30 Henry
differentiates between two types of suffering
"Heeave. This is worse than Vaaljapie. What is it?
It tastes completely vrot."
Mike de Jongh's pronouncement on their blended beverage
gave rise to the name "Vrotters". Vrotters was a mixture of
cheap white wine, preferably on the dry side, and cheap fortified red
wine, like Old Brown Sherry or Jerepigo or Muscadel. The mix was approximately
three quarters white to a quarter red, depending on the need.
"This is poison. This stuff will destroy your brain
and your liver. All this drinking and dagga rooking, it's pointless. I
mean, where's your self-respect? Where's this going to get you?"
"Sometimes we add a shot of brandy too. You should
try it; gives it a nice kick, blurs the vision, kills the pain. Mr Fuckit,
tell Mr de Jongh about the pain and the search for euphoria."
"Glad to oblige. Anything to dispel darkness, enlighten
the ignorant." Henry pushed back his kitchen chair, stretched his
legs straight before him, crossed his ankles and folded his arms. "My
dear Michael, allow me to begin by asking you a question. Have you, in
the course of your training in the pulling and stopping of teeth, have
you come across the term "pain threshold"? Ah, I hear no verbal
response but I detect from the sullen glower that has replaced your customary
expression of vapid earnestness that you are indeed familiar with this
concept and that you wish me to get on with it. Very well. Some people
are more sensitive to pain than others. The pain with which you deal in
your trade is the physical, neurological type produced when pathologic
disintegration and dissolution of tooth enamel and dentine take place,
eventually causing inflammation of the dental pulp. The dental pulp contains
vascular, connective and nervous tissue, as you are well aware, and when
this pulp becomes inflamed you know all about it in the form of raging
toothache. It can be intermittent, sharp, throbbing and shooting, or it
can be gnawing and continuous. Whichever, whatever, it's fucking painful
and it's caused by caries. But please remember this, Dr de Jongh, and
when I say 'doctor' I see you standing above me, instruments gleaming,
so smart and clinical in your crisp white jacket, surgical mask protecting
you from my stinking halitosis. Doctor, I wish you the
best of luck in a lucrative career, but
please remember that the pain caused by caries, upon which you will found
your material wellbeing, is not like the pain which causes the likes of
Hopper and me to drink this rotgut. No, no, no."
At this juncture Kaye Goldblatt entered the kitchen intent
on making herself a cup of coffee. Mike half rose to his feet and then
sank back despondently. In one hand she carried the library book she was
reading. She was barefoot and wore only the brightly coloured T-shirt
Henry had given her by way of a peace offering after being caught harvesting
one of her Cannabis sativa plants. (For a whole week he had toiled under
the critical gaze of Guinevere, the volatile art student friend of Steve,
transforming his thirty plain white T-shirts into many-hued garments of
tie-dyed splendour.) Henry's eyes went first to the book, Aldous Huxley's
Point Counter Point, then to her breasts, then her legs, and back to her
breasts. Ivor's eyes started at her ankles and travelled slowly up her
legs to the hem of her shirt where they tarried longingly, flicked to
the book, and came to rest on her breasts. Mike's eyes darted about the
room in panic and then fixed themselves on the three-year old calendar
on the far wall. All three men gave some attention to the conjecture that
she was not wearing panties. Henry sat up and pulled his chair in to the
table, Ivor sighed and crossed his legs, and Mike blushed the lovely deep
pink of an Empire rose and broke into a sweat.
"Good morning, Kaye. Good book?" Henry paused
but briefly, well aware that she would ignore such small talk, and continued
with his description of mental pain. "Well yes, quite so, could've
written better, yourself, no doubt. Yes. I was just explaining to our
dental friend here the difference between physical pain and the pain of
consciousness. It's a difficult concept for him, having been trained from
an early age to ignore the possibility of such unpleasant aspects of the
human experience. But please, I fully understand your ennui, having explored
this area already and come to your own conclusions. Feel free to read
your book until the kettle boils and ignore my simple-minded drivel. Now,
as I was saying, Michael…" and once more he turned his attention
to the student of teeth. Kaye put a spoon of coffee in her mug and leaned
back against the sink unit as the kettle murmured into life. Her bust
rested comfortably on her folded arms and she appeared content to observe
Henry's antics while she waited. Strangely, he felt both pleased and abashed
at the same time.
"The pain of consciousness I am referring to, and
the need to assuage it, have been dealt with by the Afrikaans morphine
addict Eugene Marais in his book 'The Soul of the Ape'. You might be surprised
to learn that even baboons are capable of experiencing this selfsame depression,
this existential melancholy, this gnawing sadness and despair that I am
alluding to. It's a combination of futility, boredom and hopelessness.
It can be dispelled by music, poetry, good literature, art - which requires
intellectual effort. It can also be chased into the shadows by engaging
in sexual activity, which, if it involves a partner, can be messy and
complicated. It's far easier to find euphoria and oblivion through alcohol
and opium. This is why we sit here drinking this rotten wine, smoking
our foul pipes. Let me be quite unequivocal about this - our intention
and our desire is drunkenness. Sobriety is too much to bear for more than
an hour or two at a time."
"Bloody spineless lack of self-discipline, if you
ask me." Mike de Jongh got to his feet. "Make an effort and
keep busy. Sport, hard physical exercise: just as good as drink and drugs.
Just as effective against the misery of being human. A marvellous way
to overcome loneliness and longing and emptiness. And thoroughly healthy
too."
This parting statement left the three remaining occupants
of the kitchen somewhat taken aback. Henry's thick lopsided eyebrows were
arched in surprise. He stroked his beard contemplatively. "Well,
I suppose if a baboon is capable of feeling dejected we shouldn't be too
astonished when a trainee dentist evinces familiarity with the spiritual
anguish which afflicts us who are of more refined sensibility. After all,
he is a human being."
"I told you he wasn't a total shithead." Ivor
turned to Kaye who was now pouring hot water into her mug. "I bet
you're as surprised as Henry is. You've always considered him a numbskull,
haven't you?"
"I admit it." She topped up with milk from
the fridge, stirred, and started towards the doorway. "I still think
he's a moron. But I can see I was wrong to be so completely dismissive."
Before leaving the kitchen she said to Henry, "Marais wasn't much
of a scientist and he didn't get very far with his analysis of souls.
Nietzsche and Kierkegaard - they're worth reading."
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