Small Holdings Read Free

that helps to hide blushes, apparently. I grew my hair, a mass of curls that fall over my face, cover my ears, which always tingle first, sting and heat up. A neat and moderately well-spread beard - up my cheeks, down my neck - helps to shelter further exposed flesh. I am Monkey Man. I am Mountain Man. I am Scott of the Antarctic after a very long expedition.
    Doug told me once, in a lighter moment, that my face was a vagina - all curls, all hair, with pink lips protruding and a small nose, labia-like, just above - a tender fold. After that I knew I didn’t just feel strange, vulnerable, like a whelk when its shell has been jerked open, but that I seemed strange to others, that I looked strange to others.
    It’s all so complete, so perfect. A sun, a moon, a circle, a cycle. Maybe I think too much. Maybe I don’t think enough. Saleem knows all this. She smells it. She sees it with her yellow eyes.
    ‘What’s that?’ she asked suddenly, pointing with her stick. I followed its line. To the right of the museum I could see Doug in the distance, carrying what looked like a small tree.
    ‘Doug.’
    ‘What’s he up to?’
    ‘I don’t know. He’s working.’
    ‘Come off it! Anyway . I don’t mean Doug. I mean that . . .’ She continued pointing and added, ‘ A plant. Inside the building, the museum.’
    I squinted. It was too far to see anything, not clearly.
    ‘It’s a plant,’ she insisted, ‘crawling up where the chimney used to be.’
    I looked again, still not seeing but vaguely remembering -the park, its constituent parts, every small thing etched in my very heart - I aid, ‘I think it’s a passion flower, growing up in the charcoal and old cinder.’
    ‘What kind of a plant?’
    ‘A creeper. It has a beautiful flower. White and very ornate. In Jamaica they have a variation which they call a grenadilla. Doug might know more about it.’
    ‘I bet it grew from my leg,’ she said. ‘My skin and foot. During the fire, that’s where the burning beam fell, right there.’
    I stared at her. She was warped. She was rubbing the stump of her knee, smiling. I shuddered.
    ‘What does it do?’
    ‘It works like a kind of morphine, affects the circulation and increases the rate of respiration. In homeopathic medicine they use its narcotic properties to treat dysentery. Sleeplessness. Some types are used for treating hysteria and skin inflammation.’
    ‘Yeah? How?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Dry the berry or boil the root. Something like that.’
    Saleem started drawing a pattern in the grey gravel of the path with her stick.
    ‘Let me tell you something, Phil,’ she said. ‘I was talking to Doug this morning, over breakfast. And guess what we talked about?’
    I didn’t turn but I shook my head.
    ‘We talked about the Gaps. ‘
    I carried on smoothing the soil, thinking of softness, soil-softness.
    ‘Are you listening, Phil? The Gaps. Does that mean anything to you?’
    I said quietly, ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
    ‘What was that?’
    Saleem. My tormentor. I turned. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘OK,’ she said, ‘OK, so Doug has this theory, right, about why London doesn’t work. It’s to do with the postal districts. He has this theory about London not working . . . Did he tell you this yet?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘Oh, you’ll love it. You’ll love this. Here’s how it goes: Doug says that everything in nature moves in a circle, OK? That’s how nature works, a kind of winter-spring-summer-autumn-winter thing. A kind of sun-follows-moon-and-earth-revolving thing. Sort of oriental. He’s into all this stuff lately. Anyhow , Doug has now decided that the city of London is a life form too, kind of like a complex bacteria, and as such, everything should fit together. But unfortunately . . .’ She stressed this word until it stang with venom. ‘Unfortunately, Phil, London can’t work properly because of the Gaps. Sounding familiar yet?’ I shook my head, although suddenly, strangely, it did begin to