— The head gardener. Before you I mean.
— How should I know? If he was before me.
— Did he, do you suppose, could he have just fallen dead, in a flower-bed, the red one for instance?
— Which red one?
— On the front lawn, to the left of the drive as you go up towards the house.
— There isn’t a red flower-bed on the front lawn, left or right.
— Oh. Perhaps I made a mistake. It’s only natural. It’s the human element.
— The human element covers the whole earth and interpenetrates itself, the earth being round. It is a painful process. Those who cannot grow with it must die.
— So you think … Oh. But could he have fallen into it, when it was there? The red flower-bed I mean?
— If that’s the way you want it then he could have. I wasn’t there and nor, as far as I’m concerned, was the flower-bed. One doesn’t talk of these things. Now I’m afraid I’m very busy, so if you don’t mind –
— Please. Please. Give me some work. Part-time, low-grade, unskilled, I’ll do anything, absolutely anything, oh please, I beg of you, have pity.
The benzene-ring is enormous, the energy-rich bonds stretch interminably to the right. From this position the trousers are buff-coloured, widening slightly at the bottom like trees. The shoes match and shine, too glowing to be gripped.
Layers and layers of possible reactions fill the silence like a mountain cut in half, primitive fear, a fury of revenge, sublimated gratification, embarrassment, indifference. Mrs. Mgulu steps out from behind the poinsettias wearing something or other and says tell him to get up, Ingram, nobody should grovel, in an age of international and interracial enlightenment such as ours revelation is open to all regardless of sex, years, race or creed. The age however stretches interminably. The physical stuff of the universe wraps up the earth with knowledge and communication, and the earth shrinks, and those who do not partake of the great secret growth are eliminated and shrivel away under the physical stuff that is knowledge and communication and wraps the earth with love, for nothing less than symbiosis will do.
— Get up, man, get up! Nobody should grovel, that is an article of faith. But you are sick, it is difficult for us to employ the sick, you must understand our position.
— I am sick because I have no work.
— You have no work because you are under-nourished.
— I am under-nourished because I have no work.
— Oh I didn’t mean just bread. There’s consciousness too, man cannot live by bread alone. He needs his daily ration of the whole world, blessed are the conscious for they shall inherit the earth.
— Is that an article of faith too?
— If you have faith yes, if not not. However, bread is important. I’ll see what I can do.
The gesture is one of benediction, or helplessness perhaps, the black hands spread over the molecular geometry of the pink-tiled pavement, then up a little, palms paler, almost pink, lined with achievements, longings and evolutions, then gesturing, after all, a pause, creating from the atoms of the air an expectation.
The process is known as osmosis. Sooner or later Mrs. Mgulu will emerge from behind the poinsettias and say give him some work, Ingram, the period of initiation has gone on long enough. He has come through, if not exactly in flying colours, being after all Colourless, not too badly, all things and radiation considered. There is a limit to initiation even in the worst of circumstances. Give him a little work, the hose, since he holds on to that so passionately, and the grass fires.
The dialogue runs smoothly along the kindness in the soft black eyes, orchestrated by a depth of racial memory. Vegetables are mentioned, and occasionally flowers. But mostly maize and rice. The dialogue falters as the smooth face turns its curved oblongs of reflected sunlight off towards the olive grove and a monologue moves away on the other side of the dark neck and the crinkly black ball. The voice is deep and resonant, yet the vibrations are insufficient to carry the words in the opposite direction through the back of the crinkly head, and the words get lost, if any, requiring a reply perhaps, a contradiction, to carry them forward along a certain groove of disputation to some unnamed astonishing conclusion, or merely a murmuring acquiescence, stunned adoration, even further research. I require notice of that question.
— This is where we burn all the weeds and other waste matter. The gardeners make little piles wherever they happen to be working and a boy collects them and brings them here. Usually he does the burning but you will be doing it from now on. As you see there are several charred areas, so don’t use the same one twice running. Mrs. Mgulu intends to build a nuclear waste disposal unit here, but in the meantime we have to burn things the old-fashioned way. But of course it’s dangerous, in this heat, the grass is so dry, a mere spark can flare up and run all the way to the trees in no time. That’s how most of these forest fires begin. So you have to keep hosing the grass all around the funeral pyre, is that clear? Keep it damp, and even hose the fire itself when it flares up too high, it has to smoulder rather than burn. Let me see you do it. Take that pile, it’s the biggest. No, use the rake first, it must be a neat pile. You must tell the boy not to throw the stuff all over the place, it only creates extra work. Not that that’s a bad thing these days, but there’s more kindness than ruthless efficiency in this establishment. Believe me I’ve seen other places. Good, that’s the stuff. A little bit more there behind. Right. Now you go up to that tap in the wall and turn it on. This hose is relatively short, it’s kept here just for the purpose. Never mind if water’s wasted. You can’t be in two places at once and it all goes into the dry earth, even if nothing is grown round here. Now then, you light the fire. Oh, well, I will, just this once. You must carry a light, always. Good. See how quickly it catches. No, don’t hose it yet, you’ll quench it. All round. Gently. That’s right. You can either walk round, but be careful to toss the hose away behind you or it’ll cross the fire. Or you can stand here and crook your arm with the hose to get round, then move a little to the left and do the same, then a little to the right. You can’t bend a jet of water, oddly enough, but you can make it go round the corner in a way. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a great deal to see to.
The fire crackles like rain on a stone pavement. The falling water patters. The funeral pyre of human hair smoulders gently on the marble floor. The banisters weave circles round it, unfurling its minute particles over the dried-up grass. You cannot bend a jet of water but you can make it go round the corner in a way. It is a question of how you hold the instrument, and of aiming correctly, whether it’s fire or water. The human element wraps up the earth with interpenetration and those who do not partake of the great secret story which is not a story are wiped out in a thought, leaving no trace of error. The revelation is open to all regardless. Fill up this form and queue here.
— If you love somebody, forget it. If you want somebody, oh, hi, it’s you. What are you doing here? That’s my job.
— I’ve been given this aspect of it. You need only bring the stuff now. Division of labour.
— Fine, fine, don’t think you’re taking anything from me that I care about one way or the other. You still yenning for old what’s his name?
— The head gardener asked me to tell you, would you please load out the stuff straight and neatly on the pile and not scatter it all round for me to rake in. Any that’s left might catch fire on the dry grass.
— Say, look who’s talking. You silly old man, who d’you think you are, bossing me around?
The olive trees move slowly along, tinged by the sunset. It is difficult to tell their exact colour, for the knowledge of their normal silvery green interferes with the absolute result of being tinged. And yet the road is pink. Not so much immediately underfoot but further. Immediately underfoot it moves slowly along, grey and burning through the thin soles of each canvas shoe as it steps down upon it, ahead of the body and ahead of the other foot, until the other foot follows carrying the body with it, and steps down on the burning road ahead of the body and ahead of the other foot. That is the way a man advances, on his hindlegs, his forelegs free to hold an object such as the world for instance, his head free to look at the object held and reflect upon it. The object could be his own head. But the advance is slow, despite the shrinkage of the world, and the nearness, for example, of Patagonia. Further along, the road is pink. The white house on the hill is pink. The pink house higher up is flame-coloured.