The Information Junkie (13 page)

How's it been hanging while I've been away? Phew, a lot's been happening to me, wait till I tell you. Older? Yeah. Wiser? Yeah—lashings of that. Now, listen: Belinda took me upstarts (oops! I mean
upstairs
—can any psychologist tell me what my slips mean?) by the hand, we stripped each other off and celebrated Christmas.

So, we're back downstairs having a late afternoon tea on Boxing Day. Alan's fulfilled all his culinary responsibilities and is relaxing. Yeliena's made the mince pies, the pastry produced to a traditional Siberian peasant recipe. Buddies—it was
black
! They were plumbiferous, know what I mean? Mince pies? More like Stalin [
Not his birth name: Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili became Stalin. Stalin is Russian for steel. (The Dzhugashvili Purges...? I don't really think so.) It's a bit like 'Heil Schicklgruber!' More comic than menacing. Hitler's father, Alois, was a bastard—literally—so originally took his mother's name: Schicklgruber. Five years later she (Maria Anna) married Johann Hiedler who was presumed to be the father of Alois—although this was never established beyond doubt, and the opportunity was not taken to legitimise the
boy. When Maria died Hiedler disappeared, to reappear thirty years later, now spelling his name Hitler, and to swear paternity of Alois. So Alois legally took the surname Hitler in his thirty-ninth year—twelve years before the birth of Adolf. Thus a dictator was guaranteed a credible name.
] pies. Stalin stodge; Stalinist stodge. Stalinist purgatives? No, these were Stalinist binders. Bad news, buddies. However, we eat them, to avoid offending her, but thankful that this time she's not brought the samovar.

Anyway, at the moment I'm walking by the Ouse, just outside Lewes, East Sussex. It's May the 12th—a beautiful sunny day, and we're recovering from one of the wettest (in fact,
the
wettest) autumns recorded. Lewes was particularly badly hit: shops and houses flooded, but things are getting back to normal. In the distance above the line of trees is what looks like a floating cigar tube.[
An airliner on its way to Gatwick, I assume, and the angle of view renders the wings invisible. The sky is impossibly blue. Fresh—as if issued..
..]

Right, so once Christmas was over and Alan and Yeliena had gone home to Barnes, Belinda and I sat down to work out our futures...our future. Oops, bit of a slip there, buddies.

'Charlie,' she said, '...'

Here's something to chew on, buddies. I told you in parts two and three—or was it one and two? Do me a favour—could you check yourself, I'm rather tied up at the moment............................

.........................................................................................................

..........................................................................................................

Sorry, I was a bit rude, there. I've just checked: it
was
parts two and three.

Now, I told you that Charlie ended up having to go to the doctor, who sent him to a psychologist. Guess what really happened? You've got it in one: I had to go to
my
doctor (no, no—not Charlie's doctor; I'm talking about
me
now, not Charlie). So, my doc said:

'I think a course of medication.'

Shortly afterwards, when I went to visit him again saying I was beginning to feel better, he said,

'I still think you should see the psychologist.'

And that's exactly what happened to Charlie, didn't it? If you think too hard, too deeply, you call forward the future. And if you live it mentally in advance you're cursed to live it again, physically, in the real time scale. Is that what Eliot meant when he said that times past, present and future were omnipresent? (
Four Quartets,
'Burnt Norton'.)

A period of such intense living can often (only) be followed by a stretch of
under
living. (Mania followed by, say, depression.) There is, I believe, a battle (oops! I mean a
balance
) to be struck. Yes, folks: always hit a cheerful psychic. [Think about it. Another word for
hit
beginning with S; a synonym for
cheerful
starting H; an alternative to
psychic
, first letter M. Spank a high mahatma? Slap a heedless mystic? Sock a humorous mind-reader? Smack a high-spirited mystagogue?]

Sometimes, buddies, there seems to be distance between me and Charlie—two discrete entities; at other times not—just the one persona. What do you make of that? Perhaps I'm playing at being Charlie: acting. There's no doubt that there are bits of me in Charlie and parts of Charlie in me. But I can't tell you about only me. Like displaying my urine-stained bed, that would be self-indulgence, so I dress it up as Charlie. Charlie Smith-Jones-Brown. The blonde, the brunette and the redhead. Are you beginning to detect a pattern?
One—two—three.

Who am I, then? Charlie or narrator? Both and neither, I suppose. Rather do I think of myself as a perpetual actor whose mask keeps slipping. Is this giving the game away, like a bad magician revealing his secrets? And that's poor entertainment, isn't it? Feel free to chip in whenever you like, by the way. I
value
your views because your credit's high in my rating. Yes: so, the whole thing's a performance.

Okay, let me call upon precedents. Sterne, first, then the twentieth century ones: B. S. Johnson, the young Amis, to a certain extent...Johnny Fowles. In chapter thirteen of
French Lieutenant
Fowles says:
I have disgracefully broken the illusion? No. My characters still exist, and in a reality no less, or no more, real than the one I have just broken. Fiction is woven into all [....] We are all in flight from the real reality
.

Note
'Real reality'.

Anyway, if it's good enough for Johnny, it's good enough for me. There's that phrase again:
good enough.

Ibsen, too, as I recall. In the last act of
Peer Gynt
, the eponymous character is shipwrecked and is afraid he'll die. 'Don't worry,' says his companion. 'The leading man is never killed off halfway through act five.'

So, what's good enough for Henrik, is good enough for me. A broken illusion can be reconstructed, but it will never be quite the same. There is something uncomfortable about the new reality. Before, as a reader, you could look into Magritte's mirror and see your face but now when you look into the mirror there's danger. Uncomfortable as it may be you run the risk of seeing the back of your head. Or nothing at all. We construct our own comfortable realities and fictions. In many ways I should like to be Charlie; perhaps, you—the gentles—or, at least, the females amongst you, think of yourselves as Belindas. Perhaps not, if you're a feminist—although it's unlikely you would have got this far because of Charlie's laddish behaviour. Unless, of course, you're looking for ammunition. Beaten to death by my own script. Wow, buddies, is that what I'm asking for? Aw, come on buddies, cut me some slack. (I'm not a lover of many North American idioms, but I
do
like that one.)

Seem to be back into my stride again, buddies. No, not
strides
, not slacks or trousers—flying, motoring again, cooking on gas.

However, back to the story. I left Belinda and Charlie planning their futures (or future), so:

'Charlie,' she says, '...do you think that...that...that'

LET'S STOP BELINDA THERE.

I think it's time to cut the umbilical. Mm? So that Charlie, B and so on can have their autonomy...? No—so that I can have mine. Charlie's dogged me for too long, poised above both my shoulders. I want to liberate him so that I, too, can be free.

'Bye Charlie. Time to grow up, to face the truth, face reality. Real reality. I'm too old, gentles, to carry on at that pace, too tired. Charlie's got the energy, time to let him use it.

So, here am I standing at the back of an empty auditorium. There are two people on stage. One looks like Charlie but the other's indistinct. Perhaps it's Belinda, perhaps Ffion. I nearly said,
Perhaps it's me
, but the other is too blurred to be certain. (Who is that
other
?) Charlie's smiling. And that's how we leave him: smiling about his future.

No, I do feel loss and hurt, but I can't detain him any longer. Let's uncage the bird. He has a life to lead. And the
other
is fading, too; Charlie now stands on his own two foots.[Do you favour
roofs
or
rooves
? I had my early education in Scotland. Who said that Scottish education is the best in the world? Probably a Scot. I'm sure I was taught
rooves
, although
COD
marks it
disp.
Chambers
is silent on the point. I am also certain we were taught, 'Our Father,
who
art in Heaven...' Two random thoughts, buddies.]

He looks up, soaking his face in the spotlight, before making a decision to turn left, no—right, and the spot follows him. Please, respect his wishes—he's a little tired of being prodded, nudged and gawped at.

He's gone, the stage is empty, the spotlight fades, the safety curtain drops before the house lights fade to black. Then to a black darker than imagination.

18

DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN. Charlie won't leave me alone.

I've encouraged him to be independent but he keeps popping up behind my shoulder. Listen to him:

Hi, buddies, I'm back!!! You didn't really think that cutting the umbilical would get rid of me, did you? Friends, Romanovs and country bums, you don't see me off that easily. I come to berate Roddy not to prise him (out of my life). I'll ring in your ears for some time yet. Trust me: I know me. Trust yourselves: you knew the story wouldn't be straightforward. Life ain't, so why should a tale (told by an idiot) be (any) different?

Now, let me take you back to that day shortly after Christmas when B and I were discussing our futures, or future.

Oh, yes, gentles: one night—or, more accurately, one morning, in the deadest part of the day when your resilience is at its lowest, you'll wake and see me standing there. Yep, my words will be ringing in your ears. I can't forget him, you'll say, and you won't be able to get back to sleep. You'll feel like the villain waiting for the fuzz to make their dawn raid. [
You might also feel like John Bayley when he stayed with Iris Murdoch in Lamb House in Rye, East Sussex—previously the home of Henry James. Bayley tells us, in
‘Iris and the Friends’
, that he had come to Rye to give a talk on ghosts and James, and was invited to stay overnight in the house.

Just before dawn he woke up with a sense of depression and, unable to get back to sleep, rose and looked out of the bedroom window. The view up the cobbled street towards the graveyard and the church was one which Bayley thought James, the insomniac, must have known well. Bayley felt he was sensing the same desolation that bachelor James must have felt about his emotionally unfulfilled life. Iris smiled when Bayley told her the next day, but he was convinced that Henry James had visited them
.]

Anyway, Belinda and I—

OH, STOP THIS PRETENCE.

I mean, Belinda and
Charlie
. So:

Belinda and Charlie were discussing their future and she said,

'Charlie, do you think that we should wait for him?'

'Yes,' he said. 'Can't do anything without Roderick,' and they both stared at me.

Oh, come on, you two. Cut me some slack. What are you sniggering at?

'You've plonked us here, mate,' said Charlie. 'What do we do now?'

Belinda smiled and lay back provocatively. 'Come on then, genius. Let's see what you're made of.'

I'm sorry, I have absolutely no idea what happens next.

Charlie said, 'You can't just leave us here, lying on the carpet. You have a responsibility to fulfil.'

You've beaten me. Unless you now exploit your autonomy this whole thing will rapidly unravel.

Belinda sat up. 'Roderick...'

Please call me Rod.

'Rod, listen to me. I'm part of you—and it's no use flinching like that. At your age—'

Aw, come on, I'm only fifty-two—

She laughed. 'At your age you should know better.'

There's no fool like an old fool?

'Got it in one, buddy,' said Charlie.

'It's also about time,' she went on, 'that you admitted the feminine side of your personality.'

They both laughed. 'Look at him now!'

I scratched my head.

What do you want? More sex?

They crossed their arms provocatively.

More money...? More luck...? More adventure...? More risk...?

Charlie came up very close. 'More life.' He paused. 'Can you handle that, Rod—or, should I say, God?'

Please, don't blaspheme. I'm in enough trouble as it is, having broken all the rules.

'Rod,' said Belinda, 'can't you recall your prepared response?'

Viz...?

'The final rule is:
There are no rules.
'

(
Did I say that?
)

Did I say that?

'No,' she smiled. 'You
thought
it.'

Oh, so you're both mediums, now?

Charlie said, 'Rod, you've made us both middle-aged. We want to live the youth you never gave us.'

(Oh, dear, there's a bit—or a lot—of me in him. And one day, later in life, he's really going to wake up disillusioned.)

Charlie smiled before going on: 'And then we want our youth perpetuated.'

There are a few technical problems, not to mention metaphysical and moral ones...

'Surely not insurmountable for someone of your genius?' Belinda laughed.

Genius? Why do you keep saying that? I've never claimed to be one.

'Oh, yes you have—in your mind—whenever you had a piece rejected:
Don't you know you're suppressing a genius?
But the technical problem could be resolved quite easily...'