I pass, like night, from land to land.
Samuel Coleridge (1772-1834)
If you gaze for long into an abyss,
The abyss gazes also into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
As I was walking down the stairs
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish that he would go away.
Hughes Mearns (1875-1965)
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare.
And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.
Caliph Ali ibn-Abi-Talib (603-661)
It’s not dark yet
But it’s getting there.
Bob Dylan
Abraham Man n (hist) A wandering beggar of
the 16th century. Either a lunatic or
one who feigns lunacy.
(Oxford English Dictionary.)
THE ABRAHAM MAN
OVERTURE
Like footsteps ringing hollow
From a stranger in my dream
(Blue Mantle Pursuivant. J. Harler
P. Haine, Glider Music, 1966)
Berkshire England, autumn 1969
“Wednesday August the 20th was New Years Day. The first day of Year Zero. The Omega year. I always knew it was coming. I just didn’t expect it to arrive so soon.”
Doctor Summerfield looks at me expectantly, like he is waiting for me to follow on. But I have nothing further to say, so I say nothing.
After a while, “So what happened, Mister Harler?” He is a tall man, very skinny, especially skinny in the neck where a pronounced Adam’s apple bobs along with his words.
“That was the day Chas White told me that Rupert would take my place when my band played in Amsterdam.”
“Was that so important?”
I hope that the look I give him is pitying. “Dutch Treat!”
Shakes his head.
“Dutch Treat 1969! Oh come on, doc. It was Europe’s biggest Rock festival ever. It was only a couple of months back.”
“Not my sort of thing.”
“People tracked in from all over the world. Three got shot trying to cross the East German border, for Christ’s sake. That’s vindication when they die for you; when they risk death just to stand and wave a cigarette lighter before you. I was going to lead Tangerine Glide on stage to close the show on Pink Floyd, The Who, The Deviants, Country Joe and the Fish. Can you imagine what that meant to me?”
I get out of the chair, fold my arms around myself, like I am giving myself a hug. Like I need somebody to put their arms around me, but there is only me here. My eyes go to the floor. I am twenty-four for God’s sake. Why am I here? Why am I here in black tracksuit pants, a dark green T-shirt, and slowly pacing across the room to a steel bed? Why are hospital beds so complicated? Levers, pulleys– it’s like a medieval siege engine.
The floor’s cold under my feet. I stop at the bed, turn and look at Dr. Summerfield. He watches me - expressionless.
“All the days of my life led to Amsterdam. It is the reason I’ve lived. And my manager told me that I wasn’t going.”
“Because he sensed you were on the verge of collapsing from over-use of drugs.”
“Well he was wrong.”
“But you did collapse. That’s why you’re here.”
“That was after Amsterdam.”
I stare at my feet. They are bare. I’m not going to wear slippers like they want me to. I wore slippers when I was five, and I might wear them when I’m ninety-five, but not until then.
I think they had little doggie heads on the toes.
“What was your wife on?”
“We were both using H. Far too much.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing. Oh except pot, but that’s harmless.”
“Yes I have a number of patients who tell me of the benignancy of the substance that’s made them psychotic. Who looked after the baby?”
“Nanny. She is younger than Gina and me. Scots. Has her hair in a tight bun. Her eyes can bestow more censure than a bench of magistrates. It was she who phoned Gina’s family. They trooped up from the West Country and took Gina and Robby back with them. Gina’s younger brother tried to kick me in the face while I was trying to get up off the floor; I was trying to figure out what was going on. Lucky for me her other brother, Mario, stopped him. Nice guy Mario. Gentle giant. It was him that carried Gina out. She cried out for me to stop them. But…”
“Was that the night you were admitted?”
“No, that was another night.”
“How long after?”
“I don’t know. I had no concept of time.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
“It was a nightmare.”
He looks at me intently. An unasked question hangs between us. I go to speak, but the words dry in the back of my throat. This man can commit me long term, so I am not about to tell him how I ran screaming from a cloud of giant bees pursuing me into my apartment. I am not going to tell him how I barricaded the door against them; then turned and found that a black forest had taken over the room. A forest where diminutive dark figures called for me to come deeper. A forest that Mister Zog forbade me to enter. I’m not going to tell him that.
So I lamely say, “I can’t remember the details.”
He nods impatiently. He knows I’m lying.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, I prompt him: “Madness?”
“Just the temporary kind, Mr. Harler. You took LSD that day.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You probably did. Did you have coffee?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Your friend Nick told me that that Mrs. Harler had laced your coffee with LSD.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“She said that she was trying to improve your performance, so that you would regain your position in the band. I’m sure she meant it kindly.”
“Gina!”
“Her family has placed her in a home similar to this.” He stands. “I think we’ve had enough for today. Try to rest.”
“It’s still three hours before I get my medication. Do you think I could have a bit of you-know-what. Like now?”
He pulls my eye wide and examines it. “I’ll see that you get some you-know-what now. But it will be part of your dosage. You’re getting nothing extra.”
He goes away. I wait patiently. I suppose that’s why they call us patients, because we wait so patiently.
A black ball of aloneness hides near my heart.
My chin sinks onto my chest. I close my eyes. My hair hangs beside my cheeks; I take a black strand between my lips.
I look up as I hear a soft footfall. The young blonde nurse with the slender coltish legs that, I am sure, are long and elegant under her severe blue skirt brings in the methadone. She never says much, but a shadow smile and a glint in her eye says that given the chance she would show me a thing or two.
It’s the price of fame.
God, I wish she would. God I need a woman. I need to put my arms around a woman and hold her close. I need to feel a soft mouth ghosting across my cheek to seek out my lips. I need to feel a soft breast grow warm in my hand.
I take the paper cup from her and drink it down. She watches me. That little smile and little glint. Mischief looking to break free.
The drink soothes me. I ask, “How about it?”
She looks puzzled. “How about what?”
“Lock the door and come to bed with me.”
Her smile doesn’t slip; expression doesn’t change. “That’s outrageous, Mr. Harler.”
I give her a disarming smile. “Isn’t it just. Come on, every girl wants to bag a rock star.”
“And you a married man.”
“Who told you that?”
“It was in the papers. Last year wasn’t it?” Her smile broadened. “You broke my heart.”
I smiled back at her. “Lock the door and I’ll fix it.”
“These doors don’t lock.”
“We’ll wedge it closed.”
“It opens outwards.”
“Okay, what’s the solution?”
She took the cup from my hand. “The solution is get straight. Get discharged.” That hint of mischief returned to her eye. “Then ask again.”
She left. Little minx.
I was only kidding anyway. I couldn’t two-time Gina. If the minx had responded by tearing off her clothes I would have told her to get dressed.
Yeah.
I’ve been here six weeks. I had one visit from Nick, nothing from Peter, which rankles. But they are busy on Glory, the album that I have had no input in at all. I have written ninety per cent of our music, but now they don’t need me anymore.
Like musicians on dope can’t function!
Mind, they have to be able to stand up. They have to be capable of speech. Unrehearsed screaming is a no-no.
I stand by the window and look out. My room is on the third floor overlooking the quadrangle. This hospital is a very old place, built by Oliver Cromwell for the veterans of his wars. Now it picks up the casualties of peace.
The surrounding hills are green. As night falls, the green deepens until I think it deep as blood. A thought that would make sense if blood were green, but it’s not, so the thought is nonsense.
When evening spreads peaceful gloom across the yard, yellow lights flicker on and pick out isolated windows in the grey walls. From these windows, shadow figures watch three caped figures - matron flanked by two sisters - walking silently towards the gate. It is a ritual that symbolizes the end of day. It is a ritual that seems timeless.