“Rachel was the first to address the gathering, briefly relating the background of the present event, then presenting Hubert at greater length and testifying to his sincerity and the esteem in which she held him.
“Rachel spoke well: simply and cheerfully. This could not be said of Hubert. His nature was compounded of discretion and shyness, and genuine modesty, too; never before had he been in a position where his own life was set center stage. He swallowed his words or tripped over them; he could not hide the embarrassment that possessed him. Rachel tried prompting him, but it made no difference. A restless boredom descended on the Boeyens’ guests and the middle-aged strangers. Constance and Bellamy themselves felt a quirky mixture of sadness and irritation. Only the young couple remained attentive, smiling, sometimes giggling and making encouraging noises. When Hubert shamefacedly ended his talk, the young pair’s vigorous applause stood out from the desultory clapping of the others. As the meeting broke up, Constance heard the young woman say to her companion, ‘They’re right — the world has got to be let in on this.’ Constance wasn’t sure of the tone in which these words were spoken.
“Two more presentations were scheduled, one on each of the following weeks. After doing what they could to reassure Hubert that his fiasco was not definitive, Rachel and the Boeyens insisted that he prepare diligently for these appearances. Bellamy had made numerous speeches in his time, obviously not of this sort, but he had learned some basic rules. ‘Write out what you want to say and reread it until you have the shape of it in your bones. If you have to, jot down notes that you can glance at while you’re speaking to keep yourself on track. Above all, rehearse.’
“Hubert did his best to follow this advice. It helped, but not much.
“The audience at the second event was unlike the first, and bigger: over twenty seats were filled. The young couple had enrolled many of their friends, who like them called themselves ‘hip’ or ‘cool.’ They received Rachel’s introduction with sympathetic smiles. When Hubert began narrating his experience in the park, the smiles changed gradually but inexorably to laughter, gentle at first, then filled with a kind of incredulous enthusiasm. For some reason these young adults found the account of Hubert shedding the weight that encased him totally hilarious. They weren’t antagonistic, they cheered him on with little bursts of applause, and at the end showered him with bravos and whistles.
“Hubert naturally didn’t know what to make of this. He had pretty much succeeded in following his text to the end, but his ‘success’ left him dumbfounded.
“It was after this event that I was called in by a team of local psychologists, contacted by Bellamy, who was worried by Hubert’s growing confusion and discouragement. I met Rachel, who briefed me on what had happened. I then attended the third and final session. It drew a still larger attendance than the week before, and among the newcomers an element appeared that was no less exuberant than its forerunners but less kind. I felt they had come to jeer as well as laugh; and jeer they did. The low point was reached when Hubert told of the weird packets falling from his bones, and a thinly bearded young man shouted, ‘Hey, Hube! Did you get your rocks off, too?’ This garnered a small laugh from the crowd, not from Hubert, who turned white, rose to his feet, and started shrieking obscenities at his heckler. For a while he stood there, stamping one foot compulsively on the platform, until Rachel summarily ended the meeting, leading Hubert past cheering spectators into the cooler air outside. I followed them.
“Rachel led us to a restaurant nearby. We ordered a stiff whisky for Hubert, and for us, too. We tried to make him eat; we pampered him with whatever words we thought might soothe him. I made a remark that I’ve regretted ever since. ‘Hubert, you said what you wanted to say, and some day your words may get through to them. That does happen. In the meantime you made them laugh. That’s not dishonorable. It’s a commonplace joy, but a real one.’ Hubert said, ‘I came to speak to them as a modest evangelist, not to be their clown.’
“That was pretty much the end for Hubert. Rachel was dismayed that not only had he been stripped of his zeal in spreading his ‘good word,’ but there remained not a trace of the excitement of his original experience, not even a consoling memory. He sank into carnivorous melancholy, with its attendant petty monsters — insomnia by night, constipation, back ache, and migraine by day. He became skeletally thin and brutally rude. Melancholy is inaccessible to psychotherapy, so he was treated with chemicals that only damped down his agitation into resigned sullenness.
“The Boeyens at last decided they could no longer keep him under their roof. They found and paid for a rest home in the outskirts of the city in which he could take early retirement. It was a reasonably good solution: Hubert found himself in new surroundings where nothing reminded him of his disappointments, aside from Rachel’s visits.
“She visited him almost every day. She could not quite cheer him up, but she brought him rudimentary peace of mind. They still loved one another, and each somehow knew that reestablishing their former intimacy meant risking havoc.
“On clement days they took walks together in the nearby countryside. Once, in early autumn, they went by bus as far as the mountain range that lay east of the city. The mountains were low, with gentle grades; the pair ascended one not much higher than a big hill. They nevertheless reached a height above the last grassy slopes where no vegetation grew. Around them stretched an expanse of dark gray limestone streaked with thin fissures that rain had incised in its downward flow. It was a quiet afternoon, in fact an absolutely silent one. Hubert remembered a remark of Webern’s to the effect that no matter how complete the surrounding silence, one could always distinguish some sound, however faint. Leaning against the high limestone that flanked the path, putting a hand on Rachel’s arm to keep her still, he listened hard — could that be a far-off crow? As soon as he heard it, it faded. There was not even a whisper of wind. The rain of centuries had been sucked into the limestone’s clefts. Rachel was smiling a peculiar smile that reminded him of something. Holding out his hands to her, he asked, “Is it happening? To you?” Rachel took his hands in hers and kissed them, raising glazed eyes in the fading light. No tears for Rachel; she knew that she was about to spin straight up into the twilit sky. He had to take her word for it — he himself felt nothing much but faint, overdue relief.
“Next day he said to her, ‘Now we have our holy order. A society of two. That’s enough room to stand up in.’
“Rachel and I had become friends. Her letters keep me up to date. The most recent one arrived last Saturday to inform me that, a week before his sixtieth birthday, Hubert had died. He was clear-headed, calm, slightly disgusted.”
Margot asked, “Didn’t this fellow have any family?” “He had a twin brother. He’d emigrated years before all this. Now I must go to bed. Good night.”
5
Berenice had been sincere in saying she “had to go to bed,” but it was not, as one might expect, because of fatigue. When Andreas eventually followed her upstairs, he found her wide awake and eager to chat.
“You aren’t Bellamy’s son, by some prank of fate? His given name was Lewis, I believe.” “So was mine. I decided to change half my identity — my half. I had nothing against my family, after all. Does it matter?” “Only that we came so close.” “You mean all that time wasted? Years of love foregone? My darling, but who knows what disasters such ‘convenient’ intimacy might have brought down on us? What could be better than this? I’ll take contingency any day over a family connection.” Berenice agreed. She also wondered if, by her rough calculation, close to three thousand lost nights of erotic plenitude didn’t justify at least a whisper of regret.
Ever since they had realized they were in this town for the same reason, Berenice and Andreas had agreed they must arrange meetings together with each of the twins, much longer and better targeted ones than their single encounters. Paul should come first, since he was the one that Andreas hoped
would write the twins’ joint biography. Since visiting Paul’s factory, Andreas had kept minimally in touch with him, through emails and sometimes a note left at his boarding house. It was through such a note that Paul was invited to have dinner with Andreas and Berenice; Paul was asked to choose the date and restaurant.
On an evening in early October the three of them met at the bistro Paul had picked — Barr’s Grill, “the best meat in town,” Paul announced. “At the moment I’m recovering from an overdose of surf and surf.” “And they surely carry McEwan’s Export,” Andreas added. Paul smiled pleasantly.
Pleasant smile or not, Andreas knew that he must stick to the approach that he and Berenice had agreed on: Andreas would make no reference to his plan of enrolling Paul as an author until the three of them had shared a meal and enough time together to establish at least a decor of familiarity. Berenice made sure that Paul’s plate was kept full; Andreas monitored the refills of his favorite Scottish ale. Both of them were professionally experienced in spinning agreeable conversation with strangers whose cooperation they needed — Andreas having to soothe an author’s impatience with publication delays, Beatrice connecting to a child with Down syndrome.
They kept the focus of the conversation on Paul. Since he had already talked shop with him, Andreas took the lead in inquiring about his work; but Beatrice had her moment, too. She asked Paul for news of “Mehmed and Ahmet, or is it Mehmet and Ahmed, I know I’m hopeless with Arab names.” Paul: “You had it right the first time. They’re both fine — they like our ways. They don’t even mind that there’s no mosque.” He was happy to talk about his business. He volunteered an account of his education, too, since it was so important in preparing him for his career.
“I was lucky. From the age of six to seventeen I boarded (there were family problems) at a school called Newell Academy, a really good place. It was there I completed my primary and secondary classes. They taught a broadly traditional curriculum in mathematics, literature, and world history (including cultural history) — it wasn’t quite classical — I had small Latin and no Greek — but it was mind-expanding all the same. Better than that: since many of the school’s pupils came from poor families, it made sure that if any subject had practical extensions, they too would be taught. The history of architecture was complemented by courses in carpentry, masonry, basic engineering. Our study of the industrial revolution included mechanics and the first principles of running a business.
“The idea was that any graduate of the school would be able to find himself a decent job without too much sweat. In big cities, where good plumbers and carpenters were rare, a diploma as a pipe fitter or a cabinet maker ensured a starting wage. Smart prison inmates knew this; so did the directors of Newell Academy. Manual workers also relished being freed at least from the tyranny of respectable clothing (jacket, shirt, and tie) — a man in overalls with a hammer looped to his hip could enter a gentleman’s club without raising an eyebrow.
“I’d guess a good third of my class could write computer code by the time they left. Not me — I went for construction and business savvy. I had additional luck in catching the attention of a teacher called Ned Linnen, an architect by trade. He thought I had promise. He made sure I was on top of all my subjects (meaning any hint of slacking brought him down on me hard) and he helped me along whenever he could. He told me one day, ‘You’ll probably have to earn your living by selling something, and to succeed at that you have to master a few basic constants with invariable rules, whether you’re selling encyclopedias or sardines: inventory, logistics, marketing, things like that — when you can manage these, you’ve got a chance.’
“I was accepted by three good universities when I graduated, but I wasn’t interested. I wanted to test myself in the commercial world. After twelve years and a bit, I can say I’ve done OK. I started off as a bricklayer. It’s a tough trade, and I was very good at it, working mainly on big municipal projects, learning all I could about how buildings actually get built.
“Ned Linnen sent me to see a well-known architect who took me under his wing, and I went on learning. It was with him that I got interested in textiles, which he used in clever new ways. So when I’d saved enough money to start my own business, which was essentially the same one that I set up here, it was manufacturing and selling textiles for architectural use. Most of my big jobs are commissioned abroad. Two months ago I was able to buy up a couple of hundred bales of Thai silk on the cheap, lots of different colors. I cut them up and reassembled them in abstract designs of my own and sold them to a retail bank in Ljubljana to line the walls of their reception areas. I do all right locally, too — I’ve woven curtains and carpets in a soothing shade of mauve for the waiting room of our clinic. And I’ve made a killing with my first venture into fashion.”
“Fashion?” Berenice asked. “I wish I’d known. There were a few fiendishly hot summer days when I dreamt of gauze djellabahs.” “No, nothing that elaborate. But you see the couple sitting at the bar? See what they’re wearing on their heads?” “Kepi Kaps!” Andreas exclaimed. “They’re all over the place. You make them?” “When you came out to the island, you saw Mehmed and Ahmet starting the process — conditioning the felt. A soft kepi! Who could have guessed?” Berenice: “The faded orange and black are delicious. And the forward tilt makes pretty women prettier.” Paul: “Andreas, what did you mean, way back — you thought we might work together?”
“Of course. I’ll explain.
“Like you, I went out on my own early, although I did put in three years at university — I’d have done better at Newell Academy. All that my studies did for me was get me hooked on literature — not as a writer but as a reader, and there was no ‘practical counterpart’ for that! I decided to start a publishing house so that I could commission books that I wanted to read but didn’t yet exist. I didn’t know the first thing about business — selling was something I had to learn on the job. I did have the sense to spend a year as an apprentice with an established distributor, where I got to know something of the nuts and bolts of the book trade. After that I managed to wangle a couple of grants, one from a state agency, another from a private foundation, and brandishing these, I approached my bank — a perfectly respectable bank! — and actually secured a loan from them. I helped all this happen by displaying my college record and behaving as though I were a well-connected gent; my family was distinguished all right, but I kept them completely out of it. I was happy to have raised some capital by myself, although it depressed me to think that society’s finances were in the hands of such susceptible incompetents and that in my own small way I was aggravating a situation of general economic decay.
“No matter — I was on my own, and I survived. I rented office space. I engaged a secretary, a good-natured young woman of considerable intelligence who had no idea what she was in for. My year at the distributor had acquainted me with the names of many contemporary writers and what might be expected of them. My university acquaintances, efficiently climbing the hierarchies of the liberal professions, provided a network that made it relatively easy for me to contact the writers who interested me. You see, I was not looking to publish literature as it’s commonly thought of — no novels, certainly no poetry or plays. Imagination, yes — but imagination demonstrated in the way unusual people chose or were forced to live their lives, and those lives duly recorded by others if necessary but best by themselves.”
Paul, at this point, was no longer smiling. He had assumed a markedly sullen aspect, that as he listened to Andreas grew only glummer.
Andreas: “This was my one strength: I knew what I wanted, and I quickly learned how to get it. There were objective factors to exploit. At the time I started publishing, most writers were being paid pitifully little. I offered contracts that were generous in the long term: small advances but royalties at almost twice the going rate. I could afford this because thanks to the computer, production costs were low, I had only one employee t
o pay, and I could use direct advertising to promote my books. The arrangement also encouraged writers to produce something saleable.
“And it worked. Luck no doubt played a part — I’m all for that! We brought out a number of interesting works. An in-depth account of Raymond Norwood Bell, the North Carolina PFC who unwittingly shot and killed Anton Webern a few weeks after the end of World War II. The journal of Robert Walser’s sister, Fanny, who took him to the sanitarium where he supposedly committed himself voluntarily — she knew that he would admit to ‘hearing voices’ and thus inevitably be confined whether he wanted to or not. A confession by Hildegard Panzer, the author of the hoax whereby thousands of dupes in Germany and Argentina (and many neo-Nazis elsewhere) were convinced that Eva Braun and Evita Peron were one and the same person. A well-researched life of Elmer Brick, a celebrity architect, a friend of Gropius and Mies van der Rohe, who at the age of sixty won the Pritzker Prize having never built even one of his vaunted ‘humanizations of space.’ The tale of Alastair Ross, a longtime chairman of Lehman Brothers, member of the exclusive Knickerbocker and University Clubs of Manhattan, fabulous philanthropist and patron of the arts, father of four children by Ursula Manning, the offspring of one of the city’s oldest families, named debutante of the year at her coming out; and at the same time, a man with a parallel career as the anonymous and heretofore unidentified author of The Boom-Boom Saga, an irreverent and libelously scabrous depiction of the social world in which Alastair Ross was revered, now revealed in his own words to be an unscrupulous gambler drawn to high-stakes poker and faro, a devotee of opium and a major investor in its traffic, lastly a closet queer who participated regularly in New York’s well-organized network of orgies, where he went by the name of Sara Lee (Lee being the surname he used in his irregular life — he sometimes referred to himself as ‘Nates’ Lee, and he relished the company jingle, ‘Nobody does it like Sara Lee’).
The Solitary Twin Page 3