Chapter 31
If you took a couple of David Bowies and stuck one of the David Bowies on the top of the other David Bowie, then attached another David Bowie to the end of each of the arms of the upper of the first two David Bowies and wrapped the whole business up in a dirty beach robe you would then have something which didn’t exactly look like John Watson, but which those who knew him would find hauntingly familiar.
He was tall and he gangled. When he sat in his deckchair gazing at the Pacific, not so much with any kind of wild surmise any longer as with a peaceful deep dejection, it was a little difficult to tell exactly where the deckchair ended and he began, and you would hesitate to put your hand on, say, his forearm in case the whole structure suddenly collapsed with a snap and took your thumb off.
But his smile when he turned it on you was quite remarkable. It seemed to be composed of all the worst things that life can do to you, but which, when he briefly reassembled them in that particular order on his face, made you suddenly fee:
Oh. Well that’s all right then.
When he spoke, you were glad that he used the smile that made you feel like that pretty often.
Oh yes, he said, they come and see me. They sit right here. They sit right where you’re sitting.
He was talking of the angels with the golden beards and green wings and Dr. Scholl sandals.
They eat nachos which they say they can’t get where they come from. They do a lot of coke and are very wonderful about a whole range of things.
Do they? said Arthur. Are they? So, er… when is this then? When do they come?
He gazed out at the Pacific as well. There were little sandpipers running along the margin of the shore which seemed to have this problem: they needed to find their food in the sand which a wave had just washed over, but they couldn’t bear to get their feet wet. To deal with this problem they ran with an odd kind of movement as if they’d been constructed by somebody very clever in Switzerland.
Fenchurch was sitting on the sand, idly drawing patterns in it with her fingers.
Weekends, mostly, said Wonko the Sane, on little scooters. They are great machines. He smiled.
I see, said Arthur. I see.
A tiny cough from Fenchurch attracted his attention and he looked round at her. She had scratched a little stick figure drawing in the sand of the two of them in the clouds. For a moment he thought she was trying to get him excited, then he realized that she was rebuking him.
Who are we, she was saying, to say he’s mad?
His house was certainly peculiar, and since this was the first thing that Fenchurch and Arthur had encountered it would help to know what it was like.
What it was like was this:
It was inside out.
Actually inside out, to the extent that they had to park on the carpet.
All along what one would normally call the outer wall, which was decorated in a tasteful interior-designed pink, were bookshelves, also a couple of those odd three-legged tables with semi-circular tops which stand in such a way as to suggest that someone just dropped the wall straight through them, and pictures which were clearly designed to soothe.
Where it got really odd was the roof.
It folded back on itself like something that Maurits C. Escher, had he been given to hard nights on the town, which is no part of this narrative’s purpose to suggest was the case, though it is sometimes hard, looking at his pictures, particularly the one with the awkward steps, not to wonder, might have dreamed up after having been on one, for the little chandeliers which should have been hanging inside were on the outside pointing up.
Confusing.
n. 叙述,故事
adj. 叙事的,故事体的