Don’t take any notice of the title. It’s not right. But I’m so thirsty I can’t think straight any more.
It started this morning. I’m on holiday on Tinos - it’s an island in Greece - in the Cyclades - and nearby there’s another island called Delos. Delos is uninhabited. It’s got famous ruins, and in the summer a boat takes tourists there from Tinos.
Yesterday, no today, I was on the boat. I’m an archaeologist you see, a very good one in fact. I’m rich and famous and I’m a Professor of Archaeology as well. You’ve probably seen me on television.
Anyway when we got to Delos I started looking for the lions - old stone ones they are - only I must have gone down the wrong way. I realized I was alone. I’d become detached from the tourists. I wandered about for a while.
Then suddenly I came across this vast museum. Extraordinary. It was a line of six or seven huge rooms - seven in fact - joined by open doorways down the centre. The first six rooms were crammed full of pots - every imaginable kind of pot: big pots, little pots, fat pots, thin pots, silly looking little pots, beautiful pots, ugly pots, useless looking pots, great imposing pots, egg cups, ashtrays, pitchers, vases, everything you could ever imagine. All different colours and sizes and finishes.
The last room seemed to be completely empty. I didn’t go in. There didn’t seem much point just then.
At first I was impressed, but then I got more and more angry. What made me so angry was the muddle. Indescribable. I’m an intelligent man. I’m very clever in fact and I like things to be logical and in order. I know a lot about museums. You see I’m very rich. I married a woman whose father had a lot of oil wells and racehorses and houses and paintings and things, and when he died he left it all to her, and then when she died I got it all.
So, as I say, I’m very well off and I’ve founded quite a few museums myself and I know how they should be laid out and looked after.
This one for instance needed many more than six rooms. It had to show the development of the pot, from primitive early pots to the wonderful intricate and finely made later pots. A logical succession showing the evolution of the pot from its primitive age-old beginnings to its wonderful present day state.
Then I caught sight of a curator. I was still very angry so I went straight up to him.
“Why is this place such a mess?” I asked, “Why are there only six or seven rooms? Why is everything in such a muddle?”
“Well sir, that’s the way the potter made it. He made the pots and he made the museum.”
“Potter? What potter? What’s he got to do with it? You imbecile! Don’t you know anything about the evolution of pots?”
I was so angry. Anyway I eventually calmed down enough to explain my plans for the museum to him and told him to get the other curators to start reconstructing there and then.
“We need to divide these rooms into about a thousand smaller ones” I explained. “I’ll pay for everything, and each room will show a different step in the evolution of the pot from the earliest beginnings!”
Well he gathered a veritable army of curators and workmen and they all set to, partitioning the original rooms, and then, when they’d done that, I told them exactly where to put each pot. We seemed just about to have finished when suddenly I saw the crowd from the boat had arrived.
Of course I was delighted and began to give them a guided tour of my wonderful new museum. They all listened very attentively - all except for one precocious little brat in spectacles who kept on asking stupid questions such as What was the name of the potter? and Which evolved first, the cup or the saucer? and If the pots evolved where did the wheel come in? Had that evolved too? And while the wheel was evolving didn’t it wobble? And if so Where were the wobbly pots? And if it didn’t wobble How come it was perfect all at once? Oh yes, and Had the clay just fired itself? Stupid pest! I had to have him thrown out eventually.
The women were the best listeners of course. They’ll believe anything if you repeat it often enough. And with my charm and intelligence, not to mention expertise, they were soon cooing with delight at everything I showed them.
We were almost at the last section when I started to get this terrible pain in my chest. I had to stop and realized that the last room was empty - just like the last room in the original museum in fact. The pain was terrible. I thought, ‘If I can just go into this room I can wait till I recover and then go back and finish giving the guided tour.’
I went through the doorway. The room was empty except that just to the left near the doorway (which was why I hadn’t seen anything from the previous room) there was a man. He was sitting behind a potter’s wheel, but it wasn’t going round and I couldn’t see any clay anywhere. His arms were folded and his son was beside him. At least I assume that’s who it was. There seemed a close resemblance.
Well of course I was furious. I mean just imagine what a fool I’d have looked in the eyes of the tourists if we’d stumbled into this last room and found this potter and his son and his wheel in my museum sitting there as if they owned the place!
Despite the pain I managed to shout at him.
“Who do you think you are? And what do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“I’m the potter” he said quite calmly. “And I’m not doing anything. I’m resting and just keeping an eye on things. I finished making the pots - six full days it took me - one room for each day’s work - didn’t you notice? It’s all in the guide book. Now I’m resting in this seventh room.” He paused. “May I ask what you’ve been doing?” he added.
Well I just boiled over.
“You fool!” I shouted. “Don’t you understand anything? You don’t exist! These pots have evolved. Look, I’ve rearranged everything and put it in its proper place. Come and I’ll prove it to you!”
I turned to go back to the exhibits, and just then a funny thing happened. As I looked through the doorway, expecting to see the tourists and my new museum, I saw nothing of the kind. I saw everything just as it had been when I arrived in the morning. Just six rooms and now myself here in the seventh.
I turned back to the man. He seemed to be looking at my knees. ‘I don’t know why he should be doing that’ I thought, ‘my knees are never dirty, because now I’m a professor I never have any reason to kneel down.’
Then as I followed his eyes I saw - now don’t misunderstand me. I’m not mad. I’m still me. I know that. - But as I looked down it seemed, well it seemed as if I’d turned into a pot.
Then a terrible thing happened. The man’s son came towards me with his arms outstretched. He was saying “I love you” and I thought he was going to embrace me. Then I saw his hands. In the centre of each hand was a hole - right through the hand. It seemed as if the holes had been there quite some time and yet there was blood still coming from each of them.
I was terrified.
I felt that if just one drop of that blood touched me I might change - no longer be me, do you know what I mean? No longer be able to live my own life and do exactly what I wanted when I wanted. No longer be able to look after Number One. I might even no longer be able to be the rich and famous Professor L, but would have to be someone else instead.
I backed off and yelled ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Go away!’ as loudly as I could.
Then it seemed as if a gap opened in the wall behind me and I was sucked into this tunnel. I remember the pain going away and I was floating along the tunnel.
Then I was out in the fresh air. It was beautiful. There were children playing, and trees, and beautiful birds and flowers and butterflies and streams of cool water (Oh how thirsty I am!) But I couldn’t stop. It was as if I was dragged by a magnet. I crossed a desert place and came to a pile of pots - horrible, dirty, ugly pots they were too - and then we were all - me and these disgusting pots - we were all being propelled further and further across this desert.
Then in the distance I saw something shimmering in the heat. It was an enormous potter’s kiln. It was tremendously hot and we were just, well just sucked or propelled - I can’t tell which - right inside it.
Now, you’ve heard me so far: I know that means you’re a good sort, not as clever or as rich as I am of course but a good sort nonetheless. I’m going to ask you to do something - no, two things in fact - for me.
Well, I don’t expect a jugful or even a cupful but if you could just go and dip your finger in that water I can see near you, just dip the tip of your finger in and give me a drop to cool my tongue. I’m so thirsty you see. Please.
And the other thing is: I’ve got five brothers, can you go and warn them so they don’t come to this place?
You can do this can’t you?
Please, can’t you?
Can’t you?
Copyright © David Lawrie 1999
This article “The Potter” may be freely copied and distributed, provided that this Copyright notice and permission is included, and that there is no alteration either to this notice or to the text of the article itself.
