It was 11:30
Charles Dickens wasn't a new face to the regulars and the bartenders, who usually blended into the background during these Saturday night marathons. The youngsters, however, stared unabashedly at the man; he wasn't one of them. Driven by the sudden urge for a few mugs of lager, he had arrived dressed simply in his jogging pants and a plain white T-shirt. It was a marked contrast to the designer club wear that dominated the scenery. Attention to Dickens diverted quickly, however, as the DJ played a crowd favorite, while the author approached his usual table by balcony, where it was quieter. After settling down, the waiter took his order, and Dickens soon found himself alone with his thoughts . . . again.
He was having another artistic depression. This was the beginning of his sixth run in four weeks. Dickens couldn't understand why it had to keep happening. All he knew was that he was constantly overwhelmed by a feeling of insignificance, despite his roaring success as an author of classic novels and short stories. He usually experienced frustration, followed by a sudden surge of creativity -- as if it would prove anything otherwise. But as of late, he dealt with it with alcohol. Charles Dickens was beginning to believe in the futility of it all, after years of expressing his idealistic dreams of hope in the face of a remorseless reality in his work. No matter, he thought to himself. If no one was going to understand or appreciate him through his work, then he figured it was useless to keep trying to prove himself. He might as well just drink himself into nothingness.
"Dickens, old chap!"
The author looked up to see where the source of the salutation hailed from. It was George Orwell, another author, and regular drinking buddy. Dickens smiled as his friend walked over with his commanding gait and sat down in the seat across him. His beer arrived, and while the waiter set it down on the table, he asked Orwell what he wanted. The author didn't blink as he unconsciously uttered, "Gin."
The two men sat wordlessly as they watched the young people in the club party themselves to a frenzy. Dickens slowly drank his lager, as his thoughts immersed him yet again. He was so deep in thought that he did not realize that Orwell was calling him from across the table.
"Hello . . . hello . . . Dickens! Are you still alive, old man?"
Dickens jolted back to reality as he looked across at Orwell's concerned yet curiosity-ridden face.
"Are you all right?" Orwell asked.
Dickens hesitated, before sputtering with false confidence, "Sure, old chap. Why wouldn't I be?" His eyes went back down and rested upon his mug.
Orwell, the questioning and analytical character that he was, gave Dickens an expression of disbelief. "Oh, don't give me that," he quipped. "Do you realize that you have been going on like this for the past month? Why don't you just spill it out and talk about it?"
No answer.
Orwell sighed. There was no use talking to the man. Fine, he thought. If he wanted to keep it all in and drown himself with alcohol, then he wasn't about to stop him. Orwell believed in the freedom of thought and action. It was what constituted most of work and he was known and marked for it. He decided not to pursue Dickens's dilemma anymore.
Dickens, on the other hand, felt guilty. Orwell was his friend, and he knew that he could trust him with whatever it was he told him. In addition, Orwell was exceptionally critical and rooted his wisdom and philosophies in theories and other ideologies -- a refreshing afterthought from his own pragmatic, real world contexts. Perhaps it would do him a world of good to finally tell someone about it. And what more with George Orwell?
"I am a misunderstood artist. And I hate it."
Orwell looked back at Dickens in surprise. So he finally decided to talk.
"What are you talking about, old man?" he asked. "People understand you and appreciate you. Otherwise, you wouldn't be the success you are now."
"But it's not like that," Dickens returned. "People understand only a few, superficial aspects of my work. They don't care about what I really write about and how I write it. They just care about what mundane, ordinary aspects they can relate to that aren't even relevant."
"Like what?"
"Well," Dickens began. "Take Great Expectations, for example. That was a novel where I wanted to explore the disillusionment of refinement and success to a human being not born in that kind of position. Everything I added in that book was directly related to that, even the little sub-plots, which eventually all synthesized towards the very end. And it was brilliant! I can't deny that, even in my finest moments of modesty. It was perfectly constructed, following a straight, logical, and realistic path of events, as well as set and consistent symbols that lent themselves strongly to those themes. I even developed my characters accordingly. -- "
"So, what are you trying to get at?"
"My point, Orwell, is that no one sees that. No one ever sees Pip's inner conflict or analyzes his attitude and handling of harsh reality, because all they can think about is how horrible it is that Estella is mistreating him. Estella isn't even a three-dimensional character! And, she is the cause and even in some way a result of Pip's dilemma with his stature. She is or relative irrelevance, don't you see?! But everyone takes to her because everyone just wants the love story. It makes me sick." Dickens gulped down the rest of his lager and slammed the mug back down on the table.
Orwell sipped his gin while he pondered over what Dickens just said. It was all well and true, but somehow it didn't seem properly justified.
"Well, you know, Dickens," Orwell replied. "It is one of either two things. One, perhaps our society has further buried itself into their self-imposed ignorance. No one likes to think about poverty and hardship in their own spare time. They see it all the time wherever they go. And it suggests that there is something wrong with this system that they have to live with. People thrive on security, Dickens, and what you try to imply in your novel is that security, or the general definition of security, does not exist and that there is the presence of disillusionment. Society cannot accept that. So, instead, they take to other, more ordinary aspects of your novel, such as the love story. At least that is something that everyone can relate to and is constant, without having to paint any picture of personal danger."
"But this is art!" Dickens argued. "Isn't art supposed to portray the human condition? This is what life is!"
"And the human condition is ignorance, for ignorance is bliss. Take my novel 1984, for example. The society in Oceania are perfectly content in their ignorance, because it keeps them safe. Everyone is capable of reason and is able to see, even at the very least subconsciously, such as Mr. Parsons, that they are being oppressed. But they remain ignorant, and the Party keeps them ignorant and even further narrows their ignorance. Gaining reason only gets you in trouble. And that was what happened to Winston."
"But doesn't Winston ultimately submit to the Party in the very end?"
"Yes. I had to make him. I thought that it was only literarily appropriate. People read this novel and they would expect that something pulls through and that the Party would eventually collapse and the human spirit would triumph. No, I had to go beyond that. I had to illustrate the possibility of this totalitarian government that is so rigid and evil that they would even go through such lengths as to capture and murder the human spirit."
Dickens smiled wryly. "For someone who develops his main character with so much idealism, your morbidity is a little offbeat."
Orwell laughed. "Yes, well . . . one does need a good deal of idealism to want to fight a system such as the Party. The real world doesn't give you that. I believe it is innate. It is the conditions that surround the human being that determine whether or not this sentiment can be evoked."
"Yes. Hmm . . ." Dickens nodded. "So, what's the second reason?"
"Well – "
They were suddenly interrupted by a shrill female voice. She ran to the authors' table before running behind them and ducking.
"Please!" she gasped. "Please! You have to help me!"
Dickens looked at the woman. She had a vaguely familiar face, but she could not place a finger as to who it was.
"Ms. Jhabvala," Orwell addressed, with a slight edge of irritation. "What is the meaning of all this hullabaloo?"
"Oh . . ." she moaned. "Oh . . . I don't know what to do . . . I'm so conflicted between my principles . . . and my sanity . . ." She plopped down upon a chair and put her head down on the table in a flurry of melodrama.
Orwell rolled his eyes. This was so like her to exaggerate the petty details of her petty life.
"Ms. Jhabvala," Dickens began gently. "If you don't mind my asking, what is the problem?"
Ruth Prawer Jhabvala looked up at Dickens, confusion dancing in her eyes. He looks lie a nice, understanding person, she thought. Unlike that arrogant George Orwell. She could tell him . . .
"Do you know the author Chinua Achebe?" she asked.
Ah, yes. The great Nigerian author whose works wove a vivid tapestry of African culture and brought forth to the reading world the other side of European colonialism. Dickens especially loved his novel Things Fall Apart for his main character's search for identity and ideological justification. It reminded him of his own work. Dickens smiled.
"Yes, very much so," he replied. "Why?"
Jhabvala narrowed her eyes. "He's after me."
Dickens frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
Jhabvala's eyes grew more and more animated. "He's after me. He wants my head. He thinks I'm one of them."
"One of who?" Orwell piped up.
"He thinks I'm European. He thinks I'm going to kill his people and usurp all his resources and . . ."
"But . . . aren't . . . you . . . European?" Dickens hesitated.
"Yes, but . . . no, but . . ." Jhabvala stuttered. "I'm Indian! I love the country. I love the people. I love the food, and the culture, and the clothing . . . Oh, but I just hate the smell . . . I hate the pollution. I hate the heat, and the dust. And the food, and the culture, and the people . . ."
"Oh, for God's sake, woman!" Orwell roared. "Get a hold of yourself! What are you anyway? You're as confused as your writing."
Jhabvala's nostrils flared. "You don't understand, you just don't understand! All you ever write about are rubbish political ideologies that have no place in the real world. Your use of vocabulary is crude and unsophisticated and comes off sounding like a textbook. And you – "
"Oh, and what about you?" Orwell interrupted. "You are constantly, quote en quote, 'conflicted' between your cultural understandings, your plots are inconsistent and keep reverting back to certain so-called themes or symbols that mean nothing, and it can't even be solidified by a justified conclusion. The narrator of Heat and Dust goes up to the mountain to find her long lost step grandmother? Please!"
Jhabvala was outraged. "I have never been so . . ."
"Enough!" Dickens cut in. "You two sound like a couple of squabbling children. And you two are known, respected authors. Why can't we all just sit here and appreciate each other's accomplishments?"
Silence.
Dickens sighed. He had to try harder. "Ms. Jhabvala, would you like a drink? Feel free to order one. It's on me."
Jhabvala seemed to like this idea. The waiter passed by and she ordered a margarita, while Dickens and Orwell followed up their beer and gin. After getting their drinks, all three drank in silence.
A few minutes later, another figure sauntered up to their table. His demeanor was soft yet strong and his eyes rested firmly on Jhabvala. Dickens recognized him and stood up in awe with his hand extended.
"I am so humbled to meet you, Mr. – "
"What are you doing here, Achebe?" Jhabvala moaned. "I told you to just leave me alone. All you ever do is caught up in your oppression and your deteriorating culture. You don't even think about how it might be affecting us."
"I must say, Ms. Jhabvala, that I have never heard anything so shallow in all the years of my life," Chinua Achebe retorted. "And how hard can it be? 'I feel like colonizing a country. Oh, look, I am colonizing a country. I am reaping all the fruits of their labors while they suffer and die. I am benefiting from all this. Hence, I must feel good.'"
"You never were much with humor," Jhabvala said bluntly.
"Like you were with profundity," Achebe returned.
"I thought we agreed not to say anything negative," Dickens cut in again.
"Sorry," the two arguing authors muttered.
All four sat in silence, while the throbbing music inside increased in a deafening crescendo. The partygoers were starting to stream outside to the balcony, slicing through the authors' frames of thought. They were screaming and howling with intoxication as they staggered down the stairs to the rose garden below.
Achebe frowned. "Why are we here?"
All four looked at each other in surprise.
"Um . . . well, I came here for a few drinks, then suddenly, the rest of you are here . . ." Dickens offered.
"Well, this isn't exactly somewhere I would expect any of us to go to," Achebe said.
"Well, it's not that bad, the service isn't – "
"No. I mean, look around you . . . We are surrounded by these children who don't know who we are . . . young people that have gone past us . . . "
They looked around. Chinua Achebe was right. Why were they here? Four brilliant authors in the middle of Makati in the presence of club-hopping druggies. They should have been off creating more ideas, showing the world more about life. Instead, they were at some bar, drowning in the hopelessness surrounding them.
Dickens looked around. It had hit him. He suddenly realized what it was that brought them there together. All of their work dealt with this one underlying theme: the need for ideological justification, the necessity for understanding. This was not the place for them. They were all beyond understanding. And the young people there were below even beginning to understand. He looked at the faces around him. He saw that they saw it too. He smiled and they all smiled back at him.
"Let's go."