, punctual as a hangman. Take a firm hold on yourselves now, we're going to see the glories of the earth once more, and on top of that ourselves once more, the night won't have made a ha'porth of difference, it's only the lid on the latrine, lucky we it has one, our brethren are there to dispel our hopes if any, our multitudinous brethren, and the rising gorge, and all the hoary old pangs. So there they are in view again, of each other, what less can you expect, they had only to set out sooner. Whose turn now, Camier's, then turn worm and have a good look. You can't believe your eyes, no matter, you will, for it's himself and no error, your boon old weary hairy skeleton of a butty, bet to the world, within stone's throw, but don't throw it, think of the good old days when you wallowed in the swill together. Mercier himself bows to the irrecusable, a habit one contracts among the axioms, while Camier raises his hand in a gesture at once prudent, courtly, elegant and uncompromising. Mercier hesitates an instant before acknowledging this salute, unexpected to say the least, which opportunity to hurry on Camier is not slow to seize. But even to the dead a man may wave, they do not benefit
but the hearse squad are gratified, and the friends and relatives, and the horses, it helps them to believe they are surviving, the waver himself is the livelier for it too. Finally Mercier not at all put out raises in his turn his hand, not any old hand but the heterologous, in the affably selfless flourish prelates use when consecrating some portion of favoured matter. But to have done with these inanities, at the first fork Camier stopped and his heart beat fast with the thought of what to pack into a last long salute gravid to bursting with unprecedented delicacy. It was true countryside at last, quickset hedgerows, mud, liquid manure, rocks, wallows, cow-shit, hovels, and here and there a form unmistakably human scratching at his plot since the first scabs of dawn, or shifting his dung, with a spade, having lost his shovel and his fork being broken. A giant tree, jumble of black boughs, stands between the branching roads. The left leads straight to the town, at least what passes for straight in those parts, the second after long meandering through a rash of pestilential hamlets. Camier then, having reached this juncture, stopped and turned, whereon Mercier also stopped and half turned, all set to fly. But his fears were unfounded, for Camier merely raised his hand, in a gesture of salute similar in all respects to that with which he had already so kindly obliged, while darting the other, rigid at full stretch and doubtless quivering, at the right branch. A moment thus and then, with a kind of heroic precipitancy, he sprang off in the direction indicated and vanished, as into a burning house where three generations of his nearest and dearest were awaiting rescue. Reassured, but not entirely, Mercier advanced with caution to the fork, looked in the direction Camier had taken, saw no sign of him and hastened away in the other. Unstuck at last! Such roughly must have been the course of events. The earth dragged on into the light, the brief interminable light.