Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [241]
“You pessimists always fall into the disillusion trap,” said the cheerful man cheerfully. “From one distance a thing looks bright. From another it looks dark. You think you’ve found the truth when you’ve replaced the cheerful view by the opposite, but true profundity blends all possible views, bright as well as dark.”
The morose man grinned and said, “Since nearly everyone clings to the cloud-cuckoo view it’s lucky one or two of us aren’t afraid to look at the state of the sewers.”
“Sorry I took so long,” said the Red Girl, placing a tray on the table. “I thought it might be fun to try a gaelic coffee.” “I’m glad you mentioned sewers,” said Lanark eagerly, “I come from Unthank, which is having trouble with its sewers. In fact the future of the whole region is being menaced—I mean, decided—by this assembly, and I’ve been sent here as advocate for the defence. But the programme”—he waved it—“tells me nothing about where and when to speak. Can you advise me?” “There’s no need to be so serious on the first day,” said the Red Girl.
“The future of a crippled region,” said the morose man slowly, “is usually hammered out by one of the subcommittees.”
“Which subcommittee? When and where does it meet?”
“This is a friendly social reception!” said the Red Girl, looking distressed. “Can’t we keep all this heavy stuff till later? There’s going to be such a lot of it.”
“Shut up, dear,” said the morose man. “Wilkins knows all the ropes. You’d better ask him.”
“Listen,” said the Red Girl. “I’ll take you to Nastler. He knows everything about everything, and he’s expecting to see you soon in the Epilogue room. He told me so.”
“Who is Nastler?”
“Our king. In a way. But he’s not at all grand,” said the Red Girl evasively. “It’s hard to explain.”
The morose man guffawed and said, “He’s a joker. You’ll get nothing out of him.”
Lanark opened his briefcase, locked the assembly programme inside and stood up.
“I understand that you are employed to help me with my difficulties,” he told the Red Girl. “I will speak to both Wilkins and this Nastler person. Which can I see first?”
“Oh Nastler, definitely,” said the red girl, looking relieved.
“He’s an invalid, anyone can see him anytime. But won’t you drink your coffee first?”
“No,” said Lanark, and thanked the morose man, and followed the Red Girl into the crowd.
Weems and the Monboddos were still shaking hands with the queue by the door, which was a short one now. As Lanark passed them the announcer was saying, “Chairman Fu of Xanadu. Proto-Presbyter Griffith-Powys of Ynyswitrin. Premier Multan of Zimbabwe.”
The Red Girl led him along the outer corridor till they came to a white panel without hinges or handle. She said, “It’s a door. Go through it.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“If you’re going to talk politics, I’m going to wait outside.” As Lanark pressed the surface he noticed a big word on it:
EPILOGUE
He entered a room with no architectural similarity to the building he had left. The door on this side had deeply moulded panels and a knob, the ceiling was bordered by an elaborate cornice of acanthus sprays, there was a tall bay window with the upper foliage of a chestnut tree outside and an old stone tenement beyond. The rest of the room was hidden by easels holding large paintings of the room. The pictures seemed brighter and cleaner than the reality and a tall beautiful girl with long blond hair reclined in them, sometimes nude and sometimes clothed. The girl herself, more worried and untidy than her portraits, stood near the door wearing a paint-stained butcher’s apron. With a very small brush she was adding leaves to a view of the tree outside