The Hidden Man

By Philip Matthews

Rosmun and Alice Allak are attending a course of treatment for their marital problems at the Starshine Clinic. The core problem can be defined very succinctly: while Alice can see herself very clearly in her husband, she knows that Rosmun cannot see himself in her. The treatment course is both novel and extensive. Best of all, it works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Matthews
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215318928

Philip Matthews

Writer's life, hidden, frugal, self-absorbed, no TV or social media, a few good friends - but the inner life, ahhhhh. Recommend it to anyone.

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THE HIDDEN MAN

PHILIP MATTHEWS

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9798215318928

L’ora sesta era che l’ocaso un sole

aveva fatto e l’altro surse in locho

ato più da far fati che parole;

Raphael Urbinas

© Philip Matthews 2023

The passes came in the morning post, a large white envelope, fatter than they expected. The first surprise for them was the information that they were due to enter at 1945 that evening, which wouldn’t give them much time to get ready. And the other surprise was the instruction in the thick manual that they should pack underwear only, that everything else would be provided as part of the service.

The woman – thorough as usual checking every page for what she can glean – has discovered this sticker on the inside of the back cover of the manual:

PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANIMAS

 The man is perturbed by the misprint, observing:

‘God, they can’t even get that right. Are you sure about this place, Alice?’

And there is something else that bothers him: the manual is in fifty seven different languages – why it is so thick. Two and a half pages for their own language, but one slightly weird-looking language requires many more pages, even though the print is smaller than average elsewhere.

She says, looking back at the door to their bedroom:

‘We can pull out at any time. You know that.’

The best he can do in reply is nod, just nod.

The tram is very crowded at first, rush hour, but most leaving at the railway station on the other side of the river. Then the tram trundles on through the gathering gloom of the evening, all of the remaining passengers getting out in ones and twos at the long succession of stops out through the northern suburbs of the city. Only the two of them are left then, sitting side by side and facing back the way they have come, the tram stopping for the regulation period of time at the last few deserted stops. All the doors sliding open tells them that they are at the terminus.

It is dark by now, the tree-lined road lit at regular intervals by halos reflected among the large leaves of the old trees. Their bag is light, and he can carry it easily, changing hands as required. They walk in silence along this silent road, the darkness as though encroaching out of curiosity to see them pass, a mood of cool interest – as though even the trees themselves might be taking notice of them.

He is especially aware of this curious situation, wanting to draw closer to his wife. But she – as she usually does – simply strides forward, arms swinging, but he does notice that her hands are lightly balled, which is uncharacteristic of her. He says, not looking at her, an access for him in her just now:

‘They will treat us with respect, Alice. We need only make ourselves available to them for the duration of the treatment.’

He doesn’t expect her to answer – most often she does not, though he knows through experience that she does attend to what he says:

‘You know I am too conservative, Ros, for this kind of experience. No, I am not simply humouring you. I accept that it is important for you, though I will readily admit that I don’t know why or how.’

He’s surprised to find that her open admission does unnerve him in a novel way. Only now does he realise that he has depended upon her habitual reticence for much of their married life. The image he has is quite strong: he is like a tree that blows in the wind, while his wife is the ground that accepts all that falls from him –flowers, fruit and leaves.

Oh, he wants to reply, but he knows instinctively that she needs no answer. Her admission is an act of love, so valuable because so rare for her to open to him like this. Instead, the impulse of love enters him like a dart of fire, illuminating so clearly the fragility of his own soul, how it does flutter in a world he knows now with certainty is alien to his very being.

How strange love is, he sees: the beloved at once so close and yet so far away.

Underfoot, the roadway has become a gravel track, the lighting weaker like the yellow glimmer of old candles. The effect on him is peculiar: the feeling that he has crossed a boundary into another land. He should fear this, for him a transgression, but instead there is the feeling of relief, a child-like sense that a parent – father rather than mother – assures his security here. Even the woman seems to sense this, for she says to him, still intently studying the trackway ahead:

‘Uncle Adam told me once that a man needs fly only once. Just a second even would do.’

He doesn’t know what she means by this, but he does feel a curious kind of relief, like how as a child he had moved through the world with complete trust. So he does reply this time – perhaps the first time he has responded to her in this way:

‘We’re born in flight, Alice. Do you remember that feeling?’

Only after he has spoken does he know that he has presumed upon an intimacy with his wife that they had both hitherto avoided. The exposure does frighten him, but the sight of a red light set above a metal gate directly ahead forestalls what might have been an apology that could only make matters worse for him, at least for him.

Is the gate old? It might be, or it might be just a poor quality construction not well aligned with the coarse grained concrete posts that support it. But there is a bell, white plastic in a tarnished aluminium surround, affixed to the right-hand post.

‘Is this the place?’ he asks, an empty rhetoric that he feels betrays him in some way, so that he hastily adds: ‘It must be: there is nowhere else around here.’ She starts in turn, seems about to reply, then reaches and presses the bell. He is suddenly reluctant, saying on impulse:

‘Why isn’t there a sign? A notice of some kind?’

She darts a look at him, her grey eyes piercing him in the low light, then says:

‘No, don’t ask any more questions, Ros. If there is no answer, we will go home again.’

He sees it in her eyes once again: how his wife is severe because she has never had a way out of herself. Why she can absorb every weakness and hesitation of his so that he can remain steady in his habitual fatalism.

He reaches to touch her hand just as a door opens in the darkness beyond the gate, a quite bright light at once flooding what is a carefully paved roadway extending from the gate to whatever building exists beyond the light.

She grasps her husband’s hand unconsciously, all her attention on the little figure now outlined in the doorway. The sensation that suffuses him is such a novelty that all he can do is look across at his wife’s face to see there the very same release that he feels. A release that drains something from him, something like a stagnant water that has accumulated in him over a lifetime.

The man is old, very thin and with a long pointed nose. The tone of his voice might be querulous or it might just be the tone of a thin old man:

‘Are you early or are you late?’

He checks his watch: ‘It’s nineteen forty seven. We are two minutes late.’

The little man steps back in recoil, flexing the thin fingers of both his hands:

‘You are not the Bigholts?’

She pulls her hand from her husband’s grasp with what is a reactive tremor. He is afraid she might speak out of turn, so he bends towards the little man on the other side of the gate to tell him:

‘No. We are the Allaks, Mister and Misses Allak. We were due here at nineteen forty five. The walk from the tram stop took longer than we expected.’

The little man is nonplussed. He is staring at the ground and shaking his head with what seems like sadness. Then he says, almost a whisper:

‘They had such high hopes, you know. And with good reason too. It’s not often that we can welcome such a dedicated couple.’

He turns away without looking up and walks slowly back along the carefully paved roadway towards the bright light in the doorway.

Now she does call out: ‘And what about us? We have an appointment here, you know.’ And she says to her husband in a lower voice: ‘I hope they are not all that stupid here, Ros. We have such high hopes too.’

All he can do is lower his head, a deep emotion in response to such an unusual plaintive tone in his wife’s voice.

The little man seems not to hear her, his head still bowed, thin arms hanging loosely by his side. He goes in through the door and disappears into the bright glare there.

Husband and wife stand side by side on the other side of the gate, staring mutely at the still open door, at the empty expanse of the white light still issuing through that opening, that illumines the neatly paved roadway that runs in from the gate.

Then a figure in the doorway, the silhouette of another small figure, but obviously female this time. She is gesticulating urgently, her head turning from side to side. They hear her voice, but the language is a strange garble, her tone like a stone on old corrugated sheeting.

It takes them some minutes to realise that she is gesturing to them to come in, and to do so with some urgency. They are confounded, of course, and he calls out, with his habitual politeness:

‘But we cannot get through this gate, miss.’

Does she understand him? Perhaps, or perhaps she loses patience, for she suddenly scuttles forward on what are surprisingly long legs for such a short woman, down the tidy pathway and pulls the gate open with a very firm wrench. Then she scuttles back up to the doorway, not stopping to see if they follow.

Yes, they do hesitate, the kind of people who expect routines to be followed: gates to be locked, entry of strangers to be closely checked. But the gate is open wide now, the little woman already in the doorway again, in the course of turning round to watch them approach with careful steps, side by side so closely. And it is only when they are near to her that she extends her right arm – also surprisingly long on such a little woman – to indicate that they should bear left now and follow the smooth pathway into the darkness there.

Then she disappears into the light beyond the doorway, the door closing immediately in her wake.

It is pitch dark now. Really dark. The other thing, which the man notices first, is that it is also perfectly silent. Absolutely no sound whatsoever, no stirring wind, clatter of tiny insects, night birds, hunting beasts or their prey. As for the darkness: no stars above, no glow of the city on any horizon, not the faintest glimmer anywhere.

She says, just as the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with the sense of weirdness:

‘This is a strange place, Ros.’

And they both look back towards the now open gate, a nostalgia for the red glow that should be there. Yes, they can see the gate, a curious glinting, but no red light, in fact no lighting down that way at all.

And she says further, her voice surprisingly intimate in the dark:

‘Should we go home, Ros, do you think?’

He finds that they are still holding hands, her hand as cold as his own. This surprises him now: what he has always seen as his fatalism – his willingness to let things happen without trusting they will benefit him or his wife – in fact might be a kind of unfashionable courage. He understands just now that it might be actually harder to let things happen, rather than follow the more common notion that we should always work to be in control.

Even so, he still thinks he is foolhardy to say to his wife, as he does:

‘No, Alice. We are here now. Let us find our way along this path and see where it takes us.’

And it is like a miracle for him that she responds by squeezing his hand in reply. And yes, it is a more than sufficient reply.

This he senses after only two steps along the path, telling his wife:

‘Feel the joins of the paving, Alice, especially where four of them meet.’

And this they do side by side, measuring a pace from the junction of tiles here to the next junction. And step by step they go in the pitch darkness, hand in hand like proverbial babes in some wood.

How far will they walk in this manner? What do you think? Will go on till some other door opens, till some other weird creature will reveal itself to them?

How strange it is to walk in total darkness, total silence. He finds that he exists solely because he is holding someone’s hand, and that what exists is little more than a being that in a sense can exist only because he can hold his breath should he want to. Yes, that strange. And he does prove this to himself by actually holding his breath – while still walking side by side with his wife. The experience itself lasts only a few seconds: he finds that he is here and yet there is nowhere too. How strange that experience is: to be somewhere and nowhere at the same time.

He might be frightened by the madness of this experience, but just then it is as though a hatch is drawn back to his left so that a broad beam of intense white light shines out into the darkness. And a shadowed head appears in the opening and a voice asks:

‘Are you the Allaks? Mister and Misses Allak?’

It is the woman who responds, turning at once towards the light, reacting so quickly as though she had expected this intervention:

‘Yes, of course. We are the Allaks. We have an appointment here at nineteen forty five this evening.’

The being in the light is bobbing rapidly for some reason, light hair flowing in the wake of this movement sparking in the light:

‘Do you have passes?’

It is the man who responds now, letting go his wife’s hand and rummaging in the bag with his freed hand for the large envelope. But the woman says in any case, her voice severe:

‘Of course we have passes. Why do you think we are here now? Can you please arrange to get us in out of this darkness?’

The man has found the passes – the squares of stiff board unmistakeable – and is now hurriedly drawing them from the envelope and then from the bag. The being in the light is meanwhile saying, voice pitched painfully high:

‘You must understand that your entrance here is most unusual. You should have been directed to the Main Entrance, where Reception is and where the staff is trained in these procedures. You have already caused quite a good deal of fuss. Mildew, for instance, is already quite exhausted and he only returned from Abeyance at the beginning of this Cycle. You should be grateful that Perria showed the initiative that she did, otherwise you would be still stranded out by the gate, with the chaos spreading unchecked.’

The man intends handing the passes in through the opening, but his wife checks him with a sharp gesture apparent in the glow of light from the opening, and says bitingly in reply:

‘Your organisation made this arrangement with us. You should have been better prepared for our arrival. As it is, the little man who first approach us seems an obsessive incompetent, and as such a very poor example of both the quality of organisation here and of those who staff that organisation.’

The man meanwhile has held the square passes up into the light, shaking them slightly to attract the attention of the silhouetted being in the lighted hatch. But that being is already in the throes of a curious excitation, what seems a long tongue slicking in and out of his mouth, a thin hand with very long fingers stroking the side of his face with an agitated force. He is saying, many of the words repeated – as though he is constantly forgetting what he is trying to say:

‘We are adequate within reason – reasons that are seldom needed, I may add – and can accommodate even the most delusional – that is deluded by fantasies of good fortune or even rewards – that ever inwardly can only appease the most benighted souls – even if such traffic were permitted at nightfall…’

This could go on, it seems, for a long time, but the man steps forward and thrusts the passes in through the hatch, holding them up close against the being’s dark face, saying with the edge of temper:

‘Here are your passes. Please arrange now to bring us in out of this hideous darkness. At once, if you will.’

And his wife steps forward too, right close by her husband’s side, she staring balefully at the being.

There is what has to be a squawk somewhere in behind the being in the hatch, which is followed almost immediately by a new, and much broader, beam of the intense white light shining out into the dark a little way beyond the hatch. It is a door, a narrow door admittedly, but both husband and wife do not hesitate: they hurry forward and in through that doorway.

The door closes immediately at their back and they find themselves in a narrow passageway – but the ceiling curiously high – which extends forward what seems a very great distance. But what us most remarkable is this: what had seemed an intense white light shining out into the dark, is here a very low light reminiscent of old candles. Very curious indeed.

No matter. They are indoors now, low light in fact welcome, and preoccupied so much with relief that they haven’t noticed yet that there seem to be no doors set into the wall on either side. They are walking forward, he in front – if only because the passage is too narrow for them side by side – while she is rapidly recovering her more habitual composure. And comes the moment when she calls on him to stop. Adding:

‘Where do we go now, Ros?’

Asked, they at once notice that there is a very fat woman approaching them along the passageway, both her hands raised before her, palms outwards as though warding them off. She says in a heavily accented voice:

‘Velcoming to the aboding, my very good friends. Ve vill have beds for you just now if you vait with me here.’

The woman is sweating profusely, beads of sweat standing on her prominent breasts, an unpleasant odour emanating too. The man says, visibly recoiling at the sight of her:

‘Yes, that would be very welcome, madame.’

He wants to say more, but his wife has thrown him a sharp glance, thus allowing her to add:

‘If you might expedite this matter, we would be very grateful, for it is quite late now.’

And the fat woman does jerk visibly at the tone, saying in a wet flushing voice – like stepping on a plastic sponge full of a soft sticky substance:

‘Lateness is always to be avoided, that we were taught at school when so much younger than now. Ve alvays try to get ahead of lateness when the occasions permit this.’

Now there is a ringing tone and a soft very feminine voice announces – coming as though from the ceiling high above:

‘Bedding is to purpose now, Kastinit. Will you permit the guestings to pass through you to the bedding room to rightwards. Yes?’

Obviously literally intended, the fat woman become apparently transparent, so that the man and the woman can see that there is now a door in the wall to the right a little way beyond where they stand. They think nothing of striding forward in close step, the man in front still, through the fat woman and in through the door which swings open for them even as they approach. They don’t even have to close the door behind them, for it swings shut with no sound at all. Then it disappears.

The room is very beautiful indeed. Drapes many-hued lining the walls, the bed surprisingly large, soft grey blankets and pale yellow silken sheets, a hand basin and toilet bowl in the far corner. The light is still old candles, the source seemingly somewhere in the high ceiling though not immediately evident to them.

The woman looks at the man and says:

‘I would cry, Ros, if I thought it would serve.’

He nods consolingly, seeing how his wife handles helplessness as she always does: the purest resignation that never fails to fill him with the most benign affection. So he says, as he always does on such an occasion as this:

‘Patience, I think, Alice, will better serve us tonight.’

And so it is. They undress, letting their clothes fall on to the carpeted floor, and he cleans his teeth while his wife uses the bowl. Then his wife cleans her teeth while he uses the bowl, they standing side by side, both staring at the bright red hanging that lines the wall just there, both equally stupefied by shock.

Then they lie side by side under the soft blankets, the silken sheets like honey against their naked flesh. Curiously, neither seems aware that they are naked: that they have never seen each other fully naked before. And even more remarkable is the fact that the woman says, in a quiet voice unusual for her:

‘Would you like to couple with me, Ros?’

The man pauses before replying, taking the moment to consider what she has proposed. Then he says in an equally quiet voice, the words resonant in his throat:

‘If you wish it, Alice. Though for my part, I fear I may be too distracted to provide you with complete satisfaction.’

She too pauses now before replying:

‘Then perhaps you might wish to hold my hand again. That would please me very much.’

He finds her hand easily enough, it lying flat and open awaiting his hand. They lie side by side, eyes closed, the old-candle light a comfort even so. It is a while before the woman speaks again:

‘Do you remember the first time we met, Ros? That day the horse bolted on the Zickawaski farm?’

He squeezes her hand with a sudden dart, saying meditatively:

‘You wore a blue dress, loose, that fluttered in the warm breeze. You looked so fresh and relaxed. All I wanted to do was look at you for the rest of my life. It seemed a futile wish at that moment, but I looked closely at you for as long as seemed polite in order to deepen my memory of how you appeared to me then. It is true that Jukers told me that you could be very cross if your wishes were not met exactly. I believed him, but even so I thought it would be worth suffering your wrath if only I could exchange one word with you.’

Now she squeezes his hand, so that he falls silent and she can continue instead:

‘And I thought you were so careful with me. Do you know what I thought then, looking at you that first time? I knew you would always give me space. Should I explain? Even as a very young child I felt that the world pressed in on me, that it wanted to demand more of me than I was willing to give. Yes, I was thought wilful and domineering, but all I wanted was an openness that would allow me to see. Is that strange? What did I want to see? Until I first saw you I could not have explained that curious desire. And what did I see that morning? I saw you, Ros, and in seeing you I actually felt I was seeing myself for the first time in my life.’

Her voice fades slowly into the night, or so it seemed to the man. He finds he is crying, his tears the vain hope that he will see her true. He wants her to go on talking through the night. And she must be in tune with him, for she says:

‘You, know, Ros, how I see myself with you? Like I am a flower and you are a bee. Who would believe that of me? I carry very old bones, and as though crumbling slowly through my life. And yet I am a colour when I am with you. And you come to see me, flying so high and true. And you have only one sting, only one chance at whatever that sting does. And what is a flower but an opening? And that is how I feel about you, Ros, able to hold you in for as long as it takes.’

She is right, as he always finds out: he can go in as deep as he wants and yet find that she is always just before him, smiling so patiently. Her body is surprisingly soft already, like a long hosepipe, working both ends at the same time, kissing like a subtle explanation of what they were really doing. And yet he can say at length:

‘You are what marble longs to be. Where angels comes from when they fly away. Beauty is within: it is its glow that we see from outside. If your womb could earn your trust, how would that suit you? Up or down? I’ll tell you what you would experience. What your womb produces is never as good as me, as you well know. You see? Do you want to be in a man in the way that the man wants you? You would lie on the softest cushions, gold on your feet, your breasts such mounds of promise. Or do you want the man to be in you the way you want him to? He would have turned and smiled so silently to you.’

The night is very soft, he finds, a surface of grace abed with love so yielding. Where is the surface? Find love and you will know. No, it is not all sweetness and nice. For love you must burn, inside out: like looking behind you again. It means pain here, real pain: the kind that eats into your very soul. That’s love: the soul’s war with the heart: how jealous of each other, rivalry a venting of such a deep love. That’s what it is like for the man: like planets orbiting each other? Do you see? Magnetic balance, like that.

And the woman is thinking. I will say this for him, too: Why can he not see me? I always feel like a picture on a wall when he looks at me. And what