The Dwarfs (6 page)

Len rinsed a cup and did not answer.

- An attitude. But has it substance or is it barren? Sometimes I think it is barren, as barren as a bombed site. But I won’t be dogmatic on it.

- No, Len said, wiping; the cups.

- He’s an elusive customer. Of course, I like him, when it comes down to it. You can forgive a lot. But he’s never done a day’s work in his life, that’s his trouble. He’s a bit of a ponce, he wouldn’t deny it. But I think he overdoes the lechery. Between you and me, he’ll be a spent force in no time if he doesn’t watch his step.

- Pss! Pss! Len hissed.

The cat slid out from under the table. Len, warding it off,
poured milk into a saucer and stood up. The cat lapped.

- What do you call that cat?

- Solomon, said Len.

He leaned against the sideboard and poked at the corner of his eye, under his glasses.

- Here, Pete said, I’ll tell you a dream I had last night, if you like, to cheer you up.

- All right.

- I didn’t expect to dream last night.

- What was it?

- It was very straightforward, Pete said. I was with Virginia in a tube station, on the platform. People were rushing about. There was some sort of panic. When I looked round, I saw everyone’s faces were peeling, blotched, blistered. People were screaming, booming down the tunnels. There was a firebell clanging. When I looked at Ginny, I saw that her face was coming off in slabs too. Like plaster. Black scabs and stains. The skin was dropping off like lumps of catsmeat. I could hear it sizzling on the electric rails. I pulled her by the arm to get her out of there. She wouldn’t budge. She just stood there, with half a face, staring at me. I screamed at her to come away, but she still wouldn’t move. Then I suddenly thought - Christ, what’s my face like? Is that what she’s staring at? Is that rotting too?

Len gasped.

- One for the black book, eh? Pete said.

Len covered his eyes with his hands.

- Doesn’t matter about that, Pete said. Watch this. See how many I can do.

- What?

- Keep a count.

Pete lay stomach down on the floor and began to propel himself up and down, on his forearms. Len leaned forward, watching him.

- How many? Pete grunted.

- Fifteen.

Pete continued, staring in front of him.

- Twenty.

- Uh.

- Twenty-five.

- Uh.

- Twenty-nine.

- Enough.

He relaxed and grinned, sitting on the floor.

- Not bad, eh?

- What are you made of? Len said. It’s beyond me.

- Give me a week and I’ll do thirty-five.

Seven

The dwarfs are back on the job, Len said. They’re keeping an eye on proceedings. They clock in very early, scenting the event. They are like kites in a city disguise; they only work in cities. However, they are certainly skilled labourers and their trade is not without risk. They wait for a smoke signal and unpack their kit. They are on the spot with no time wasted and circle the danger area. There, they take up positions, which they are able to change at a moment’s notice, if necessary. But they don’t stop work until the job in hand is ended, one way or another.

I have not been able to pay a subscription, but they have consented to take me into their gang, on a short term basis. My stay with them cannot be long. I can’t see this particular assignment lasting into the winter. The game will be up by then. At present, however, this is the only way I myself can keep an eye on proceedings. And it is essential that I keep a close watch on the rate of exchange, on the rise and fall of the market. Probably neither Pete nor Mark is aware of the effect the state of his exchange has upon my market. But it is so.

And so I shall keep the dwarfs company and watch with them. They miss very little. With due warning from them I shall be able to clear my stocks, should there be a landslide.

Eight

At Pete’s request she sat down. He had something to say, he explained, to which she would do well to listen, since it might prove fruitful. Standing on the hearth to begin, he invited her to consider the question of physical appearance and to what degree it was relevant. His own concern was with where the body ceased to be a positive force and became a liability. For example, there was himself and Mark. He would venture to say that their physical appearances went before them and established a contact before their personalities were inclined to participate. To the undiscerning, that might serve as a pointer to what was to come, but how far was that pointer accurate? He himself was a pretty boy, Mark looked as though he had just got out of, or was just getting into, bed. Both their appearances were, he hoped, inconsistent with the facts of the matter. It was, indeed, one of their few mutual problems. They were both obliged to come to some sort of working arrangement with their form in the flesh, and the course they took to resolve the question could be decisive. It seemed to him that Mark was quite content to conform to his body’s disposition. He was satisfied to accept a worship based on those grounds alone. But he surely had more to offer than his profile and his abilities as a sexual mechanic. He was letting his potentialities slip. Acting in such complacent liaison with his body’s whims, he could not hope to preserve any objective or critical point of view, either in relation to himself or to others. For a distance had always to be kept between what was smelt and your ability to weigh in the balance the located matter or event. Mark was not only failing in this but was a closed book to all emendation. He was not open to criticism.

She listened.

Len, of course, was not so much a physical type as a physical symptom. His behaviour, his manner of expression, were informed by something in the nature of a central and compulsive stammer. He was never still, or when he was, his stillness was both a gesture and an argument. But it was never his features themselves that were to the fore, it was what came after them; the smokescreens, the distress signals of his nature. He was encountered on that territory only and to comment on his physical make-up was irrelevant, for his body, as such, simply, did not participate. The constant activity one noted when in his company obtained only at the nerve ends and limits of his body, and to objects attached to it; his hands and his glasses. His eyes were active only as nerve ends, they could not be regarded as features. And where this nervous territory normally constituted a part of the sum, in Len’s case it was the sum. It preceded his body, which was by way of being merely a conveyance for the box of tricks and conundrums he was.

She lay back.

In point of fact, Len preserved no more of a distance between what he smelt and what he thought about it than Mark, but for different reasons. They both failed to distinguish between any given smell and the conclusion consequent upon it, but where Mark was simply too lazy to attempt to differentiate, Len was too lacking in trust in his own discernment. He must stick to the smell and equate it with the thought, till the thought was the smell, because he was unable to face up to the true nature of thought and its demands. But while Mark was not open to correction, though he might in time discover his errors or be brought to appreciate them by example, Len was open both to instruction and to assistance.

She lay back, listening.

This, he went on, he was prepared to give, and more, to either of them. For upon consideration, taking all differences into account, he knew their friendship as valuable. In fact he was not sure whether they might not be said to constitute a church, of a kind. They were hardly one in dogma or direction,
but there was common ground and there was a framework. At their best they formed a unit, and a unit which, in his terms, was entitled to be called a church; an alliance of the three of them for the common good, and a faith in that alliance. It was, of course, a matter of working towards a balanced and flexible structure. He was well aware this structure was nowhere near completion. Their differences were conducive to corruption within the unit. Labour was needed to contain them, but if they were contained or, what was more productive, brought to an honest reconcilement, then they would be able to speak of achievement. For him the effort was worthwhile. It was more than worthwhile, it was quite frankly, essential. It was the simple matter of communication. If he remained unable to communicate with his fellowman there was nothing left but dryrot.

She listened.

Having admitted the possibility of corruption within the unit, he would deal with the question of corruption from outside it. An outside influence, he was convinced, could be absorbed without harm. For instance, Virginia was acting upon one of them at that moment; himself. On the assumption that she did him positive good, he himself would have more to offer the church. If, on the other hand, she were doing him positive harm, he took it the others would fulfil their obligations towards him, by way of understanding. A case, of course, could be made for an outside influence acting, say, on Len in one way, and on Mark in another, so as to cause dissension between them and corrupt the fabric. But in that event it would be simply a matter of choice. They would have to consider which was of more value; the subject of their quarrel, or their alliance. In such a case, either the church would profit or they could all pack up and go home.

The day becoming twilight, she eased herself in the chair, the room’s shades meeting, till now, words again, about her, from the bed, where he squatted, smoking.

The empty and the quack, he had had his fill of them. His way of life had forced a crisis. His time spent, for instance, in the
Church of England, had been a waste and a delusion. It had been nothing but intellectual dishwashing, where he had deceived himself he was putting in spadework as a positive visionary. It had served only as a degradation of his powers. His potentialities were wearing thin, becoming stagnant, out of nothing but disaffection at continually remaining potential. Beyond his own resources, he would be frank, he had little. The time was to do. He was, however, condemned to a course, of that let there be no doubt. He must work his disease to the bone and so cure it. His condition could be destroyed only by fulfilling it, to that he was reconciled. But to remain a part of the Church of England required a kind of patience he no longer possessed. They were too far drowned in inanities. For instance, their idea of the nature of God was an impertinence. All they were in fact doing was patting themselves on the back. As for God, they had given him his hat and told him to wait. They looked upon him as their creation; a commodity. They were directing the firm and all he had to do was run the errands. God did the donkeywork; they reaped the profits. At the last meeting he had attended he had declared: Where is this God of yours? Put him down here on the table and let’s have a look at him. Let’s all have a butcher’s. They thought a bomb had burst. In reality, they were the kind of people, who, if the gates of heaven opened to them, all they would feel would be a draught.

In the dusk she sat still. Now Pete drew near to her.

The same thing applied to the poets. They were guilty of a criminal defection. He must impress upon her that the act of writing was the act of committing yourself to yourself. Consequently it was a moral question. The poets about them were signing their own death warrant each time they signed their name. Their work was not self expression so much as self-creation. And all that issued forth was a lie. Each poem they wrote was nothing more than a posthumous fart. The labour of dead men, who could only give birth to a corpse, in their own image. It was a debasement and sellout of the purpose of writing, active only in that it delighted in its own smell. It was
fatal for a work of art to be conceived and brought about in a vacuum. It had to be purposive in the same way as a piece of cooking. What did you make a plumpudding for if you weren’t going to eat it? For, besides being selfcommittal, writing was bound to inform, enlighten and perhaps transform. Man might be an error of judgement but as yet he remained a relevant factor. And these people were relevant only in that they were a constant reminder of the mental waxwork he was faced with. They committed a sin with every word they wrote.

It was dark. Virginia rose and put the kettle on the gas. Later, they went for a walk across the Lea.

Nine

Pete sauntered into Threadneedle Street, blinked the grey bending stone, stopped. He looked up.

Valparaiso Bank. Must be Valparaiso Bank. Building without bricks. Geometric, brickless. An act of faith. Straight as a dye. Up to the top and back. Geometric conversations with the sun. A slant on the holy rood. The sun’s angle angled, made into commerce. Taken down in shorthand. Don’t be deceived by deceptive reflections. Pneumonic irrelevances. There’s a glut on the market. Worse than a periphrastic conjugation. But the sun all shapes and sizes. Making mischief. Doubletalk on the roofs. Signlanguage. What’s that? A dihedron? Or who spat on the polygon? Throw me the mathematical ball. I’m inclined to believe it.

He leaned against the wall.

Light a cigarette and look normal.

Down brickless Valparaiso Bank the sun strained, lanced, stuck on the flagpole. Drawing smoke, Pete viewed the traffic-press, the grate and bout of noonday vehicles; the sinking figures in the glare, passing, stepping; the needleshiver in the sunstreet. A quick black arm pushed swerving past.

Look. Yes. Linseed and sealingwax. Stiffcollared puppy-dog. Lightweight. Bouncy on the balls of his feet. Rulers of a nation. The inside story. Masons and makers of the peace. Hot tips off the cuff. See you all right. Nothing but the best. Password and a nifty gin. What’s your name and number? Keep it.

Leaning, he surveyed the pacing street. The fitted buildings poised backwards, out of their incline. They halted between sun and sun.

Near siesta time. Flat out on the roofgarden. Lemontea and a canopy. In the shade of the old appletree. Out of the draught. Turn the globe and pick your teeth.

Hundreds of windows and not a face at any of them. Day doesn’t exist. Underground work. Getting on with the job. An eighthour day with no day in it. The working world. Where I labour and trespass. At whose direction? Who spoke, saying. Don’t believe a word of it.

Pete turned about, looked up. Valparaiso Bank windows winked anonymous glint.

Glinting from big toe to earhole. All done by anon. Depends if you have the tools. Plenty of work for all. But no permit without God’s grace. Frame it. Dust it in all weathers, all days.

Building wavering, and the next, and the next, along Thread-needle Street.

What’s this? Proudly tripping. Would she say no? Look at those flanks. Wim warn. Strap me and buy one. Wam wim. She’d ride a cockhorse. All the way to Dalston. Don’t doubt it. Been there before. Left by the frontdoor. Without my roe, like a dried herring.

- Peter Cox! Good lord!

Retribution.

- Well, well, well!

- Derek! Pete greeted, handgripping. Well, well.

- Ha-ha, beamed Derek, handpulling, well, well!

- Well, Pete smiled. What are you doing around here?

- I work here, laughed Derek, his face shining.

- No? said Pete. I wouldn’t have believed it. So do I.

- No? gleamed Derek, his face spreading. I would never have dreamt it. Well, well, well! Where?

- Where? Pete said. Oh, Dobbin and Laver. Round the corner.

- I’m your neighbour! rammed Derek, his face breaking, shoulderbanging.

- Well! said Pete. Well, well, well.

- You look in the pink, cheered Derek, his face folding. Haven’t changed a bit. Still got your curly locks, eh? How are you getting on? Good job?

- Oh, Pete skidded, shrugging, it’s - you know - not - bad - Derek, old man.

- Good grief! clamped Derek, his face shutting. It must be three years since we met! And before that, not since we left school.

- Yes, Pete said, there’s something in that.

- My God! snored Derek, his face foaming, it’s a century! What are you doing now? Lunch hour?

- Well, yes, huffed Pete, it is. More or less.

- What a bit of luck! hammed Derek, his face scalding. What about a drink?

- Well, actually, creased Pete, I’m rushing off to meet a bloke. Mark Gilbert. You knew him, didn’t you?

- Gilbert! Of course! mooed Derek, his face grinding. Went on the stage, didn’t he?

- Well, yes, Pete said, but you see, he’s got something on his mind, I think. Wants to have a quiet chat with me about it. You know how it is, Derek. You know these actors, eh?

- Women trouble, eh? parried Derek, his face flaking. I know what you mean all right. Actor, eh?

- Yes, Pete said, they’re a funny lot. It’s a shame but there it is. But we’re sure to bump into each other. Both working around here, like.

- I should hope so! slammed Derek, his face singing, elbow- gripping. We must have a drink after all these years.

- Without a doubt.

- Well, look here, Peter, vaulted Derek, his face chanting, back-slapping, why don’t you give me a ring? We can meet one night after work. Wait a minute, I’ll write it down. I still see Robin and Bill, you know? Ever see any of the old crowd? Oh yes, Gilbert. Here you are. Well, look, give me a ring, will you? And I’ll ring up Robin and Bill, and we can all have a jolly good yarn.

- How’s Robin these days?

- Blooming, old boy. Not married yet. You married yet? sharped Derek, his face sprouting.

- Ha-ha, said Pete. Oh, that’s it, is it? Good. I’ll do that then. Must toddle now. You know these actors.

- Grand luck meeting you! chucked Derek, his face ceasing. Don’t forget.

Pete turned, waved, and crossed the road.

Sweating all over. Someone arranged that. Must keep my eyes open. Wouldn’t have seen me on the other side. Shady. Oh yes he would. They all do. Should wear a hat. Grow a moustache. Get a wheelchair. False nose can work wonders. That was a close one. Where’s that piece of paper. Uh. Down the drain.

Between hoots and carshins Pete crossed the road. Under planes of corrugated iron he saw bricks and pans arranged and raised by figures in heat. He turned into a sidestreet.

Down here. River. Yes. Cooler the nearer you sniff. Hum still though. Hum and crackle. London burning. Look. Sandwich girls. Legshow for a city gent. Wall perchers. Waiting for a catch. Birds of prey. What’s it like to be a woman, Maisie? I wouldn’t know. Nothing to get in your way. No hang and. no jut. Smooth and wet. Fingers in the paper. Tissuepaper for all purposes. Lipstick and cucumber. Eyes. No I’m not coming your way. And never’s the word. Some of them like it sweaty. Animal labour. Putrefied mechanics. Barebacked with a squelch. In God’s image. Costs nothing. Not good enough. Sluttery to neat excellence opposed. Sweat and spit and nothing to show. The act of mercy. Eachway bet. Money or your life. Something for nothing. The general levelling. Not like that. Not like that.

There’s a boat. One for me. That’s a good boat. Boats. Midgets. Take a butcher’s at that sun. Bloodthirsty. Sails. Midgets. Drivelling midgets. Sun is steel too. Quite steel. If
I were steel. All problems solved. Ready for action. Sleep.

Pete walked into the office and closed the door behind him.

- Ah, said the deskgirl, Mr Lynd wants to see you, Mr Cox.

- Me?

- Who else?

Fair gurgling heads dipped.

- Now?

The girl nodded and tilted her head. Pete marched across to the far door and knocked.

- Come in.

Pete entered.

- Ah.

- I heard you wanted to see me, Mr Lynd.

- Ah yes, I did, said Mr Lynd, palming the lid of a cigarbox. Do come in, will you? Close the door. That’s right. Now. Yes. Do sit down, Mr Cox.

- Thank you.

Pete sat down.

- Well now, Mr Cox.

Mr Lynd tapped the desktop.

- Will you smoke? he advanced, his hand straying about the desk.

- No thank you, Mr Lynd.

- Well now, Mr Cox, said Mr Lynd, how are you getting on?

- Oh, said Pete, not so bad you know, Mr Lynd.

Clasping the fingers of both hands and sniffing discreetly, Mr Lynd, his mouth closed, smiled.

- Good, he smiled. And how are you getting on with your work?

- Well, said Pete, I don’t think I can supply an answer to that, Mr Lynd. The answer, I should say, would depend upon whether you were finding it satisfactory.

Swivelling on his seat, Mr Lynd glanced at his reflection in the dark glass cabinet.

- Not quite what I meant, he said. But I can tell you, Mr Cox, that your work is, yes, quite satisfactory.

- Oh, said Pete, thank you.

- I meant rather, said Mr Lynd, swivelling back on his seat and hitching his trousers, I meant rather, how do you, yourself, feel about it?

- How do I feel about it?

- To be quite frank, Mr Cox, said Mr Lynd, clasping his fist at his belly, some of my colleagues and myself differ.

- Differ?

- I mean in our attitudes towards the workpeople, I mean the staff. Personally, I regard their, er, mental welfare, if you like, as something affecting the efficiency of the firm as a whole.

- Very true, Pete said.

- I tell you this, of course, because I realize, you are not, ah, of course, unintelligent, Mr Cox.

Pete scratched his nose and murmured.

- But what I meant to say, Mr Cox, continued Mr Lynd, his trunk falling forward and his forehead denting, was that I had gathered, um, the impression, once or twice, that you were inclined to be, how shall I put it -

He opened a black leather diary which lay to his right hand on the desk, and shut it firmly.

- far away.

- Really? Pete said, crossing his right leg over his left.

- Yes, said Mr Lynd, propping his elbows and juggling his fingers, that you weren’t keen, shall I say, was my impression, on your work.

- Keen on my work?

- Ah yes, said Mr Lynd, nodding briskly, as it were.

What do you mean, as it were? Don’t give me the needle.

- But I assure you, Mr Lynd, said Pete, I find my work very interesting. I should say concentration has many misleading appearances.

Watch yourself.

- I beg your pardon? said Mr Lynd, his eyes flattening.

- No, I mean . . .

Mr Lynd grinned frankly, his palms upthrust.

- I didn’t quite . . .

- No - Pete began, I -

His foot thumped the desk.

- No, he said, smiling, I’m quite at home, Mr Lynd, if that’s what you mean. Probably doing a bit of thinking about the job in hand at those times.

Mr Lynd’s forehead snapped up.

- Ah, he said, I’m glad to hear it, Mr Cox. I believe, you see, that you have a great deal of capability.

He sniffed strongly and felt for his pocketwatch.

Who told you that? Your wet nurse? You don’t want to believe a word they say, mate. Come on. Dismiss me. Enough. We’re like the misses cheese and cream. Admit it. I’m a closed book.

Mr Lynd clacked his pocketwatch shut.

- Tell me, Mr Cox.

- Yes?

- What exactly, if you don’t, as it were, he laughed, mind my asking, is your ambition?

Pete watched Mr Lynd open the cigarbox, close it and look up candidly.

- I’m afraid, he replied, stroking his chin, I can’t say that I’ve ever really considered it, Mr Lynd.

- Really? That surprises me.

Mr Lynd blinked, and dug his chin, straightening, to release his neck.

- Because I believe, he said, swallowing, and I am not alone in this, that you have some degree of potentiality where this firm is concerned, to be quite frank.

The sun rubbed upon his arm, as he stretched to push a calendar to the deskedge. He prevented its fall, straddled it to stand, and jolted upright in his chair.

- Yes. But you have, I take it, other interests?

- Oh yes, said Pete, I have a considerable amount of other interests. Domestic mostly.

- Oh? I don’t believe you’re married?

Mr Lynd’s eyes twinkled. Their chuckles joined.

- No, I’m not, Mr Lynd.

- I see. Well, perhaps I’m being a little too inquisitive.

- Not at all.

Mr Lynd lifted his jacketcuff and inspected and flicked at, with his little finger, his shirtcuff.

- Well, he concluded, any time you’d like to speak to me, please don’t hesitate to do so.

- That’s very kind of you, Mr Lynd.

- Good, said Mr Lynd, resting in his chair.

Pete stood up. The sun splintered the paperweight.

- Thank you, he said.

- No, no.

Little lamb, who made thee?

The door, closing, furred on the carpet, behind him.

Later in the afternoon, the sun lowering on the city, Pete leaned on the wall at the foot of the stone flight, smoking, watching through the window red buses move under trees by the river.

No alarm on the river. No sweat on the river. Steel only. Odour of steel. Steel glint on the tide. Armies of light on the metal water. Voices.

Above him, voices. They played light, elusive, descending; dissolved into laughter, high-circling, lower; dwindled to a stone murmur. Shoes scraped and stopped, whispering, above him. Trapped under the stairslope, he, frowning, whispers; they, girls, above the stairhead, urged softly on, laughing, murmuring. Edging, a clicked shoe, metaltipped, sounded down upon stone, clicking unseen on the downward stone, turned, halted. A sigh between voices, low, a juggled cackle. Back against the wallface, Pete heard quick warring whispers, rubbing murmurs wrapped in the stone. One voice now, slid down undeciphered, sliding into the crannied ear, trod on a filament in the grained wall, parcelled, down under echo; its own sound. One voice, leaning, shoes grating a step, stoneslapping, above
him, in a husk and pace, heard, unheard; one ceasing, allowing, listening. Pete leaned on the murmured wall, turned his face to the lightglut, listened, allowed. Steps skidded down upon stone, rang the laughter, loud, open, wordless. A door banged.

Gone. Sweetness. Light. Things rank. Things gross. The kingdom.

He climbed the stairs and entered the office.

- Oh Mr Cox, there’s someone on the phone for you.