I was deciding whether to plant them in a half-moon, close to the border, or whether to distribute them more freely among the spider plants this displays main constituent. The spider plants had been Rays idea. His reasoning was that they grew quickly, reproduced easily, and that they were, most importantly, green. I doubted whether theyd last the winter out, but theyd cost us nothing which, as were broke, was all that really mattered.
Nancy had promised to drive over a new, cheap assortment of annuals from Southend at some point. Shed arranged to get them on credit. She has the gift of the gab, and its a useful gift. I wish I had it.
I dug a hole with my trowel near to the front of the bed. Behind me, as I worked, I could hear the gravel shift and scuffle, and another familiar noise, a plunging, a sucking-plucking. One-legged Saleem. I could see her from the corner of my eye, swinging over, staggering over. I pretended to be engrossed.
Phil, she said, whats up? She drew very close. Planting pansies, eh?
Geraniums. I popped one in and pressed the soil firm around its roots.
Yeah? Whats a geranium do? She poked her stick out, automatically, and pushed it into the soft soil to the right of the new plant. Hows that?
Thanks.
I widened the hole with the trowel and placed the new plant.
Whats it do? I love knowing what they do. Youre clever like that.
You could dry the root. Its astringent. A kind of tonic. You could take it internally for diarrhoea or use it as a gargle. Its a good gargle.
Whodve thought it? She bounced a step back and made a further hole. I moved over and planted the next one. Whodve thought it, eh?
I grimaced. She stared at me closely, Are you busy, Phil? Are you working too hard? Are you hot? Catching the sun, maybe? Youve got bright little flames in both cheeks.
I tried to distract her, to evade her questions, to drag her eyes away from my skin which always ripens at her approach, always reddens. Youre getting mud on your stick.
Huh? She inspected it, Nah, Soils dry. Needs a water.
Its moist for August.
Its moist for August*.
She guffawed and threw herself down on to the grass verge. I glanced at her for a moment and then turned my back and carried on planting.
Saleem has long, black hair and a lean face. Skin the colour of caramel. Half dark Hindu, half Greek. A curious hybrid. She looks like a cobra in a wig. She speaks with a forked tongue. She hates me. I dont know why.
Can we talk, Phil?
Im working.
While you work, then.
I smell her hate, always, and its a hot-hate, has a hot smell which makes me shrivel, inside, outside. And she loves to stare, to invade, to gouge. She lives for it.
While you work, then, she repeated.
I said nothing.
Am I irritating you or something?
No.
She prodded the base of my back with the tip of her stick.
Stop that.
I swatted her stick with my arm but didnt turn.
Youre just too sensitive, Saleem said, and by the sound of her voice she had a smile on her lips. And usually, she added, I wouldnt care, but lately, well, things are coming to a head and Im looking to you for some kind of decisive action.
I didnt respond to this, didnt rise to her, and she, in turn, was silent for a minute, sitting up straight, viper-still, her amputated leg jutting out in front of her like the short butt of a cigar.
You know, sometimes, Phil, your natural reserve comes across like a kind of hostility. Turn and look at me, Phil, she added, almost whispering. Turn and look, go on. Go on, Phil. Turn and face me. Look at me. Go on.
Im busy.
My head was so low as I spoke that my chin touched my chest. She laughed at this. Her incisors are protrusive, are very clearly pointed. I could picture them in my mind, and the very idea of them scorched me, scalded me. She prodded me again, sharp in the back with her stick. Go on, Phil, go on. Go on.
And I blocked out her taunting, was working, like Id said, was busy, was working, was planting, was digging. Quickly, busily. Five plants, then four plants. Then three plants left, only three, and after Id placed those Id have to turn to face her and shed see, with glee, that I was burned by her proximity, that I was red as beet, purple-red as beet. Two plants left. One plant.
I turned. But Saleem wasnt looking at me. She was a hooded reptile, yes, still a reptile, drawn up to spit, rocking, readying herself, but suddenly not focusing on me, but staring beyond me, over my shoulder, at the museum, its black shell. I thanked God for it, the museum. That was a skin shed shed a long time ago, but she kept on inspecting it, sniffing at it, mulling it over.
I turned away again, shuffled the soil into smoothness with my palms, broke down lumps with my thumb and forefinger, patted it, softened it. And for a minute or so I was still blushing, red and ripe and bright as a poppy. Blood. My curse.
You see, I blushed before I could walk, before I could talk. Peoples eyes invade me and make me anxious. Maybe because I think too well of other people, or maybe because I dont think well enough of myself. My schooldays were tortured, my teenyears a wash-out, and when I grew older, my only recourse was to disguise. Girls wear green-tinted make-up. Yes, that helps to hide blushes, apparently. I grew my hair, a mass of curls that fall over my face, cover my ears, which always tingle first, sting and heat up. A neat and moderately well-spread beard up my cheeks, down my neck helps to shelter further exposed flesh. I am Monkey Man. I am Mountain Man. I am Scott of the Antarctic after a very long expedition.
Doug told me once, in a lighter moment, that my face was a vagina all curls, all hair, with pink lips protruding and a small nose, labia-like, just above a tender fold. After that I knew I didnt just feel strange, vulnerable, like a whelk when its shell has been jerked open, but that I seemed strange to others, that I looked strange to others.
Its all so complete, so perfect. A sun, a moon, a circle, a cycle. Maybe I think too much. Maybe I dont think enough. Saleem knows all this. She smells it. She sees it with her yellow eyes.
Whats that? she asked suddenly, pointing with her stick. I followed its line. To the right of the museum I could see Doug in the distance, carrying what looked like a small tree.
Doug.
Whats he up to?
I dont know. Hes working.
Come off it! Anyway. I dont mean Doug. I mean that. . She continued pointing and added, A plant. Inside the building, the museum.
I squinted. It was too far to see anything, not clearly.
Its a plant, she insisted, crawling up where the chimney used to be.
I looked again, still not seeing but vaguely remembering the park, its constituent parts, every small thing etched in my very heart I aid, I think its a passion flower, growing up in the charcoal and old cinder.
What kind of a plant?
A creeper. It has a beautiful flower. White and very ornate. In Jamaica they have a variation which they call a grenadilla. Doug might know more about it.
I bet it grew from my leg, she said. My skin and foot. During the fire, thats where the burning beam fell, right there.
I stared at her. She was warped. She was rubbing the stump of her knee, smiling. I shuddered.
What does it do?
It works like a kind of morphine, affects the circulation and increases the rate of respiration. In homeopathic medicine they use its narcotic properties to treat dysentery. Sleeplessness. Some types are used for treating hysteria and skin inflammation.
Yeah? How?
Im not sure. Dry the berry or boil the root. Something like that.
Saleem started drawing a pattern in the grey gravel of the path with her stick.
Let me tell you something, Phil, she said. I was talking to Doug this morning, over breakfast. And guess what we talked about?
I didnt turn but I shook my head.
We talked about the Gaps.
I carried on smoothing the soil, thinking of softness, soil-softness.
Are you listening, Phil? The Gaps. Does that mean anything to you?
I said quietly, It doesnt mean anything.
What was that?
Saleem. My tormentor. I turned. I dont know.
OK, she said, OK, so Doug has this theory, right, about why London doesnt work. Its to do with the postal districts. He has this theory about London not working. . Did he tell you this yet?
I shook my head.
Oh, youll love it. Youll love this. Heres how it goes: Doug says that everything in nature moves in a circle, OK? Thats how nature works, a kind of winter-spring-summer-autumn-winter thing. A kind of sun-follows-moon-and-earth-revolving thing. Sort of oriental. Hes into all this stuff lately. Anyhow, Doug has now decided that the city of London is a life form too, kind of like a complex bacteria, and as such, everything should fit together. But unfortunately. . She stressed this word until it stang with venom. Unfortunately, Phil, London cant work properly because of the Gaps. Sounding familiar yet? I shook my head, although suddenly, strangely, it did begin to sound familiar. Doug. Circles. Doug. The Gaps. It did sound familiar.
In the gravel Saleem had drawn a circle. Thats London, the said, completing it. She drew a horizontal line through the centre of the circle, cutting it in half. And thats the Thames, she added. So thats London and everything connects to everything else. And these are the postal districts, OK? She drew them in. Weve got plain North London, wev e got plain West London, wev e got plain East London. . As she spoke she pointed, and I could hear the gravel kissing and knocking.
But heres a problem, right. Theres South-West London postal districts and theres South-East postal districts, and they, sort of, meet in the middle, which means that theres no South. No plain South. And Dougs upset about this. And theres another problem too, right. Theres North-West and South-West and South-East, but theres no North-East. Another Gap. No plain South and no North-East. And according to Doug, this is why London doesnt connect. This is why London doesnt work. Things arent properly linked. See what Im getting at, Phil?
I nodded.
You see, the city is fucked, Phil, because of this little problem with the postal districts. And Doug is worrying about it, Phil. Hes thinking about it. These Gaps.
I stopped feeling the soil. I turned.
So whats the problem? Why are you telling me this?
Saleems eyes popped. Because Dougs going absolutely rucking crazy. Hes got this meeting on Friday. Our whole fucking future depends on it, and he is going crazy. Hes crazy.
I turned away again.
Say something!
Hell be fine.
No he wont be fine. And thats the worst part of it. You seem determined to ignore whats going on right under your nose. Hes gone mad. I know all about it. Im living in the same house as him. And no one asked me, incidentally, whether I minded or not. He just moved in and that was that. Anyhow, I can see my way around the whole thing but no one wants to know what Ive seen.