Anthony Burgess - The Wanting Seed

THE
WANTING
SEED

Anthony Burgess

W W NORTON & COMPANY

New York London

Part One

One

THIS was the day before the night when the knives of official disappointment struck.

Beatrice-Joanna Foxe snuffled a bereaved mothers grief as the little corpse, in its yellow plastic casket, was handed over to the two men from the Ministry of Agriculture (Phosphorus Reclamation Department). They were cheerful creatures, coal-faced and with shining dentures, and one of them sang a song which had recently become popular. Much burbled on the television by epicene willowy youths, it sounded incongruous coming from this virile West Indian deep bass throat. Macabre, too.

My adorable Fred:

Hes so, so sweet,

From the crown of his head

To the soles of his feet.

Hes my meat.

The name of the tiny cadaver had been not Fred but Roger. Beatrice-Joanna sobbed, but the man went on singing, having no feeling of his business, custom having made it in him a property of easiness.

There we are, then, said Dr Acheson heartily, a fat gelding of an Anglo-Saxon. Another dollop of phosphorus pentoxide for dear old Mother Earth. Rather less than half a kilo, Id say. Still, every little helps. The singer had now become a whistler. Whistling, he nodded, handing over a receipt. And if youll just step into my office, Mrs Foxe, smiled Dr Acheson, Ill give you your copy of the death certificate. Take it to the Ministry of Infertility, and theyll pay you your condolence. In cash.

All I want, she sniffed, is my son back again.

Youll get over that, said Dr Acheson cheerfully. Everyone does. He watched benevolently the two black men carry the casket down the corridor towards the lift. Twenty-one storeys below, their van waited. And think, he added. Think of this in national terms, in global terms. One mouth less to feed. One more half-kilo of phosphorus pentoxide to nourish the earth. In a sense, you know, Mrs Foxe, youll be getting your son back again. He led the way into his tiny office. Ah, Miss Herschhorn, he said to his secretary, the death certificate, please. Miss Herschhorn, a Teutonico-Chinese, rapidly quacked the details into her audiograph; a printed card slid out of a slot; Dr Acheson stamped his signature flowing, womanly. There you are, Mrs Foxe, he said. And do try to see all this rationally.

What I do see, she said with asperity, is that you could have saved him if youd wanted to. But you didnt think it was worth while. One more mouth to feed, more useful to the State as phosphorus. Oh, youre all so heartless. She cried again. Miss Herschhorn, a plain thin girl with dogs eyes and very lank straight black hair, made a moue at Dr Acheson. They were, apparently, used to this sort of thing.

He was in a very bad way, said Dr Acheson gently.

We did our best, Dognose we did. But that sort of meningeal infection just gallops, you know, just gallops. Besides, he said reproachfully, you didnt bring him to us early enough.

I know, I know. I blame myself. Her tiny nosewipe was soaked. But I think he could have been saved. And my husband thinks the same. But you just dont seem to care about human life any more. Any of you. Oh, my poor boy.

We do care about human life, said Dr Acheson, stern. We care about stability. We care about not letting the earth get overrun. We care about everybody getting enough to eat. I think, he said, more kindly, you ought to go straight home and rest. Show that certificate to the Dispensary on the way out and ask them to give you a couple of pacifiers. There, there. He patted her on the shoulder. You must try to be sensible. Try to be modern. An intelligent woman like you. Leave motherhood to the lower orders, as nature intended. Now, of course, he smiled, according to the rules, thats what youre supposed to do. Youve had your recommended ration. No more motherhood for you. Try to stop feeling like a mother. He patted her again and then turned a pat into a slap of finality, saying, Now, if youll forgive me

Never, said Beatrice-Joanna. Ill never forgive you, any of you.

Good afternoon, Mrs Foxe. Miss Herschhorn had switched on a tiny speech-machine; this was reciting-in the manic tone of a synthetic voice Dr Achesons afternoon appointments. Dr Achesons fat rump was turned rudely to Beatrice-Joanna. It was all over: her son on his way to be resolved into phosphorus pentoxide, she just a damned snivelling nuisance. She held her head up and marched into the corridor, marched towards the lift. She was a handsome woman of twenty-nine, handsome in the old way, a way no longer approved in a woman of her class. The straight graceless waistless black dress could not disguise the moving opulence of her haunches, nor could the splendid curve of her bosom be altogether flattened by its constraining bodice. Her cider-coloured hair was worn, according to the fashion, straight and fringed; her face was dusted with plain white powder; she wore no perfume, perfume being for men only still, and despite the natural pallor of her grief, she seemed to glow and flame with health and, what was to be disapproved strongly, the threat of fecundity. There was something atavistic in Beatrice-Joanna: she instinctively shuddered now at the sight of two white-coated women radiographers who, leaving their department at the other end of the corridor, sauntered towards the lift, smiling fondly at each other, gazing into each others eyes, fingers intertwined. That sort of thing was now encouraged anything to divert sex from its natural end and all over the country b1ared posters put out by the Ministry of Infertility, showing, in ironical nursery colours, an embracing pair of one sex or the other with the legend Its Sapiens to be Homo. The Homosex Institute even ran night-classes.

Beatrice-Joanna looked with distaste, entering the lift, on the embracing giggling pair. The two women, both Caucasian types, were classically complementary fluffy kitten answered stocky bullfrog. Beatrice-Joanna nearly retched, her back to the kissing. At the fifteenth floor the lift picked up a foppish steatopygous young man, stylish in well-cut jacket without lapels, tight calf-length trousers, flowery round-necked shirt. He turned sharp eyes of distaste on the two lovers, moving his shoulders pettishly, pouting with equal disgust at the full womanly presence of Beatrice-Joanna. He began, with swift expert strokes, to make up his face, simpering, as his lips kissed the lipstick, at his reflection in the lift-mirror. The lovers giggled at him, or at Beatrice-Joanna. What a world, she thought, as they dropped. But, she reconsidered, glancing covertly but more keenly at him, perhaps this was a clever faade. Perhaps he, like her brother-in-law Derek, her lover Derek, was perpetually acting a public part, owing his position, his chance of promotion, to the gross lie. But, she couldnt help thinking yet again, having thought this often, there must be something fundamentally unsound about a man who could even act like that. She herself, she was sure, could never pretend, never go through the soggy motions of inverted love, even if her life depended on it. The world was mad; where would it all end? As the lift reached groundlevel she tucked her handbag under her arm, held her head high again and prepared to plunge bravely into the mad world outside. For some reason the lift-doors refused to open (Really, tutted the big-bottomed exquisite, shaking them) and, in that instant of automatic fear of being trapped, her sick imagination converted the lift-cabin into a yellow casket full of potential phosphorus pentoxide. Oh, she sobbed quietly, poor little boy.