It’s funny because I don’t feel on top of the world and I don’t feel suicidal, I’m in a kind of limbo where I’m trying not to think. I just want to shower, shave, get dressed, and go outside. I won’t look to the future, I won’t think beyond lunch.
At last I find a pair of jeans that Noreen missed. They’re Alex jeans, but I don’t care. And as I hunt for a shirt I realize that I’m not putting Noreen on my list: I require no vengeance against Noreen. She’s like a cornered animal that reacts to oppressors. I can’t blame her and I know she feels bad. She was only trying to lash out against the man who hurt her friend.
And she’s not a predator, she’s just a follower. As much as she might fight against it, as much as she might protest and demonstrate and join in the anticapitalist riots, she’s still soft and gentle on the inside. She’s prey. I could make mincemeat of her, but I won’t.
(She was only looking out for Amber. I certainly can’t fault her for that.)
Showered, shaven, clean, and properly fed for the first time in days, I leave the flat. I leave the flat, and walk and walk. I head south, walking into central London, walking, walking, walking down to the Embankment, walking to Hungerford Bridge.
I stand on the bridge and let the tourists, the locals, everyone walk past me as I stare down into the water. If I’d had the energy to get out of bed yesterday, would I have hurled myself from the bridge? Would I have wanted to kill myself? I’ll never know.
I’ll never know if I would have had the courage, the cowardice to kill myself. And if I had succeeded it would have proved that I was Alexander through and through and maybe I wouldn’t have deserved to live. For suicide would have been my most selfish action. It would have been cruel: it would have shattered my family, left my mother trembling and crying and wondering why, why, why for the rest of her life.
I’m glad I had my sky of daisies. I’m glad they kept me safe and warm so I didn’t want to leave, so I couldn’t leave, for I don’t know what I would have done if I’d had a quick option like throwing myself from a bridge. Willing yourself to die takes a lot longer and Amber saved me from that. She halted my decline and brought me back to life.
And as I stand there staring down into the water, staring down the river, it’s suddenly clear to me.
There’s nothing in a name. A name can’t change who I am. A name can’t change who I’ve become. A name can’t change who I am.
Call me Alexander, call me Alex, call me Ishmael. Call me the man formerly known as Alexander.
There’s nothing in a name. I can only be me.
I am not Alex. I am not Alexander. I am not one or the other. I am both. I’m not the good Alexander, I’m not the bad Alexander, I’m all of the above. I am me: it doesn’t matter what I call myself.
I am me.
And I’m a success. Platypus-fox, the advertising ideas, the skill in attracting clients, that was all me. It hasn’t suddenly ended. I did that. It was me. Me.
I may not be nice, but I can choose to act nice. I’m going back to my moment of catharsis on the night of the cinema fight, when I stopped being a spineless wimp, a doormat, and stood up for everyone in that theater. That’s who I want to be, that’s who I am.
And I’m going to be a success, no, I am a success, I want to be king of the mountain, I want to stay on top of the world, I will stay on top of the world, but I’m not going to be just like everyone else. I refuse to be a cold-blooded predator.
I refuse.
I am me. I will be a predator to the predators, but I’ll be good to the prey. I’ll be their friend, they can rely on me, I’ll stand up for them. I’ll never take advantage of their kind again.
And if in the future I start to stray once more I’ll only have to think of Amber, of what I did to her, of how much I hurt her. The thought of her will keep me in line. I want her to be proud of me. I want her to love me. I want to make it up to her. I will find a way to make it up to her.
I will be what I intended to be. I am strong and powerful but I am in control and I will never be lost to the truth again.
I am Alexander to the predators and Alex to the prey. That is who I am.
atonement, redemption, and hope
(or now that i know who i am, what am i going to do about it?)
Before I can go back to my life, the life I want to have, the life I already have, the life I will have, I have to try and make reparations to Clare Johnson. I’m willing to put on a hair shirt, smear myself with ashes and do penance, but I don’t know if that will do much good. I’d like to make it up to her, but I don’t know how I can even begin to do that.
I decide to retrieve my car while I’m working out what to do, how to start. I’m expecting the worst. It has been almost three days and my Jag is a pretty distinctive car (so beautiful, so clean, so smooth, so sexy) and I just left it parked on the street near the florist’s.
It might not even be there.
But as the cab I hailed near Charing Cross pulls up and drops me off in front of the newsagent’s—the newsagent’s where my life fell apart sixty-seven hours ago—I see my car.
It’s in one piece. There are no scratches, no dents, no broken windows, no slashed tires, the stereo panel I neglected to remove remains in place, there is no ticket even though it’s in a one-hour zone, has been in a one-hour zone all this time, the wheels aren’t clamped. Nothing has happened. It’s perfect.
And I know then that if there is a God, if there is a divine figure sitting in judgement, looking out for the world, that this is a sign that I’ve been forgiven, that I will be forgiven, that I get another chance. I’m being given the opportunity to correct my mistakes.
For God, for He or She or Whoever, knows how much I love my car. If I was going to be punished it would have been easy to hurt me. And I wouldn’t have complained, I would have thought I deserved it.
But there’s no mark, no scratch, no ding, no dent, not even a splash of mud. It’s clean and shining and it’s waiting for me.
The weight on my shoulders lessens and I climb into the car. I’m sitting behind the wheel, my hands are sliding around it and I take a deep breath.
The luck of Alexander has held. My luck. I’m a lucky man. And everything is going to work out the way I want it to because I will make it happen.
I will find a way to make it up to Clare. I will find a way if it takes me the rest of my life. I’ll be her silent and secret guardian angel for the next four decades, if that’s what is required. I’ll pay for her physical therapy, I’ll be an anonymous donor giving her money to start a new life in Australia if that’s what she wants. I’ll do whatever it takes to try to cancel out the harm I caused her, the wrong I did her. I’ll help her start again, though she’ll never know who I am.
And once I’ve started on my path to redemption I will court Amber, slowly and hesitantly, so carefully that she won’t know what’s happening until it’s too late and she’s forgiven me and is willing to start again at the beginning.
I glance up at the sky, for once so clear and blue and I can’t see a single cloud, then I start the car and watch the people pass as I wait for an opening in the traffic. I wonder who is prey and who are the predators. I, of all people, know that appearances can be deceptive but actions speak for themselves.
I smile a little half smile, not joyful, not happy, but ready to face the world once more. I have to be ready. I am, after all, an Action Hero. Oh, yes, I’m back in business.
I’m back and I’m here to stay this time.
© John Symonds
About the Author
Nancy Sparling was born in South Carolina and grew up in Michigan. She currently lives in England. Being Alexander is her first novel.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2002 by Nancy Sparling-Symonds
Al
l rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Hodder and Stoughton, a division of Hodder Headline, in 2002.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress control number: 2002090182
eISBN: 978-0-345-45487-4
v3.0
Being Alexander Page 30