Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [169]
Beyond him a haggard man was discussing with Drummond the chances of selling one’s body for medical research while still alive. Thaw said, “Will you take long?”
“Certainly not. God, you see, is a word. It is the word for everything not speaking when someone says ‘I think.’ And by Propper’s Law of Inverse Exclusion (which enables a flea in a matchbox to declare itself jailor of the universe) every single ‘I think’ has intimate knowledge of the surface of what it is not. But as every thinker reflects a different surface of what he isn’t, and as God is our word for the whole, it follows that all agreement about God is based on misunderstanding.”
“You’re a liar,” cried Macbeth, who had caught some of this, “The old woman is right. God is not a word, God is a man! I crucified him with these hands!”
McAlpin said soothingly, “Since competitive capitalism split us off from the collective unconscious we’ve all been more or less crucified.”
“Don’t talk to me about crucifixion,” snarled Macbeth. “How can a man with a diploma understand crucifixion? A year ago a friend said to me, ‘Jimmy, if you go on like this you’ll end in the gutter, the madhouse or the Clyde.’ Since then I have been in all three.”
McAlpin raised a forefinger and said, “To a sensitively poised intelligence like me a wrong note in a Beethoven quartet is as excruciating as a boot up the backside or a fall from Clyde Street suspension bridge is to you.”
“You think you’re fucking clever, don’t you?” said Macbeth. Meanwhile the old lady had jumped up and was shaking everyone by the hand. When she came to Drummond he grinned at her and sang with surprising sweetness:
“The Lord’s my shepherd: I’ll not want. He makes me down to lie In pastures green. He leadeth me The quiet waters by.”
Several people joined in, others laughed and a few frowned and muttered. The old lady caressed Drummond’s hair and said he looked like Christ, then said her name was Molly O’Malley and danced a jig on the narrow floor, calling out to Thaw from the middle of it, “God love you, my boy! God love you, my bonny boy!”
“You’re after the auld woman, eh?” asked an old man nearby.
“Me?” said Thaw. “No!”
“Blethers. I’d have ridden a cat at your age.”
A stout bartender arrived and said firmly, “Right, lads, you’ve had your fun.”
“Fun?” cried Macbeth querulously. “What fun have I had?” But they were forced to leave.
There was a chill wind outside and a sky bright with the green and gold of a slow summer sunset. Drummond said he knew of a party and led them up Lynedoch Street, a normally shallow hill which tonight seemed perpendicular. They avoided falling off by clinging to each other, except Macbeth who drifted away down a sidestreet. The party was in a large, well-furnished house and Thaw found the other guests daunting. They were his own age but had the clothes and conversation of adults with monthly salaries. He found a corner in a dim room where couples clung and turned to the sound of a gramophone. Suddenly a woman in a black dress said loudly, “Good heavens, is that you, Duncan? Won’t you dance with me?”
They danced and he gazed fascinated at her blond hair and naked shoulders. She giggled and said, “You don’t remember me, but you should. I was the first girl you ever danced with. Ever, ever, ever.”
He grinned thankfully and said, “I’m very glad.”
“Do you remember what you thought I was like?”
“Marble and honey.”
“Am I still like that?”
“Yes.”
“What a relief. You see, I’m marrying a solicitor next month. He’s very rich and sexy and what more can a woman want?” Her manner was strained and cheerful and he didn’t understand it. She said, “I’m a terrible woman, Duncan. I’ve still four or five boyfriends and I play them against each other, and at the moment I rather fancy that woman talking to Aitken. Have you ever fancied a man?”
“Not in the cuddling way,” said Thaw.
His head lay on her shoulder and his hands clasped the halves of her bottom. She said, “Stop touching me, Duncan.”
He said, “I’m sorry,” and went over to a table of drinks, filled a