Orpheus on the Underground and Other Stories, page 14
It was fortunate I did not stop, because the authorities of Madrid wasted little time sending pursuers after me. The sun rose while I was only halfway to the shelter of the mountains. Then some people on their way to work were inconvenienced by my absence and hurled so much abuse at the Río Manzanares that the disturbance was reported to those in charge of public security. Men on horseback and men in carts were ordered to find me and bring me back in manageable pieces, and were equipped with gunpowder and wheelbarrows for that purpose.
I knew none of this at the time, of course. I was preoccupied with pastoral thoughts of an almost unbearable sweetness and intensity, a sort of present-time nostalgia, if such a thing is possible. I was startled by the cleanliness of the air, the daintiness of the birds, the shapes of the trees and boulders. Everything seemed eager to put on a show for my benefit, a sort of pantomime. The cracks between my stones laughed like mouths, silently but authentically. I was happy, lost in the moment, and even my loneliness was pleasurable.
Therefore my dismay at the sudden arrival of my pursuers was amplified into a horrible feeling of betrayal, a sense that the cosmos had let me down. The natural delights of my surroundings, which although peaceful were also intense, were shattered by the roar and hiss of a musket shot. A bullet flattened itself into a disc against the top of one of my pseudo-thighs. I was aghast. Would I walk with a limp for the rest of my existence? Of course not, for I was a bridge, and really had no right to walk at all.
More shots were wasted against my sides. To put it poetically, spheres of soft lead became coins I could not spend. The purpose of this futile attack, I later realised, was to confuse me, to cause me to halt, to allow my pursuers to surround me and roll barrels of gunpowder under my arches. And that, no doubt, is precisely what would have happened, had it not been for the cool and masterful voice that cut into my daze and ordered me to start running. I obeyed at once, in a sort of trance state, my gait awkward but effective, like a vast petrified cousin of centipedes.
‘Turn left down the next path!’ cried the voice.
I did so. The way was narrow and I scraped my sides against flat rocks, a not unwelcome sensation, possibly similar to what rough kissing feels like to you, my human readers, but without tongues, unless you count the moss, and I did not. I was in a gorge that rapidly widened out. The voice ordered me to take a sharp right and I plunged through spiky bushes and over a fence into an orchard. I would have kept running, but the voice told me to stand still. I did so, not out of breath, which was quite impossible, but with joints aching terribly and my illusions crumbled.
‘Wait here until nightfall, then move out,’ said the voice.
V
Will Think of a Title Later
And that is how I first made the acquaintance of Hesper, my drunk, who had already been living on top of me, without my knowledge, for a week. I doubt he was sober for any of that time. An educated man, but not suited for cruel city life, commerce and the making of money, he had sunk through the various strata of society to the muddy bottom, finding to his surprise that it was possible to fall right through and come out the other side. I suspect he was merely trying to find something good to say in a very general way about poverty and homelessness.
I thanked him for saving my life and we chatted amiably as I sauntered in the relative safety of darkness, weaving nimbly (I use that word as a rare act of generosity to myself) between occasional shafts of moonlight that pierced the thick clouds. Among a dozen other subjects, he was a minor expert on geography, and when I declared Venice to be my goal he was able to guide me in the correct direction with minimal fuss. For this I felt vast gratitude, because I scarcely knew which of the cardinal points was which.
Our conversations covered the topics that all cultured men at that time, and even several women, deemed it stylish to express an interest in—history, astronomy, metaphysics, the benefits of democracy, vegetarianism, hygiene. But though he was fully animated during our talks, I felt there was something bothering him, a mental itch, a doubt.
‘Do you think my name unmanly?’ he asked me.
‘I have no opinion on the matter, for I am a bridge,’ I replied.
‘A good excuse to prevaricate, but one day you may be forced to answer awkward questions honestly,’ he warned.
‘How so?’ I retorted. ‘I will always be a bridge.’
‘True enough, but you might eventually learn too much about the world of humans to play the innocent edifice convincingly. Already you have had the experience of a common domestic servant—you have been soiled by boots and bums—and by the time you reach Venice you will be a genuine gentleman in all but title and skin. I say this with conviction because only gentlemen travel so far on an idle whim.’
‘My whim is not idle. I plan to fall in love with the Bridge of Sighs. Love is the profoundest reason for doing anything.’
‘You will see,’ he sighed, and then forgetting his sermon cried: ‘Look at that star! It is Arcturus in Boötes.’
I craned my metaphorical neck and gazed upwards. I winked my lidless non-eyes at the distant yellow light. Meteors skimmed my peripheral vision like threads of rancid milk. Hesper has promised me a reward for the most imaginative simile I can devise on this voyage. He informs me that the big publishing houses rate ornamental language more highly than the plain kind, and that for a novel to stand a chance of appearing as a real book, the author must be long winded. Like a chased snake. On a capstan. Now I am trying too hard and I doubt this paragraph will survive a rewrite. Or maybe the next paragraph should be erased instead, for it is even more strained than this one. Yes, the present chapter will end here.
Almost. But not quite.
VI
Which Rambles Farthest: Feet or Mind?
When Hesper told me about the requirements of publishers, how they liked dense prose and slowly evolving action, he was correct. But times change. This writing business is tricky indeed. The new fashion in literature is to be offhand, ironic and terse. I believe I can do both styles simultaneously, but that is because I have no sense of cultural logic. I am a bridge, and despite the loss of force in that pronouncement, the way it serves less and less as a valid mitigating circumstance, I refuse to abandon it as my personal motto. I will never be ashamed of my origins.
Unlike natural madmen or those who smoke weird herbs and dance away the night on beaches, all bridges have a solid core of identity, an unbreakable ego, and those cores are igneous, metamorphic or sedimentary, depending on the actual minerals used in construction.
Have I told you about the bandit chief who sheltered from a storm under my arches with his band of ruffians and decided to use me as his temporary base? That was in the Sierra de Guadarrama and the name of the villain in question (and also in answer) was Don Quisquilloso, a dashing but phoney hidalgo with a skill at fencing that even a thundercloud might envy, though having said that. . . . No, my timing is all wrong. Let me say that when he first appeared I was scared that he might tie me up with ropes, carry me off, rape me. Then I remembered (yet again) I was a bridge, but I remained concerned for Hesper up above, a mere mortal.
My worries were wasted. The storm lashed the mountains so fiercely that the bandits were blind with water and hurried under me in the belief that my arches were a series of curious caves in a cliff. Indeed they realised nothing of the truth for four or five days: the storm was relentless. They made camp and did little other than roast meats on little fires, sing tuneless songs, snore, burp, tell dirty jokes and scratch their rascally bellies. Don Quisquilloso was more refined than his men. Fussy even, in the way he refused to pick his nose and enter the slimy or crusty green ore in competitions. I did not move, not so much as the width of a lute string.
Hesper was exposed to the full fury of the tempest and dared not risk the wrath of the bandits by coming down. True, they might welcome him, treat him kindly or at least with indifference, for Don Quisquilloso was no brutal degenerate, at least not all the time. On the other hand they might tie him up with ropes, carry him off, rape him. Who knew? Hesper cared not to gamble with such high stakes, so he remained without cover, drenched, chilly, drunk but not pleasantly so. Eventually he could bear it no longer and shouted out in delirium for, ‘Towels! Hot towels!’
Don Quisquilloso cocked his head, made a parabolic reflector of one hand, held it against his ear, amplified Hesper’s words enough to decipher them above the pounding of the rain. His men exchanged glances. Don Quisquilloso licked dry lips, mostly his own. In order to remain leader he was required at regular intervals to prove his worth with visceral action. You are shocked, dear reader, for in modern working environments there are gentlermethods of evaluating a boss—annual appraisals and suchlike. Not back then! A man tested his mettle with metal!
I like that line. Perhaps the best in this whole story. . . .
Hesper wants to say something at this point. ‘Get on with it, you fool! I’m stuck in the rain while you digress!’
True enough. Seizing the long dagger known as a vizcaina, because it makes a more delightful belly ripping sound than a sword, Don Quisquilloso jumped out into the rain and climbed up my side with remarkable skill, the vizcaina gripped between teeth capped with iron for just such a purpose. He found Hesper cowering in the precise centre of my span and raised his evil blade to wickedly deliver the fateful stroke. Maybe the sky interpreted this gesture as a formal challenge. Maybe storms like nothing better than to fight duels. I know that owls are not all they seem: perhaps the same is true for violent meteorological disturbances.
While the blade was at its highest point—balanced vertically in the wet but firm grip of Don Quisquilloso, a character I hope will never appear in any other tale, because he lacks depth and charisma—down hissed a lightning bolt, a celestial sausage of pure blue energy! Oh dear! The bandit chief was roasted to a black husk in moments and his iron teeth melted and mingled and reset, locking his dead jaw together. As for myself, I took off, stumbling over loose rocks, smashing through trees, caring not where I went, so long as it took me closer to Venice.
Hesper wants to say something else. What now? He has a suggestion, not a bad one actually. ‘Why not start the next chapter with some dialogue? Just to get things moving faster!
VII
Follow My Progress on a Map of Your Own
‘I’m sorry but you’ll have to turn back!’
I had reached the border with France at long last and now it seemed my efforts were all wasted, my dreams doomed, for I had reckoned without the unjust frustrations of bureaucratic procedure. So much walking! Somehow I felt diminished in stature, a sensation not wholly disagreeable, but I will say no more about that and describe instead the scene as I remember it, Hesper leaning over my edge and remonstrating with the tip of a very long bayonet on the end of a very long musket.
My drunk can be disarmingly eloquent at times. ‘Kindly explain, dear fellow. We don’t understand at all. It is true we have no passports, but that is clearly not the main problem here, for a bribe might suffice as an adequate substitute (not that we have any money on us) and yet you seem disinclined even to mouth the word “gold”.’
‘I can’t let you come any further,’ said the guard, ‘because it will cause too many technical problems.’
‘We are interested to hear about those,’ insisted Hesper.
The guard sighed and adjusted his bicorn hat with his free hand. ‘This is not an official border crossing.’
Hesper scratched his nose. ‘If we attempt to pass into France here, you’ll be forced to regard us as smugglers or spies and take bellicose action. Is that what you are trying to tell us?’
‘No,’ replied the guard, before rolling his eyes and adding, ‘What breed of fool are you? France is a local country for local people! Return to Spain at once—to sherry and castanets!’
At this point it might be thoughtful of me to outline my entire route, from Madrid to the outskirts of San Lorenzo del Escorial, then north east over the Sierra de Guadarrama, through lovely little La Rioja and noble Navarra, then due east to the Val d’Aran, where I presently am. . . . Breathe the pure air, dear reader! Not bad, eh? But chilly at night, I should imagine. . . . After Hesper and I manage to extricate ourselves from our difficulties with the guard, I will cross the border with a shuffling gait and continue east to the Golfe du Lion. When we reach Le Barcares . . .
‘Your timing is all wrong!’ shouts Hesper. ‘You are spoiling the tension of this scene by jumping ahead!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ (That was the guard, not me.)
‘I was talking outside the story. . . . Talking to the bridge in the future. Your future, not ours. I’m sorry if that sounds too confusing. This novel is a bit of a mess, but it’s a first effort.’
‘Oui, oui, I understand. Muddled dynamic.’
Hesper said, ‘Now tell me directly what the technical problems are so my bridge and I can fume about them together. We have both earned the right to at least one significant tantrum.’
‘Certainly,’ responded the guard. ‘Listen carefully. . . . If I permit a bridge to cross the border, there will come a moment when it is halfway across and forms a new border crossing. People from both sides will rush over. Sentry posts will have to be erected to process all the visitors, all the apparatus of customs control will have to be implemented at great cost to the state! Who will be blamed for this? Me!’
Hesper chewed his lower lip. ‘What if we walk sideways?’
The guard lowered his musket. ‘You mean, without forming a traversable link between France and Spain at any point?’
‘Indeed. A bridge that scuttles like a crab over a border will form a line parallel to the border itself and thus cannot serve as a conduit for either day trippers or more serious travellers.’
‘Brilliant!’ cried the guard, and he made Hesper a gift of half his food and alcohol ration. Bread, wine and cheese. He also offered to teach us the rules of belote, but a detailed description of how to play a card game has no place in a novel, and so we declined.
Incidentally, that is how my drunk keeps body and soul together, through donations of consumables. And so we passed into France, a great nation of innovators. One night I felt a curious whirring weight on my slabs, like some strange tangle of bats. Then it was gone and I knew that something very new had just passed over me, something metallic and chain driven and sniffable to perverts. Hesper described it to me when I later questioned him about it. A frame on two wheels with pedals.
At Le Barcares I waded out to sea. That is what I wanted to say earlier. I cooled my arches in ivory spume.
VIII
Hesper Walks on Water
The problem was that we were attracting too much attention. Lumbering like a pillared crocodile through the mountains of Spain was one thing, but in the seaside towns of Southern France I was a freak, an oddity to be stared at, an occasion for mirth and merriment. Finally I ran across the rocky beach and plunged into the waves to escape some amateur artists who wanted to paint my portrait. I went out until the water reached the top of my pseudo-thighs. Then I resumed walking parallel to the shoreline. Eventually I would return to land, but only when it was safer.
The truth is that we occasionally went ashore for supplies. . . . That is one truth. Another is that supplies came to us. Unexpectedly and against his will, Hesper became a magician, even a new messiah. Rumours that a man was standing on the surface of the sea, gliding along without moving his legs, like a lazy version of the Redeemer, encouraged crowds of people to gather on the shore and shout out requests. ‘The fools are praying to me!’ snorted Hesper, and although I had never seen him display any sort of religious fervour, he embraced his new role with zeal.
Some men put out to sea in small boats and approached him cautiously. Then all manner of offerings would be cast over the side: baskets of food, wooden chests containing money and jewels, small barrels of rum. Hesper took all that he could without blinking. He was a holy drunk now, a sacred derelict, and the ragged condition of his beard, the grime of his skin, all the outer signs of his indolent lifestyle, were transmuted into symbols of purity and devotion. A hacking vagrant’s cough became a sound smoother than the soothing whisper of vespers.
Every novel must have an erotic interlude. In my own novel there are two. Here they are in correct order. At Valras-Plage a pretty young girl gave herself to Hesper. At Palavas-les-Flots a pretty young girl gave herself to Hesper. He took full advantage of their fullness—full lips, full breasts. I felt mildly embarrassed but my main emotion was one of impatience. I could hardly wait for that time when I too would know love, carnal and sublime, when the Bridge of Sighs would finally be mine. The romantic interludes are now over. Next comes a shipwreck!
We passed the Camargue. The weather took a turn for the worse. Waves smashed against Hesper, sobering him up like black coffee flavoured with starfish, octopus and dolphin. We approached Marseille. The sails of a ship glimmered suddenly, the cries of sailors were like unintelligible clichés, a sudden crack of wood, a popping of nails and snap of ropes, and the hull of the vessel had run aground on my submerged structure. I played the part of a reef with astounding perfection, so Hesper informed me. Not one body was he able to pluck from the water.
The storm died and I felt part of my own soul fade away with it. Mentally exhausted, I stopped for a rest on the Ile de Porquerolles. Days passed and I regained my confidence. We continued down the Cote d’Azur and re-entered the European mainland on the Ligurian Coast. All that remained was for me to march across Italy to reach Venice. Something was wrong, I felt too light, insubstantial, although my gait was sluggish. Should I be held to account for the destruction of that ship? Hesper and I debated the ethics of the incident, but no answer was forthcoming.
