by Hugh Mackay
About The Question of Love
What really goes on in a marriage?
Richard and Freya are, on the surface, a perfect couple. He has a thriving architectural practice; she plays the violin like an angel. They live in a beautiful home. They seem respectful and caring of one another.
They should be happier than they are.
In The Question of Love, Hugh Mackay has constructed a novel of stunning originality – both a sympathetic examination of a marriage and a nuanced exposition of the complexities and contradictions of human love.
Starkly observed, beautifully written and intricately plotted, The Question of Love explores the myriad ways we resist the terrible beauty of true intimacy.
CONTENTS
About The Question of Love
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Variations on a Theme
1. Coming Home
2. Coming Home – 1st Variation – ‘Restraint’
3. Love at First Sight
4. Coming Home – 2nd Variation – ‘Tiles, Tables, Taps’
5. Beauty and Utility
6. Coming Home – 3rd Variation – ‘Flashback’
7. The Pub Test
8. Coming Home – 4th Variation – ‘The Joy of Children’
9. Mother and Daughter
10. Daughter and Mother
11. Coming Home – 5th Variation – ‘A Certain Smile’
12. A New Client
13. Coming Home – 6th Variation – ‘Reverse Angle’
14. Coming Home – 7th Variation – ‘Am I Boring?’
15. Dinner with Daniel
16. Coming Home – 8th Variation – ‘A Text from Jean-Pierre’
17. Schooldays
18. Coming Home – 9th Variation – ‘A Meditation’
19. A Twilight Harbour Cruise
20. Coming Home – 10th Variation – ‘Busy, Busy’
21. A Misalliance
22. Coming Home – 11th Variation – ‘An Uncertain Smile’
23. Lincoln the Hunted
24. ‘Would You Ever Leave Him?’
25. Coming Home – 12th Variation – ‘A Visit from Angelina’
26. A Letter from Mother
27. If Only . . .
28. Coming Home
Acknowledgements
Newsletter
About Hugh Mackay
Also by Hugh Mackay
Copyright
To Sheila
Variations on a Theme
This, which is a dinner of one sort of fish served up in many courses with different cooking and sauce, is one of the very earliest instrumental forms. It has, from the sixteenth century onwards, been used by every great composer, is still popular, and seems likely to go on forever. It has been the medium for some of the most trivial human expression and some of the deepest.
A tune, or ‘subject’, is given out in all its simplicity, and then repeated many times with changes such as do not conceal its identity, though in more modern examples, it is an identity of spirit rather than of body.
Percy A. Scholes, The Oxford Companion to Music (1938)
*
‘Variations on a theme’ is my favourite musical form – think Bach’s ‘Goldberg Variations’, or the third movement of his piano concerto in D major (itself adapted from a violin concerto); Mozart’s 12 variations on a French nursery rhyme . . . As Percy Scholes noted, practically every composer has had a go at it. The Question of Love is my attempt to transfer that musical form to the written word.
Hugh Mackay
1
Coming Home
The sight of his travertine-paved convivium gladdened Richard’s heart, as it always did when he came home. Freya was sitting at the farmhouse table they had imported from France, with her back to him. Richard thought her shoulders gave a little shiver as he entered the convivium, but she appeared to be bent over her iPad, so perhaps she was merely responding to something on the screen.
‘Home is the sailor, home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill,’ he said, removing his linen jacket and draping it carefully over the back of a chair.
His wife looked up at him and smiled. ‘Hello, sailor,’ she said.
‘You okay, Frey?’ Richard asked as he kissed the top of her head.
‘I’m fine. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought I saw a bit of a shiver as I came in. Can I fetch you a sweater?’
‘No, I’m fine. It’s not cold. Would you like a drink? Or tea? Have you eaten?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I had a late lunch with Briggs. I probably drank more than I should have, but so did he. The food was good.’
‘Where did you eat?’
‘Beppi’s. Where else?’
‘So, do you want something to eat?’
Freya, Richard now noticed, was bent not over her iPad but over a music score that was covered in pencil marks. He knew what to say.
‘No, you’re busy. I’ll get myself something. Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m fine. I ate earlier. Daniel and I had a bite to eat straight after the rehearsal.’
Freya paused, waiting to see if Richard would ask how the rehearsal had gone, how the work was coming on, or even how Daniel was coping with a new baby in the house. Nothing.
She said: ‘There’s some lasagne in the fridge. You could heat it up in a couple of minutes. I’m happy to heat it while you change, if you like.’
Freya was wearing the long black skirt she sometimes wore to rehearsals. Richard loved the look of her in it. He loved the silky feel of it. His wife – his young wife, he often thought with gratitude – was an endless source of aesthetic and sensual pleasure.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she turned to face him. He pulled her out of her chair and embraced her, reaching down to stroke the curve of her hips through the thin fabric of her skirt. She responded with a warm kiss.
They stepped apart and smiled at each other.
‘I’ll heat the food and pour us both a glass of something,’ Freya said.
Richard had to admit – but only to himself – that he enjoyed the idea of Freya preparing his food. He particularly enjoyed the sound of her busying herself in the kitchen when he came home from work. He supposed it was a throwback to something quite primitive. Whatever.
Returning to the table, they raised and clinked their glasses of red wine. ‘Cheers!’ said Richard. ‘Salute!’ said Freya. Richard sat and ate his lasagne while Freya continued to work on the score.
After a few minutes, Freya picked up her glass and the score, excused herself, and retreated to her studio. Through the closed door, Richard could hear the rich, resonant sound of her violin and he reflected, yet again, on what a lucky man he was. Freya was beautiful, talented, successful, far less demanding than the wives of most of his friends – he heard regular horror stories from two of his partners at work – and she loved him. It sometimes seemed too good to be true, but he believed it was true.
Richard often said to his clients that everything in your home – everything in your life – should be either beautiful or useful, or both. He would never say so to Freya, but, to him, she had always fallen squarely into the ‘both’ category. On top of everything else, she had a bottom like a peach, played the violin like an angel and had a voice like smoke. He used to compliment Freya on her beautiful hair – a fine, greyish gold that hung loosely about her shoulders – until she pointed out that this was a matter of genetics, not accomplishment, and therefore not deserving of praise. ‘Handsome is as handsome does’ was one of her favourite aphorisms.
Forty-five minutes later, Freya emerged from her studio and announced that Rondo needed to be taken outside for a pee a
nd a short walk. She offered to do it and asked Richard if he would like to come too.
He glanced at his watch. ‘I think I’ll get ready for bed, if you don’t mind. Early start.’
‘That’s fine.’ Freya ran upstairs to the bedchamber and changed into tracksuit pants and a sweater. At the sound of her taking the leash off the hook on the back of the laundry door, Rondo, asleep on the floor of the convivium, sprang to life and scrambled to the front door, his paws slipping and sliding on the pavers, the tail wagging the dog.
Richard checked his emails, sorted some papers for the morning, brushed his teeth and got into bed. He read for a few minutes, felt drowsy, and rolled onto his side.
When Freya returned, Richard was snoring lightly. She smiled, undressed, and slipped into bed beside him. She, too, read until drowsiness overwhelmed her.
2
Coming Home –
1st Variation – ‘Restraint’
The sight of his travertine-paved convivium gladdened Richard’s heart, as it always did when he came home. He resisted calling it a kitchen/dining area. He had experimented with ‘refectory’ before conceding it sounded a touch too institutional, then tried ‘culinaire’ until he discovered it had been registered as a brand name. Now he had embraced ‘convivium’ and was encouraging the wealthier clients of Urbanski, the firm of architects where he was a partner, to do the same.
Freya, Richard’s wife, was sitting with her back to him at the farmhouse table they had imported from France. Richard noticed her shoulders shaking as he entered the convivium, though whether she was laughing, shivering, coughing or sobbing it was impossible to tell. She appeared to be bent over her iPad, so Richard assumed – hoped – she was merely responding to a message.
‘Home is the sailor, home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill,’ he said, removing his Zegna linen jacket and carefully draping it over the back of a chair. He almost always said this when he came home. And when he left in the morning, he almost always said, ‘Another day, another dollar.’ If he happened to be at home when Freya left for a meeting, a rehearsal or a performance with the string quartet she had co-founded with her friend Daniel, Richard almost always said, ‘Lay ’em in the aisles.’ It was a measure of Freya’s devotion – or perhaps merely her patience – that she found none of this tedious. Or never said she did.
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Hello, sailor,’ she said.
‘You okay, Frey?’ Richard asked as he kissed the top of her head.
‘I’m fine. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought I saw a bit of a shiver as I came in. Can I get you a sweater?’
‘No, I’m fine. It’s not cold. Would you like a drink? Or tea? Have you eaten?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I had a late lunch with Briggs, that developer I’m pursuing. I probably drank more than I should have, but so did he. The food was good.’
‘Where did you eat?’
‘Beppi’s. Where else?’
‘Well, there are lots of nice places springing up within walking distance of your office, you know. Sagra, for instance, or Verde. Have you tried Verde? You must walk right past it every time you go to Beppi’s.’
‘No, I never have. They know me at Beppi’s. It’s comfortable, I guess. Is that boring?’
Freya shrugged. ‘Boring? Only if you’re bored. If you’re not bored, it’s not boring. I guess. I imagine I might get bored if I ate at the same place day after day, week after week.’ Freya pursed her lips. ‘Year after year.’
You might be in a deep, deep rut and not even know you’re in it, Freya thought. I might even wonder if you are becoming a bit boring yourself, if I let myself wander down that path. Which I won’t.
‘So, do you want something to eat or not?’ she said lightly, concealing her irritation at Richard’s new tendency to say both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in the same answer. ‘You didn’t say if you wanted a drink.’
Freya, Richard now noticed, was bent not over her iPad but over a score that was covered in pencil marks. He knew what to say.
‘No, you’re busy. I’ll get myself something. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I’m fine. I ate earlier. Daniel and I had something straight after the rehearsal.’
Freya paused, waiting to see if Richard would ask how the rehearsal had gone, how the work was coming on, or even how Daniel was coping with a new baby in the house. Nothing.
She said: ‘There’s some lasagne in the fridge. You could heat it up in a couple of minutes. I’m happy to heat it while you change, if you like. You haven’t said whether you’d like a drink.’
Freya was wearing the long black skirt she sometimes wore to rehearsals. Richard loved the look of her in it. He loved the silky feel of it. His wife – his young wife, he often thought with gratitude – was an endless source of aesthetic and sensual pleasure.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she turned to face him. He pulled her out of her chair and embraced her, reaching down to stroke the curve of her hips through the thin fabric of her skirt. She responded with a warm kiss.
They stepped apart and smiled at each other.
Twelve years of marriage and she still turns me on like no other woman, thought Richard.
Twelve years of marriage – no baby yet – and he still thinks I’m here for the sex, thought Freya.
‘I’ll heat the food and pour us both a glass of something,’ Freya said.
Richard picked up his hand-stitched Slovenian canvas duffel bag and dropped it on the floor of his studio on the way to the bedchamber. He still used the more conventional term ‘bedroom’ for children’s and guests’ rooms in the plans he drew for his clients’ houses, but had rejected ‘master bedroom’ as a vestige of male supremacism.
In discussions with their friends on many occasions over many years, Richard had declared that he was a feminist. When Freya accused him once too often of doing or saying something she judged to have fallen short of the gold standard of feminism, he stopped using the term. Why lead with your chin? he reasoned. In the nineties, he had passed briefly through a Sensitive New Age Guy phase but had dropped it when he realised women despised SNAGs. What women wanted, he discovered, was a robust debate about gender issues, not a wimpish acquiescence. Balls still counted for something. But he had noticed that using the term ‘male supremacist’ still won him valuable points in any discussion of women’s liberation.
He had long ago learnt to avoid making any remarks that might betray a sneaking regard for traditional gender roles. And yet, in spite of his vigilance, he found it almost impossible to treat women the same way he treated men, even at work. The truth was that he was edgy around women, especially young and beautiful women.
At home, he was right on board with the idea of sharing the cooking and making the bed, and he was more than happy to load and unload the dishwasher (indeed, even Freya conceded he was better at it than she was: it was a design issue, after all), and to handle garbage disposal and light bulb replacement. But he was grateful for the cleaner and gardener whose work relieved Richard and Freya of entire areas of potentially tricky negotiation. He was also conscious of the fact that, among their friends, parents had a harder time dealing with gender issues than non-parents like him and Freya. You couldn’t farm everything out.
In spite of all this, he had to admit – but only to himself – that he enjoyed the idea of Freya preparing his food. He particularly enjoyed the sound of her busying herself in the kitchen when he came home from work. He supposed it was a throwback to something quite primitive. Whatever.
Returning to the table, they raised and clinked their glasses of red wine. ‘Cheers!’ said Richard. ‘Salute!’ said Freya. (She thought ‘Cheers’ vulgar; he thought ‘Salute’ pretentious, though neither ever said so.) Richard sat and ate his lasagne while Freya continued to work on the score.
Twelve years of marriage and we’ve achieved a level of contentment most couples would envy, thought Richard.
Twelve y
ears of marriage and he still has no idea how the sound of his uninhibited chewing and swallowing offends me, thought Freya. No, she thought, ‘offends’ is too mild: it infuriates me; it’s like sharing a dining table with a piece of efficient but noisy mechanical equipment.
After a few minutes, Freya picked up her glass and the score, excused herself, and retreated to her studio. Through the closed door, Richard could hear the rich, resonant sound of her violin and he reflected, yet again, on what a lucky man he was. Freya was beautiful, talented, successful, far less demanding than the wives of most of his friends – he heard regular horror stories from two of his partners at work – and she loved him. As far as he could recall, Freya had never once complained about the hours he kept. (Of course, she herself worked some rather odd hours when performing, to say nothing of the touring.) It sometimes seemed too good to be true, but he believed it was true. He didn’t care to dwell too much on that smug little shit, Daniel . . .
Richard often said to his clients that everything in your home – everything in your life – should be either beautiful or useful, or both. He would never say so to Freya, but, to him, she had always fallen squarely into the ‘both’ category. On top of everything else, she had a bottom like a peach, played the violin like an angel and had a voice like smoke. He used to compliment Freya on her beautiful hair – a fine, greyish gold that hung loosely about her shoulders – until she pointed out that this was a matter of genetics, not accomplishment, and therefore not deserving of praise. ‘Handsome is as handsome does’ was one of her favourite aphorisms.
Forty-five minutes later, Freya emerged from her studio and announced that Rondo alla Turca, their Kangal cross, needed to be taken outside for a pee and a short walk. She offered to do it and asked Richard if he would like to come too.
He glanced at his watch, wrestling with two competing urges. He had an early start in the morning and desperately needed a good night’s sleep. But he was also aware from some research he had recently read (he was a founding member of Socially Aware Architects) that relationships, whether with clients, friends or spouses, needed constant nurturing if they were to survive, let alone thrive. The same article reported that married couples spent, on average, less than ten minutes a day talking to each other, not counting texts or voicemail – nor, presumably, body language or companionable silence. A swift calculation suggested to Richard that, all up, he and Freya had that day spent a total of about four minutes engaged in actual conversation, and most of that was admin. But he had asked her if she was okay when he noticed that little shiver – if a shiver was what it was – and he had reported on his lunch with Briggs. (And, while he was calculating credit points, he also recalled that he had made an explicit offer to prepare his own dinner.)