Swallowing the Sun

by David Park

  But looking isn’t good enough any more. Participation, touch, full sensory experience – these are the fashion now, the words they use, as if they think that things can be understood like Braille with the tips of the fingers. His unvoiced opinion is that it’s a gimmick, a cheap card trick that results only in disrespect and in the young a belief that everything must fall inside the entitlement of their reach, and so he is fearful of where it will end. Of what damage will ensue.

  He hates the birthday present they gave to Rachel. Alison had insisted that it was what she wanted and even though he knew it was the truth, he could generate no enthusiasm for it because he hates mobile phones, thinks they only encourage people to make a show of themselves. To speak in public what should be spoken in private. His opinion is that they should be banned everywhere in the museum – apart from the café, perhaps, as a compromise. He winces when they go off in the galleries and would love to be able to confiscate them. His objection to them is held so strongly that he has committed it to paper, to management, suggesting that they should insist that all phones are checked into the cloakrooms, but in response received only a short note expressing sympathy and stating that the matter would be kept under review. None of his colleagues seem to care one way or the other.

  There’s something else that has started to get to him – working the Sunday afternoon shift. It’s not the noise of the crowds or the shuffling vacuousness of their faces, it’s not the street kids playing chasey, that affects him the most. It’s the steady procession of separated fathers with their designated access hours to put in that upsets him in a way he has never known before. Pumped up on fast-food lunches and fizzy drinks, the kids scamper ahead, while their fathers struggle to keep up, their showy attempts at fatherhood being ignored. They feel the obligation to point out things to their sons and daughters, to compensate for their absence of instruction during the rest of the week. The children are always overexcited, pleased to be with them but still determined to show the edge of their unspoken resentment at what they see as a betrayal, their rejection by someone to whom they had given their trust. So he watches them exploit the fathers’ sense of guilt and extract as much as they can from their pockets in the café or shop but withhold the forgiveness for which they’re desperate.

  He watches them and it frightens him. He can think of no worse place to stand with his children. It scares him so much that sometimes he feels physically sick. He tries to reassure himself that he has a skill for secrecy: it was how they grew up, it was the foundation on which everything else was built, the cement that held it all together. A family without links to the outside world, a house with windows that only looked out and a door permanently closed to uninvited callers. Sometimes boys from school who didn’t know would call for them, ask if he or Rob was in, and his father would say they weren’t and slam the door in their faces. Once he had called them both to him and put his arms on their shoulders, pulled them close and they had huddled behind the same closed door as he explained: ‘This family doesn’t need anyone. So long as we’ve got each other, we’ve got everything we need. Together we’re strong but if we let outsiders in they’ll destroy that strength. Turn each of us against the other.’ He remembers it all so clearly because his father had used the word ‘love’. ‘I love this family, I won’t let anyone out there destroy it,’ and he said the word with an intensity that shocked and frightened them. When he’d asked them individually if they understood what he was saying they had nodded and he’d given them his blessing by tousling their hair and calling them ‘Good boys, good boys.’

  He knows all about secrecy. It’s in his very blood. No one had to know. As a child, the thought of the world finding out about home had frightened him more than anything that had to be endured there. And so he had pretended to be like everyone else with a consummate cunning that covered up every sign, every potential clue that might have hinted at the truth. And he did it not out of fear, but out of an all-pervading sense of shame. He could take anything from his father, salve any bruise with the comforting compress of hatred but recoiled at the thought of the world’s discovery. He hadn’t even told Alison everything, just enough to let her think she understood and discourage her from further intrusion. How could anyone who wasn’t part of it ever understand? How could he explain what it was like to live constantly on the edge of fear, to take each step as if you were walking on the thinnest of ice which might suddenly crack and plunge you into the darkness of the waters below? The wrong thing said, the wrong way you held a fork or spoon, the wrong time to be happy. But even that could have been coped with, but for the fact that the wrong thing was never the same, could not be predicted. Like throwing a handful of pebbles into the air – the splay and pattern of their fall were always different, could never be fully anticipated. And so to survive, to stop the plunge through the ice, required him to watch and listen, to sense. Answers were not to be found in seismic shifts, because by then it was too late, but in reading the slightest signs, straining for the faintest signals: the inflection and timbre of his voice, the edged lilt of his laughter, the tread of his feet on the stairs. Knowing when to be invisible, knowing when to be present.

  So he has all the skills of secrecy, of giving nothing away, of holding it in. He could get a star in it. He could win a prize. It’s to do with not wanting the lies of the past to stain the present that he’s created, but even that desire is less powerful than the fear that has held him in its fist all his life, and which whispers to him that if the truth is discovered, he will stand naked and alone, exposed on the shore of the world’s scorn. So why now does he feel the impulse to tell Alison, the unrelenting weight of his secret threatening to crush the life of him? So how could he, even for a moment, think of telling, of risking losing it all, of being swept in a matter of seconds out of their embrace for ever, of being one of those Sunday afternoon fathers, trying to catch up with his kids, struggling to find some way of making a connection, desperate to hang in there, to show he still cares? Asserting his entitlement to love.

  In another month the exhibition will be over. Dismantled and taken away. He’ll never see her or it again – he’ll work it that he’s on a different shift when she’s taking it away. He tells himself he can do it. Knows he can. Child’s play. And he’ll make up for it – he’s got the whole rest of his life to make up for it, to atone. He thinks of Alison, thinks of Rachel, thinks of Tom. So much already they don’t know; this, too, can be buried deep in the pyre. And one day he tells himself that he’ll find the match that lights the pyre, sends the consuming flames spurting skywards in great leaping tongues. But it is not the rush and crackle of the burning that he hears, it is Alison’s voice and she’s saying, ‘It’ll not kill you. Go on, spoil yourself.’ And despite it all, despite everything, he still wants to tell her that it’s too late, that he’s already spoilt.

  *

  It was Tenko who appeared from behind a glass case, his eyes rolling, his head nodding in the confirmation of his own wisdom.

  ‘It’s pure shite!’ he said. ‘Pure unadulterated shite.’

  ‘What is?’ he asked.

  ‘The new exhibition they’re starting to set up on Four. Whoever brought that lot in needs their head seeing to.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked again.

  ‘A complete and utter bollocks!’ Tenko answered, shaking his head slowly from side to side as if blown by the breeze of his incomprehension. ‘Bunch of wankers out of art college. Supposed to be the cream. Wouldn’t like to see the rest. The sculptures look like something you’d throw on the bonfire, put together from what you’d find on the skip. Paintings are all like somebody’s thrown up on canvas and put frames round them. Has to be a piss-take, Marty. Has to be.’

  ‘I’m up there later on. Something to look forward to then.’

  ‘God help you – it’ll be like being asked to look after the toilets, standing in front of thon mess. There should be a bonus to cover the humiliation.’ Only the cackle of his radio stopped
the flow of his invective. ‘Pure shite,’ he insisted, whispering as he walked off, his right hand waving in what was either a farewell or a final gesture of disdain.

  As always, he thought Tenko talked too much and too loudly. (Tenko, because once at a union meeting to discuss new work rotas, he claimed that it would be like being in a concentration camp.) His voice seemed to set up waves of vibration that swelled and rebounded from the walls; even after he had vanished his presence left a print in the stillness of the almost empty gallery. He watched a young woman glancing disinterestedly at the displays, finding nothing to delay her more than a few seconds at each one. Sometimes without realising it she touched the glass with her fingers. He wished she wouldn’t, but said nothing.

  When it was time to go to Four he found the closed-off gallery busy with people setting up work, carrying materials and bits of their displays. A couple of museum curators were advising and helping. He wondered why it was necessary for him to be there. There was noise and movement everywhere and no matter where he stood or moved he seemed to end up in someone’s way. At intervals mobile phones would go off and one of the artists nearest to him was wearing a personal stereo. He looked at his watch and wondered how he would put in his time, how long it would take before the gallery was able to reclaim its normal calm. He tried a few different positions, found some paths to skirt the chaos, before going to stand beside one of the phones, as if his proximity might cause it to ring with a request to go somewhere else. Most of the paintings going on the wall were abstracts, big panels of blocks of garish colour – pinks and purples. One had bits of newspaper headlines pressed into the surface and one was framed by what looked like passport-booth photographs. There were metal sculptures, combining thin shining planes and industrial piping beside more delicate, ceramic masks. The white masks portrayed some form of degeneration, beginning with a young woman’s face and locks of hair, then moving through a sequence where a part of the face was blistered or broken, until the final twisted mask resembled less a young woman and more a gargoyle, its eyes hooded, the mouth contorted into a leer.

  From the ceiling two young men were hanging a battered, black Raleigh bicycle, the heavy old-fashioned type that you saw sometimes outside a butcher’s shop as decoration, and from it they were draping the paraphernalia of modern cycling. Entwined in the spokes or tied to the handlebars were flashes of fluorescence in the form of helmets, sunglasses, drinking bottles, Lycra shorts. The bike was suspended on chains and the balance of the student on top of the stepladder seemed increasingly precarious. He went over and put his hand to the ladder.

  ‘No point dying for your art, son,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks boss,’ the boy replied. ‘On second thoughts though, it might boost the sale price.’

  ‘Everything’s for sale then?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, and if you like, we’ll do you a good deal.’

  ‘Naw, you’re all right thanks. Couldn’t see the wife going on it. The most we hang from the ceiling is balloons at Christmas.’

  ‘Well if you change your mind, give us a shout.’

  ‘What’s it called?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s it called in the catalogue?’ the boy said to his helper while he came down from the ladder.

  ‘Time Cycle 1,’ he answered before slugging from a bottle of water. ‘If you buy it you can always ride it home.’

  ‘What’s it cost?’

  ‘Two thousand five hundred. But you get it installed for that,’ the boy said, passing the bottle to his friend.

  ‘Buy me a better car that would, but good luck to you, lads,’ he said as he stepped back to look at it one last time. ‘Get a sale and you’ll be suppin’ on the champagne.’

  He wondered if Tenko was right but was reluctant to admit the possibility. There had to be something in it all or the museum wouldn’t have opened its doors to it. Looking about him at the industry of the students he told himself that not seeing it, or understanding it, was the product of his ignorance, the absence of education. If Rachel was here he knew she would be able to explain it to him. And there was something else that Tenko didn’t grasp, something he had read in a book or heard on television. It was that when people dismissed things by saying that anyone could have done it, what they didn’t realise was that the art was in the thinking – thinking up the idea in the first place. And not everyone could do that. Only artists could do that. So as he looked round the gallery, he told himself that these young people were artists because they could think up their art, have the ideas. If he was smarter and had been given a half-decent education he would be able to understand these ideas, be able to see the things the way they were supposed to be seen. Tenko would be wiser not to broadcast his stupidity, be like him and not rush to judgements that would only reveal how little he knew or understood. Look and learn – that was the rule.

  ‘Could you help me?’ she asked. She had appeared as if from nowhere. He looked about to see where she had come from, then realised it was from the black-draped, tent-shaped structure that had been built in the corner of the room. He hadn’t realised anyone was in it and the flapping door had been closed so that he couldn’t see inside.

  ‘Do you think you could give me a few seconds?’ she asked. A little older than the rest of the students but dressed in similar style and wearing a ring in her eyebrow and about six in one ear. She was smiling at him as if that inducement would increase her prospects of success. He hesitated, worried that she was going to ask him to do something that would expose his ignorance, his lack of skill.

  ‘If I can,’ he said. ‘But you’re probably asking the wrong guy.’

  ‘No, I think you’ll be just perfect,’ she said studying him in a way that confused him. Her blonde hair was cut short, almost boyish in appearance, with only some longer strands that fell across her forehead softening the effect. He thought she was about thirty, maybe even a couple of years more. ‘I need you to come inside,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder. Then without any explanation she turned and held open the black cloth flap for him to enter.

  Outside black, inside white. Everywhere white and, running and circling round the walls from some kind of projector, clouds and colours and images of sky and land and seascape. ‘Stand just here,’ she said, her hand guiding him backwards and then she looked him up and down again as if measuring him for a suit. ‘I think that’ll do just fine.’ Sky ran across her face. ‘And enough headroom, too.’ Her body was the waves of the sea. ‘I just need to check I’ve got the space right.’ He was conscious of her scent, the closeness of her body in the confined space. He wondered what was on his own face and body but when he looked down all he could see were undulating ripples of light. It felt as if he was hanging over the prow of a boat looking at the skim of sunlight on water.

  ‘I haven’t got the sound installed yet,’ she said, as her hand reached to the top of one of the sides, then moved down its length through the wavery quiver like a snake. ‘Seems to be really secure and solid. Don’t want anything falling on anyone.’

  ‘Sound?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, there’s a soundtrack to go with it. It’s the best part. Took ages to make.’

  ‘And what’s on it?’

  ‘It’s a collage of different natural sounds – the wind, the rain, the sea. Whispering voices, birdsong, lots of breathing. That sort of thing. It’s on a looped tape, goes on playing.’

  It felt as if there was something he should say in response, some question he should ask but he was scared of saying the wrong thing and so at first he only nodded as if he understood, as if everything made sense. Her face was wind-driven clouds, streaming across the sky of her skin. He wondered what it was like to live inside the world of ideas, this world where Rachel, too, was going to live. He held his hand up to the light and watched the splay of pattern. He wanted to compliment her, to tell her how good it felt but didn’t know what were the right words and for a second he turned to his children for help. Should he say it was ‘cool’, shoul
d he say it was ‘wicked’? But he knew the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth, so he hesitated and in that second she was thanking him for his help and holding open the flap for him to leave. He had to say something, to show her he understood.

  ‘It’s good, really good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but it’ll be better when I get the soundtrack organised. You need both parts to get the full effect.’

  He nodded his head. ‘If you need any more help, give me a shout.’

  ‘Thanks. What’s your name? Mine’s Lorrie.’ She held out her hand and as he shook it, half expected it still to bear the brush of light rather than the dullness of metal, stoneless rings. ‘Listen, I need to bring a couple of boxes up from the car, what’s the quickest way to get there?’

  He took her down the back stairs, let her use a private door. Helped carry one of the boxes. In it were threaded garlands of shells, latticed frames of leaves and pebbles, beaded and stitched symbols on squares of cloth and leather which she used to decorate the outside of the tent, pinning and stapling them to the black cloth. He found himself watching her, interested in the way her body moved so fluidly, so much energy pushing against its slender frame. And in her movements was a total concentration, an indifference to whatever position she pushed herself into, or how she might look to anyone else. Somehow he managed to drop a hint of his curiosity about what she had created and she explained that it was ‘an installation’, told him things he pretended he understood.

  Afterwards she bought him a thank-you drink and they talked. She was doing a Master’s, was thirty-one years old, had taught for a while in London and if she couldn’t find anything better would probably drift back into it. As she talked about her work it sounded as if she wasn’t really sure about anything herself and that made him feel less frightened of what he might say.

  ‘Why did you come back to Belfast?’ he asked her.

  ‘Tired of being a Paddy. Tired of Hackney. Tired of my accent sounding strange in my own ears.’