The Unnamable (7 page)

a ridge or crowning glory strewn with long waving hairs like those that grow on naevi.
No denying it, I’m confoundedly well informed. You must allow it was tempting. I say
an instant, perhaps it was years. Then I withdrew my adhesion, it was getting too
much of a good thing. I had already advanced a good ten paces, if one may call them
paces, not in a straight line I need hardly say, but in a sharp curve which, if I
continued to follow it, seemed likely to restore me to my point of departure, or to
one adjacent. I must have got embroiled in a kind of inverted spiral, I mean one the
coils of which, instead of
widening
more and more, grew narrower and narrower and finally, given the kind of space in
which I was supposed to evolve, would come to an end for lack of room. Faced then
with the material impossibility of going any further I should no doubt have had to
stop, unless of course I elected to set off again at once in the opposite direction,
to unscrew myself as it were, after having screwed myself to a standstill, which would
have been an experience rich in interest and fertile in surprises if I am to believe
what I once was told, in spite of my protests, namely that there is no road so dull,
on the way out, but it has quite a different aspect, quite a different dullness, on
the way back, and vice versa. No good wriggling, I’m a mine of useless knowledge.
But a difficulty arises here. For if by dint of winding myself up, if I may venture
that ellipse, it doesn’t often happen to me now, if by dint of winding myself up,
I don’t seem to have gained much time, if by dint of winding myself up I must inevitably
find myself stuck in the end, once launched in the opposite direction should I not
normally unfold ad infinitum, with no possibility of ever stopping, the space in which
I was marooned being globular, or is it the earth, no matter, I know what I mean.
But where is the difficulty? There was one a moment ago, I could swear to it. Not
to mention that I could quite easily at any moment, literally any, run foul of a wall,
a tree or similar obstacle, which of course it would be prohibited to circumvent,
and thereby have an end put to my gyrations as effectively as by the kind of cramp
just mentioned. But
obstacles, it appears, can be removed in the fullness of time, but not by me, me they
would stop dead forever, if I lived among them. But even without such aids it seems
to me that once beyond the equator you would start turning inwards again, out of sheer
necessity, I somehow have that feeling. At the
particular
moment I am referring to, I mean when I took myself for Mahood, I must have been
coming to the end of a world tour, perhaps not more than two or three centuries to
go. My state of decay lends colour to this view, perhaps I had left my leg behind
in the Pacific, yes, no perhaps about it, I had, somewhere off the coast of Java and
its jungles red with rafflesia stinking of carrion, no, that’s the Indian Ocean, what
a gazetteer I am, no matter, somewhere round there. In a word I was returning to the
fold, admittedly reduced, and doubtless fated to be even more so, before I could be
restored to my wife and parents, you know, my loved ones, and clasp in my arms, both
of which I had succeeded in preserving, my little ones born in my absence. I found
myself in a kind of vast yard or campus, surrounded by high walls, its surface an
amalgam of dirt and ashes, and this seemed sweet to me after the vast and heaving
wastes I had traversed, if my information was correct. I almost felt out of danger!
At the centre of this enclosure stood a small rotunda, windowless, but well furnished
with loopholes. Without being quite sure I had seen it before, I had been so long
from home, I kept saying to myself, Yonder is the nest you should never have left,
there your dear absent ones are awaiting your return, patiently, and you too must
be patient. It was swarming with them, grandpa, grandma, little mother and the eight
or nine brats. With their eyes glued to the slits and their hearts going out to me
they surveyed my efforts. This yard so long deserted was now enlivened, for them,
by me. So we turned, in our respective orbits, I without, they within. At night, keeping
watch by turns, they observed me with the help of a searchlight. So the seasons came
and went. The children increased in stature, the periods of Ptomaine grew pale, the
ancients glowered at each other, muttering, to themselves, I’ll bury you yet, or,
You’ll bury me
yet. Since my arrival they had a subject of conversation, and even of discussion,
the same as of old, at the moment of my setting forth, perhaps even an interest in
life, the same as of old. Time hung less heavy on their hands. What about throwing
him a few scraps? No no, it might upset him. They did not want to check the impetus
that was sweeping me towards them. You wouldn’t know him! True, papa, and yet you
can’t mistake him. They who in the ordinary way never answered when spoken to, my
elders, my wife, she who had chosen me, rather than one of her suitors. A few more
summers and he’ll be in our midst. Where am I going to put him? In the basement? Perhaps
after all I am simply in the basement. What possesses him to be
stopping
all the time? Oh he was always like that, ever since he was a mite, always stopping,
wasn’t he, Granny? Yes indeed, never easy, always stopping. According to Mahood I
never reached them, that is to say they all died first, the whole ten or eleven of
them, carried off by sausage-poisoning, in great agony. Incommoded first by their
shrieks, then by the stench of
decomposition
, I turned sadly away. But not so fast, otherwise we’ll never arrive. It’s no longer
I in any case. He’ll never reach us if he doesn’t get a move on. He looks as if he
had slowed down, since last year. Oh the last laps won’t take him long. My missing
leg didn’t seem to affect them, perhaps it was already missing when I left. What about
throwing him a sponge? No no, it might confuse him. In the evening, after supper,
while my wife kept her eye on me, gaffer and gammer related my life history, to the
sleepy children. Bedtime story atmosphere. That’s one of Mahood’s favourite tricks,
to produce ostensibly independent testimony in support of my historical existence.
The instalment over, all joined in a hymn, Safe in the arms of Jesus, for example,
or, Jesus lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, for example. Then they went to
bed, with the exception of the one on watch duty. My parents differed in their views
on me, but they were agreed I had been a fine baby, at the very beginning, the first
fortnight or three weeks. And yet he was a fine baby, with these words they invariably
closed their relations. Often
they fell silent, engulfed in their memories. Then it was usual for one of the children
to launch, by way of envoy, the consecrated phrase, And yet he was a fine baby. A
burst of clear and
innocent
laughter, from the mouths of those whom sleep had not yet overcome, greeted this
premature conclusion. And the narrators themselves, torn from their melancholy thoughts,
could scarce forbear to smile. Then they all rose, with the exception of my mother
whose knees couldn’t support her, and sang, Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, for example,
or, Jesus, my one, my all, hear me when I call, for example. He too must have been
a fine baby. Finally my wife announced the latest news, for them to take to bed with
them. He’s backing away again, or, He’s stopped to scratch himself, or, You should
have seen him hopping sidelong, or, Oh look children, quick he’s down on his hands
and knee, admittedly that must have been worth seeing. It was then customary that
someone should ask her if I was approaching none the less, if in spite of everything
I was making headway, they couldn’t bear the thought of going to bed, those who were
still awake, without the assurance that I wasn’t losing ground. Ptoto set their minds
at rest. I had moved, no further proof was needed. I had been drawing near for so
long now that provided I remained in motion there could be no cause for anxiety. I
was launched, there was no reason why I should suddenly begin to retreat, I just wasn’t
made that way. Then having kissed all round and wished one another happy dreams they
retired, with the exception of the watch. What about hailing him? Poor Papa, he burned
to encourage me vocally. Stick it, lad, it’s your last winter. But in view of the
trouble I was having, the trouble I was taking, they held him back, pointing out that
the moment was ill-chosen to give me a shock. But what were my own feelings at this
period? What was I thinking of? With what? Was I having difficulty with my morale?
The answer to all that is this, I quote Malone, that I was entirely absorbed in the
business on hand and not at all concerned to know precisely, or even approximately,
what it consisted in. The only problem for me was how to continue, since I could not
do otherwise, to the
best of my declining powers, in the motion which had been imparted to me. This obligation,
and the quasi-impossibility of fulfilling it, engrossed me in a purely mechanical
way, excluding notably the free play of the intelligence and sensibility, so that
my situation rather resembled that of an old broken-down
cartor
bat-horse unable to receive the least information either from its instinct or from
its observation as to whether it is moving towards the stable or away from it, and
not greatly caring either way. The question, among others, of how such things are
possible
had long since ceased to preoccupy me. This touching picture of my situation I found
by no means unattractive and as I recall it I find myself wondering again if I was
not in fact the creature revolving in that yard, as Mahood assured me. Well supplied
with pain-killers I drew upon them freely, without however permitting myself the lethal
dose that would have cut short my functions, whatever they may have been. Having somehow
or other remarked the habitation and even admitted to myself that I had perhaps seen
it before, I gave it no further thought, nor to the near and dear ones that filled
it to
overflowing
, in a mounting fever of impatience. Though now close at hand, as the crow flies,
to my goal, I did not quicken my step. I could have no doubt, but I had to husband
my strength, if I was ever to arrive. I had no wish to arrive, but I had to do my
utmost, in order to arrive. A desirable goal, no, I never had time to dwell on that.
To go on, I still call that on, to go on and get on has been my only care, if not
always in a straight line, at least in obedience to the figure assigned to me, there
was never any room in my life for anything else. Still Mahood speaking. Never once
have I stopped. My halts do not count. Their purpose was to enable me to go on. I
did not use them to brood on my lot, but to rub myself as best I might with Elliman’s
Embrocation, for example, or to give myself an injection of laudanum, no easy matters
for a man with only one leg. Often the cry went up, He’s down! But in reality I had
sunk to the ground of my own free will, in order to be rid of my crutches and have
both hands available to minister to myself in peace and comfort. Admittedly
it is difficult, for a man with but one leg, to sink to earth in the full force of
the expression, particularly when he is weak in the head and the sole surviving leg
flaccid for want of exercise, or from excess of it. The simplest thing then is to
fling away the crutches and collapse. That is what I did. They were therefore right
in saying I had fallen, they were not far wrong. Oh I have also been known to fall
involuntarily, but not often, an old warrior like me, you can imagine. But have it
any way you like. Up or down, taking my anodynes, waiting for the pain to abate, panting
to be on my way again, I stopped, if you insist, but not in the sense they meant when
they said, He’s down again, he’ll never reach us. When I penetrate into that house,
if I ever do, it will be to go on turning, faster and faster, more and more convulsive,
like a constipated dog, or one suffering from worms, overturning the furniture, in
the midst of my family all trying to embrace me at once, until by virtue of a supreme
spasm I am catapulted in the opposite direction and gradually leave
backwards
, without having said good-evening. I must really lend myself to this story a little
longer, there may possibly be a grain of truth in it. Mahood must have remarked that
I remained sceptical, for he casually let fall that I was lacking not only a leg,
but an arm also. With regard to the homologous crutch, I seemed to have retained sufficient
armpit to hold and
manoeuvre
it, with the help of my unique foot to kick the end of it forward as occasion required.
But what shocked me profoundly, to such a degree that my mind (Mahood dixit) was assailed
by insuperable doubts, was the suggestion that the misfortune experienced by my family
and brought to my notice first by the noise of their agony, then by the smell of their
corpses, had caused me to turn back. From that moment on I ceased to go along with
him. I’ll explain why, that will permit me to think of something else and in the first
place of how to get back to me, back to where I am waiting for me, I’d just as soon
not, but it’s my only chance, at least I think so, the only chance I have of going
silent, of saying something at last that is not false, if that is what they want,
so as to have nothing more to say. My
reasons. I’ll give three or four, that ought to be enough for me. First this family
of mine, the mere fact of having a family should have put me on my guard. But my good-will
at certain moments is such, and my longing to have floundered however briefly, however
feebly, in the great life torrent streaming from the
earliest
protozoa to the very latest humans, that I, no, parenthesis unfinished. I’ll begin
again. My family. To begin with it had no part or share in what I was doing. Having
set forth from that place, it was only natural I should return to it, given the
accuracy