Realizing he must tell Fiona that he would only be passing through London briefly, Peter called her from the train. He swayed from side to side in the carpeted cubicle, watching the credit hurtle down on his phonecard.
‘Awful about Gavin committing sui,’ said Fiona.
‘Doing what?’ said Peter.
‘Committing suicide.’
‘Did you say “committing sui”?’
‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ said Fiona uneasily.
Peter was silent. Somehow the full horror of Gavin’s life being cut short was unveiled by Fiona’s cosy abbreviation.
‘He didn’t seem the type,’ Fiona soldiered on.
‘The type?’ said Peter. ‘What type? We could all do it any time.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Fiona with a reluctance that was at once exaggerated and frivolous, as if she had been asked to play croquet on a particularly wet lawn. ‘Isn’t it usually intellectual types who do it, or real proper loonies?’
‘The intellectuals probably buy another black polo neck instead,’ said Peter, realizing he wouldn’t have said anything so silly except to Fiona.
‘Shall I stick my head in the oven or buy another polo neck?’ she guffawed.
‘Listen, I’m not going to be spending much time in London. In fact I’m going to be flying out before the weekend.’
‘But we’re going to Daddy’s.’
‘I know. I’ll just have to cancel.’
‘It’s a bit late to chuck.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re not giving me the old heave-ho, are you?’ said Fiona, with a sudden burst of vulnerability as grating as a missed gear.
‘God, no,’ said Peter, ‘I’m just…’ he searched for the right phrase, and then he remembered Gavin’s formula, ‘just going walkabout.’
‘Men!’ said Fiona, and he could hear her eyeballs rolling skywards.
That night Peter could not sleep in his airless berth. He didn’t bother to lower the blind as the train screeched its way into the crowded south. The bunk, which had been so perfect for an eight-year-old, no longer suited him, and he couldn’t abandon himself to playing with the light switches any more.
The rhythm of the train cajoled him into a mysteriously pensive insomnia. Had Gavin’s suicide been a momentary madness, or a long-postponed rebuttal of an unbearable suffering? Was suicide the most courageous and authentic thing he had ever done? Why had Peter learned about Gavin’s suicide just when he was so elated and open to life?
Peter was unable to answer any of these questions, but as the night wore on, his imagination tracked Gavin’s fate, crossing to that realm of bored and plaintive ghosts, to see if he could find Gavin still smoking idly beside a pool of his own blood. Gavin’s suffering gradually merged in Peter’s tired mind with Lara’s unspeakable loss, and for one astonishing moment, as the train shot through an empty station, its deserted platforms still uselessly lit, Peter suddenly lost himself in this pool of other people’s tears, re-emerging as the windows darkened again, shaken but somehow washed.
Yes, Fiona was right, Findhorn was responsible for the start of some change in him which he could never stop for long enough to assess. After leaving London he hadn’t contacted her again until he got to California, and then he’d just written an evasive letter filled with vague neutral phrases about ‘needing space’.
And now he was at Esalen, still looking for Sabine, but less sure of his pursuit. Esalen was the last of the questing stations he could remember Sabine talking about. She had been especially nostalgic about its sulphurous hot tubs where the traumas unearthed by its workshops were transformed into a voluptuous catharsis.
Peter turned away from the wooden railing where he had been standing beside the lazy diamond ripple of the Pacific, and went back to his room to collect the dirty laundry he had accumulated in Los Angeles.
4
Peter watched his tumbling laundry, daydreaming to the faint clicking of his shirt buttons against the metal drum. What would he do if Sabine walked in right now? He still thought about her continually, but he thought about her more as a preoccupation than a person. He could no longer browse through the much-thumbed anthology of their three days together and expect to find any detail he didn’t know off by heart. What fascinated him now was the perseverance and the recklessness of his fascination. His latest and most exotic frustration had taken place only a few days before he arrived at Esalen, when he was looking for Sabine in Los Angeles.
One day the whole world was going to look like Los Angeles, he decided, not a city, nor the absence of a city, just ruined countryside, with houses squeezed between highways which never tired of whispering the lie that it was more interesting to go somewhere than to be here. The entire westward drive of American history seemed to have piled up on the beach, and the descendants of wagon-crazed pioneers, refusing to accept completely the restraint of the world’s widest ocean, frantically patrolled the edge of the West, like lemmings in therapy.
The breathless obesity of the city was mirrored by the way in which work and play spilled into each other and formed a perpetual suburb of hedonistic commerce. Every deal had to be closed with a game of golf, every party was the occasion to flex the muscles of a feeble career instead of going to the trouble of making conversation. These confusions spread to all the details of life. Menus couldn’t decide whether to advertise dieting or eating. Often the contents of salads and sandwiches hung around shyly among the real stars: the ingredients that had been left out, and the pointless variety of methods by which the sodium-free, unbleached, sugarless, decaffeinated, coffee-free coffee could be vaporized, sun-dried, skimmed, scorched, and served in sixteen different sizes of cup.
Already running low on money, Peter had slept on the sofa of an ex-girlfriend who had the good fortune to play the English wife of the maverick Lootenant McMurphy in the evergreen television series Cop Story. She really wanted to play something serious, Caroline never tired of explaining, but Cop Story paid the rent.
The night before Caroline threw him out because she said that his passionate search for Sabine was undermining her sexual self-esteem, she had taken him to a party given in the offices of a lawyer specializing in the entertainment industry. She abandoned him at the door in order to network with a producer, and Peter fell prey to Jerome, a man with electric blue eyes and chaotic grey-brown hair who plunged into speech without any introduction.
‘I feel everything is coming together tonight,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’m getting a lot of vibrational energy from the Moon.’
‘Is that nice?’ said Peter.
‘It’s great.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘I’ve written a sequel to Easy Rider, and I’ve just met a man with a direct line,’ Jerome karate-ed his hand emphatically, ‘to Jack Nicholson.’
‘But don’t all the principal characters get killed in the original movie?’ asked Peter.
‘We’ve got round that.’
‘Aha.’
‘I’m only doing the film project to make money. My real passion is for the spiritual autobiography I’m writing. It’s called “You invented the Ego because you forgot you were God”.’
‘Catchy title.’
‘Yeah, but I’m thinking of calling it “Too Deep to Dig”.’
‘It’s hard to choose,’ said Peter.
‘The central idea is love, love, love. Forget your suffering and your petty squabbles, just love, love, love. Forget your drinking and your smoking, because when you understand love, you’ll love yourself too much to do that stuff. That’s pretty much a quotation from the book,’ said Jerome, to excuse the eloquence of these remarks. ‘Why doesn’t God alleviate our suffering?’
‘I’ve often wondered,’ said Peter.
‘Because he doesn’t see it as suffering.’
‘Clearly he’s less bright than one imagined.’
‘The thing you notice that you haven’t noticed that you don’t have is the thing that really matters,’
said Jerome, beaming vibrational energy at Peter. ‘Think about it.’
They stood beside a wagon-wheel with candle-flame light bulbs, hanging low over a conference table that groaned with bright orange triangular chips and a tub of oil-free herbal dip. Peter was desperate to ditch Jerome, but Jerome, having got Peter abreast of his business projects, was ready to feign an interest in his career.
‘So, what are you doing here in California?’ he asked.
‘Well, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m looking for a woman I’m in love with. I don’t suppose you know her,’ said Peter wearily. ‘A German girl called Sabine?’
‘Sure I know her,’ said Jerome. ‘Tall, brown hair, very cute…’
‘Christ,’ said Peter, leaning on the table. ‘Yes, that’s her. From Frankfurt?’
‘But originally from Hanover,’ said Jerome, in a perfect impersonation of Sabine.
‘I don’t believe this,’ gasped Peter. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s here in LA.’
I knew it, thought Peter, I knew there was some point to my being in this ghastly place. Perseverance is rewarded, serendipity does work, life is beautiful.
‘We could see her later tonight, if you want,’ suggested Jerome.
‘If I want, if I want … I’ve given up my job, I’ve spent three months looking for her, I’ve almost run out of money…’
He reflected that in the movie version of this moment he would probably break down in tears.
‘Your search is over,’ said Jerome, rubbing Peter’s back soothingly. ‘Let’s go see her.’
Caroline wanted to come along too.
‘I wouldn’t miss this reunion for all the world,’ she sighed.
Jerome was also bringing a friend, a thickset and pock-marked lawyer called Julio, who had just joined the entertainment lawyer’s firm.
It was raining heavily outside and Jool’s car moved slowly through the steamy darkness and the sudden torrents of increasingly narrow roads.
‘Where exactly are we going?’ asked Caroline.
‘Place in the valley,’ said Jerome.
‘Do you have any legal representation here in the States?’ said Julio, straining backwards with a grunt.
‘No,’ said Peter, ‘but I don’t do any business here.’
‘No, no,’ said Julio. ‘You’re putting the carriage before the horse. You gotta have legal representation, then you get the deal.’
‘Do you specialize in entertainment?’ asked Peter politely.
‘No, I’m in personal injury,’ said Julio.
‘Is that legal?’ asked Peter.
‘Sure it’s legal, it’s a branch of the law.’
‘I was just joking…’ mumbled Peter.
‘Julio is working on the patent of my water-purifying invention,’ Jerome explained. ‘It changes the molecular structure of the water and makes it lighter, so it doesn’t produce such tight-rooted vegetables.’
In the shadows of the back seat, Caroline crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out to indicate her opinion of this scheme.
‘It doesn’t use any chemicals,’ said Jerome. ‘I met a healer in Tijuana said cancer was caused by chemicals that are everywhere around us. They change the molecules, parasites move in and they explode into cancer cells.’
‘God, how terrifying,’ said Caroline in a bored voice. ‘Look, I don’t want to be a party-pooper, but how far is it exactly to this place? I’ve got an acupuncture appointment early tomorrow morning.’
‘Acupuncture,’ said Julio. ‘Guy sued the other day, ’cause he said it didn’t make no difference. Had to get the AMA to adjudicate. They said nothing had happened, no improvement.’
‘Don’t believe anything you read in the newspapers,’ said Jerome. ‘Everything you read in American newspapers is not the truth, it’s a story they’re putting out. Of course acupuncture works. The body is an electrical system.’
‘Look,’ said Caroline, ‘could you answer the question? How far are we?’
‘Not far,’ said Julio, scratching his neck. ‘Rain slowed us down, look at this rain…’
‘Repent,’ said Jerome, ‘that’s a beautiful word. It’s repentare: to think again. It’s so beautiful. Later on it became associated with guilt. They invented guilt.’
‘You realize we’re going to be murdered, don’t you?’ Caroline whispered to Peter reproachfully.
Peter frowned at her to show that he felt she was exaggerating.
‘What about the Fall?’ he said to Jerome.
‘The Fall,’ laughed Jerome, as if this was a great joke. ‘Knowledge of good and evil. Before the Fall, when we lived in Atlantis and Lemuria, we had these incredible powers, and we’re going to get them back,’ he said, slapping the steering wheel. ‘We’re going to get them back, but we’ve had like ten thousand years of guilt and good and evil, and distinctions and ego, but we’re going to get back those powers we had in Lemuria.’
‘What’s the source of that?’ asked Julio.
‘I gave you that book,’ said Jerome.
‘Oh, yeah, yeah. It’s because it’s in the DNA, right?’
‘No,’ said Jerome angrily. ‘Let’s get cause and effect right. It’s because it’s like that that it’s in the DNA, not the DNA that caused it.’
‘Yeah, right, right,’ said Julio, conceding the justice of this point.
The conversation petered out in these fathomless philosophical waters. Caroline crossed her arms and stared tragically out of the window, as if to burden Peter not just with her own death but with the death of all the Ophelias she would now never play.
‘We’re here,’ said Jerome.
They got out of the car in front of a black wall with a black door in it, and a pink neon sign saying ‘222’.
‘What is this?’ asked Caroline.
‘It’s a place Sabine loves to hang out,’ said Jerome.
‘You always had strange taste in girlfriends,’ said Caroline ironically.
The dimness of the interior failed to hide large areas of baldness in the red carpet. A number of unusually tall women in sequined evening dresses hung around the bar. One of them sat on a gashed banquette with a hollow-cheeked man in a leather coat.
Jerome went over to the bar and whispered to one of the girls.
‘You realize what this is, don’t you?’ asked Caroline.
‘A low dive,’ said Peter.
‘They’re trannies.’
‘What?’
‘Transsexuals. I’m going to call a cab – we may still be able to get out of here alive.’
‘I want to introduce you to a friend of Sabine’s,’ said Jerome.
‘Look here…’ said Peter.
‘Sabine’s coming here later to meet up with her.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ said Peter.
‘Are you saying that my friend is lying?’ asked Julio.
‘No, I’m—’
‘Because if you were saying that,’ said Julio, ‘that would be a very serious accusation.’
‘I forgive you, Peter,’ said Jerome, putting his hand soothingly on Peter’s back. ‘Come and meet Shalene.’
‘Shalene, this is my very good friend Peter.’
‘Hello, Peter,’ croaked Shalene, almost as hoarsely as Jerome.
‘Hello,’ said Peter. ‘You’re a friend of Sabine’s, are you?’
‘That’s right, honey,’ said Shalene, taking a cigarette out of her velvet evening bag, and leaning over to Peter for a light. Her jaw was square but clean-shaven, her make-up thick and white.
‘So, eh, when do you think…’ Peter began, but Shalene leant over coquettishly and interrupted him.
‘Do you want me to suck your cock?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you,’ said Peter, fumbling with a book of matches on the counter. ‘It’s awfully kind of you but—’
‘Do you want to suck mine?’ said Shalene immediately, as if to save embarrassment.
‘Yours?’ said Peter. ‘No, I’m
afraid I don’t.’
Clearly, Shalene was still saving up for the full operation.
‘So what are you doing here?’ asked Shalene, suddenly dropping her exaggerated femininity for a male aggression which was equally exaggerated, if only by the backdrop of false lashes and paste bracelets.
‘I’ve told you…’
‘Who the hell is Sabine? She’s making me jealous,’ said Shalene, pouting. ‘You gotta tell me your fantasy. That man told me to say I knew Sabine, that’s all I got to work with…’
‘Where is Jerome?’ asked Peter anxiously.
‘He left. Was Sabine another girl like me who was a special friend of yours?’ persisted Shalene.
‘No,’ snapped Peter, realizing the implications of Jerome’s departure.
Caroline drifted over to the bar casually.
‘They’re on their way,’ she said through gritted teeth.
Shalene’s manner had changed to open hostility.
‘If you don’t wanna have sex, what the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Look,’ said Peter, feeling Shalene’s indolent and well-built girlfriends closing in on them with sympathetic hostility. ‘Normally I would, of course, I mean you’re frightfully attractive and all of that, but I’m with Caroline this evening and I think she might be shocked.’
‘Maybe she’d like to watch,’ said Shalene, narrowing her eyes and twitching her lips seductively.
Christ, she has an answer for everything, thought Peter.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said firmly.
‘Ask her,’ said Shalene, with a stiletto in her voice.
‘Caroline,’ gulped Peter, turning round slowly, ‘Shalene wants to know whether you’d like to watch while she sucks my cock.’
‘Humm,’ said Caroline, and to his horror Peter could see that she was thinking of taking her revenge. ‘I … I don’t think so,’ she said, smiling at Shalene. ‘Thanks anyway.’
On the Edge Page 7