The Absolutist

by John Boyne

  I looked down the street and knew that I had no choice. Do it, I thought. Be strong. Get it over with. Then go home. And never tell her the truth about the end.

  But even as I thought this, my head was dizzy with what she had said about my mother and father. What if I had died over there, I wondered? Would they have cared? After the way things had ended between us, I rather thought not. Everything that had taken place between Peter and me, the fool I had made of myself, the mistake that cost me my home. What was it my father had said to me when I was leaving, after all?

  “It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight.”

  Peter and I were friends from the cradle. It was always just the two of us until the day when the Carters arrived, spilling their furniture and carpets on to the street as they took possession of the house next door to my father’s shop and two doors along from Peter’s home.

  “Hello, boys,” said Mr. Carter, an overweight car mechanic with hair growing in tufts from his ears and up over the collar of his too-small shirts. He was holding half a sandwich in his hand and stuffed it in his mouth as he watched us kicking a football to each other. “Pass it!” he shouted, ignoring his wife’s sighs of exasperation. “Pass it over here, lads. Pass it over here!”

  Peter, stopping for a moment, stared at him before using the toe of his boot to kick the ball neatly up in the air, where it landed with enviable precision in his arms.

  “For pity’s sake, Jack,” said Mrs. Carter.

  He shrugged and made his way over to his wife, who was as corpulent as he was, and it was at that moment that Sylvia appeared. That this pair could have produced such a creature was a surprise.

  “Got to be adopted,” muttered Peter in my ear. “There’s no way she’s theirs.”

  Before I could say anything, my own mother appeared from the upstairs flat in her Sunday best—she must have known that the new neighbours were arriving that day and been watching out for them—and began a conversation that was a mixture of welcome and curiosity. The battle for who was lucky to be living next door to whom was already beginning while Sylvia simply stared at Peter and me, as if we were a new class of beast altogether, entirely distinct from the boys she had known in her previous neighbourhood.

  “I won’t go short on meat, anyway,” said Mrs. Carter, nodding in the direction of our front window, where a couple of rabbits were hanging from steel hooks through their necks. “Do you always keep them out like that?”

  “Out like what?” asked my mother.

  “Open to the world. Where anyone can see them.”

  My mother frowned, unsure where else a butcher’s shop could display its wares, but said nothing.

  “If I’m honest,” continued Mrs. Carter, “I’m more of a fish person, anyway.”

  Bored by their talk, I tried to get Peter to return to our game, but he pulled away from me and shook his head, dropping the football again before bouncing it a dozen or more times on his knee as Sylvia watched him silently. Then, ignoring him, she turned her attention to me and her lips turned upwards slightly, the hint of a smile, before she looked away and disappeared inside her front door to explore her new home.

  And that, as far as I was concerned, was the end of that.

  But it wasn’t long before she became a near-constant presence in our lives. Peter was smitten by her and it became obvious that to try to exclude her from our company was to ensure that I would be excluded from his, the idea of which was very painful to me.

  But then the strangest thing happened. Perhaps it was because of Peter’s evident devotion or my apparent indifference, but Sylvia began to direct all her attention towards me.

  “Shouldn’t we call for Peter?” I would ask when she knocked on my door, full of ideas for an afternoon’s entertainment.

  She’d shake her head quickly. “Not today, Tristan,” she’d say. “He can be such a bore.”

  It made me furious when she insulted him like that. I would have argued his case, but I suppose I was flattered by her attentions. She had a somewhat exotic air, after all—she had not grown up in Chiswick, for one thing, and had an aunt who lived in Paris—and it was obvious that she was beautiful. Every boy wanted to be her friend; Peter was desperate to secure her favours. And yet she was choosing to bestow them on me. How could I not have been flattered?

  Peter noticed this, of course, and was driven half mad with jealousy, which left me in a quandary over how to solve the problem. The fact was that the longer I encouraged her, the less possibility there was of her throwing me over for my friend.

  As my sixteenth birthday approached I grew more tormented. My feelings towards Peter had clarified themselves in my head by now—I recognized them for what they were—and they were only amplified by my inability to verbalize or act upon them. I would lie in bed at night, curled into a tight ball, half encouraging the most lurid fantasies to energize the dark hours, half desperate to dismiss them out of pure fear of what they implied. As the summer approached and Peter and I took to the islands past Kew Bridge, I would encourage play-acting on the river banks in an attempt to force a physical bond between us but was always forced to pull away at the moments of the most intense thrill for fear of discovery.

  And so I allowed Sylvia to kiss me under the chestnut tree and I tried to make myself believe that this was what I wanted.

  “Did you like it?” she asked as she pulled away, half drunk on what she considered to be her own desirability.

  “Very much,” I lied.

  “Do you want to do it again?”

  “Perhaps later. Anyone might see us out here.”

  “And so what if they do? What does that matter?”

  “Perhaps later,” I repeated.

  I could tell that this was not the answer she expected and my continued indifference, my utter refusal to be seduced by her, finally brought her campaign to a crashing end. She simply shook her head, as if dismissing me from her mind once and for all.

  “I’ll be getting home, then,” she said, taking off across the fields without me, leaving me there alone to ponder my disgrace. I knew immediately that I had lost her favour and didn’t care in the slightest. Move away, I thought. Go back where you came from. Take up with your aunt in Paris if you want. Just leave us all in peace.

  And then, a day or two later, Peter came to see me in a state of great excitement.

  “There’s something I have to ask you, Tristan,” he said, biting his lip and trying to keep his enthusiasm at bay. “You’ll give me a straight answer, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You and Sylvia,” he said. “There’s nothing between you, is there?”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Of course not,” I told him. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Well, I had to ask,” he said, breaking into a smile, unable to keep his news to himself any longer. “Look, the thing is that she and I, well, we’re an item now, Tristan. It’s all decided.”

  I remember I was standing up at the time and to my left was a small table where, before going to bed at night, my mother would leave a bowl of water and a jug for me to wash with in the morning. My hand instinctively went out and rested atop that table for fear that my legs might give way beneath me.

  “Is that so?” I asked, staring at him. “Well, lucky you.”

  I told myself that it was all something and nothing, that sooner or later he would make some idiotic comment that would annoy her and she would throw him over—but no, it was impossible, I realized, for who in their right mind would ever secure Peter’s affections and then discard them? No, she would betray him with another and then he would put her aside and return to me and agree that girls were a bad lot and it would be for the best if we stuck to each other from now on.

  Of course that didn’t happen. Something more real, an actual romance, unfolded before my eyes and it was painful to observe. And so I made my great mistake, the one that within a few short hours would see me expel
led from school, home and family and from the only life I had ever known.

  It was a school day, a Thursday, and I found myself alone with Peter in our classroom, a rare occurrence now, for Sylvia was almost always by his side, or, rather, he was almost always by hers. He was telling me about the previous evening, how he and Sylvia had gone for a walk along the river together and there had been no one around to catch them so she had allowed him to place his hand on the soft cotton fabric of her blouse. To “feel her up,” as he put it.

  “She wouldn’t let me go any further, of course,” he said. “She’s not that type of girl, not my Sylvia.” My Sylvia! The words revolted me. “But she said we might go back again this weekend if it’s sunny and if she can find an excuse to get away from her dragon of a mother.”

  He was prattling on, twenty to the dozen, unable to stop himself in the intensity of his feelings. It was obvious how much she meant to him, and without pausing to think about the consequences of my actions, overwhelmed by the power of his own longings, I reached forward, took his face in my hands and kissed him.

  The embrace lasted a second or two, no more than that. He pulled away in shock, gasping, tripping over his own feet as I stood still before him. He stared at me in confusion, then repulsion, wiped his hand against his mouth and looked at it as if I might have left a stain upon his skin. Of course I knew immediately that I had made a terrible miscalculation.

  “Peter,” I said, shaking my head, ready to throw myself on his mercy, but it was too late: he was already running from the room, his boots pounding along the corridor outside as he sought to put as much distance between the two of us as he could.

  It’s an astonishing thing: we had been friends all our lives but I never laid eyes on him again after that. Not once.

  I didn’t return to class that afternoon. I went home, complaining to my mother of a sick stomach, and thought about packing a bag and running away before anyone could discover what I had done. I lay on my bed, the tears coming quickly, then found myself in the bathroom, vomiting hard, feeling the tension of perspiration and humiliation combining to condemn me. I was probably still there when our headmaster appeared in the shop downstairs, not to purchase a leg of lamb or a few pork chops for his tea, but to inform my father of the complaint that had been made against me, of the most hideous and vile complaint, and to instruct him that I was no longer welcome as a student in his school, that if he had his way I would be dragged before the magistrates on a charge of gross indecency.

  I stayed in my room, a curious sense of calm overtaking me as if I was no longer of my own body. I inhabited a different plane for a short time, an ethereal presence watching this young, hopelessly confused lad sitting on the side of his bed, lost to the world but interested to find out what might happen next.

  I was sent away from home later that day and within a few weeks most of the bruises and welts that my father had inflicted on me had begun to heal and the scars across my back and face had lost some of their sting. My left eye unsealed itself and I was able to see normally once again.

  I made no protest as I was kicked out on to the street, where Mrs. Carter watched me as she watered her hydrangeas and shook her head, disappointed at where her life had brought her, for she knew in her heart that she had been born for more than this.

  “Everything all right, Tristan?” she asked.

  The vicarage reminded me of something from a picture postcard. It was located at the end of a small cul-de-sac with a short road leading up to it lined with trees that were just beginning to shed their leaves, and its windows were bordered by a lush spray of dark green ivy. I glanced towards the immaculate front lawn, taking in the row of ferns and bedding plants growing next to a corner rock garden. It was idyllic, a stark contrast to the small flat above the butcher’s shop in which I had spent my first sixteen years.

  In the hallway, an enthusiastic small dog ran towards me, an inquisitive expression on his face, and as I reached down to pat him, he balanced with his hind legs on the floor and his front legs on my knees, patiently accepting all the pats and caresses that I was willing to bestow, his tail wagging in ecstasy at the attention.

  “Bobby, get down,” said Marian, shooing him away. “You’re not frightened of dogs, are you, Tristan? Leonard couldn’t bear to have one near him.”

  I looked at her, laughing a little; Bobby was hardly an intimidating presence. “Not in the least,” I said. “Although we never had one. What breed is he, anyway? A spaniel?”

  “Yes, well, a King Charles. Getting on a bit now, of course. He’s almost nine.”

  “Was he Will’s?” I asked, surprised that I had never heard Bobby’s name mentioned before. Some of the men over there had spoken about their dogs with more affection than they did their families.

  “No, not really. He’s Mother’s, if he’s anyone’s. Just ignore him and he’ll stop pestering you eventually. Let’s go into the drawing room, I’ll just let Mother know you’re here.”

  She opened the door to a comfortable parlour and I stepped inside, Bobby in tow, and looked around. It was as comfortable as I had expected it to be, the firmness of the sofas suggesting that the room was probably kept for special visitors, of which I, apparently, was one. I glanced down to find the dog sniffing around my ankles. I caught his eye and he stopped immediately, sitting on the floor and staring up at me, seemingly uncertain whether or not he approved of me yet. He cocked his head to the left, as though deciding, then began the process of trying to climb me once again.

  “Mr. Sadler,” said Mrs. Bancroft, coming in a moment later, looking a little flustered. “It’s so good of you to call. I’m sure you’re very busy. Get down, Bobby.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” I said, smiling at her, lying, pleased that Marian followed her mother in almost immediately with a pot of tea. More tea.

  “I’m afraid my husband isn’t here yet,” she said. “He did promise to join us but sometimes he gets distracted by parishioners on the way home. I know he’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “It’s quite all right,” I said, unsettled by the fine china cups being set out on the table with their painfully small handles. Since Will’s mother had appeared, my right index finger had started to shake in that uncontrollable manner once again and I rather feared that if I attempted to drink from one of them I would end up with its contents poured down my shirt.

  “I’m sure he’ll be along soon, though,” she muttered, throwing a quick look out of the window as if that might ensure his timely presence. She was very much her daughter’s mother, an attractive woman in her early fifties, composed, well turned out, elegant. “Have you both had a nice day?” she asked eventually, as if this were nothing more than a social visit.

  “Very nice, thank you,” I said. “Marian showed me around the city.”

  “There’s not much to see, I’m afraid,” she replied. “I’m sure that a Londoner must find us terribly boring.”

  “Not at all,” I said, even as Marian sighed audibly from the armchair next to mine.

  “Now, why would you say that, Mother?” she asked. “Why must we continually believe that we are less than those who happen to live a hundred miles away?”

  Mrs. Bancroft looked at her and then smiled at me. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter,” she said. “She does get in a flap sometimes over the smallest things.”

  “I’m not getting in a flap,” she said. “It’s just … Oh, it doesn’t matter. It just irritates me, that’s all. Continually putting ourselves down like this.”

  There was a touch of the irritated teenager about Marian now, quite different from the self-assured young woman with whom I had spent most of the day. I glanced towards the sideboard, where a series of portraits of Will, taken at various points during his life, captured my attention. In the first, he was presented as a young boy, smiling cheekily in a football outfit, then he was a little older, turning around and staring as if he had been taken by surprise. And in a third, he was walking away,
his face invisible, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed low.

  “Would you like to take a closer look?” asked Mrs. Bancroft, noticing my interest, and I nodded, going over to the sideboard, where I took each one down individually and examined it. It was all that I could do not to run my finger along the contours of his face.

  “You don’t have any pictures of him in uniform, I see.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Bancroft. “I did have one. When he first enlisted, I mean. We were terribly proud, of course, so it seemed like the right thing to do. But I took it down. I don’t want to be reminded of that part of his life, you see. It’s in a drawer somewhere but …”

  Her voice trailed off and I didn’t pursue it. It had been the wrong question to ask. A moment later, however, I noticed another portrait, this one of a man who was wearing a uniform, although not the type that Will or I had ever worn. He had a placid expression on his face, as if he were resigned to whatever Fate had in store for him, and a rather extraordinary moustache.

  “My father,” said Mrs. Bancroft, lifting the picture off the sideboard and staring at it with a half-smile. Her other hand caressed my arm for a moment in an unconscious gesture and I felt comforted by it. “Neither Marian nor William ever knew him, of course. He fought in the first Transvaal conflict.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, nodding. When I was growing up, the Boer War and its predecessor were the great conflict memories of my parents’ generation and they were often talked about still. Everyone had a grandfather or an uncle who had fought at Ladysmith or Mafeking, laid down their lives on the sloping hills of Drakensberg or come to a horrible end in the polluted rivers of the Modder. People spoke of the Boers, a race who had simply chosen not to be overrun by invaders from a different hemisphere, as the last great enemy of the British people and their war as our last great conflict. A bitter irony, I suppose.