by Edward Docx
For a moment I think Ralph is going to bow and I feel the strange urge to clap myself.
‘I wish . . .’ Dad lies back against his pillows. ‘I wish that I had seen it, Ralph.’
The rain is falling harder now. And the mist seems to have closed us off from the world. But it’s less damp at last and my shirt is drying. The candlelight dilates in the lantern.
‘I’m opening another bottle.’ Ralph starts fidgeting about under the table where we have stored the case.
‘Not for me,’ Dad says. He’s leaning on the side of the van where he’s re-set his pillows. His face is sagging a little more. He’s suddenly tired. He’s spent his energy too fast in the conversation. He asks: ‘What are you going to do next?’
Ralph has the bottle out and is admiring the label as if it were hand-written Tolstoy. ‘The Life of Abraham,’ he says.
‘How long . . .’ Dad asks. ‘How long does it take to get another show up and running?’
‘Six months . . . six months minimum.’
Dad is silent.
‘What did Abraham do?’ I ask.
‘God asked him to kill his son.’
‘And what did Abraham say?’
Ralph’s eyes flick up as he winds in the corkscrew. ‘He said – yes.’
‘Jesus.’ I let out a low breath.
‘Took his only son, Isaac, up the mountain early one morning, built an altar out of firewood, tied his boy to it, got out his sharpest camping knife and was all set to plunge it into the boy’s little heart when God announced that he was “just kidding”.’
‘This is the father of all the major religions?’ I ask.
‘One and the same.’
‘And how did the son – Isaac – how did he feel about his dad and God and everything when he got up off that altar?’
‘The Bible doesn’t record, Lou. Only mentions the village where they stayed that night.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Jesus – exactly.’ Dad is slurring a little now. ‘And – lest we forget, Jesus is supposed to be God’s actual son. Remember. He loved the world so much that he gave his only son. Thus trumping the other prophets by actually conceiving his only child on Earth solely for the purpose of killing him. In full public view, of course.’
The cork pops. Ralph holds it to his nose. ‘What other conclusion can we come to, Lou, but that in all the major Abrahamic religions you prove love by death? Specifically, if you can, by killing your children with maximum publicity. That’s the winner. Though martyrdom is a close second.’
‘You should let it breathe, Ralph,’ Dad murmurs.
‘Death cults,’ Ralph says. ‘Me, I prefer the Epicureans. Lou – pass your glass.’
‘You should let it breathe, Ralph.’ Dad lies down. He is deeply tired. ‘Let it breathe.’
‘No time,’ Ralph says. ‘No time for that.’
I watch Ralph pour. His pale-blue eyes are so very full of intelligence and life. I wonder if he will ever stop drinking and smoking and what he would be like without the intoxication. Suddenly, I have the thought that he, too, is killing himself. Only a little slower. He watches the wine like Faustus watches the clock.
‘Or you might say,’ he says, ‘you might say that Jesus was an elective suicide. Since he knew exactly what he was doing when he rode into Jerusalem on the back of that poor little donkey. Or so we’re led to believe . . .’
Dad settles his head; his eyes are closing. We drink in silence. But there’s some kind of horrible slow-motion prefiguration in witnessing Dad fall asleep. And I’m thinking that maybe Ralph and I should go out into the rain and smoke one last cigarette. But it has been getting windier and more stormy.
Ralph is slumped back. ‘Don’t you see what he’s doing?’ he whispers.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Come on, Lou.’ Ralph picks up his glass. ‘What do you think he is doing?’
I try to keep my voice low. ‘Dying slowly from a horrific and debilitating disease that . . . that . . .’
‘Yes. But.’
‘But what, Ralph?’ I hiss.
My brother looks at me directly. ‘He’s putting it all on to you, Lou.’
Our living father is just there in front of us – his breath noisy where it fights its way in and noisy where it fights its way out.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s putting it all on to you, Lou.’
The rats are alive again and afloat in the wine.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Don’t get shirty.’
I’m trying not to raise my voice. ‘Well fuck off then.’
‘I mean he’s putting it all on you. He keeps saying you can stop it any time you want to, right? And that’s he’s fine with that. That’s what he keeps saying. Like it’s your decision.’
I am staring at Ralph. He meets me with steady eyes.
‘It’s like you have got the disease, Lou. It’s like you have got to decide. He’s been abdicating responsibility for all of this and putting it on to you. No. Don’t make that face. That’s why you were so cross in Troyes. And that’s why you’re angry now.’
‘No, I’m angry with you.’
‘Think about it for one second – no, wait – effectively, he’s saying that you have to decide. Is his life worth living? Are you going to make it so? Is there any reason for him to carry on?’ Ralph’s voice is low and conspiratorial. ‘Because he hasn’t really decided at all. Instead, he’s given you the choice of being either his torturer if you say “no – stay in London until the end”; or his executioner if you say “yes – Switzerland”. And actually – actually what this is really doing is . . . is . . . is killing you. His son. This is all killing you.’
‘No.’ I’m hissing because I’m after the bastard now. ‘You can’t rock up here and just . . . say shit like you know shit. You haven’t seen him for three months! While you’ve been cocking around with your fucking puppets, I’ve had to look after him.’ My voice is rising but I can’t stop it. ‘You weren’t there. You have not been there for any of this. We’ve seen the psychologists and doctors and the people who actually have this terrible dis—’
‘You’re angry because it’s true.’
I am almost shouting. ‘You were not there. Do you know what one of the poor fuckers in the home said to us?’
‘Not relevant.’
‘Get me out of this box. That’s what he said, Ralph – lying in a bed with shit dribbling out his fucking backside unable to’ – the rain is banging loudly now – ‘unable to feed himself. And it’s going to be me who looks after Dad. Me. I am the one who is going to be at that fucking home every fucking day until the terrible fucking end. Not you. Not Jack. Me. And I am not going to—’
Dad is suddenly shouting above me: ‘I think there’s someone out there.’ He’s trying to raise himself. ‘There’s someone out there.’ For a second, he looks bewildered, frightened. ‘There’s somebody knocking on the door.’
I’m looking right into Ralph’s eyes and he’s holding my gaze like he’ll never look away.
‘You’re right, Dad,’ he says, quietly, and without breaking. ‘There’s a madman on the loose.’
I turn, full of fury, and in a second I yank the handle and slam open the slide door and the night comes rushing in like we’re sure to be shipwrecked for ever. And standing there in the rain with cabin baggage only is Jack.
My father has tears leaking down his face, from the disease, from the emotions, I don’t know. He’s drunk and exhausted and all he is saying is: ‘Jack, my Jack, my little Jack.’ And Jack, my brother, leans into the tight steamed-up space that we’re down to as a family, his jacket shrunken and soaking, his auburn hair streaming wet, blinking back the rain while his eyes go out to us one by one. And on his face there breaks the widest grin.
‘My Jack. You made it. My little Jack. You made it. We’re all here.’
Jack reaches in to return our father’s embrace and the trees
behind him sway, frightening and mighty, as water is thrown down from the pressuring sky.
‘We’re all here,’ Dad says, ‘we’re all here.’
‘Some parties you just have to get to,’ Jack says, ‘no matter what.’ He straightens up and stuffs his ludicrous cabin bag under the table because there’s nowhere else to put it and takes off his muddy shoes and tries to stash them too – all in a second – before he clambers up onto the bed beside Dad because there’s nowhere else to go and I grab the door handle behind him and slide it shut with a slam-clunk.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Jack says. He is grave and warm and funny and serious, as only he can be. ‘Great spot. Great weather. Great accommodation. Surprised it’s not busier.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ Dad says, indicating his tears. ‘It’s the bloody disease.’ He shakes his head. ‘That – and because I’m so bloody glad to see you.’
‘Wow. What’s with the language? What’s happening here?’
‘Don’t panic,’ Ralph says. ‘The ladies haven’t arrived yet. We’re expecting considerable numbers. And we saved you a big bucket of cocaine. Lou’s made some nibbles. We’ve got handcuffs, candles, blindfolds, everything. We’re only getting started. All will be well.’
‘Hello, mate.’ Jack’s smile is like everything that you’d hope for in two boys who shared a placenta and he reaches all the way across the table with his arm and pulls Ralph towards him and their foreheads touch and they hold it there and I am thinking that there’s nobody on the whole planet who can cross the barbed-wire no-man’s-land that surrounds Ralph like that.
‘Lou. I made it.’ Jack turns to me. ‘You, my bro, are the bollocks of the dog.’ He takes me by both shoulders and kisses me on the nose and I feel the rain on the bristles of his chin where it touches my lips. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. I don’t know what I was thinking. But I’m here now.’
‘Well, thank fuck,’ I say.
Jack’s eyebrows go up. ‘Seriously, what has happened to this family’s language?’
‘We are all here,’ Dad says. ‘That’s the main thing.’
‘We’ve joined the Devil’s party, brother,’ Ralph says. ‘We’re on the other side, now. We’ve had enough of God. We’ve decided he’s an infantile civil servant and that he doesn’t deserve any more time or attention.’
Dad is using his duvet to wipe his tears. ‘We’ve got wine open,’ he says. ‘Château Pichon-Longueville Comtesse de Lalande.’
‘I’ve got some champagne,’ Ralph says. ‘We could open that. Thierry Rodez – it’s the little-known first choice of all the other houses. A thing of great beauty.’
‘Boys, if it’s alcoholic, then I’m going to drink it,’ Jack says. ‘Oh man, I am so tired. I am so tired. I could sleep for nine days.’
He takes off his disfigured jacket and Ralph reaches for it. ‘Let me hang it on the back of my chair,’ he says, ‘the heater will dry it.’
We watch Jack push the water from his forehead with his palm. His shirt is soaked in dark v-shaped patches, and clings to his torso. He’s come straight from work.
‘So, Dad,’ he says, ‘what are we doing here?’
Dad shakes his head. ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow. Let’s talk tomorrow tomorrow. Here, have my glass.’
‘What about you?’
‘No, no. I have had plenty.’
Ralph pours Jack some wine.
‘No children.’ Jack grins and raises a toast. ‘That’s the main thing. No children tomorrow morning.’ He takes a long sip and then he just nods. ‘You know I’d sleep in an Albanian shittery if you could promise me that there won’t be any children for a few hours in the morning.’
‘The finish. Wait for the finish,’ Ralph urges.
‘We’re all here,’ Dad says, again. His eyes are shining and he’s sitting up and leaning forward.
‘Tastes like wine,’ Jack says, then concedes, but more to Dad than to Ralph. ‘Fine wine. Which I love.’ Then he grins again.
My dad’s face is a smile and a collapse and a recovery. ‘I remember when you two boys were two or three – you would race every morning to get dressed and whoever won would come bursting into my room at six in the morning – every bloody morning – and start shouting, “beat”, “beat”, “beat”. And it would take me thirty minutes to stop you fighting.’
‘Jesus,’ Jack says. ‘Not sure I can get used to you swearing again, Dad.’
Dad hesitates then he raises a fist like this is a fight or a revolution. ‘Existential outrage,’ he says. ‘Existential incandescence.’
We hit the sweet spot. We talk for an hour. The rain softens until it whispers and flutters like bats trapped in a coffin.
‘And so what is the plan?’ Jack asks.
‘Switzerland then home,’ Ralph says. ‘That’s the itinerary as it stands. But we’re open to fresh input.’
‘Jesus,’ I say.
‘That’s not happening,’ Jack says, firm, calm, cool, sure.
So now we all drink. Dad reaches out his hand. I pass him my glass. He drinks, too. We’re probably alcoholics as well as hypocrites and liars and all the rest.
Jack breathes in the quiet. His eyes go round again – Dad, then Ralph, and then settling on me. ‘I meant,’ he says quietly, ‘what is the plan sleeping-wise? What is happening sleeping-wise?’
‘Oh. Oh. Sleeping-wise,’ Ralph says. ‘Well, Dad is in the bed. Me and you in the roof. Lou’s going to sleep under the van and get up early to make our breakfast. He’s promised St Jacques wrapped in bacon. He’s going to set out in a minute to source them.’
‘Don’t use “source” as a verb,’ Dad murmurs.
‘Actually, I’m going to find a hotel,’ I say. ‘And in the morning I’m going to fly to San Francisco to live with a woman who really understands me. And then I might paint portraits of men in the Meatpacking District who look like Old Testament prophets.’
‘What’s happened to your hair, Lou?’ Jack asks.
‘Fuck you.’
‘The Meatpacking District is in New York, Lou,’ Ralph says. ‘You mean the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin is San Francisco.’
‘And fuck you.’
‘I’m afraid fornication is off the menu tonight, boys,’ Dad says.
‘Which realization . . .’ Ralph upends his glass and sets it down on the table ‘. . . is always the most disappointing moment at any party.’
‘We’re simply all going to sleep here,’ Dad says. ‘We’re going to sleep right here – in this van – together.’
‘I want to sleep so long that I wake up in another season,’ Jack says.
‘Just so you know, Lou and Jack,’ Ralph says, ‘I’d like my last few nights on Earth to be exactly like this: an unfashionable van, intensifying mud, and the unspoken promise of incest.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’ve got condoms.’
‘Good,’ Jack says. ‘Because I definitely do not want to get anyone pregnant. The consequences . . . you would not believe the consequences of pregnancy.’
‘Oh, I would,’ Ralph says.
‘Let’s do this,’ I say.
I stand with my brothers in the cramped space so as to loosen the catches that raise the roof.
‘Anti-clockwise to undo,’ Dad says.
PART THREE
PORTRAIT OF HIS SONS
MONSTERS OF THE DEEP
The grass is wet through my toes and the trees are dripping heavily with the echo of the rain and the morning air is fresh and tastes of the low cloud that has passed through the woods and valleys of all those Puss-in-boots kingdoms of central Europe. I put on my flip-flops and stand a while looking down towards the river where the mist is still curling gentle-fingered through the trees. After the storm, the morning’s stillness has a near-mystical quality of intensity.
The van door slides noisily open behind me. Jack steps stolidly out in his pale striped pyjamas and brown brogues. He has a clean towel over his shoulder and a drawstring bag of fresh clothes. I can tell from the way
he is looking about himself that the careless beauty of our morning glade strikes him, too. There’s a turquoise Frisbee lying in the longer grass by the hedge that separates one camping plot from another. I walk over and pick it up for no reason.
‘When we wipe ourselves out,’ I say, ‘this is the kind of shit that they’ll find. Like we find dinosaur bones. Assuming life ever starts again.’
‘Too big a universe to be just us, Baby Lou.’ Jack raises his eyebrows and we’re standing there for a moment as though actually it is just us. Birds swoop and dart and flit from tree to tree, staying low as if confused by the fallen sky.
‘Have the boys got a Frisbee?’
‘No.’ He parts finger and thumb to massage his hairline.
‘I’ll put it in the van for them.’ I lean it against the back tyre. Something feels different. Then I realize that this is my first future thought since I left London. Now that Jack is here, some kind of energy has changed direction because it feels as though we definitely can’t be driving to Zurich; something new is being incubated.
I walk over to the trees where he is standing and say: ‘If you want him to change his mind, you’re gonna have to leave the religious stuff out of it.’
‘You sound like you think he’s changing his mind?’
I can’t help but come across angry-defeated. ‘I don’t know. Ralph . . .’
‘Ralph changed his mind for him?’
‘Dad started talking to Ralph like he hadn’t made up his mind at all. Ralph’s refusing to engage. I don’t know.’
‘You don’t have to know, Baby Lou.’ Jack smiles. ‘All for one and one for all. The three of us. Remember we used to say that when you were little? We’ll sort this out.’
A scarlet butterfly hovers undecided in a bed of ivory flowers that somebody must have planted with the last of the summer in mind since they’re blooming crazy only now in September.
‘So what are you going to do?’