Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [242]
A voice said, “Yes, come round, come round.”
Lanark went behind the picture and found a stout man leaning against a pile of pillows on a low bed. His face, framed by wings and horns of uncombed hair, looked statuesque and noble apart from an apprehensive, rather cowardly expression. He wore a woollen jersey over a pyjama jacket, neither of them clean, the coverlet over his knees was littered with books and papers, and there was a pen in his hand. Glancing at Lanark in a sly sideways fashion he indicated a chair with the pen and said, “Please sit down.”
“Are you the king of this place?”
“The king of Provan, yes. And Unthank too. And that suite of rooms you call the institute and the council.”
“Then perhaps you could help me. I am here—”
“Yes, I know roughly what you want and I would like to help. I would even offer you a drink, but there’s too much intoxication in this book.”
“Book?”
“This world, I meant to say. You see I’m the king, not the government. I have laid out landscapes, and stocked them with people, and I still work an occasional miracle, but governing is left to folk like Monboddo and Sludden.”
“Why?”
The king closed his eyes, smiled and said, “I brought you here to ask that question.”
“Will you answer it?”
“Not yet.”
Lanark felt very angry. He stood up and said, “Then talking to you is a waste of time.”
“Waste of time!” said the king, opening his eyes. “You clearly don’t realize who I am. I have called myself a king—that’s a purely symbolic name, I’m far more important. Read this and you’ll understand. The critics will accuse me of self-indulgence but I don’t care.”1
With a reckless gesture he handed Lanark a paper from the bed. It was covered with childish handwriting and many words were scored out or inserted with little arrows. Much of it seemed to be dialogue but Lanark’s eye was caught by a sentence in italics which said: Much of it seemed to be dialogue but Lanark’s eye was caught by a sentence in italics which said:
Lanark gave the paper back asking, “What’s that supposed to prove?”
“I am your author.”
Lanark stared at him. The author said, “Please don’t feel embarrassed. This isn’t an unprecedented situation. Vonnegut has it in Breakfast of Champions and Jehovah in the books of Job and Jonah.”
“Are you pretending to be God?”
“Not nowadays. I used to be part of him, though. Yes, I am part of a part which was once the whole. But I went bad and was excreted. If I can get well I may be allowed home before I die, so I continually plunge my beak into my rotten liver and swallow and excrete it. But it grows again. Creation festers in me. I am excreting you and your world at the present moment. This arse-wipe”—he stirred the papers on the bed—“is part of the process.”
“I am not religious,” said Lanark, “but I don’t like you mixing religion with excrement. Last night I saw part of the person you are referring to and it was not at all nasty.”
“You saw part of God?” cried the author. “How did that happen?”
Lanark explained. The author was greatly excited. He said, “Say those words again.”
“Is … is … is …, then a pause, then Is … if … is. …”
“If?” shouted the author sitting upright. “He actually said if? He wasn’t simply snarling ‘Is, is, is, is, is,’ all the time?”
Lanark said, “I don’t like you saying ‘he’ like that. What I saw may not have been masculine. It may not have been human. But it certainly wasn’t snarling. What’s wrong with you?”
The author had covered his mouth with his hands, apparently to stifle laughter, but his eyes were wet. He gulped and said, “One if to five ises! That’s an incredible amount of freedom. But can I believe you? I’ve created you honest, but can I trust your senses? At a great altitude is and if must sound very much alike.”
“You seem to take words very seriously,” said Lanark with a touch of contempt.
“Yes. You don’t like me, but that can’t be helped. I’m primarily a literary man,” said the author with a faintly nasal accent, and started chuckling to himself.