I rose and went to the mirror. My name is Marcia. As to what I look like and how old I am, it’s all in the mirror. I looked into the mirror and I didn’t like what I saw. Flecks of silvery dust and small brown stars doubled the depths of its glass. I scratched tentatively at one of the spots with my nail and the spot disappeared, leaving a thin white plume on the glass like a trail of aircraft vapour. I suppose this was grease from my finger. I dabbed again at the mirror’s surface and the ghostly whiteness spread further. I hardly dare to breathe, enthralled by the ectoplasmic stuff that seems to sprout from my medium’s fingers. Actually I don’t like to breathe on shiny surfaces anyway – it does spoil the shine. I suppose it’s the little grits of dust that stick to the condensation.
The horrible messy shapes had spread across most of the surface of the mirror before I could succeed in pulling myself together and could resume scratching, this time strictly with my nail. The glass is so smooth. I really don’t know how dust succeeds in clinging to it. It is as if the mirror has a gravitational pull, drawing first the dust, then my face, then the rest of the room into itself. Scratching was no good. I couldn’t get rid of all the dust that way. I try my sleeve, but, as I rub and rub, I see that those brown stars are really rust spots, forever unreachable below the surface of the mirror. As to the dust and the grease, well, surgical spirits would really be the thing. I like using surgical spirits. It’s not just the smell. I have fancies …
I fancy that I am in Brazil or Guyana or some place like that.
In Brazil or Guyana or some such place, the simple folk – it is only a few years ago that they toiled in fields made from clearings in the jungle and now they have come to settle in the shanty quarter on the edge of the big town – come to me. They work in hotels, on the railway lines. In the new world they have come to, everything is equally magical – cars, trains, transistors, lights. They treat me as one of them. I live in the shanty town with them, yet it does not occur to them that there may be limits to my healing powers. The white woman’s magic is reputed all powerful. Their faces are twisted by a curious mixture of hope and hopelessness. They hope that this evening I will work the miracle cure, but their general situation is hopeless. The magic of the big city is not in general benign. It is the big city they think that has given them that industrial cough, that cancerous lump. I think that they are right. The hut is crowded – the whole family is there, four generations of them. There are many children. The oil lamp that hangs from the low ceiling is rarely still as the heads and shoulders of the men bang against it. The timorous ones gaze at the shadows that are cast by the swinging lamp. They all cover their mouths with their scarves. It is time to begin and reluctantly they shuffle back to give me space to begin my work. I place my hands upon the puckered skin of the patient. I have no instruments and there will be no penetration of the skin by the knife. Instead I begin to call upon the invisible presences, the invisible spirits, the surgical spirits … Well, I think that using surgical spirits is like that.
By now Philip is really mad with me. There are scarcely breaks in his shouting as it comes staccato up the stairs,
‘Marcia, Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! What the hell are you doing? I’ve got to go now, five minutes ago. Marcia, Marcia …!’
I look again at the mirror and see epicentres of dust like Magellanic clouds adrift in a void. It would be pleasant, though dangerous, to … But now the shouting stops and I hear the click of the latch. He is opening the door to go out. I rush downstairs almost tumbling in my haste and cling to him in the open doorway. I do not want him to go and I bury my face on his shoulder, but even as I do so I see that he has his darkest suit on. It must be an important interview. There is quite a bit of dandruff on his shoulder pad. My husband is clad in the night and the stars. Where is the clothes brush? I dare not look for it, for the minute I relinquish my grip he will be gone. Too late anyway. He pulls apart from me.
‘I’ll be back at six or six thirty at the latest. You could do something to the house. ’Bye now.’
He manages to peck at my face while simultaneously avoiding my clutch and is gone.
Six or six thirty at the latest! That could be seven thirty or even eight. I begin to shake and I sink to sitting on the floor. I look along the hallway. It’s all there before me waiting to be done. Though I am afraid, I am still dry-eyed. Indeed the sleepy dust is still in my eyes. The power of my body to generate its own dirt horrifies me. While I sleep, thick brownish grey crystals bubble out in the corners of my eyes.
I wish that I still thought as I thought as a child. That, as I slept, the Sandman tiptoed across the room to my cot, tiptoeing in a curious jack-knifed gait, each pointy knee successively jutting forward, then snapping back. Through closed lids I see that he wears a yellow waistcoat and yellow top hat. He is very thin and a thin smile hovers on his face. I am not old enough to tell whether the smile is benign or mischievous. He dips his long fingers into the glass albarello he carries with him and scatters sleepy dust over my face. It floats on the air and only slowly descends. It will seal my eyes until it is light again …
I scratch the gunge out of my eyes. Every morning I awake to find waxy dirt in my ears and more earth-like dirt between my toes. At every orifice and crevice of my body I find the dirt congealing. Oh what horror if I should find that it grew from within me!
Now I remember. It is the coffee morning this morning.