Her Name Was Lola

  The unknown meaning feels pretty good but Lola would actually like to know it if possible so she makes an effort. Noah is beautifully formed. Is that emptiness? ‘Do me a favour!’ she says. Max’s love for her had form that turned out to be empty. The emptiness had the form of an affair with Lula Mae who was very well formed. The girl from Texas might have been empty to begin with but Max put a bun in her oven and her form got bulgy. Lola’s form also got bulgy from Max’s emptiness. At this point Lola finds her eyes closing but she flips the pages back towards the beginning where her eye lights on a single line of bold type:

  Mindfully fixing his attention in front of him.

  She likes the sound of that. Conze’s explanation follows in ordinary type, beginning with:

  Preparatory to entering into a trance, the Buddha fixes his attention on the breath which is in front of him.

  ‘Interesting!’ says Lola. ‘Of course that’s nothing for non-Buddhas to try at home.’ Nevertheless, she mindfully fixes her attention on the breath in front of her and breathes it in. Now the scene before her eyes, the interior of her dome, begins to curl at the edges. Like a photograph held over a flame. What’s happening?

  This: a dwarf black as ebony with a long body, very short arms and legs, large head, big ugly baby-face. Looks like something that goes on all fours. Apasmara Purusha, demon of Forgetfulness. Lola gasps, slaps herself in the face. Apasmara’s gone. Did she imagine him? Or did she only imagine that she imagined him? She puts on her headphones and listens to the raga Adana, depicted in a ragamala from Mewar (Plate 1 in The Raga Guide) as an ascetic seated on a tiger skin, sometimes identified as Kama, the god of love. Appropriate for late night (00:00 to 03:00).

  48

  Not So Fast

  January 1998. Christmas and New Year have come and gone without Lola’s participation in any festivities outside her dome. People were singing and snogging and throwing up all around Diamond Heart but she confined herself to a private two-person celebration in which she drank a couple of glasses of champagne by way of bringing in the New Year with Noah. ‘Rainbows!’ was her toast. He smiled, possibly anticipating some jollification in his milk.

  In the fortnight since her first lesson Lola has been thinking constantly of the sarod. That fretless fingerboard is always in her mind. Every night, before or after other dreams, she sees in dreams her hands on the instrument, hears music she cannot remember. Now she sits crosslegged in the studio holding the sarod and facing Indira.

  ‘Shisyia,’ says Indira, ‘let me hear the scale please.’

  Lola sees her left hand on the fingerboard, her right hand holding the plectrum. ‘Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha, Ni,’ she sings as the sarod goes up the scale.

  ‘Stop,’ says Indira before Lola can come down the scale. Lola waits in silence to be told what she’s done wrong. ‘This instrument in your hands is not a machine-gun,’ says Indira. ‘You are firing off the notes like bullets and your singing is without heart. Even the smallest act, even the tuning of the sarod, must be done in the proper spirit of devotion. Let yourself always be the true vessel for the music that comes through you. Move your mind away from all bad thoughts, let it be clear and peaceful. The scale again, please. Not so fast this time. Listen to the sounds that are coming from you.’

  Lola tries to clear her mind. She can’t do it. Her mind is a kaleidoscope of sounds and images. She tries to bypass these as she goes up the scale again.

  ‘What I hear is tension,’ says Indira. ‘Put down the sarod. For the rest of this lesson we’ll do breathing exercises.’

  49

  Frog Hollow Road

  January 1998. Max writes:

  CHARLOTTE PRICKLES ON FROG HOLLOW ROAD

  Cars went very fast on Frog Hollow Road. Many hedgehogs never reached the other side. Charlotte Prickles put up a sign that said HEDGEHOG CROSSING – SLOW DOWN. But it was a very small sign and it was written in Hedgehog. Even if they saw it, drivers could not read it.

  ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘No,’ says Max.

  ‘That’s not a very cosy opening,’ says his mind. ‘Could do better?’

  ‘OK,’ says Max. He starts again:

  The big hand of the clock is at twelve.

  The little hand is at three.

  It is three o’clock in the afternoon.

  It is bedtime at the Frog Hollow Orphanage.

  Charlotte Prickles reads the little hedgehogs a bedtime story. She reads The Hog in the Bog. Then all the little hedgehogs kneel by their beds and say their prayers. They pray that they will reach the other side of the road when they go out this evening.

  ‘Do we want to bring in real danger?’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘Hedgehogs lead dangerous lives,’ says Max.

  ‘Whom do they pray to?’ says his mind.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Max. ‘Big Spikey, the hedgehog in the sky?’

  ‘Let’s bypass that for now,’ says his mind. ‘Continue.’

  Max writes:

  Charlotte Prickles kisses each one.

  She tucks them all in.

  She takes up her darning basket and

  she darns all the socks with holes.

  ‘I like that,’ says Max’s mind. ‘That’s cosy.’

  Max continues:

  Then Charlotte goes to sleep.

  She has a strange dream and wakes up.

  She does not wake the orphans.

  She goes outside and sees the moon.

  It is a full moon.

  The moon is the colour of pale honey.

  Charlotte tastes the moon with her eyes.

  She tastes it with her mouth.

  The sweetness of it makes her sad.

  ‘Why does the sweetness of the moon make her sad?’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘The basic hedgehog condition is sadness,’ says Max. ‘Charlotte is thinking of how many hedgehogs have tasted the sweetness of the moon, all of them gone in the whisper of the trees and the rustling of the years.’

  ‘Whoa, boy,’ says Max’s mind. ‘This kind of thinking is not going to get Charlotte all the way to the bank.’

  Max ignores this and carries on:

  Charlotte sees the moonlit trees.

  She sees the white road.

  She hears the rushing of cars.

  She sees the headlights.

  She smells the night.

  ‘Where are we going with this?’ says Max’s mind. ‘Is she thinking of crossing the road? There’s an awful lot of traffic right now.’

  ‘The moon is kind of pulling her,’ says Max.

  ‘What’s on the other side of the road anyhow?’ says his mind.

  ‘Maybe she’s just going to the shops,’ says Max.

  ‘Doesn’t sound that way,’ says his mind.

  ‘Maybe things are better on the other side,’ says Max.

  ‘Steady on,’ says his mind. ‘Charlotte sounds as if she’s stoned. I don’t think she’s in a fit state to cross the road. After all, we don’t want her to get flat.’

  ‘I’m flat,’ says Max. ‘I’m a flat orphan.’

  ‘That’s no reason to piss on your meal ticket,’ says his mind. ‘Leave this for now, we can come back to it another time.’

  ‘I keep looking for another time,’ says Max. ‘But this seems to be the only one there is.’

  50

  The New Rucksack

  February 1998. ‘Pardon the expression,’ says Max’s mind, ‘but do you think we might be flogging a dead hedgehog?’

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ says Max.

  ‘I was only speaking in a manner of speaking,’ says his mind. ‘Of course Charlotte’s not dead. But could it be that she needs a little time to regroup, reprickle, whatever? Why not leave Frog Hollow Road for the time being and catch up with Moe Levy?’

  ‘I don’t think he likes me,’ says Max.

  ‘No harm in trying, is there?’

  ‘There could be,’ says Max. ‘OK,’ he says to Fujit
su/Siemens, ‘let’s go back to where we left off with Moe.’

  Fujitsu/Siemens suppresses a laugh and puts up the heading for Chapter Twelve, THE NEW RUCKSACK. ‘What’s that?’ says Max.

  ‘Moe was going to Blacks for a new rucksack,’ says his mind, ‘and you wanted him to stop by Linda Lou’s office and take her out to lunch and so on. But he didn’t want to. He’s being faithful to Lulu.’

  ‘He thinks he’s better than I am,’ says Max.

  ‘What did you expect?’ says his mind. ‘It’s not unusual for a fictional character to be a better man than the guy who wrote him.’

  ‘OK,’ says Max, ‘I’ll grovel as necessary. Where is he?’

  ‘Here,’ says his mind. Max finds himself on a road, way out in the middle of nowhere, fields on either side. It’s like that scene in North by Northwest where Cary Grant is being chased by the crop-duster plane. Heat waves shimmering off the road, everything dry, everything flat. No gas station or any place where a cold beer might be available. Far up ahead Max sees a lone figure walking away from him. ‘Yo!’ Max shouts. ‘Moe?’ The figure doesn’t turn, doesn’t stop. Max runs to catch up with him. It’s Moe all right, with his new rucksack on his back. ‘Stop!’ gasps Max.

  ‘What for?’ says Moe without stopping.

  ‘We need to talk,’ says Max.

  ‘Maybe you do,’ says Moe. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You and your superior tone,’ says Max. ‘Without me you’d be nothing.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ says Moe. ‘Let’s just see what you are without me, shall we?’

  ‘Wait,’ says Max. ‘Give me a break. I’m sorry I misjudged you with that Linda Lou business. We’ll do it your way – no Linda Lou.’ He suddenly remembers his visit to Moe’s council flat. ‘And I’m sorry about that awful estate where you live.’

  ‘I don’t live there any more,’ says Moe.

  ‘The whole thing’s very confusing,’ says Max. ‘I never wrote you into that flat.’

  ‘Who did then?’ says Moe. ‘When you wanted me to take Linda Lou to lunch I said that I was going home to stretch a canvas. Home was a house in Fulham when we started, but when I got home that day it turned out to be what you saw when you came looking for me later.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know how that happened,’ says Max. ‘Somehow I lost the continuity thread.’

  ‘Right,’ says Moe. ‘And when you lost it, that estate happened by default. Without any thought on your part, it grew out of your mental and moral squalor like a boil. I’m better off homeless.’

  ‘Moe!’ says Max. ‘Please! I’ll write you back into Fulham, I’ll give you a skylight studio, whatever you want. I can’t tell you how sorry I am!’

  Moe stops and turns a pitying look on Max. ‘I’m sorry too, because I just can’t work with you. I suppose you’ll eventually find somebody who’ll say the words and do the things you want and you’ll put some kind of a story together but it’s time for me to say goodbye.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ says Max.

  ‘Back where I came from,’ says Moe. He begins to spin and he keeps spinning faster and faster until he becomes a dim and blurry dust-devil.

  Max feels his head going round as he spins too. He falls to the ground and everything goes black.

  51

  Joie de Vivre

  February 1998. ‘Let’s go, champ,’ says Max’s mind. It shakes him gently and breaks into song. ‘“Just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.”’

  ‘Now I know why people lose their minds,’ says Max.

  ‘You don’t want to lose me,’ says his mind. ‘I only want what’s best for you.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ says Max.

  ‘I can’t say. I’ll know it when I see it.’

  ‘You’re no better off than I am,’ says Max. ‘So where’s all this cheerfulness coming from?’

  ‘You always keep a little joie de vivre stashed away, remember?’ says his mind. ‘So I thought this might be a good time to open a can.’

  ‘That won’t help,’ says Max. ‘I’m an orphan father and I can’t write. Charlotte Prickles has gone strange and Moe Levy fired me. I don’t feel real any more.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ says his mind. ‘When you felt real you weren’t. Now you’re a two-time loser and probably a two-time father and you’ve got two No Page Ones. Get real with that. Feel it inside you.’

  ‘Shit,’ says Max.

  ‘You’re boring me,’ says his mind. ‘You think Edward Lear wasn’t feeling lousy when he wrote “The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bo”? But he got real with it, and the base metal of that reality was transmuted into the gold of art.’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Max, ‘I want to make a note not to write that down.’

  ‘OK, smartass,’ says his mind. ‘Do it your way. But don’t come crying to me any more. Be a fucking man.’

  ‘I’ve been that,’ says Max. ‘That’s how I got where I am today.’ He pulls himself together and thinks about his latest attempts at Page One. ‘Charlotte Prickles had a strange dream,’ he says. ‘I wonder what it was.’ He nudges Fujitsu/Siemens out of its screen saver of flying toasters and types:

  THE STRANGE DREAM OF CHARLOTTE PRICKLES

  ‘Charlotte,’ says Max, ‘talk to me.’

  ‘I had a dream,’ says Charlotte.

  ‘Right,’ says Max. ‘Go on.’

  ‘“I had a dream,”’ sings Charlotte, ‘“You had one too. Mine was the best dream because it was of you.”’

  ‘Stop kidding around, Charlotte,’ says Max. ‘I’m serious. You had a strange dream. What was it?’

  ‘I’m trying to remember,’ says Charlotte. She goes quiet for a long time, looking inward. ‘There was moonlight on a river. The full moon reflected in the water, in the glimmers of the water in the night. Strange moonlight, not from now. Moonlight from long ago. The sound of a fish jumping. Close but far away, far away in time.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Max.

  ‘That’s all that comes to me now,’ says Charlotte. ‘Maybe I’ll have that dream again and I’ll remember more next time. If I do I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlotte,’ says Max. ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  52

  More Dark Than Light

  March 1998. The vernal equinox again. Max feels it inside him. The world of it. He sees Lola pull up in the E-type. Sees the names and arrows large in front of them, small behind them. Sees her ribbon fluttering on the grass stem on Mai Dun. Tastes the Cristal and her mouth. Smells her skin, her hair, her breath as she names the stars of Ursa Major. In the evening he steps outside with a starfinder and a printout of the constellation from an astronomy website. He finds Ursa Major and reads off the seven names: ‘Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, Dubhe.’ His throat aches. He goes back into the house, gets a bottle of Glenfiddich and a glass. He walks over to the common, looks up at the stars again. ‘Absent friend,’ he says, and pours some whisky on the grass. Pause. ‘Absent child?’ he pours some more. Then he pours himself a large one and drinks it standing there. ‘Will there ever be anything,’ he says, ‘to equal what I’ve lost?’

  No answer.

  53

  Absent Friend

  March 1998. The evening of the vernal equinox at Diamond Heart. Morwen and a few friends are dancing naked around a fire on the hill called Kirsty’s Knowe. Others are marking the occasion indoors with candles, incense, chanting, musical improvisation and whatever stimulants come to hand. For the Zen poker and snooker players the night is always longer than the day even when it’s not. They carry on as usual.

  Mick has invited Lola to look at the stars with him but she has declined. She steps outside her dome with a bottle of champagne, looks up at the sky, locates Ursa Major. She uncorks the bottle, says, ‘Absent friend,’ and pours a little on the ground. She goes back inside, pours herself a glass, raises it to the sleeping Noah, and drinks it down.

  54

  Prickl
es of Memory

  June 1998. Although Max is sometimes free and easy with Charlotte Prickles he never forgets that she’s his meal ticket. Having had no Page One these many weeks he is very careful when he visits her again. ‘Hi, Charlotte,’ he says. ‘I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.’

  ‘After all these years you’re still calling me Charlotte,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you call me Charlie? You would if I were a walking-around woman.’

  ‘I didn’t want to get too familiar,’ says Max.

  ‘Nothing stays the same,’ says Charlotte. ‘You have to get more familiar as time goes by.’

  ‘OK, Charlie,’ says Max. ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘Good,’ says Charlie. ‘I agree with what you said to your mind not long ago: sadness is the basic hedgehog condition.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ says Max.

  ‘You didn’t,’ says Charlie. ‘The thing is, maybe we should put the usual approach on hold for the present and talk about ideas that probably won’t go all the way to the bank.’

  ‘I’m with you, Charlie,’ says Max.

  ‘Good. Do you remember, we were talking about my strange dream?’

  ‘I remember,’ says Max.

  ‘I said there was moonlight on a river,’ says Charlie. ‘A full moon reflected in the water, in the glimmers of the water in the night. Strange moonlight, not from now. Moonlight from long ago. The sound of a fish jumping. Close but far away, far away in time.’

  ‘I remember,’ says Max.

  ‘Tell me,’ says Charlie.

  ‘I was at Scout camp that summer,’ says Max. ‘My father had died in August the year before. Bugle calls for every part of the day. For raising the flag in the morning and lowering it at Retreat. We slept in tents with wooden floors. I had a little oil lamp I used for reading. Privies in the woods. We had camp-fires where we told stories and sang songs. We applauded the stories by saying, “How! How!” We went swimming in the afternoons. When they blew the whistle and yelled “Buddies!” you and your buddy had to join hands and hold them up together. We did a canoe trip down a river. Was it the Allegheny? I don’t remember. There were great blue herons, little green herons, turtles. We slept under the stars. The Big Dipper, the North Star, Orion the hunter. We heard the river in the night, we heard fish jumping. We heard owls and raccoons. In the mornings there was mist coming up from the river. We were in the water a lot. There were councillors in every canoe and we used to have canoe fights. All of us could swim or we wouldn’t have been on the canoe trip. We used to turn over each other’s canoes.’