Intruder

Here they come! The Intruder and all those friends of his. I (the master) can hear them! I can hear their hollow footsteps, unsure and careful, descending the long, long, spiral staircase. I can hear their voices, inquisitive, high-pitched, many of them a woman's voice. They have made the long descent (it takes at least ten minutes) observed the oil-paintings and the small stone figures set in their niches, spiralled down and now, chattering, they stop in the chamber at the low gate drawn across the head of my own stairway. Just two twists above! Two twists of stone. One twist of spiral stone on top of another. That's all! Their muttering voices plummet straight down to my own chamber. A staccato laugh; a girlish giggle. Above them all - the voice of the Intruder. A gruff loud voice. The voice of a bare-knuckle boxer, a world champ. Have you ever known a world champ try to whisper!  

But what if some person, some small boy perhaps, should get too inquisitive, should lean over trying to see the spirals forbidden him, and overcome by curiosity leap over the gate and steadying himself with a hand pressed against the stone cylinder, descend the final steps in hollow shoes? The small boy would certainly speak, ask a question. He would see my chamber, and in seeing, ruin my privacy. I bet he would be surprised. Ha! Ha! Yes I bet he would be so surprised. No ordinary chamber, this. A gloss cell, bright white and mirror smooth. I live inside a light-bulb; there are no shadows in my chamber. It is not cold to the touch like stone, it is neutral; ward neutral; clinical. The occupant - one fearful mind. There is no excess furniture. There are no doors. My throne is the only decoration. My wide throne, my boxy throne, my towering armchair of fire-red leather studded with shining gold. I store my memories in the red throne. I keep them in little compartments, little drawers equipped with ebony handles. I draw out the memories like museum exhibits, and study them.

It was not always this way. On their first meeting oh what a contrast they made - the Intruder and the Master. And what a wrench the Intruder made on the Master's bell-pull to announce his arrival. A storming yank! The Intruder - six feet high, a red-haired bruiser, a bar-room entertainer. The Master - a slimline ascetic, a round-shouldered book-worm. The one with coarse corduroy shoved down the tops of his boots, the other with tiny feet squashed into laced shoes that peep out from ironed creases. The Intruder ignored him at first! Completely ignored him! Conducted to the Master's study, he sniffed the air, touched the leather books, touched the paintings - and never gave the Master a glance! He waited for the Master to cough, which of course I eventually did, twice for the first cough came out too strangled and no doubt he did not hear it. Still fingering one of the paintings, he announces:  "I am the groundsman that you applied for," and only after that did he turn his gaze boldy upon me. Marvellous! Delicious! No village peasant this one. No yokel come to seek employment, cap rolled up in hand, dressed in his one good suit and his squeaky shoes. Not a bit of it. He was doing the Master a favour! The best of it is - the Master does not even recall contacting the agency for a groundsman in the first place! I must have done so, I suppose.

The Master was taken by surprise; he was ill-prepared. He offered the Intruder a wage far above the usual. He didn't want to insult the Intruder. He was apprehensive. The Intruder said nothing. Then at some point he nodded, and that moment became a binding and probably legal contract. The Master was caught off guard I tell you. Such a boorish man, and so familiar. Pretty soon the Intruder got in the habit of greeting the Master with a great slap on the back which made him lurch a step and catch his breath. And soon also, he adopted the convention of punching the Master on the arm in a comradely fashion when talking to him. I never asked to be your comrade. Hey! You up there! Are you listening? I said I never asked to be your comrade.

I used to hide. When he found me, and after a couple of loud guffaws, the Intruder led me (the convalescent in shock) into the dun earthenware-cool pantry. "Come along young man, share a bowl of milk with me. Di! Di! (calling to my wife) here, fetch the jug," he'd call to me, then pushing my head back he'd practically throw the milk down me. The smug villagers sniggered behind my back. They saw everything as we three walked through the village, me in my fine coat, Di on my arm, the Intruder on her other side. The Intruder greeted loudly the simple villagers who were attracted by the prospect of some entertainment. Invariably he would knock some buffoon onto the seat of his rustic pants, causing great mirth amongst the audience. Meanwhile the Master choked on their ale. I choked then reddened when spoken to. I grinned stupidly at their coarse jokes. A nightingale mixing with the crows. And all the while I was patted and pulled and palped by my neighbour, the Intruder.  

'Why didn't the Master ask him to be less familiar?" you ask. Pish! I take the groundsman aside confidentially, for once put my arm round his shoulder and ask him, gently, whether he would be so very obliging as to keep his distance just a little more often .  .  .  Pah! The Intruder would have roared. He would have put his great paws on his hips, rocked back on his heels, and bellowed with mirth. "Come come young sir, don't be so stand-offish. You brood too much. You grow too serious. Get out more, and meet your country cousins, why don't you .  .  ." he would have said. And does not the Intruder have a point? Does not his complaint carry some weight? He is an accurate observer, a straight-eyed man. Indeed the young master is too stand-offish, and I myself recognise my behaviour for the sickness it is. Is an Intruder (requested remember) to have dealings with another, and more than that, to be invited into another man's circle of acquaintances, is he after all that to tolerate a sudden change of mind? To tolerate the sickness of his host? To tolerate, and worse, to mimic the symptoms himself? That is an insolent suggestion. Why, can you oblige the domestic cat to give up his warm fire for a cold hallway for no better reason than that you've never cared for warm fires yourself!  

Could I have resorted to subterfuge? The Master has no head for it. Could I have found some just pretext for getting rid of the Intruder? Concealed my true pretext (my own culpable fear of the Inruder) with some thought-up pretext? Some fault of the Intruder perhaps? Well, what fault exactly? I could have had no complaint about the Intruder's work. The gardens seemed to smile at the Intruder. They obeyed his commands good-naturedly and fearful, just like the villagers. Lost paths piled high with a thick mattress of thorns and brambles tangled into a still mass, he uncovered and polished until the tiles shone orange in the sun. Statuettes on short pillars which for long had peeped out through thick gorse, unseen, like small boys shown the head of Medusa while playing hide-and-seek, were revealed pastel green or white with lime.  

Then that day. Opening the library door, I walk in upon the Intruder (far from his groundsman's duties it seems) polishing the reading-table, the air fragrant with the smell of old books and bees-wax. He looks up at the Master, expressionless. Then bends down to his work again. What a blow he dealt the Master that day! His privacy smashed! Even if the Intruder's intentions had been innocent (which is more than possible) the blow he dealt that day was mortal. I hesitated in the doorway, then stepped back closing the heavy panels behind me as gently as I could.  

"The Intruder took advantage of you, young sir," you say, "he planned the whole coup in advance." I speedily reply "Ah no! You completely miss-read the situation. Please allow me to enlighten you a little. You see, you need to know the man as I know him. You must not judge a man by his actions in isolation. That simply will not do. You omit an ingredient essential to any judgement of any man, to wit, his purpose. I know the Intruder better than you. I would say 'as well as any man' were I not to expose myself to the charge of bragging, and I say with certainty that the Intruder is incapable of cunning. He is a simple man. As undisguised as a plate. Such a man can impose upon another and raid his privacy without being the slightest bit aware of what he is doing. To such a man, the familiarities which pained the Master so, are a natural part of living. He does not plan them in advance. He doesn't think about them at all! Enough of the matter. I shall grow sullen."

I found the Intruder at breakfast one day. Down I came (the master washed and dressed) and dawn breaking outside - and there he was seated at my table! A steaming mug of coffee cupped in his hand and his face half-obscured by rising vapour. Di came down behind me - she is surprised but she remains. The Intruder is there the next day, supping his scalding coffee before we other two are awake. He is established. Breakfast became a wordless affair, a self-conscious meal. Caught again! Was there any way out? Could the Master have politely asked him to eat alone, to leave him in peace at his breakfast? The Intruder would not have understood! "The young sir has been most complimentary about me and enjoys my company. Now he tells me that my company is not welcome. What is the meaning of this turnabout?" he would have asked. He would have been offended and understandably so. No, the Master had led his Intruder to believe that he was a welcome companion and he had to pay the consequences.

Oh let's be frank, you and I. Why did the Master say nothing? All this reasoning, twisting and turning, this way and that, it is all a veneer and a justification of course. The truth of it all is that I hate a confrontation. I will put up with an extraordinary discomfort before saying a word of complaint. I cloaked my silences in reason, but were reason to fail to justify my silence - I would be silent all the same. I avoid all unpleasantness; and reproofs grievances and corrections are all unpleasant matters. Am I really clearer headed than you, like I think I am? Can't you also see? There is a selfishness about confrontations - it's obvious. My will versus your will. It is a battlefield by its nature. There is always a winner and there must be a loser. One person feels that he has beaten the other (he disgusts me) and the other feels humiliated (the humiliated always disgust me). In my world, and within my class of person within my world, it is not 'form' to enjoy one's winning. Thus the elation of the winner should immediately give rise to guilty pangs. Feeling guilty, the winner surely dresses himself up in the cloak of good-naturedness. He is effuse in his praise of the other fellow's good intentions. He dribbles reconciliation. But guilt does not make the confrontation a whit less selfish. Simply because the conqueror feels guilty about his selfishness, it doesn't alter the fact that there has been a selfish act. 'Guilt' describes his feelings: 'selfish' describes his actions. The two are separate. And yes, amongst the stupid, the one happily allows the other to repeat itself.

And so 'No Complaining' say I. Not even when I arrived back from a few days in the city and found that the Intruder had moved into the house, did I complain. My own furniture, the original furniture, had been either moved aside or commandeered; paintings taken down and stood against the walls; a few pieces of rustic furniture, newcomers, moved in. The Intruder's personal effects laid upon the bed. And next to them, Di's. Oh if only he hadn't married her! If only 'they' hadn't married, more to the point, for she was not displeased by the development. It was the loss of her, it was only that, which crushed me. I suppose you can imagine it. Why did that have to happen? Wasn't it enough that I had to put up with his presence? Did I really have to suffer more? To take away the person I most loved and depended upon, to force the situation down my throat daily - why that? I know I can't blame either of them. She had such modesty; she didn't know anything of people; why she wasn't even aware of my own unattractive cynicism (which I've now shown you). She approached her hunter with curiosity: not fear. Why of course she took a fancy to him! 

If the Intruder hadn't taken her, I could have stayed on the surface. I would have suffered but I could have prevented myself from going down. He broke me. He snapped me effortlessly like a dry twig. I didn't see it coming (do men ever?). They must have been with one another in secret for a while, I suppose. "I'm  going to marry Di," he said at the breakfast table one day. Silence from me. No comment, no protest. I nearly fainted onto the floor though. I knew I couldn't do anything about it. And she never even lifted her face. She sat there, humble and passive. Such resignation that morning. From the pair of us!  

How haughty the Master became! "Okay!" said I. "Fair enough. If life won't play fair with me - why then I shall have nothing more to do with it." And who's to say I'm not right (in some way) and not cleverer than you (in some way)? I found life lacking. It didn't come up to my idea of scratch. Ha! I had observed you lot, life if you will, from my high vantage point for years, years of criticism and grouching; and when it dawned on me that I'd been dealt a particularly bad hand, why I upped and left the table! 'You lot can get on with the game,' said I. 'I give it up. I want nothing more to do with the petty and boring business.' As if it degraded me, don't you know! A nasty little affair - Life. And what a relief it was - at first. The sudden feeling of freedom. Like a nagging gnawing problem that has been troubling one for decades, finally, for all time, solved!  

Nor did the logician in me fail to support my resolve. 'The norm is all important' says the logician in me. And the norm we all live by is - a games-field. The conventions apply. Compete with the other players and by standing your ground, asserting your place, you merit your position on the field. Without the norm, people don't know what to expect. Well, I hold the norm in justifiable contempt. I am above you. And so, logically, I who loathe the norm, the precious games-field, I retire of course. The conventions disagree with me. Obviously I do sometimes ask the broader question though; I find myself asking - 'Well who is the real deviant here?' 

Resolved to leave the game, the Master waited until all was silent, then set about furiously closing himself in the big house. I boarded up all of the narrow upper windows and all of the many-paned hall windows. I blocked the keyholes with stoppers. I locked doors and packed rolled-up curtains tight against the cracks. I cut the bell-pull. What a rush! The drawbridge was finally raised. Yes, I'd finally become selfish in my attempt to bar the two of them entry, for it was not what I'd led them to expect. But (of course) the Intruder was still there. Inside the big house. The young Master missed him. What a fool! I had been too hasty, even slipshod. Who missed the two lovers asleep in some closet then? Shame on me! And now I can hear the Intruder and his lady lover, moving around, upstairs, and laughing shrilly in the distance. What a fool they must think me. Awaking from their slumbers, tottering out from their chamber rubbing sleepy eyes, then finding themselves in dark corridors where there should be light! Finding themselves shut out of locked doors! Poor man - they no doubt thought. Losing his head like that. Heavens knows what he was trying to do. He probably doesn't know himself.  

And how can I blame them? My one last social act had to be accomplished unexplained and viewed from outside. Viewed from the inside - it becomes eccentric. I had bared my secrets, revealed my personal weaknesses, only because I knew that they couldn't be seen by others. But they were seen. At close view. Once seen close up, secrets and feelings become trivial and silly. And so now it doesn't matter.  

I resolved to live in those apartments which are just out of the sphere of the Intruder and his wife. Just out of earshot. I began to inhabit the quiet rooms. Roaming about those dusty rooms full of the sounds that rooms make. Rooms vibrate softly. They tick and hum, scratch and click, quietly. Their murmurings are overwhelmed and dispersed by exploding human noises, but their murmurs are always there. Once the raucous animal has gone and his echoes died away, the insistent murmur of the rooms reigns again. I roamed among the murmurs for a few days, then I heard the two voices again in the distance. I listened intently. I strained to hear. I stood in the centre of rooms and leant forward slightly with my arms held straight and a little away from my sides. I went into the corridors and listened. And yes it was true - I wasn't far enough away! I fled an additional corridor's length, and settled again into my quiet existence. Soon of course, there were the chuckles again. I jumped up in fright this time - surely I must be imagining voices; leave off! But no - I heard it clearly that time! A distinct laugh! They are, in fact, moving in on me. They beat me back! Ha!Ha! What a comedy. I retreated one room - they advanced one room. I retreat another and they move forward again. Always two corridors between us. Oh it was well performed. Bravo! I skirted around them once. Yes really! I circled around their noise, creeping down black hallways, crouching along secret ways that I fancy are known to me alone. Can you imagine what they were doing? They were turning out all the rooms, moving all of my old furniture into the corridors and covering it with white sheets. They tore the rooms down, redecorated, repainted everything. Room by room. They weren't in a hurry. Ha! Taking their time! Making a good job of it. Those corridors of irregular shapes piled up against the walls, glowing in the dark - the Master's existence was being slung out and wrapped under white sheets. I saw what they were doing! I saw it all. They didn't want me to see it, but I was too cunning. Oh yes! They didn't expect that! I saw. I know. 

They beat me back. Back to the low rooms. Into the small annexes, unpainted and unused. I crouched back until I came to the outer wall - and the entrance to the spiral staircase. Down through the cold stone to my chamber. There I mount my fire-red throne, in my dazzling chamber of white, white sheets, white cell drowned in whiteness. I wait now in dignity. They work their way up to the very entrance of the spiral staircase, laughing and telling one another gossip. I see the inevitability of this situation now. Self-imposed isolation is the inevitable terminus to the way of the deviant. I could have done nothing to alter my destiny. Yes, I am convinced of this. I am at my terminus. 

No ordinary chamber this. A gloss cell, bright white and mirror smooth. I live inside a light-bulb; there are no shadows in my chamber. It is not cold to the touch like stone, it is neutral, ward neutral; clinical. The occupant - one fearful mind.