Titus Awakes

31

Under the Masks

TITUS MIGHT HAVE been numbered amongst the dispossessed by a bureaucratic mind, but this would have greatly underestimated him. He was dispossessed by his own act of will. He possessed nothing except himself. He took no care, but did he ever long for an anchorage? Was there no harbour that he craved? Did he not sometimes think with longing for the cover of a retreat from the anarchic shapelessness of his life? If not material possessions then did he yearn for one love, so that he could belong somewhere? So that he could have a label? So that he could be identified as so-and-so, who was such-and-such, who came from here, and was going there?

If he had been asked such questions, he would have skidded around them. If he answered them to himself, he would probably have found no answer, as to why he wanted none of those things. But what he wanted in their stead was even more mysterious. He gathered experience, as a child might pick daisies, yet his daisy-chain was destined for no one’s necklace or crown, but did the discarded little flowers wither within him as fresher daisies were picked? No, as time went by, his chain grew, and at appropriate moments he garlanded his chance encounters, and then, leaving them behind him, he could not stop himself from moving on.

People would say to him, ‘You could write a book,’ and he would answer, ‘Yes, I could.’

Women whom he met wished to pin him down. He was elusive to them. A gentle imaginative lover who, when they thought he would share their life and love – if not for ever then for a mutually convenient length of time – would disappear as suddenly as he had arrived in their lives.

No one could exactly describe him. Either physically or mentally. He was not handsome in any accepted way. In company he was withdrawn, and yet he was not in the least shy. He had a certain sardonic wit, a quick response to the quirks of human beings. He laughed readily. He liked women. He was quiet. He was courteous, but upon discussion between themselves, those who knew him well would all reach the conclusion that despite all these things, he was not there.

He looked strong. In the years of wandering he had supported himself in every kind of physical pursuit which could be imagined, and lived and shared his being mainly with the rough, and the tough, whilst retaining his own persona. He was generous to the needy. He ate and drank robustly. He slept well. There was a normality about him which was a source of wonder to acquaintances. But still, they only saw the shell. What lay inside in heart or head, they never discovered. In whatever company he found himself, he adapted to it, but he was no chameleon, and he remained an outsider. He had seen cruelty, injustice and bigotry. He was not a reformer or a zealot, but whenever he came across these vices, he fought against them.

He decided to leave the black, dreary town, and make his way seawards. He had a longing to move away. He wanted to be a part of a wild landscape. Perhaps an island. Small but self-contained. To be surrounded, constricted, unable to wander further than each last rock. In his mind he heard the gulls, and it was with a shock that he became aware that he was no longer alone.

‘Look, we’ve been following you, friend. You look as though we could use you, friend. You come quietly with us, and we’ll tell you who we are. Come noisily, and you won’t tell anyone anything again. See?’

‘Well, it’s rather dark.’

‘Look, friend. We don’t like jokes.’

Titus felt two people on either side of him, and a few more behind. He had no choice but to walk in the direction in which he was being propelled.

The dingy street was left behind as the incipiently violent group made its way, in the growing dark, to what looked like a lodging house of a large estate. They entered through the front door, and it was obvious that the whole place was derelict, both from the smell of rot and the lack of any kind of human warmth or comfort. They pushed at Titus to follow them.

‘We’re going down, friend. We’ve got candles down there. You interested?’

‘I’m interested.’

‘Look friend, I told you we don’t like jokes.’

The spokesman was small and his voice had a nasal pitch, as though he was holding his nose. They tripped their way down a small steep flight of stairs, and were enveloped in complete darkness, until the voice of command said, ‘All right friends – light up.’

Matches were struck, and candles which were ready on boxes and in alcoves were lit. There were about six people illuminated by the candles, but all had their back to Titus, who stood in the middle of a cold earth-floored cellar. They were fumbling with their hands to their faces, until the voice of command ordered them to turn.

Each face wore a mask, made of what Titus took to be carnivorous animals and birds of prey.

‘We’re the ‘‘Destructionists’’, friend. There’s only one word we like. Destroy. Destroy. Oh, yes. We like another one too. Hate. That’s a good one. Got any ideas?’

‘What about ‘‘Revolution’’?’

‘Look, friend, I told you no jokes.’

‘I don’t think that’s funny.’

‘Red, you can deal with him if he goes on being funny. Black, get out the papers. Vulture, go through his things. We don’t believe in possessions, friend. Give anything he’s got to Magpie, and then we’ll get down to business.’

Vulture frisked him roughly. His mask was pathetically and crudely made. Whatever else this group of people had, they possessed no talent for transforming their ideas into artistic shape.

‘Mangod, there’s nothing. He hasn’t got anything, except this bit of change.’

‘Of course he has, haven’t you friend? Everyone has, who looks like him. He’s not one of us, are you, friend? Come on, where’ve you hidden them?’

‘Hidden what?’

‘Your things. Everyone has things. That’s what we’re for. Destroy. Take away. Replace nothing. Until there is nothing. We will control, because we will rule by hate. If you’ve not got things on you, you’ve got them somewhere. Everyone has. You probably have a woman who says she ‘‘loves’’ you. They’re good to get at. They can hate as quickly as they ‘‘love’’. We’ve got recruits everywhere. Come on, tell me where your things are. Pictures – they’re good. Cut them up. Books – they’re good. Burn them. Houses, flowers, animals, easy to destroy in any way that takes our fancy. Come on friend, out with it!’

‘Strange to say, I have no ‘‘things’’ as you call them . . . friend.’

‘No jokes, I said,’ and the voice of command rose two octaves in its querulous frustration. And don’t call me friend. I don’t like your tone. I’ve had my eye on you. There’s something about you I don’t like, and I’ll tell you what it is. You don’t fit in but there’s still something we can destroy. Good material. What’s your name? Where do you live? Where are all your things? What do you believe and why? Now straight answers. No cheek from you, friend.’

‘My name is Titus Groan. I come from a place you would never have heard of. I had great possessions. I left them. I live nowhere. I have nothing, except what you can see. I am on my way from one place to another, doing what work I can get, and I believe that each individual is more important than any social body. I am dependent on myself alone is about the longest sentence I have spoken for a long time . . . friend.’

‘If you say friend again, I’ll get Red to deal with you. I say friend, not you. Who do you hate?’

‘I don’t. Some years ago it may have been different. If I speak of now I am not involved enough or care enough, and destruction for its own sake is the fantasy of a failure. Why do you want to force your doctrines on others?’

‘Look, friend, I ask the questions, and if I don’t get better answers you’d better take care of what you say is all you possess – if that’s all you’ve got, then I’ll take that.’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Red, at the ready . . .’

Red, hiding behind a mask so badly made that it was difficult to see what animal it was meant to represent, came up to Titus and pointed a knife at his throat.

Titus was sure adolescents lurked behind the masks. He didn’t fear this hate-filled group whose only antidote to the emptiness of their lives was to seek to reduce the lives of others to their own level. He could see the cause of their ugly behaviour but he couldn’t remedy it.

‘Your name, it doesn’t make sense. What does it mean, eh, friend? And don’t be clever either.’

‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me, although you and your friends live in a fantasy. I’d rather keep my name to myself. You know you’ve got the wrong man in me. You don’t frighten me. You threaten my life, which you are bound to accept is my only possession. If you take that, it’ll only be a transfer – I’ll become your possession then, but I can’t quite think what use I’ll be to you. A dead weight, that’s dead sure . . .’

‘You lot, I want Groan to myself and then I’ll issue my orders. Get out, and quick. Face towards the wall, Groan.’

Titus leaned face against the wall, and listened to the clumsy footsteps making their way up the dark staircase.

‘Alright. If you want to get away with your life, you’d better convince me, and good. Make me believe you. Talk!’

‘Well, Mr Mangod. There is a great deal to say, and the night is far from young. Have you the stamina to listen for many hours to a tale such as you have never heard before? Why don’t you remove your mask. Whichever way I leave here, dead or alive, I’ll not give away your secret. I’ve spent enough time running, from more things than you have ever encountered . . .’

‘Who says so?’

‘Well, no one, but Mr Mangod, forgive me if I hazard a guess that the years on your back do not add up to as many fingers and toes you carry?’

Defeated, Mangod pulled the mask from his face. A boy of around seventeen stood before Titus. He had tow-coloured hair, cropped short, and dark eyes set close together, a high forehead gave the impression of an intelligence deeper than he possessed. His body was thin and undernourished. Titus felt a surge of pity for him. He sympathised with this youth whose yearning for something other than his own life led him into following this path that didn’t promise even a whisper of success.

‘Groan, I knew you weren’t right when you started to talk – or even before. That’s why I’ve sent the others away. I can’t lose face in front of them. You’ve got something I want.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I can’t pin it down. Other people would have been afraid. I don’t know if you’re brave, or if you don’t care. I’ll never be like you. I’ve got to be top, even if it’s only in a miserable little hole like this. But you haven’t laughed at me. Why not, eh, Groan?’

Titus didn’t say that there was so much more to pity than to laugh at.

‘I don’t want to hear your story. I just want you to go now. I’ll have to live this down with them, you know, and someone’s going to pay for it. Get out now, Groan, and keep out of my way.’

Titus shuffled up the dark stairs, out into the fresh air.