Aldiss, Brian - A Rude Awakening

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My suspicion is that in Heaven the Blessed are of the opinion that the

advantages of that locale have been overrated by theologians who were

never actually there. Perhaps even in Hell the damned are not always

satisfied.

-Jorge Luis Borges, THE DUEL

'The idea of prostitution is a meeting point of so many elements lechery,

bitterness, the futility of human relationships, physical frenzy and the clink

of gold that a glance into its depths makes you dizzy and teaches you so

much! It makes you so sad, and fills you with such dreams of love!'

'But one can live a full life,' suggested Claudin, 'without frequenting

prostitutes.'

'No, you can't,' thundered Flaubert. 'A man has missed something if he

has never woken up in an anonymous bed beside a face he'll never see

again, and if he has never left a brothel at dawn feeling like jumping off a

bridge into the river out of sheer physical disgust with life.'

-Robert Baldick, DINNER AT MAGNY'S

preferably for ever the world speed record for Tropical Hirsute Insect

Nuisance Flying.

It burst across the room at drunken velocity, maintaining an altitude of

approximately two inches above the heads of the assembled drinkers. The

drinkers were tanking themselves up for the arrival of a lorry-load of

unleashed Dutch girls, and failed to notice this freak of evolution. Still

accelerating, the shitbag gained height and ploughed its way through a

cloud of assorted mosquitoes, flies, moths, and fluttering uglies which had

appropriated our central light as a zone for combined aerial combat and

propagation of species.

I saw it because I was leaning against the far wall of the mess, listening

with Jock Ferguson to Johnny Mercer on War.

'The generals have done their best, but it's been a bloody untidy war all

along,' he was saying. 'Do you wonder we're stuck here in such a right old

cock-up? You can't say the war is over, even now.'

Johnny shook his head. He had been a teacher in civvy street, and liked

to lecture. 'Wrong. I'm talking about when the World War began the one

we're still involved with, not the little local European war starring Adolf

Hitler. The World War began in 1931, when Japan invaded China. The poor

old Chinks have been at it ever since. That was when Japanese aggression

started.'

It was at this point that I spotted the winged shitbag, cutting a swathe

through the lesser phyla of its kind.

'Ah, but the real war started in '39,' said Jock.

'If so, then it ended in 1940,' said Johnny. 'After the fall of France in the

summer of 1940, all of Europe was at peace, unified by Hitler. Nothing else

was going on, except the British buggering about on the fringes. The Yanks

were reading their comic books. The Russians were frigging around doing

nothing in particular. It was only later that the yellow-bellies got things

stirred up again.'

Johnny gave his high-pitched laugh and scratched his arse.

'Yes, but they aren't real wars. They're not called wars.'

'Horry's right, and you're wrong as usual, Mercer,' Ferguson said.

'They're just local conflicts.'

Mercer was not discomposed. 'Speaking for myself, I prefer a war like a

good book it's got to have a beginning, a middle and an end.' He laughed

and tottered off in search of a drink.

'The feller's no' heard of armistices,' Jock Ferguson said, and also

stomped off leaving me exposed to the drunken mercies of Sgt Wally

Scubber, shell-shocked survivor of the Arakan and already as pissed as he

was every night of his life. He clutched my arm, cunningly detaining me and

supporting himself at the same time. The winged shitbag executed a few

crafty Immelmann turns overhead without in any way losing flying speed.

'Merdeka, Wally, how're you doing? Time for beddy-byes?'

'I was shaying to Charlie Meadows, in Blighty you got proper househesh

to live in, with proper shanny with lavatories that flush properly and all that.

The mess gramophone started up. Ron Dyer was playing the well-worn

hit-record, 'Terang Boelan', and the glutinous words drowned out what

Charlie had to say. I took a deep swig from my beer glass and sank into an

armchair. Wally perched himself on the arm without interrupting the flow of

his talk. He had even invented a way of drinking without swallowing which

allowed him to go on spouting while the liquor trickled down.

'Everyone agrees that Blighty's the cunt hup, sorry, the country with the

highest culture. Good roadsh. Before the war, I was a member of the

Automobile Asshociation. Well, that'sh special to England, the Automobile

Asshociation. It's all part of the shit'

'What shit are you on about?'

'Hup. The shituation as I shee it.'

The shitbag, infuriated by the smoke and heat of the mess, had worked

itself up to maximum speed. Making a sudden banking turn, it dived and

struck the wall just above my head with a resounding thhhwerr-ujjjkk.

'I must go in a minute, Wally. I've got a date.'

'You wouldn't call the French or the Belgiums shiverlised, would you?'

I stared down at the shitbag. It made vague motions in my direction,

either swimming or beckoning.

'America. They're shiverlised, Wally. China there's a very ancient culture

for you.'

Giggling, Wally jogged my arm. My glass slopped. The beer revived the

winged shitbag. It caught my eye and made a spunky attempt to heave

itself out. I experienced a moment of fear, in case it washed up on my flies

and burrowed in before I could check its progress. It looked like the kind of

creature that devoured sexual organs every morning for breakfast.

'Ancient, yes, yes, ancient all right. Too fucking ancient by half. That's

China. No Automobile Asshociation there. I know the Chinks, Horry. RA the

Rickshaw Asshociation, that's them.' He laughed, leaking cigarette smoke,

and his wrinkles opened and shut like the pleats of an old accordion.

'Arseholes, chum, they're a sight cleaner than we are and more

shiverlised'

'You only shay that because you've got this Chinese pusher down the

bazaar. The Chinks shiverlised! They're a tropical race, Horry, a tropical

race, and you can't name me one tropical race that's shiverlised. Look at

Africa, India and Burma...'

'Don't talk to me about Burma, mate. I was there in the thick of it with

fucking 2 Div.'

Lighting up another cigarette, I glanced at my wrist. Two watches were

strapped there. One was a beauty in a black gunmetal case; it had been

made in Holland. Unfortunately, it did not work very well. The other was an

expensive Indian watch with a red sweep second hand, which looked good

although it kept poor time. Taking a mean reading, I decided it must be

eight-fifteen or eight-thirty, or perhaps a little later. I could soon leave

politely and go and see Margey.

was a perfect scale model of a tank squashed in a bramble bush. Fixing

two dull black eyes on me, it redoubled its efforts to home in on my flies or

throat.

'The Chinks are really beaten, schmashed, just like the Dutch... I mean,

the Dutch are practically a tropical race too, they've lived here for

centuries...'

The 'Terang Boelan' record finished. I was able to hear Charlie

Meadows again, still talking about army conduct. A good man, Charlie, and

an old Burma hand. But Jackie Tertis kept butting in.

'That's okay as far as it goes, Charlie, but take it from me that no native

population has ever yet been kept down by leniency. You must show 'em a

firm hand. That's all they respect. By God, if I had my way'

'Thank heavens, you aren't going to get your way, Jackie,' Charlie said

mildly. Jackie Tertis was a slightly built man; unlike the rest of us, he was

always dapper, his uniform always smartly pressed. Tertis was different,

leading his dark sexless life under another star. The sun which baked most

his head to go home next Monday in your place. I'm telling you this for your

own good, Horry... These little Chink hoors with all their dirty shexual

habits'

Just for a moment, Wally Scubber interested me more than the winged

shitbag. The latter had dived to the murky depths of the Indian beer to see

if glass-drilling operations would get it anywhere. 'What dirty sexual habits

do you happen to fucking well have in mind, Wally?'

His mottled face was lopsided with reproof, as if he suspected that we

were talking at cross-purposes.

'There I think you know better than me, Horry, isn't that right? I don't

wish to be spesh speshicif give details, but Chink girls aren't brought up like

English girls, are they? No churches or schools or general discipline. No

knickers. Bloody slant-eyed hoors it'll spoil you, Horry, onnis, going with

your Chink bit down in the bazaar. When you meet up with some nice

English girl'

I belched and heaved myself out of the chair.

sergeant.

'I was watching you catch that bit of wild life in your beer, mucker,' he

said. 'It reminded me of what the old Venereal Bede said about human

existence, that it was like some horrible hairy flying abomination belting in

through one window of a great hall straight into some poor cunt's wog

beer.'

He started howling with his homemade brand of laughter, and I joined

in. Smiting him on the shoulder, I pushed through the crowd towards the

mess door. It stood open to let the heat and smoke out. I blundered

through, emerging almost at a trot into the steaming night.

You could tell blindfold that Medan was just one degree off the equator.

The air suppurated like primaeval broth. A million monstrous little things

unknown in England expressed their beings in sound so urgently that it was

hard to know what was air, what noise. I stood there, swaying slightly, and

flipped my fag-end away into the night. Its parabola was cut short in midair.

Something had gobbled it up before it fell.

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摘要：

MysuspicionisthatinHeaventheBlessedareoftheopinionthattheadvantagesofthatlocalehavebeenoverratedbytheologianswhowereneveractuallythere.PerhapseveninHellthedamnedarenotalwayssatisfied.-JorgeLuisBorges,THEDUEL'Theideaofprostitutionisameetingpointofsomanyelementslechery,bitterness,thefutilityofhumanrel...

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Aldiss, Brian - A Rude Awakening

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