Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [108]
Thaw sat uneasily. The man had a hole in the right side of his face where the cheek should have been and most of the face was twisted toward it. His right eye had been pulled out of line with the left and the eyeball was so exposed that when he blinked, which was often, the eyelid could not cover it. He laid the document down and said, “Zo you want to become a librarian.”
The muscles working his tongue moved awkwardly and beads of saliva kept bouncing from it onto the desk. Thaw watched them in fascination, nodding and making quiescent sounds when these seemed appropriate.
“… … hourz nezezzarily ztaggered. You will work two eveningz per week till half pazt eight, but theze will be compenzated for by morningz off. You will be eczpected to attend night glazzez on two other eveningz.”
“To learn what?” said Thaw, with effort.
“Bookkeeping and cataloguing. There are zeveral zyztems of cataloguing, each a world in itzelf. Each year you will zit an eczamination and be promoted accordingly, and within five yearz you zhould qualify for a zertificate qualifying you to aczept the pozt of zenior librarian anywhere in the United Kingdom.” “Oh. Oh, good,” said Thaw feebly.
“Yez, it iz good. Very good. But I’m afraid you can’t ztart for another zicz weeks. Only the head librarian can employ you and he’s viziting the You Ezz Ay juzt now. But he’ll be back in zicz weekz, and you’ll zertainly be able to ztart then.”
As Thaw left the building a change came upon him. It was as if several pounds had been added to his weight, and his heart had begun beating more sluggishly, and the air had thickened in his lungs. His thoughts also became heavy and thick. At home over tea he told his father about the interview. Mr. Thaw sighed with relief.
“Thank God for that!” he said.
“Yes. Yes, thank God. Thank God. Yes, indeed, let us give thanks to God.”
“Duncan, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Things are as finely arranged as they can be in a world of this sort. Praise be to the Maker and Upholder of all things. Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Ye—”
“Stop! You’re talking like a madman! If you won’t state the matter honestly then keep your mouth shut!”
Duncan shut his mouth. After a few minutes Mr. Thaw said on a note of pleading, “Tell me the matter, Duncan.”
“I had a wish to be an artist. Was that not mad of me? I had this work of art I wanted to make, don’t ask me what it was, I don’t know; something epic, mibby, with the variety of facts and the clarity of fancies and all of it seen in pictures with a queer morbid intense colour of their own, mibby a gigantic mural or illustrated book or even a film. I didn’t know what it would have been, but I knew how to get ready to make it. I had to read poetry and hear music and study philosophy and write and draw and paint. I had to learn how things and people felt and were made and behaved and how the human body worked and its appearance and proportions in different situations. In fact, I had to eat the bloody moon!”
“Duncan, remember what your headmaster said! In four years you can be head librarian in some small country town and then you can make yourself an artist. Surely a real artist could wait four years?”
“I don’t know if he could. I know that none ever did. People in Scotland have a queer idea of the arts. They think you can be an artist in your spare time, though nobody expects you to be a spare-time dustman, engineer, lawyer or brain surgeon. As for this library in a quiet country place, it sounds hellishly like Heaven, or a thousand pounds in the bank, or a cottage with roses round the door, or the other imaginary carrots that human donkeys are shown to entice them into all kinds of nasty muck.”
Mr. Thaw rested his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. After a while he said, “Duncan,