The Unusual Life Of Tristan Smith Part 3

'No,' he said. 'Of course not.'

The deputation wished Mr Theroux and Mr Paccione good day. As their footsteps echoed along the corridor below, Vincent heard a high warbling sound from the other side of the peeling brown door.

It was me.

It seemed to Vincent's ear that the noise I made was 'singing'. Not singing as in a song, but singing like a warble, not a new-born noise, something rather unusual.

One step lower, Wally was combing his hair excitedly. 'Listen,' he said. He slipped his comb back into his shirt pocket, and winked at Vincent. 'It's Tristan.'

But the hair on Vincent's neck was standing on end.

He turned and pushed past Wally, and fled into the theatre, and there he sat in his Starbuck* for a whole hour, brooding that he could never love me. He was there when the actors began their warm-ups. He was there as the schoolchildren streamed into their seats, sunk in deep depression, and you can see, straight away, why it was necessary for my mother to choose two fathers. for a whole hour, brooding that he could never love me. He was there when the actors began their warm-ups. He was there as the schoolchildren streamed into their seats, sunk in deep depression, and you can see, straight away, why it was necessary for my mother to choose two fathers.

Vincent's great fear about his own character was that he was too much of an aesthete, a perfectionist, that he had such an addiction to things beautiful that he could not go and buy a simple tea cup without returning with an object he would have, finally, to lock up in a museum case for fear that his breakfast tea would stain its delicate eggsh.e.l.l glaze.

It was this flaw in his character, he believed, which had wrecked his marriage. In his version of the story he had captured Natalie Lopale and 'installed her' in that beautiful modernist house on the banks of the Nabangari. The house had seamless transparent walls, and it stepped down towards the river in a series of platforms, each one artfully supported on the great round Pleistocene rocks by stainless-steel pegs.

It was conceited to make himself responsible for his wife's character, and crazy to imagine that his beautiful house could turn a warm and loving woman into a status-crazed neurotic with a twenty-by-thirty foot wardrobe. Vincent, however, believed both these things.

He gave great weight to his single two-dimensional flaw. And he sat in the dark believing he could never love me if I was not perfect. He was such a good man in so many ways, humane, generous, humble around artists, pa.s.sionate about justice and equality, but really what a weasel.

He sat in his seat as the drums beat louder, waiting for the darkness to descend.

*Published speeches of Felicity Smith suggest that Tristan Smith was named after Tristan Devalier, the leader of a calamitous strike at the Imperial Dye Works in 137 EC. EC.'Liefling' is a common Voorstandish endearment, meaning 'darling'. It is unusual that Vincent Theroux, an ardent Efican nationalist, should use the term.*Traditionally the Efican circuses offered the first two rows of seats with back supports. These seats, named Starbucks or Starbacks, were marked by one or a number of stencilled stars. In Voorstand, of course, all seats have backs and there are no Starbucks. [TS] [TS]

8.

In the darkened theatre you could smell the freshly disturbed sawdust and know the actors were taking up their places.

Then a lightning flash: two witches, Second and Third.

The Witches held a six-by-three foot sheet of shining gauge iron between them.* They made thunder with it. As the drumming reached its peak bright lights bounced off the flexing metal to make lightning. They made thunder with it. As the drumming reached its peak bright lights bounced off the flexing metal to make lightning.

The storm raged. As the lightning flashed, the First Witch appeared and disappeared in different poses her birth-sore body wrapped in foam rubber, a laser gun across her back, a gas mask perching on her forehead, her face painted greasy red.

The Second and Third Witches threw the gauge iron to the sawdust-covered floor. When the drumming stopped, Vincent leaned forward in his Starbuck, his hand underneath his ear.

He was convinced my maman had me with her on the stage, and he listened for my 'singing' beneath the text like you may listen for a burglar's footsteps under the noise of the vid. He waited in this strained, intense way throughout Scene II.

Then the drums came back. Then the Witches. The First Witch stood off to upstage left, in what was, technically, a weak position. Somehow she used it to dominate the stage. The Third and Second Witches leaped and screeched, but the First Witch was immobile, wrapped in rubber.

Then Macbeth came in with Banquo, one red, one blue, both of them sweating in their airless suits.

When the Third Witch went to say her line ('Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none') ('Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none'), the First Witch stepped across and stole it from her.

'Thou shalt get Kings,' she said, and then revealed Tristan Smith in his hiding place, inside the cloak against her sweating breast. She held me up, high, turning slowly so I could be seen on all sides. She had one hand between my legs, the other behind my neck and head. A boy behind Vincent gave a grunt of fright.

Macbeth said, 'Oh G.o.d.' It was clearly audible.

The First Witch's eyes were opals, burning.

'Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none,' she said, and thrust me out into the world.

ENTER TRISTAN SMITH a gruesome little thing, slippery and sweating from his long enclosure in that rubber cloak, so truly horrible to look at that the audience can see the Witches must struggle to control their feelings of revulsion.

He is small, not small like a baby, smaller, more like one of those wrinkled furless dogs they show on television talk shows. His hair is fair, straight, queerly thick. His eyes are pale, a quartz-bright white. They bulge intensely in his face. He has a baby's nose but in the lower part of his severely triangular face there is, it seems, not sufficient skin. His face pulls at itself. He has no lips, but a gap in the skin that sometimes shows his toothless gums. He has, as make-up, two blue dots, one on each cheek.

Vincent saw him. His son. He saw the ghastly rib cage, saw his shrunken twisted legs, bowed under him, heard him make that noise he had called 'singing'.

Vincent put his hand up to his open mouth.

Tristan's forehead mirrored his, wrinkling like a piece of cloth. Then, from the depths of his turbulent stomach, he brought forth the business that was bothering him yellow-green, strongly sulphurous. His mother did not notice it for a full minute, but when she did she smeared it on her cheeks one stroke on each like a decorative scar and blew kisses to the fellow in the front row dressed in black.

I did not come back on stage, but for Vincent the aesthete, who felt he had invented me, it was a kind of h.e.l.l. He was left alone with his thoughts and theories in the dark a two-hour production with no interval.

*Gauge iron is known to you in Voorstand as galvanized iron, an essential building material in many colonial countries including Efica. In Chemin Rouge we grow up listening to deafening tropical rain on gauge-iron roofs, knowing what it is for roofs to rust, to leak, to lift in cyclones, to gleam in the sun. [TS] [TS]

9.

So let me ask you, did you notice, in the theatre, how the witch's suit was red? A slightly plummy red? Did it signify something political the red, also the blue?

Meneer, Madam, forgive me but if you had a little more knowledge of the countries whose destiny you control, I could get on with my story. I am eager to let you see how my mother and I abandoned the stage and retired to the tower apartment, but it is now obvious you know nothing of Red and Blue and therefore nothing about Efica. As you yourselves were once subjects of the Dutch you will understand my pa.s.sion to set this right before we move on it is the periphery shouting at the centre, and you will forgive me, I hope, for surmising that you know even less about Efica than the British and the French who colonized the eighteen islands, murdered its indigenous inhabitants, set up dye works and prisons, and then abandoned us as being an unsuccessful idea.

In the dreadful years of 90, 91, 95, our population nearly starved French dyers, English convicts it made no difference. We were left with little seed grain, no ships, abandoned like a folly three thousand miles from home. In the great European Exhibition of 102, none of our European parents devoted so much as a bioscope image to our existence, while we, even while our children's bellies swelled and our mothers' b.r.e.a.s.t.s dried up, comforted comforted ourselves with Shakespeare and Moliere. ourselves with Shakespeare and Moliere.

Three hundred years later the same habits persist on both sides. And even you literate, liberal, students of the Sirkus and the pages of the Saarlim Verlag Saarlim Verlag will need a little a.s.sistance in spite of the fact that we both speak, more or less, the same language. will need a little a.s.sistance in spite of the fact that we both speak, more or less, the same language.

If you follow foreign affairs you may know that we are a country whose southern islands are granite, that the granite is filled with caves which the English once found attractive as ready-made prisons, and that you, from the year 358, have found useful as a place to lay your miles of 'navigation cable.'*

Whatever this navigation cable does, your government will not say, not even to our government, but you value it immensely, and value our 'Red' governments which let you keep all this shiny metal lying in our guts. Red? Did I say 'red'? I did, Meneer, Madam. It is red I wish to speak of now.

If you make anything red in Efica, it means something particular, but not what you are presently imagining. It was red dye-stuffs the French came to get, the reason they shanghaied the master dyers of Rheims and shipped them to Chemin Rouge, the reason you will sometimes find Efica on old French maps named 'Rouge Asie'. It was red that Louis Quatorze wanted, and red he found in the little yellow-flowered cactuses which grew on Efica.

Even after Louis found easier ways to get red at home, the red dye works continued to do business with Europe and the colour red begat its own establishment in Efica the owners of the so-called Imperial Imperial Dye Works who produced it. It was these local capitalists who called in European armies on three occasions to help them put down the Blue factions. Dye Works who produced it. It was these local capitalists who called in European armies on three occasions to help them put down the Blue factions.

You may have noticed that poor Banquo wore blue. It was the colour blue that Wally's great-great-grandparents were collecting, out on the mudflats with their jute sacks. The colour blue, extracted from sh.e.l.lfish by a stinking process, was the poor people's dye, harvested originally by ex-convicts. Blue has been the party of idealism, of reform.* Blue governments have given women the vote, a thirty-five hour week, a national health scheme. Blue governments have given women the vote, a thirty-five hour week, a national health scheme.

To be consistent, my mother should have made me up with red after all, I was a witch's child but she could not put that hateful colour on my skin, hence the two blue spots. And although many of the company found the symbolism confusing, and some others were critical of the manner in which she had introduced me to the world, it was they all agreed just like her.

It was not like her to limp up the stairs after Scene III and leave her comrades one witch short for the remainder of the play, but that is precisely what she did. She laid her sweating baby in the crib. She lay down on the bed herself, curling up, her knees almost touching her chin. Her red make-up was still on her face. Her body was still clad in foam rubber, strapped with canvas. She pulled a pillow across her eyes and lay still, but only for a moment. Almost immediately she began to forage amongst the rumpled sheets, finally finding what she had been looking for a small plastic bag of very dry marijuana (not like her either she had stopped smoking on the day she knew she had finally conceived). Then, with her make-up still caked on her face, she rolled what was not the first cigarette of that particular day. It was a small cigarette, but the ganja was from Nez Noir, the northernmost island, and was therefore very strong.

In a short while the entire company would come up the stairs and enter the tower. It was what happened after each production. Unless she was to be a total coward, she would have to unlock the door.

*The Voorstandish Navy's ELF-FOLK (ELF for Extra Low Frequency) PROJECT has remained a mystery to the Efican people until 427, as we go to print. We now know that 2,400 miles of insulated cable was threaded through our nation's belly. The cable was grounded at each end in the dry bed-rock of Inkerman, thus turning our most populous island into a giant antenna. The low conductivity of Efican granite allowed for the more efficient generation of extra low frequency waves and enabled the Voorstandish Navy to communicate with its SNEEK SNEEK 77 submarines at depths of 400 feet. 77 submarines at depths of 400 feet.*The Blue Party is formally known as the Efican Democratic Party, or EDP. Its supporters are more familiarly referred to as Blueys or Muddies, the latter term providing a direct link back to the men and women who gathered those 'briques bleus' in the mangrove mudflats in the early days of settlement.

10.

Vincent skulked around the windy little cobbled courtyard, while all the cast and half the audience pushed up the noisy staircase to the tower to see exactly who I was. It was the tradition at the Feu Follet that anybody could come up to the tower on opening night audience members, critics, visiting actors, spies from the VIA and DoS* and anybody could give notes Moey Perelli's dad, for instance. Vincent too, and this was a privilege that he relished. He was the theatre's biggest single patron, but on opening night he always sat on the dusty floor in his good black suit. He drank wretched wine from paper cups without ever puckering his fastidious lips. He seemed so confident, so worldly, wealthy but hip. He had such a detailed knowledge of theatre history, an excellent eye, a real feeling for the moment when a scene lost energy or focus. No one but my mother knew that each opening night he had to steel himself to face 'them', to win the respect of actors of half his age, wit or taste. and anybody could give notes Moey Perelli's dad, for instance. Vincent too, and this was a privilege that he relished. He was the theatre's biggest single patron, but on opening night he always sat on the dusty floor in his good black suit. He drank wretched wine from paper cups without ever puckering his fastidious lips. He seemed so confident, so worldly, wealthy but hip. He had such a detailed knowledge of theatre history, an excellent eye, a real feeling for the moment when a scene lost energy or focus. No one but my mother knew that each opening night he had to steel himself to face 'them', to win the respect of actors of half his age, wit or taste.

And because of these windmills he felt he must dispense with, the sessions in the tower had always been the high points of his life first the discussion, the exercise of his considerably theatrical education and sensitivity, and then, some time before dawn, his secret love-making with the leading lady beneath the turning ceiling fan. He was addicted to the whole process, and no matter how he anguished over the deceitful phone calls to his wife, he could not bring himself to give up either my mother or the theatre.

On the press night for Macbeth Macbeth, however, he stayed down in the foyer. He pretended to read the tattered hand-written notices on the walls. He jiggled his car keys in the big pockets of his fashionably baggy black trousers.

He could not love his child he was clear on that. It was not that he would not like like to, but that he could not. It was his flaw, his weakness, not admirable, but beyond him. And if he could not love the baby one step led to the next Felicity would not love him. He had seen it in her eyes on stage when she pasted that vile green muck on to her cheeks and pointed at him. It was not to do with text or character, but to do with him and her he understood her perfectly. to, but that he could not. It was his flaw, his weakness, not admirable, but beyond him. And if he could not love the baby one step led to the next Felicity would not love him. He had seen it in her eyes on stage when she pasted that vile green muck on to her cheeks and pointed at him. It was not to do with text or character, but to do with him and her he understood her perfectly.

But he, also, understood himself he could not walk up the stairs. Nor could he leave the building, for if he left the building now, tonight, then that would be it, the end, and he would not permit it to be the end. He went to the open door and looked balefully at the last of the theatre patrons, a man and woman, standing in the middle of the street and talking in the sweet salty air.

'Croco cristi,' he said to himself, but more loudly than he intended. The man turned sharply to look at him, and Vincent thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and turned back to face the bleak little foyer with its ragged self important notices.

'Croco cristi,' he whispered. He undid his wide leather belt in that elaborate way of his which always suggested a man about to undress for bed.

'G.o.d d.a.m.n.'

He tightened the belt a notch.

What happened next was not very much his mouth tightened a little. But a second later he was crossing to the staircase in three strides.

Next he was ascending the stairs. Next, revealing a more athletic frame than his bulk might have promised, he was striding along the deserted first-floor corridor. His squeaking crepe soles echoed in the empty couchettes, and then receded as he climbed the steep narrow stairs which led to the roar of conversation.

The tower room was small, ten foot by ten foot six, and by the time the chief executive officer of Efica's largest aspirin manufacturer had reached the top there were fifty people crammed inside. One step below the door sill, his courage failed him. He stopped, marooned it seemed, jiggling his keys.

He could not see Felicity, but he could hear her. There was a stirring in the crowd the tall, gaunt Sparrow Glashan stepped aside, and there she was, totally alone, exhausted, with the spooky white-eyed baby on her crumpled bed.

How he loved her, loved her at that instant, beyond anything he had known before.

Felicity saw him. She caught his eye. He did not know how to look at her. His own eyes wobbled, then dropped. He stepped into the room and busied himself at the drinks table. He took a paper cup and filled it brimful of dark red wine.

When he next looked up, the crowd had blocked his view again, and he could hear Felicity asking someone to phone the hospital again to see when Wally's arm would be attended to. Her Voorstand accent was clear and crisp. It cut through the humming, sighing Efican voices like a silver knife.

He stepped back into the doorway and raised himself on his toes. Someone had, at last, taken pity on Felicity Claire Chen. Vincent had always thought of Claire Chen as a limpet on Felicity's life low-life dramas, breakdowns, abortions, bail money. But now she was the one who sat on the bed and laid her ringed hand on the baby's foot.

When she did this, the room quietened.

She began to stroke the baby's twisted foot. 'Isn't it amazing?' she said. You could hear her nerviness. 'All the bones and skin,' she said.

Felicity asked Claire, 'Would you like to hold him?'

Sparrow Glashan moved sideways and blocked Vincent's view again. Vincent left the doorway and pushed in past Annie McMa.n.u.s.

'Sure,' Claire said, 'I'll hold him.'

As the baby pa.s.sed from its mother its spindly arms sprang out like a spider and Claire flinched and screwed up her face. The actors watched. Vincent watched. He could see by the way she pulled her chin into her neck everything in her wanted to thrust the child away.

Claire did the thing Vincent knew he was expected to do himself touched the lipless little tragedy, stroked its gaunt little praying mantis head. It was very quiet in the square, high-ceilinged little room.

'See,' Felicity said, speaking generally, smiling, fondly, like a mother.

'Feel,' Claire invited, her little brown eyes flicking about the room she had done the brave thing, but she did not want to do it a second longer. 'It's so amazing.'

Vincent felt the crowd stir and shift. He imagined eyes looking for him.

'Feel,' Claire repeated. Vincent looked down at the floor, avoiding her eyes.

Annie McMa.n.u.s turned and looked at him. Her pretty face had no expression she did not know he was Felicity's lover, no one did but Vincent was convinced the opposite was the case and he pushed forward, to escape her. He b.u.mped into the critic for the Neufeine Neufeine, who turned, and then, misunderstanding his intention, stepped to one side to let him through. A path then opened up before him, and he walked it what else was he to do? squeaking on his crepe-soled shoes.

At the bed he looked into my mother's eyes, and gave a melancholy kind of shrug which gave no indication of the wild, confused state of his emotions.

But then he held out his square, soft hands their palms soft as the underbelly of an animal and fitted them around Tristan's chest cage, hooked under my arms, and lifted me out of Claire Chen's sweating embrace, slowly, smoothly into the air.

When he had me held aloft, all he could think was that he was going to faint.

No one spoke, no one made a sound. They left him there, alone, teetering on the edge. He glanced around the room, his eyes weak with need, his mouth oddly shapeless. Only Moey Perelli gave him any sign pushed his own mouth into the shape of a grin.

'He has intelligent eyes,' Vincent said. 'He's not beautiful, but he has intelligent eyes.' And then he embraced me. He was harsh and awkward pushed his beard into my eyes and ears, grazed my skin, held me too tight, nearly tripped as he tried to walk a little closer to Felicity. He landed heavily on the bed. Felicity stretched out her light, tense hand and grasped at his knee.

Moey began to talk, very loudly, about his security dossier (which he claimed to have seen), and somebody pulled a cork from a bottle of case-latrine.

'He has extraordinary eyes,' said Vincent. It was not easy for him. It took everything he had. He sat beside Felicity and made a little seat for me with his fat hairy arm. He supported my head with his fleshy pectorals.

Felicity held his knee and smiled and bit her lip.

Moey came his head shining now he had removed his wig and held out a long finger with wide tombstone fingernails.

Vincent took Felicity's hand not something he normally did in company. 'He has a strong grip,' he said.

Felicity nodded, and blew her nose.

'Whose turn is it to pick up the reviews?' she asked.

*Voorstand Intelligence Agency and Department of Supply, the latter being the Efican secret service. The two services worked closely at all times, it sometimes being said that the DoS's loyalty lay with the VIA, not with the elected government of Efica.