The Museum of Doubt (2 page)

Jack went through the house, marched out the front door, whistled and clapped his hands. The boot of the car sighed open and Jack moved his luggage upstairs. He had twelve trunks of canvas-covered steel, bound with bamboo. When Bettina knocked later to bring him a towel, she went in and found him in a leather armchair by the fire, dressed in a green velvet dressing gown, typing out a letter with a triple carbon copy on a Cambodian typewriter balanced on his lap. Some of the trunks sat half-open, upended on the floor, exposing bookshelves stacked with scrolls in tasselled leather cases and the scored, mutilated spines of handcopied books. Over the fireplace there were stuffed trophy heads of beasts: a two-headed Friesian calf, a poodle with a forked tongue and a fox which had suffered from Proteus Syndrome.

You’ve made yourself cosy, I see, said Bettina. Would you like some dinner?

I’ll step out for something to eat later, thank you, said Jack.

You won’t find much within ten miles of here.

I’ll find what I need, said Jack.

Later Bettina woke up in darkness. She heard a snap, like a stick being broken, the sound of something heavy being dragged, and the squeak of shoes in snow. The alarm said five am. She went back to sleep. At seven she went downstairs. Jack was already at the breakfast table, picking his teeth with a horn toothpick. He picked up a purse from a pile at his elbow and handed it to her. It was soft deerskin, roughly but well-stitched, branded with the legend A Present From Pinetops.

Thank you very much, she said. Did you cut yourself shaving?

Oh dear, said Jack, burnishing a steel teapot with the sleeve of his blazer and examining his face in it. There is a little blood.

It’s all round your mouth, said Bettina.

Don’t worry, said Jack. It’s not my own. I’m a messy eater. He took out a white handkerchief embroidered with the family tree of the Hohenzollerns, spat on it, dabbed the blood off, stuffed the handkerchief into the teapot and poured himself a cup.

Bettina offered him bacon and eggs and porridge. He shook his head and pulled a sheaf of laminated menus from inside his jacket. Breakfast at Pinetops, they said on the front. Bettina skimmed through.

Consumer Confidence Breakfast –
£
4.99
Ten Thick Rashers Of Prime Smoked Elgin Bacon Cooked To Your Order On A Sesame Seed Bun With Five Norfolk Turkey Eggs, Hash Browns, Onion Rings, Jumbo Aberdeen Angus Fried Slice, Traditional Scotch Donut Scones, Mashed Cyprus Tatties And A Choice Of Relishes – Finish One Adult Serving, Get Another One Free!

Protestant Work Ethic Breakfast –
£
4.99
Sixteen Hand-Picked Ocean Fresh Atlantic Kippers In An Orgy Of Pre-Softened Irish Dairy Butter, Tormented By A Treble Serving Of Farm Pure Whipped Cream, On A Bed Of Two Toasted Whole French-Style Loaves, Garnished With Watercress, In A Crispy Deep Fried Eagle-Size Potato Nest – Too Much To Eat, Or Your Money Back!

Wealth Of Nations Breakfast –
£
4.99
American Style Waffles With Maple Syrup, One Pound Prime Cut Alice Springs
Kangaroo Steak, Airline Fresh Oriental Style Fruit Plate With Guava, Pineapple And Passion Fruit, Pinetops Special Chocolate Filled Croissants In Rich Orange Sauce, Whole Boiled Ostrich Egg With Whole Baguette Soldiers, Plus Your Choice Of Celebrity Malt Whisky Flavoured Porridges. Includes Vomitarium Voucher, Redeemable For Second Serving Once Stamped.

I don’t have these things, said Bettina.

Look in your chest freezers, said Jack.

I don’t have a chest freezer, said Bettina.

Look in your kitchen, said Jack.

Bettina went into the kitchen. It had been rearranged to incorporate several chest freezers with transparent lids, piled with frozen pre-prepared breakfasts, shrinkwrapped on trays, complete with disposable plates, cups, napkins and cutlery. In one of the freezers Bettina found a severed deer’s head, complete with antlers. She took it out and dropped it into the pedal bin. The antlers stuck out and stopped the lid from closing. She went back into the breakfast room. Jack was gone.

The snow, a couple of inches, was melting on the road as it got light and the car left sharp black tracks. The branches of the sycamores lining the road were outlined in sticky snow, notched with the thaw. Beyond the farm buildings at Mains of Steel there were no more trees. After the sign reading Museum of Doubt the road climbed into the hills, the temperature dropped and there were heavy drifts. Old Tullimandy came out of the farmhouse when Jack drove past. He shouted and waved his arms. Jack drove on. Tullimandy trotted across the yard to where there was a view of the road and saw a black square, the roof of Jack’s car, speeding through the four foot drifts. It reminded him of the
doctor’s computer cartoon of how his blocked artery would be cleared and he felt a pain in his chest. He walked carefully back to the house. Just as well he’d signed up for Life.

The Museum of Doubt was a low whitewashed cottage on the bare hillside with two sash windows and a slate roof. The roof was the same colour as the rocks and scree that stuck out of the snow further up the hill. There were no trees, no walls and no fences. The house had no television aerial. Coal smoke came from the chimney and one of the windows shone with electric light. Jack stopped the car so that the bonnet and the windscreen poked out of the last big snowdrift at the top of the road. He opened the sunroof and climbed out of it. The sun came round the ridge and Jack put on a pair of sunglasses. He went up and knocked on the blue-painted wooden door, under a plastic nameplate which said: The Museum Of Doubt.

She was built like a boy who grows up by the river and has nothing else to do except swim in it. She was thin and fit without being powerful or muscular. Her white face and neck came up out of a Prussian blue sweater thick as a rug and she wore black jeans and old brown moccasins. She had straight copper-coloured hair, cut short neatly. Her eyes listened to what he said but her mouth was blind.

I want to give you a demonstration, he said, sliding his foot over the threshold, stroking the bottom of the door with the tip of his shoe.

Of what? she said, opening the door wide and standing with her hands resting on the doorframe.

Of what you need, he said.

I don’t know what I need.

Then I’ve come to the right place.

No no no, said the woman, shaking her head, keeping her hands against the doorframe, shifting her weight. I don’t mean:
I know I need something but I don’t know what it is. I mean: I don’t know what I need, all the time. I’m incapable of knowing what I need, or whether I need anything. I’m not sure I do. It’s my condition.

Eh? said Jack.

My husband used to say that when I tried to explain. I used to ask him why he needed things. He’d say it wasn’t always a question of needing. He’d say, supposing the folk at the British Museum started saying Do we really need all these Egyptian mummies? And they’d say We may want them but I doubt we need them. So they’d throw them out. And then it’d be What do we want with these duelling pistols and snuffboxes and Etruscan vases? What’s the point? You could never be sure you needed any of it. And all you’d be left with would be empty galleries and you’d have to call it the Museum of Doubt.

Jack stared at her for a while, took off his glasses and showed his teeth in a smile. Jack, he said. I’m Jack.

You’re a salesman, said the woman.

That’s an ugly word, said Jack. Let’s forget about selling for a while. I’ll tell you what I’ve come about. Here’s what troubles me. The world is out of harmony. The equilibrium of the cosmos is disturbed. Look at this, now.

He took a set of bronze jeweller’s scales out of his jacket and dangled them in the air in front of the woman.

This is the universe, he said.

He burrowed in his trouser pocket. His fingers dropped two pieces of lead shot onto one scale and four pieces onto the other. The scales dipped.

You see, one side has more than it needs. It’s burdened down with possessions. The spirit is heavy. It’s falling. But the other side has a lack of material things, the possessions it needs to embrace the world. It’s flying away. It’s vanishing. It’s hardly
there at all, there’s so little to it. There’s something missing, something it needs. Now watch carefully.

Jack lifted one of the pieces of shot and dropped it in the other pan. The snow deadened the chime. The scales teetered and levelled.

There, said Jack. Harmony. Is that not good? Is that not desirable? There should always be harmony. The side that has too much should always be giving to the side that has too little. Is that not right? The harmony is for ever. And this – he quickly swapped pieces of shot between the pans and waggled his fingers – this is a detail, a process. It could be a revolution. It could be a gift. It could be a sale. It’s over quickly.

I told you already, said the woman. I don’t need anything.

I can show you what you need, said Jack. I can see it. What we have here, between your house and the boot of my car, is a classic disbalance. You don’t have enough, and I’ve got so much. You wouldn’t want to be reponsible for violating cosmic harmony, would you?

No, said the woman. Here’s what I mean. She took the scales from him and tilted them so the shot fell into the snow at their feet. She held the scales up in front of his eyes. Look, she said. No goods. Perfect harmony. She handed the scales back, went inside and closed the door.

Jack laughed, turned and walked a few feet away from the house. He knelt to scoop up a handful of snow and kneaded it in his hand. It fizzed, crackled and steamed. He smeared it over his face and shook his head violently from side to side like a dog which has come out of the sea. He ran back to the house and rapped on the window with his knuckles.

Adela! he shouted. Let me see the museum! I want to buy a ticket!

The door opened and the woman stood in the doorway as before. Jack stepped away from the window.

How did you know my name? said Adela.

It was written on your genes, said Jack, unsteadily. He sounded drunk.

Adela looked down at her trousers.

In invisible … ink. Jack’s eyeballs had turned almost white and he was swaying.

Are you OK? said Adela, moving a pace towards him. His face had turned the same colour as the snow-covered hills behind his head.

Help me, said Jack, sinking to his knees. His body convulsed with coughing and drops of blood sprayed from his mouth. He fell forward onto the ground and twisted onto his back.

Adela went over and knelt beside him, chewing her lip. She pressed her head between her hands.

Cold, whispered Jack. Help me.

Adela took the shoulders of his jacket in her fists and dragged his body over the threshold of her house into the hall. She closed the door. Jack began to cough again. A spurt of blood came out of one corner of his mouth. His lips parted and what appeared to be a tonguetip made of horn appeared.

Huming imma hroat, said Jack. Pu-i-ou. He dry-retched and the horn jerked a little further out. Adela saw his tongue flapping hopelessly against it.

Adela reached down and tugged the piece of horn gently. It yielded. She pulled harder and the antler slid out of Jack’s mouth like the drumstick of an overcooked chicken, along with the attached deer’s head. Adela flinched and she dropped the head onto the floor. She took a step back, swung her leg and delivered all her force to the head through the toe of her moccasin. The head leaped from the hall, out through
the doorway and into the sky, spinning into a mighty curve, the antlers humming as they scratched the air. She never heard it fall. She slammed the door shut and turned round. Jack was gone.

She found him standing in the kitchen holding a cardboard box. He wasn’t coughing any more and there was no more blood around his mouth. His face was dead of movement. He didn’t blink. His eyes were big, black and blank, liquid, without subtlety, like the deer’s.

You’re better, she said.

This is for you, he said, holding the box out towards her.

We’ve been there already, said Adela. There’s no need here.

I see need. I don’t see anything here except need, said Jack. Deep within his still face an expression stirred, like a big fish far below the surface of an old lake. He began to fold the box in on itself, punching in the lid, folding down the sides until it was flat, then folding it in half over and over again until it was small enough to put in his pocket. He smiled and spread his arms out wide. His fingers fluttered in space. Adela, you’re lovely, but somewhere along the way you’ve forgotten what life is about. An empty house like this one means an empty life.

No, said Adela. You have to leave.

Adela, said Jack. Listen to me, Adela. Maybe if I say it out loud it’ll start to sink in: you haven’t got a fridge.

The house had a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. It had five pieces of furniture: a sofabed, a chair, a cupboard, a kitchen table and a stool. There was one cup, one plate, one bowl, one knife, one fork, one spoon, and one pan. There was a two-ring gas cooker. There was a drawer of clothes, another of bedding, and five books. The walls and ceilings were bare white and the floor was covered in linoleum which’d been supposed to look like varnished wood when it was new.

There aren’t any prizes for living like this, said Jack.

Living like what?

A failure. You’re suffering from PRAS. Post-religious asceticism syndrome. You think that by not having any possessions your soul becomes purified and you become a saintly being, superior to people who buy glossy magazines and furniture and collect records. That’s great. That’s what Pol Pot thought. The truth is the consumers are the virtuous ones. They express their love for life and for each other and for humanity by buying. That’s how the world becomes a richer place, full of colours. The ones who go out and shop, they’re the real noble spirits of the universe. They understand how ugly their lives would be if they didn’t buy homes and fill them with wonderful goods. You’ve got to own things, Adela, as many things as possible. It’s not a question of being poor. The fewer things you own, the less human you are, and the harder it is for you or anyone else to understand whether you’ve got a life at all.