A Fable About Colour

He rose from his bed on the floor and cleaned his teeth. Then he made himself a modest breakfast of fried eggs, a sausage, a fried tomato and some mushrooms. He had his breakfast with tea. He had a shower, got dressed and went out.

The moment he stepped outside his door his day was altered. He met a neighbour who, nodding in response to his greeting, gave him a suspicious look. With that look the day changed. Already, by virtue of being seen, he was presumed guilty of something. He was never sure what. As he went down the stairs this sense grew more concrete. It happened even when there was no one looking. By the time he got to the front door he was cautious. And by the time he had stepped out into the world he was a little timid. But he tightened his inner armour.

The air seemed to make him walk a little more stooped, as though it were pressing down on him with invisible weights. With a conscious effort, he made himself a little taller and stood straighter. He had barely left the house and entered the world but already he felt weary from the accumulated weight of the other days.

He went past people who barely noticed him. They barely noticed him but they swerved to avoid him. He felt, as he walked down the street, that something about him preceded him. It went in advance of him in all directions. Boys on their way to school peeked at him curiously.

At the bus stop people stood away from him. In the bus no one sat next to him, though the bus was full. There was much traffic and the bus moved slowly. An inspector came on board and went through the bus looking for the faces of those most likely not to have paid their fare. The inspector saw him and stopped.

“Your ticket please.”

Black brought out his bus pass and the inspector checked it against a machine thoroughly. He did it twice and reluctantly gave the pass back to Black, seemingly unable to believe that his suspicion had not been confirmed. Black had expected that the inspector would choose him for inspection. He chose no one else. Black expected it because it happened every time.

He disembarked from the bus when he arrived at the stop from which he walked to the area that would be his office for the day. It was a fairly long walk, and it gave him a chance to stretch his legs after being seated on the bus and to get some air. The air wasn’t much good, as it was always contaminated with the fumes from buses and cars. But still, it was nice to see the colours of the world, the buildings and the streets, and people on their way to work in all manner of official dresses and clothes.

In spite of the fact that he felt often as if he were invisible, Black liked looking at the world. He liked looking at people and at things. He liked shopwindows. The shoes people walked in interested him. The cut of people’s clothes and how they fitted within them absorbed his attention. He liked to watch how people walked, how they carried themselves, and above all he liked to study people’s faces. For him, the faces of people were the most interesting landscape in the world. He often made surmises from faces. He analysed them, wondered about them, made swift deductions about their lives and who they were, and often contemplated whether they were happy or not.

The faces of the world often made him feel that the world must be a difficult place for people, regardless of how successful or how poor they were. Faces told him so much. They were maps to a secret history. He had learnt how to read those maps. He had learnt how not to look at the obvious things, like beauty or youth or even freshness of skin. He had learnt to see the invisible signs on the map, the signs of fear and anxiety, of doubt and weakness. It was because he had learnt to read the signs on the map of faces that he had managed to survive. With a glance he could often read what he needed to know about a person, what they hid, what they projected.

He watched faces from inside his face. From inside the armour of colour. When he was younger, it was not an armour. It was a burden. It caused him no end of trouble. It got him picked on. It got him ignored. It got him arrested. It got him lonely. It got him without promotion and for long periods without a job. It got him passed over. But it also taught him to survive. It gave him a unique vantage point from which to study the world. As the years went past, he came to realise quite slowly that instead of being a burden it had turned out to be his greatest blessing. But it was a blessing that had its inescapable troubles. They were troubles he had to cope with every day. The years had taught him how to cope with them.

Because of the armour he had a steady place from which to study the world. He noticed that he had a fluidity in the world because of the colour. Sometimes it was an armour. But sometimes it was a camouflage. Many years ago he realised that he could pass from one kind of person to another seamlessly, without anyone noticing. He could be many people. It was one of the great liberating discoveries of his life. But it was a discovery that came slowly. It came dimly, from within what he thought was the confines of a life, the confines of colour.

It happened entirely by accident. He had been sent to meet someone at a station. He waited on the platform. While he waited, several things happened to him. The police came to him to move him on, supposing he had no right to be there. The police came again to demand his identity, supposing that he didn’t have one. Then the police came again to arrest him for a crime that, as it turned out, someone else, of a different colour, had committed. In the process, he did not manage to meet the man he was scheduled to meet and bring to his hotel. And as a result, he was fired from his job. And because he was fired from his job he became homeless. But then it occurred to him to continue his life as if he still had his job, as if he had been sent to the station to meet someone and had indeed brought that person back to his hotel. So every day he would wear his suit and his white shirt, which he washed every evening in the fountain at Trafalgar Square, and he would go to the station to wait for the man.

One day, in the course of waiting, he was taken for someone important who was being waited for himself.

“Are you Mr Arthur?” a young lady of a different colour said to him.

“Yes,” he said.

“We’ve been waiting for you a long time. Please follow me. Your taxi is waiting.”

He followed the lady to the taxi.

“You will take the taxi to the Mayfair Hotel, where you will be met.”

“Will you not travel with me?”

“No, sir. You are much too important for that.”

He got in the taxi and was driven through a light London traffic, past sights that he had seen from his endless walks, to the Mayfair Hotel. A liveried concierge opened the door for him and led him into the lobby as if he were a potentate. He was not there long. During that brief moment of waiting he managed to look around. It was the most luxurious-looking interior he had ever seen. He glanced down at his shoes. They were still black, though a closer scrutiny might have revealed a crease running horizontally on the right foot. The concierge had gone to the desk and been handed the room keys and come back. He signalled to someone. Then he went to Black.

“It is your usual suite, sir. We are having your luggage brought up. Have you had a good journey, sir?”

Black looked at the concierge, who stood at a respectful distance outside the lift. Then he nodded.

“Your easy style always fools us, sir. But our agent recognised you this time from your calm manner. We thought we’d lost you.”

The lift arrived. It was lined with velvet. The concierge indicated to Black that he should step into the lift. Black stepped in. The concierge pressed a button and skipped back out before the door shut.

“We’ll meet you upstairs, sir.”

The door shut and the lift rose noiselessly. There was a pleasant fragrance of tradition and money in the lift. In what seemed like no time, the door opened. The concierge came out of another lift with the luggage and led him to a room nearby and opened the door and nodded for Black to go in. Black stepped into the largest and most sumptuous room imaginable. It was not one room but a suite of rooms. The main one was furnished as if for a king, with its plush red sofas and the rich cluster of chandeliers, the soft thick carpet and the large clean windows overlooking a vast park with oaks and sycamores. The slippers and bathrobes in the bathroom were monogrammed. There was a dewy bottle of champagne in a bucket full of ice and the most delicious set of snacks on the round burnished table.

While he was studying the room, the concierge came in with his luggage. Without a word he began to unpack it and hang up the clothes. He opened the champagne and poured a glass. Then he called down to room service to have a certain favourite meal brought up to the room because Mr Scanton, as he was called, would be ravenous from his long journey.

“I have ordered everything for you as you like it, sir. Will you be coming down later?”

“Why not?” was all Black could bring out.

The concierge lingered by the door, as if half-expecting another request.

“And one more thing,” Black said. “Can you have them bring up fifty thousand pounds in cash? Have them put it on the room.”

“Will that be for the game, sir?”

Black stared at the concierge without saying a word. He had learned fast that everything had happened to him without his saying a word. There was no need to change now. The concierge understood his silence, gave a hidden smile, bowed and glided out of the room.

Black immediately had a bath in the tub that was so elegant and big that it seemed designed to be lived in, not bathed in. Black had himself some champagne while he bathed. The edges of the bath were filthy with the weeks of muck that came from the unwashed grease of his body. Then he cleaned his teeth and brushed his hair and oiled his skin and proceeded to investigate what was in the luggage. He found new underwear, trousers, shirts, socks, and shoes, all of the very highest quality, all monogrammed, and all fitting him perfectly. Slowly, and with muted pleasure, he became Mr Scanton.

In the luggage he found a picture of Mr Scanton with a beautiful young lady of ivory complexion. Mr Scanton seemed cautiously happy. Black wore his clothes, right down to the elastic braces that held up his trousers. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he could not believe that he had ever been someone else.

The dream that was Black faded. The reality that was Mr Arthur Scanton stood before him.

He had two more glasses of champagne, polished off the delicious finger sandwiches and the fine little madeleines and washed it all down with another glass of the smooth, clean, faintly fruity champagne. Then he went and stood at the window and looked out over the park. This life had been handed to him without a single request on his part. It was a good life. He had never known that such a life was possible. He was going to live the life as long as the life chose to live him. He felt sure that at some point in the day he had walked into a dream. There was never any need for him to wake up from it. If the dream came to an end by itself then he would wake from it. But only if the dream ended itself. Otherwise he was going to go on dreaming it.

He had always known that such a life was possible to him. He had always known that fabulous wealth was going to fall into his lap without his having to lift a finger. But those were idle fantasies with which he whiled away the difficulties of time. Sometimes, though, the fantasies were not idle and it seemed as if they were true already. Now, standing at the window, fingering the fine material of the thick curtain while looking out over the park, he began to feel that the fear of poverty that he’d had all his life was something he was going to have to overcome.

The doorbell rang, pulling him away from the curtain. He sat in a nearby sofa and felt himself sink into its softness. The doorbell rang again briefly. It was the concierge, returning with a bundle in his arm, which he put on the table.

“You have to sign for it, sir.”

“All right,” was all Arthur said, for he was now Arthur.

The concierge stood there a moment, waiting. Then, somewhat perplexed, he made to leave. But Arthur stood up abruptly, which made the concierge pause. He went over to the bundle, tore it open delicately, and regarded the crisp notes. He peeled off five hundred pounds and went over to the concierge and handed them to him.

“Make sure you look after me,” he said. “I don’t want to be disturbed. Keep the others from me.”

“The others, sir?”

“That’s right,” said Arthur, mysteriously. “The others.”

The concierge immediately understood.

“Will you be coming down for the game?”

“In a minute.”

“Thank you for this, sir. You’re even more generous than usual.”

“It’s our little secret,” Arthur said, and went to the table and poured himself some more champagne.

“I could have done that for you, sir.”

Arthur nodded. The concierge realised he was being dismissed and bowed out of the room. When he had gone, Arthur divided up the money to put into different pockets. He noticed among the things laid out from luggage that there was a fawn-coloured hat. He wore it and instantly his transformation was complete. He polished off the champagne and, taking up his room key, a card, left the room. He took the exclusive lift down to the ground floor, where he found the concierge waiting for him.

“Are we ready, sir?” he said.

Arthur nodded again. The concierge led the way through the lobby, through a secret door that was padded and green. The door closed quietly. They went through a corridor lit with a purple light. The carpet underneath their feet was plush. At the far end of the corridor, they heard the orchestration from a Monteverdi opera. Then the voices came on, singing in their haunting tones. For most of the walk, the concierge had been silent. As they neared the room at the end of the corridor, he paused and said:

“None of the usual people are here. But there are some big hitters.”

“Where from?” said Arthur.

“The Middle East, Australia, France. There’s an oil tycoon, and a chap who made a billion in Silicon Valley.”

Arthur whistled. It was a good whistle, almost professional.

“I’ve never heard you whistle before, sir.”

“Secret skills.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s the game today?”

“Whatever you choose.”

“Keep the champagne coming.”

“You usually have water or nettle tea.”

“With these big hitters? No, I intend to have fun.”

“Fun, sir?”

“Yes.”

“You always say it’s business.”

“Then it’s about time that business was fun.”

“Yes, sir. That sounds about right to me, sir.”

“You bet it is.”

They found themselves in a spacious room with a domed ceiling, low chandeliers, padded walls and a large octagonal table around which people sat in deep shadow. Faces could not be made out. The chandeliers gave out no light but seemed only to add to the mystery of the place. The men and the lone woman round the table lifted their heads when he came in. They took him in briefly and then lowered their heads again.

“I forgot to tell you about the woman, sir,” the concierge whispered.

“Who’s she?”

“Millionaire daughter of a famous —”

“I can hear you talking about me,” the woman said, her voice smooth, airy and intelligent.

“Only with admiration,” Arthur said, taking his seat opposite her.

“Is this the charm before the kill?” she said.

“If you need me there’s a button just beneath the table, near your left arm,” said the concierge, bowing as he left.

“We thought you weren’t coming,” a voice said from round the table, a deep, slightly irritable voice.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Arthur said.

“Shall we begin?” said another voice, younger, more eager.

The game began. It was a card game. Arthur recognised the rules almost immediately from his wasted youth, in which he had indulged in every known gamble known to man or woman. But it took him some time to warm up. During that time, he was pretty astounded by the level of betting and the quality of aggression in the playing. The woman was the most aggressive of all. It was as if she had something to prove. And she seemed to be proving it. Proving that she had the right to be there. Her aggression seemed to pay off, too. She won big hands.

“You guys shouldn’t be soft on me because I’ve got boobs,” she said, “because I will take you all to the cleaners without the slightest hesitation. Give me your best game. They say you guys are the best, so don’t hold back. Give me your best shot.”

This appeared to spur on most of the men, but to little effect. She went on beating them. She made hundreds of thousands in a short time. She was glowing in it, but trying not to show it, trying not to gloat. It seemed so easy to her. But she didn’t notice that Arthur wasn’t betting much. He was silent. He wasn’t saying much, either. Something about the way he sat made them not really notice him. He was right there with them but was also a little invisible as well. He didn’t have to do much to be invisible. He made himself a little smaller, that’s all. And made sure his thoughts weren’t loud. He’d learnt early on that people broadcast themselves too much. Too much chatter coming out of them. You can feel it just by looking at people. He kept calm and still, and whenever any of them round the table addressed him he gave a meaningless grunt or said something inconclusive.

“Sure is hot.”

“What was that?”

“With weather like this...”

“Did he say something?”

“Huh!”

Then their minds would drift off him and focus on where the money was going, which was usually to the woman. It seemed she had the place sewn up. There was a look of power and confidence about her now. Arthur noticed that she was less beautiful the more she won. He wondered about that. How could that be? It should be the other way round. Then he realised, in a flash, that winning was new to her. That she had only just figured it out and it was altering her whole psychology, taking her away from herself, into a new place where she didn’t know how to be or how to control her new certainties. It was at this point that Arthur decided to enter the game. He began by allowing himself to lose first. He deliberately lost some big hands. He gave the impression of incompetence, which confirmed, he guessed, the secret impression they had of him anyway, without him having to do anything. In this way, they paid less attention to him. And by now he pretty much knew how they all played. He knew their stratagems, knew what they thought about one another, and, more crucially, he knew what they thought about themselves. And they were all wrong, Arthur realised, in their self-estimation. It was where losing began. With wrong self-estimation.