The Man Who Travelled on Motorways Read online

  In the office I maintained in the big black building it was my custom to remain behind after the other staff had gone home, and, sitting in the hushed lamplight, contemplate the mess my life had become. Not for a million pounds would I have changed places with any other living soul, for although my life was a ridiculous sham, nevertheless it was the most precious life there had ever been. Besides, self-pity is one of the few luxuries I permit myself. If one cannot feel slighted by the world what is the good of living?

  On the desk in front of me were scattered the photographs taken by Dmitri Zeilnski at the paper mill: over four hundred in 35mm colour transparency form. They were in strips, each strip enclosed in a misted paper sheath. I gazed at the heap, wondering what on earth I should do with them. Fortunately, he had now departed abroad for a while, leaving me in peace, so there was time to think of something.

  The ringing of the phone interrupted my morose thoughts, and picking up the instrument I prepared for the worst. To my surprise it was not who I had expected: it was Marl. Quite a lengthy period had elapsed since I had last spoken to her. She told me that she had managed, finally, to get a job.

  ‘I don’t suppose it is a very interesting job,’ I said. Already, and rather to my annoyance, my breath was quivering in my throat.

  ‘I demonstrate appliances,’ Marl said. ‘I go round from house to house demonstrating appliances. The idea is that I give a free demonstration and then the person is meant to buy the appliance. They are very expensive and there is a huge profit.’

  She said this lightly, glibly, as though it were a clever thing to say. No doubt she was trying to impress me. I was sick of her type, and of her money-grubbing.

  ‘Are you at home?’ I asked gently.

  She confirmed that she was.

  ‘Is your husband there with you?’

  Marl said that she was alone.

  ‘Are you completely alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marl said, her voice adopting a puzzled tone, yet obviously intrigued at the same time.

  ‘Have you sold any appliances today?’ I inquired, changing the subject abruptly. I cannot stand it when people, women especially, anticipate me. Or rather, think they are anticipating me. It is insulting. It is degrading.

  ‘Do you know, I heard a rumour about you the other day,’ I said. I had heard no such rumour but it amused me to have her think I had.

  ‘A rumour about me?’ Marl said. ‘What was this rumour? Are you pulling my leg?’

  ‘What have you been doing to cause rumours?’ I asked her. This was calculated to bring forth a confession or a denial.

  ‘What was the rumour about?’ She paused, and her voice became coquettish. ‘It wasn’t a bad rumour, I hope?’

  ‘Do you?’ I said, playing the game with her. The shallowness and insensibility of women never fail to astound me. They are so preoccupied with meaningless physical vanities that it is a struggle to conduct even a superficial conversation with them. Their tiny minds encompass the world, with the result that the world becomes tiny too. I should imagine there are women to whom this does not apply, but in my experience they are usually as ugly as sin, defeating the whole purpose of being women.

  ‘Listen,’ I said to her. ‘This selling of appliances is just a way to make money, isn’t it?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Marl. ‘Amongst other things.’

  The stupidity of this reply made me squirm in my seat. For her to suppose that such infantile innuendo could possibly hope to interest or impress me demonstrated (if such demonstrations were necessary) to what lowly levels her mind aspired. It entered my head to dismiss her at once, to have done with her – but no; one of my besetting ‘sins’ is that I am never rude to anyone, least of all women. I then said something which made her laugh:

  ‘Tell me what you are wearing at this moment.’

  ‘Can you see me in your mind’s eye?’

  ‘I know what you look like, if that’s what you mean.’

  It seemed to me, suddenly, that the office had become unaccountably warm. The receiver was moist in my hand. A torpid sluggishness was creeping from my stomach into my chest. This was the presentiment of a mystical experience.

  ‘I wish I could understand you,’ Marl said, ‘but I can’t.’

  ‘Do you think women understand anything?’ I said, attempting, successfully I hoped, to hide the contemptuous tone in my voice. To hell with her, I thought, having the arrogance to think that she had power over me. I had taught such women their manners before now.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I am wearing?’ Marl said, trying to subdue the eagerness in her voice.

  ‘Yes, tell me,’ I said shortly.

  ‘Well … ’ Marl began, ‘I have on a dress – ’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Blue. I am wearing a blue dress. It has a V-neck with white frilly lace along it. It is quite short; quite short.’

  ‘Is it tight or loose?’ I asked.

  ‘Fairly tight. The material is thin and silky. Reasonably close-fitting, as I say.’

  Of its own accord my hand had moved to rest on my thigh. The feeling of discomfort was growing. Why was the air so oppressive?

  ‘Apart from that I am wearing flesh-coloured tights, seamless, with an elasticated band round the waist. Also, to aid support, I have on a pretty micro-mesh bra decorated with little flowers—’

  ‘Which is adequate for its purpose?’ I said.

  ‘Generally speaking, yes.’

  Who was that I could hear breathing into the mouthpiece?

  ‘And underneath the tights I have on briefs of the semi-transparent kind, in a shade of green. That’s about it.’

  ‘You are alone, you told me.’

  ‘Oh yes, alone.’

  It stuck me as incredible, in this day and age, that such creatures should exist. Was there no shame left in the world? The age-old battle to overcome wickedness had been lost. We had not progressed one inch, not succeeded in the slightest degree. All the great preachers and prophets were of no more consequence than the whining of a gnat. Not for the first time did it strike me that not living in this world could be actually condoned and sanctioned. Modern people were vain empty vessels with the odds weighing heavily against them. It was I who aspired to be beyond evil, who sought ‘the good and the beautiful’, but a decisive percentage of me had always, and would forever, deny the possibility of ever achieving it.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Marl said.

  ‘Yes,’ said I. ‘With my cock full in my hand.’

  She shuddered lightly. ‘I am alone,’ Marl said.

  ‘I am alone, with my cock, my prick, my tool, full in my hand. It is encased in my fingers, its hot bigness standing up from my loins.’

  ‘Tell me what I should do.’

  ‘Do you feel the magic and power of it?’ I had first of all to ask her. ‘Do you believe in its magic and power?’

  ‘Please tell me what I am to do,’ Marl said.

  ‘Do you believe in its magic?’ I insisted on repeating. ‘You must believe in its magic and its power.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marl in a dull, low-pitched, mesmerised voice.

  ‘The rod is magical; in its stiff hugeness is the secret, the mystery for which you have been searching.’

  ‘Please, please,’ said Marl. ‘Instruct me.’

  The office in which I sat was heavy with stillness. Behind the glass the dark sky moved restlessly. A million people inhabited the streets, seeking neat and tidy destinations. The city was in chaos: behind the impregnable buildings anarchy reigned. All was well, providing the traffic lights continued to function.

  ‘Unfasten the dress you are wearing and remove it,’ I said. The cock was right in front of me. ‘Remove the dress from your body and discard it. Have you done this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marl in a whisper.

  ‘Now put your right hand between your legs and press your fingers into the softest place.’

  ‘I am doing it.’

  ‘As you are doi
ng it think of the thing I hold in my hand; it rises directly out of me, enclosed in my hand, erect with life. And as you think of it press your fingers rhythmically into the place between your legs. You must now slide forward on the chair and open your legs so as to permit improved access for your fingers.’

  ‘I feel it,’ Marl said.

  ‘Your legs are open,’ I said.

  ‘They are open.’

  ‘Next you must consider it necessary to remove the garments that are impeding the progress of your fingers. Peel away the outer garment, sliding it down from your thighs, over your knees, along your lower legs, disposing of it completely.’

  ‘Are you holding it now?’ Marl said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it still big?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And very hard?’

  ‘Exceedingly hard.’

  I then said, ‘Describe to me what you are wearing and the position you are in.’

  After only a momentary hesitation Marl said, ‘I am wearing my bra, micro-mesh with little flowers, and my briefs. My legs are long, white, and open wide.’

  ‘Take off your briefs,’ I said. She did so. ‘With the tips of your fingers caress the inner sides of your thighs, working closer and closer to the softest place—’

  ‘Oh is it still big?’ said Marl.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Big and impatient. Starting to bubble.’

  ‘My fingers are now inside.’

  ‘It is moist, wet—’

  ‘Slippery.’

  ‘Your cunt is beautiful open wide wetness,’ I said. ‘Rub your fingers along it to generate the wetness. The hairs surrounding it are smooth and slick with juice.’

  ‘Let me remove my bra.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let me.’

  ‘First I must know if your breasts are swollen. They long to be held. Your nipples are hard, are they not? Your two breasts are confined tightly, swelling with the longing to be caressed with warm open hands.’

  My cock was beginning to spit.

  ‘They have become bigger,’ said Marl. ‘My nipples are stiff, protruding through the nylon mesh; their shapes are clearly to be seen. Tell me if your cock is still strong. Is it big in your hand? Describe your cock to me.’

  ‘The skin is drawn tightly about it, infused with the core of magical power, and the rounded end has become wet. The whole length of it exceeds the width of my closed hand.’

  ‘What is there at the base?’ Marl asked.

  ‘At the base are thick black hairs, out of which the cock rises with absolute rectitude, curving hard.’

  ‘You do have thick hairs,’ Marl said. ‘I like to know that your hairs are thick and black. You must tell me to take off my bra.’

  ‘Do you wish to be naked?’

  ‘I want to free my breasts and lie with open legs, dreaming of your stiff cock.’

  ‘Very well, take off your bra.’ I said.

  My cock was jerking in my hand.

  ‘Enclose your breasts in your hands and squeeze them powerfully. Now touch the erect nipples with the tips of your fingers—’

  ‘Is your cock really big at this moment?’

  ‘Yes, yes; but now it is starting to come. The opaque sperm is pulsing from the broad, blunt end.’

  ‘Oh,’ Marl said.

  ‘Shall I describe it to you?’

  ‘Yes, describe it to me.’

  ‘What is it I should describe?’

  ‘Describe your cock to me and what is happening to it. You must say that it is big and hard, magical with power, and the sperm is starting to come from it.’

  ‘A good deal of sperm is now being emitted, hot sperm running down my cock. Tell me where my cock should be at this moment and it will doubtless erupt with sperm. Where should it be?’

  ‘Between my legs,’ said Marl. ‘My legs are open to receive it, slippery with wetness.’

  ‘But where exactly should it be?’ I asked.

  ‘Inside me, large inside me.’

  ‘Precisely where?’

  ‘Inside my cunt.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The full length of it up inside my cunt. I should be able to feel it thrusting upwards inside me. Is that what you want me to say? Is this making all the sperm come?’

  ‘It is coming fast now,’ I said.

  ‘Coming from the end and running down your cock?’

  ‘Sperm pumping out, lots of it.’

  ‘Hot thick sperm?’

  ‘Thick and slimy. Of course,’ I said, ‘the sperm should not be running to waste, it should be shooting up inside you with my cock tight in your cunt.’

  ‘I am coming,’ Marl said. She was moaning. ‘I am coming. Oh God I am coming. Oh fucking shitting cunting Christ I am coming. I am coming … ’

  I replaced the receiver and put my wet cock away. The one annoying thing, to me, is the nonsense talked about sex. The fuss made about it is out of all proportion to its importance. When observed in the cold light of day it is absurd to suppose that the act has any meaningful relevance.

  V

  The problem remained: what to do with the colour transparencies? By this time Dmitri Zeilnski would be far across the sea, either with or without his Italian friend. The eeriness of the Italian still plagued me – what was one supposed to make of him? It always disturbs me when people do not fit into the pattern of things.

  For the umpteenth time I looked through the transparencies; each separate batch dealt with a particular facet of the papermaking process. It was all there, ostensibly, in glowing Kodacolor, and yet it wasn’t. Dmitri had caught perfectly the purpose of the plant but not its reason for being there. For example, the giant Millspaugh was shown churning out reel after reel of paper, turning it from wet sludgy stuff into creamy white, neatly trimmed lengths of ‘stock’. But why hadn’t he photographed those rooms and galleries behind and beneath the machine wherein could be found the real life and beginnings of power that gave the plant its volition? He should have known that surface things are false. One had to climb (as I had done!) over pipes and ducting, squeeze through shattered walls and squirm along passageways thick with dust to discover the living, moving guts of the place. In this shot, for instance –

  I stared hard at it and my heart started to pound. It showed a room full of slapping pulleys. The rows of leather belts were connected to spindles on the ceiling, and from these other leather belts disappeared at speed through rectangular holes set high in the walls. Why hadn’t I seen this room? Had Dmitri, by some remote chance, stumbled on a hidden section of the plant of whose existence I was ignorant? Feverishly I scattered the heap of transparencies, searching for the next shot in the sequence. There it was. In through holes came the leather belts, blurred with motion, winding onto hubbed wheels whose spokes were invisible due to their rotary movement. Now this was a revelation! How on earth had Dmitri managed to trace the evolution of force from its primeval source? I studied anxiously each of the transparencies in turn. Here was one showing the dust-laden galleries, and here another with a terrifying configuration of tubes and pipework, and yet another showing a figure kneeling in front of a wall, and an entire sequence devoted to a precise and detailed study of – not the foreground incidentals – but the intangible vortices of abstract inertia which spun the very planet beneath our feet.

  The thought occurred to me that perhaps the planet itself was riddled with such subterranean galleries, shafts and passageways, connecting this chamber to that, one to the other, each of them filled with tubes, ducting and pipework, slapping pulleys and humming spindles. It would explain much, if not everything. One of the most remarkable shots depicted the internal workings of something – difficult to say what exactly, except that with the clever use of light filters he had succeeded in capturing a glimpse of wetness surrounding a single central orifice. Beyond was a hint of moorland and a blue sky deep as space itself. Remarkable!

  In the heavily-shadowed office I was plunged into a quandry. Dmitri had demo
nstrated the practicablity of recording those things which I believed to be instrinsically formless: without shape, substance or physical presence. Then why wasn’t I capable of achieving the same? Was I so superficial and talentless than I could not perceive the essential reality as Dmitri had done? The question angered me, and, more than that, weighed like an insupportable burden on my spirits. I was dragged down absolutely to rock-bottom. As far as I was concerned Dmitri was my inferior; could it be that during our entire relationship I had misinterpreted his personality? Was it conceivable that this snapshotter was more intelligent than I? I tell you, gentlemen, the notion fairly shook me.

  In such moments of despair I have a phrase, or saying, which I repeat over and over to myself, as an incantation. Its exact form I forget, but the gist of it is: ‘Confident people are made hollow by their own confidence,’ followed by the essence of my superiority over others lies in my reserved, sensitive nature.’ Usually this does the trick. However, on this occasion, I must confess, the words lacked conviction, and also the comfort which I had come to expect from them.

  Outside the bright circle of lamplight the office was now in total darkness. Night had dropped swiftly onto the city, the people gone home, the streets deserted. The bulks of large buildings leaned over the street lights, in shadow and in mystery. Eventually the pubs would empty. I was saddened to think of myself being alone, but that was my permanent condition. A fly would have more respect for itself.

  Somebody was banging about in the corridor. Instantly I became furious and, rushing to the door, flung it open. A man of sallow complexion (a foreigner, no doubt) was mopping the floor, dragging a clattering bucket after him. He caught sight of me and nodded, or was about to nod, when I shouted hoarsely, ‘Is it necessary to disturb people with your racket?’

  The man paused, the mop in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He shrugged in a half-hearted, apologetic sort of way. ‘I didn’t know anyone was here.’

  ‘Didn’t you see the light?’ I was still furious.

  ‘The lamplight doesn’t shine into the corridor.’

  I checked my reply, for it was true that from the corridor the office appeared to be closed and dark. Nevertheless, the fact remained that I had been disturbed. ‘Perhaps next time you will make sure before you make enough noise to wake the dead.’