Victor Serge 1

Ultimate token of power: a nightmare provoked by a writer.

            To come upon this remarkable author so late in the piece has been a great surprise. Written in the early thirties, Conquered City was proving as gripping as The Case of Comrade Tulayev, the last of Victor Serge’s works.

            In less than 200 pages, this earlier novel of Petrograd during the Civil War delivers a riveting picture of the upheaval. Presenting the startling brutality was far from the book’s chief strength; but it delivers that too. 

The execution scene that prompted the nightmare harkened back to mid seventeenth century practice, the character relating the episode reflects. On both sides prisoners were routinely executed. Prior to execution the Whites stripped their victims, because clothing was in short supply. This element was retained in the dream.

            In the relevant passage the naked prisoner stands tied to a stake, calmly expecting a bullet. The gathered crowd expects the same. Instead of which the rope that is produced is used to bind the man’s cranium. At the twisting his violent resistance almost has him break free of his tether. With the aid of an axe handle, the tightening rope—slowed to draw out the agony—sears away the top of the victim’s head. Screeching from the women panic the horses; apart from the horse of the drunk chief perpetrator, who retained complete command.

            Much of this Civil War seems familiar from the stories of Tito’s Partizans fighting the Royalists as much as the invader up in the Montenegrin hills during WWII. The complex, intricate argument of the novel, the various conflicting forces and dramatic action, very much resonating. No doubt a large part of its power for this reader.  

            A Montenegrin hillside then, in a kind of bleached colouration. Recently the matter of colour in dreams had been raised in some other context. In conclusion the thought had been that finally dreams were colourless. This instance prompted by Serge proved the contrary.

            A steepling mountain-side seen from some kilometer away. The fall here is not perpendicular: this seemed to come to notice before the action commenced.

           From the remove the only colours apparent browns and tinges of green, as well as light flesh tones. Looking from the sides in Montenegro, particularly within the mountains, this was often the full colour spectrum.

            The scream high up, improbably carrying across the wide expanse. 

Up near the top of the peak some movement was detected, rather than distinct figures. In the scramble the flesh tone emerged.

           A naked man quickly bundled off the mountain side, the form caught in relief as he flew though the air in a seated kind of position—knees bent, straight spine, right side up.

          The velocity of the fall into the abyss soundless and breathtaking. 

Beyond the lower half of the hill the victim was lost from sight. The question of a landing in the water unresolved before an abrupt waking.

            It was not outright horror of this form that was the distinguishing mark of Victor Serge. Serge’s provocations are far, far larger.

Footsteps

The street chap in the Coles supermarket walkway in Balaclava this afternoon without a cap out and no communication with passersby. Belongings strewn around him, including a glass flagon. Thin, late thirties; tattoos, long hair. Desperately lost. Communion with the passersby the only possible reason for adopting that position. No matter he didn’t raise his eyes. No matter they gave a wide berth. Outside the entryway the two public benches where the street people sit drinking were passed over. (Sometimes tourists make the mistake of taking up these seats.) The footpath where beggars regularly camp was likewise declined. Enclosed, white-tiled, mirrored, the walkway created a dramatic, unavoidable encounter. Albeit unacknowledged on either side. From the passing feet the fellow received something. Some little thing. Almost better than coin.

Oz Day

There has been a fair lead-time to the day. From Monday the vacancy around town was noticeable. Many of the building sites had shut. Traffic on the road thinned. The footpaths and shops were empty. Even yesterday quite a few of the shops had closed early. The coast would still be full of holidaymakers. Dads who have had to return to work perhaps driving down yesterday or on the weekend for the finale with the wife and kids, before school re-starts. An extra long weekend.

            This afternoon a single car-flag spotted. (The resurgence of flags in the last 10 years coinciding with Howard’s Prime Ministership, off-shore refugee detention, Iraq & Afghanistan.) A fellow crossing the street in a green and gold sweater. On almost the last turn for home the Pet Supplies place in Ferrars Street had 3 or 4 flags out on the footpath—good for business. The pet clientele would still be largely Anglo in this city, especially for a boutique outlet in South Melbourne.

            Outside sportspeople and politicians, no one knows the words of the anthem. Not many know the significance of the historical marker, re-named Invasion Day by the indigenous people.

            …For we are young and free… Our land is girt by sea…

            ....Our beauty rich and rare...

            Let us rejoice, Advance - Australia - Fair. 

            In the paper this morning a report from Customs and Border Protection regarding the Christmas Island refugee boat last month which had slipped through the detection system. (Forty eight drowned.) The Shadow Minister for Immigration attacking the government for its "chaperone system" for the boat people.

            If the rain-clouds don’t spoil things, BBQ’s the order of the day tomorrow. Beside the barbie in the backyards across the nation the flag might provide the bunting draped on a tree or strung on the clothesline. 

Tennis was big on Australia Day, the TV providing a sideshow on the patio. A pity the locals aren’t up to it anymore. The TV advertising would soar if a local was placed in one of the semis. Slavs taking over now—Russians, Czechs, Serbs, Croats.

Of course a drink was an indispensable part of the day. How else to celebrate? Beer rather than wine and the other mixer drinks. Beer was tradition, the Aussie Digger thing.

            Happy Oz Day.

Reference — City Library

Note-taking from one of the tomes here into his supermarket exercise book. Thin, sharp features, erect thinking pose. Unusually clean for the street, even with the clothes tattered like that—both shoulders of the jumper torn half-off. 

         Sturdy Scandinavian or Slav, though race might recede in cases such as these. When he chuckles at the announcement over the loudspeaker the hint of the inner order seemed clearly confirmed.
         — The special-effects make-up workshop in the first floor seminar room will kick-off shortly, swelling female voice of almost radio smoothness.
         Low and short, but an audible chuckle, given without any lifting of the eyes. 

         There is no opportunity to convey an acknowledgment to the man; nor does he seek it.
         Notes flowing steadily, pauses between the thoughts; at least two or three pages filled in the course of the hour. Quiet, steady concentration. Like the Boozers, he’s crowned with a full head of almost white hair (not older than mid-fifties); chest-long saint or seer’s beard holding more of pepper. Light in the glassy blue eyes undimmed. 

         Pernickety roughhouse autodidacts used to be found in the libraries here only fifteen or twenty years ago.
         It was the second snort that raised the doubt. Another look suddenly showed the eyes dubious. Was that some hollowing? A slight jerkiness every now and then.
         It took a time to cast down from the magisterial visage to the exercise book. 

         This was no fine, cramped hand—a cursory initial glance had given the impression. The entire lined white sheet held nothing other than little squiggled patterns of an inch and a half square, a kind of cross-hatching clustered at various angles and achieved without any swiveling of the paper.
         The switch of eyes to the open page of the book was a blind. No sightline was being taken—there was no focus within the dense source text.
         Some kind of mimicry being acted out. In the hour and more one page after another had been slowly filled. A little flourish in page turning might have given an earlier clue. Was his father a priest? A commemoration of sorts?...
         When the man rose to return the first book to the shelf the spine showed from ten metres. 

         AUSTRALIAN POLITICS. 

         Next the choice fell on the Britannica, before a progression to an information digest on one of the continents.
         With the door closed the piano near the toilets was muffled. A surprise that the quiet reigned here again. A year or so ago the place had become a kind of lounge. In the comfy chairs that have been removed to make way for the influx of foreign students some of the street people had often kipped.