Hermanus Ribald’s consciousness moved along the bar’s wall, scanning its publicans for signs of life in the soul. Finding something, some ineffable quality in the people about him known only to himself, Hermanus raised a hand from his seat, a grubby tributarian leather bench with stuffing bursting out as if ripening in the grip of an unstudied upholsterous puberty, and called for a second beer.
This bar, called the Monk’s Dream, was a modern, pale-yellow-wallpapered room with shining benches, a large television in a cleave on the wall; lamps in every booth scrubbed the place clean of shadows. There was no mystery to it. It was not a bar in which stories were told by grizzled Alexandrine sailors or luckless procurers; it was not a bar in which men with obscured faces spoke of clandestine dealings, sotto voce, and scowled at the nosy occupants of neighbouring booths. It was a clean, modern establishment which existed only to do bright table-topped business.
And yet Hermanus had the look about him of a man with a great many stories to tell, who would relish the telling, and one who could compel his listeners to adopt the same position, and his designs upon the crowded bar were in keeping with this impression. But there was one fatal problem, a problem that had whirled about and infected Hermanus’ life as an inherited disease would another man, acting like a limpet on the galleon that was to have been his ship and turning it into a hollow, floating, indistinct shell; and this was that despite his rugged appearance, his beard flecked with snow from winters of which he was presumably the sole survivor, his face heavy with the memory of old scores, his eyes weighed down by cares for unmet children fostered on maidens in far-off lands, etc – Hermanus had no stories to tell of any import whatsoever. His had been a life spent in the same uneventful town, in the company of the same obsequious associates, for whom he disguised himself as well as any conman (in order that they not ask questions of his countenance, and be greeted by answers they themselves could have given, as his life differed from theirs only in respect of his unusual, and totally unearned, appearance) and he had worked for a company, Brambleforth & Loosepurse Pty Ltd, in a background role which paid enough for a squalid, empty choleric bachelor’s flat.
Hermanus nonetheless enjoyed his night-life, in which he would carefully remove the cosmetic mask that made him out to be the dull publican he was, and travel to some bustling spot with an itch in his mind and a keen desire to be observed, not to accomplish anything or even make conversation, but merely to be watched and wondered at. So spartan, so devoid of independent action was Hermanus’ life that he never even considered becoming a birdwatcher, a hobby with an equal quantity of waiting and watching and something (so he would have thought, had he thought of it) to show for it all, even something knowable in its abstraction, rather than a potential mental impression for some other unmet man who might occasionally recall him in duller moments.
For reasons only his unconscious mind understood, rather than allowing himself to merely be observed, today Hermanus resolved to tell a story of some kind. And so, when he raised his hand, and the server approached, he gestured that she take a seat, his hand a flopping, apathetic signal, and he caught the eyes of some youths who had forced their way through the bell-mad front door and were searching for a deserted table.
These youths were beset by lanky frames and similar attitudes, slouching and hurling verbiage at one another of the casual, demanding type; they pursed bulbous lips beneath grubby beanies most unsuitable for the hot humid night, passed obscure inch-long packages from hand to hand, and eventually came to a smirking consensus, filing one by one like a row of recalcitrant beanstalks into the booth with Hermanus and the now apprehensive server. And then, too, a group of young women noted Hermanus’ appearance and that of the youths, and followed them into the booth, expecting a grand event to take place (all were by now squashed most effectively atop the stuffing-bled leather). A group of older men, of the type clad in Hawaiian shirts no matter the occasion or season, with shining skulls and greying sideburns, the lines from a thousand deals notating their hands, foreheads, and the space orbiting their eyes, took notice of the young women and, fearing for their safety among the youths, expressing a kind of sympathy uncommon among men of their station, followed them into the booth; their wives, suspicious, jealous, overdressed, with waftings of odorous perfumes and the airs of puritanical guardians, stiff-necked, steel-coiffed, and white of throat, followed them in turn. And so Hermanus gathered to himself a crowd of publicans in the blink of an eye.
“A round!” Hermanus called to another server (the first being too close to him, in the middle of the booth, to escape) and immediately became popular with everyone. His voice, a storyteller’s baritone, yearned only for words with which to vibrate its cords.
“Now, my friends.” He emitted a scratching sigh from his tired throat, a harrumph sound intended to signify the prelude to some great tale of love and betrayal. He wondered what he was about to say. Presumably it would be tragic and poignant; the youths would change their ways, the women become dutiful and devout; the husbands exhibit kindness in their dealings and the wives cease their garrulous expenditures. Hermanus hoped so.
“This,” he began sonorously, conscious of himself, “is the story of my friend Arion. Now Arion was once a singer, and a guitarist.”
Some details would require editing.
“He entered a competition they held a few years back for the Performing Arts Centre in Melbourne. And he won. And they paid him, and they gave him one of Eric Clapton’s guitars as well. Anyway, on the plane flight back the pilot wanted to steal that guitar, so he crashed the plane on purpose, only protecting himself.”
“This sucks. I’m out of here.” One of the youths said.
The rest of the table glared at him until he stood, shoving the other occupants aside with an unbearable clamour, and left.
Something triggered in Hermanus then.
“Ah, to hell with it.” Hermanus said. “I have no stories of my own. I have only reflections. But I could get something to tell for myself.”
It was perhaps because he had never been put to the test, or because he was unsure of his own limits. A psychological snap triggered by the loss of all he had. For Hermanus, it seemed – and his body was discovering this even as his mind started to shut down – for someone to ignore his stories, despite his appearance, despite his extraordinary countenance, voice, and manner, was a grievous insult. Those who paid him attention were nothing – they were the air he breathed. But the one who turned away – he was everything, he was every insult, every rejection, every expression of cold apathy. [After all, the lost lamb is the one saved; the squeaky wheel gets the grease]. And Hermanus’ response to that eternal wall was to lose himself. He disappeared once he had made the decision to stand up in kind, and to start after the youth, and to lean over a nearby table and collect a steak knife from a frightened child. He disappeared, and none of the assembled audience could say, later, what appeared in his place.
Hermanus transformed into a crying reflection of the black wall of the youth’s rejecting back, a pool of unconscious and unshed tears.
He lunged at the back of the youth walking away and stabbed him.
~
And years passed.
~
“You wished to be a man who could tell stories – and so you killed, and you became able to tell one story, to an endless stream of captives both in the prison and on the streets. You forced the public to listen to the ramblings of a madman escaped from his cell for many hours – and no one could tell how many had heard your story by the end – but it wasn’t enough.”
Hermanus writhed ineffectually against invisible bonds.
“Therefore we give you the opportunity you have so long desired. This chip,” said the creature, holding up a little silver fragment, “contains nothing less than the newest in scientific advancements – a neural storage implant. Once installed, you will have access to the Internet, and to the neural network – and you shall never run out of information, never run out of stories, again.”
Hermanus frowned, still gagged.
“This is exactly what you wanted, of course. And we’ll do you one better – you don’t have to remain trapped here. You’ll set out into a wide world, in which to tell your stories. You’ll have all the attention, and all the time, you could ever want.”
~
When Hermanus awoke he gagged at the stink of rotten egg and when he looked about him there was nothing much to look at. He was in a field and there was a little hut nearby. Wincing at the pervasive smell, Hermanus headed toward the hut and entered – the door was ajar – and there he was greeted by an old couple, a man and a woman, who told him immediately to sit at table and tell them his story.
It’s true, then, Hermanus thought. I can tell stories…and he felt a great sparking in his brain, and the chip began to work, and suddenly he was telling the old couple about himself as they pattered about and presumably made a meal for their dinner. Hermanus realised he was feeling quite hungry, so when a plate piled high with meat and vegetables was set before him, he tried to cut the story off.
“No, no. Hang on. I hate to impose on you, but you really are so interesting. Please finish that story you were telling us.” The old man said.
Out of politeness, Hermanus continued, and watched as his food cooled in front of him. Unable to assuage the seniors’ curiosity – they had long since finished off their own plates, and dessert as well – his hunger intensified.
“Oh dear,” the old woman said. “Your food’s gone cold. We’ve kept you so long. Well, would you like me to reheat it or make something else? You should tell us something else, while you wait. You really are so interesting.”
The night hadn’t grown either darker or lighter since he’d entered the hut.
And Hermanus felt as if he were about to vomit – for he knew what his interminable existence had become, what was about to happen to him. And the chip in his head beeped quietly.
Although, in Hell, perhaps it is a mistake to think in terms of ‘about to happen.’
verso folio 