Serendipity – I only recently became aware of the Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935) while watching a YouTube video on modernity in literature. The video mentioned some of my favourite writers of the early C20th namely Camus and Kafka, as well as Pessoa.
Despite a lifetime of reading; pulp, poetry, popular, philosophy (OK, enough alliteration) literature and drama, I’m overwhelmed by the amount of authors I haven’t read, authors of whom I’m not even aware. Therefore, when Pessoa was grouped with other authors I’ve read and love, I had to investigate … and what a story. In fact, before one reads Pessoa, one needs to read about him, his lifestyle and writing habits.
Firstly, Pessoa adopted different personalities under which to write. Instead of simply using a pseudonym, Pessoa became these ‘writers’, each one having individual characteristics, and he coined the term heteronym to explain his system. Pessoa wrote poetry under different heteronyms however, his most famous work is ‘The Book of Disquiet’, unpublished for 47 years after the author’s death. This book is credited to the heteronym Bernardo Soares.
Not unlike his Czech contemporary Dr Franz Kafka, Pessoa spent his working life in an office, burdened by the drudgery of routine, dreaming of writing yet seeing very little success in his lifetime. More information can be found on these Wikipedia sites:
So, the plot … there isn’t one. The book, nearly 800 pages on my online version, is comprised of various musings, ramblings, sketches, observations, poetry in prose, diary-like entries and endless pathetic fallacy; it seems to be always about to rain, to be raining or has just stopped raining.
The style of the book means that one can just open at random, read in reverse order or return to it after reading other books. Personally, I find that I read maybe ten – fifteen pages at a time, although some pages may just contain a single sentence. It’s like poetry, each section is densely packed with meaning and significance; to race through it would be to miss the view and it’s the journey that has the meaning … not simply reaching the destination.
I just wish to add a couple of extracts that appealed to me.
Entry 84 (p. 148 online version), Pessoa quotes the Holy Roman Emperor, Sigismund (1368 – 1437):
“It is told of Sigismund, King of Rome, that when someone pointed out a grammatical mistake he had made in a speech, he answered, ‘I am King of Rome and above all grammar.’ … Every man who knows how to say what he has to say is, in his own way, King of Rome.”
Entry 269 (p. 387), Pessoa, another vociferous reader, refers to Charles Dickens:
“One of my life’s greatest tragedies is to have already read The Pickwick Papers. (I can’t go back and read them for the first time.)
Coincidentally, I am also working my work through the complete Christmas Stories by Dickens, an author I consider one of life’s greatest pleasures.
Meanwhile, while devoting time to focus on Iranian cinema, I watched the 1990 film ‘Close-Up’ by one of the most famous Iranian directors (possibly the most famous outside of Iran), Abbas Kiarostami (1940 – 2016), a filmmaker who uses Persian poetry in his films, and whose styles employs allegory and symbolism.
As with Pessoa, we have a film that doesn’t fit into a neat genre (fiction, documentary, re-enactment). Allow me to explain, and at least with the film, we have a story, if not a plot.
Hossain Sabzian is struggling to make his way, and escapes into cinema, identifying with downtrodden protagonists such as the eponymous ‘Cyclist‘ (1987) by Iranian director Mohsen Makhmalbaf.
On a bus ride, a fellow passenger notices that Sabzian is reading ‘The Cyclist’ screenplay, and asks where she can buy a copy. Sabzian gives the book to her, claiming to be the writer and director Makhmalbaf. From here, Sabzian gets to meet her family, and is invited to their home which he says could be used in a future film.
The pretend director begins examining the house and garden, as if setting up shots. He is almost caught out when he is informed that one of his films has just won a prestigious prize abroad, of which he is ignorant. However Sabzian, thinking very quickly, says that the prize was for the music score, and not down to him. Finally, a reporter friend shows the family a photograph of the real director; the police are called and the imposter is arrested.
This is not fiction; it all really happened.
At this stage, Kiarostami became involved, interviewing Sabzian in prison.
Then, in documentary style, or news reportage, we see the director asking permission for the trial to be filmed, permission which is granted. What differentiates this film is that Kiarostami then got the real-life protagonists to re-enact the situation, from the meeting on the bus to the arrest.
So, it’s not a documentary per se, as the characters are recreating scenes, knowing how they will play out (of course, there are famous examples of documentaries using recreation or the staging of ‘real’ scenes), it’s not fiction or, as is so often seen, ‘based on a true story’ … it is a true story.
To go back to my earlier point, we have story but no plot that is, no psychological motivation for Sabzian’s deception.
One of the sons claims that the fraud was perpetrated in order to ‘stake out’ the house, see what was worth stealing and how to gain entry. Sabzian strenuously denies this. Conversely, there are no doctors to give an evaluation on Sabzian’s mental health. Is he a criminal, acting delusional, or a person in need of help, caught in a delusion that escaped his control ? The audience, like the judge, can only rely on the facts, what happened, not what could have happened.
Thus, although guilty of deception, Sabzian appears contrite and, having no previous record, is pardoned by the Ahankhah family providing he use this opportunity to change his life and become a productive member of society. The film ends with the real Mohsen Makhmalbaf driving Sabzian back to the house to greet the family and apologise.
I hope you can pardon this heavily condensed synopsis of a very nuanced and rewarding film. ‘Close-Up’ is an absolute ‘must see’ film for cineastes and, like all works of art, requires repeat viewing(s).
If I have inspired anyone to look for Pessoa’s work, or to watch the Kiarostami movie, then I can consider this blog a success.
Thank you all for reading – please stay safe and well
Unlike Richard, who had left University more or less spontaneously, Chris had planned his gap year.
He had travelled so many times to London from the Midlands to see concerts and films, or just to savour the atmosphere of a city, that he thought he should live there for a year. He knew about the crowds, the rudeness of people, the near impossibility of making friends not to mention the astronomical cost of everything, but was prepared for this and welcomed the experience, before returning to complete the degree and then to embark on a brilliant career.
He explained this to Richard one Tuesday night in a small, quiet pub they liked near Soho Square. They had decided that it being only a Tuesday, they needed a drink. Debbie was going to join them, but cancelled and although Charlotte did come, she left after fifteen minutes, a fact that Richard vocally blamed Chris for. Chris took full responsibility.
So they were left to themselves and compared notes on their studies and on the whole student experience, both of them expressing severe disappointment and boredom. Both of them had had images of idealised college life, inspired by books and films and they, in their separate campuses, were having an increasingly difficult time reconciling fantasy with reality.
They simultaneously decided to end that conversation and broadened the topic from student life to life in general.
Their tastes in the arts, seemed to be so similar that Richard wondered if Chris was just agreeing to be polite.
Chris kept checking his watch and even ran outside, just to check the name of the pub.
“She’ll be here, soon,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.
And then Melanie arrived. For many years after, Richard was still unsure as to the extent of the relationship between her and Chris.
At that first meeting, she seemed to be just an old friend of his from the Midlands, in town for a few days, but over subsequent meetings, all in pubs or on the way to pubs, he detected that there may have been something deeper. Her manner of speaking to and about Chris showed a certain familiarity. The mocking tone and disparaging comments which alternated with sometimes quite embarrassing compliments, seemed to border on the obsessive.
A further clue may have been the fact that she was transferring to London to complete her art history course, stating that it was the obvious move, with all the galleries and resources in the capital. Richard couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw Chris shudder upon hearing this news. She had already found a place to stay, a place which sounded far better than where either Chris or Richard lived and there was the implicit offer that Chris could move in, but that point hung in the air, unresolved.
Despite her seeming openness, and slightly forced affability, Melanie exuded an air of confidence that veered uncomfortably close to arrogance, especially when the subject of conversation was the arts.
She apparently had seen all the films worth seeing (in her irreproachable opinion), all the exhibitions worth attending, and read all the latest books worthy of her time.
She also continually caressed her short, dyed-blonde hair, as if hunting a stray hair that was causing her irritation, continually talking or drinking or gesticulating. But there was no doubt that there was something very attractive about her and Richard found her very friendly, if a little talkative.
He mentioned this to Chris when they were momentarily alone.
“She’s nice. Can certainly talk.”
“Oh, you noticed. Yes, she has opinions. Whole bloody manifestos. Don’t start her on art, there’s no off-switch. She suddenly turns into back-of-book blurb.”
Richard laughed at this reference to their work, then added, quickly,
“Quite cute, too. You and her … ?”
“She’s like a tap,” was all Chris allowed, obtusely. “Runs hot and cold.”
Before Richard could ask further, Melanie returned and more drinks were ordered and the night blurred into drinking, walking and tube tunnels that seemed to go on forever.
Melanie became such a regular drinking partner that by January, it was taken as read that she would be joining them whenever she was free, which was at least twice a week. The three went to films together, generally those selected by Melanie, the occasional museum and once or twice, money permitting, an Indian restaurant. Chris noticed that when she came to the Fordham’s staff drink, her presence seemed to deter others from speaking to them, so he tried to discourage her, to little effect.
By this time, there had been changes at Fordham’s. Angela and Debbie had both moved on to jobs in publishing, Simon and Ben had simply moved on. Derek, a full timer from Transport was now acting head of Technical and as Richard had requested a department change, he was also relocated to Chris’ section. Work now played a very poor second to ever increasing jokes.
Richard would develop a serious limp every time persistence customers demanded that he go and check the shelves for them. Chris would pretend to be a customer and stand between a genuine shopper and the shelves, blocking their view, whilst keeping a serious, searching look on his face and continuously shifting position to maintain the blockade. They would both try on new accents, a favourite being an invention of Richard, The Cockney, who would appear only when a pompously aristocratic customer demanded attention. The Cockney would normally open procedures by a friendly
“Yes, Squire, what can I do ya for ?” then loudly asking another member of staff to take over as he, “was dying for a slash.” The Cockney would often interrupt transactions, shouting across the shop floor to passing staff, “go git a cut-a-teee, there’s a luv.” which even Chris found somewhat impenetrable. However, Chris was intent not to be outdone, and on one occasion, he came into the staff room, one lunchtime, while Richard was massaging Charlotte. He didn’t have time to pass comment, as he was accosted by the most senior member of staff, an ex-public school type, wanting to know if Chris was, “The vending boy ?”
Gilbert, always dressed in blazer and tie, was having trouble getting a cup of tea. Without a flinch, Chris studied the machine and slowly drew his hand to his chin and nodded.
“I see. Forgive the question, Sir, but did you by any chance use a coin of foreign denomination ?”
“No French Franc ? It’s easily done. You may answer without prejudice.”
“No, I used two ten-pence coins.”
“Twisted or in any way deformed ?”
“Not that I was able to ascertain.”
“Ah, ‘able to ascertain’, I see, I see. I don’t have my tools with me. They’re in the van. OK, you stay here, you stay right here and I’ll be back promptly.”
With that, Chris left, taking his coffee in the second floor staff room. He kept a low profile all afternoon as he realised that Gilbert must, at some point, emerge, and would, he predicted, not appreciate the humour.
One Saturday, Ed brought in two fez hats and dared Richard and Chris to wear them, all day. Without hesitation, they both put them on, with earnest ceremony, and won the dare. There was a tricky moment, when Chris had to deal with an irate customer who wanted to return a book, but had no receipt, and something of an Egyptian stand-off occurred, neither side backing down, until the customer threw the book into a pile and fled the shop, cursing.
There was widespread applause and laughter. Ed stood open-mouthed, and had some difficulty in asking,
“How … how did you do it ? I would have cracked up. Oh, that’s it, you’re the main man, I swear.”
General sounds of concurrence.
“You were so calm, I thought he was going to hit you. When he threw the book. And with the hat on.” Admiration from Sophie, a new girl in Biology.
“It was because I had the hat on. It’s impossible to be angry at someone in a Fez.”
“Really ?” asked Sophie, as if it were a piece of received wisdom that had so far eluded her.
“You saw for yourself,” said Richard, gesturing to the invincible Chris.
Their department became the place to hang out, not least because Chris always brought in a small radio for live football commentary. Every Saturday, Dave from the main desk in General Fiction would pass by around ten to six, and hang out and chat while the scores came in. The rest of the week, he wouldn’t even acknowledge them.
“Our fair-weather friend,” pointed out Richard as he saw Dave coming up the escalators on cue. This time he knew about the fez incident as seemed keen to discuss it. It had been telegraphed all around the shop and everyone was impressed. Everyone, except the manager who summoned Chris to his office the following Monday and gave him an official warning. Chris observed the order of the fez by not mentioning that Richard had also sported the hat, a fact that entitled him to free drinks that night, after they decided that it was only Monday and therefore cause enough for a session.
As spring came, Richard knew that his time was nearing its end, unless he were to be made full time. As that didn’t seem to be in the offing, he began looking around for other jobs and finally got accepted as assistant manager in a small classical record shop in the City. He had a genuine love of Classical music and that along with his experience and ability to improvise quick, impressive answers, got him the position. His happiness was tempered when it was revealed to him that the other candidates couldn’t tell their arias from their Elgars.
The timing coincided with a new, permanent manager in Technical. Nigel was in his late twenties but could well have been late forties in both appearance and mentality. He had been the manager of a bookshop in the Home Counties and acted as if he were manager of the entire Fordham’s, sometimes even referring to himself as Floor Manager, a post that simply didn’t exist.
Naturally, his style clashed with Richard, who was on his last week, and Chris, who had been happy drifting, not being told what to do. He also asked for a transfer, but with his disciplinary record, it was never going to happen. And then the incident occurred that forced the hand of the management and, indirectly, the course of their lives for the next few years.
It was a Wednesday morning in London in spring, which meant it looked like a black and white film. The sky was grey, the roads were grey, the building were grey, the people looked grey. There was a light, persistence drizzle outside, constant and irritating.
Richard and Chris were talking about the film that Melanie had dragged them to.
“She knew who the D.P. was … I didn’t even know what the D.P. was,” said Chris.
“What a turkey. I don’t care how many festivals it won. Megabore.”
Their review was interrupted by a stern-looking customer who dripped onto the desk and looked over his glasses at them with a look of disdain and impatience. Without any introduction, he shouted out the name of a certain book, as if expecting it to be there waiting for him. Chris rose to the occasion.
Adopting a similar expression as the middle-aged man, he walked slowly, yet purposefully out from behind the desk, somewhat in the manner of a somnambulist forced to obey an inner command. He didn’t change his expression once as he told the man, in such a close repetition of his own voice that it startled Richard, to, “Follow me.”
Chris went to the nearest bookshelf and scanned first one, then another and another shelf. Slowly shaking his head, he progressed to the reverse of the unit and repeated his performance. Then onto another unit. And another, all the time, the unwitting victim trailing him and seeming to actually grow in confidence that the book would soon be discovered.
Minutes passed and Chris had covered half of the shop floor and was now busy on the second, but increasing his pace, knowing that timing is all important. Then, without a word, he disappeared down the escalators, never looking back. The man was visibly perturbed and unable to decide what to do, when he suddenly made a dash for the escalators and ran after Chris.
Richard moved over to the window, but couldn’t believe it when he saw Chris on the street below, closely followed by the hapless chap, walking over the side street and into a neighbouring bookstore. Some minutes later, Chris came out and, seeing Richard in the window, gave a thumbs up sign, which slowly sank as he saw Nigel behind Richard’s back.
Several hours later, in their usual pub, Chris explained what had happened in the manager’s office. It had been quick and painless. His pay check was already made out in cash, along with his paperwork. From that moment on, he was free to seek other employment.
“I’ll ask at Warren’s,” said Richard, referring to the new company he was to work for, “but it’s only a small shop. Maybe there’s other branches.”
“Yeah, thanks. I have to find something. I’ve got my rent covered this week, but next week could be troublesome. This,” tapping the pay pocket in his chest pocket, “isn’t going to last long, especially the way you drink.”
As reward for such an impressive joke, Richard insisted on paying, but Chris was having a hard time maintaining the good humour. Richard noticed this, after Chris had gotten up to use the toilet and the way was blocked by a young lady who was kneeling on the floor, showing a crowded table some photos.
“It’s OK, darling, just climb over my legs.” she instructed, and he did so without comment. Not even a subtle wink. Richard thought of a possibility and when Chris returned, he borrowed some change to make a call. He returned, smiling.
“Right, it’s not much, but it’s something.”
“What ?” asked Chris, without enthusiasm.
“Better than nothing. A place to start, Pay the rent, anyway.”
“What are you talking about ?”
“I’ve got you an interview tomorrow at Howard’s. I used to work there, before Fordham’s, so I called the manager and he’ll see you, two-thirty tomorrow. Ask for Mr …”
“Sealey. You’ll like him, he’s a character. Bit of a sergeant-major type and sometimes, to be honest, a bit whiffy. But he owns four stores, so good for him.”
Richard went on to tell about the job, how it would be quite hard, never a chance to sit down and about the type of produce and client.
“You’ll be dealing with Earls and Barons and minor members of the Royal Family.”
“Oh, yeah. Awfully nice, actually. Charming. Be that as it may, most people are quite polite but you will get those who’ll treat you like shit. You’ll learn humility.”
“And the money ?”
“Yeah, it’s not great, but you get lunch and leftovers. Two-thirty tomorrow. Don’t wear the fez.”
“Thanks. Good advice. Now, I appear to have a fistful of dollars. What shall we drink ?”
The first time Chris met Richard, he was asked for a urine sample. From that moment, their lives began to follow a totally unexpected trajectory.
Richard was impressed by Chris’ ability to remain calm and unflustered, while Chris was relieved to find someone who not only shared his sense of humour, but seemingly surpassed it. The meeting, Chris punned, was a watershed; Richard was literally taking the piss.
Chris had just started working at Fordham Books & Tapes, the company name itself being just one of the many anomalies that he was to encounter. The shop hadn’t ordered any audio tapes for years and was aggressively but unsuccessfully trying to rid the shelves of those dust-gathering relics with ‘two-for-one’ sales, ‘three-for-a-fiver’ sales and so forth.
On his first day, after a brief form-filling introduction by one of the company secretaries, Chris was given the low down on how things really were by Angela, his department head. Her manner, like her clothes and general mien, was down-to-earth, homely (he didn’t want to say ‘frumpy’).
The store was likened to an eastern bloc country, an endless, impenetrable labyrinth whose sole purpose was to confuse and depress. Whatever book the customer wanted would be here, but the exact whereabouts was anybody’s guess. It would never be found, that was everybody’s experience.
Angela went on to joke that not only the Minotaur, but dodos and Japanese soldiers could be encountered amongst the endless miles of shelving. She rather over-did the analogy, Chris felt, but at least she was friendly. The other two men working there had formed their own select clique, and greeted him, one by a half-hearted, “All right ?”, the other with a somewhat begrudging nod of the head.
The first day was confused uncertainty, not being able to discern staff from customer and not being exactly sure what he was supposed to be doing. While Angela unpacked boxes, priced books, checked invoices, Ben and Simon sat and talked, read books and drank coffee. They explained it was pointless learning the names of new staff, as the turnover was so high, nobody could keep up.
Angela suggested he familiarise himself with the stock, so Chris walked around, wondering what use his Physics course would be in the Technical Department which covered such diverse subjects as ergonomics, DIY, Geography and concrete. A whole wall unit, shelf upon shelf, about concrete.
As he was trying to create the barest semblance of appearing to know what the job entailed, Chris saw a tall, dark-haired man approach Angela. He appeared to be asking for something, then began making a buzzing, humming sound, miming the use of the desired apparatus.
“Yes, I know what a Hoover is.”
“I didn’t want to imply that because you’re a woman, you would automatically be au fait with items of domestic usage.”
“Well, I don’t have it.”
“Have what ?”
Angela merely went back to work and the young man, obviously staff from a different department, moved over to speak with Ben or Simon. Chris had made a point of not learning their individual names.
Three times a day there was a collection from all the cash desks. Two members of staff received metal boxes where bank notes were deposited and brought them down to the basement office.
On the fifth morning of his new job, Chris was behind the till with Ben and Simon, it being Angela’s free day. At the approximate time, two staff appeared for collection and Chris recognised the man who had asked for the Hoover. He handed the box over which the man passed to his colleague, then consulted a clipboard, eyebrows furrowed.
“Ah, yes … you must be … Chris. Good morning, I’m Richard. Would you be so kind as to fill this ?” He handed Chris a specimen jar, then continued, “and I have heard all the jokes before: no you do not have to fill it up to the top, yes, you may take a wee while and so on. There’s a good chap, take it to the manager when you’re done. Problem ? You have been … I don’t believe it. You weren’t told, were you ? I really must have a word with Doris, that’s twice this month. Puts me in a somewhat delicate … Awfully sorry, but it’s company policy to carry out random drug checks. All in the contract. Don’t worry, it happens once, twice, at most.”
Just then the act was spoilt as Ben couldn’t contain his laughter. “You should of seen your face. Looked like you were gonna shit yourself.”
“Then he could have given a shit sample,” added his sidekick.
“Now, now chaps, ladies present and all that, keep it clean. Sorry, Chris. You played along well. You’re a good sport.”
“You really had me there. I was worried because I’ve just been and didn’t think I could go again.”
“He got me with Arabic lessons,” said Simon. Richard elaborated,
“Yeah that was a good one. I pretended that the staff had to attend mandatory Arabic lessons once a week.”
“He was so convincing, giving it all, “Oh, it ain’t much, just a few phrases, ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and counting and ‘no we do not stock it but would be happy to order it for you.’ Bastard.”
Just then Debbie, the poor young lady struggling with all the metal boxes, suggested that they get back to work.
“Why ?” asked Richard, “this is Fordham’s B and T. Nihil fiendo factus. Nothing can be done, roughly translated, the Fordham’s motto and you’d do well to learn it. How’s it working out, so far ?”
“Could be worse. I didn’t expect to be in Technical. Not what I studied.”
“Let me guess. Physical Education degree ?”
Chris was slightly shorter than Richard who was close to six foot, had large, blue eyes, a straight, slightly pointed nose, light brown hair and a very slight build.
“Very good. You’ve heard about the Friday drinks ? No, I’m serious now, right ?” He appealed to Debbie who, while being quite attractive and pleasant, didn’t seem the joking sort. She nodded, adding that Chris should come.
Just before Seven that evening, Chris found himself next to Richard in a local bar. They clinked their beer glasses.
“Didn’t think you’d be a beer drinker, “ said Chris, “thought you’d order a strawberry daiquiri.”
“I had one for lunch.” Richard introduced Chris to the staff that had turned up. Chris tried to catch Debbie’s eye, see if there was any possibility of a work romance, but the outlook wasn’t encouraging.
Richard gave some background, a mixture of fact and gossip and, Chris suspected, fabrication when the truth seemed to lack a certain bite, and he appreciated the effort.
At the moment, there were four inter-departmental romances going on. Ben in technical was seeing a girl called Geri in economics, a situation that Richard loved, but no one else seemed to notice. The pompous head of history was seeing the lovely new Spanish girl who was having a mock war with a young man in Education who was Catalan, who in turn was seeing a much older women in Sociology. Finally, Ed in sports was engaged to Nicola in General Fiction.
Chris and Richard spoke about work. Chris couldn’t believe how lax the shop was. An Italian girl who worked in children’s interjected that at Fordham’s, “You can do work or not do any work and it doesn’t matter.” Richard could only nod in agreement at the sage reflection.
Chris spoke about his first week. He gave his opinion of Angela, very nice, obviously gay (erroneous) and Ben and Simon, obviously idiots (irrefutable.) They all joined in with horror stories about customers.
“Have you noticed,” asked Ed, “that they all say, ‘I’m looking for a book,’ then shut up, as if I have to guess which one ?”
“I always say, ‘ you’re looking for a book ? You’ve come to the right place,’ and they laugh,” said Nicola.
“I always say ‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ but they don’t laugh,” Richard responded. Chris already had a story:
“One customer looked all around and then asked, ‘Where are the books ?’ Have you seen my department ? Books everywhere, even hanging from the ceiling”
“So what did you say ?” a girl from drama asked.
“I said that I wasn’t altogether certain, but that they must be around here somewhere.”
Later, Richard and Chris learnt that they had two things in common. They were both physics students and they both loved a drink. They were the last of the staff to leave and then it was just to find an ATM and another pub.
The next day, the busy Saturday, they learnt another fact: they could both work with dreadful hangovers.