Elias’s house was enormous, four storeys with a roof extension. ‘Do you live all by yourself in this whole place?’ I asked him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m used to being alone with a lot of space around me. And I’m a big accumulator – books, recordings, videos.’
We got out of our wet coats and towelled our heads dry, then we settled down in the ground floor living room and Elias got us some cognac and lit a fire in the fireplace. By now the rain was drumming on the windows and there was a lot of bleak midwinter going on outside but it was big-time cosy where we were. There were shelves full of books catching gleams from the fire, and china and bronze figures taking the shadows and the light. I had the feeling that Elias’s house didn’t look empty when nobody was in it. ‘Here’s to whatever,’ I said as we clinked glasses.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said.
‘Roll on Vertigo,’ I said. ‘Let’s get suspenseful.’
‘But you have seen it?’ he said. ‘You know how it ends?’
‘Sure, but each time I see it I hope the end will be different.’
‘So you’re a positive thinker after all.’
‘In a negative way. Are you ready in the projection booth?’
As there may still be one or two people out there who’ve not seen Vertigo, I won’t disclose any more of the plot than I have to. James Stewart plays an ex-cop who had to leave the force because after a disastrous rooftop chase he has a fear of heights and gets dizzy when high up. Knowing this, an old friend hires Stewart to shadow his wife because he says he’s afraid she’s suicidal. This is a hoax that draws Stewart into an elaborate murder plot. Kim Novak is part of it but she and Stewart fall in love with each other, which was not in the plan. When he finds out much later how he’s been duped he becomes bitter and cynical.
I’ve given a lot of thought to the Kim Novak character. She’s got a shady past, she’s definitely a bad-luck woman but she’s touching and vulnerable and beautiful and she’s never stopped loving Stewart. Does she deserve a second chance?
‘There are holes in that plot you could drive a truck through,’ said Elias.
‘I know that,’ I said, ‘but what about the Kim Novak character? If you were in Stewart’s place, would you make her climb the stairs in the old mission?’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘Are you sure? After all, anything with her was going to end up badly one way or another — she was definitely unlucky’
‘How could I reject her? I fell in love with her because of her self, regardless of her part in the hoax. There was a strangeness about her, she seemed a prisoner locked in the mystery of herself — only love could free her and I was still in love with her, never mind how I’d been used, I wouldn’t care about that. Love isn’t a rational thing. I’d never have made her climb those stairs, never.’
‘That’s a very passionate speech. Have you ever been in love, Elias?’
‘Not like that, not irrationally’
‘Pour some more cognac,’ I said, ‘and let’s look at the shapes in the fire.’
8
Elias Newman
23 January 2003. An owl tattoo. Not just any old owl but a beautifully-done copy of a Caspar David Friedrich owl, wings outspread, perched on the little roof of a wooden-cross grave marker. This is the bird I know as a great horned owl; in German it’s called uhu. Spreading its wings across her sacrum. Without thinking I said, ‘Who’s buried there?’
‘Various hopes,’ she said, and began to cry. I took her in my arms and she was shaking all over. I got her into bed and under the duvet and held her while she cried herself out. I felt a fool for saying what I had and I was honoured that she was giving me her naked sobbing. What was she crying about? I wondered. Anything to do with that owl tattoo? What buried hopes did it signify? And it wasn’t like a photograph or a note you can tear up and throw away; it was permanent, following her around for ever.
When her sobbing had died down to whimpers and sniffles she sighed and cuddled closer and fell asleep in my arms. After a while I gently withdrew the arm she was lying on and I fell asleep too. That was the extent of our lovemaking on our first night together.
In the morning she woke up with a smile, hugged me, looked at her watch, and said, ‘I’ve got a recording session.’ She and her owl flew out of bed and into the bathroom, from where she emerged fully dressed in about half a minute.
‘I’ll make us some breakfast,’ I said.
‘No time,’ she said. ‘Phone you later.’ She blew me a kiss and was off down the stairs and away, leaving only the smell of her in my bed. Not a fragrance out of a bottle but her own smell that had in it her nakedness against mine. Not a word about the owl tattoo.
I was still trying to figure out our Vertigo session. It had been some kind of test and I’d passed but I didn’t know why. The Kim Novak character was called Madeleine Elster. Christabel obviously identified strongly with her but again I didn’t know why. Madeleine Elster was unlucky, she’d said. Anything with her was going to end up badly. Was Christabel speaking about herself? She was surrounding herself with a hedge of mysteries and warnings, becoming, intentionally or not, a fairy-tale princess. Naturally I was beginning to feel like the prince who would break through that hedge to rescue her. Had I ever been in love, she wanted to know. Not irrationally, I’d said. But what other way was there to be in love? And was I?
It was Thursday, a working day for me. I thought she might have been a little more forthcoming than that speedy hug and kiss. I didn’t need a certificate of my sensitivity and understanding but there could have been more of ... I don’t know. On the other hand, maybe the easy ordinariness of her departure was her way of showing that there was more between us than there’d been before. Yes, I was back at the high-school level of wondering about girls. Would she go to the prom with me? Mustn’t rush things. I sighed and caught an II bus to St Eustace.
It’s an old hospital and it smells old. The flickering fluorescent lighting made the day seem as wintry indoors as out. I took the lift to the third floor and got ready to stick my thumb in the dyke yet again while the flood of diabetes rose higher and the walking statistics briefly abandoned McDonald’s and Pizza Hut and Coca-Cola to present themselves to me. There are of course more young ones than there used to be but most of them are middle-aged or older, some walking unaided, others with sticks or in wheelchairs, all of them unable to metabolise the satisfaction they’re greedy for. As far as I know there is no Sweetaholics Anonymous. And along with their burgers and fries the diabetics are eating up more NHS money all the time. Right now we’re spending ten per cent of our £72 million budget on treating the disease; by 2010 it’ll be twenty per cent. Things change, but always, it seems, for the worse.
I do what I can and console myself with small gains: Imran Patel has been balancing his blood sugar better than he did six months ago; Sarah Blum’s Charcot joint has reached Stage 4 and she’s ready for a surgical boot, and so on. In the meantime I continue my research on the aetiology of the disease and the psychology of diabetics.
While I was working my way through the morning a motorbike messenger arrived with a ticket for the Mobile Mortuary concert at the Hammersmith Apollo on Friday. There was also a pass for the hospitality suite after the concert, and a note that said, ‘Can’t see you till after the gig. XXX’ Three paper kisses. Could do better. Humming ‘Is That All There Is’ I went through folders, checked histories, sent people for blood tests and X-rays and various scans, and in between ran my eye over the proofs for the third edition of Lipids: An Overview, a pocket picture guide on which I collaborated with the biochemist Phil Winston. This little book is elegantly produced; the tables and diagrams inspire the hope that there are answers for almost everything, while the photographs of such things as tuberous xanthomas and diabetic gangrene make it clear that for many the answers come too late. Between the clarity of the physician and the confusion of the afflicted the gap is wide and on some days I think it will never be n
arrowed.
Of course I didn’t stop thinking about Christabel. While doing that I had a mental visit from Professor Ernst, my predecessor, who walked into my mind without knocking and shook his head. ‘It’s a matter of the vertical vis-à-vis the horizontal,’ he once told me. He wore a pince-nez that never fell off. ‘The doctor is vertical; the patient is horizontal, even when they’re walking around. The doctor wears a suit, the patient is in pyjamas, even when they’re fully dressed. Keep this distinction in mind because a lot of people who aren’t patients should be patients of one kind or another if you take my meaning. Also: don’t sleep with anyone who doesn’t play golf.’ I don’t know why I was remembering his advice now. I was his registrar at the clinic for the ten years before his retirement. I doubt that Christabel plays golf. I’ve never slept with anyone who did.
When was I first attracted to Christabel? It was when I saw her standing in front of The Cyclops. She wasn’t just looking at the painting, she was giving herself to it, and as I’ve said before, her response excited me. Then when she smiled I wondered what she was smiling about.
Now in my working day I remembered her trembling last night and my right arm involuntarily moved to encircle her.
9
Titus Smart
23 January 2003. I’ve been Elias Newman’s registrar for five years. What with his research and his writing in addition to the hospital work he’s the busiest man I know. Whenever I come into his office he’s fully engaged with one thing or another. But today he was just standing by the window, apparently lost in thought. He turned to me and said, ‘Yes?’ With some impatience, I felt.
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘It can wait.’
‘Right,’ he said, and went back to his thoughts. Most unusual.
10
Christabel Alderton
23 January 2003. OK, the owl tattoo. I get so tired of explaining everything, even to myself. When I got back from Maui in 1993 I wanted to, I don’t know, draw a line under that time? Put it all behind me? That sounds like a joke in view of where the tattoo ended up. I’ve said before that I do a lot of stupid things, right? So I had this book my neighbour Victor had given me and in it were some Caspar David Friedrich owls that really talked to me. The one I decided on, sitting on a grave marker with his wings outspread, he was like an orchestra conductor, very much in charge and he was commanding silence. His whole body was saying, ‘‘OK, that’s it.’ I got a photocopy of it and took it to the Fulham Tattoo Centre. The walls were full of dragons, devils, hearts and flowers and skeletons and whatnot and there were a couple of pretty girls discussing body piercing. One of the signs on the wall said that nobody under the influence of drink or drugs would be tattooed. It was a grey day with reality coming down like rain.
‘Where do you want this and how big?’ said the man. When I told him he looked at me sideways and said, ‘You’re not on anything, are you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Do I look like I am?’
‘Kind of.’
‘What, you want me to pee in a cup so you can test it?’
‘Calm down, OK? It’s just that you might not be quite yourself today.’
‘How do you know I’m not like this every day?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘once you get this on you it’s there for good, so it’s best not to do anything you’ll be sorry for.’
‘All my life I’ve done things I’ve been sorry for,’ I said. ‘Why should I stop now?’
‘OK, I’ll do this owl for you if that’s what you really want. First I have to make a tracing for the transfer. Come back tomorrow and I’ll be ready for you. It’ll cost you fifty pounds.’ So the next day I came back and now that owl is part of me.
I know that I tend to make a mystery of myself with Elias. Well, I have a lot to be mysterious about. I was nineteen when I married Richard Turpin. I was singing with an all-girl group called The Nectarines. That was in 1968. We were doing a gig at the Orford Cellar in Norwich with some of our own songs and a few covers. This bloke who was very close to the stage kept staring as if he’d never seen anything like me before. We wore miniskirts and fringey tops and I’ve always had good legs. After the last set he came up to me and said, ‘Hi, I’m Dick Turpin.’
‘Where’s your horse?’ I said.
‘My horse is a white Ford Transit with a ladder on top,’ he said, and gave me his card:
Dick Turpin
The Highway Roofer
‘We’ve got it covered.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Next time I need a roof I’ll ring you up.’
‘I’m putting together a brochure,’ he said, ‘and I want to feature you in it.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘This could be my big break. Does that happen before or after you ask me up to see your roof tiles?’
‘Come on, do I look like that kind of guy?’
‘Yes.’ He looked like Jack the Lad with an indoor complexion even though he did outdoor work. His mouth was smiling but something about his eyes made me wonder if there was a peephole in the dressing-room wall. He was a big man with big strong hands. Like my stepfather who was always opening the door of my room without knocking. He’d managed to catch me in my underwear once or twice but he’d never got further than that. I’d been thinking it was high time I got a new roof over my head.
‘What I have in mind,’ said Jack the Roofing Lad, ‘is a back view of you climbing a ladder in a Dick Turpin T-shirt and a skirt a little shorter than the one you have on now.’
‘Cheeky,’ I said. ‘Do I get to show my face at all?’
‘Of course. When you reach the scaffolding you turn and smile and we’ll have a close-up with my message under it: FOR A ROOF YOU CAN LOOK UP TO, PHONE DICK TURPIN FOR A FREE ESTIMATE! There’s three hundred quid in it for you.’
So I did it, one thing led to another, and I very quickly got a new roof over my head. Dick got what my stepfather hadn’t and it was legal. He was not a gentleman in bed or out of it. He drank a lot of beer and he watched a lot of football, sometimes at our house with men from his crew who also drank a lot of beer, sometimes at other places. The house was nothing wonderful, a small brick end-of-terrace with two up and two down. With a leaky roof that he never got round to fixing. The Nectarines disbanded and there I was being some kind of housewife. It wasn’t quite my idea of getting out into the world.
It lasted almost a year and by that time Dick had knocked me about a few times too many with his big strong hands. He went off to work one rainy day when I was wishing he’d fall off a roof. He did and it killed him. My judgement has never been good but neither was his.
I wonder what Elias would think if I stopped being a mystery and told him just how risky it is to get too close to me. Stevo’s been OK so far but maybe he has nine lives. When I got back to my house after Django’s death I found this tiger-striped kitten in a basket on my doorstep. He looked up at me as if Django’s spirit had gone into him. I couldn’t give a cat his name so I named him after Stephane Grappelli.
If Elias were smart he’d find somebody safer to get mixed up with.
11
Anneliese Newman
24 January 2003. I don’t think of my daughters very often. Wherever they are, they have done all right, that I know. Sometimes I think of Elias because there are things I want to tell him. These things he knows maybe, maybe not.
Everything is twice itself, this I often think. Things are what they are every day, but then sometimes they are not. Sometimes I see people talking, crossing the road, running to catch a bus. Suddenly it is like TV with the sound turned off and I see that this is really Death dressing himself up as these people talking, crossing the road, running to catch a bus. So that is what is really happening, no?
But who am I that I should say this? My mind is like a top that spins crazily just before it falls over.
12
Elias Newman
24 January 2003. Sometimes I wonder if I am the sort of person who’s really suited to a career in medicine. My mind is
subject to fits of strangeness; this morning coming to work I looked out of the bus window at people talking, crossing the road, running to catch the bus and I thought, all this is really only Death dressing himself up as people talking, crossing the road, running to catch the bus. Ought a doctor to see things in that way? But it’s not surprising that Death comes into my mind; I know quite a few people my age who are dead, even some younger than I. I do what I do and I advance in my profession but it could well be too late for any personal development, any future with a woman. I’m sure there are people who get all the way to the end of their lives and die without ever having been in love. Still, I do feel that connection with Christabel that was there even before we met. Did it will be?
13
Christabel Alderton
24 January 2003. The cyclops turned up in a dream last night. Staring at me through a clump of trees. Birches, thin scraggley ones. The ground was boggy, squelching under my feet and there was that hideous face gawking at me with its one staring eye and its disgusting little mouth saying something but I couldn’t hear what it was. ‘What?’ I said. ‘Are you the Erlking now?’ But it just kept moving its mouth and my own voice woke me up.
Adam Freund was Django’s father. Although I was sharing a bed with Sid Horstmann we hadn’t had sex since my last period and I was ovulating when I was with Adam. The band was back in London two days later and I never saw him again. When I found that I was pregnant I wondered how he’d feel about it if he knew. When we were together in that borrowed room, before he told me he was married, I knew that he was the right man for me. If he’d asked me to drop everything and go away with him I’d have done it. But as it was, even if I’d known where to reach him, what would have been the point? I used to lie in bed and grind my teeth thinking about it. If only he weren’t married!
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