‘What other types are there?’
‘I mean relocation of the physical body makes little difference if the soul is in prison, does it?’
‘I guess that’s true. Is your soul in prison?’
‘None of us are truly free. At least, not until we have slain the dragon that lives in all our hearts. You remember me mentioning a special ice cream to you before. The one I keep off-site. The ice-cream man’s Katabasis.’
‘I remember.’
‘This ice cream facilitates escape via the inner route. Not the road of the flesh, across mountain ranges and deserts, but a journey of the spirit, inward and downward.’
‘It sounds . . . interesting.’
‘There is nothing quite like it. I can let you have a scoop if you like, by appointment of course.’
‘Perhaps not today.’
‘Most people who take it describe a vision of a journey into a giant’s castle, I don’t know why.’
‘Aren’t you tempted to take it yourself?’
‘I did once, many years ago, when I was young and frightened and going through a period of great emotional turmoil. I too sought the way of the giant’s castle. What happened? A curious thing. I met a lady at the door to the castle who sent me back. She said, “No, Sospan, you are not ready for the way of the giant’s castle, this route is barred to you. We have other things in mind. You must return to the surface, return to Aberystwyth. There, on that frontier between the world of flesh and that kingdom of salt beyond the Prom, ruled over by my cousin Pluto, you must pitch your tent, a little wooden pillbox. From there you shall cast forth your wares, principally cold sticky sweetmeats perfumed with vanilla, emblem of paradise and the Lotus Isles, and with this will you ensnare the hearts of men and make them whole with your ministry of love. And for those whose wounds are too grievous, that cannot so easily be remedied, you will send them here to the Giant’s Castle, and we will minister to their heart’s ache.” So I came back.’
‘What was it called again?’
‘Katabasis. £1.25 a scoop. By appointment only.’
‘Do you get a flake?’
‘It can be arranged, but I consider it gilding the lily. It’s got green ripple.’
A new customer arrived and Sospan changed the subject. ‘Mr Raspiwtin! Lovely evening.’
Raspiwtin gave me a sheepish nod and ordered a choc ice.
‘Mr Raspiwtin was explaining earlier today that the world is an illusion.’
‘If it is, it’s a convincing one,’ I said.
‘Every day we have to invent it afresh,’ said Sospan. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it? Every morning when you awake you groan in torment.’
Raspiwtin’s voice took on a wistful tone. ‘Ah yes! How I crave that exquisite annihilation of the ego we call sleep. But I wake instead and begin once more the terrible Sisyphean labour of fabricating a universe. But once, many years ago, I saw the world as it really was. A series of mornings lasting perhaps a year or more when the trick by which one resurrects the façade failed and my soul was naked before the darkness as a tortoise who has lost his shell. I shudder still to recall it, although, truth be told, it was principally that experience that brought me to these shores, and to this fine meeting with a hero such as you, Mr Sospan.’
‘I think you may be overstating it a bit there,’ said Sospan, turning aside the extravagant compliment. ‘Me a hero?’
‘Not at all! I look at you opening your kiosk every day, feeding the insatiable maw; like a fat sow you parade your teats to the biting snouts of your litter; you suffer in silence, performing the essential sacrament of your trade. The day wanes and you close. The sun sets and you are miserable once more, you who were formerly so glorious are now dross; pathetic. A contemptible jester, nothing more. But for a while – temporarily, yes; provisionally, indeed; fragmentarily, of course! – for a while you created your own meaning. You transcended your fate. You were a hero. Truly you, Mr Sospan, are an Absurd man.’ Raspiwtin made a small flourish with the choc ice and walked off chuckling with the light heart of a man who believes himself to be on the verge of discovering the truth that eluded him all his life.
A squeal erupted from the beach. It was Chastity running across the sands, chased by a man in a space cadet’s outfit. ‘No, Meici, no,’ she squealed in mock terror. Two young lovers playing the game that all young lovers play in the days before their minds are informed of what their hearts have decided. Too early to acknowledge their love, they express it obliquely through rough-and-tumble games that serve as disguised caresses. The sight was as familiar on this beach as a dog stealing a toddler’s ice cream, but it had more poignancy here because the two actors, Meici and Chastity, would no doubt be appalled if you had made explicit to them the truths embodied in their chase. Chastity was a hopeless runner, and Meici, though not much better, gained on her easily. When she reached the water’s edge she found, like many people before her, that her fleeing feet had betrayed her; there was nowhere left to run. She stopped and huddled; Meici caught up and stopped, unsure what to do next. ‘No, Meici,’ she squealed. As if remembering the rest of the role, Meici grabbed her and began to tickle her. ‘No, no, no, stop it, no, don’t hit me,’ she squealed in play, unaware, as were we all, that one day she would say it in truth.
The Pier began to blink with light; to ping and ding and tinkle; to emit the hot smell of scorched ozone, which mingled on the night breeze with the heavier reek of fried onion and grease-encrusted hot-dog van. Under the Pier, hidden in the gloomy forest of ironmongery, roosting starlings emitted a collective mutter. I walked up the Prom in search of Raspiwtin and found him playing crazy golf. Of all the rituals of the seaside holiday it must be the emptiest. It isn’t crazy; not really. Despite the discordant primary colours painted on the concrete, it isn’t zany or madcap or subversive or anarchic; it doesn’t encroach upon the line separating genius and madness. It is simply dull. The grass is made of cement, which gives no purchase to the ball, and therefore it is impossible to aim with any precision. The ritual survives for one reason only: in our hearts we notice a subtle resonance with our own fates. We too careen around a concrete rink for a while, ping from side to side across a garishly painted world the colours of which betoken fake joys, driven by insane forces, subject to incomprehensible laws and rules in which merit plays no part; eventually, once chance and Brownian motion have exhausted all other possibilities, we drop into a hole and have to hand our putter back to a bearded loon in a kiosk. He ticks a cheap pink scorecard. There is no bar afterwards.
Raspiwtin bent over his putter and lined up his shot with needless precision.
‘Who do you work for?’ I asked.
‘No one any more.’
‘Who did you used to work for?’
‘An organisation.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘In many capacities.’
‘How about naming one?’
‘I have been many things in my time: healer, mystic, prophet, mendicant, heretic, counsellor.’ He stood up and walked towards the hole. ‘If we cannot help one another on our journey through this dark night they call life, what good are we?’ He prepared to putt again.
I grabbed the club and wrenched it out of his surprised hands. I threw it across the concrete floor. ‘Look here, you infuriating mystic in flannel. Since you walked into my life I’ve lost a desk and a door and been thrown violently against a wall by a group of people claiming to be the Aviary. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Naturally, I have heard of the Aviary.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They are part of the Welsh Office.’