Monument Maker, page 16
14/5/1884
The body has been secreted in the book tower, in the bath in the centre of the room. It appears to be a man, though his face is obscured by a sealed clear dome that has fogged over and that is fixed to what appears to be full body armour, only soft and pliable, though equally impenetrable. He comes from the future, Fonte insisted. Then what does that make of us? Gordon demanded. Mere figments? Shades whose time has been and gone? Perhaps, Fonte said, but weren’t we always? If this man, Gordon argued, is come from the future, which from his clothes I have little reason to doubt, although he could, I maintain, be simply outlandish, then we are robbed of any existence that we might have had. We are, as it were, see-through, cheated of corporeality, mere players in the show. Again, Fonte insisted, I ask of you, truly, what has changed? What has changed? Gordon demanded. Do you not believe yourself to be at the forefront of time? To be riding the very crest of eternity’s unfolding? To be back of the curve, to have already been, well, it seems a cruel trick. I thought myself the witness of the new, Gordon continued, but if what you say is true, that this fiend has returned to us from a time in advance of our own, then it would appear that I was merely a holding place, a simple scaffold for the weight of all that has already been. But who is the trickster? Omar cried. Name him, sir.
15/5/1884
The book has been written backwards, the Yezidis inform us, beginning and end interwoven. The peacock’s eyes are everywhere all vainglorious. Hate is a conundrum, they teach us, yes and no inseparable. Strange ships have been sighted in the throat of the Nile. The Man on Stilts has been seen crossing the river, going over to the enemy. The stars are in place. We await our liberators or our captors. Gordon has discovered a book of the lore of the planets, the attributes of the heavenly spheres. He reads deeply in it. Saturne has a ring around it, he says, the Earthe a halo. He talks of the fleetingness of assignations and of young love. At times he is lost in remembering. At night I walk the city, this damned city, this godforsaken island.
16/5/1884
Gordon of Khartoum. He has taken this name and insists that this is how he be addressed in the future. And how should we address you in the present, Fonte chastised him, before you disappear? Chinese Gordon, he said. Heart’s True Gordon, Defender of the Empire, Unbowed Gordon. We shall all bow down, sir, Fonte said. Say you so? Gordon of Khartoum replied. The Lord would ask of us fortitude before fealty. The letter F, Fonte replied, is dissolute, deceptive. That is why we call them f-words. You speak like a Jew, Gordon of Khartoum said, endlessly rolling letters. It was Christ’s body that was resurrected after much suffering, not his word. His word is eternal and need not partake of life and death, Fonte replied. So let the word bow down or rise up, Gordon of Khartoum said. Either way ’tis no great thing. But let the body stand firm and receive its marks. Its marks are words, Fonte insisted. Logos is the body, Gordon of Khartoum replied. Logos is the beginning of the story, Fonte said. Having been in their company for several hours I damned them both as philosophers and left their presence, where I drank myself unconscious in the company of an emaciated street whore.
18/5/1884
We attended the unveiling of the body in the tower in the corner of the garden. Gordon of Khartoum’s top physician appears also to be his bodyguard. There was much doubt about his credentials. Surgeons and mortuary attendants are in short supply in the closed city of Khartoum, though future events may yet make doctors and gravediggers of us all. His name is Agha Khalil Orphali. I knew his family, Fonte confided to me. Vegetarians, ascetics, he spat. It had been decided that we would cut the soft outer skin from the body, presuming it to be a form of organic armour. In outlandish places they may have developed the ability to grow a protective layer over their body that would permit traffic amidst hostile elements like fire and water, Orphali said. Have you not heard of the doubles of Dubai, warriors with second skins?
What if he bleeds some noxious substance from the horror of his insides? Gordon of Khartoum asked. We should wrap our heads in turbans, Orphali said, so as to cover our passages.
We stood around the body like assassins with nothing but slits for eyes. Orphali took a small blade and cut a tiny slit into the arm of the outer layer. There was a sharp ophidian hiss as whatever was inside escaped into the air. Our faces being covered, only our eyes demonstrated fear, dilating like pebbles into dark wells. It’s nothing, Gordon of Khartoum said, only trapped air. I fear it is his spirit, Fonte said, and everyone turned to look at him. I fear that we have given passage to some form of demon. But something in Fonte’s eyes told me that he was smiling. I looked at the palm of my hand and pictured traffic in the lines. Enough for tonight, Gordon of Khartoum commanded. We must be careful how we go.
19/5/1884
I met Biraggo Fonte in the street. What do you understand as a ghost? he asked me. I was taken aback. A visitation from the past, I said. A wraith, a spirit. Ah, the spirit of the past is a ghost? Fonte said. Come with me. We walked arm in arm through the deserted streets of the city. It was early evening. We could smell the burning corpses of animals and salt was in the air too, camel dung and lavender. It will thunder tonight, Fonte said. The skies are pregnant. I despair of all this birth, of all these arrivals, I said. You may as well despair of death, Fonte said. Its time will come, I said. But for now, we are overwhelmed. You wish for a stop, he said. You are like a migrating bird on the ocean. But perhaps you mistake yourself for your going.
We climbed the stairwell of the royal palace and made our way to the roof. Above us the stars raged, before us the fires burned. Take your pick, Fonte said, and he laughed. I have taken the measure of Gordon of Khartoum, he said. And he is already a ghost. In taking his name he has taken his place in history. Ghosts are historic. But there are also demons. Demons are of time. Time is their very substance. Do you believe that the man in the tower is a demon? I asked him. I believe that he has had consort with them, yes, and I believe that when his second skin was cut open there was an influx of demonic energy, of time. And now there is a mingling. Of history and time, of ghosts and demons. Can they be separated? I doubt that, Fonte said. Even now they are in congress. Look up, he said, the very stars are copulating. I looked up and it was true. The skies were in orgy.
20/5/1884
The autopsy continues. Orphali removed the glass skull from his head. Beneath the skull was the shrunken head of a woman with long black hair. She smelled like a whore, of petals and incense. Across her eyes she wore a black visor. Within the man is a blind woman, Orphali gasped. It’s a cocoon, Gordon of Khartoum marvelled. She is like a butterfly or a moth. Perhaps she was attracted by the fires. You mean the stars? Fonte said, and he laughed. Of course, her arrival is written there.
This blindness, Orphali said. Perhaps it facilitates great feats of transport. Time itself is blind, said Fonte, and we looked at each other through our eye slits. It occurred to me that our own heads were the inverse of the woman in the floating coffin. I pictured myself wearing the visor, my head as blind as the night sky. But what did it mean? To be blind means to travel in time, and to see means to be exiled. Peck out my eyes, I said, without thinking. Fonte looked at me in concern. We can see, and she is blind, I shrugged. Remove the visor, Gordon of Khartoum said. Let us see if she is blind. But the visor seemed fixed to the face. Perhaps she grew it, Orphali said. Or perhaps it was secured through great heat. The eyes are the gateway to the soul, Gordon of Khartoum said. We shall never know her. Fonte rolled his eyes and shook his head. Time is the gateway to the soul, he spat. Spare me your infant platitudes. We shall know her, in time.
Beneath the second skin there appeared to be a cloak or tunic of black animal hide, with the same material wrapped tight around her legs. Again, beneath the skin, on her feet, the same black animal hide was worked into sharp points, like the feet of a bird. She is a shaman, Orphali announced. In some cultures they believe that taking the form of certain spirit animals endows them with their abilities. She dresses as a bird in order to facilitate flight across time. And what of the leather skin? Gordon of Khartoum asked. Are we to believe that she invokes the power of the cow? There was much laughter. Need I remind you, sir, that in these parts it is the skin of alligators that provides us with our best animal hides? Orphali replied. Perhaps she swam in the waters.
Swam with one oar! Gordon of Khartoum exclaimed as he lifted the woman’s arm in the air to reveal a missing right hand. The red right hand! he said. What does it mean? Orphali quizzed him. It moves behind the scenes, perchance, Gordon of Khartoum said. Orphali pulled the leather tunic to one side to reveal a vegetative material wrapped around her torso. There appeared to be characters written into it. Hieroglyphs! Gordon of Khartoum cried. More books! She is adorned with the word, Orphali said. Of that there can be no doubt. But what words? Gordon of Khartoum despaired. They were obscured; faded with age, they had returned to the earth. I can make out one word only, Fonte said, leaning over the corpse. It appears to be the Latin word for moon. Orphali took a sharp knife and went to cut the garment from her. No! Gordon of Khartoum commanded. Leave it intact. I wish to confirm the construction of the breasts, Orphali said. In that case use your hands, he was commanded. Orphali slid his hand beneath the garment of words and felt for the breasts of the silent woman. The breasts have atrophied, he announced. They are now merely nipples. Perhaps this was a result of congress with invisible energies. Now we see why she was in need of the powers of the cow, Fonte announced, so that the milk of her paps would continue to flow. The cow appears barren, Orphali says. Truly this is a primitive magic. Expose her genitalia, Fonte demanded, and everyone looked to the ground. We must! he said. Orphali rolled back the leather leggings to reveal a small black silk pouch, ornately decorated. She wears it as a precious jewel! Orphali marvelled. Everyone stared in awe. These outlanders dress their genitals in rich garments, Gordon of Khartoum exclaimed. This is popery, idolatry! But what kind of church is this! Orphali exclaimed as he slid the perfumed silk from her thighs to reveal a small rudimentary penis. My Lord, Gordon exploded, she has become a man! There is nothing left of the slit, Orphali said, as he ran his fingers between her legs, and there are testicles the size of marbles. I have heard of this in the oriental countries, Gordon of Khartoum marvelled, where passage between the male and the female is fluid. The cow and the moon, Fonte said. She wished to preserve not only the milk of her paps, but the blood of the moon. Her magic failed her, Gordon of Khartoum said. It backfired. Now she is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.
21/5/1884
The weighing of the organs has begun. She smells of the seas; perhaps she wears the skin of an alligator after all. Orphali cut a slit into her side to allow ingress. Her insides, too, are perfectly preserved. It’s a miracle, he said. Yes, Gordon of Khartoum said, we have lost faith in miracles. To us a flower is just a seed that has grown from the dead of the earth. You compare her to a flower? Fonte said. Yesterday you christened her an abomination. A rare flower but a flower all the same, Gordon of Khartoum said, and he sighed and held his head. I am alone in Khartoum. It is perhaps my final stand. The fruits of the earth rise up under God’s hand. In the end, anything is possible. He drew his hand around the room. These are His works, he said. And what of demons, sir, Fonte said, what of your Lord Lucifer? Banished, Gordon of Khartoum said. Khartoum is cleared of him, for now. But without reinforcements . . . His voice trailed off. One man cannot hold back the tide forever. Christ did, I said to him. Christ was the son of God, he replied. And is this not His daughter? Fonte asked, and he pointed to the woman with the hole in her side.
Orphali removed the organs, weighed and numbered them. The heart was swollen, engorged, “under sufferance of great emotion,” Orphali said. The lungs, too, were enlarged. The womb had been taken. The womb is gone, Orphali announced, and he shook his head. What thievery is this? Why would someone remove the womb? Unless there was something inside that they wanted, Fonte said. We all looked at him through the slits in our turbans. Nonsense, Gordon of Khartoum said. Some women are born without wombs. I have read of it in the books. Besides, he said, where is its point of exit?
The genitals are rudimentary, sir, Orphali said, a recent addition, I would say. She has been transformed somehow. But prior to this transformation the passages were open. Something has been born to this woman and has been taken from her, encased in her own birth. Aren’t we all, Fonte laughed, but Gordon of Khartoum started to sob quietly. This has all been written, he said, and he held his hand over his eyes. I know that this has all been written, somewhere.
22/5/1884
I have come to question my own origins and my own passage to Khartoum. I quizzed Fonte as to what he could remember of his past life, of a time before Khartoum. All of our origins are obscure, he said. It is a form of mercy. Do any of us remember the passage of the birth canal? Do any of us remember the navigation of the blood? That is no mercy, I protested. Perhaps if we were able to hold within ourselves a vision of our own becoming, if it were to be imprinted in our consciousness, then death would no longer hold such fear after so bold an adventure. You say there is mercy in forgetting; I say there is mercy in remembering. So remember, he commanded me. I have been trying, I told him. But there is something out of reach. Merciful God, Fonte shrugged, and he drank some perfidious alcoholic concoction that the Yezidis had put together from rotten vegetables. He wretched, cursed, spat in the sand and then swallowed it down. What do you recall of your father? he asked me. I see him as a shadow cast by the sun. And of your mother? Delicate, impossible. Then they have become shades, Fonte said, and he fixed a profound look to his face. But once they were as real as you, I said. Once they reached for me as surely as you reach for that bottle. Nay, Fonte said. The passion I have for this bottle is unmatched in all of the reachings of the world. A small dribble of vomit still clung to his beard. These feelings are as old as time itself, Fonte said, and he shook his head. Only history can fix them. But history is for ghosts, you said so yourself. There you should take your ideas and go, Fonte said, and he passed me the bottle. I could taste the acid of his stomach as I choked it down.
23/5/1884
I sought out my father in dreams and came upon him. In order that we might commune once more I was forced to raise him from the dead. The surface of the moon was like a mirror. Then it became my own skull and my skull became like a lung of bone, breathing. I was part of a guerrilla mission to bring back the dead. We hid ourselves in the long grass at the edge of a crater within which was the monument of the head. Our intention was to raid and overthrow it. The interior of the head is a ship that hangs in space inside of which are the planets and stars and outside of which are the planets and stars. I look out to see ships of all periods and designs suspended in the dark. I raise one, a beautiful wooden ship draped in white silk. We pilot the depths together and it feels like we are swimming. The view rushes out and I can see endless stars rotating in endless combinations. We come to a final darkness aboard the ship itself, which is populated by creatures of the night, spiders and beetles and centipedes. We sit deep in meditation as they come to obey me in final judgement. They swarm over the room, a great centipede, I seem to touch it. It returns to the earth and with its return my father is before me once more. When I realise he has returned from the dead I am immediately astounded. But we buried him, I say, he was in the grave, how did he rise through the soil and break through the coffin? Through force of will, I am told, or sorrow.
I rush to embrace him, and he holds me close. He seems tired and unwell, but I am overwhelmed to be back in his arms. I tell him how much his death affected me, and he tells me he knows. I know how much you suffered by my death, he says, that is why I have come back, that is why I have broken the bonds of the grave.
I realise that he has made a supernatural effort to come back, that my sorrow was unbearable to him and even though he is dead and unable to hold corporeal form he has made a supreme exertion of will to come back and comfort me. That is when I realise: he is a zombie, the living dead, that this is where the idea comes from. We are unable to break the bonds with our loved ones who go over to the other side and the force of love means they also cannot let go, cannot be at peace, until we ourselves are. I realise, as heartbreaking as it is, that I have to let my father go, to leave him at peace, to allow him to divest himself of the role he had in my life and to disappear in tranquillity. I take a ship with an emblem on its sail and leave him on the moon, which is now a mirror with a dead skull at its centre.
