The Museum Of Doubt. James Meek
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closed the door.
Jack laughed, turned and walked a few feet away from the house. He knelt to scoop up a handful of snow and kneaded it in his hand. It fizzed, crackled and steamed. He smeared it over his face and shook his head violently from side to side like a dog which has come out of the sea. He ran back to the house and rapped on the window with his knuckles.
Adela! he shouted. Let me see the museum! I want to buy a ticket!
The door opened and the woman stood in the doorway as before. Jack stepped away from the window.
How did you know my name? said Adela.
It was written on your genes, said Jack, unsteadily. He sounded drunk.
Adela looked down at her trousers.
In invisible … ink. Jack’s eyeballs had turned almost white and he was swaying.
Are you OK? said Adela, moving a pace towards him. His face had turned the same colour as the snow-covered hills behind his head.
Help me, said Jack, sinking to his knees. His body convulsed with coughing and drops of blood sprayed from his mouth. He fell forward onto the ground and twisted onto his back.
Adela went over and knelt beside him, chewing her lip. She pressed her head between her hands.
Cold, whispered Jack. Help me.
Adela took the shoulders of his jacket in her fists and dragged his body over the threshold of her house into the hall. She closed the door. Jack began to cough again. A spurt of blood came out of one corner of his mouth. His lips parted and what appeared to be a tonguetip made of horn appeared.
Huming imma hroat, said Jack. Pu-i-ou. He dry-retched and the horn jerked a little further out. Adela saw his tongue flapping hopelessly against it.
Adela reached down and tugged the piece of horn gently. It yielded. She pulled harder and the antler slid out of Jack’s mouth like the drumstick of an overcooked chicken, along with the attached deer’s head. Adela flinched and she dropped the head onto the floor. She took a step back, swung her leg and delivered all her force to the head through the toe of her moccasin. The head leaped from the hall, out through the doorway and into the sky, spinning into a mighty curve, the antlers humming as they scratched the air. She never heard it fall. She slammed the door shut and turned round. Jack was gone.
She found him standing in the kitchen holding a cardboard box. He wasn’t coughing any more and there was no more blood around his mouth. His face was dead of movement. He didn’t blink. His eyes were big, black and blank, liquid, without subtlety, like the deer’s.
You’re better, she said.
This is for you, he said, holding the box out towards her.
We’ve been there already, said Adela. There’s no need here.
I see need. I don’t see anything here except need, said Jack. Deep within his still face an expression stirred, like a big fish far below the surface of an old lake. He began to fold the box in on itself, punching in the lid, folding down the sides until it was flat, then folding it in half over and over again until it was small enough to put in his pocket. He smiled and spread his arms out wide. His fingers fluttered in space. Adela, you’re lovely, but somewhere along the way you’ve forgotten what life is about. An empty house like this one means an empty life.
No, said Adela. You have to leave.
Adela, said Jack. Listen to me, Adela. Maybe if I say it out loud it’ll start to sink in: you haven’t got a fridge.
The house had a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. It had five pieces of furniture: a sofabed, a chair, a cupboard, a kitchen table and a stool. There was one cup, one plate, one bowl, one knife, one fork, one spoon, and one pan. There was a two-ring gas cooker. There was a drawer of clothes, another of bedding, and five books. The walls and ceilings were bare white and the floor was covered in linoleum which’d been supposed to look like varnished wood when it was new.
There aren’t any prizes for living like this, said Jack.
Living like what?
A failure. You’re suffering from PRAS. Post-religious asceticism syndrome. You think that by not having any possessions your soul becomes purified and you become a saintly being, superior to people who buy glossy magazines and furniture and collect records. That’s great. That’s what Pol Pot thought. The truth is the consumers are the virtuous ones. They express their love for life and for each other and for humanity by buying. That’s how the world becomes a richer place, full of colours. The ones who go out and shop, they’re the real noble spirits of the universe. They understand how ugly their lives would be if they didn’t buy homes and fill them with wonderful goods. You’ve got to own things, Adela, as many things as possible. It’s not a question of being poor. The fewer things you own, the less human you are, and the harder it is for you or anyone else to understand whether you’ve got a life at all.
I wish you’d leave, said Adela.
Jack’s head lolled. He lurched forward and sideways, found the stool and sat down on it. He put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands.
I’m still not a hundred per cent, he said. Can you get me some tea?
I haven’t much tea left, said Adela.
Jack pushed the heels of his hands up into his cheekbones, looked at her from under his eyebrows and laughed, a tiny, wriggling, greedy laugh, like the body of a worm kinking through a salad. Then he sat up straight, folded his hands pentitently on his lap, found the laugh and killed it. He blinked, sniffed and pinched his nose.
I see, he said.
I’ve got enough for myself. I didn’t ask you to come in.
Yes, of course, said Jack. I’m sorry. It was selfish of me to ask. I’ve behaved badly today. You can’t forgive me, of course, I don’t expect you to. Please – give me a moment, and I’ll leave.
I didn’t––
Please. Don’t speak: it’s my fault: I provoked you. A minute to collect my thoughts.
They remained like that in the kitchen for a long time, Jack sitting upright on the stool with his hands on his lap, head inclined slightly, gazing at the skirting board, Adela standing watching him in the kitchen doorway, resting her weight on one leg, gently rubbing the tips of her thumbs and index fingers together. There was no sound: no birdsong, no music, no engine, no clockwork, no running water, no wind. When Jack began to cry, Adela heard the tears moving, a noise like dust slipping down a shallow slope of brass. Jack’s back bent and his shoulders shook and he clenched his praying hands between his thighs.
Don’t do this, said Adela softly.
Tears dripped from Jack’s jaw and he rocked to and fro. His voice came lost from a roofed-in maze inside him. All the years, it said. All the days. All the hours. When Adela heard the words a memory of a dream she had never had came into her mind. There was a statue of Jack in the desert, up to his calves in blowing sand. The statue was made of soft, porous stone, deeply scored by the wind and the rain. Jack’s face was slashed with parallel diagonal lines and pocked with air bubbles. His hands were outstretched, perhaps offering some gift, but the gift had long since worn away and he looked like a leper appealing for help. Around him millions of figures wrapped from head to foot in twisted black rags were hurrying across the dunes, the cloths streaming in the wind. They carried smoking buckets of fine sand which they would dip into the ground to replenish, without stopping. Every so often one of the figures would fall and not get up, the drifting sand covering them.
Adela went to the clothes drawer, fetched a white cotton handkerchief and offered it to Jack, who took it and pressed it to his face with both hands. Adela sat on the edge of the table, looking out through the window.
My husband was in sales, she said. That was what he said to other people about what he did. It was what he told me the first time we met but he was looking at me in such a way that I thought about sailing ships. I’m in sales, he said, and I thought of him