A Closed Book (5 page)

On reflection, and on the whole, I've decided that I like him. He's careless, even slapdash, he's not exactly literary and he's far from perfect – but then, one's unlikely to obtain perfection by advertising for it in the personal columns of a newspaper. Yet I feel certain he'll more than do. That mortifying business with me on thelav he handled well, all things considered. The omens are good.

‘Are you ready, John?'

‘Yes, everything's ready. The Mac is humming away. I've created a new folder. I called it
Truth
.'

‘
Truth
?'

‘For
Truth and Consequences
? The full title would be too long.'

‘I see.
Truth
, eh? Rather a lot to live up to, isn't it? But – well, it might be no bad thing at that.
Truth
it is.'

‘Shall I date it?'

‘Date it? Yes, why not? Write – let me see – write “Spring 1999”.'

‘“Spring 1999”. Done. So – exactly how do we go about this?'

‘Well, John, this is a book that's going to be very much about blindness, both literal and figurative, and I mean to begin it with a series of fragmented reflections on the subject. A kind of prelude.'

‘Aha.'

‘It's curious. Blindness was never one of my preoccupations, never one of my trademark themes. Ah well, that's life for you, I suppose. It will suddenly spring on you a climax for which nothing that's happened to you up to that point has prepared you.'

‘Mmm.'

‘Anyway, I intend the first of these reflections of mine to focus not only on blindness but on eyelessness. It strikes me that, with a book of this nature, in which narrative chronology is absolutely not at stake, there could be no stronger point of departure for the text. By the way, John?'

‘Yes?'

‘Did you make a note of that little felicity of mine, as I asked you?'

‘Little felicity?'

‘Comparing the moon to the title of a Japanese film?'

‘Oh, God, no. No, I obviously didn't.'

‘No, you obviously didn't. Here am I reminding you to remind me. Please note it now, will you, and don't forget the notebook if we go out for a stroll this evening.'

‘Right. Though I'm not altogether out to lunch. This morning when I set up the Mac it occurred to me it might be useful to create a document called
Notes
. I'll just stick your felicity in it now. It won't take a sec.'

‘Good idea. Keep that document handy for anything that comes up
en route
, so to speak. Sometimes, John, a writer has what may be described as a word-flow problem. It's exactly the same as a cash-flow problem, you know, only with words. It isn't that he's really short of words, I mean to say it isn't that he's
broke
, just that they aren't coming as smoothly as they ought. And sometimes consulting notes, even notes jotted down a long, long time before, ideas one's forgotten one ever had, will get the juices flowing again. I know what I'm talking about, I assure you. I speak from experience.'

‘There. It's done.'

‘Good. Now listen very carefully, John. I'm not going to pretend that what we're about to embark on, you and I, will be easy for either of us. It won't. I've never dictated my work before. You might say I was the kind of writer who felt most comfortable composing at the piano.'

‘At the piano?'

‘Metaphorically, John, metaphorically.'

‘Ah.'

‘I mean that I always used to write at the typewriter. Just as there are certain composers who would always
compose at the piano – Stravinsky, for one, I seem to recall – because they found that just letting their fingers run over the keyboard would actually generate ideas – not just ideas but fully formed sentences that subsequently required next to no revision. I mean – of course, I don't mean that Stravinsky typed out
sentences
– I'm talking about writers, writers
like
Stravinsky, writers like me who were used to composing at a keyboard. Actually, when you think of it, there's – I mean, what I've just been saying, what I've just been struggling to say – there's a perfect example of what I'm talking about. If I'd seen that sentence coming, it wouldn't have been as abominably confused and unstructured as it actually turned out to be. Which – which is why – oh, forget it. Where was I?'

‘You were saying you always composed at the typewriter.'

‘Yes. So, now, since I'll no longer have direct access to a keyboard, and therefore to the idea of letters as objects, letters as individual objects, letters as hard, solid, buttony things that I can see and not only see but feel and touch and press, well, I'm going to need some time to adjust. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘It's a bit like a smoker who's just given up smoking. The absence of nicotine is one thing – the essential thing, I imagine – I've never tried so I wouldn't know.
But there's also the absence of the cigarette itself, the cigarette between his fingers, the cigarette, if you like, as a
prop
. A smoker, John, a smoker without a cigarette between his fingers is like a courtesan without her gaudy rings.'

‘Ah, yes. Quite witty.'

‘It is, isn't it? I wonder if it's worth noting down. Unless –'

‘Would you like me to make a note of it?'

‘Well, finally, no. I fear I've used it before. In print, I mean. For the moment, I can't think precisely where or when, but I seem to – I'm sure – no, no, drop it. Don't bother.'

‘Whatever you say.'

‘Anyway, when I begin dictating, and even though I've had time to do a lot of thinking about this first section, it's liable to come out all higgledy-piggledy. Despite what you may think, I find I all too often, shall I say, stammer in my thoughts, and this stammering of mine, no matter how provisional, is something I'm going to find hard to live with. Except that there's nothing I can do about it so there's no point in complaining. But I do think it best if you just keep typing in what I say, including any minor revisions or refinements I make along the way – and for that matter they won't always be so very minor. Then, when we've finished
a section, I can try to pull it all together into a more presentable shape.'

‘That makes sense.'

‘But please don't imagine that'll be the end of it. I intend to go over every passage again and again till not a semi-colon remains that I haven't vetted. You do understand? It's not easy being a blind perfectionist, but it's what I plan to be.'

‘Well, Paul, since you put it that way …'

‘Yes? What is it?'

‘Look, this may be of no consequence, but I've noticed, well – I just thought –'

‘Will you please say what it is you're trying to say.'

‘I thought you'd want to know there's a stain on your tie.'

‘A what?'

‘A coffee stain. You splashed coffee on your tie at breakfast.'

‘No? Oh God, I hate stains, I hate them! Even blind, I hate them! Oh dear, oh dear. Oh well – well, it's got to come off, obviously. Thank you for letting me know.'

‘I wasn't sure if –'

‘I didn't even mention stains to you – you know, when we talked earlier – because I'm usually very – I'm usually very fastidious about my personal manners. I pride myself – Oh dear. Oh well, it can't be helped. Here.'

‘Oh. Right. Thanks.'

‘Add it to the laundry. Later, when you make us some coffee. Can it be laundered, do you think?'

‘Oh, yes. Probably.'

‘I'm really steamed up about that tie. It's a Cerruti. As I recall, there were very few like it. With those velvety multicoloured squares.'

‘What?'

‘What?'

‘You said multicoloured squares?'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, no.'

‘What do you mean, no?'

‘I mean there are no squares on it. It's actually brown, beigey-brown, with darker brown stripes. Diagonal stripes.'

‘It's not the Cerruti?'

‘The label says Stripes.'

‘Stripes? Just Stripes?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But that's extraordinary. I have no such tie.'

‘It's the tie you were wearing.'

‘But I tell you it can't be.'

‘Look, Paul, it's not important really, is it? After all, think about it. What it means is that you didn't stain the Cerruti, right? The tie you really liked?'

‘You aren't listening. I don't possess a brown
striped tie. Repeat, I don't possess a brown striped tie. All my ties I purchased before I went blind and they're all laid out in order on a special hanger inside my wardrobe. I ought to know by now which is which. I simply don't recognize such a tie.'

‘Well, I don't know what the answer is, but I'm sure it's nothing to get upset about. Later, if you like, I'll go over your ties with you and I guarantee you'll find everything in its place. Just for now, though, shouldn't we get started?'

‘What? Oh. Yes, yes, of course. Forgive me. I'm so unused to – Yes, forgive me.'

‘All right. All right, let's see. Uh, “I am blind.”'

‘Yes?'

‘No, no, you don't understand. I want that to be the first sentence of the book.'

‘Oh, I get it. Okay, here we go. “I am blind …” Full stop?'

‘I said it was a sentence, didn't I? Don't bother with punctuation at the moment. Just go with your instincts.'

‘Right.'

‘Ready when you are, Paul.'

‘And don't keep prompting me. It's counterproductive. When I have what I want to say, you'll be the first to know.'

‘Sorry.'

‘And for Christ's sake, don't keep saying you're sorry all the fucking time! It's driving me bananas!'

‘Ah. Hmph. Now it's my turn to say sorry. My apologies, John. I'm just a little rattled this morning. That business of the tie. I can't imagine why it should have upset me as much as it has.'

‘I repeat, my apologies.'

‘Accepted.'

‘I did tell you it wouldn't be easy. I'm not an easy man, I know it.'

‘It's fine, it's fine. Don't worry.'

‘Good. Then let's proceed. “I am blind. I have no sight. Equally I have no eyes.” Tell me if I'm going too fast.'

‘That's okay as it is.'

‘“Equally I have no eyes. I am thus a freak. For blindness is freakish, is surreal.”'

‘Sorry. Do you want both “is freakish” and “is surreal”?'

‘Yes, I do: “is freakish”, comma, “is surreal”, full stop. “For blindness is freakish, is surreal.” No, that's terrible – it's – oh God, this won't do.'

‘Look, John, forget what I just said. Just go on whether it's terrible or not. Don't listen to any of my
complaints. Keep typing away whatever I say. Use your judgement.'

‘Right.'

‘“Even more surreal” – I'm dictating now, by the way – “even more surreal than my blindness itself, however, is the fact that, without any eyes to see” – no, “is the fact that, having been dispossessed not only of my sight but of my eyes, I continue to see” – inverted commas around “to see” – no, on second thoughts, only around the word “see” – “I continue to ‘see' nevertheless. What it is that I see” – naturally, there are no inverted commas this time – “what it is that I see may be ‘nothing'” – inverted commas again.'

‘For “nothing”?'

‘Yes. “What it is that I see may be ‘nothing'” – dash – “I am blind, after all” – dash – “but that ‘nothing'” – keep the inverted commas – “is, paradoxically, by no means indescribable” – no, “is, paradoxically, by no means beyond my powers of description. I see nothing, yet, amazingly, I am able to describe that nothing. The world for me, the world of sightlessness, has become a sombre and coarsely textured plaid” – that's plaid as in a Scotch plaid – “as devoid of light as I imagine deep space must be and yet somehow, also like deep space, penetrable. And, I repeat, I really do see it. There would seem to exist a profound impulse” – no, “an immemorial impulse” – no, wait, “a profound and
immemorial impulse” – yes, “a profound and immemorial impulse in that part of my face where my eyes used to be to ‘look out'” – inverted commas around “look out”. Actually, from now on I'll say “ICs” for inverted commas. I tend to use them a lot in my prose. Where was I?'

‘“There would seem to be a profound and immemorial impulse –”'

‘I think you'll find I said “would seem to
exist
a profound and immemorial impulse –”'

‘“There would seem to exist a profound and immemorial impulse in that part of my face where my eyes used to be –”'

‘Comma – “in that part of my face where my eyes used to be” – matching comma – “to ‘look out' at the world, an impulse that, even when I no longer have eyes” – I fear I'm being repetitive here but we'll tidy it up later – “even when I no longer have eyes, does not then spread indiscriminately to the rest of my face. It is still with my missing eyes, exclusively with them, that I see nothing” – ICs around “see nothing”. “I still turn my head to greet someone, not merely in unthinking obeisance” – o, b, e, i, s, a, n, c, e – “not merely in unthinking obeisance to the weary conventions of casual social intercourse.” No, let's say rather “jejune social intercourse”. I don't want “casual” next to “social”.'

‘Why not?'

‘Too elly.'

‘Too elly?'

‘Too many l's. “Casu
al
”, “soci
al
”. It's practically a rhyme. I don't need it.'

‘Okay. Sorry, but how do you spell “jejune”?'

‘J, e, j, u, n, e.'

‘To be honest, I've never known what that word means.'

‘
You
don't have to know what it means. I'm going on. So – “blah blah blah not merely in unthinking obeisance to the weary conventions of jejune social intercourse but also as though, even eyeless, I remain under the sway of an instinctual and atavistic seeing reflex. In short, I continue to see” – ICs, please – “the same plaid, the same deep space, because as a human being I cannot not see it” – semi-colon – “because seeing is a function of the organism even when the organs themselves have been removed. I have to see –” Better underline “have”.'