Czytaj książkę: «The Kindness of Women»

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Introduction by Michel Faber

PART ONE A Season for Assassins

CHAPTER ONE Bloody Saturday

CHAPTER TWO Escape Attempts

CHAPTER THREE The Japanese Soldiers

PART TWO The Craze Years

CHAPTER FOUR The Queen of the Night

CHAPTER FIVE The Nato Boys

CHAPTER SIX Magic World

CHAPTER SEVEN The Island

CHAPTER EIGHT The Kindness of Women

CHAPTER NINE Craze People

CHAPTER TEN The Kingdom of Light

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Exhibition

CHAPTER TWELVE In the Camera Lens

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Casualty Station

PART THREE After the War

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Into the Daylight

CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Final Programme

CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Impossible Palace

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Dream’s Ransom

‘The Ballard Tradition’ by Will Self

‘The Worst of Times’ by J. G. Ballard and Danny Danziger

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Introduction by Michel Faber

Like many men scarred by war, J. G. Ballard spent much of his life determined not to talk about it. Had he died in his early fifties (not such an improbable fate, given his intake of alcohol and tobacco) only one short story, ‘The Dead Time’, would have existed to pay direct witness to his wartime experience. He preferred to divert the memories into more fantastical conceptions: drowned worlds, concrete islands, terminal beaches, atrocity exhibitions.

It wasn’t until the 1980s that he commanded his fiction to shine a documentary torch into his own life, to illuminate and perhaps exorcise his Shanghai ghosts. He confronted them first in Empire of the Sun, tackled them again from another angle in The Kindness of Women, and finally – just before he died – offered a conventionally ‘truthful’ account in his autobiography, Miracles of Life. The author who’d built his reputation on a ‘never explain, never apologise’ attitude seemed increasingly concerned that people should understand what he’d gone through and how it had affected him.

Empire of the Sun was not the book to achieve that, partly because it didn’t show what happened ‘afterwards’ to the boy who saw corpses littering the streets of his city and spent several years in a Japanese internment camp, partly because the public’s view of the novel was filtered through the lens of Steven Spielberg’s sentimental, soaringly upbeat movie adaptation. The Kindness of Women, marketed as a ‘sequel’, steered back towards the provocative style of Ballard’s earlier work, exploring the psychic fallout of horror and violence. The scene where young Jim watches four somnolent Japanese soldiers slowly murder a Chinese prisoner with telephone wire is a masterpiece of understatement and baleful resonance: even as Jim negotiates his own escape, we know that, on a deeper level, there is no escaping from such a sight.

As in Empire of the Sun, Ballard erases his real-life parents from the Lunghua camp, turning Jim into an orphan for dramatic purposes. Other than this, the events of the earlier book are handled quite differently, with a different cast of characters. Seventeen novella-like chapters fictionalise the key phases of Ballard’s life from 1937 to 1987, starting with his childhood in Shanghai where the rich, perpetually tipsy Westerners play tennis, go shopping and sidestep the growing mound of refugee bodies felled by hunger, typhus and bombs. ‘To my child’s eyes, which had seen nothing else, Shanghai was a waking dream where everything I could imagine had already been taken to its extreme.’ Those last fifteen words serve as a manifesto for all of Ballard’s novels.

Ballard was enthralled by the Surrealists, and felt that his discovery of their paintings gave his fiction its distinctive aura. The Shanghai we encounter in The Kindness of Women evokes a gallery full of unknown masterpieces by Dalí, Magritte, Delvaux and so on. The dead Chinese lying outside the bombed amusement park are ‘covered with white chalk, through which darker patches had formed, as if they were trying to camouflage themselves’ – an image worthy of De Chirico. Severed hands are eerily described as ‘mislaid’. Chauffeurs ferry the expats to abandoned battlefields where open coffins protrude ‘like drawers in a ransacked wardrobe’, spent rifle shells create ‘a roadway covered with pieces of gold’ and dead infantrymen lie in ‘drowned trenches, covered to their waists by the earth, as if asleep in a derelict dormitory’. Forced to spectate upon such scenes in the company of well-dressed ladies ‘fanning away the flies’, Jim gets a nightmarish education in the emotional and moral disconnects that would define the 20th century.

If the strangeness of Shanghai is meant to foreshadow Auschwitz, Vietnam and the contextless chaos of modern media, Jim’s medical studies in post-war England tell us a lot about Ballard’s values as a prose-writer. When he begins to dissect a cadaver, a friend warns him: ‘You’ll have to cut away all the fat before you reach the fascia.’ It’s an appropriate metaphor for Ballard’s clinical approach to narrative, an odd mixture of focus and nonchalance. While he liked to set himself apart from oh-so-literary avant-gardists by insisting that he was ‘an old-fashioned storyteller at heart’, he was impatient with the conventions that had underpinned respectable mainstream fiction since the Victorians. Surrealism’s emphasis on the inexplicable and Sci-Fi’s tolerance for haphazard characterisation and unnaturalistic dialogue suited his own inclinations, even if some readers might find these things alienating.

It is in the area of physicality – especially sex – that Ballard’s style jars most with the conventions of British fiction. It’s hard to imagine another English author who could come up with a sentence like ‘Her small, detergent-chafed hands, with their smell of lipstick, semen and rectal mucus, ran across my forehead.’ Frequent references to penises, labia, pelvises and prostates underscore Jim’s contention that ‘Gray’s Anatomy is a far greater novel than Ulysses.’ Even in a chapter that celebrates the miracle of birth and the love between a husband and wife, we see Jim pushing Miriam’s prolapsed rectum back into her anus during her uterine contractions. Readers who discover Ballard via the Booker-shortlisted, essentially sexless Empire of the Sun might find such explicitness repellent; indeed, once Ballard was famous, he began to receive letters from disgruntled people who regretted reading his other books. Yet, though Ballard shares William Burroughs’ disregard for ‘good taste’, his focus on the visceral is not a mere shock tactic. Unable to believe in an immortal soul or any of the transcendent mysticism that offers comfort to more ‘spiritual’ writers, he is unashamedly fascinated by the flesh – every pore, blemish and scar of it. The scenes in The Kindness of Women where Jim dissects the woman’s carcass inspire some of Ballard’s most tender, most respectful, most reverent writing.

For all his modernity, however, Ballard was formed by the fashions of a previous age; he could never quite shake the values instilled in him by Biggles and Boy’s Own. His ambivalent fascination with soldiers, his disdain for the defeatism of the British in Singapore, and his lifelong love affair with fighter planes set him apart from the long-haired peaceniks of later generations. It was not Ballard’s date of birth per se that caused this disjunct: Burroughs and Timothy Leary were both much older, but it’s impossible to imagine them standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Jim and the RAF ‘honour guard’ at the funeral of a Spitfire pilot. As this scene from The Kindness of Women shows, Ballard could be cynical about many things, but not the tragic dignity of fallen soldiers.

Much of The Kindness of Women is set in the 1960s and early 1970s, when Ballard hatched the stories that made his reputation as a social anatomist. His relationship with the times was atypical. Indifferent to music, immune to the charms of psychedelia, and bemused by the idealism of hippies, he felt less enamoured of the 1960s than many of his fellow experimenters. He approved of the shake-up of the class system, and celebrated the rise of the literary counterculture that promoted his work, but in The Kindness of Women he chooses to present the sixties as an era driven to psychosis by a steady diet of drugs, assassinations, war trauma and TV. ‘The demise of feeling and emotion, the death of affect, presided like a morbid sun over the playground of that ominous decade.’

If society is insane and the world has turned toxic, what hope is there? The kindness of women? Is it through female nurture that Jim (and his author) survives and thrives? So the book’s title invites us to think. Closer examination renders that notion dubious: Jim’s mother is absent; his sulky nanny is employed merely to mind him; Jim’s occasional lover Sally Mumford seems bent on addictive self-destruction; and even his wife Miriam, for all her support, is restless for change, regarding marriage as a ‘cul de sac … a detour from the main road’. In any case, just like Ballard’s own wife Mary, she dies suddenly, leaving him to bring up three children on his own. The novel might have been more appropriately titled The Allure of Closure. Certainly in the final chapters, the contrived sex scenes in which any remaining significant women from Jim’s past pop up to make love to him suggest a last-ditch authorial attempt to bind everything together with artificial dialogue and genital fluids. If any females can truly be said to have rescued Jim (and J. G.), it is, I think, his daughters, who provided their boozy, bereaved dad with all the stability, solace, love and happiness he needed.

Ballard was not an emotionless man and he did not write emotionless fiction. The coolness which many critics have characterised as archetypically ‘Ballardian’ is not as chilly as it seems. In The Kindness of Women, warm feelings – of pity, of passion, of parental love, of fond friendship – course richly beneath the surface of the skin but, like veins that retreat or collapse when a hypodermic needle seeks to penetrate them, they elude the forensic approach of Ballard’s pen. The Kindness of Women is a curious hybrid, combining – not always successfully – the merciless thematic rigour of his earlier, more fantastical work and a new humanity that dispelled the deviant cyborg of myth. Many years before, when Crash was rejected by a publisher whose editorial assistant had branded him ‘beyond psychiatric help’, Ballard took the comment as encouraging proof that he’d hit a nerve. By 1991, he no longer revelled in such opprobrium.

In truth, Ballard’s basic decency was always there, even in his most outrageous tales. He wanted people to grow up well-loved and safe in families like the one he maintained in suburban Shepperton, rather than descending into madness and cannibalism like the trapped hordes in High-Rise. It is a measure of how obtuse the guardians of public morality continue to be that Ballard was ever accused of being a nihilistic pervert or a champion of orgasmic car crashes. Like all satirists, he assumed that humans should behave compassionately and morally. Grieved by their failure to do so, he expressed his alarm – not with earnest hand-wringing, but by ushering us straight to a dystopian fait accompli. In short, he shanghaied us.

Us? I have to admit that for me, Ballard’s work was an oddly recent discovery. I say ‘oddly’ because he was so integral to the other cultural phenomena I investigated during my formative years that it’s hard to believe I could have passed him by. As a fan of underground comics, I was intimate with Gaetano Liberatore’s surreally cruel, visceral dys- topias – Crash on steroids. I evangelised on behalf of Phoebe Gloeckner, who, in one of the few works of hers I didn’t possess, crafted anatomical phantasmagoria for a revised edition of The Atrocity Exhibition. I swayed to Throbbing Gristle’s ‘Hamburger Lady’ (pure Ballard in sonic form), chilled out to Paul Schütze’s ‘Vermillion Sands’, and sang along to Hawkwind’s ‘High Rise’. David Cronenberg was one of my favourite directors. I was hugely impressed by the Industrial Culture handbooks issued by Re/Search in the 1980s, rereading them many times but somehow never getting around to the ones devoted to Ballard.

Looking back on it now, my avoidance is inexplicable. Was I subconsciously worried that his fiction would unduly influence mine? In my own output, the occasional short story like ‘Explaining Coconuts’ strikes me as intoxicatingly Ballardian and I feel a peculiar pleasure to have explored such territory independently of his lead. But still I feel the poignancy of his absence from my life while he was alive. I would have liked to send him a letter praising him for his uncompromising vision and his often beautiful prose. Maybe this is it.

Fearn by Tain, 2014

PART I A Season for Assassins

1
Bloody Saturday

Every afternoon in Shanghai during the summer of 1937 I rode down to the Bund to see if the war had begun. As soon as lunch was over I would wait for my mother and father to leave for the Country Club. While they changed into tennis clothes, ambling in a relaxed way around their bedroom, it always amazed me that they were so unconcerned by the coming war, and unaware that it might break out just as my father served his first ball. I remember pacing up and down with all the Napoleonic impatience of a 7-year-old, my toy soldiers drawn up on the carpet like the Japanese and Chinese armies around Shanghai. At times it seemed to me that I was keeping the war alive singlehandedly.

Ignoring my mother’s laughter as she flirted with my father, I would watch the sky over Amherst Avenue. At any moment a squadron of Japanese bombers might appear above the department stores of downtown Shanghai and begin to bomb the Cathedral School. My child’s mind had no idea how long a war would last, whether a few minutes or even, conceivably, an entire afternoon. My one fear was that, like so many exciting events I always managed to miss, the war would be over before I noticed that it had begun.

Throughout the summer everyone in Shanghai spoke about the coming war between China and Japan. At my mother’s bridge parties, as I helped myself to the plates of small chow, I listened to her friends talking about the shots exchanged on July 7 at the Marco Polo bridge in Peking, which had signalled Japan’s invasion of northern China. A month had passed without Chiang Kai-shek ordering a counter-attack, and there were rumours that the German advisers to the Generalissimo were urging him to abandon the northern provinces and fight the Japanese nearer his stronghold at Nanking, the capital of China. Slyly, though, Chiang had decided to challenge the Japanese at Shanghai, two hundred miles away at the mouth of the Yangtse, where the American and European powers might intervene to save him.

As I saw for myself whenever I cycled down to the Bund, huge Chinese armies were massing around the International Settlement. On Friday, August 13, as soon as my mother and father settled themselves into the rear seats of the Packard, I wheeled my bicycle out of the garage, pumped up its tyres and set off on the long ride to the Bund. Olga, my White Russian governess, assumed that I was visiting David Hunter, a friend who lived at the western end of Amherst Avenue. A young woman of moods and strange stares, Olga was only interested in trying on my mother’s wardrobe and was glad to see me gone.

I reached the Bund an hour later, but the concourse was so crowded with frantic office workers that I could scarcely get near the waterfront landing stages. Ringing my warning bell, I pedalled past the clanking trams, the wheel-locked rickshaws and their exhausted coolies, the gangs of aggressive beggars and pickpockets. Refugees from Chapei and Nantao streamed into the International Settlement, shouting up at the impassive facades of the great banks and trading houses along the Bund. Thousands of Chinese troops were dug into the northern suburbs of Shanghai, facing the Japanese garrison in their concession at Yangtsepoo. Standing on the steps of the Cathay Hotel as the doorman held my cycle, I could see the Whangpoo river filled with warships. There were British destroyers, sloops and gunboats, the USS Augusta and a French cruiser, and the veteran Japanese cruiser Idzumo, which my father told me had helped to sink the Russian Imperial Fleet in 1905.

Despite this build-up of forces, the war obstinately refused to declare itself that afternoon. Disappointed, I wearily pedalled back to Amherst Avenue, my school blazer scuffed and stained, in time for tea and my favourite radio serial. Hugging my grazed knees, I stared at my armies of lead soldiers, and adjusted their lines to take account of the latest troop movements that I had seen as I rode home. Ignoring Olga’s calls, I tried to work out a plan that would break the stalemate, hoping that my father, who knew one of the Chinese bankers behind Chiang Kai-shek, would pass on my muddled brain-wave to the Generalissimo.

Baffled by all these problems, which were even more difficult than my French homework, I wandered into my parents’ bedroom. Olga was standing in front of my mother’s full-length mirror, a fur cape over her shoulders. I sat at the dressing-table and rearranged the hair-brushes and perfume bottles, while Olga frowned at me through the glass as if I were an uninvited visitor who had strayed from another of the houses in Amherst Avenue. I had told my mother that Olga played with her wardrobe, but she merely smiled at me and said nothing to Olga.

Later I realised that this 17-year-old daughter of a once well-to-do Minsk family was scarcely more than a child herself. On my cycle rides I had been shocked by the poverty of the White Russian and Jewish refugees who lived in the tenement districts of Hongkew. It was one thing for the Chinese to be poor, but it disturbed me to see Europeans reduced to such a threadbare state. In their faces there was a staring despair that the Chinese never showed. Once, when I cycled past a dark tenement doorway, an old Russian woman told me to go away and shouted that my mother and father were thieves. For a few days I had believed her.

The refugees stood in their patched fur coats on the steps of the Park Hotel, hoping to sell their old-fashioned jewellery. The younger women had painted their mouths and eyes, trying bravely to cheer themselves up, I guessed. They called to the American and British officers going into the hotel, but what they were selling my mother had never been able to say – they were giving French and Russian lessons, she told me at last.

Always worried by my homework, and aware that many of the White Russians spoke excellent French, I had asked Olga if she would give me a French lesson like the young women at the Park Hotel. She sat on the bed while I hunted through my pocket dictionary, shaking her head as if I were some strange creature at a zoo. Worried that I had hurt her feelings by referring to her family’s poverty, I gave Olga one of my silk shirts, and asked her to pass it on to her invalid father. She had held it in her hands for fully five minutes, like one of the vestments used in the communion services at Shanghai Cathedral, before returning it silently to my wardrobe. Already I had noticed that the White Russian governesses possessed a depth of female mystery that the mothers of my friends never remotely approached.

‘Yes, James?’ Olga hung the fur cape on its rack, and slipped my mother’s breakfast gown over her shoulders. ‘Have you finished your holiday book? You’re very restless today.’

‘I’m thinking about the war, Olga.’

‘You’re thinking about it every day, James. You and General Chiang think about it all the time. I’m sure he would like to meet you.’

‘Well, I could meet him …’ As it happened, I did sometimes feel that the Generalissimo was not giving his fullest attention to the war. ‘Olga, do you know when the war will begin?’

‘Hasn’t it already begun? That’s what everyone says.’

‘Not the real war, Olga. The war in Shanghai.’

‘Is that the real war? Nothing is real in Shanghai, James. Why don’t you ask your father?’

‘He doesn’t know. I asked him after breakfast.’

‘That’s a pity. Are there many things he doesn’t know?’

Still wearing the breakfast robe, Olga sat on my father’s bed, her hand stroking the satin cover and smoothing away the creases. She was caressing the imprint of my father’s shoulders, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to slip between the sheets.

‘He does know many things, but …’

‘I can remind you, James, it’s Friday the 13th. Is that a good day for starting a war?’

‘Hey, Olga …!’ This news brightened everything. I rushed to the window – superstitions, I often noticed, had a habit of coming true. ‘I’ll tell you if I see anything.’

Olga stood behind me, calming me with a hand on my ear. Much as she loved the intimacy of my mother’s clothes and the ripe odour of my father’s riding jacket, she rarely touched me. She stared at the distant skyline along the Bund. Smoke rose from the coal-burning boilers of the older naval vessels. The black columns jostled for space as the warships changed their moorings, facing up to each other with sirens blasting. The darker light gave Olga’s face the strong-nosed severity of the mortuary statues I had seen in Shanghai cemetery. She lifted the breakfast robe, staring through the veil of its fine fabric as if seeing a dream of vanished imperial Russia.

‘Yes, James, I think they’ll start the war for you today …’

‘Say, thanks, Olga.’

But before the war could start, my mother and father returned unexpectedly from the Country Club. With them were two British officers in the Shanghai Volunteer Force, wearing their tight Great War uniforms. I tried to join them in my father’s study, but my mother took me into the garden and in a strained way pointed to the golden orioles drinking from the edge of the swimming pool.

I was sorry to see her worried, as I knew that my mother, unlike Olga, was one of those people who should never be worried by anything. Trying not to annoy her, I spent the rest of the afternoon in my playroom. I listened to the sirens of the battle-fleets and marshalled my toy soldiers. On the next day, Bloody Saturday as it would be known, my miniature army at last came to life.

I remember the wet monsoon that blew through Shanghai during that last night of the peace, drowning the sounds of Chinese sniper fire, and the distant boom of Japanese naval guns striking at the Chinese shore batteries at Woosung. When I woke into the warm, sticky air the storm had passed, and the washed neon signs of the city shone ever more vividly.

At breakfast my mother and father were already dressed in their golfing clothes, though when they left in the Packard a few minutes later my father was at the wheel, the chauffeur beside him, and they had not taken their golf clubs.

‘Jamie, you’re to stay home today,’ my father announced, staring through my eyes as he did when he had unfathomable reasons of his own. ‘You can finish your Robinson Crusoe.’

‘You’ll meet Man Friday and the cannibals.’ My mother smiled at this treat in store, but her eyes were as flat as they had been when our spaniel was run over by the German doctor in Columbia Road. I wondered if Olga had died during the night, but she was watching from the door, pressing the lapels of her dressing gown to her neck.

‘I’ve already met the cannibals.’ However exciting, Crusoe’s shipwreck palled by comparison with the real naval disaster about to take place on the Whangpoo river. ‘Can we go to the Tattoo? David Hunter’s going next week …’