The Nostalgia Differentiaclass="underline"
A Jerry Cornelius Adventure
Michael Moorcock
Jerry Cornelius and his clan return in a “secret history” of Mars,
by way of Texas. In typical Michael Moorcock fashion,
the non-linear story unfurls across time with wry political commentary,
insightful social observations, and abundant musical references.
2013: Shadow on the Wall
Mars was no less attractive from this side of the mountains. Magnificent, oddly biblical, and disturbing. Jerry relished the smell of frying bacon. “These new season shows look good.”
Catherine nodded as she slipped into her place with her plate. “I’m not sure why I thought you were right to take this job.”
“Space!” Her brother gestured with his toast. “It’s getting interesting again.”
He was sincere. He loved Mars. He had always loved Mars. And here he was, camped out beside a canal, one of the fertile belts on a cloudless planet. He and Catherine had always wanted this kind of solitude. They had talked about it long before their father had turned against them. But sometimes, he yearned. His soul craved rain.
“There’s always a chance.” She looked up. Was that a movement? “Before it becomes real, it has to be imagined.”
And soon, the sound of the great atmosphere plant dropped to a pleasant hum. Jerry wondered if it were time for his run.
1933: Walking the Dog
“Every little movement has a meaning of its own, every little thought and feeling by some posture can be shown…” Major Nye hummed a favourite number. Some darling of the halls had performed it in his youth. Slowly, he ran a fond finger over dusty blue and gold spines. “Every little picture tells a tale…I’m sure it was a MacMillan Illustrated Classic. Here we are. You have a wonderful book department. I’d say it’s quite as good as Knightsbridge.”
Mr. Sissons was gracious. Clearly impressed by the major’s Saville Row tailoring, he moved a pale, modest hand, adjusting his pearl grey suit. “So we’re told, sir. Will Snarleyowl be all?”
“Unless you have a My Strudel, is it?”
“We’re waiting for the next printing, Major. With Herr Hitler and his popular ‘pastry cook’ socialists in power, more people are curious. Do you know much, sir?”
“About Austrian cuisine?” Major Nye couldn’t say. He hadn’t realised the chap had other interests. “Wasn’t he in the Battenburg rising? When’s it due in?”
“We can order it for you, of course. Do you live in Buenos Aires?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.” He thought of Vanessa; the Hotel Robinson. “I’d move here like a shot, if I were a free man.”
Mr. Sissons’ smile was discreetly tired.
1944: Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree
They found Jerry cutting cane in the backcountry, north of Rio. They cleaned him up and gave him a pair of boots. He was delighted. They might have been hand-made.
“Don’t worry.” Miss Brunner counted out the bills to the thickset Indian who had reported him. “He’ll be his old self in no time. Look, he’s found a copy of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus already. Fish to water, eh?”
“Fish?” The Indian scratched his head. “Nowhere around here that I know. Not any more.”
But Jerry, mumbling cross-legged from the polished planks of the upper deck, quickly discarded the book and picked another from the pile. Coarse, the pornographic memoir thought to have been written as a kind of sequel to Walton’s Compleat Angler. He began looking through the pockets of his new black pea jacket. “Rod?”
“We’d better be leaving, while we can.” Major Nye adjusted the fraying cuffs of his civilian tweed. “Once he finds the Doré Milton, we’ll never get him off the boat.”
“Is it regression?”
“Not typically.”
With her slender arthritic fingers, Miss Brunner tightened her graying perm. “In politics, one word is worth a thousand pictures. Not so?” She flirted a glance at a freshly, and cheaply, uniformed Captain Pardon. He’d receive a fortune for this help. The old vessel wheezed black smoke and coughed a little circumspectly. The little captain seemed surprised, studying a large chronometer he held in his left hand and making notes with a new pencil on his paper cuff.
“If we left now,” said Major Nye, “we might get to Sao Paulo before the next riot.”
“Are they still upset with the Americans?” she asked.
“Not since they found out the reason for the shelling. Embarrassing, of course.” He moved his mouth in mock disapproval. “Poor intelligence, as usual.” The major remained unhappy about his posting. After Casablanca, it had seemed all downhill until now.
The steamboat made a convulsive movement, then whoever was steering let loose with the whistle. Captain Pardon cursed in French and headed for the wheelhouse.
Miss Brunner shrugged. “Does anyone know where he trained?”
“Marrakech, I think.” The major chuckled forgivingly.
Miss Brunner frowned.
1956: Just Couldn’t Resist Her With Her Pocket Transistor
At first, he thinks it is a dust storm. Then the dust grows thicker. He covers his mouth with his handkerchief. There are stinging pebbles in it now. He lies down and protects his head. He thinks, Jesus Christ, I’m being buried alive! So he forces himself to his knees and crawls on, until at last the storm stops. In the following stillness, he sees a figure ahead, shadowy against the sun. A smiling, bearded face.
A recurring dream. Jerry wondered if the man were his father. The expression was familiar. In the dream, they were so proud to be on Mars, so pleased it looked just like Barsoom in John Carter.
On his 18th birthday, his father pressed Heidegger’s Being and Time at him. “It’s flawed, of course, but also very coherent. Try him.” Jerry had decided he wasn’t a great thinker. And God knew what the drugs had done to his dad’s brain. He drew a deep, relaxing breath. Sometimes surgery was the only answer.
In the following dream, he was crossing an ice-bridge in a horse-drawn sleigh. His sister Catherine sat in front of him wrapped in white furs. Behind them, in snow reddened by the setting sun, sharp black shadows of birches crossed the deep, bleak ruts the sleigh made. The same old cryptograms, each telling a different tale.
“What’s it all mean, Jerry?” his sister asked.
“People are frightened. They simply won’t tolerate the absurdists any more. Not as an audience.” Una Persson, gloriously stylish in her snug greatcoat, spoke from behind, where she was leading her own grey. “And when they’re frightened, they burn a witch. That’s where we come in.”
Jerry was prepared to work with what he had, but it wouldn’t be easy for anyone. Too many dreams, too much delusion, too many illusions. How could he have kept so many balls in the air at the same time?
He awoke with a guffaw.
“What is it now?” Catherine sat up. “Christ, it’s cold.”
Outside the darkness and silence continued to gather.
1967: Lady D’Arbanville
Zurich trams ran so thoroughly on time Una Persson felt faintly disgusted, especially when she attempted to board in her old Belenciaga frock while going through her bag, looking for her fare. She apologised in her pretty German. “Sometimes I have to unpack everything. Just to find the right change.”