Part 17 (1/2)

Of course I was a child of the Feu Follet. I had never seen the Sirkus.

'Irma,' I said. It was how Wally would have answered. 'Ir ... mah ...'

'Irma? Well I'll be d.a.m.ned.' He slapped the wheel and laughed and at that moment he sounded like the Dog himself Ho, Ho Ho, Ho, Hee, haw. Hee, haw. 'You'd like to do the pink Watutsi with Irma? You dirty little b.u.g.g.e.r. What's your gazette?' he asked. 'You'd like to do the pink Watutsi with Irma? You dirty little b.u.g.g.e.r. What's your gazette?' he asked.

'Tristan ... Smith.'

'I'm Wendell Deveau,' he said, 'and I'd give my left ball to do it with Irma too.'

I remember that, clear as day. You would not forget a name like Wendell Deveau. It was the same man who crossed my path later in life when we were both in love with the same woman.

But on this night the woman was still only eleven years old and Wendell, with all his considerable, ill-informed good will, delivered me into the safe hands of the orderlies at the Mater Hospital and convinced them, no matter how I wept or hollered, that it was their duty to detain me for treatment.

Finally, I was held suspended like a bat or bird between the orderlies. The entire Casualty waiting room looked on. Wendell Deveau stood before me, red-faced, out of breath.

'I hope you get better, ami,' he said. 'I really hope you do.'

*'Bruder Duck Rides to Kakdorp', from the Badberg Edition.*Visiting Voorstanders are always surprised to find Pow-pow music so popular in a foreign country. If you are a child of the Hollandse Maagd it is possible that you find Anglo-French Eficans more enamoured of the music than you are. And it is true, we do not always appreciate the nuances of race and cla.s.s, but we know the words, can hum the melodies. [TS] [TS]*Efican trucks are fitted with a siren which sounds when the vehicle exceeds the speed limit. [TS] [TS]

37.

In the Voorstand Sirkus, there is no pity. A man falls, he dies. This, you would say, is the point the reason a Sirkus star is rich is because of the risk he takes.

But when we Eficans watch the Voorstand Sirkus we do not watch like you. We watch with our mouths open, oohing and aahing and applauding just as you do, but we watch like Eficans, identifying with the lost, the fallen, the abandoned. When a performer falls, c'est moi, c'est moi. c'est moi, c'est moi.

Our heroes are the lost, the drowned, the injured, a habit of mind that makes our epic poetry emotionally repellent to you, but let me tell you, Meneer, Madam, if you are ever sick whilst visiting Efica you will quickly appreciate the point of view. If you come to the Mater Hospital with no money, no insurance, even if you stink of p.i.s.s and have no lips you will not be sent away, not even if you beg to be.

They asked where my mother was.

I said I had no mother.

Wendell Deveau began to click his tongue. I tried to crawl away. Wendell Deveau tried to stop me. I bit him. The admissions clerk became alarmed for me. She called two nurses, wide fellows with close-cropped hair and big soft hands. I did not want them touching me. When I struggled, they restrained me. When they restrained me, I screamed and hollered and of course it made me look a fright my hole of a mouth, my dribbling nose, the blood on my knee-pads, my flailing hands there were people in the waiting room covering their faces, leaving the room, holding their hands over their sick children's eyes. I saw this. I did not understand why it was happening. I pulled Vincent's newspaper-stuffed driving gloves back on, ready to scamper for it. Sc.r.a.ps of torn paper fluttered all around me. It was two a.m. I did not give the impression of mental health.

Wendell Deveau fled into the night to begin his life as an operative with the DoS. The nurses were young, embarra.s.sed. I smeared them with snot and blood. They must have feared hepat.i.tis, TB, viral cancer, but they were calm and hardly bruised me.

It's OK, they told me. It's OK.

When people in a hospital tell you, 'It's OK,' it's the same as when they say you're going to feel 'some burning' or 'some pressure'. It means that they are going to do something that will hurt like h.e.l.l. So when they told me, 'It's OK,' I screamed. I was placed in a wheelchair, strapped in like a lunatic until I just sobbed, pa.s.sive, pathetic, exhausted, hungry, thirsty, dirty. My big leather gloves stuck out in front of my strapped-down arms like Bruder Dog in the story we know in Efica as 'The Prize-fight Purse'.* I was wheeled along the yellow line, the course of which I knew better I would bet you than the people who were pus.h.i.+ng me. I knew these departments of the Mater and the short cuts between the fifteen buildings. That blue line led to Digestive Diseases (my bowel). The red line to Cardiology (my septal defect). The yellow line was to the Burns Unit which contained (Room 502) the Plastic Surgery Unit. I told them I was not from there, but I doubt they understood me. I was wheeled along the yellow line, the course of which I knew better I would bet you than the people who were pus.h.i.+ng me. I knew these departments of the Mater and the short cuts between the fifteen buildings. That blue line led to Digestive Diseases (my bowel). The red line to Cardiology (my septal defect). The yellow line was to the Burns Unit which contained (Room 502) the Plastic Surgery Unit. I told them I was not from there, but I doubt they understood me.

My captors were polite, but firm.

I myself was not polite. I was in the habit of thinking of myself as I have said this already the avant garde, the elite. I a.s.sociated with anarchists, populists, nationalists, but whatever position we had, we imagined ourselves better informed than anyone who walked outside the big door on Gazette Street.

I called them drool-brains, know-nothings, airheads.

'What are we?' they asked.

'Drool ... brains.'

'Drool-brains?'

'Yes.'

They started laughing.

I went into a frenzy. (Cretins. No-bodies. s.h.i.+t-rakers.) (Cretins. No-bodies. s.h.i.+t-rakers.) My mouth flapped. My legs shooks. My nose ran a river. They delivered me to room 502 with tears of laughter down their faces. My mouth flapped. My legs shooks. My nose ran a river. They delivered me to room 502 with tears of laughter down their faces.

In room 502 they did not know what to do with me. They let me keep my gloves on, but they shot me full of Valium, and took some Buccal sc.r.a.pings from inside my cheek (It's OK) (It's OK) to file-check my DNA. It was through this last procedure once a two-week procedure, now a quick routine that they located my hospital records. to file-check my DNA. It was through this last procedure once a two-week procedure, now a quick routine that they located my hospital records.

A chubby young man in a s.h.i.+ny dark suit brought me a doc.u.ment, a facsimile of my birth certificate. He had a square pleasant face with a springy fringe across his mild green eyes.

'Can you read?' this young man asked me.

Of course I could read. I could read from the age of three. I held out my driver's gloves to take the doc.u.ment. 'I'm ... eleven.' eleven.'

Reluctantly, he gave me my own birth certificate.

I read.

FATHER'S NAME: n/a. n/a.

FATHER'S OCCUPATION: n/a. n/a.

I knew what n/a meant, but why my mother wrote this, I could not guess. Perhaps she knew Bill would go away. Perhaps she wished Vincent to think he was my father. In any case: it did not shock me. It was like my mother, like my father too.

'This is you, right?' he asked. 'You're Tristan?'

MOTHER'S NAME: Felicity Smith Actor-Manager. Felicity Smith Actor-Manager.

'Is this you?' this angel asked me. 'Are you Tristan Actor-Manager?'*

I turned to look at his watery benevolent eyes and believed my period of trial was over.

'Are you he?'

'Yes ... I ... am.'

'Your name is Actor-Manager?'

I nodded.

He flicked his fringe back.

'What is your address?' he asked, and then scrunched up his face as he readied himself to understand me.