kagablog

From The Life of Henry Fuckit, 1950-2015

He got up and went to the window and looked out to sea. “Looks like the weather’s changing, too,” he said. Henry got to his feet to look.

“Looks alright to me. How can you tell?”

“You see that high cirrus? The long thin streaks and swirls? There’s a cold front on the way; and look, the wind’s changed.”

Henry sat down. It was past eleven and his thoughts began to occupy themselves with the lighting up of his pipe and the opening of his bottom drawer. Bergson turned away from the window and resumed his seat.

“What was it that caused you to see the light, Mr Bergson?” Henry asked politely. “What prompted the Copernican Revolution? What transported you from the chill periphery to the radiant core? Your conversion, Sir. As a student of the varieties of metaphysical transformation I earnestly await the particulars of your metamorphosis. And I’m specifically interested in the catalyst that brought about transmutation from one state to the other. Proceed, if you will.”

“Thank you. If you’ll allow me, I’ll do just that. It happened in a very low-key, mundane sort of way. You’ll be disappointed if you’re hoping for something dramatic. It was a Saturday afternoon, about a year after my wife had left with the children and I was cleaning out drawers and cupboards. The house was sold and I was in the process of moving to a flat. I came across a pile of old birthday cards and Christmas cards and added them to the pile of useless junk that had been hoarded over the years. A card fell to the floor and when I stooped to pick it up I noticed there was a religious or sentimental verse printed inside. You know the type?”

“I do. Something on the lines of a nice little aphorism like, ‘A true gift comes from the heart and not the purse.’ Or a lovely heartfelt verse like,

‘One brilliant sun in a sky of blue
One perfect rose sparkling with dew,
One golden friendship - tried and true
Reminds me that there’s just one YOU!’

And there’s endless Roman good sense: ‘If you are wise you will mingle one thing with the other: not hoping without doubt, not doubting without hope.’ Of course, the Bible is an inexhaustible source for this kind of thing. Yes, I know the type of thing. What did your one say?”

Bergson paused awhile to allow Henry’s piffle to die away, dissipate, drift out of the window. “I picked it up and read the words. ‘Raise the stone and there thou shalt find me; cleave the wood and there I am. Let not him who seeks cease until he finds, and when he finds he shall be astonished. Astonished he shall reach the Kingdom, and having reached the Kingdom, he shall rest.’”

“Aha!” Henry cried, snapping his fingers in the air. “I’d put my cock and both balls on a block that that’s one of the Oxyrhynchus sayings of Jesus! I know it well. My uncle Aubrey Witherspoon was very fond of it.”

Surprise had proliferated all over Bergson’s face. “Well, I’m glad such a cultivated person as your uncle shares my appreciation. The moment I read these words I knew my life was changed. You know the expression, “The scales fell from my eyes”? That was how I suddenly saw the world that Saturday afternoon. I was astonished. Everything was so much simpler. It was all there, all I needed to do was use my eyes, my senses. Do I sound like a maniac?”

“No, no, no! Rest assured, you’re in good company. I myself have had several mystical experiences, usually whilst in a state of mild drunkenness. I take it you hadn’t been drinking? In concrete terms how did this altered state of consciousness affect your life? Did you immediately say ‘Fuck The Mutual’ and resign?”

“Yes. On the Monday I handed in my resignation and a huge weight fell from me.” He smiled, almost proudly, at the recollection of his bold and momentous step. “It was all so very strange and inexplicable. ‘Turn the stone, cleave the wood, and I am there.’ Just how those simple words could have triggered such a profound change remains a mystery to me. And since that time the voice has fallen silent, permanently, I hope.”

“Most interesting, I must say. But how did you make the transition from life insurance and pensions to naval dockyards? More inspiration?”

“In a way. After I resigned I didn’t know what I was going to do but I was largely unconcerned about the future. I was so happy to be free, you understand. Then one day in the week, the weather was perfect, I took a drive to Boulders - you know where that is? A mile or two beyond the Dockyard, just before Seaforth. I was pretty well oblivious of the Dockyard at that stage. I went for a swim, I’ve always been a keen swimmer, and then lay back in the hot sun on one of the huge brown boulders that slope into the water. It was around midday. An old Morris Minor pulled up in the little gravel car park above me and I saw two men jump out and come hurrying towards me. In their fifties, they were fit-looking and businesslike, wearing nothing but swimming briefs and with their diving goggles already strapped to their heads, ready to be pulled down over their eyes. Snorkels dangled from their head-straps. One man humped an inflated inner tube with a net, and of course they both carried flippers and screwdrivers. They greeted me cheerily and then, within two minutes of having arrived, they were kicking their way out into deeper water where the thick kelp lay. For ten minutes their flippers waved in the air and disappeared, time and again as they dived, and when they surfaced the perlemoen would splash into the net. I helped them carry the net to the car and as they stood at the boot drying themselves we chatted for five minutes, no more. Then they were off.”

“Dockyard mateys, I presume?” Henry liked the idea of going for a dive on a nice day and he resolved to apply his mind to finding a means to that end. “An efficient use of the lunch-break.”

“I thought so too. When they had gone it suddenly struck me that I had just received my second vital impulse. Those two artisans, in the course of a few minutes’ conversation, had created for me a picture of the Dockyard that appealed to my every fibre. I knew with unshakeable conviction that this was a place where I could never be bored and I would always feel free. I drove straight to East Gate and enquired of the guards where to apply for a job. Within two hours I had filled in forms, been interviewed, and was appointed to the position of Assistant Storeman. That was nine years ago.”

“And obviously this ‘impulse’, as you call it, this flash of intuition, proved worthy of your confidence. You never regretted your decision to recklessly embark on an entirely new career at the age of thirty-six?”

“Never.” Bergson was adamant. “I’ve never entertained a moment’s doubt or regret. And I hope that doesn’t make me an unimaginative bore.” He chuckled at the notion of Harry Bergson being an unimaginative bore. “No, Henry, I must say I enjoy myself here. And I’m a better person in my private life, too. No more bullshitting, for one thing. And I married again.”

“Mmm.” Henry looked disapproving. “Become a bit of a habit, has it? But it’s no concern of mine what another man chooses to do to keep his sexual apparatus in good working order. What interests me is the activity you engage in and orchestrate here in this Bosch-like landscape of bizarre fantasies.”

“Yes, I was coming to that. But, as I said, this is only an introduction, so I shall give you no more than the sketchiest of pictures. Over time we shall be able to enter into as much detail as you wish. Suffice it to say that my actions and interests are driven and motivated by my vital impulses - and, let it be said, there are many of them. Over the past nine years I have sought out and nurtured many kindred spirits here, and some fascinating work is under way in this dockyard. Fascinating.”

“I can well believe it.” Henry had risen to his feet and, standing at the window, was looking down with cinematographic dispassion upon the unfolding of a minor dramatic scene. An experiment was taking place on the edge of the Dry Dock. Four large meteorological balloons had been filled with hydrogen and were tugging at the ropes attached to a gondola. Two Malay painters were kneeling in prayer as a small crowd looked on. They rose to their feet, put on their shoes and climbed into the gondola. Bergson joined Henry at the window.

“Ah yes. See that chap in the brown dust-coat? That’s Eddie Robinson. He’s the Paint shop storeman. Forever coming up with ingenious inventions. This time he’s trying to perfect an APG. Could save a lot of time and money, making all that cumbersome scaffolding obsolete.”

“APG?”

“Airborne Paint Gondola. There they go. Seems to be working better now. Last time he used helium and some bungling fool let go the wrong rope and it required a major air and sea operation to rescue the painters.” They turned away and sat down again. “Robinson’s also a renowned expert on heraldry. You saw all those coats of arms painted above the waterline? Every ship that’s been into dry dock over the past forty years has its shield on the wall. There’s a small team of painters who do nothing but heraldry. If you were interested you could spend years making a study of medieval history, armorial design, heraldic nomenclature, the rules, regulations and guidelines set down by the International Academy of Heraldry. The conventional use of colours and tinctures in the decorative display of armorial paraphernalia could occupy your attention day in and day out. Like Robinson, if you so desired, you could immerse yourself in signs and symbols, seals, shields, standards and stamps. Not to mention mosaics, motifs, mottoes and monograms. And what of badges and banners, blazons, bars and bezants? The field is vast, festooned with flags and fesses and fleurs-de-lis, emblems, ensigns, escutcheons and escarbuncles.”

Bergson reined in his galloping lyricism and returned to the central theme of his introductory prologue. “Yes, fascinating. But there are any number of these diverse microcosms in the Dockyard. The Paint Shop is only one such engrossing world. What I have in mind for you is something quite different and far more important.”

Henry’s eyebrows shot up, his curiosity aroused. “Oh yes?”

Bergson gestured towards the huge map covering the wall. “This is my main work. This is my vocation. I am in the process of charting a subterranean network of tunnels that are capable of carrying psychic energy worldwide. Please. I must ask you to keep an open mind.” Henry’s face had twisted into a sceptical sneer. “Once you understand what it is we are dealing with I know you cannot fail to…”

He did not finish the sentence, for The Sirens had begun too moan and scream. When the sound had died away they both got to their feet and moved towards the door. “Henry, I’m convinced you’re the right material but it’s going to take time to become attuned to the vital work we are doing. Just be patient and enjoy yourself.”

Ian Martin’s controversial novel Pop-splat is now available from http://www.pop-splat.co.za