The Microcosm by Maureen Duffy

Author:Maureen Duffy [Maureen Duffy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781909807914
Publisher: Arcadia Books Limited
Published: 2014-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

PUSH open the door, shoulder aside the curtain of smoke, the malt savour of spilt beer that hangs before the threshold thick woven with the tensions that are already strung across the evening so that the walk to the bar becomes a bat flight between taut wires that bounce back their warning signals as you draw near. Eyes swivel, robot antennae housed in the rigid metal masks that encase the soft, vulnerable core behind each drawn face, querying each inswing of the door that eddies the curtain, sends waves of hope humming along the wires for the loved one or the desired, the young man who comes with an apple in his pocket, the golden apple of immortality to renew the flush in dried cheeks, set the blood flowing in the flattened veins.

Who’s here tonight? Who’s in, who’s out? Early yet, the main body of the saloon still empty; a fringe of solitary drinkers clings to the bar; a group or two chatters by the platform where drums and piano beat a kaleidescope of shifting sound patterns into the air. A tall queen passes by on her way to the gents, shoulders slightly hunched, stardust gleaming in her set hair, unsmiling, impassive. And this must surely be the place where the differences show up best, under these too bright lights that rain down from the ceiling, semi-naked bulbs at the end of spider-leg contemporary chandeliers, unlike the House of Shades where anonymous figures drift together in the undersea twilight. This is a place that would echo sunlight, tanned young men on a beach in light classical colours, gossiping hand on hip, waiting to wrestle or run. Women’s rites are more ancient and secret, the virgin goddess who is another face of the earthmother, old Hecate herself honoured in the halfdark where form is indistinct, curved and flowing.

‘There’s David over by the band, he’s early, and Steve too. Better grab some seats while we can. What’ll you have? You go and sit down. I won’t be a minute.’

What would Mr. and Mrs. Everyman think, I wonder, suddenly out for a quiet drink one evening and dropped in here. First look round wouldn’t notice anything unusual, then as the time wore on, more and more were pushing open the doors, staring round as they cross the floor, appraising, a voice pitched too high, the camp gesture, a mouthful of conversation overheard, slowly digested. ‘A fine one she is. Where’d you get your handbag darling? Get you!’

‘Come on Elsie. Let’s find somewhere else. Can’t stand all these theatrical types.’

‘Oh is that what they are. I wondered. Very nice looking aren’t they. Still I suppose they have to be in that job. Well dressed too, not like our Derek and his friends with their long hair all over their collars and their terrible flash clothes. I must say these look like nice quiet boys, sort of clean like you get in the Woman and Wife our Joy buys every week. Make some girl a lovely husband some of them would.

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