Читать книгу The Serpent and the Eagle - Bruce Dow - Страница 5

After the inevitable bump and surge of take-off - the shuddering, as the plane struck upwards through the swirling wind currents, the ride smoothed considerably.

Once the cruising altitude of 37,000 feet was reached, one would be hard put to discern any feeling of height or motion at all. Bourque liked that much better. In fact, fortified by copious amounts of gin, doubles consumed in double time, he was able to really take in his surroundings for the first time.

The plane was a converted '747 - Joseph Brown's airborne nerve centre and playground. The commercial seats had all been removed. The first class compartment had been turned into an intimate dining area, replete with the ubiquitous wet bar. The rear section was sound proofed. Terminals had been installed, so that even in flight, Joseph Brown had immediate and full access to every aspect of his worldwide business empire.

The whole of the middle section of the plane was one vast gaming room laid out for poker, craps, and baccarat. Video games had been installed along the walls, presumably as a mindless diversion for the high stakes players whom Joseph Brown was accustomed to entertaining.

The "piece de resistance" though was the upper lounge. To get there in style, Brown had ordered that the winding staircase be removed, to be replaced with a computer-directed elevator which responded to voice commands and which gave out all kinds of trivial data regarding flight path, weather conditions and the state of the body politic etc. The illusion of moving up and down hundreds of storeys instead of just one storey was created through a clever combination of sound, lights and moving external images. Brown dubbed his toy "The Star Trek Elevator."

"Come, take the grand tour. I'll show you the sexiest boudoir you've ever seen." Brown figured he could cajole Bourque out of his terror-induced funk. At this point, Bourque was too blottoed to resist or to even care. "What the fuck," he shouted silently to himself. "A man who can't walk out the door and glide at 40,000 feet is not fit to fly"

The elevator doors opened on Brown's command. "Take us to the bridal suite." He laughed raucously. The doors closed. After an indeterminate time, it seemed a long time, the doors opened onto the "Bridal Suite."

Bourque took a quick look and exclaimed in somewhat slurred tones, "What's this - a Fornicatorium?"

Brown laughed again, heartily. "I already told you, it's the bridal suite." It was all there; brass bed, king size, hot tub, various apparatus for carnal games, videos too, of course, and mirrors everywhere. "Wonderful," Bourque slurred, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some serious drinking to catch up on."

Having returned to his place by the wet bar, Bourque slumped down in an easy chair and commenced to sip rather than guzzle his gin, having already achieved a sufficiently advanced state of mellowness, to carry on drinking with somewhat greater decorum. From out of his severely clouded consciousness, a passage of "Holy Writ" sprung into his gin besotted mind uninvited. "Chose today whom thou will serve - God or Mammon."

"Well, well my oversized patron, you have made your choice," he chuckled to himself. "Yours is the Triune God - The Holy Trinity - not Father, Son and Holy Spirit; but Power, Games and Fornication, and here we are, participants in and or at least observers of this perverse religious experience, trapped in an airborne sarcophagus 40,000 feet above "Terra Firma." He laughed aloud this time; he laughed at the absurdity of his being there, of being drunk and of being still terrified.

Brown had seduced him intellectually. Why should not have bothered him? In fact, Jonathon Bourque should have felt elated. The tedium and triviality of his daily existence were to be replaced by high scholarly adventure.

Yet he was disturbed. Sure, he was terrified of flying, but that ordeal would last for five or six hours at the most. fortified by copious supplies of booze, he could get through it. Something else was worrying him. He was unable to put a name to it.

Following his encounter with Brown at the University, and the astounding revelation resident in the final pictogram, Bourque returned to his off-campus flat to hastily pack for the flight to Mexico City the next morning. Brown had made all the travel arrangements in advance, providing Bourque with the requisite travel documents including a Mexican work permit.

There wasn't much more for Bourque to do. He didn't have an extensive wardrobe from which to choose. So he tossed into his beaten up garment bag underwear, a couple of shirts, four pairs of socks (mismatched), an extra pair of slacks and sundries.

Bourque occupied a flat on the second floor of a three storey townhouse, circa 1850.

Charitably, the place might well be described as seedy.

Unlike the trendy, sand-blasted yuppie havens on neighbouring streets with their skylights, polished marble foyers and step up Roman tubs with glass block shower stalls, the grouping of town homes in which Bourque's rooms were situated had scarcely seen any renovations since their construction over one hundred years before. The exterior bricks were pitted and blackened from the cumulative effects of wind, rain and soot.

It would appear that the only thing holding the ancient window frames in place were layer upon layer of thickish paint, spattered on over the years by the direction of the landlords. The object was to spruce up the appearance of the units without incurring any great expense. Under the paint, much of the original wood had rotted through. At least Bourque had his own private toilet and shower. The pipes leaked only occasionally, and the roof was kept in good repair.

The current landlord was the Oxford Common Council. Bourque had been given the opportunity to purchase his flat recently, at a fair market value as a part of the new Conservative Government's grand scheme to create tiny, acquisitive capitalists from among the tenant masses of England. However, Bourque had neither the down payment nor the inclination to take on such a responsibility. Bourque's own rooms were monkishly austere - plain box spring mattress, a dresser of particle board with pine veneer which was chipped all over from having been too often moved.

An oversized, well worn persian rug covered the bulk of the living room and assisted somewhat in muffling the incessant squeak in the groaning floor boards. The rug had been inherited from the previous tenant, a certain Sebastian Stride, a visiting fellow from Cambridge and Leeds and who had lectured at the Pontifical Institute for Medieval Studies.

Bourque's only luxury was his personal library. Hundreds of scholarly tomes; many of them rare; almost all of them extrapolating upon arcane and abstruse subject matter. A small inheritance from his parents had allowed him to begin his collection. Whatever he could scrape together from his teaching salary went toward augmenting his library. While the books and treatises were strewn all over the apartment in an haphazard manner, Bourque knew precisely where each one was.

He was going to miss his little cell and his library of academic obscurities. But that was not why he was so uneasy.

It would be only natural to be apprehensive when being uprooted from familiar surroundings or when setting out on a new endeavour.

Psychologists tell us that changing one's residence or taking up new employment rank just behind bereavement and divorce in their stressful effect on the human psyche.

Bourque thought about that. It couldn't explain his present state of unease. His life at Oxford was one of drudgery and ennui. Whatever stress might be caused by flying off to Mexico with Joseph Brown had to be more than offset by his relief at getting out from under his tedious burden.

Another thought occurred to him. His precipitate departure for Mexico City would require that he forego the singular honour of having been asked to sing the two baritone solo vignettes from Maurice Durufle's requiem. The work, one of the masterpieces of modern liturgical musical literature, was to be performed in Salisbury cathedral by the combined choirs and orchestras of Balliol and Magdalene Colleges. The guest conductor was to be the distinguished Septuagenarian Sir Geoffrey Greymantle, Director of the Academy of Ancient Music.

The choice of Bourque as soloist was in no way a testimony to his voice per se, but rather that his impeccable musicianship, and the reedy white tonality of his voice made both his sound and his interpretation ideal for the Medieval Gregorian motifs upon which the work was based.

Yet, the loss of an anticipatory musical triumph could hardly explain the intensity of his present unease.

250 If not the fear of flying, the trauma of being uprooted, the strain of the assignment itself, or the fear of failure, perhaps - then what was churning his bowels?

Maybe it was the overweening presence of Joseph Brown himself - a very intimidating individual. But Jonathon Bourque was not one to let himself be bullied by anyone. Ideas alone engaged him. What people thought of him, particularly those in authority was of no consequence.

Bourque simply could not put a name to his anxiety. It would not go away. 'Strenuous exercise might help,' he thought.

Jonathon Bourque was an advanced practitioner of a considerable number of martial arts skills. Elements of Aikido, Karate, Kendo, and Jujutsu formed the eclectic bases for his daily regimen.

Bourque found these ancient disciplines to be engaging. Their origins in antiquity and their mystical elements intrigued him. As well, the sheer vigour of the workouts helped him to get through the tedium of his every day existence.

Bourque's skills were largely self-taught. His isolation from other people and his inwardly focused ego precluded his sitting under a sansei or master teacher for an extended period.

He had converted a small corner of his rundown flat into a homemade mini 'Dojo' which consisted of a lumpy mat and two well worn makiwaras.

Always the iconoclast, Bourque habitually worked out in jeans or shorts and a t-shirt rather than the traditional white 'gi' suit and coloured belt denoting the grade of the wearer.

Bourque's skills were perfected for himself alone. He was neither a showman, nor a bully. His ego didn't require that people applaud him or fear him. Whatever Jonathon Bourque did, he did for entirely private reasons.

Only once had he found it necessary to call upon his martial arts training.

The incident had occurred not long ago.

It was about 2:30 on a mild and sunny Friday afternoon. Bourque had completed his final lecture of the week; a less than inspiring effort for which Bourque blamed his students.

The theme of his discourse had been "Cultural cross-pollinization in the ancient world as evidenced by comparing the flood story of the Mesopotamian epic of Gilgamesh with the biblical account found in Genesis Ch. VII".

The overcrowded class of first year undergraduates had been particularly dull and unresponsive. As he surveyed his glassy-eyed, acne-faced students, he fantasized that the desiccated lecture theatre, straining under its human weight, would at last come crashing down and destroy every last one of his charges. His burden lifted, he, Jonathon Bourque, scholar extraordinaire,, gadfly and iconoclast would then turn his back, step over the broken bodies, and march out of the ruined building and into the sunlight.

Bourque cancelled a tutorial which was to have followed purely on the basis that he, personally, was not about to waste another moment of his valuable time on his puerile charges. He only hoped that Dean Tichborne wouldn't discover his truancy.

Returning quickly from the lecture theatre to his messy cubby hole of an office, he gathered together the reading material he intended to devour over the weekend and headed for home.

The habitual rout to his flat took him through a conservation area traversed by a winding cinder path which was bordered by giant, broad trunked cedar trees. Bourque began to sing, boisterously, an obscure and somewhat ribald Elizabethan love song entitled 'Sweet Cupid Ripen her Desire"

There was no one within ear shot. Not that it would have mattered to Jonathon Bourque. He sang out loud, recited prose or poetry in public whenever the spirit moved him. Others might consider his behaviour odd. He didn't care.

Bourque's spirits began to lift as he sang. The fresh air, the rustic solitude of the 'philosophers' walk' offered an oasis of relief from a world with too many people and too little space.

The Bourquean weekend would be spent practicing Gregorian chants, hammering away at his punching boards, and devouring the scholarly tomes which he was carrying.If he came across an easy fuck, that was OK, too, as long as she didn’t insist on hanging around after.

His reading materials consisted of 'The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles', and an early hand copied reproduction of William Langland's 14th Century classic 'The Vision of Piers Ploughman.' This latter work he had lifted from the rare book library. It would be returned in due course. Bourque had no intention of ever submitting himself to the wearisome rigamarole demanded by the University Authorities in order to take home a 'rare book.'

As he strolled along he'd gotten tired of singing so he opened 'The Vision of Piers Ploughman' and began to read passages aloud, at random. Jonathon Bourque would have no need of a glossary. He read archaic English fluently. He paused over a delicious passage from Chapter XX which piqued his ribald nature:

For the Lyme that she loved me fore

and leef was to feele

On nights, namely whan we naked weere

I ne myghte in no manner it at hir wille

So elde and heo hadden it for beten

Thus preoccupied, Bourque didn't notice the three skinheads who blocked his way until he practically bumped into them.

He looked up from his reading and made a quick assessment. The one thug stood about 5'10" and weighed a solid 210 pounds. The other two were taller and leaner, but they looked like they might be able to fight. Bourque tried to brush by them. They pushed him back. The larger one moved right into Bourque's face. His breath smelled of stale whisky and healthy bacteria which had dined well on years of accumulated food bits lodged between his teeth and under his gums.

Bourque took note of his adversary's right arm. It had tensed in a menacing contraction. Prominently displayed on his pumped up bicep was a tattoo which read "Eat shit and die."

Bourque scanned. He was looking for areas of vulnerability. Number one skinhead wore a narrow black leather vest with studs; skin tight jeans, and steel tipped cowboy boots. His chest was pierced. Two heavy looking iron swastikas hung down from the nipples, causing them to droop.

Bourque braced for an attack. He planted his legs wider apart for balance. He drew in a lung full of air, slowly. He defined the “ma-ai”, the precise striking distance between himself and the target. His self imposed mantra was to avoid confrontation whenever possible. All he said, in sotto voice, was, "Were I you, I wouldn’t do it.”

He was not prepared for what happened next. Swastika tits knocked the rare books out of Bourque’s arms. As these jewels of medieval English literature lay strewn over the rough cinder path, the two remaining skinheads thought it would be jolly good fun to do an Indian war dance on top of them.

Bourque was enraged. But he needed a little more time to get his body set. He drew in a lung full of air, slowly. The fresh oxygen helped him control his anger.

Swastika tits lunged at him. Bourque unleached a straight right arm smash. The close fisted kite travelled eight inches only. Boutique timed his forward thrust to impact with his opponent at the moment when the skinhead’s forward impetus was at its maximum. The collision was load and sharp. What was left of the skinhead’s nose took a right angle turn. Blood and snot poured from his ruined beak.

Bourque crouched down; he bent cleanly at the waist; back straight; legs spread. He ripped the iron talismans from the skinhead’s chest. His pulpy nipples were torn off.

The backup hooligans rushed him together. Bourque assumed the neko-ashi-zuki position. His weight shifted to the rear; his front foot poised lightly on the ball of his foot. His objective, to turn their own momentum against them. They were on him. Bourque rocked backwards. They overshot. Bourque delivered a sweeping mawaski-zuki, a rotating open-handed blow to the back of the heads. The first attacker hurtled forward crashing face first on the rough cinder path. At the same time, Bourque tripped the second man. Before he could gain his feet, Bourque kicked him hard in the balls.

The skinheads had no more fight in them. They careened through the trees and into the underbrush beyond, dragging their titless leader behind them.

Bourque rushed to retrieve his precious books. With extraordinary relief he confirmed that no serious damage had been done. He neither reported the attack to the local constabulary nor mentioned the incident to anyone. Why should he? His books had been saved. No harm had been done.

Now, in his cramped flat, he waited for dawn, and what was certain to be a nerve racking flight to Mexico City. He was drenched in sweat following a two hour workout. He showered. He knocked back several fingers of gin neat in rapid succession. If anything, his unease intensified. He lay down. He was developing a splitting headache. It was only 3:30 pm. It was going to be a long night. He padded over to the sink and gulped down three extra strength aspirins. He plopped down on his bed and propped two pillows behind his aching head. He reached for his copy, leather bound, of 'The Monastic Constitutions of Lanfranc' and began to read:

Whenever anyone has to read or chant anything in

Church, the cantor shall, if needs be, hear him go

Over his task, before he performs it in public. It

Is the cantor's business to watch carefully at all?

Times, so that no negligence occurs in any service

In the Monastery...

As if the spirit of the ancient monastic admonitions were moving him, Jonathon Bourque, surfeited on gin, acetylsalicylic acid, and bone weary to boot, began to chant the 13th century plainsong melody, "Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel and ransomed captive Israel, that mourns in lowly exile here...".

The voice trailed off. Bourque slumped down and went unconscious; tongue out and snoring uproariously.

The whining rev of the engines signalled the take off. Jonathon bowels loosened. He was working on his fourth gin and tonic. His palms were so sweaty and his hands so shaky that he put his face down to the glass so as not to spill a single drop of the precious balm. The moment of lift off. The point of no return. He looked furtively out of the window. The huge roaring engines seemed to be attached to the underside of a long, thin, oh so exposed wing by what? A couple of bolts? Maybe some crazy glue? Or silly putty? ‘If the engine falls off, the wing will snap like a twig. The double gin and tonic disappeared in one gulp. How long will it take to die?- ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. All hopes, dreams, memories disconnected in an instant; eternal oblivion; a peaceful, dignified exit from a comfortable drug sated death bed, but a plunging coffin from 30,000 feet, a disintegrating tangle of white hot metal. If my body is recovered, everyone will know that I died in terror, not from the crash, but from sheer fright, for I will have shit my new flannel pants. If only I hadn’t read Brown’s bloody document.’