I was remembering the rain in England, she says. It makes me sad. Happy-sad.
You nut, he says. You sweet, happy-sad nut.
They listen to the rain, which is a soft rain with no attendant thunder - the kind of rain which, other nights, could carry Frank back to the jungle. But he's been thinking about something else. He's been thinking about the more or less blank page of script headed: Moira's Back-story. He says: You never told me about England before.
Are you sure, she says. I thought I did.
No, Frank says. You didn't. Nor too much else about your past come to that.
We were busy Frank. Working. Isn't that enough?
Well, now we're not so busy.
What do you want to know?
After Canada -
I won't talk about that, Frank, she says. I told you. I never want to go back there, not even in my head.
After Canada, Frank emphasises, you turned your back on your family, all of your old friends. You even changed publishers -
And you want to know why?
It's a start, Frank says.
Because what happened there changed me. I became a stranger to myself. My old life no longer fit what I'd become. So, those people, they became strangers too, with no more substance than a ghost. You Frank, you were so much more real. Because you were part of it. And you know Frank, you keep your own secrets. There's a hole in you a mile wide.
By which she meant Vietnam. By which she meant, I won't probe if you don't. By which she meant, go to sleep.
David Silverstein
Stupid, sad, sick old man. You were happy to be making local connections - not your type, but still - so that you have some kind of social life when you retire. Which is why you found yourself plunging across the calm, late-summer waters of Torbay, eye to land-ward, sea-spray in your nostrils, leaning against the gunwale of the medium-sized yacht owned and captained by a boorish, retired admiral. No sea sickness as you'd feared. Not expected to crew (that had been a joke) which is just as well because beneath the un-seasonal souwester and the water-proof leggings (provided by the host) you were dressed smart-casual for dinner. Stay clear of the jib when we jib, you were told, and everything will be fine. So you stayed clear of the jib when they jibbed and you leant against the railing at the gunwale, an eye to land-ward, sea-spray in your nostrils - which is where you were when Moira Craft/Costigan, American novelist (sight for sore eyes and not as brash as you'd heard), sought you out.
And she said: You're the professor of literature, right?
And you said: Almost retired. Thank God (you didn't add).
And she said, lowering her voice confidentially: I'm nervous around these nautical types. My husband - my late husband - he could sail (after a fashion) but I never did get used to it. Jesus, I thought old Scrimshaw was going to pipe us aboard. We're the only two literary people on this goddamned boat. I guess it'll be the same at dinner. You think I could sit next to you when we eat, Professor?
And you said: Please, call me David. And you said: It would be my pleasure. And you said: I suspect, however, that there may be a seating plan already drawn up. Our host doesn't seem the capricious type.
And she said: Well, in that case, I'll have it changed.
And you said, laughing: I'm not sure the plans of a military man can be so flagrantly altered.
And she said: Don't worry professor, I always get what I want.
David, you said. Call me David.
And at dinner (roast beef, of course) she was so stimulating a conversationalist, so captivating, that it proved easy to ignore the admiral as he regaled his guests with tales from the Falkland's war, an indiscreet mention of an un-official operation in the Mekong Delta, cat and mouse with a Russian sub off the north coast of Scotland. As he fulminated about the recent cuts to the defence budget. I find rhyme so backward-looking, she said. The abstractions of Hindu painting are all at the moment which interests me, she quoted. I am reminded that the bomb also is a flower, dedicated, howbeit, to our destruction, she deconstructed. The triadic line, she asserted, was America's first genuinely original contribution to poetic form. And dear old Walt, you said, with a raised eyebrow. Dear old Walt was an onanist, she said, and it showed.
And after the sweet, the cheese, the brandy, the coffee, Moira said: Why don't we slip off and find somewhere to smoke?
And you didn't say that you'd given up. You didn't mention the lump in your throat that had scared you so badly, how you'd wept like an old woman when the word "benign" issued from the doctor's mouth like a rare and precious gift. No. Because you were half-way drunk and three-quarters in love with the American novelist with the striking blue eyes who finds your every word so profound, yet leavened with humour. You said: Splendid idea.
And the two of you found a balcony - second floor - and there you were alone. In the dark. Faces half-lit by the street lamp below, the lights of Yarlmouth reflected in the river. It was a meteor shower that night - and though the main show would not be until the early hours, the stars fell two or three to the minute. Make a wish. You smoke two cigarettes with guilty pleasure, and the conversation is sporadic but comfortable. Your dead wife, your two sons, your modest but well-regarded body of published works. You point out the cottage - or more accurately the cove where the cottage is, because you can't quite see it from this vantage point. You don't want this night to end, but you look at your watch and make mention that you should call a cab because local cabs are so tardy and you don't want to miss the last ferry and find yourself stuck this side of the river for the night. And Moira says: Hey, don't worry, I'll drive you over. I'd love to see the cottage.
And you say, with mischievous levity: But then, my dear, you'll be stuck the wrong side of the river for the night.
And for some reason it all feels like nineteen sixty-four.
And Moira says: We've got plenty of time if we leave now.
And of course, you offer coffee. And of course you're still a little drunk from the wine and the brandy. Giddy from the heady draught of Moira's company. You haven't been so close to a woman who smelled so nice in a long time. You're almost foolish enough to believe that she finds you attractive. You almost (but not quite) dismiss the fact that her late husband was so much older than Moira. And you go out onto your own balcony and still the stars fall at two or three a minute.
And Moira says: Make a wish. And Moira says: If you could make love to any woman in the world, who would it be?
And you say: Helen of Troy.
And she says: Good answer. And she says: Okay, but now it has to be someone real, someone living, someone you know.
And if it's a trap designed to embarrass you you decide to spring it anyway. You, you say. It would be you.
And she says - she looks deep into your eyes in the dark - she says: No, I'm flattered, but you're lying.
And so you say - you giggle like a nervous under-graduate and you say: Alright, then it would have to be Karen. Dr Karen Moor.
And she says: Intelligent of course. Beautiful?
Of course, you say, with pride.
Stupid, sad, sick old man - you end up taking Moira into your study so that you can Google up several pictures of Karen from the University web page, like an adolescent with a crush. (You were against pictures - the site lacked gravitas you thought - but now you're glad there are pictures.)
And Moira likes what she sees. She says: She's just what I've been looking for.
And you remember hearing a rumour about Moira's sexuality and you are more aroused than you have been in what seems like half a life-time as you watch Moira's tongue slide across her lip, looking at the picture of your good friend Karen whose job it is to have you save her from herself. And you try not to feel like a white-slave trafficker.
And you try not to hope that this night will end as you would have it end.
And then Moira says: David, what if I told you I could make that dream come true? That all you have to do is bring her here?
And then
? you say, because it's only a game.
Well then, Prof Silverstein gets the girl.
And then her hand is at your fly.
And I'll have her do this to you, she says.
And then your miraculously rejuvenated cock is in her mouth.
And it's Karen that you see when you close your eyes.
And when you spurt your pathetic quarter ounce of old man's ejaculation into her mouth she swallows it, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, jokes about a vintage year.
She says, I have been many women and men. She says: I have been wolf and bear and deer. She says: I have been dead for a long time. She says, do you believe in ghosts, Professor?
Metempsychosis, you say. Not then, but later.
Very good, she says.
And one day, months later, you find yourself saying: Karen, I'd be happy for you to use my cottage in Devon. You'd like it there. You really would.
And you tell yourself that there is no connection, that you've forgotten about Moira's strange proposition. That you, altruist, true friend, committed head of department, make Karen the offer in all innocence.
But then you find yourself phoning Moira to tell her that Karen will be staying at the cottage. Then you try to put it out of you mind but it won't stay out of your mind. Because what if it's true? Stupid, sad, sick old man.
Frank Tells (May 2003)
Perhaps you shouldn't smoke so much, the girl tells Frank (in Spanish) as he lights yet another cigarette.
Don't worry, Frank says, I know how I'm going to die, and it won't be that way.
The girl is lying on her side, a few degrees from a foetal position. She closes her eyes for a few seconds and opens them again. Frank almost expects her to start sucking her thumb.
Are you bored, he says.
No, she says. It's nice just to listen. It's like when I was a little girl.
Even though you don't know what I'm saying?
It doesn't matter. You have a nice voice. You are an angry man but your voice is calm.
Just don't go to sleep. Okay? Frank says.
All in Spanish.
A TV in the next room has been switched on and through the thin wall comes a theme tune that Frank recognises. It takes a second or two to place it. Mulligan's Mischief. A comedy cop show from the eighties - a forgotten part of his past returned to him via the miracle of cable at five-to-dead of his last night on earth. He smiles sadly, points to the wall. I'll be damned, he says (in English). I directed a couple of episodes of that show.
The girl smiles back. Si, she says.
Frank picks up the whiskey bottle and then thinks better of it. He's covered a lot of ground but the dénouement is yet to come and, though there's fear in his heart, he doesn't want to get so drunk that he fucks it up. If he doesn't get it right, there's a danger that he won't consider it told, and he's got neither time nor energy to tell it again. It has to be now. It has to be right. He's told about the move to England, getting side-tracked into a mini rant about the bunch of fucking shysters he'd had to deal with in order to take possession of the house, the protective mask of his third-person narration all but hanging from one ear. A tangential reminiscence about the hulk of an old sail trawler he'd bought and begun to restore. About the kid - Moira's lover - and how he, 'Frank', had Billy terminate the relationship. He'd been thorough, he feels, even including details as ultimately insignificant as the silver locket that Moira took to wearing after she'd bought it in an antiques shop in Totnes.
Okay, Frank says, recapitulating. Okay.
By now (he says) the marriage has broken down again, this time beyond all recovery. Frank makes his decision. Let's not forget, he's been here before. When he tells Moira that he's already spoken with his lawyer (a half-fag, half-vulture piece of work called Ashley Brent) about a divorce she takes it calmly enough. Which for Frank is a relief. It's not as if he's bursting with an over-abundance of energy, and a stand-up row is the last thing he needs. In fact, after the effort he's expended on dissolving his American life (and let's not forget the debacle with the Walker brothers), plus the move to England and, last but not least, on coming to terms with Moira's recidivism and its fall out, he's feeling pretty fatigued.
Moira, as I say, takes the news calmly enough. There's a pause. She lights a cigarette. Tilts her head, blows smoke at the corner of the room. Then she says: Just so you know, you'll never get me out of this house.
Frank says that he doesn't give a shit about the house - that it was always too gloomy for him anyway - but that, 1) Ashley advised him to realise his assets, and, 2) if the marriage is over, Frank no longer has a reason to stay in England anyway. And since Moira - even after Suzerain's reasonable success - can't buy him out, then it seemed likely that neither of them would keep the house.
No way, Frank, Moira says. That isn't an option. And if you had any idea at all how much this house means to me you wouldn't even consider it.
Hey, Frank reminds her, I didn't create this fucking situation. We're where we are because you decided to start fucking the local fishermen.
Needless to say, there's an atmosphere between them.
One night, with the rain lashing against the window, Frank's sitting by the fire in the green room, reading a biography on Charlie Chaplain and trying not to drink, when Moira enters the room. There's no obvious reason for it - she's dressed in an ordinary pair of jeans, an ordinary sweater - although maybe the light … she strikes Frank as the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. No exceptions. For a whole couple of seconds Frank forgets everything that she's done to him. Every grudge that he bears her.
Some weather, he says - something like that. Something innocuous.
Listen, Frank, Moira says, I've got some stuff I need to say. Okay? I agree we should get a divorce. I don't want to lose the house, I really don't, but (she shrugs, lights a cigarette) you're right. We have to be realistic. I'm sorry I fucked you around so much Frank - I wouldn't blame you if you hated my guts. I'm a total screw-up and you'd be better off without me. Canada, she says. Fucking Canada. I want to explain something to you Frank. Can I?
Sure, Frank says, thinking, if it's Canada, if that's what this is about, if it's something she's decided to tell - to purge from herself, then maybe there was a way back from all of this. But it isn't Canada.
Will I need a drink, he says, glad, if he's honest, that an excuse to drink has just walked into the room.
I'll fix them, Moira says. Scotch?
She fetches ice from the kitchen. Fixes Frank a scotch and soda, fixes herself a gin and tonic. She sits on the couch opposite Frank.
Listen, she says, I haven't got any excuses for my behaviour. I've only got reasons.
Frank acknowledges the distinction. Go on, he says.
I panicked, Frank, she says. It's as simple as that. I'm not talking about the things I did in LA. Jesus, those stupid fucking drugs. I'm talking about here. I meant what I said when I wanted a fresh start. And we came close, Frank. Didn't we? And the loving was good - wasn't it? - and everything felt right and you were happy and I was happy and it just didn't happen. I wanted a baby so badly Frank, and when it didn't happen, I just figured … she trails off, leaving it hanging there, a real artist, breaking Frank’s heart all over again.
Because of my age? Shit, men can father a kid at any age. Can't they? he asks, because now that he thinks about it, he isn't sure. Maybe, he thinks, it's only the exceptions you get to hear about.
Meantime, Moira wipes away a tear, an actual, made-of-water tear.
Frank, picking up the thread, says: So, let me get this straight, you fucked a younger - hell younger - you fucked a young guy in order to conceive?
Moira sniffs. Wipes her nose. Nods her head.
Jesus, Frank says. I'm not going to ask about the sex. I expect he made you come plenty of times. But I'm not going to ask. What I want to know - actually, fuck it, I already know, I just want it confirmed - okay this: what did you intend to do next?
Moira looks
Frank in the eye, exposing him to the whole lip-trembling, tear-spilling act. Then, she says, I was going to lie to you.
Cuckolded and fucking cuckooed? Frank says, bitterly.
I'm sorry Frank, Moira says. I am so sorry. I thought …. so long as you never found out, then you'd be happy.
So, you slept with the guy for my benefit? Frank says. There's incredulity in his voice, followed by sarcasm. Jesus, Moira, I'd no idea you could be so fucking self-less.
It really is over, isn't it Frank? Moira says.
The look she gives him, he almost breaks. Almost. He sighs. Then he says: Yes, it's over.
I guess we should be relieved, Moira says.
I guess we should, Frank agrees.
You want to know something funny? Moira says. It was me. It was me all along. Me who couldn't - can't - conceive.
Which, despite everything, rocks Frank hard. Is this a fact? he says. Is this something you know?
I got the results this morning. It's where I went while you were fishing.
I'm sorry, Moira, Frank says. Jesus.
It doesn't matter, Moira says. Maybe in another lifetime.
Come here, Frank says. Come to Papa Frank.
He holds her for a long time. She sobs so hard it sounds like an asthma attack. He rubs her back and strokes her hair. Forgive me Frank, she says. Please forgive me.
Frank bites down and bites down. But that night, both agreeing that it changes nothing, they sleep together for the first time in a long time.
A couple of days later, Moira drives to London to meet with her new agent - telling Frank that it has something to do with the Norwegian translation of Suzerain. She tells him that she'll be gone for three to four days. That she may as well visit some galleries etc while she's in town. Before she leaves, she says: Frank, I need to know, are we still set on this course? By which she means divorce. Though it hurts like hell, Frank tells her that they are. That it's for the best.
On the second evening of her absence, again with the wind lashing the windows, again reading the Chaplain biography and trying not to drink, the phone rings. It's one of those cordless phones and it's sitting on the arm of Frank's chair because he's been expecting a call from Ashley Brent in LA. He picks it up. It's Moira. After a brief exchange in which Moira bitches good-humouredly about her hotel, she says: Frank, I want you to do something for me, will you do it?
Suzerain: a ghost story Page 26