Michael Moorcock - Breakfast in the Ruins

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Breakfast in the Ruins
The Sequel to "Behold the Man"
Michael Moorcock
Scanned by Iczelion for proofing
Scan Date: February, 3, 2002
1
In The Roof Garden: 1971: Scarlet Sin Commonwealth immigrants to Britain were 22 per cent down in
April. There were 1,991 compared with 2,560 in April last year.
THE GUARDIAN, June 25, 1971.
WHEN in doubt, Karl Glogauer would always return to Derry and Toms. He would walk down Kensington
Church Street in the summer sunshine, ignoring the boutiques and coffee shops, until he reached
the High Street. He would pass the first of the three great department stores which stood side by
side to each other, stern and eternal and bountiful, blotting out the sky, and would go through
the tall glass doors of the second store, Derry's. The strongest of the citadels.
Weaving his way between the bright counters, piled with hats and silks and paper flowers, he would
reach the lifts with their late art nouveau brass work and he would take one of them up to the
third floor - a little journey through time, for here it was all art deco and Cunard style pastel
plastics which he could admire for their own sake as he waited for the special lift which would
come and bear him up into the paradise of the roof garden.
The gate would open to reveal something like a small conservatory in which two pleasant middle-
aged ladies stood to greet the new arrivals and sell them, if required, tea-towels, postcards and
guide books. To one of these ladies Karl would hand his shilling and stroll through into the
Spanish Garden where fountains splashed and well-tended exotic plants and flowers grew. Karl had
a bench near the central fountain. If it was occupied when he arrived, he would stroll around for
a while until it was free, then he would sit down, open his book and pretend to read. The wall
behind him was lined with deep, airy cages. Sometimes these cages were completely deserted but at
other times they would contain a few parrots, parakeets, canaries, cockatoos, or a mynah bird.
Occasionally pink flamingos were present, parading awkwardly about the garden, wading through the
tiny artificial streams. All these birds were, on the whole, decently silent, almost gloomy,
offering hardly any reaction to the middle-aged ladies who liked to approach them and coo at them
in pathetic, sometimes desperate, tones.
If the sunshine were warm and the number of visitors small Karl would sit in his seat for the best
part of a morning or an afternoon before taking his lunch or tea in the roof garden restaurant.
All the waitresses knew him well enough to offer a tight smile of recognition while continuing to
wonder what a slightly seedy looking young man in an old tweed jacket and rumpled flannels found
to attract him in the roof garden. Karl recognized their puzzlement and took pleasure in it.
Karl knew why he liked to come here. In the whole of London this was the only place where he
could find the peace he identified with the peace of his early childhood, the peace of ignorance
(or "innocence" as he preferred to call it). He had been born at the outbreak of the war, but he
thought of his childhood as having existed a few years earlier, in the mid-thirties. Only lately
had he come to understand that this peace was not really peace, but rather a sense of coziness,
the unique creation of a dying middle-class. Vulgarity given a gloss of "good taste". Outside
London there were a few other spots like it. He had found the right atmosphere in the tea-gardens
of Surrey and Sussex, the parks in the richer suburbs of Dorking, Hove and Hay-wards Heath, all
created during the twenties and thirties when, to that same middle-class, confines had been a
synonym for beauty. For all he knew too well that the urge which took him so frequently to the
roof garden was both infantile and escapist, he tolerated it in himself. He would console himself
sardonically that, of all his other infantile and escapist pursuits - his collection of children's
books, his model soldiers - this was the cheapest. He no longer made any serious attempts to rid
himself of these unmanly habits. He was their slave, just as much as he was the slave of his
mother's childhood terrors; of the rich variety of horrors she had managed to introduce into his
own childhood.
Thinking about his childhood as he sat in his usual place on a soft summer's day in June 1971,
Karl wondered if his somewhat small creative gift was not, as most people would nowadays think,
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the result of his unstable upbringing at all. Perhaps, by virtue of his sensitivity, he had been
unduly prone to his mother's influence. Such an influence could actually stunt talent, maybe. He
did not like the drift of his thoughts. To follow their implications would be to offset the
effects of the garden. He smiled to himself and leaned back, breathing in the heavy scent of
snapdragons and tulips, believing, as he always did, that it was enough to admit a self-deception.
It was what he called self-knowledge. He peered up at the blue, uncluttered afternoon sky. The
hum of the traffic in the street far below could almost be the sound of summer insects in a
country garden. A country garden, long ago...
He leaned back on the bench a fraction more. He did not want to think about his mother, his
childhood as it actually was, the failure of his ambitions. He became a handsome young
aristocrat. He was a Regency buck relaxing from the wild London round of politics, gambling,
dueling and women. He had just come down to his Somerset estate and had been greeted by his
delightful young wife. He had married a sweet girl from these parts, the daughter of an old-
fashioned squire, and she was ecstatic that he had returned home, for she doted on him. It did
not occur to her to criticize the way he chose to live. As far as she was concerned, she existed
entirely for his pleasure. What was her name? Emma? Sophy? Or something a little more Greek,
perhaps?
The reverie was just beginning to develop into a full-scale fantasy when it was interrupted.
"Good afternoon." The voice was deep, slightly hesitant, husky. It shocked him and he opened his
eyes.
The face was quite close to his. Its owner was leaning down and its expression was amused. The
face was as dark and shining as ancient mahogany; almost black.
"Do you mind if I join you on this bench?" The tall black man sat down firmly.
Frustrated by the interruption Karl pretended an interest in a paving stone at his feet. He hated
people who tried to talk to him here, particularly when they broke into his daydreams.
"Not at all," he said. "I was just leaving." It was his usual reply. He adjusted the frayed cuff
of his jacket.
"I'm visiting London," said the black man. His own light suit was elegantly cut, a subtle silvery
grey. Silk, Karl supposed. All the mans clothes and jewelry were evidently expensive. A rich
American tourist, thought Karl (who had no ear for accents). "I hadn't expected to find a place
like this in the middle of your city," the man continued. "I saw a sign and followed it. Do you
like it here?"
Karl shrugged.
The man laughed, removing the cover from his Rolleiflex. "Can I take a picture of you here?"
And now Karl was flattered. Nobody had ever volunteered to take his picture before. His anger
began to dissipate.
"It gives life to a photograph. It shows that I took it myself. Otherwise I might just as well
buy the postcards, eh?"
Karl rose to go. But it seemed that the black man had misinterpreted the movement. "You are a
Londoner, aren't you?" He smiled, his deep-set eyes looking searchingly into Karl's face. Karl
wondered for a moment if the question had some additional meaning he hadn't divined.
"Yes, I am." He frowned.
Only now did the elegant negro seem to realize Karl's displeasure. "I'm sorry if I'm imposing
..." he said.
Again, Karl shrugged.
"It would not take a moment. I only asked if you were a Londoner because I don't wish to make the
mistake of taking a picture of a typical Englishman and then you tell me you are French or
something!" He laughed heartily. "You see?"
Karl didn't much care for the "typical", but he was disarmed by the man's charm. He smiled. The
black man got up, put a hand on Karl's shoulder and guided him gently to the fountain. "If you
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could sit on the rim for a moment..." He backed away and peered into his viewfinder, standing with
his legs spread wide and his heels on the very edge of the flower bed, taking, from slightly
different angles, a whole series of photographs. Karl was embarrassed. He felt that the
situation was odd, but he could not define why it should seem so. It was as if the ritual of
photography was a hint at a much more profound ritual going on at the same time. He must leave.
Even the click and the whirr of the camera seemed to have a significant meaning.
"That's fine." The photographer looked up. He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight. "Just one
more. I'm over here from Nigeria for a few days. Unfortunately it's more of a business visit
than a pleasure trip: trying to get your government to pay a better price for our copper. What do
you do?"
Karl waved a hand. "Oh, nothing much. Look here, I must..."
"Come now! With a face as interesting as yours, you must do something equally interesting!"
"I'm a painter. An illustrator, really." Again Karl was flattered by the attention. He had an
impulse to tell the man anything he wanted to know - to tell him far more, probably, than he was
prepared to listen to. Karl felt he was making a fool of himself.
"An artist! Very good. What sort of things do you paint?"
"I make my living doing military uniforms, mainly. People collect that sort of thing. It's a
specialized craft. Sometimes I do work for the odd regiment which wants a picture to hang in the
mess. Famous battles and stuff. You know"
"So you're not a disciple of the avant-garde. I might have guessed. Your hair's too short! Ha
ha! No cubism or action painting, eh?" The Nigerian snapped the case back on his camera. "None
of your 'which way up should I stand to look at it'?"
Karl laughed outright for the first time in ages. He was amused partly by the man's somewhat old-
fashioned idea of the avant-garde, partly because he actually did paint stuff in his spare time
which would fit the Nigerian's general description. All the same, he was pleased to have won the
black man's approval.
"Not a revolutionary," said the man, stepping closer. "You're conventional, are you, in every
respect?"
"Oh, hardly! Who is?"
"Who indeed? Have you had tea?" The black man took his arm, looking around him vaguely. "I
understand there's a cafe here."
"A restaurant. On the other side."
"Shall we cross?"
"I don't know ..." Karl shivered. He didn't much care for people holding him like that,
particularly when they were strangers, but a touch shouldn't make him shiver. "I'm not sure ..."
Normally he could have walked away easily. Why should he mind being rude to a man who had so
forcefully intruded on his privacy?
"You must have tea with me." The grip tightened just a little. "You have a bit of time to spare,
surely? I rarely get the chance to make friends in London."
Now Karl felt guilty. He remembered his mother's advice. Good advice, for a change. "Never have
anything to do with people who make you feel guilty". She should have known! But it was no good.
He did not want to disappoint the Nigerian. He felt rather faint suddenly. There was a sensation
in the pit of his stomach which was not entirely un-pleasurable.
They walked together through part of the Tudor Garden and through an archway which led into the
Woodland Garden and there was the restaurant with its white wrought-iron tables and chairs on the
veranda, its curve of glass through which the interior could be seen. The restaurant was quite
busy today and was serving cucumber sandwiches and Danish pastries to little parties of women in
jersey suits and silk frocks who were relaxing after their shopping. The only men present were
one or two elderly husbands or fathers: tolerated because of their cheque-books. Karl and his new
friend entered the restaurant and walked to the far end to a table by the window which looked out
onto the lawns and willow trees skirting the miniature stream and its miniature wooden bridge.
"You had better order, I think," said the Nigerian. "I'm not much used to this sort of thing."
Again he smiled warmly. Karl picked up the menu.
"We might as well stick to the set tea," said Karl. "Sandwiches and cakes."
"Very well." The man's reply was vague, insouciant. He gave Karl the impression that, for all his
politeness, he had weightier matters on his mind than the choice of food.
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For a few moments Karl tried to signal a waitress. He felt embarrassed and avoided looking at his
companion. He glanced about the crowded restaurant, at the pastel mauves and pinks and blues of
the ladies suits, the fluffy hats built up layer on layer of artificial petals, The Jaeger
scarves. At last the waitress arrived. He didn't know her. She was new. But she looked like
the rest. A tired woman of about thirty-five. Her thin face was yellow beneath the powder, the
rouge and the lipstick. She had bags under her eyes and the deep crow's feet emphasized the
bleakness of her expression. The skin on the bridge of her nose was peeling. She had the hands
of a hag twice her age. One of them plucked the order pad from where it hung by a string against
her dowdy black skirt and she settled her pencil heavily against the paper. It seemed that she
lacked even the strength to hold the stub with only one hand.
"Two set teas, please," said Karl. He tried to sound pleasant and sympathetic. But she paid
attention neither to his face nor his tone.
"Thank you, sir." She let the pad fall back without using it. She began to trudge towards the
kitchen, pushing open the door as if gratefully entering the gates of hell.
Karl felt the pressure of his companion's long legs against his own. He tried, politely, to move,
but could not; not without a violent tug. The black man seemed unaware of Karl's discomfort and
leaned forward over the little table, putting his two elbows on the dainty white cloth and looking
directly into Karl's eyes. "I hope you don't think I've been rude, old chap," he said.
"Rude?" Karl was trapped by the eyes.
"It occurred to me you might have better things to do than keep a bored tourist entertained."
"Of course not," Karl heard himself say. "I'm afraid I don't know much about Nigeria. I'd like
to know more. Of course, I followed the Biafran thing in the papers." Had that been the wrong
remark?
"Your Alfred had similar trouble with his 'break-away' states, you know."
"I suppose he did." Karl wasn't sure who Alfred had been or what he had done.
The waitress came back with a mock-silver tray on which stood a teapot, a milk jug and a hot water
jug, also of mock silver, together with cups and saucers and plates. She began to set her load
down between the two men. The Nigerian leaned back but continued to smile into Karl's eyes while
Karl murmured "Thank you" every time the waitress placed something in front of him. These
ingratiating noises were his usual response to most minor forms of human misery, as they had been
to his mother when she had made it evident what it had cost her to prepare a meal for him.
"Shall I be mother?" said Karl and again the not unpleasant sensation of weakness swept through
him. The Nigerian was looking away, vague once again, his handsome profile in silhouette as he
took an interest in the garden. Karl repeated eagerly: "Shall I -?" The Nigerian said: "Fine."
And Karl realized that he was now desperate to please his companion, that he needed the man's
whole attention, that he would do anything to ensure that he got it. He poured the tea. He
handed a cup to his friend, who accepted it absently.
"We haven't introduced ourselves," Karl said. He cleared his throat. "I'm Karl Glogauer."
The attention was regained. The eyes looked directly into Karl's, the pressure of the leg was
deliberate. The Nigerian picked up the bowl nearest him and offered it to Karl.
"Sugar?"
"Thanks." Karl took the bowl.
"You've got nice hands," said the Nigerian. "An artist's hands, of course." Briefly, he touched
Karl's fingers.
Karl giggled. "Do you think so?" The sensation came again, but this time it was a wave and there
was no doubt about its origin. "Thank you." He smiled suddenly because to remark on their hands
and to pretend to read their palms was one of his standard ways of trying to pick up girls. "Are
you going to read my palm? "
The Nigerian's brows came together in a deep frown. "Why should I?"
Karl's breathing was heavier. At last he understood the nature of the trap. And there was
nothing he wished to do about it.
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In silence, they ate their sandwiches. Karl was no longer irritated by the pressure of the man's
leg on his.
A little later the Nigerian said: "Will you come back with me?"
"Yes," whispered Karl.
He began to shake.
What Would You Do? (1)
You are a passenger on a plane which is about to crash. The plane is not a jet and so you have a
chance to parachute to safety. With the other passengers, you stand in line and take one of the
parachutes which the crew hands out to you. There is one problem. The people ahead of you on the
line are already jumping out. But you have a four-month-old baby with you and it is too large to
button into your clothing. Yet you must have both hands free in order to (a) pull the emergency
ripcord in the event of the parachute failing to open, (b) guide the chute to safety if you see
danger below. The baby is crying. The people behind you are pressing forward. Someone helps you
struggle into the harness and hands you back your baby. Even if you did hold the baby in both
hands and pray that you had an easy descent, there is every possibility he could be yanked from
your grip as you jumped.
There are a few more seconds to go before you miss your chance to get out of the plane.
2
In The Commune: 1871:A Smile Not only France, but the whole civilized world, was startled and
dismayed by the sudden success of the Red Republicans of Paris. The most extraordinary, and
perhaps the most alarming, feature of the movement, was the fact that it had been brought about by
men nearly all of whom were totally unknown to society at large. It was not, therefore, the
influence, whether for good or evil, of a few great names which might be supposed to exercise a
species of enchantment on the uneducated classes, and to be capable of moving them, almost without
thought, towards the execution of any design which the master-minds might have determined on - it
was not this which had caused the convulsion. The outbreak was clearly due less to individual
persuasion, which in the nature of things is evanescent, than to the operation of deep-rooted
principles such as survive when men depart. The ideas which gave rise to the Commune were within
the cognizance of the middle and upper classes of society; but it was not supposed that they had
attained such power, or were capable of such organized action. A frightful apparition of the Red
Republic had been momentarily visible in June, 1848; but it was at once exercised by the cannon
and bayonets of Cavaignac. It was again apprehended towards the close of 1851, and would probably
have made itself once more manifest, had not the coup d'etat of Louis Napoleon prevented any such
movement, not only at that time, but for several years to come. Every now and then during the
period of the Second Empire, threatenings of this vague yet appalling danger came and went, but
the admirable organization of the Imperial Government kept the enemies of social order in
subjection, though only by a resort to means regrettable in themselves, against which the
Moderate Republicans were perpetually directing their most bitter attacks, little thinking that
they would soon be obliged to use the same weapons with still greater severity. Nevertheless,
although the Emperor Napoleon held the Red Republic firmly down throughout his term of power, the
principles of the extreme faction were working beneath the surface; and they only awaited the
advent of a weaker Government, and of a period of social disruption, to glare upon the world with
stormy menace.
HISTORY OF THE WAR BETWEEN FRANCE AND GERMANY
Anonymous. Cassell, Petter & Galpin, 1872.
- There you are, Karl. The black man strokes his head.
Karl has removed his clothes and lies naked on the double bed in the hotel suite. The silk
counterpane is cool.
- Do you feel any better now?
- I'm not sure.
Karl's mouth is dry. The man's hands move down from his head to touch his shoulders. Karl gasps.
He shuts his eyes.
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Karl is seven years old. He and his mother have fled from their house as the Versaillais troops
storm Paris in their successful effort to destroy the Commune established a few months earlier.
It is civil war and it is savage. The more so, perhaps, because the French have received such an
ignominious defeat at the hands of Bismarck's Prussians.
He is seven years old. It is the Spring of 1871. He is on the move.
- Do you like this ? asks the black man.
KARL WAS SEVEN. His mother was twenty-five. His father was thirty-one, but had probably been
killed fighting the Prussians at St. Quentin. Karl's father had been so eager to join the
National Guard and prove that he was a true Frenchman.
"Now, Karl." His mother put him down and he felt the hard cobbles of the street beneath his thin
shoes. "You must walk a little. Mother is tired, too."
It was true. When she was tired, her Alsatian accent always became thicker and now it was very
thick. Karl felt ashamed for her.
He was not sure what was happening. The previous night he had heard loud noises and the sounds of
running feet. There had been shots and explosions, but such things were familiar enough since the
Siege of Paris. Then his mother had appeared in her street clothes and made him put on his coat
and shoes, hurrying him from the room and down the stairs and into the street. He wondered what
had happened to their maid. When they got into the street he saw that a fire had broken out some
distance away and that there were many National Guardsmen about. Some of them were running
towards the fires and others, who were wounded, were staggering in the other direction. Some bad
soldiers were attacking them, he gathered, and his mother was afraid that the house would be
burned down. "Starvation - bombardment - and now fire," she had muttered bitterly. "I hope all
the wretched Communards are shot!" Her heavy black skirts hissed as she led him through the night,
away from the fighting.
By dawn, more of the city was burning and all was confusion. Ragged members of the National Guard
in their stained uniforms rallied the citizens to pile furniture and bedding onto the carts which
had been overturned to block the streets. Sometimes Karl and his mother were stopped and told to
help the other women and children, but she gave excuses and hurried on. Karl was dazed. He had
no idea where they were going. He was vaguely aware that his mother knew no better than he. When
he gasped that he could walk no further, she picked him up and continued her flight, her sharp
face expressing her disapproval at his weakness. She was a small, wiry woman who would have been
reasonably pretty had her features not been set so solidly in a mask of tension and anxiety. Karl
had never known her face to soften, either to him or to his father. Her eyes had always seemed
fixed on some distant objective which, secretly and grimly, she had determined to reach. That
same look was in her eyes now, though much more emphatic, and the little boy had the impression
that his mother's flight through the city was the natural climax to her life.
Karl tried not to cry out as he trotted behind his mother's dusty black skirts. His whole body
was aching and his feet were blistered and once he fell on the cobbles and had to scramble up
swiftly in order to catch her as she turned a corner.
They were now in a narrow side street not far from the Rue du Bac on the Left Bank. Twice Karl
had caught a glimpse of the nearby Seine. It was a beautiful spring morning, but the sky was
slowly being obscured by thick smoke from the many burning buildings on both sides of the river.
Noticing this, his mother hesitated.
"Oh, the animals!" Her tone was a mixture of disgust and despair. "They are setting fire to their
own city!"
"May we rest now, mother?" asked Karl.
"Rest?" She laughed bitterly. But she made no effort to continue on her way, though she cast
about her in every direction, trying to decide where she could best expect to find safety.
Suddenly, from a couple of streets away, there came a series of explosions which shook the houses.
There were shots and then a great angry cry, followed by individual screams and shouts. In the
guise of addressing her son, she muttered to herself.
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"The streets are not safe. The dogs are everywhere. We must try to find some government soldiers
and ask their protection."
"Are those the bad soldiers, mother? "
"No, Karl, they are the good soldiers. They are freeing Paris of those who have brought the city
to ruin."
"The Prussians?"
"The Communists. We all knew it would come to this. What a fool your father was."
Karl was surprised to hear the contempt in her voice. She had previously always told him to look
up to his father. He began to cry. For the first time since leaving the house, he felt deeply
miserable, rather than merely uncomfortable.
"Oh, my God!" His mother reached out and shook him. "We don't need your weeping on top of
everything else. Be quiet, Karl."
He bit his lip, but he was still shaken by sobs.
She stroked his head. "Your mother is tired," she said. "She has always done her duty." A sigh.
"But what's the point?" Karl realized that she was not trying to comfort him at all, but herself.
Even the automatic stroking of his hair was done in an effort to calm herself. There was no real
sympathy in the gesture. For some reason this knowledge made him feel deep sympathy for her. It
has not been easy, even when his father was alive, with no-one coming to buy clothes in the shop
just because they had a German-sounding name. And she had protected him from the worst of the
insults and beaten the boys who threw stones at him.
He hugged her waist. "Have courage, mother," he whispered awkwardly.
She looked at him in astonishment. "Courage? What does it gain us?" She took his hand. "Come.
We'll find the soldiers."
Trotting beside her, Karl felt closer to her than he had ever felt, not because she had shown
affection for him but because he had been able to show affection for her. Of late, he had begun
to feel guilty, believing he might not love his mother as much as a good son should.
The two of them entered the somewhat broader street that was Rue du Bac and here was the source of
the sounds they had heard. The Communards were being beaten back by the well-trained Versailles
troops. The Versaillese, having been so roundly defeated by the Prussians, were avenging
themselves on their recalcitrant countrymen. Most of the Communards were armed with rifles on
which were fixed bayonets. They had run out of ammunition and were using the rifles as spears.
Most of them were dressed in ordinary clothes, but there was a handful of National Guardsmen among
them, in soiled pale blue uniforms. Karl saw a torn red flag still flying somewhere. Many women
were taking part in the fighting. Karl saw one woman bayonet a wounded Versaillese who lay on the
ground. His mother pulled him away. She was trembling now. As they rounded a bend in the Rue du
Bac, they saw another barricade. Then there was an eruption and a roar and the barricades flew
apart. Through the dust and debris Karl saw bodies flung in every direction. Some of the dead
were children of his own age. A terrifying wailing filled the street, a wailing which turned into
a growl of anger. The remaining Communards began to fire at the unseen enemy. Another eruption
and another roar and the remains of the barricade went down. For a second there was silence.
Then a woman rushed from a nearby house and screamed something, hurling a burning bottle through
an open window in her own cellar. Karl saw that a house on the opposite side of the street was
beginning to burn. Why were the people setting fire to their own houses ?
Now through the smoke and the ruins came the Versaillese in their smart dark blue and red
uniforms. Their eyes were red and glaring, reflecting the flames. They frightened Karl far more
than the National Guardsmen. Behind them galloped an officer on a black horse. He was screaming
in the same high-pitched tone as the woman. He was waving a saber. Karl's mother took a step
towards the troops and then hesitated. She turned and began to run in the other direction, Karl
running with her.
There were several shots and Karl noticed that bullets were striking the walls of the houses. He
knew at once that he and his mother were being fired at. He grinned with excitement.
They dashed down the next side street and had to wade through piles of garbage to enter a ruined
building, an earlier victim of the first Siege. His mother hid behind a quaking wall as the
soldiers ran past. When they had gone she sat down on a slab of broken stone and began to cry.
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Karl stroked her hair, wishing that he could share her grief.
"Your father should not have deserted us," she said.
"He had to fight, mother," said Karl. It was what she had said to him when his father joined the
Guard. "For France."
"For the Reds. For the fools who brought all this upon us!"
Karl did not understand.
Soon his mother was sleeping in the ruins. He curled up beside her and slept, too.
When they awakened that afternoon there was much more smoke. It drifted everywhere. On all sides
buildings burned. Karl's mother staggered up. Without looking at him or speaking to him, she
seized his hand in a grip which made him wince. Her boots slipping on the stones, her skirts all
filthy and ragged at the hem, she dragged him with her to the street. A young girl stood there,
her face grave. "Good day," she said.
"Are they still fighting?"
The girl could hardly understand his mother's accent, it had become so thick. The girl frowned.
"Are they still fighting?" his mother asked again, speaking in a peculiar, slow voice.
"Yes." The girl shrugged. "They are killing everyone. Anyone."
"That way?" Karl's mother pointed towards the Seine. "That way?"
"Yes. Everywhere. But more that way." She pointed in the general direction of the Boulevard du
Montparnasse. "Are you a petrol-woman?"
"Certainly not!" Madame Glogauer glared at the girl. "Are you?"
"I wasn't allowed," said the girl regretfully. "There isn't much petrol left."
Karl's mother took him back the way they had come. The fires which had been started earlier were
now out. It appeared that they had done little damage. Not enough petrol, thought Karl.
With her sleeve over her mouth, his mother picked her way through the corpses and crossed the
ruins of the barricade. The other men and women who were searching for dead friends or relatives
ignored them as they went by.
Karl thought there were more dead people than living people in the world now.
They reached the Boulevard St.-Germaine, hurrying towards the Quai d'Orsay. On the far side of
the river monstrous sheets of flame sprang from a dozen buildings and smoke boiled into the clear
May sky.
"I am so thirsty, mother," murmured Karl. The smoke and the dust filled his mouth. She ignored
him.
Here again the barricades were deserted, save for the dead, the victors and the sightseers.
Groups of Versaillese stood about, leaning on their rifles, smoking and watching the fires, or
chatting to the innocent citizens who were so anxious to establish their hatred of the Communards.
Karl saw a group of prisoners, their hands bound with rope, sitting miserably in the road, guarded
by the regular soldiers. Whenever a Communard moved, he would receive a harsh blow from a rifle
butt or would be threatened by the bayonet. The red flag flew nowhere. In the distance came the
sound of cannon fire and rifle fire.
"At last!" Madame Glogauer began to move towards the troops. "We shall go home soon, Karl. If
they have not burned our house down."
Karl saw an empty wine bottle in the gutter. Perhaps they could fill it with water from the
river. He picked it up even as his mother dragged him forward.
"Mother - we could..."
She stopped. "What have you got there? Put the filthy thing down!"
"We could fill it with water."
"We'll drink soon enough. And eat."
She grabbed the bottle from his hand. "If we are to remain respectable, Karl..."
She turned her head at a shout. A group of citizens were pointing at her. Soldiers began to run
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towards them. Karl heard the word "petroleuse" repeated several times. Ma-dame Glogauer shook
her head and threw the bottle down. "It is empty," she said quietly. They could not hear her.
The soldiers stopped and raised their rifles She stretched her hands towards them. "It was an
empty bottle!" she cried.
Karl tugged at her. "Mother!" He tried to take her hand, but it was still stretched towards the
soldiers. "They cannot understand you, mother."
She began to back away and then she ran. He tried to follow, but fell down. She disappeared into
a little alley. The soldiers ran past Karl and followed her into the alley. The citizens ran
after the soldiers. They were shrieking with hysteria and bloodlust. Karl got up and ran behind
them. There were some shots and some screams. By the time Karl had entered the little street the
soldiers were coming back again, the citizens still standing looking at something on the ground.
Karl pushed his way through them. They cuffed him and snarled at him and then they, too, turned
away.
"The pigs use women and children to fight their battles," said one man. He glared at Karl. "The
sooner Paris is cleansed of such scum the better."
His mother lay sprawled on her face in the filth of the street. There was a dark, wet patch on
her back. Karl went up to her and, as he had suspected, found that the patch was blood. She was
still bleeding. He had never seen his mother's blood before. He tried hard to turn her over, but
he was too weak. "Mother?" Suddenly her whole body heaved and she drew in a great dry breath.
Then she moaned.
The smoke drifted across the sky and evening came and the city burned. Red flames stained the
night on every side. Shots boomed. But there were no more voices. Even the people who passed
and whom Karl begged to help his wounded mother did not speak. One or two laughed harshly. With
his help, his mother managed to turn herself over and sat with her back propped against the wall.
She breathed with great difficulty and did not seem to know him, staring as fixedly and as
determinedly into the middle distance as she had always done. Her hair was loose and it clung to
her tight, anxious face. Karl wanted to find her some water, but he did not want to leave her.
At last he got up and blocked the path of a man who came walking towards Boulevard St-Germaine.
"Please help my mother, sir," he said.
"Help her? Yes, of course. Then they will shoot me, too. That will be good, eh?" The man threw
back his head and laughed heartily as he continued on his way.
"She did nothing wrong!" Karl shouted.
The man stopped just before he turned the corner. "It depends how you look at it, doesn't it,
young man?" He gestured into the boulevard. "Here's what you need! Hey, there! Stop! I've got
another passenger for you." Karl heard the sound of something squeaking. The squeaking stopped
and the man exchanged a few words with someone else. Then he disappeared. Instinctively Karl
backed away with some idea of defending his mother. A filthy old man appeared next. "I've just
about got room," he complained. He brushed Karl aside, heaved Madame Glogauer onto his shoulder
and turned, staggering back down the street. Karl followed. Was the man going to help his
mother? Take her to the hospital?
A cart stood in the street. There were no cart-horses, for they had all been eaten during the
Siege as Karl knew. Instead, between the shafts stood several ragged men and women. They began
to move forward when they saw the old man appear again, dragging the squeaking cart behind them.
Karl saw that there were people of all ages and sexes lying on top of one another in the cart.
Most of them were dead, many with gaping wounds and parts of their faces or bodies missing. "Give
us a hand here," said the old man and one of the younger men left his place at the front and
helped heave Madame Glogauer onto the top of the pile. She groaned.
"Where are you taking her?" asked Karl.
They continued to ignore him. The cart squeaked on through the night. Karl followed it. From
time to time he heard his mother moan.
He became very tired and could hardly see, for his eyes kept closing, but he followed the cart by
its sound, hearing the sharp clack of clogs and the slap of bare feet on the road, the squeal of
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the wheels, the occasional cries and moans of the living passengers. By midnight they had reached
one of the outlying districts of the city and entered a square. There were Versaillese soldiers
here, standing about on the remains of a green. In the middle of the green was a dark area. The
old man said something to the soldiers and then he and his companions began unloading the cart.
Karl tried to see which one of the people was his mother. The ragged men and women carried their
burdens to the dark area and dropped them into it. Karl could now see that it was a freshly dug
pit. There were already a large number of bodies in it. He peered in, certain that he had heard
his mother's voice among the moans of the wounded as, indiscriminately, they were buried with the
dead. All around the square shutters were closing and lights were being extinguished. A soldier
came up and dragged Karl away from the graveside. "Get back," he said, "or you'll go in with
them."
Soon the cart went away. The soldiers sat down by the graveside and lit their pipes, complaining
about the smell, which had become almost overpowering, and passing a bottle of wine back and
forth. "I'll be glad when this is over," said one.
Karl squatted against the wall of the house, trying to distinguish his mother's voice amongst
those which groaned or cried out from the pit. He was sure he could hear her pleading to be let
out.
By dawn, her voice had stopped and the cart came back with a fresh load. These were dumped into
the pit and the soldiers got up reluctantly at the command of their officer, putting down their
rifles and picking up shovels. They began to throw earth onto the bodies.
When the grave was covered, Karl got up and began to walk away.
The guards put down their shovels. They seemed more cheerful now and they opened another bottle
of wine. One of them saw Karl. "Hello, young man. You're up early." He ruffled the boy's hair.
"Hoping for some more excitement, eh?" He took a pull on the bottle and then offered it to Karl.
"Like a drink? " He laughed. Karl smiled at him.
Karl gasps and he writhes on the bed.
- What are you doing ? he says.
- Don't you like it? You don't have to like it. Not everyone does.
- Oh, God, says Karl.
The black man gets up. His body gleams in the faint light from the window. He moves gracefully
back, out of range of Karl's vision. - Perhaps you had better sleep. There is lots of time.
-No...
- You want to go on? A pause.
-Yes...
What Would You Do? (2)
You have been brought to a room by the Secret Police.
They say that you can save the lives of your whole family if you will only assist them in one way.
You agree to help.
There is a table covered by a cloth. They remove the cloth and reveal a profusion of objects.
There is a children's comforter, a Smith and Wesson .45, an umbrella, a big volume of Don Quixote,
illustrated by Dore, two blankets, a jar of honey, four bottles of drugs, a bicycle pump, some
blank envelopes, a carton of Sullivans cigarettes, an enameled pin with the word 1900 on it (blue
on gold), a wrist-watch, a Japanese fan.
They tell you that all you have to do is choose the correct object and you and your family will be
released.
You have never seen any of the objects before. You tell them this. They nod. That is all right.
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