If One Green Bottle ..

by Audrey C. Thomas

WHEN fleeing, one should never look behind. Orpheus, Lot’s wife . . . penalties grotesque and terrible await us all. It does not pay to doubt . . . to turn one’s head ... to rely on the confusion . . . the smoke . . . the fleeing multitudes . . . the satisfaction of the tumbling cities . , . to distract the attention of the gods. Argus-eyed they wait, he waits . . . the golden chessmen spread upon the table . . . the opponent’s move already known, accounted for. . . . Your pawns, so vulnerable . , . advancing with such care (if you step on a crack, then you’ll break your mother’s back): already the monstrous hand trembles in anticipation . . . the thick lips twitch with suppressed laughter . . . then pawn, knight, castle, queen scooped up and tossed aside. “Check,” and (click click), “check . . . mmmate.” The game is over, and you . . . surprised (but why?) . . . petulant . . . your nose still raw from the cold . . . your galoshes not yet dried . . . really, it’s indecent . . . inhumane (why bother to come? answer: the bother of not coming) . . . and not even the offer of a sandwich or a cup of tea . . . discouraging . . . disgusting. The great mouth opens . . .like a whale really ... he strains you, one more bit of plankton, through his teeth (my mother had an ivory comb once). “Next week . . . ? At the same time . . . ? No, no, not at all. I do not find it boring in the least. , . . Each time a great improvement. Why, soon,” the huge lips tremble violently, “ha, ha, you’ll be beating me.” Lies ... all lies. Yet, even as you go, echoes of Olympian laughter in your ears, you know you will go back, will once more challenge . . . and be defeated once again. Even plankton have to make a protest ... a stand . . . what else can one do? “Besides, it passes the time . . . keeps my hand in . . . and you never know. . . . One time, perhaps ... a slip . . a flutter of the eyelids. . . . Even the gods grow old.”

The tropical fan, three-bladed, omniscient, omnipotent, inexorable, churns up dust and mosquitoes, the damp smell of coming rain, the overripe smell of vegetation, of charcoal fires, of human excrement, of fear . . . blown in through the open window, blown up from the walls and the floor. All is caught in the fan’s embrace, the efficient arms of the unmoved mover. The dens in the machina, my old chum the chess-player, refuses to descend . . . yet watches. Soon they will let down the nets and we will lie in the darkness, in our gauze houses, like so many lumps of cheese . . . protected . . . revealed. The night-fliers, dirty urchins, will press their noses at my windows and lick their hairy lips in hunger . . . in frustration. Can they differentiate, I wonder, between the blood of my neighbor and mine? Are there aesthetes among the insects, who will touch only the soft parts . . . between the thighs . . . under the armpits . . . along the inner arm? Are there vintages and connoisseurs? I don’t like the nights here: that is why I wanted it over before the night. One of the reasons. If I am asleep I do not know who feeds on me, who has found the infinitesimal rip and invited his neighbors in. Besides, he promised it would be over before the night. And one listens, doesn’t one? . . . one always believes. . . . Absurd to rely on verbal consolation . . . clichés so worn they feel like old coins . . . smooth . . . slightly oily to the touch . . . faceless.

Pain, the word, I mean, derived (not according to Skeat) from “pay” and “Cain.” How can there, then, be an exit ... a way out? I he darker the night, the clearer the mark on the forehead . . . the brighter the blind man’s cane at the crossing . . . the louder the sound of footsteps somewhere behind. Darkness heightens the absurd sense of “situation” . . . gives the audience its kicks. But tonight . . . really . . . All Soul’s . . . it’s too ridiculous. . . . Somebody goofed. The author has gone too far; the absurdity lies in one banana skin, not two or three. After one it becomes too painful . . . too involved . . . too much like home. Somebody will have to pay for this . . . the reviews . . . tomorrow . . . will all be most severe. The actors will sulk over their morning cup of coffee . . . the angel will beat his double breast above the empty poeketbook . . . the director will shout and stamp his feet. . . . The whole thing should have been revised . . . rewritten . . . we knew it from the first.

(This is the house that Jack built. This is the cat that killed the rat that lived in the house that Jack built. We are the maidens all shaven and shorn, that milked the cow with the crumpled horn . . . that loved in the hearse that Joke built. Excuse me, please, was this the Joke that killed the giant or the Jack who tumbled down . . . who broke his crown? Crown him with many crowns, the lamb upon his throne. He tumbled too . . . it’s inevitable. ... It all, in the end, comes back to the nursery. . . . Jill, Humpty Dumply, Rock-a-bye Baby . . . they-kiss-you, they-kiss-you . . . they all fall down. The nurses in the corner playing Ludo . . . centurions dicing. We are all betrayed by Cock-aDoodle-Doo. . . . We all fall down. Why, then, should I be exempt? . . . presumptuous of me . . . please forgive.)

EDGES of pain. Watch it, now, the tide is beginning to turn. Like a cautious bather stick in one toe . . . both feet . . . “brr” . . . the impact of the ocean . . . the solidity of the thing, now that you’ve finally got under . . . like swimming in an ice cube really. “Yes, I’m coming. Wait for me.” The shock of the total immersion . . . the pain breaking over the head. Don’t cry out . . . hold your breath ... so. “Not so bad, really, when one gets used to it.” That’s it . . . just the right tone . . . the brave swimmer. . . . Now wave a gay hand toward the shore. Don’t let them know . . . the indignities . . . the chattering teeth . . . the blue lips . . . the sense of isolation. . . . Good.

And Mary, how did she take it I wonder, the original, the appalling announcement . . . the burden thrust upon her? “No, really, some other time . . . the spring planting . . . my aged mother .. . quite impossible. Very good of you to think of me, of course, but I couldn’t take it on. Perhaps you’d call in again next year.” ( Dismiss him firmly . . . quickly while there’s still time. Don’t let him get both feet in the door. Be firm and final. “No, I’m sorry, I never accept free gifts.”) And then the growing awareness, the anger showing quick and hot under the warm brown of the checks. The voice . . . like oil. . . . “I’m afraid I didn’t make myself clear.” (Like in the detective novels. . . . “Allow me to present my card . . . my credentials.” The shock of recognition . . . the horror. “Oh, I see. . . . Yes . . . well, if it’s like that. . . . Come this way.” A gesture of resignation. She allows herself one sigh . . . the ghost of a smile.) But no, it’s all wrong. Mary . . . peasant girl . . . quite a different reaction implied. Dumbfounded . . . remember Zachary. A shocked silence . . . the rough fingers twisting together like snakes . . . awe . . . a certain rough pride (“Wait until I tell the other girls. The well . . . tomorrow morning. ... I won’t be proud about it, not really. But it is an honor. What will Mother say?”) Droit de seigneur . . . the servant summoned to the bedchamber . . . honored . . . afraid. Or perhaps like Leda. No preliminaries ... no thoughts at all. Too stupid . . . too frightened . . . the thing was, after all, over so quickly. That’s it . . . stupidity . . . the necessary attribute. I can hear him now. “That girl . . . whatzername? . . . Mary. Mary will do. Must be a simple woman. . . . That’s where we made our first mistake. Eve too voluptuous . . . too intelligent . . . this time nothing must go wrong.”

And the days were accomplished. Unfair to gloss that over ... to make little of the waiting . . . the months . . . the hours. They make no mention of the hours; but of course, men wrote it down. How were they to know? After the immaculate conception, after the long and dreadful journey, after the refusal at the Inn . . . came the maculate delivery . . . the manger. And all that noise . . . cattle lowing (and doing other things besides) . . . angels blaring away . . . the eerie light. No peace ... no chance for sleep . . . for rest between the pains . . . for time to think ... to gather courage. Yet why should she be afraid . . . downhearted. . . ? Hadn’t she had a sign . . . the voice . . . the presence of the star? (And notice well, they never told her about the other thing . . . the third act.) It probably seemed worth it at the time . . . the stench . . . the noise . . . the pain.

Robert the Bruce . . . Constantine . . . Noah. The spider . . . the flaming cross . . . the olive branch. . . . With these signs. ... I would be content with something far more simple. A breath of wind on the cheek . . . the almost imperceptible movement of a curtain ... a single flash of lightning. Courage consists, perhaps, in the ability to recognize signs . . . the symbolism of the spider. But for me . . . tonight . . . what is there? The sound of far-off thunder . . . the smell of the coming rain which will wet, but not refresh . . . that tropical fan. The curtain moves . . . yes, I will allow you that. But for me . . . tonight . . . there is only a rat behind the arras. Jack’s rat. This time there is no exit . . . no way out or up.

(You are not amused by my abstract speculations? Listen ... I have more. Time. Time is an awareness, either forward or backward, of Then, as opposed to Now . . . the stasis. Time is the moment between thunder and lightning . . . the interval at the street corner when the light is amber, neither red nor green but shift gears, look both ways . . . the oases of pleasure between pains . . . the space between the darkness and the dawn . . . the conversations between courses . . . the fear in the final stroke of twelve . . . the nervous fumbling with cloth and buttons, before the longed-for contact of the flesh . . . the ringing telephone . . , the solitary coffee cup . . . the oases of pleasure between pains, lime . . . and time again.)

That time when I was eleven and at scout camp . . . marching in a dusty serpentine to the fire tower . . . the hearty counselors with sun-streaked hair and muscular thighs . . . enjoying themselves, enjoying ourselves . . . the long hike almost over. “Ten green bottles standing on the wall. Ten green bottles standing on the wall. If one green bottle . . . should accidentally fall, there’d be nine green bottles standing on the wall.” And that night . after pigs in blankets . . . cocoa . . . campfire songs . . . the older girls taught us how to faint ... to hold our breath and count to thirty . then blow upon our thumbs. Gazing up at the stars . . . the sudden sinking back into warmth and darkness . . . the recovery . . . the fresh attempt . . . delicious. In the morning we climbed the tower (and I afraid to look down or up‚ climbing blindly, relying on my sense of touch), reached the safety of the little room on top. We peered out the windows at the little world below . . . and found six baby mice, all dead . . . curled up, like dust kitties, in the kitchen drawer. “How long d’you suppose they’ve been there?” “Too long. Ugh.” “Throw them away.” “Put them back where you found them.” Disturbed . . . distressed . . . the pleasure marred. “Let’s toss them down on Rachel. She was too scared to climb the tower. Baby.” “Yes, let’s toss them down. She ought to be paid back.” (Everything all right now . . . the day saved. Ararat . . . Areopagus. . . .) Giggling, invulnerable, we hurled the small bodies out the window at the Lilliputian form below. Were we punished? Curious ... I can’t remember. And yet the rest ... so vivid ... as though it were yesterday . . . this morning . . . five minutes ago. . . . We must have been punished. Surely they wouldn’t let us get away with that?

WAVES of pain now . . . positive whitecaps . . . breakers. . . . Useless to try and remember . . . to look behind . . . to think. Swim for shore. Ignore the ringing in the cars . . . the eyes half blind with water . . . the waves breaking over the head. Just keep swimming . . . keep moving forward . . . rely on instinct . . . your sense of direction . . . don t look back or forward . . . there isn’t time for foolish speculation. . . . See? Flung up ... at last . . . exhausted, but on the shore. Flotsam . . . jetsam . . . but there, you made it. Lie still.

The expected disaster is always the worst. One waits for it ... is obsessed by it ... it nibbles at the consciousness. Jack’s rat. Far better the screech of brakes . . . the quick embrace of steel and shattered glass ... or the sudden stumble from the wall. One is prepared through being unprepared. A few thumps of the old heart . . . like a brief flourish of announcing trumpets ... a roll of drums . . . and then nothing. This way . . . tonight ... I wait for the crouching darkness like a child waiting for that movement from the shadows in the corner of the bedroom. It’s all wrong . . . unfair . . . there ought to be a law. . . . One can keep up only a given number of chins . . . one keeps silent only a given number of hours. After that the final humiliation . . . the loss of self-control . . . the oozing out upon the pavement. . . . Dumpty-like, one refuses (or is unable?) to be reintegrated . . . whimpers for morphia and oblivion . . . shouts and tears her hair. . . . That must not happen. . . . Undignified . . . declasse. I shall talk to my friend the fan . . . gossip with the night-fliers ... pit my small light against the darkness, a miner descending the shaft. I have seen the opening gambit . . . am aware of the game’s inevitable conclusion. What does it matter? I shall leap over the net . . . extend my hand . . . murmur “well done,” and walk away stiff-backed and shoulders high. I will drink the hemlock gaily . . . I will sing. Ten green bottles standing on the wall. Ten green bottles standing on the wall. If one green bottle should accidentally fall . . . When it is over I will sit up and call for tea . . . ignore the covered basin . . . the bloody sheets (but what do they do with it afterward . . . where will they take it? I’ve no experience in these matters). They will learn that the death of a part is not the death of the whole. The tables will be turned . . . and overturned. The shield of Achilles will compensate for his heel.

And yet, were we as innocent as all that ... as naïve . . . that we never wondered where the bottles came from? I never wondered. ... I accepted them the way a small child draws the Christmas turkey . . . brings the turkey home . . . pins it on the playroom wall . . . and then sits down to eat. One simply doesn’t connect. Yet there they were . . . lined up on the laboratory wall . . . half formed, some of them . . . the tiny vestigial tails of the smallest . . . like corpses of stillborn kittens ... or baby mice. Did we think that they had been like that always . . . swimming forever in their little formaldehyde baths . . . ships in bottles . . . snowstorms in glass paperweights? The professor’s voice . . . droning like a complacent bee . . . tapping his stick against each fragile glass shell . . . cross-pollinating facts with facts . . . our pencils racing over the paper. We accepted it all without question . . . even went up afterward for a closer look . . . boldly . . . without hesitation. It was all so simple ... so uncomplex . . . so scientific. Stupidity, the necessary attribute. And once we dissected a guinea pig, only to discover that she had been pregnant . . . tiny little guinea pigs inside. We . . . like children presented with one of those Russian dolls . . . were delighted . . . gratified. We had received a bonus ... a free gift.

Will they do that to part of me? How out of place it will look, bottled with the others . . . standing on the laboratory wall. Will the black professor . . . the brown-eyed students . . . bend their delighted eyes upon this bonus, this free gift? (White. 24 weeks. Female ... or male.) But perhaps black babies are white ... or pink ... to begin. It is an interesting problem . . . one which could be pursued . . . speculated upon. I must ask someone. If black babies are not black before they are born, at what stage does the dark hand of heredity . . . of race . . . touch their small bodies? At the moment of birth perhaps? . . . like silver exposed to the air. But remember their palms . . . the soles of their feet. It’s an interesting problem. And remember the beggar outside the central post office . . . the terrible burned place on his arm . . . the new skin . . . translucent . . . almost a shell pink. I turned away in disgust . . . wincing at the shared memory of scalding liquid . . . the pain. But really ... in retrospect ... it was beautiful. That pink skin . . . that delicate . . . Turneresque tint . . . apple blossoms against dark branches.

That’s it . . . just the right tone. . . . Abstract speculation on birth ... on death ... on human suffering in general. Remember only the delicate tint . . . sunset against a dark sky . . . the pleasure of the Guernica. It’s so simple, really . . . all a question of organization . . . of aesthetics. One can so easily escape the unpleasantness . . . the shock of recognition. Cleopatra in her robes . . . her crown. . . . “I have immortal longings in me.” No fear . . . the asp suckles peacefully and unreproved. . . . She wins . . . and Caesar loses. Better than Falstaff babbling “of green fields.” One needs the transcendentalism of the tragic hero. Forget the old man . . . pathetic . . . deserted . . . broken. The gray iniquity. It’s all a question of organization ... of aesthetics . . . of tone. Brooke, for example. “In that rich earth a richer dust concealed. . . .” Terrified out of his wits, of course, but still organizing . . . still posturing.

(The pain is really quite bad now . . . you will excuse me for a moment? I’ll be back. I must not think for a moment . . . must not struggle . . . must let myself be carried over the crest of the wave . . . face downward . . . buoyant ... a badge of seaweed across the shoulder. It’s easier this way . . . not to think . . . not to struggle. ... It’s quicker . . . it’s more humane.)

Still posturing. See the clown . . . advancing slowly across the platform . . . dragging the heavy rope. . . . Grunts . . . strains . . . the audience on the edge of their seats . . . low rumbles of approaching laughter . . . grunts . . . strains . . . the audience shivering with delight. Then the last . . . the desperate . . . tug. And what revealed? ... a carrot ... a bunch of grapes ... a small dog . . . nothing. The audience in tears. . . . “Oh, God . . . how funny. . . . One knows, of course ... all the time. And vet it never fails to amuse ... I never fail to be taken in.” Smothered giggles in the darkened taxi . . . the deserted streets. . . . “Oh, God, how amusing. . . . Did you see? The carrot . . . the bunch of grapes . . . the small dog . . . nothing. All a masquerade ... a charade . . , the rouge . . . the powder . . . the false hair of an old woman . . . a clown. Babbling of green fields.

Once when I was ten, I sat on a damp rock and watched my father fishing. Quiet ... on a damp rock ... I watched the flapping gills . . . the frenzied tail . . . the gasps for air . . . the refusal to accept the hook’s reality. Rainbow body swinging through the air . . . the silver drops . . . like tears. Watching quietly from the haven of my damp rock, I saw my father struggle with the fish . . . the chased and beaten silver body. “Papa, let it go, Papa . . . please!” My father . . . annoyed . . . astonished . . . his communion disrupted . . . his chalice overturned . . . his paten trampled underfoot. He let it go . . . unhooked it carelessly and tossed it lightly toward the center of the pool. After all, what did it matter ... to please the child . . . and the damage already done. No recriminations . . . only, perhaps (we never spoke of it), a certain loss of faith ... a fall, however imperceptible . . . from grace?

The pain is harder now . . . more frequent . . . more intense. Don’t think of it . . . ignore it . . . let it come. The symphony rises to its climax. No more andante . . . no more moderato . . . clashing cymbals . . . blaring horns. . . . Lean forward in your seat . . . excited . . . intense ... a shiver of fear . . . of anticipation. The conductor ... a wild thing ... a clockwork toy gone mad. . . . Arms flailing . . . body arched . . . head swinging loosely . . . dum de dum de DUM DUM DUM. The orchestra . . . the audience . . . all bewitched . . . heads nodding . . . fingers moving, yes, oh, yes . . . the orgasm of sound . . . the straining . . . letting go. An ecstasy . . . a crescendo ... a coda . . . it’s over. “Whew.” “Terrific.”(Wiping the sweat from their eyes.) Smiling . . . self-conscious ... a bit embarrassed now. . . . “Funny how you can get all worked up over a bit of music.” Get back to the formalities. . . . Get off the slippery sand . . . onto the warm, safe planks of conversation. “Would you like a coffee . . . a drink . . . an ice?” The oases of pleasure between pains. For me, too, it will soon be over . . . and for you.

Noah on Ararat . . . high and dry . . . sends out the dove to see if it is over. Waiting anxiously . . . the dove returning with the sign. Smug now . . . self-satisfied . . . know-it-all. . . . All those drowned neighbors . . . all those doubting Thomases . . . gone . . . washed away . . . full fathoms five. . . . And he‚ safe . . . the animals pawing restlessly, scenting freedom after their long confinement . . . smelling the rich smell of spring . . . of tender shoots. Victory . . . triumph . . . the chosen ones. Start again . . . make the world safe for democracy . . . cleansing . . . purging . . . Guernica . . . Auschwitz . . . God’s fine Italian hand. Always the moral . . . the little tag the cautionary tale. Willie in one of his bright new sashes/fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes. . . . Suffering is good for the soul . . . the effects on the body are not to be considered. Fire and rain . . . cleansing . . . purging . . . tempering the steel. Not much longer now . . . and soon they will let down the nets. (He promised it would be over before the dark. I do not like the dark here. Forgive me if I’ve mentioned this before.) We will sing to keep our courage up. Ten green bottles standing on the wall. Ten green bottles standing on the wall. If one green bottle . . .

The retreat from Russia . . . feet bleeding on the white snow . . . tired . . . discouraged . . . what was it all about anyway? . . . we weren’t prepared. Yet we go on . . . feet bleeding on the white snow . . . dreaming of warmth . . . smooth arms and golden hair ... a glass of kvass. We’11 get there yet. (But will we ever be the same?) A phoenix . . . never refusing . . . flying true and straight . . . into the fire and out. Plunge downward now ... a few more minutes . . . spread your wings . . . the moment has come . . . the fire blazes . . . the priest is ready . . . the worshipers are waiting. The battle over . . . the death within expelled . . . cast out . . . the long hike over . . . Ararat. Sleep now . . . and rise again from the dying fire . . . the ashes. It’s over . . . eyes heavy . . . body broken but relaxed. All over. We made it, you and I. . . . It’s all, is it not ... a question of organization . . . of tone. Yet one would have been grateful . . . at the last . . . for a reason . . . an explanation . . . a sign. A spider ... a flaming cross ... a carrot . . . a bunch of grapes . . . a small dog. Not this nothing.