The Hussein-Ishmael was owned by Mo Hussein-Ishmael, a great bull of a man with hair that rose and fell in a quiff, then a duck tail Mo believed that with pigeons you have to get to the root of the problem: not the excretions but the pigeon itself. The shit is not the shit (this was Mo's mantra), the pigeon is the shit. So the morning of Archie's almost-death began as every morning in the Hussein-Ishmael, with Mo resting his huge belly1 on the windowsill, leaning out and swinging a meat cleaver2 in an attempt to halt the flow of dribbling3 purple.
"Get out of it! Get away, you shit-making bastards5! Yes! SIX!"It was cricket, basically the Englishman's game adapted by the immigrant, and six was the most pigeons you could get at one swipe.
"Varin!" said Mo, calling down to the street, holding the bloodied6 cleaver up in triumph.
"You're in to bat, my boy. Ready?"Below him on the pavement stood Varin - a massively overweight Hindu boy on misjudged work experience from the school round the corner, looking up like a big dejected blob underneath7 Mo's question mark. It was Varin's job to struggle up a ladder and gather spliced8 bits of pigeon into a small Kwik Save carrier bag, tie the bag up, and dispose of it in the bins10 at the other end of the street.
"Come on, Mr. Fatty-man," yelled one of Mo's kitchen staff, poking11 Varin up the arse with a broom as punctuation12 for each word.
"Get-yourfatGaneshHindubacksideupthere-ElephantBoyandbringsomeofthatmas edpigeonstuffwith-you." Mo wiped the sweat off his forehead, snorted, and looked out overCricklewood, surveying the discarded armchairs and strips of carpet, outdoor lounges for local drunks; the slot machine emporiums, the greasy13 spoons and the mini cabs all covered in shit. One day, so Mo believed, Cricklewood and its residents would have cause to thank him for his daily massacre16; one day no man, woman or child in the broadway would ever again have to mix one part detergent17 to four parts vinegar to clean up the crap that falls on the world. The shit is not the shit, he repeated solemnly, the pigeon is the shit. Mo was the only man in the community who truly understood. He was feeling really very Zen about this very goodwill-to-all-men until he spotted18 Archie's car.
"Arshad!"A shifty-looking skinny guy with a handlebar moustache, dressed in four different shades of brown, came out of the shop, with blood on his palms.
"Arshad!" Mo barely restrained himself, stabbed his finger in the direction of the car. "My boy, I'm going to ask you just once.""Yes, Abba?" said Arshad, shifting from foot to foot.
"What the hell is this? What is this doing here? I got delivery at 6.30.1 got fifteen dead bovines turning up here at 6.30. I got to get it in the back. That's my job. You see? There's meat coming. So, I am perplexed20 .. ." Mo affected21 a look of innocent confusion. "Because I thought this was clearly marked "Delivery Area"." He pointed22 to an ageing wooden crate23 which bore the legend no parkings of any vehicle on any days. "Well?""I don't know, Abba.""You're my son, Arshad. I don't employ you not to know. I employ him not to know' he reached out of the window and slapped Varin, who was negotiating the perilous24 gutter25 like a tightrope-walker, giving him a thorough cosh to the back of his head and almost knocking the boy off his perch26 "I employ you to know things. To compute27 information. To bring into the light the great darkness of the creator's unexplainable universe.""Abba?""Find out what it's doing there and get rid of it."Mo disappeared from the window. A minute later Arshad returned with the explanation. "Abba."Mo's head sprang back through the window like a malicious28 cuckoo from a Swiss clock.
"He's gassing himself, Abba.""What?"Arshad shrugged29. "I shouted through the car window and told the guy to move on and he says, "I am gassing myself, leave me alone." Like that.""No one gasses himself on my property," Mo snapped as he marched downstairs. "We are not licensed30."Once in the street, Mo advanced upon Archie's car, pulled out the towels that were sealing the gap in the driver's window, and pushed it down five inches with brute31, bullish force.
"Do you hear that, mister? We're not licensed for suicides around here. This place hal al Kosher, understand? If you're going to die round here, my friend, I'm afraid you've got to be thoroughly32 bled first."Archie dragged his head off the steering33 wheel. And in the moment between focusing on the sweaty bulk of a brown-skinned Elvis and realizing that life was still his, he had a kind of epiphany.
It occurred to him that, for the first time since his birth, Life had said Yes to Archie Jones. Not simply an "OK' or "You-might-aswellcarryonsinceyou've-started', but a resounding34 affirmative.
Life wanted Archie. She had jealously grabbed him from the jaws36 of death, back to her bosom37.
Although he was not one of her better specimens38, Life wanted Archie and Archie, much to his own surprise, wanted Life.
Frantically, he wound down both his windows and gasped39 for oxygen from the very depths of his lungs. In between gulps40 he thanked Mo profusely41, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands clinging on to Mo's apron42.
"All right, all right," said the butcher, freeing himself from Archie's fingers and brushing himself clean, 'move along now. I've got meat coming. I'm in the business of bleeding. Not counselling. You want Lonely Street. This Cricklewood Lane."Archie, still choking on thankyous, reversed, pulled out from the curb43, and turned right.
Archie Jones attempted suicide because his wife Ophelia, a violet eyed Italian with a faint moustache, had recently divorced him. But he had not spent New Year's morning gagging on the tube of a vacuum cleaner because he loved her. It was rather because he had lived with her for so long and had not loved her. Archie's marriage felt like buying a pair of shoes, taking them home and finding they don't fit. For the sake of appearances, he put up with them. And then, all of a sudden and after thirty years, the shoes picked themselves up and walked out of the house. She left.
Thirty years.
As far as he remembered, just like everybody else they began well. The first spring of 1946, he had stumbled out of the darkness of war and into a Florentine coffee house, where he was served by a waitress truly like the sun: Ophelia Diagilo, dressed all in yellow, spreading warmth and the promise of sex as she passed him a frothy cappuccino. They walked into it blinkered as horses. She was not to know that women never stayed as daylight in Archie's life; that somewhere in him he didn't like them, he didn't trust them, and he was able to love them only if they wore haloes. No one told Archie that lurking44 in the Diagilo family tree were two hysteric aunts, an uncle who talked to aubergines and a cousin who wore his clothes back to front. So they got married and returned to England, where she realized very quickly her mistake, he drove her very quickly mad, and the halo was packed off to the attic45 to collect dust with the rest of the bric-a-brac and broken kitchen appliances that Archie promised one day to repair. Amongst that bric-a-brac was a Hoover.
On Boxing Day morning, six days before he parked outside Mo's hal al butchers, Archie had returned to their semidetached in Hendon in search of that Hoover. It was his fourth trip to the attic in so many days, ferrying out the odds46 and ends of a marriage to his new flat, and the Hoover was amongst the very last items he reclaimed47 one of the most broken things, most ugly things, the things you demand out of sheer bloody48-mindedness because you have lost the house. This is what divorce is: taking things you no longer want from people you no longer love.
"So you again," said the Spanish home-help at the door, Santa Maria or Maria-Santa or something. "Meester Jones, what now? Kitchen sink, si?""Hoover," said Archie, grimly. "Vacuum."She cut her eyes at him and spat49 on the doormat inches from his shoes. "Welcome, senor."The place had become a haven50 for people who hated him. Apart from the home-help, he had to contend with Ophelia's extended Italian family, her mental-health nurse, the woman from the council, and of course Ophelia herself, who was to be found in the kernel51 of this nuthouse, curled up in a foetal ball on the sofa, making lowing sounds into a bottle of Bailey's. It took him an hour and a quarter just to get through enemy lines and for what? A perverse52 Hoover, discarded months earlier because it was determined53 to perform the opposite of every vacuum's objective: spewing out dust instead of sucking it in.
"Meester Jones, why do you come here when it make you so unhappy? Be reasonable. What can you want with it?" The home-help was following him up the attic stairs, armed with some kind of cleaning fluid: "It's broken. You don't need this. See? See?" She plugged it into a socket54 and demonstrated the dead switch. Archie took the plug out and silently wound the cord round the Hoover. If it was broken, it was coming with him. All broken things were coming with him. He was going to fix every damn broken thing in this house, if only to show that he was good for something.
"You good for nothing!" Santa whoever chased him back down the stairs. "Your wife is ill in her head, and this is all you can do!"Archie hugged the Hoover to his chest and took it into the crowded living room, where, under several pairs of reproachful eyes, he got out his toolbox and started work on it.
"Look at him," said one of the Italian grandmothers, the more glamorous55 one with the big scarves and fewer moles57, 'he take everything, capisce? He take-a her mind, he take-a the blender, he take-a the old stereo he take-a everything except the floorboards. It make-a you sick .. ."The woman from the council, who even on dry days resembled a long-haired cat soaked to the skin, shook her skinny head in agreement. "It's disgusting, you don't have to tell me, it's disgusting . and naturally, we're the ones left to sort out the mess; it's mug gins here who has to '
Which was overlapped58 by the nurse: "She can't stay here alone, can she .. . now he's buggered off, poor woman .. . she needs a proper home, she needs I'm here, Archie felt like saying, I'm right here you know, I'm bloody right here. And it was my blender.
But he wasn't one for confrontation60, Archie. He listened to them all for another fifteen minutes, mute as he tested the Hoover's suction against pieces of newspaper, until he was overcome by the sensation that Life was an enormous rucksack so impossibly heavy that, even though it meant losing everything, it was infinitely61 easier to leave all baggage here on the roadside and walk on into the blackness. You don't need the blender, Archie boy, you don't need the Hoover. This stuff's all dead weight. Just lay down the rucksack, Arch, and join the happy campers in the sky. Was that wrong? To Archie ex-wife and ex-wife's relatives in one ear, spluttering vacuum in the other it just seemed that The End was unavoidably nigh. Nothing personal to God or whatever.
It just felt like the end of the world. And he was going to need more than poor whisky, novelty crackers62 and a paltry63 box of Quality Street all the strawberry ones already scoffed64 to justify65 entering another annum.
Patiently he fixed66 the Hoover, and vacuumed the living room with a strange methodical finality, shoving the nozzle into the most difficult corners. Solemnly he flipped67 a coin (heads, life, tails, death) and felt nothing in particular when he found himself staring at the dancing lion. Quietly he detached the Hoover tube, put it in a suitcase, and left the house for the last time.
But dying's no easy trick. And suicide can't be put on a list of Things to Do in between cleaning the grill68 pan and levelling the sofa leg with a brick. It is the decision not to do, to un-do; a kiss blown at oblivion. No matter what anyone says, suicide takes guts69. It's for heroes and martyrs70, truly vainglorious71 men. Archie was none of these. He was a man whose significance in the Greater Scheme of Things could be figured along familiar ratios:
Pebble: Beach.
Raindrop: Ocean.
Needle: Haystack.
So for a few days he ignored the decision of the coin and just drove around with the Hoover tube. At nights he looked out through the windscreen into the monstropolous sky and had the old realization72 of his universal proportions, feeling what it was to be tiny and rootless. He thought about the dent14 he might make on the world if he disappeared, and it seemed negligible, too small to calculate. He squandered73 spare minutes wondering whether "Hoover' had become a generic74 term for vacuum cleaners or whether it was, as others have argued, just a brand name. And all the time the Hoover tube lay like a great flaccid cock on his back seat, mocking his quiet fear, laughing at his pigeon-steps as he approached the executioner, sneering75 at his impotent indecision.
Then, on the 29th of December, he went to see his old friend Samad Miah Iqbal. An unlikely compadre possibly, but still the oldest friend he had a Bengali Muslim he had fought alongside back when the fighting had to be done, who reminded him of that war; that war that reminded some people of fatty bacon and painted-on-stockings but recalled in Archie gunshots and card games and the taste of a sharp, foreign alcohol.
"Archie, my dear friend," Samad had said, in his warm, hearty77 tones. "You must forget all this wife-trouble. Try a new life. That is what you need. Now, enough of all this: I will match your five bob and raise you five."They were sitting in their new haunt, O'ConnelTs Pool House, playing poker78 with only three hands, two of Archie's and one of Samad's - Samad's right hand being a broken thing, grey-skinned and unmoving, dead in every way bar the blood that ran through it. The place they sat in, where they met each evening for dinner, was half cafe, half gambling79 den15, owned by an Iraqi family, the many members of which shared a bad skin condition.
"Look at me. Marrying Alsana has given me this new lease on living, you understand? She opens up for me the new possibilities. She's so young, so vital like a breath of fresh air. You come to me for advice? Here it is. Don't live this old life it's a sick life, Archibald. It does you no good.
No good whatsoever80 Samad had looked at him with a great sympathy, for he felt very tenderly for Archie. Their wartime friendship had been severed81 by thirty years of separation across continents, but in the spring of 1973 Samad had come to England, a aged83" target="_blank">middle-aged82 man seeking a new life with his twenty-year-old new bride, the diminutive84, moon-faced Alsana Begum with her shrewd eyes. In a fit of nostalgia85, and because he was the only man Samad knew on this little island, Samad had sought Archie out, moved into the same London borough86. And slowly but surely a kind of friendship was being rekindled87 between the two men.
"You play like a faggot," said Samad, laying down the winning queens back to back. He flicked88 them with the thumb of his left hand in one elegant move,making them fall to the table in a fan shape.
"I'm old," said Archie, throwing his cards in, "I'm old. Who'd have me now? It was hard enough convincing anybody the first time.""That is nonsense, Archibald. You have not even met the right one yet. This Ophelia, Archie, she is not the right one. From what you leave me to understand she is not even for this time ' He referred to Ophelia's madness, which led her to believe, half of the time, that she was the maid of the celebrated89 fifteenth century art lover Cosimo de' Medici.
"She is born, she lives, simply in the wrong time! This is just not her day! Maybe not her millennium90. Modern life has caught that woman completely unawares and up the arse. Her mind is gone. Buggered. And you? You have picked up the wrong life in the cloakroom and you must return it. Besides, she has not blessed you with children .. . and life without children, Archie, what is it for?
But there are second chances; oh yes, there are second chances in life. Believe me, I know. You," he continued, raking in the lop's with the side of his bad hand, 'should never have married her."Bloody hindsight, thought Archie. It's always 20/20.
Finally, two days after this discussion, early on New Year's morning, the pain had reached such a piercing level that Archie was no longer able to cling to Samad's advice. He had decided91 instead to mortify92 his own flesh, to take his own life, to free himself from a life path that had taken him down numerous wrong turnings, led him deep into the wilderness93 and finally petered out completely, its bread crumb94 course gobbled up by the birds.
Once the car started to fill with gas, he had experienced the obligatory95 flashback of his life to date. It turned out to be a short,unedifying viewing experience, low on entertainment value, the metaphysical equivalent of the Queen's Speech. A dull childhood, a bad marriage, a dead-end job that classic triumvirate they all flicked by quickly, silently, with little dialogue, feeling pretty much the same as they did the first time round. He was no great believer in destiny, Archie, but on reflection it did seem that a special effort of predestination had ensured his life had been picked out for him like a company Christmas present early, and the same as everyone else's.
There was the war, of course; he had been in the war, only for the last year of it, aged just seventeen, but it hardly counted. Not front line nothing like that. He and Samad, old Sam, Sammy boy, they had a few tales to tell, mind, Archie even had a bit of shrapnel in the leg for anyone who cared to see it but nobody did. No one wanted to talk about that any more. It was like a club-foot, or a disfiguring mole56. It was like nose hair. People looked away. If someone said to Archie, What have you done in life, then, or What's your biggest memory, well, God help him if he mentioned the war; eyes glazed96 over, fingers tapped, everybody offered to buy the next round. No one really wanted to know.
Summer of 1955 Archie went to Fleet Street with his best winkle-pickers on, looking for work as a war correspondent. Poncey-looking bloke with a thin moustache and a thin voice had said, Any experience, Mr. Jones? And Archie had explained. All about Samad. All about their Churchill tank.
Then this poncey one had leant over the desk, all smug, all suited, and said, We would require something other than merely having fought in a war, Mr. Jones. War experience isn't really relevant.
And that was it, wasn't it. There was no relevance97 in the war not in '55, even less now in '74.
Nothing he did then mattered now. The skills you learnt were, in the modern parlance98, not relevant, not transferable.
Was there anything else, Mr. Jones?
But of course there bloody wasn't anything else, the British education system having tripped him up with a snigger many years previously99. Still, he had a good eye for the look of a thing, for the shape of a thing, and that's how he had ended up in the job at Morgan Hero twenty years and counting in a printing firm in the Euston Road, designing the way all kinds of things should be folded envelopes, direct mail, brochures, leaflets not much of an achievement, maybe, but you'll find things need folds, they need to overlap59, otherwise life would be like a broadsheet: flapping in the wind and down the street so you lose the important sections. Not that Archie had much time for the broad sheets If they couldn't be bothered to fold them properly, why should he bother to read them (that's what he wanted to know)?
What else? Well, Archie hadn't always folded paper. Once upon a time he had been a track cyclist. What Archie liked about track cycling was the way you went round and round. Round and round. Giving you chance after chance to get a bit better at it, to make a faster lap, to do it right.
Except the thing about Archie was he never did get any better. 62.8 seconds. Which is a pretty good time, world-class standard, even. But for three years he got precisely100 62.8 seconds on every single lap. The other cyclists used to take breaks to watch him do it. Lean their bikes against the incline and time him with the second hand of their wrist watches. 62.8 every time. That kind of inability to improve is really very rare. That kind of consistency101 is miraculous102, in a way.
Archie liked track cycling, he was consistently good at it and it provided him with the only truly great memory he had. In 1948, Archie Jones had participated in the Olympics in London, sharing thirteenth place (62.8 seconds) with a Swedish gynaecologist called Horst Ibelgaufts. Unfortunately this fact had been omitted from the Olympic records by a sloppy103 secretary who returned one morning after a coffee break with something else on her mind and missed his name as she transcribed104 one list to another piece of paper. Madam Posterity105 stuck Archie down the arm of the sofa and forgot about him. His only proof that the event had taken place at all were the periodic letters and notes he had received over the years from Ibelgaufts himself. Notes like:
17 May 1957 Dear Archibald,I enclose a picture of my good wife and I in our garden in front of a rather unpleasant construction site. Though it may not look like Arcadia, it is here that I am building a crude velodrome nothing like the one you and I raced in, but sufficient for my needs. It will be on afar smaller scale, but you see, it is for the children we are yet to have. I see them pedalling around it in my dreams and wake up with a glorious smile upon my face! Once it is completed, we insist that you visit us. Who more worthy106 to christen the track of your earnest competitor, Horst Ibelgaufts?
And the postcard that lay on the dashboard this very day, the day of his Almost Death:
28 December 1974 Dear Archibald,I am taking up the harp76. A New Year's resolution, if you like. Late in the day, I realize, but you're never too old to teach the old dog in you new tricks, don't you feel? I tell you, it's a heavy instrument to lay against your shoulder, but the sound of it is quite angelic and my wife thinks me quite sensitive because of it. Which is more than she could say for my old cycling obsession107! But then, cycling was only ever understood by old boys like you, Archie, and of course the author of this little note, your old contender, Horst IbelgauftsHe had not met Horst since the race, but he remembered him affectionately as an enormous man with strawberry-blond hair, orange freckles108 and misaligned nostrils109, who dressed like an international playboy and seemed too large for his bike. After the race Horst had got Archie horribly drunk and procured110 two Soho whores who seemed to know Horst well ("I make many business trips to your fair capital, Archibald," Horst had explained). The last Archie had ever seen of Horst was an unwanted glimpse of his humongous pink arse bobbing up and down in the adjoining room of an Olympic chalet. The next morning, waiting at the front desk, was the first letter of his large correspondence:
Dear Archibald,In an oasis111 of work and competition, women are truly sweet and easy refreshment112, don't you agree? I'm afraid I had to leave early to catch the necessary plane, but I compel you, Archie: Don't be a stranger! I think of us now as two men as close as our finish! I tell you, whoever said thirteenth was unlucky was a bigger fool than your friend,Horst IbelgauftsP.S. Please make sure that Dana and Melanie get home fine and well Daria was his one. Terribly skinny, ribs113 like lobster114 cages and no chest to speak of, but she wasa lovely sort: kind; soft with her kisses and with double-jointed wrists she liked to show off in a pair of long silk gloves set you back four clothing coupons116 at least. "I like you," Archie remembered saying helplessly, as she replaced the gloves and put on her stockings. She turned, smiled. And though she was a professional, he got the feeling she liked him too. Maybe he should have left with her right then, run to the hills. But at the time it seemed impossible, too involved, what with a young wife with one in the oven (an hysterical117, fictional118 pregnancy119, as it turned out, a big bump full of hot air), what with his dodgy leg, what with the lack of hills.
Strangely, Daria was the final pulse of thought that passed through Archie just before he blacked out. It was the thought of a whore he met once twenty years ago, it was Daria and her smile which made him cover Mo's apron with tears of joy as the butcher saved his life. He had seen her in his mind: a beautiful woman in a doorway120 with a come hither look; and realized he regretted not coming hither. If there was any chance of ever seeing a look like that again, then he wanted the second chance, he wanted the extra time. Not just this second, but the next and the next all the time in the world.
Later that morning, Archie did an ecstatic eight circuits of Swiss Cottage roundabout in his car, his head stuck out the window while a stream of air hit the teeth at the back of his mouth like a wind sock. He thought: Blimey. So this is what it feels like when some bugger saves your life. Like you've just been handed a great big wad of Time. He drove straight past his flat, straight past the street signs (Hendon 3%), laughing like a loon121. At the traffic lights he flipped ten pence and smiled when the result seemed to agree that Fate was pulling him towards another life. Like a dog on a lead round a corner. Generally, women can't do this, but men retain the ancient ability to leave a family and a past. They just unhook themselves, like removing a fake beard, and skulk122 discreetly123 back into society, changed men. Unrecognizable. In this manner, a new Archie is about to emerge.
We have caught him on the hop19. For he is in a past-tense, future-perfect kind of mood. He is in a maybe this, maybe that kind of mood. Approaching a forked road, he slows down, checks his undistinguished face in the wing-mirror, and quite indiscriminately chooses a route he's never taken before, a residential124 street leading to a place called Queens Park. Go straight past Go!" Archie-boy, he tells himself; collect two hundred and don't for gawd's sake look back.
Tim Westleigh (more commonly known as Merlin) finally registered the persistent125 ringing of a doorbell. He picked himself off the kitchen floor, waded126 through an ocean of supine bodies, and opened the door to arrive face-to-face with a middle-aged man dressed head-to-toe in grey corduroy, holding a ten pence coin in his open palm. As Merlin was later to reflect when describing the incident, at any time of the day corduroy is a highly stressful fabric127. Rent men wear it. Tax men too.
History teachers add leather elbow patches. To be confronted with a mass of it, at nine in the a.m." on the first day of a New Year, is an apparition128 lethal129 in its sheer quantity of negative vibes.
"What's the deal, man?" Merlin blinked in the doorway at the man in corduroy who stood on his doorstep illuminated130 by winter sunshine. "Encyclopedias131 or God?"Archie noted132 the kid had an unnerving way of emphasizing certain words by moving his head in a wide circular movement from the right shoulder to the left. Then, when the circle was completed, he would nod several times.
"Cos if it's encyclopedias we've got enough, like, information . and if it's God, you've got the wrong house. We're in a mellow133 place, here. Know what I mean?" Merlin concluded, doing the nodding thing and moving to shut the door.
Archie shook his head, smiled and remained where he was.
"Em .. . are you all right?" asked Merlin, hand on the doorknob. "Is there something I can do for you? Are you high on something?""I saw your sign," said Archie.
Merlin pulled on a joint115 and looked amused. "That sign?" He bent134 his head to follow Archie's gaze. The white bedsheet hanging down from an upper window. Across it, in large rainbow coloured lettering, was painted:
welcome to the 'end of the world' party, 1975.
Merlin shrugged. "Yeah, sorry, man, looks like it wasn't. Bit of a disappointment, that. Or a blessing135," he added amiably136, 'depending on your point of view.""Blessing," said Archie, with passion. "Hundred per cent, bona fide blessing.""Did you, er, dig the sign, then?" asked Merlin, taking a step back behind the doorstep in case the man was violent as well as schiz. "You into that kind of scene? It was kind of a joke, you see, more than anything.""Caught my eye, you might say," said Archie, still beaming like a mad man. "I was just driving along looking for somewhere, you know, somewhere to have another drink, New Year's Day, hair of the dog and all that and I've had a bit of a rough morning all in all and it just sort of struck me. I flipped a coin and thought: why not?"Merlin looked perplexed at the turn the conversation was taking. "Er .. . party's pretty much over, man. Besides, I think you're a little advanced in years .. . if you know what I mean .. ." Here Merlin turned gauche137; underneath the dakshiki he was at heart a good middle-class boy, instilled138 with respect for his elders. "I mean," he said after a difficult pause, 'it's a bit of a younger crowd than you might be used to. Kind of a commune scene.""But I was so much older then," sang Archie mischievously139, quoting a ten-year-old Dylan track, arching his head round the door, "I'm younger than that now."Merlin took a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and frowned. "Look, man ... I can't just let anyone in off the street, you know? I mean, you could be the police, you could be a freak, you could '
But something about Archie's face huge, innocent, sweetly expectant reminded Tim what his estranged140 father, the Vicar of Snarebrook, had to say about Christian141 charity every Sunday from his pulpit. "Oh, what the hell. It's New Year's Day, for fucks sake You best come in."Archie sidestepped Merlin, and moved into a long hallway with four open-doored rooms branching off from it, a staircase leading to another storey, and a garden at the end of it all. Detritus142 of every variety animal, mineral, vegetable lined the floor; a great mass of bedding, under which people lay sleeping, stretched from one end of the hallway to the other, a red sea which grudgingly143 separated each time Archie took a step forward. Inside the rooms, in certain corners, could be witnessed the passing of bodily fluids: kissing, breast-feeding, fucking, throwing up all the things Archie's Sunday Supplement had informed him could be found in a commune. He toyed for a moment with the idea of entering the fray144, losing himself between the bodies (he had all this new time on his hands, masses and masses of it, dribbling through his fingers), but decided a stiff drink was preferable. He tackled the hallway until he reached the other end of the house and stepped out into the chilly145 garden, where some, having given up on finding a space in the warm house, had opted146 for the cold lawn. With a whisky tonic147 in mind, he headed for the picnic table, where something the shape and colour of Jack148 Daniels had sprung up like a mirage149 in a desert of empty wine bottles.
"Mind if I...?"Two black guys, a topless Chinese girl, and a white woman wearing a toga were sitting around on wooden kitchen chairs, playing rummy. Just as Archie reached for the Jack Daniels, the white woman shook her head and made the signal of a stubbed out cigarette.
"Tobacco sea, I'm afraid, darling. Some evil bastard4 put his fag out in some perfectly150 acceptable whisky. There's Babycham and some other inexorable shit over hereArchie smiled in gratitude151 for the warning and the kind offer.
He took a seat and poured himself a big glass of Liebfraumilch instead.
Many drinks later, and Archie could not remember a time in his life when he had not known Clive and Leo, Wan35-Si and Petronia, intimately. With his back turned and a piece of charcoal152, he could have rendered every puckered153 goose pimple154 around Wan-Si's nipples, every stray hair that fell in Petronia's face as she spoke155. By ii a.m." he loved them all dearly, they were the children he had never had. In return, they told him he was in possession of a unique soul for a man of his age.
Everybody agreed some intensely positive karmic energy was circulating in and around Archie, the kind of thing strong enough to prompt a butcher to pull down a car window at the critical moment.
And it turned out Archie was the first man over forty ever invited to join the commune; it turned out there had been talk for some time of the need for an older sexual presence to satisfy some of the more adventurous156 women. "Great," said Archie. "Fantastic. That'll be me, then." He felt so close to them that he was confused when around midday their relationship suddenly soured, and he found himself stabbed by a hangover and knee deep in an argument about the Second World War, of all things.
"I don't even know how we got into this," groaned157 Wan-Si, who had covered up finally just when they decided to move indoors, Archie's corduroy slung158 round her petite shoulders. "Let's not get into this. I'd rather go to bed than get into this.""We are into it, we are into it," Clive was ranting159. "This is the whole problem with his generation, they think they can hold up the war as some kind of-'
Archie was grateful when Leo interrupted Clive and dragged the argument into some further subset of the original one, which Archie had started (some unwise remark three quarters of an hour ago about military service building up a young man's character) and then immediately regretted when it required him to defend himself at regular interludes. Freed finally of this obligation, he sat on the stairs, letting the row continue above while he placed his head in his hands.
Shame. He would have liked to have been part of a commune. If he'd played his cards right instead of starting a ding-dong, he might have had free love and bare breasts all over the gaff; maybe even a portion of allotment for growing fresh food. For a while (around 2, a.m." when he was telling Wan-Si about his childhood) it had looked like his new life was going to be fabulous160, and from now on he was always going to say the right thing at the right time, and everywhere he went people would love him. Nobody's fault, thought Archie, mulling over the balls-up, nobody's fault but my own, but he wondered whether there wasn't some higher pattern to it. Maybe there willalways be men who say the right thing at the right time, who step forward like Thespis at just the right moment of history, and then there will be men like Archie Jones who are just there to make up the numbers. Or, worse still, who are given their big break only to come in on cue and die a death right there, centre stage, for all to see.
A dark line would now be drawn161 underneath the whole incident, underneath the whole sorry day, had not something happened that led to the transformation162 of Archie Jones in every particular that a man can be transformed; and not due to any particular effort on his part, but by means of the entirely163 random164, adventitious165 collision of one person with another. Something happened by accident. That accident was Clara Bowden.
But first a description: Clara Bowden was beautiful in all senses except maybe, by virtue166 of being black, the classical. Clara Bowden was magnificently tall, black as ebony and crushed sable167, with hair plaited in a horseshoe which pointed up when she felt lucky, down when she didn't. At this moment it was up. It is hard to know whether that was significant.
She needed no bra she was independent, even of gravity she wore a red halter neck which stopped below her bust168, underneath which she wore her belly button (beautifully) and underneath that some very tight yellow jeans. At the end of it all were some strappy heels of a light brown suede169, and she came striding down the stairs on them like some kind of vision or, as it seemed to Archie as he turned to observe her, like a reared-up thoroughbred.
Now, as Archie understood it, in movies and the like it is common for someone to be so striking that when they walk down the stairs the crowd goes silent. In life he had never seen it. But it happened with Clara Bowden. She walked down the stairs in slow motion, surrounded by afterglow and fuzzy lighting170. And not only was she the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, she was also the most comforting woman he had ever met. Her beauty was not a sharp, cold commodity. She smelt171 musty, womanly, like a bundle of your favourite clothes. Though she was disorganized physically172 legs and arms speaking a slightly different dialect from her central nervous system evenher gangly demeanour seemed to Archie exceptionally elegant. She wore her sexuality with an older woman's ease, and not (as with most of the girls Archie had run with in the past) like an awkward purse, never knowing how to hold it, where to hang it or when to just put it down.
"Cheer up, bwoy," she said in a lilting Caribbean accent that reminded Archie of That Jamaican Cricketer, 'it might never happen.""I think it already has."Archie, who had just dropped a fag from his mouth which had been burning itself to death anyway, saw Clara quickly tread it underfoot. She gave him a wide grin that revealed possibly her one imperfection. A complete lack of teeth in the top of her mouth.
"Man .. . dey get knock out," she lisped, seeing his surprise.
"But I tink to myself: come de end of de world, d'Lord won't mind if I have no toofs." She laughed softly.
"Archie Jones/ said Archie, offering her a Marlboro.
"Clara." She whistled inadvertently as she smiled and breathed in the smoke. "Archie Jones, you look just about exackly how I feel. Have Clive and dem people been talking foolishness at you?
Clive, you bin9 playing wid dis poor man?"Clive grunted173 the memory of Archie had all but disappeared with the effects of the wine and continued where he left off, accusing Leo of misunderstanding the difference between political and physical sacrifice.
"Oh, no ... nothing serious," Archie burbled, useless in the face of her exquisite174 face. "Bit of a disagreement, that's all. Clive and I have different views about a few things. Generation gap, I suppose."Clara slapped him on the hand. "Hush175 yo mout! You're That dat of'. I seen older.""I'm old enough," said Archie, and then, just because he felt like telling her, "You won't believe me, but I almost died today."Clara raised an eyebrow176. "You don't say. Well, come and join de club. Dere are a lot of us about dis marnin'. What a strange party dis is. You know," she said brushing a long hand across his bald spot, 'you look pretty djam good for someone come so close to St. Peter's Gate. You wan' some advice?"Archie nodded vigorously. He always wanted advice, he was a huge fan of second opinions.
That's why he never went anywhere without a ten pence coin.
"Go home, get some rest. Marnin' de the world new, every time. Man ... dis life no easy!"What home? thought Archie. He had unhooked the old life, he was walking into unknown territory.
"Man .. ." Clara repeated, patting him on the back, 'dis life no easy!"She let off another long whistle and a rueful laugh, and, unless he was really going nuts, Archie saw that come hither look; identical to Daria's; tinged177 with a kind of sadness, disappointment; like she didn't have a great deal of other options. Clara was nineteen. Archibald was forty-seven. Six weeks later they were married.
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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cleaver
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| n.切肉刀 | |
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dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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bloodied
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| v.血污的( bloody的过去式和过去分词 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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spliced
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| adj.（针织品）加固的n.叠接v.绞接( splice的过去式和过去分词 )；捻接（两段绳子）；胶接；粘接（胶片、磁带等） | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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detergent
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| n.洗涤剂；adj.有洗净力的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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crate
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| vt.(up)把…装入箱中；n.板条箱，装货箱 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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40
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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42
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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43
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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44
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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46
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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47
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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48
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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49
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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50
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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51
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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52
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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53
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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54
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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55
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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56
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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57
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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58
overlapped
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| _adj.重叠的v.部分重叠( overlap的过去式和过去分词 )；（物体）部份重叠；交叠；（时间上）部份重叠 | |
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59
overlap
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| v.重叠，与…交叠；n.重叠 | |
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60
confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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61
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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62
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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63
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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64
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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66
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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67
flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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68
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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69
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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70
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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71
vainglorious
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| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
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72
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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73
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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75
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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76
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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78
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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81
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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82
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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86
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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87
rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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92
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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93
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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94
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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95
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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96
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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97
relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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98
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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99
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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100
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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101
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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102
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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103
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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104
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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105
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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106
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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107
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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108
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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109
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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110
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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111
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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112
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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113
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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114
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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115
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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116
coupons
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| n.礼券( coupon的名词复数 )；优惠券；订货单；参赛表 | |
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117
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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118
fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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119
pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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120
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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121
loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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122
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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123
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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124
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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125
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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126
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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128
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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129
lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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130
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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131
encyclopedias
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| n.百科全书， （某一学科的）专科全书( encyclopedia的名词复数 ) | |
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132
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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133
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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134
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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135
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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136
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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137
gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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138
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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140
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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141
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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142
detritus
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| n.碎石 | |
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143
grudgingly
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144
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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145
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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146
opted
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| v.选择，挑选( opt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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148
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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149
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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150
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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151
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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152
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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153
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
pimple
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| n.丘疹，面泡，青春豆 | |
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155
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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156
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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157
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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158
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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159
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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160
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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161
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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162
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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163
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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164
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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165
adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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166
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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167
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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168
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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169
suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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170
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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171
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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172
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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173
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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174
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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175
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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176
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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177
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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