The Chief, who had obviously discovered very early on in the course of this transitional process just how much he adored his only son, really did his best in the ways he knew how. He was categorically not ashamed, and he needed me to know it. The gist of many variations was always this: ‘I’m so proud of my Billy, he’s the best son any father could hope for.’ He wore a permanent mask of a brave face and even made the occasional joke, but there was still unmistakably about him a thick air of predicament that he hadn’t yet been able to shake off. Some things need time to work themselves out, and Billy and the Chief had plenty of time to spare for each other, and an equal willingness to spare it.
The neighbourhood freak
A local electrician had had to come in to wire the room and install some sockets, and there apparently had been quite a kerfuffle after he had finished the job, when the room was described as “perverted” and I as “the neighbourhood freak”, to which the Chief, according to Billy, had taken rather vehement exception, quite forgetting any earlier “pervy dungeon” speculation. The two men had almost come to blows, and Billy had had to physically stand between them in order to keep them apart.
Otherwise everything had gone very smoothly, and when the room was ready - I had chosen a yellowish off-white for the ceiling and walls, brass knobs for the doors, and a six inch mahogany skirting board - I had already picked out most of Gregor’s furniture in Camden’s second-hand shops, and a week or so later Billy had come over, again at his own insistence, to help me move it in. That was when I first heard of my neighbourhood bad reputation, which was woven into Billy’s account of the skirmish almost as an incidental minor detail to a son’s exultation in his legendary father’s escapades. He may have struggled to prevent him from punching the electrician, but Billy was radiantly proud of the Chief.
‘You should’ve seen and heard him, Mr Leon. He was awesome! He stood up for you good and proper, and not just with his fists. He’s a sly little operator, that one. Kept his mouth shut, most of the time, but didn’t miss a word of what we said. You know what he kept saying to the guy? “It’s a metaphor, you dope! But how would you know? I bet you’ve never read a book in your life! Tell him, Billy. And you, Frank, you better listen up, and if you’re lucky you might learn something today.” Poor man, flummoxed he was, didn’t know which way to turn. “That’s right, Mr Miller,” I said. “Dad’s giving it you straight; the room’s a metaphor, just like he says.” You can guess what happened next. “And what’s a bleeding metaphor when it’s at home?” Mr Miller asked, and how was I supposed to explain it? I had to think of something fast, or I’d be letting the Chief down and embarrassing myself. So I said, “It’s a bit like Modern Art, Mr Miller. It makes you think of something else.” “Got it now, Frank?” the Chief jumped in, all smug like I’d come up with the cleverest answer. Never gave the guy the chance to think it over, which was probably just as well. “Call me an ignoramus,” said Frank all defensive, “but I never saw the point of Modern Art, it makes me think of bugger all.” “Fair enough,” said the Chief, “we can’t all be intellectual like my Billy, but just because you’re dim and you don’t get it, it don’t give you licence to say it’s perverted. And as for Mr Leon being the neighbourhood freak, I grant you the man’s a bit different, foreign-looking and all, what with them thick bushy eyebrows, but shame on you, Frank, you’re a black man for Christ’s sake!” That really got to Frank. “What’s it got to do with shit that I’m a black man?” he was yelling, “I’m goddam proud to be a black man!” “And there you have it, I rest my case,” said my dad. “Meaning?” said Frank. “Meaning you should know what prejudice is.” “Course I know what prejudice is, I’m a black man in a white man’s gaff.” And there’s your metaphor, Frank, I thought, but I didn’t want to wisecrack while the Chief was on a roll: “And some white folk in their ignorance look down on you, right?” “They goddam well do,” said Frank. “Cause in their bigoted eyes you’re different from them, right? Don’t make you a freak though, Frank, now does it?” “Guess it doesn’t,” said Frank. “Guess you might’ve a point.” “So next time someone calls Mr Leon the neighbourhood freak, you’ll stand up for him, right? Same way Mr Leon would stand up for my Billy; or for me; or for you, for that matter. Cause we’re all a bit different, Frank, each in our way, and some of us in more ways than one. I’ll have you know Mr Leon is a proper decent man, likes his privacy, doesn’t get about much, maybe looks a bit scary with them thick bushy eyebrows, but I know for a fact that he wouldn’t hurt a fly. So if he wants to build a metaphor and spoil his double lounge, I say we should congratulate the man for his modernity, not begrudge him it because we’re too thick to get it.” They shook hands after that, and Frank looked like he couldn’t get away fast enough. But the Chief hadn’t finished with him yet. “Oh, and one more thing before you go. If someone asks you if my Billy here is gay, you tell them straight...” “Course I’ll tell them Billy’s straight,” said Frank. I tell you, Mr Leon, at that point I was pissing myself. Dad went bright red in the face. “No, you bloody halfwit, you’ll tell them no such thing. You’ll tell them, that’s right, my Billy’s gay and proud, gay and proud, got it now?” “Sure,” said Frank. “Your Billy’s gay and proud, if anyone asks.” “That’s right, Frank, Billy’s gay and proud and I’m proud to be his dad.” And they parted better friends than before.’
‘Sounds like the Chief’s got it in for my eyebrows,’ I said.
‘They are a bit fierce, Mr Leon.’
‘But seriously, it was sweet of your dad to stand up for me.’
‘He was way over the top, and probably out of order, but to see him like that, defending us both, honestly, Mr Leon, it felt really good.’
Defending me against what, exactly, I wasn’t quite sure, but I didn’t have the heart to pick on Billy’s story to try and find out, and I doubt I would have got very far if I had.
‘I think it’s time you called me Leon,’ I said. ‘You don’t even work for me any more.’
‘And we’re mates now, right? So of course I’ll call you Leon. And speaking of time, have you found a clock yet? I think it should be one that ticks.’
‘So I don’t get any sleep and my dreams are uneasy,’ I said.
‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ said Billy. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you… Can I come visit every now and again? Maybe spend some time in the room on my own?’
‘Aren’t you worried what the neighbours might think? The neighbourhood freak plus the boy who wants the world to know he’s gay and proud? I can imagine what equation they’ll come up with!’
‘But you’re not even gay.’
‘No, but I’m foreign-looking with thick bushy eyebrows, and I’ve never invited them in for a drink.’
‘So you don’t want me to visit.’
‘I’m the neighbourhood freak, what do I care what people think!’
‘Well, I don’t care either,’ said Billy.
3
Anna Tor
I know who you are
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
The large wooden clock hanging on the wall was my room-warming present from Billy. Strictly speaking it should have been freestanding, but its place in the room had been usurped by the telephone, and we had all become a little more relaxed about such minor deviations from the text. Billy gave me his word that it hadn’t cost too much; the dealer had halved his original “best” price, and the Chief had also chipped in. But contrary to Billy’s other promise, I had not yet got used to its ticking, which appeared to be magnified by darkness. I only very rarely remember my dreams, but I know when I have dreamt, and I know that my dreams have always been uneasy, so I couldn’t have blamed that on the clock, except to the extent, tentative at best, that I imagined my dreams were now plagued by louder and more agitating sounds.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
I was reaching to turn the light off, trying to settle my nerves by remembering the consolation that the wretched clock at
least didn’t chime, when the piercing ringing of the telephone right next to my ear made me jump.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, it was almost exactly eleven o’clock, and I froze in that unnatural position unsure if I should answer or not. After some seconds’ painful hesitation (the twisting of my neck was beginning to hurt), curiosity in the end got the better of me.
‘Hello.’
‘Is that Mr Cheam? Mr Leon Cheam?’
‘Speaking,’ I said. ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m very sorry to disturb you so late, Mr Cheam…’
‘Who is this?’ I asked again.
‘My name is Anna. Anna Tor.’
Anna Tor had a vague accent and a pleasant young voice, but who the hell was she? The name meant nothing to me, and where had she got my number? Even if she had a good enough reason to call, which I doubted, why couldn’t she have waited until the morning, instead of calling me in the middle of the night?
‘But you don’t know me,’ continued Anna Tor.
‘I’m aware that I don’t know you, Ms Tor. Now please tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Mr Cheam, I hope this doesn’t sound too bizarre, but I’ve been waiting for this moment for such a long time that suddenly tonight I didn’t have the willpower to wait any longer, I had to call you straight away. My apologies again for calling so late.’
‘Ms Tor, you’re repeating yourself,’ I said. ‘May I ask why you’re calling?’
‘Please,’ said Ms Tor, ‘I’d like you to call me Anna.’
‘If it’ll help me get some sense out of you, I’ll be happy to call you Anna. In which case I suppose you should call me Leon.’
‘Leon,’ Anna Tor repeated to herself in disbelief.
‘Yes, Anna,’ I said. ‘I’m still here. Waiting. And it’s practically the middle of the night.’
‘I’m not sure how to start,’ said Anna. ‘It’s like my mind’s gone blank, now that I’ve actually found you… I mean, if I’m not mistaken…’
‘Mistaken about what, exactly?’ I said. ‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Leon,’ she began again more resolutely, ‘I would first of all like to reassure you.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ I said. ‘Why would I need reassuring?’
‘I would like to reassure you with my word of honour that everything you say to me, either now, or tomorrow, or at any time, will categorically stay between us... unless I have your written permission to use it… and you’ve agreed to my proposal in every detail.’
‘Anna, you have singularly failed to reassure me.’
But Anna’s dull delivery would brook no interruption...
‘And I would also like to say, and this is what I should’ve said to you first, I should’ve told you straight away that what’s much more important to me, and the real reason why I’ve been looking for you, trying to find you I mean…’
‘Yes?’ I said impatiently.
‘It would mean so much to me if you agreed to meet me,’ said Anna. ‘It’s important to me personally.’
‘That I give you my written permission?’
‘That we meet for a coffee,’ said Anna. ‘Perhaps tomorrow morning?’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘And after that I’ll disappear, if that’s what you decide you’d like me to do.’
‘And I’ll never hear from you again,’ I said.
‘I promise,’ said Anna sadly.
On the verge of agreeing to meet her for a coffee tomorrow, it struck me I should be more circumspect: Anna Tor was a cold-calling stranger, whose elliptical promises at the very least implied insinuations.
‘Who gave you my number?’ I asked her abruptly.
‘I’ve given them my word I wouldn’t say.’
‘Your word of honour,’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ said Anna Tor.
‘You’re asking me to make a leap of faith here,’ I said.
I already must have made more than half of that leap; otherwise our conversation would have ended, for I have never been averse to ending conversations. But there was something about Anna – her voice, her manner, the uncertain drift of her questions – that I did find compelling, and I was consciously allowing it to smother my suspicions. Unscrupulous journalists had hounded me before, but with Anna I didn’t feel hounded.
‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ Anna Tor whispered back apologetically, as if to say that it wasn’t her fault that I didn’t have a choice but to make that leap. And then, cutting to the chase in that same barely audible undertone: ‘Leon,’ she said, ‘you’ve changed your name, but I know who you are.’
Tick-tock, tick-tock…
‘You do?’
‘I think so,’ she said.
Tick-tock, tick-tock…
‘And who am I, Anna?’
‘You’re the man who used to paint Picassos.’
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
‘And who are you, Anna Tor?’
‘Just a friendly ghost,’ answered Anna Tor.
Which one shall we tell?
We spoke on the phone for at least another hour. Anna Tor, who wasn’t a journalist but a freelance ghost-writer, wanted me to let her write my story, or rather what she wanted was my story, and either we would write it together or she would write it for me as my ghost-writer.
‘There isn’t a story,’ I told her. ‘There are many stories.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve read most of them.’
‘There are many more,’ I said. ‘Which one shall we tell?’
‘We’ll tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,’ said Anna Tor.
‘The whole truth is all very well if you actually know it,’ I said, ‘and some of the lies are now part of the truth.’
‘Then let’s just say that we’ll tell what you know,’ she said. ‘What you already know and what you don’t already know. What you know at the end of the process.’
‘If there is a process,’ I said.
‘May I ask you a question?’
‘I suppose you’ll have to ask me many.’
‘If you don’t mind I’d just like to double-check that you were definitely born on September 11.’
‘Ms Tor,’ I said, ‘let’s get one thing straight. I was not born on October 25.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘I am not the reincarnation of Pablo Picasso, and if that’s the kind of story you want us to write, it’s already been written, and it’s absolute trash. Do you believe in reincarnation, Ms Tor? Personally I don’t, but if it does happen, then apparently it can happen at any time, it’s not necessary for the old incarnation to share the same birthday as the new. Who knows, it’s even possible Picasso’s spirit possessed me some time after I was born. And that’s another story that’s been written already.’
‘But I didn’t even know Picasso was born on October 25.’
‘So you haven’t read all the stories. That’s actually refreshing to hear.’
‘I know he was a big part of what happened to you…’
‘What happened changed my life,’ I said.
‘But I’m not at all an expert on Picasso, I’m afraid. I know of your talent, of course, and perhaps I should’ve done more research…’
‘My talent, you say. And is that all you think it was, Ms Tor? I painted pictures Picasso himself could have painted. Not fakes, or imitations, but original Picassos, or so everyone said. Paintings that experts were able to date almost to the day, paintings that could have, some even said should have, preceded or succeeded other paintings Picasso had painted, paintings everyone knows. Was it a talent? A gift? Was it an accident or a coincidence? Was it a curse? Whatever it was, it made me a lot of money and it nearly destroyed my life. No, it was the stories that nearly destroyed my life, so many different stories, and many of them I was a part of, because I didn’t deny them, or because I’d made them up myself, although one thing I never did was claim that I wa
s actually Picasso. And now you’re asking for the truth - the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It’s certainly a challenge.’
‘It’s a challenge, yes,’ said Anna Tor.
‘To answer your question, I was born on September 11, 156 days after Pablo Picasso had died and 28 years before the September 11 attacks. You think there’s some significance in that?’
‘On the same day I was born, September 11, 1973.’
Now we were descending into chitchat, and it was too late in the night for chitchat.
‘Anna,’ I said, ‘you win, I’ll meet you for a coffee tomorrow. Do you know Tufnell Park? All manner of celebrities live here, it’s very up-and-coming I’m told. It’s just two stops after Camden Town on the Northern Line. Oh, so you know it. You see? Everyone knows Tufnell Park. There’s this place that’s recently opened, and it always looks busy so it can’t be too bad, it’s called Sprinkle of Rocket and it’s on Dartmouth Park Road. Shall we say eleven o’clock?’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Anna Tor. ‘And thank you.’
‘Goodnight, Anna Tor.’
I turned the light off and stretched out on the unusually long single bed.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…
Anna Tor wanted my story, but one thing we hadn’t discussed was the end. Every story must have an end; without an end a story is incomplete, inconsequential, an anecdote at best; it is not a story. I wondered what end Anna had in mind, and how much of my story, or my several parallel stories, she knew. She knew about the paintings, of course, but she was not particularly interested in Picasso, and yet what other story was there than Picasso? What other story was there that I wanted to tell? Anna Tor wanted the truth - which was never the whole truth, nor ever so unalloyed and pure as to be nothing but the truth – and the truth, howsoever tainted it might be, was that my story hadn’t ended with Picasso. The end of Picasso as part of my story was part of my story, but it wasn’t the end.
Bowl of Fruit Page 3