CHAPTER THREE
'Phew! I'd better open that window and let some
fresh air in,' thought Michael Savage, getting up from his desk and going
across to the nearest window. 'That's
better! No wonder people fall asleep on
the job. Too stuffy for clear
thinking.... Well, I couldn't ask for a better day to be leaving this
place. Such a cloudless sky must be a
good omen. The twenty-fifth of June,
effectively my D-Day!'
Returning to his desk, he cast a furtive
glance around the elongated office in which it had been his fate to labour in
various clerical capacities for the past
five-and-a-half years, before continuing: 'Eight-thirty and still not many
people here. Even old Gerald hasn't
arrived yet. Just as well I got out of
bed on time this morning. Being here at
eight-twenty is early for me.' He turned
his eyes towards the young clerk at the desk opposite, a comparative newcomer
to the clerical scene, and encountered an impassive gaze, the gaze of reticent
youth which, however, he sought to investigate by tentatively smiling upon, the
youth duly reciprocating this smile in an equally tentative manner, thereby
reassuring him of the latter's shyness or perhaps even deference. On more than one occasion in recent weeks
Michael had been disconcerted and almost intimidated by this adolescent's
impassivity, this enigmatic judgement which rarely exposed itself to close
scrutiny, although he subsequently dismissed the accusations he had
hypothetically, and some would say pathetically, levelled against himself on
the grounds that he had as much right to live as anyone else, even if he was
occasionally a little paranoid, and that the youth, far from holding himself
critically aloof from someone he despised, was probably uncertain of himself and,
hence, fairly noncommittal. That, at any
rate, seemed as plausible a conjecture as any!
'At least old grumpy guts won't be in for a
while,' Michael resumed, thinking of the more experienced clerk who sat beside
the one in question, as he turned the pages of a recent reprint of the G.B. and Channel
Islands rail guide through which he was obliged to investigate the routes
and times of the various intercity services the more important representatives
of the firm would be obliged to utilize, in due course, for purposes best known
to themselves. 'So many stations in
these things. I'd better make sure I
keep a close check on the days of the week to which I'm referring. It wouldn't do to put someone who'll be
working Saturday onto a Sunday service!
Also refer to period validity.
Make sure the timetable is still operative. Some of them don't begin to apply until the
tenth of October. It keeps your mind
alert anyway.'
At that moment a smartly-dressed,
portfolio-bearing clerk of average height, but slightly more than medium build,
threw open the office door with a flourish and proceeded, at brisk pace,
towards the Signing-in-Book at the far end of the room. He politely smiled at two nearby clerks
before casting a glance at the newly-installed electric wall clock, which
appeared to hover above the Signing-in-Book like a vulture over a carcass.
'Ah, there's Gerald now! Eight-thirty three, eh? He's a bit late this morning....
What-on-earth's he done to his hair? It
looks a different colour today. Maybe it's
down to some fancy shampoo he uses. He's
growing a beard it seems. Suits him
anyway. Looks slightly more like a man
now. Always did strike me as being a bit
effeminate. Wonder if he'll say hello.'
"Morning, Michael!"
"Morning, Gerald." - 'Christ,
that surprised me! He hasn't been so
friendly since I cold-shouldered him last week.
Has probably changed his attitude on account of my imminent departure.'
- "How did the piano lessons go last night?" Michael hastened to
inquire of him. "I trust you weren't
too tired after yesterday's initiation into that job I gave you?"
Having removed his summer jacket and
rearranged the contents of his rather pretentious-looking black-leather
portfolio, which included a sheet of music, a small packet of paper tissues, a
wad of writing paper, and a pack of envelopes, Gerald Matthews abandoned his
desk and, as though to shield his reply from potentially malevolent ears,
replied, sotto
voce, that the lessons in question hadn't gone too badly, that yesterday
afternoon's headache had gradually subsided, and that his first pupil, an
intelligent young fourteen year-old, had put him in a better frame-of-mind to
deal with the second one, a young woman of dubious potential and inveterate
laziness whose weekly lesson he would have no option but to seriously consider
discontinuing if things didn't improve between them. Undoubtedly, being a rather garrulous fellow,
he would have expatiated on that and similar themes at quite some length, had
not Michael intuitively foreseen his colleague's verbal self-indulgence and
thereupon quickly changed the subject to their office work. More specifically, to the fact that certain
examples of Gerald's recent train-timetabling required slight amendments, the
forms to the right of the latter's desk being the examples in question.
"Oh, right!" said Gerald,
returning to his desk and nervously thumbing through them. "I'll deal with these as soon as
possible. Thanks for drawing attention
to the mistakes in pencil, by the way.
I'm afraid I wasn't at my best yesterday afternoon."
"Not to worry," responded
Michael, getting back to his own work.
"We all make mistakes - good, bad, or plain indifferent.... As for
me," he continued in a lower voice, "I'll try not to make too many
today." He winked at Gerald, who
smiled insightfully on the reception of this ironic remark. For it struck him as really quite esoteric.
"Lucky you, Michael," he
said. Then, after a short recollective
pause, added: "By the way, if you'd like to celebrate the occasion at lunch
time, we could go to that little restaurant again. Or to a pub, if you'd prefer that."
Michael's feelings clouded over slightly at
the prospect of being invited to take part in this virtually inevitable
formality, to eat and talk in the company of someone he didn't have all that
much in common with, especially in view of the fact that he hadn't envisaged
any such invitation, having made no close friends at the office and hardly
being on particularly intimate terms with Gerald, who was anything but his idea
of a compatible conversationalist!
Still, it was jolly decent of the bloke to suggest something, all the
same. He would certainly have to oblige
him on this occasion. After all, it
wasn't every day that one left a firm.
"We'll go to that restaurant, then," Michael decided.
By
However, having been responsible for
answering the majority of routine calls hitherto, Michael opted for a breather
on his last day. He assured himself that
he had quite enough paperwork to be getting on with anyway, and consequently
decided to allow Miss Daphne Smalls, who was seated beside him, to take sole
charge of the telephone closest to-hand, it being understood that the 'rise',
as he facetiously put it, would do her good.
Well, someone would have to replace him on Monday and she, being the
nearest and eldest, if not the most experienced, seemed as good a candidate as
any, despite her inability, at present, to cope with a majority of queries. But she would learn in good time. A woman of her charm and intelligence could
go quite some way in the firm!
When Michael Savage next glanced at the
bright-red wall clock it was just turning 10.30, time for a mid-morning tea
break. Everyone appeared to be rushing
around like mad now, as the chief clerk, the assistant chief clerk, and various
other personnel of a subordinate though supervisory capacity dished out orders,
intervened on the telephones, corrected clerical blunders, sorted letters, scolded
junior clerks, and generally worked things up to fever pitch. Even Gerald, despite his customary composure,
was busily engaged in ironing out a ticklish problem with his immediate
colleague, a quiet, inoffensive little man by name of Ernie Brock, who had been
a loyal servant to the firm for over six years, and who was now rubbing the end
of a new pencil against his left nostril in indication, perhaps, of some
imminent revelation.... Although, to judge by the worried expression on his
clean-shaven countenance, it evidently wasn't a thing permitting an easy
solution! As could also be confirmed by
the equally tense expression on Gerald's somewhat more robust features. To be sure, life was full of such problems,
and little Ernie Brock was as susceptible to the vicissitudes of fate as the
next man, despite the double bonus of an innate and acquired sagacity which he
indefatigably strove to utilize from morning till night.
'By Christ!' thought Michael, smiling in
spite of himself, 'you just have to smile at the way those grey-flannel
trousers come up to his chest, as though he were dressed in a sack every
day. Up to his chest, with that tacky
little belt girdling his ribs and the seat of his pants all shiny at the back
from where he's been sweating in them too often. Must be an odd sight for the wife every
evening, his coming home looking like a glorified scarecrow. Probably makes him more loveable, brings out
her maternal instinct. ("Yes,
there's nobody quite like my Ernie. He's
so individualistic.") Never seen
him without a tie on, either. Probably
against his religion. Might even
...' For a moment the shrill ringing of
the nearby phone startled Michael out of his sarcastic reflections and he was
about to answer it personally when he remembered he had left that privilege to
Miss Smalls. "Hello, are you going
to answer it? Yes? Good!" - 'Give her plenty of practice. She'll soon get the hang of things. Oddly enough, it does take you out of
yourself sometimes. Occasionally find
yourself talking to some quite charming people.
One of the few real perks here.... Whew!
Am I glad of that breeze! Makes
me feel like a new man. A great
advantage in this stuffy place, having a seat near the window. Sustained concentration!
'That chap opposite-but-one, old grumpy
guts, still hasn't said a word to anyone.
You have to wait until he gets a phone call, then you hear a few terse
words from him. Perfunctory but
pertinent. Isn't really what I'd call
the most generous of conversationalists.
Quite the contrary! A member of
our unofficially incorporated society of verbal misers, a strictly taciturn
type. Swears under his breath quite a
lot though, particularly in the morning.
Often arrives late at the office in a terrible temper, makes that youth
next to him quake with fright. You'd
imagine it was the work, or the prospect of work, that riled him, but not at
all! He's one of the most conscientious
of people, a stickler for duty if ever there was one! In all probability, the work prevents his
mind from wandering along too many unsavoury paths, keeps him on the track, as
it were, especially when he's in a foul mood.... But what it is, exactly, that
upsets him ... his Polish ancestry or a dislike of the West or a recollection
of the number of attractive females he has to pass-up on his way to the office
every morning? I shouldn't think he's
gay or whatever. At least, he doesn't
appear to show much interest in any of the males here, Gerald not
excepted. Indeed, now I come to think of
it, he made an unsuccessful pass at some young woman who used to work here last
year, some little flash-arse by name of Cathy.
Usual thing, however: already engaged, try again later. Such, at any rate, was the implication of her
rejection. Well, it's my last day
opposite him, thank goodness! I don't think I'll miss the sight of his ugly mug too much.
'I wonder what sort of thoughts pass
through his mind every day? Quite
chilling, if his face is anything to judge by!
Something approximating to a chamber of horrors or even to a private
mental orgy. Then that conscientiousness
could be more than just a guard against the possibility of his thinking too
many harrowing thoughts; it could be a sort of penitence, a form of
self-punishment, a kind of Kafka complex he wields with all the manic
determination of a born masochist, in a desperate attempt to atone for his
numerous shortcomings. Still, he doesn't
work too hard, the way I see it.
Although, to be honest, I don't make a point of looking at him all that
often, because he would only revolt me and probably return me a nasty look, to
boot! However, what I have gleaned from an
occasional curiosity indicates that his introspection is by no means confined
to inscrutable reflections but also manifests itself quite unashamedly in what
I can only suppose to be a form of demonic humour, some little idiosyncratic
joke which the combined dictates of reason and commonsense are unable to
restrain from bursting out in all its impassioned exhibitionism. Maybe some sexual innuendo going on in his
head, or a personal moral victory over some senior member of the staff. In sum, something approximating to a
self-induced deliverance from the general tedium of his work. Dangerous game, though. You could find people staring at you as if
you were a madman. They have to know who
or what you're smiling at. He's probably
been alone too long, no-one to take him out of himself, like my nearest
neighbour, Miss Bass. Therefore no
alternative for him but to amuse himself in his own waywardly introspective
fashion, to initiate an interruption of the funereal. Still, it's a very strict upbringing some of
those East Europeans get, really. Too
damn strict, judging by the results of it!
Seems to have turned him into a fully-fledged dreamer, turned him in upon himself, a fish
out of clerical water.
'Well, he can't be expected to restrain
himself from lewd or vicious thoughts all the time. Nobody can do that! A person isn't born to be entirely good or
evil. You have to mix it up, face the
facts.... Gentle dreamer writes bitter satire.
Gentle nun regularly indulges in self-flagellation. Impotent priest admires The Rite of Spring. Boisterous rock star turns reflective poet in
his spare time. Inoffensive gent thinks
scandalous thoughts. Offensive labourer
regularly attends
'Yeah, and that's precisely where a lot of
people come unstuck, because they won't or can't accept their other self,
whichever self that happens to be, and wind-up going either mad or
neurotic. They may be in a social trap
which demands a rigorous consistency in behaving politely, and the only thing
they can do then, short of changing their lifestyle, is to effect a subtle deception
so that good and evil are effectively interchanged, their particular brand of
evil being fobbed off as a manifestation of good and their particular brand of
good fobbed off as a manifestation of evil, depending where they're at. The gentle "spiritualist" who
writes revoltingly violent music and the violent "materialist" whose
music is enticingly gentle are really two aspects of the same coercion, the
coercion which leads you to realize that you're neither an angel nor a demon
but a man, and therefore a subtle compromise between two absolutes.
'Yes, Vlad is a man whether or not he likes
the fact, in consequence of which he has to swear under his breath every so
often, because a more audible form of swearing could lead to his being
dismissed from a firm which is compelled, by commercial necessity, to maintain
what some would regard as a highly repressive verbal conservatism. This repressed anger wells-up in his psyche
like molten lava, like a kettle on the boil, and comes bubbling out of him in
spite of any last-moment efforts he might make to impede it. But that's what happens when you haven't got
a girlfriend to act as a kind of vent for repressed emotions, enabling you to
release so many pent-up feelings through coitus and lovemaking generally. In fact, I'm in a similar boat to him, and it
wouldn't surprise me if Gerald was in a similar boat to us either, something
akin to a Ship
of Fools, because there are so many of us who are suffering from a dementia
peculiar to the age, an age abounding, for all its show of promiscuity, in
sexual frustrations, general repressions, and simulated violence, which has
given birth to the paradoxical phenomena of the womanly man and the manly
woman: the former finding it difficult to assert himself in view of his social
repressions and the latter finding it difficult not to assert herself in view
of her new-found occupational freedoms.
Indeed, most of the other men in this place appear to be suffering from
it too, I can see it on their faces. For
the male sex has been rather undermined recently!'
"How's the poetry going, man?"
'Good God, someone's asking me a question!'
- "Oh, not too b-badly," stuttered Michael, feeling somewhat
embarrassed at being asked such a question at such a time in such a place. "I try to do a little every day,"
he added, turning towards the tall, denim-clad figure of Martin Stevens, the
general office's only black guy, who had just concluded a favourable telephone
conversation with his latest girlfriend and was on the verge of returning to
his desk at the opposite end of the room when he evidently thought it
appropriate to offer Michael the sop of some friendly curiosity. "That's the way!" enthused Stevens,
his large plum-like eyes veering towards the open window. "Keep plugging away."
"I've no real choice," Michael
averred. "There's little else I can
do."
"Really?"
"Well, you know what I mean."
"Ha-ha, sure thing, man!"
chuckled Stevens, his big round eyes abandoning the window. "Hey, it's your last day here, isn’t
it? Ha-ha! Glad to be leaving?"
"Well, I wouldn't be smiling if I
wasn't," replied Michael, who was slightly taken aback, in spite of his
apparent good humour.
"Then you won't be coming back this
time?" drawled Stevens with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a broad
grin baring his immaculate white teeth.
"Not like you did on the previous two occasions?"
"No, it's third time lucky for
me," confirmed Michael impatiently.
"Ha-ha, that's the spirit, that's the
fucking spirit! Five-and-a-half years in
this sodding place is evidently long enough, right?" It was the sort of rhetorical question to
expect from a guy who had never been in any job longer than five months, or so
Michael supposed. Meantime, Stevens had
switched track to a more pragmatic question.
"Got another job lined up, man?" he asked.
"Not yet," replied Michael,
turning red in the face at what he took to be a sarcastic edge to Stevens'
tone. "As a matter of fact, I
intend to concentrate on my, er, literary writings for a while, see if I can
produce anything worthwhile."
"Gee, I hope you do," concluded
Stevens, before slinking back to his desk with sensuous ease.
"I didn't know you wrote," Miss
Smalls suddenly confessed in an almost begrudging tone-of-voice. "You look like a writer anyway."
"Well, I have to do something with
myself in the evenings," declared 'the writer' solemnly, not quite
understanding her. "I can't play
with my thumbs all the time, you know."
Visibly taken aback by what seemed like a
cruel remark, Daphne Smalls tightly focused her large dark-blue eyes on him in
seeming anticipation of another statement.
But, to her disappointment, nothing else was forthcoming from Mr Michael
Savage, gentleman poet, potential genius, literary maniac, stultified clerk,
womanless scribbler, so she turned back to the pile of forms and envelopes on
her desk. "I occasionally write
too," she presently and almost blushingly confessed, looking-up from the
envelope she was at that moment addressing.
"Bits and pieces for magazines and local papers."
"Are they women's magazines?"
asked Michael, feigning interest as best he could in this, the most recent of
Daphne's personal confessions. However,
the young woman emphatically shook her head and replied that she had written
short articles on psychology and sociology in fairly influential scientific
journals, albeit declining to name any.
"I see," responded Michael, his
thumb between the pages of the aforementioned G.B. and
"Oh, a couple of years ago. I was actually doing part-time work at the
time, so during my spare time I often sent letters on psychology and sociology
to a variety of interested publications."
"I see," repeated Michael, who
was unable to strangle the acute feeling of ennui stealthily creeping over him,
like a wary spider, at the prospect of having to continue this rather
half-hearted conversation. "And did
they publish them?"
"Sometimes. It really depended on what I was writing,
actually. These days, however, I hardly
write anything at all. I'm usually far
too busy in the evenings."
"Doing what?" asked Michael.
Daphne took a deep breath, as if unsure
whether or not to reveal the truth, but finally her ego got the better of her
and she confessed: "Well, I do a lot of social work, mainly locally, which
keeps me busy for about three hours a night on three nights a week. Normally I spend a lot of time just talking
to people, finding out what I can about them, what makes them tick, what their
views are on various subjects, what problems they have, and so on - a whole
host of different things! Of course, I
also read quite a lot, especially late at night."
"Is that a fact?" rejoined
Michael indifferently.
"Oh, yes." And here, to his surprise, Daphne dipped into
her brightly striped shoulder bag and extracted from its jumble of
heterogeneous contents a thick paperback entitled A History of Madness,
its cover like something by Hieronymus Bosch, which she then proceeded to
brandish quite unashamedly before the startled eyes of the gentleman poet,
potential genius, etc., who appeared to be momentarily hypnotized by it and
unable, in consequence, to formulate anything even remotely resembling a coherent
response. "I've been reading it for
quite some time," she went on, "as you can doubtless tell from the
somewhat battered condition it's in at present.
But it's a most enlightening book!"
'I thought at first she'd got it from a
jumble sale, to judge by the state of it,' thought Michael. 'Poor girl, I knew she was neurotic from the
moment she started here. Might have been
born unbalanced, for all I know. Whew!
I'll become neurotic again, if I have to sit next to her much longer. Something in the oppressive atmosphere she
creates. Thank goodness it's my last day
here! I'll be rid of her for one thing!'
Meantime, Daphne having returned the
battered tome to her overcrowded shoulder bag, Michael felt called upon to say
something. "I see," he reiterated,
as though entranced. Then, snapping out
of it: "Are all your books like that?"
Daphne pondered a moment, her mouth hanging
open, as though in mute expectation of some spiritual visitation. "No, not really," she at length
replied. "Mostly psychology,
psychiatry, and sociology, with just a little, er, literature thrown-in for
good measure."
'Hum, she certainly seems rather
matter-of-fact about it,' mused Michael.
'Leads a regular social life in the evenings, does she? Well, she won't do herself a power of good,
the way I see it, by mixing-in with the spaced-out crowd she's evidently into
at present.'
"Soon be lunch time, Michael,"
the voice of Gerald Matthews was heard to interpose from a saner section of the
office. "Cod and chips for me
today. How's the work going, by the
way?"
Michael glanced at the pile of completed
forms to the right of his desk, the bulk of his morning's labour. "Oh, not too badly, thanks. Now that I don't have to keep on answering
the phone, I can get on with it. You
needn't worry about having to take over from me after today. Most of it's done now."
"Jolly good," smiled Gerald. "I'd hoped it would be."
'Ah, it’s twelve-twenty,' observed Michael
to himself. 'Think I'll take a wash
break, clean the sweat off my face.'
Grasping his bright blue tea-mug, he strode
purposefully out of the office, along the corridor, and down the top flight of
stairs towards the GENTS, wherein he proceeded to urinate, wash his hands and
face, rinse the mug, comb his hair, and retie the flagging laces of his desert
boots, which were usually somewhat loose by this time of day. Finally, since there was nobody there to
disturb him, he leaned his elbows on the windowsill and, gazing out onto the
dreary scene the open window afforded one, began to ruminate on what he would
eat for lunch. Certainly not fish and
chips, at any rate! That was far too
much the done thing on Fridays. It would
be better to order a doner. Yes, a kebab
would do fine.
At that moment little Ernie Brock shuffled
onto the scene and, noticing him out of the corner of his eye, Michael greeted
him cordially, because he was an inoffensive little man who mostly kept himself
to himself and consequently inspired a degree of veneration. Reciprocating Michael's greeting in his
customary laid-back fashion, Ernie began to straighten his checked tie and to
modestly inspect his priestly countenance in the nearby mirror. "Nice weather we're still having,"
Michael ventured to opine from his vantage-point by the window. "Let's hope it continues over the
weekend." He glanced uneasily at
Ernie. 'Not much chance of a positive
response from him,' he thought, becoming slightly embarrassed. 'Bit of a drag always reverting to the
weather anyway, particularly where he's concerned! I suppose it's just a formality between us.'
- "Incidentally, how's the wife?"
Although still preoccupied with his
clean-shaven reflection in the grimy mirror, Ernie managed an affirmative nod
with his balding head, which was then corroborated by a terse statement to the
effect that she was fine.
"Good!" sighed Michael, who was grateful for every little
crumb of verbal response he could garner in such fashion. "And how are the babies?"
Having shuffled to the loo proper,
standing-room only, Ernie smiled self-satisfactorily on the reception of this
question which, unbeknown to anyone else, directly related to his chief pride
in life: namely, his two baby daughters.
"Oh, quite well, thanks," he replied, while simultaneously
relieving what sounded to Michael like a hard-pressed bladder. "The youngest one's teething at the
moment, but it shouldn't last too long."
"Dear me, that must be somewhat
painful for her," Michael ventured to speculate, feeling completely out of
his depth. To which speculation,
however, there was no reply, so he asked: "Is she crying a lot,
then?"
"No, not really," Ernie
replied. "Fortunately she's a very
good sleeper, so she isn't aware of her situation all that often. Then, too, we've given her a plastic dummy to
suck, in order to relieve the pain slightly.
But she's really quite a tough little creature." At which point, to Michael's surprise, his
narrow face expanded into a broad grin, as though in acknowledgement of his own
contribution to his daughter's toughness.
"Good for her," rejoined
Michael. "And how's the other one -
talking yet?"
"We can't stop her," Ernie
smilingly averred. "She evidently
takes to the language."
"Must be a busy job for the wife,
then," opined Michael while staring disinterestedly at a couple of large
pigeons which had just that moment alighted on the flat roof of a nearby
warehouse, the male of the species being engaged in wooing the other, a
similarly light-grey pigeon that appeared to be completely ignoring the male's
song-and-dance routine in her intense preoccupation with a grubby-looking apple
core which someone must have thrown from one of the firm's back windows. However, she soon discarded this titbit and
straightaway flew off towards the roof of another building, while the male,
having seemingly enacted a gratuitous performance, picked or, rather, pecked up
his wounded pride and took off in the opposite direction, leaving the titbit
untouched.
'These damn male pigeons are always at it!'
thought Michael solemnly. 'Making bloody
fools of themselves every minute of the frigging day! I suppose they have little else to do. Food and sex, sex and food, in a vicious
circle. It must be dreadfully annoying
for the female, being accosted every day by any number of puffed-up males on
the make and having to take evasive action most of the time. Not exactly a bed of roses for the male
either, having to contend with so many ill-mannered rejections. Something of a regular cock-up, you could
say. Still, he's not to know one way or
the other at first, is he? Not, of
course, unless the mate of the female from whom he happens to be soliciting
favours is also there, assuming they do actually establish any sort of
long-term relationship and aren't wholly promiscuous, as one might be led to
suppose from their general pattern of activity.
But surely, if the mate of the female was nearby, a stranger would have
more sense than to accost her, wouldn't he?
Ah well, analogies enough with human life, without the necessity of my
having to feel sorry for these damn pigeons!
They breed like flies anyway.
There ought to be something done about them. After all, they aren't that much of a tourist
attraction. Terrible mess they make
everywhere!'
"... and she'll soon be old enough for
nursery," Ernie was saying.
"How quickly they grow!"
'Good God, I'd virtually forgotten he was
there!' - "By the way, what time is it?" asked Michael, as Ernie,
having washed and dried his cup, shuffled towards the door. "Er, twenty-seven minutes past twelve,"
the latter pedantically obliged, consulting his wind-up.
"That's good," said Michael. "It seems to have been a long
morning."
Ernie made no reply but smiled
sympathetically before gently closing the door behind him, so once again
Michael was left alone with his thoughts.
'Wonder how he gets on with his wife. She must be quite a different sort of person,
because I certainly can't imagine him living with a woman as quiet as
himself. It would be bad for the
children when they got older. But maybe
he comes out of his shell a bit more in the evenings? Still, he has managed to knock two kids out
of her, so there's evidently more there than first meets the eye. Probably the attraction of opposites. Like-poles repel, unlike-ones attract. Then again, homosexuals are like-poles,
aren't they? And they attract. No, what
I mean is the attraction of men and women towards people who are
temperamentally different from themselves.
I mean it would be terribly boring otherwise, like talking to yourself
most of the time, with little or no incentive for debate. So if his wife is a garrulous person, she
doubtless needs a sympathetic ear, someone on whom she can exercise her passion
for speech, someone, like him, who's a good listener and therefore won't shout
her down or tell her to belt up. Well,
that strikes me as a fairly feasible conjecture anyway, something along the
lines of a solid foundation for a durable relationship.
'But I can't imagine him sexually
dominating her, though. That seems a bit
unlikely to me, especially when one begins to take this place into
account. Why, there's too much male
servitude here, women ruling the clerical roost. Ah, but wait a minute! Perhaps it's his sagacity which stands him in
good stead with her by granting him a more subtle domination. I mean, with a man like him who, unlike old
grumpy guts Vlad, never seems to get worked-up about anything or rarely shows
it if he does, you'd think he had the most sought-after secrets of the world in
his head, that he knew all the spiritual dodges or schemes and was only keeping
calm because he also knew, from bitter experience, that resignation was the
wisest course. I mean, one's imagination
begins to wander with a man like him.
You never know quite what he's up to!
'Mind you, he's no dope. He has a great memory. His little round head is absolutely crammed
with knowledge, superfluous or otherwise.
He's not as simple or lethargic as a superficial appreciation of his
personality could lead one to suppose.
On the contrary, there's much of the genuine mystic about him. He probably knows the Christian religion
inside out, back-to-front, and upside down, as well as the right way up, and
that undoubtedly has a lot to do with it, with his general air of complacency,
as if all's well with the world. He has
faith in the divine plan, in the omniscient omnipotence behind everything, in
the diurnal scheme-of-things in which he has his allocated place and, as such,
he isn't going to get foolishly worked-up about various problems, real or
imaginary, when that wouldn't solve anything but more than likely turn him into
a neurasthenic idler with peptic ulcers instead! No, he's all for a quiet life if he can get
it, babies or not!
'Ah, footsteps on the stairs. That means it's half-twelve. Guess I'd better put in an appearance just
for Gerald's sake.'
And, so thinking, Michael Savage hurried
out of the GENTS and headed back, mug in hand, towards the general office.
