Irresolvably
Irrationally
Intolerably
Insuperably
Inextricably
Integrally
Involuntary
Illustrate
Inspirationally
Imaginary
J
Jay-walker
Jaybird
Jubilatory
Judiciary
Juratory
Jeopardy
Jellygraph
Jar-fly
Jaspery
Janglery
Jaculatory
Jaw-breaker
K
Kleptocracy
Klydonograph
Karmadharaya
Kirn-baby
Kirkyard
Knavery
Karstology
Kir royale
Kindheartedly
Knick-knackery
Kraken
L
Lairy
Lexicography
Laboratory
Law-breaker
Lavatory
Laundry
Layer
Lay-priest
Lawyer
Larynx
Lycra
Leathery
Largely
Lapidary
Literary
Library
Labyrinth
M
Marry
Metaphoricity
Maternity
Moderately
Meanderingly
Military
Maturity
Mortuary
Mortality
Morality
Migraine
Miraculously
Minatory
Momentary
Membrane
Mammary
Materiality
Myriad
Monarchy
Metaphorically
Marshy
Marvellously
Matrimony
Matronym
Matriarchy
Masturbatory
Moustache-twirly
Migrate
Mastery
Martyr
Martyrdom
N
Narrate
Narrator
Nearly
Narcolepsy
Nocturnally
Nocturnality
Narrowly
Naturally
Nary
Narky
Normality
Necessary
No-brainer
Nearby
O
Obituary
Osprey
Outrageous
Orally
Olfactory
Observatory
Ossuary
Orthography
Ordinary
Ordinarily
Oligarchy
Oragious
Oration
Originary
Originally
Overarchingly
Obliterate
P
Penetrate
Probability
Pray
Praise
Prate
Portray
Portrait
Probably
Purgatory
Psaltery
Phrase
Palaeography
Paternity
Parry
Prostrate
Prey
Pastry
Pregnancy
Preparation
Parade
Perpetually
Particularly
Proprietorially
Presumably
Parley
Patronym
Perpetrate
Photography
Parody
Parity
Pornography
Puncturation
Paralyse
Paralysis
Pterodactyl
Privacy
Pearly
Pleasantry
Primary
Pyramid
Phantasmagory
Pignorate
Prodromally
Paratactically
Perseveration
Q
Quarry
Quandary
R
Ranarian
Rabies
Restrain
Race
Racy
Rabbity
Radiate
Radiator
Radiant
Raise
Raven
Rayon
Radically
Ratio
Rationally
Rationality
Relay
Replay
Rarity
Rarely
Rain
Rainy
Raincoat
Raspy
Raspberry
Refrain
Reign
Res
Raid
Raider
Ratty
Royal
Rake
Raze
Rave
Raving
Rally
Ready
Respiration
Range
Rate
Rail
Railing
Ravenously
Rabidly
Rage
Really
Retrait
Remonstration
Registration
Reify
Radar
Raisin
Rapier
Raison d’être
Rein
Refractively
Relatively
Rivalry
Revealingly
Regrettably
Randy
Raunchy
Rascally
Realty
Rotary
Reliquary
Regenerate
Refrigerator
Rampantly
Ramifying
Rainbow
Rhapsody
Reality
S
Secretary
Strange
Stranger
Strangeways
Sharky
Starry
Stray
Spray
Soothsayer
Synastry
Starkly
Strawberry
Spectrality
Straight
Separate
Separately
Spectacularly
Spirogyra
Scrape
Sunray
Saturday
Scarcity
Singularly
Singularity
Strategy
Strategically
Saturate
Serrate
Scary
Swarthy
Syrah
Stationary
Stationery
Staggeringly
Swaggeringly
Scarry
Scarificatory
Similarly
Satisfactory
Sharply
Sedentary
Substrate
Scrawny
Savagery
Stratify
Sanctuary
Skyward
T
Terrain
Trace
Temporary
Tardy
Tarry
Tertiary
Testamentary
Testificatory
Terrestrially
Temporality
Tolerate
Transparency
Trait
Traitor
Train
Training
Trainers
Tirade
Teary
Trade
Tawdry
Tranquillity
Tranquilly
Thermostatically
Taciturnity
Tray
Trail
Tragically
T
rimethylamine
Thursday
Tyranny
Tyrant
Translatably
Tyrannosaurus
Timeframe
Topography
Typography
Treaty
Traipse
Teratology
U
Unitary
Upbraid
Unpleasurably
Uranus
Unforeseeably
Unphotographably
Untranslatably
Urbanity
V
Vary
Venerate
Voluntary
Verticality
Variety
Veterinary
Vampyre
Vagary
Veracious
Vestiary
Veracity
Vibration
W
Weary
Wary
Watery
Wayward
Wraith
X
X-ray
Y
Yesterday
Yarn
Yard
Yare
Year
Yearn
Z
Zoography
I listened without the slightest expostulation or intervention. What struck me most of all was the tempo and tone in which he read. It remained so steady throughout. And the rendition of each and every one of these words was faultless. It was as if he had been rehearsing it for a very long time. I kept expecting him to change tone, to make a joke, to pause to comment on a particular word, to stumble, to laugh, to groan, to give up. But he carried on in this deadpan manner, as if each word were a world of its own, with its own raison d’être. The cumulative effect was like a tide coming in too quickly. He sounded, as he read the thing out, so ‘entirely normal’, to recall his phrase. Yet something irrevocably strange took place in his relaying of this lexicon, and I know my involuntary intake of breath, in the ensuing blankness, was audible enough for him to pick up:
– What’s the matter?
– You were reading so strangely!
– I wasn’t reading.
– What do you mean?
– I don’t have anything written down yet: I was making it up as I went along.
Something in me gave way. Our separation was no longer to be tolerated. The strange framing of rationality, this new English dictionary on hysterical principles, this division of voices and hearts of hundreds of miles of cold deep sea made me realise that he couldn’t be left alone any longer. I told him I was coming, I’d take unpaid leave or something. I got the next flight I reasonably could, just two days later. I spoke to him only on one further occasion, when I called to let him know my arrival time at Heathrow, and he said he would meet me. It wasn’t the best line. I remember saying it’s not the best line and he thought I said best man. And at another moment he talked of a ‘real surprise’, so I thought, but actually it was, as he had to clarify, ‘getting ray supplies’. Then he said, if I heard correctly, that he was ‘after life’ or ‘after my life’ or ‘more life’: the reception was very poor. The line went dead, or possibly he hung up. I called back but got no answer.
Bizarrely, he wasn’t there. I spent two increasingly anxious hours at Heathrow waiting for his expectant face to show in that great mélange of human bodies crossing and crisscrossing the arrivals hall, calling him repeatedly on my phone, and even having his name paged over the PA system. I was sick with worry by this point. I took trains across country as far as I could. It was a beautiful early autumn day. At last I got out and dragged myself and suitcase up the main street to the Tea Party, having taken it into my head that he might just be there. I don’t know what I was thinking – that he was writing me? that he was hiding? I was shattered from the journey and felt an unwelcome but immense desire to lie down and sleep. I took a taxi up to the house. I knew where the spare key was, but didn’t need it. Still I rang the bell and stood there a while, as the cab reversed away back up the driveway. I walked inside to what seemed at first like complete normality and put down my luggage.
Charmingly lit and clear, as if waiting to be remembered in every finicky detail, was the great ray pool. I looked into the silvery water and soon enough made out Hilary, Taylor and Mallarmé. Melted clocks, but with a military air, they propelled to the surface, breaking it one two three in a splishing so suggestive of comic applause I couldn’t not smile. And Audrey? As if on cue, prodromally precise, a modest but giveaway ruffle in the substrate just nearby where I was crouched: pancaking in reverse, gliding, jetting up, she joined the others. I realised I was already seeing them as he had supposed, a truly radical gymnastics, the pyrotechnic forecasting, irrepressibly pulsing upwardly, from imperceptible in the substrate to shooting up, happy-slapping ghosts, dreamily clowning the surface, unclear who would have been watching who or when, questions ramifying only after the winging off and away, in conversational shadowings. Jetlag was getting the better of me. For a brief interval, which might have been ten seconds or ten minutes, I stared, eyes adrift in the immeasurably engaging turns, breaks and suspensions enacted by the rays as they nuzzled, untroubled in the substrate, plooping up an occasional pebble on a spout of water, then raised themselves up, thrusting, sweeping, surging in exhortatory mime, before surfacing so soft and inhuman, full of gratulatory curiosity.
I got to my feet feeling as if I’d been drugged. I called out his name, three or four times, but my voice seemed eerie and out of place. Although a part of me was worrying that he’d fitted again and fallen someplace in the house, and another part was fearing even worse, I also felt strangely sure that he wasn’t there. I was making my way towards the stairs when I noticed for the first time that there was light coming from the drawing room. Momentarily remembering, I opened the door onto that extraordinary affair to which he had (quite earnestly, it was now clear) made reference. The room had been transformed into the interior of a maelstrom, emptied and reorganised in such a way that you walked into a kind of calm, gigantic horse-shoe of water. I could see straight away that it was based on the donut from Barcelona, except that here in the centre was a circular couch, surrounded from floor to ceiling by water. On the couch lay a single sheet of paper. It was in his beautiful hand. Impersonally addressed, I could feel his eyes glittering with pleasure over it. Under the heading ‘Eagle rays (Rhinoptera bonasus)’, it simply offered a list of names together with a short description of their diet and where such foodstuffs could be obtained, along with brief guidelines on the upkeep of the tank. There were twelve names inscribed, as follows:
Larry
Gary
Harry
Andrea
Lorraine
Hardy
Cary
Marty
Barry
Bryan
Ryan
Raymond (N.B. not to be abbreviated)
I was leaning backwards on the couch and losing all sense of my elements, staring round me into the great glass space. I counted all twelve, bleached-bone-white, with their pug-nosed, almost sharky heads, long thin dark spines like antennae, and stretched-out disc fins closely resembling wings. Underwater birds in a phantom aviary. The huge tank was incessantly shifting, a world of braking and accelerating, altering shapes and directions, a busy submarine airport, uncontrollable traffic of miniature chubby Concordes. At one moment they looked like water-filled white paper bags, the next they were dreaming and slow-winged as flamingos, flapping up into the ether. Then each seemed a cloud-white cruise missile, a disembodied flamboyant cuff brandishing a rapier, an upside-down technician with an antenna that turns its body into a walkie-talkie, a trapeze artist gathered at the end of its own tightrope. They appeared to me then more spectral than the motoros, or anything I had ever seen. My eyes were filming over.
Everyone knows. This is no whodunit.
My love was written in the starry sky above our heads.
As intrepid as a somnambulist I made my way to the st
airs and mounted them as if for the first time, holding onto the handrail fashioned from the trunk of a young pine. It was dark, for all the doors were shut. I looked into his father’s study and hardly recognised it: glowing polished wooden floorboards, a new sofa and armchair, family paintings on the walls, and a filing cabinet. By the window, looking out, I realised also how much had been done to the garden. At the other end of the corridor I pushed on the door: his own bedroom was vacant, not even the bed remained. Once more I called out his name, and heard nothing but the absurdity of my own voice.
As I walked back along the midday twilight of the corridor, I felt, tingling in my eyes, virtually breaking me down at every step, exactly what lay beyond. As I opened the door of his parents’ room the light seemed at once to stream in and hold. Tears were running down my face. It was a translucent cave. It was crazier than anything downstairs, perhaps in part because of its elevated location. It is part of the law of probability, Aristotle said, that many improbable things happen. What used to be the en-suite bathroom was now incorporated with the bedroom into a remarkable belvedere. The floor must have been reinforced, I told myself. And as I did so, I felt again an estranging taciturnity in the sound of my voice, even within the space of my own head. I gazed up into the depths. The sky had disappeared. It was a manta, the biggest ray, the strangest thing I had ever seen in a house. It seemed, indeed, bigger than the house, arching like a rainbow, majestically large, its great wings black and thin, conforming exactly with that cloak concealing nothing that its name implies. It was hanging, yes, in the watery light, but not motionless. The great pectorals like a double parabola, undulating, arching, in curvy pulsions, the sweeping down of a horseless highwayman, black as night, white as forest snow, it moved at once too easily, slowly and quickly to take in. It was in motion, but it barely moved. Hypnotic: yes, suspended. From the eversion of its underside it seemed to gambol like a lamb. And then it was a bizarre lover fetching invisible pastry straight from the bakery, wearing floppy black oven-gloves. Interminably in need, wherever was I to source the plankton and the nanoplankton? As if dissolving once again, gently shrugging off into a new form, chalk verticality, raft into the shadows of the underworld, veracity in black and white, it seemed momentarily to swing towards me with inhuman inquisitiveness, nudging against my vision, proffering its paddle-like cephalic lobes, head-wide mouth and staggering great white belly with five long slashes of gills. I looked around for some kind of note, a letter, the briefest message, but there was no sign of anything anywhere.
AFTERWORD:
Reality Literature