The Squire Quartet. Brian Aldiss

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СКАЧАТЬ bad things are in store for the world than ever before. At present, such things are in effect not possible while there is Brezhnev, for he can hold together the Soviet establishment and operate the bureaucracy between managerial and military pressures. When he’s gone, we see Stalinism come back – yet even Stalin was not always officially against Jews, though whenever he said the word “cosmopolitanism”, then he meant Jews.

      ‘In the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, “Anti-Zionism” was one excuse. Now more evil propaganda is said in the Soviets against the Jews than ever before. Hitler was only an actor, a – what’s the English word? – a strolling player in hatred against the Jewish people; soon you will see the performance lived.’

      The fish was brought, and again Morabito fell silent, watching with glittering eyes as the patron heaped potatoes on his plate. As soon as the man was gone, he burst out again.

      ‘Do you know the name of Valery Nikolayevich Yemelyanov? Do you? A well-known lecturer to the Party on ideological matters? His claim is that the Gentile world was saved by Stalin’s purges from a Jewish putsch to take over the world. Now another conspiracy is being staged. Yemelyanov proposes a new front to stamp out every evidence of Jewish culture everywhere. The class struggle is to be replaced by a more deadly and deep one, the struggle against ethnic classes. Of course, it will give the Soviet Nazis the opportunity they need to eradicate anything or anyone opposing them. It will begin when Brezhnev goes. That will be the history of the twenty-first century, friends – a Final Solution against which Hitler is less than this piece of fish!’

      He fell savagely upon the white flesh before him, as if it were the last meal he would ever eat.

      The other two ate in uneasy silence, perhaps feeling that Morabito was too dramatic.

      Fittich said, ‘Well, the heavens are certainly full of portents these days. Nobody can say we haven’t been warned when Chaos comes again.’

      When it was clear Squire was going to make no answer, Morabito said to him challengingly, ‘Do you believe what I am telling you? Because it’s true. Here in Italy, we know – the nerves are bare too long. Much worse things are to come, believe me.’

      Removing a bone from between his teeth, Squire said, ‘Let me tell you the truth, and hope you will not be insulted. I think I can believe what you say concerning Soviet policy, though counter-forces in the Kremlin of which we are unaware may see to it that anti-Semitism does not emerge as you assume at present.

      ‘But I can’t quite believe – though in my darker moments I perversely wish to – that things in general are getting worse. By and large the human condition – at least in Europe – is improving, particularly if you take the calamitous fourteenth century as your base-line. Or the seventeenth, come to that.’

      ‘You’re mincing words,’ Morabito said impatiently, thumping his signed copy of Squire’s book.

      ‘Well, I’m trying not to. But you are talking politically and I am forced to talk … spiritually. Spiritually, I so often feel despite everything that all is well. I don’t believe in God, and perhaps it is simply the biological organism telling me that today it is in good balance, that Ego and Self are in counterpoise – or something like that. Whatever it is, I can’t help listening to it. It’s the closest voice to me. Can you see my difficulty, Morabito? Though worried, I feel content. No offence. It’s a character limitation. Even on the day when my wife walks out and leaves me and I am truly miserable, something inside is chirruping to me, “All’s well, all’s well, and this is the best of all possible worlds.” Believe me, many and many a time – for instance when I listen to you – I feel ashamed of that idiot within.’

      Tess, perhaps it’s that damned complacency in me you can’t bear. It’s attractive at a distance. It attracts women, or the sort of woman who likes contented men. Close at hand, you may find it intolerable. I’ve expected you to be content with me, my love, because I was more or less content with myself.

      It’ll betray me. It has already betrayed me. I believe I’ve got – God, or whatever it is, tucked in the back of my skull. Maybe that’s what betrayed the Jews in Nazi Germany; they couldn’t credit for the life of them that the Nazis hadn’t also got God in their thick skulls …

      Truth kills …?

      7

      Land Full of Strange Gods

      Pippet Hall, Norfolk, Christmas 1976

      His mother had cared enough for the Jews to do something positive for them.

      That was in the early summer of 1938 when, as a widow of one year’s standing, she had taken the Normbaum family into the Hall. They were refugees from Hitler’s Third Reich, and had fled from Hamburg leaving almost all their possessions behind. Patricia Ann Squire – supported by her sister, Tom Squire’s Aunt Rose, who was also living at the Hall in those days – had invited the poor Normbaums to stay indefinitely.

      During the Christmas of 1976, Squire thought of those distant pre-war days as he gazed down upon the face of his dead mother.

      Patricia Squire had died during the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Her body would lie in its coffin over Christmas and be consigned to the ground on the twenty-eighth of December, at eleven o’clock in the morning, in the church of St Swithun, Hartisham.

      The sense of the dead body in the house made for a subdued Christmas when, after breakfast on Christmas morning, everyone retired to the morning room for present-giving and-receiving. Squire left as soon as he could, and went to sit by the mortal remains of his mother.

      Downstairs were Teresa, the girls, and her parents, Madge and Ernest Davies; Tom’s brother, Adrian; together with Deirdre and Marshall Kaye, Tom’s sister and brother-in-law, who always drove over from Blakeney to stay at Pippet Hall for Christmas, bringing with them their three children, Grace, Douglas, and Tom. Uncle Willie would arrive later, after the family had been to church.

      An LP of carols from Norwich Cathedral played on the record player. Nellie the Dalmatian rooted among the discarded wrapping paper.

      Squire waited upstairs in the small room, furnished with little more than the open coffin. Fragments of scripture, platitudinous saws, floated through his mind.

      We are but little time upon this earth.

      What’s done cannot be undone.

      Ashes to ashes.

      Your place is with the living. Join the children downstairs.

      And that old quotation from Walter Savage Landor:

      There are no fields of amaranth on this side of the grave: there are no voices, O Rhodophe, that are not soon mute, however tuneful; there is no name, with whatever emphasis of passionate love repeated, of which the echo is not faint at last.

      John Matthew Squire, his father, dead so many years, had once cried the name of the red-haired Patricia Ann Hodgkins with all the emphasis of passionate love. Now both were gone, and the echo of that cry could be heard only in his own head, and in the heads of his sister and brother.

      There was no immortality, of that he was certain, or none in the sense that the Church intended. Yet there was no death, or at least there was a residue of life. For that vast and perennially never-entirely-satisfactory thing, his relationship with his mother, grievously damaged on the very day СКАЧАТЬ