by Alan Goodwin
Driesler had reacted to my outburst, describing me as arrogant and prone to irrational statements. He’d accused me of being more worried about the Nobel Prize than about the truth.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I knew defeat when I saw it; I just wish I’d done the business with Lucy. That would really have given George something to chew on.
Now Bebe was reminding me he had power in our relationship and I accepted the lesson. Silently he took the evening’s itinerary from his pocket and laid it on the end of the bed before leaving.
I needed more sleep, but that was impossible now. Perhaps Bebe was right: Mary might not go and without her the evening could just be bearable. Shit, who was I kidding? Of course Mary would be there. Mary, my dead wife’s sister: the sharer of secrets. I hadn’t seen her since Caroline’s funeral, when she had just stared and stared: every time I looked up, there she was, meeting my eyes. When I had arrived she was standing with her parents and two sisters, as though joined by the hip rather than by genes and grief. Caroline’s father, frail from arthritis, studied the ground, her mother the sky. It was a fitting symbol of the years of fractures in their marriage. Like many of their generation, they had stayed married long after the love died. Caroline had despised them for their weakness. Mary thought them noble for protecting the children from divorce. The three sisters stood like Kennedy wives, all dressed in stylish black, all with smooth black nylon calves that brought an unwelcome surge of desire. Mary was the only one to acknowledge me, even if it was with hostile eyes. Other family members had offered some welcome, though it wasn’t much more than a whispered hello. The day was bright and sunny and everyone wore sunglasses, to hide wet and red eyes. My dark lenses hid the absence of tears.
I was deep in fatigue at the funeral. After Caroline’s death and the initial burst of police and medical activity I’d worked continuously for three days. Ideas came in a flood during that strange period and I struggled to keep pace with them. Through each day and night, standing at the whiteboard overlooking the sea, I furiously scribbled, printed and erased. This was the final frontier of Superforce; this was when I stormed the city walls of the theory. The details still took a year and refining the paper nearly as long again, but this was when the pieces of spiral field maths and deception were forged. In those three days it was as though I was listening to the most beautifully harmonious music as each note slipped into its rightful place. I knew where every equation belonged and how they all worked together. The feeling brought unbelievable happiness, but it was also the saddest of times—not because Caroline was dead, but because I knew I’d never encounter such heights again.
To be honest the funeral came as an interruption and it showed. Appearances were too mundane for me to consider and I wore old trousers, a blue shirt and faded tie. It was bound to pull some looks, but that wasn’t the reason for Mary’s ferocious stare. She had more to hold against me than bad taste in the clothing department. Guilt and grief are an awful mix, a high-octane emotional fuel. No wonder she behaved that way, no wonder she didn’t speak to me. What could she say? It was all or nothing and she chose nothing. I kind of understood—kind of.
FOUR
Even with an early evening drizzle the bars and cafes of the Viaduct were full. This was Auckland’s smart set at play, attempting to impress, talking loudly as though what they had to say was important enough to be heard by everyone. The men were hard at work with the women, cajoling and pushing as far as they would go without a call to the police. Even at a glance it was easy to see those who would succeed and those who would fail. It was all in the eyes. Either they welcomed or they glazed over in the way only the truly bored can achieve. What hard work. I might fleetingly miss the chase, but when I saw it in action I thanked my lucky stars I no longer engaged in the ritual. It was straight to the kill for me.
The drizzle vanished quickly as the lower clouds cleared and a weak sun filtered through. This instant weather change occurred in the space of my walk from one end of the Viaduct to the other. I was back in Auckland all right. I even started sweating as I returned to the Hilton with its sharp white lines designed to conjure up the luxury of a cruise ship. Bebe was anxious to brief me on the press questions for the evening and I have to admit I kept him waiting longer than necessary while I changed. Petty, I know, but sometimes he’s such an easy target.
A small gathering of press and news crew cameramen greeted us at the entrance to the Turkish restaurant in Mission Bay. I was on my best behaviour, politely answering with a smile all the banal questions. Yes, I was happy to be home, yes, I had missed Auckland and yes, I was looking forward to the shows. The inevitable question about Driesler I ignored with an even sweeter smile.
Bebe beamed as we climbed the steps to the upstairs restaurant. ‘Lovely,’ he whispered, ‘that was a lovely job. Now you have a good time.’ He winked mischievously.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m going now. You have a great time.’
‘But I like you with me, Bebe. I want you here, you’re always…here.’
‘Come on, Jack, you’re a grown man. Relax, enjoy yourself, you need a good time. I’ll be close by.’
This was an unusual occurrence, one that only added to my fears for the evening. Surely his getting me here was punishment enough for what I’d done in London. How far was he going to go before we were even? I was even sorry I’d kept him waiting earlier. However, there was no time for further argument as he was down the stairs before I could reply, leaving me stranded like a first-time actor blinking at the stage lights.
‘Jack, Jack.’ I had no idea who was shouting, or where the voice came from, but instantly sixty heads turned his way. ‘Over here, mate.’ Now in the dim light of the restaurant I could see a long table in the distance. Two Taikon security men who waited by the entrance guided me in that direction, having already determined its safety for the evening. As the guards moved me forward I felt someone move close behind me. I turned, expecting to see Bebe, but there was no one there. It left me with the strangest feeling, as though someone wanted to talk to me, but had retreated unseen having lost his or her nerve.
‘My God, Jack,’ the original caller of my name was now visible, ‘I can’t believe you’re actually here.’
‘Hello, Mike.’ I shook his outstretched hand and clumsily accepted his half-hug the way men do when unsure of the other’s reaction. ‘Long time no see.’
‘I just can’t believe you’re here. How long is it since we last saw each other—ten, eleven years?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Twelve fucking years? My God. All those good times that long ago?’
I nodded.
‘I’ve missed you.’ He paused and I thought he might shed a tear, but he shook himself free of the moment as though reminding himself of an earlier promise not to cry. ‘Come and meet the crew, everyone’s here—Helen, Duncan, Claire, Jo, Graham…’
‘Mary?’
Mike flashed an embarrassed smile. I think he would have named the entire restaurant before her. ‘Mary? Yes, Mary’s here.’
‘Did she know I was coming?’
‘She knew you’d been invited.’
‘Not quite the same, is it?’
‘She’s cool, Jack, there’s no problem. Come on, let’s go.’ We squeezed through the last row of tables and chairs. Diners moved in an exaggerated way to allow the two guards and me through. Recognition rushed through the place like a bush fire, and people turned to gaze at me, their faces shocked, as though royalty had lowered themselves to dine with the masses this one night of the year. I always feel horribly exposed at these times. It’s like being caught in the toilet with my trousers down when a tourist bus stops outside the window.
At the table I instantly saw Mary, sitting at the far end.
She looked beautiful.
Her hair was pinned on top of her head, strands tumbling down her neck and cheeks. She turned to talk to the man next to her, ignoring my arrival. Her profile was a replica of Caroline’s, the
straight nose and dominant top lip, but when she turned and saw me, the moment of ghostly similarity was lost. Front on there was still no mistaking she was Caroline’s sister, but all four of the Roberts girls, despite similarities, had an individual look. Mary’s face was fuller than Caroline’s and her eyes rounder; she was more Irish to Caroline’s French. I caught her look and we both instantly dropped our eyes, neither wanting to engage the other. My heart thumped at the sight of her. I wondered how I was going to survive this evening because seeing her made me dizzy, being near her again made me feel sick and enchanted all at once. Mike’s hand gently held my elbow and guided me to my seat, as far from Mary as possible. Good old Mike, as usual he’d thought of everything. There were shrieks the length of the table when they realised I’d arrived. I sat between Jo and Duncan, who greeted me enthusiastically as others crowded around for their turn. Through the bodies I saw Mary alone, still seated, her head firmly turned away from the throng around my chair.
I recognised all thirty of the men and women at the table, although some were hard to pick because they’d changed so much and a number of names escaped me. Twelve years ago, when I left school, these people, apart from Dad and the odd family relic, were my world. They were the sum of my experience. Now look at them, a lawyer, a social worker, a teacher, some middle management, mothers, fathers and me. I listened to their talk, as they shared their stories of work and children and instantly recognised each other’s happiness or troubles. They ignored mine, though. No one asked about my life—why should they? They knew every detail of it through the newspapers and magazines. They might be excited to see me, but they looked forward to meeting the others so they could learn more about them. There was nothing to learn about me. And since I cared little about their lives since school, I found myself with nothing to ask them either. It’s funny how we think loneliness comes from being alone, cut off from home, or sitting in some shit hole of a room. For me it came surrounded by people I’d once known intimately. Only when the evening turned nostalgic did I reconnect with them. Only when we revisited our common past were we reunited.
Inevitably the old stories flowed, the ones that meant something only to us. Mike was the catalyst. He rolled down the table like a social tidal wave, initiating tales here and finishing others with the punch line. I watched, I listened and I drank. My God, did I drink.
‘Hey Jack, remember Pendleton’s car?’ I smiled and nodded. The table was beaming at the memory. ‘Remember Fred Pendleton the French teacher?’ Mike’s introduction was unnecessary, everyone knew the story, but he would not be denied his tried and tested beginning. ‘Duncan, Jack and me propped up his old green Mini on bricks and took off the wheels. Do you remember?’ Everyone remembered. ‘Anyway, we stood there admiring our work and when we turned to go, Pendleton was standing there. He didn’t say a word. We just went back to the car, put the wheels on and took the car off the bricks. The thing is, when he came back he’d bought us all a doughnut. No detention, just doughnuts—all he said was that he was so impressed we went and put the wheels on without being asked, he didn’t have the heart to punish us. Imagine that? Pendleton was the grumpiest old sod in the school.’ Everyone laughed. Even I laughed. ‘Remember, Jack? I thought we’d get expelled. Jesus, we were lucky.’
‘I remember.’ I smiled again at the memory.
‘What about the review show in seventh form?’ It was Duncan this time. Everyone was laughing: no doubt this was the centrepiece of any of these gatherings. Jo, who still sat next to me, slapped the table with a flat hand, making the cutlery jump. On the drinks front she had impressively kept pace with me.
‘Oh shit,’ she screamed at the tabletop.
‘Those bloody trousers. Do you remember the trousers, Jack?’ Mike took control of the story.
‘Do I remember them? How could I bloody well forget them?’ How could I forget those nylon red flares that had no fly but two zippers either side of the crotch so that when they were undone a flap fell down. I’d found them at a charity shop. The show was the end of year review and our little group produced a spoof game show where I played a gay quiz master, my costume completed with curly wig and Village People moustache. Jo, Mary, Duncan and Mike played the contestants. I can’t remember the questions now, but I recall how funny we were and how the audience roared at the jokes. The winner, Duncan I think, won a motorbike that in real life belonged to Mike’s older brother. Duncan stripped off to reveal a Freddie Mercury costume and mimed to some Queen song as he bestrode the bike.
Everyone at the table laughed. Jo was out of control, her head wobbling like a nodding dog until it came to rest on my shoulder. Mike wiped away a tear from his cheek. ‘Shit, Jack,’ he shouted above the noise, ‘you were brilliant that night. Remember when you unzipped your trousers at the end, pulled out a fresh wig and changed wigs? I thought I’d piss myself. You were one funny bastard.’
All those at the table murmured their agreement at the comment and I could see in their eyes they remembered me as a funny bastard. So what happened? What produced this cynical sod?
The furore at the table died. Duncan left to talk elsewhere and Mike sat next to me; Jo’s leg first brushed and then settled next to mine. Mike idly chatted to me, which was light conversation after the heady heights of the stories, but he was obviously circling a difficult subject. I poured yet another wine. Mike said nothing, but I could see him disapproving of the speed with which I drank. Finally he spoke of the subject that sat between us like a pork sausage at a Jewish wedding. ‘Will you talk to Mary tonight?’ I sensed he’d already spoken to her. This was Mike the ambassador at his best.
‘Will she talk to me?’
He went to reply, I even saw his lips move and by the smile I think he thought I heard him, but his answer was swept away by the maelstrom of music that suddenly assaulted the restaurant. I shouted at Mike to repeat his answer, but he stood and walked away, not even hearing my second plea for him to stay and say it again. The music cut across all conversation like a cosmic mute button as the Turkish dance sounds penetrated every corner. Whirling bazookas assaulted the senses and, judging by the expressions on the other diners’ faces, offended almost everyone. Their grimaces said it all. No one was happy. Then from the furthest and darkest part of the restaurant burst the belly dancer from hell. She gyrated her way around the room, the slaps of her bare feet with tiny bells at the ankle clearly audible above the treble-laced music because of the different texture of flesh on wood. I’d never seen a belly dancer before, but I have an image culled from old Hollywood films where such a dance was portrayed as mildly erotic. The women were slim and busty with wild hair swinging in time with pounding hips and wide eyes, the whites exaggerated by thick black eyeliner. They enthralled sweaty cigarette-smoking men as they approached a frenzied climax. Such an image did not square with the dancer I watched. She was more an embarrassment than sexual lure. Red blotches of angry acne marked her face, which was visible even in the darkened room, and more movement came from the rolls of fat on her stomach than from her hips. When she stretched she revealed a jewelled belly button. The occasional glimpse of the fake ruby reminded me of a boat in rough seas at the tip of a wave before dipping out of sight again. Finally, like a spinning top, the intensity of her dance waned. By the time she had circulated the room and returned to the corner from which she’d burst she was breathless and sweating profusely. As suddenly as the music started, so it ended, mid-beat, without so much as a hint of fade. For a moment there was silence in the room, everyone waiting to see whether there was an encore. When they were satisfied the silence was permanent, the chatter returned.
Mike was gone and he’d taken his answer. He was still at the table, but now he sat next to Mary.
Her stare was frightening. I felt as though she’d watched me the entire dance, boring through my outer skin to reach my core. Where had the power come from since the first tepid look at the beginning of the evening? Maybe she’d finally summoned up all the bad thoughts of the
past years. Maybe Mike had said something to ignite a sudden passion. Had he misheard me when that burst of music shattered our conversation and passed it on? But then what could he possibly say to make it worse between us? I looked away and found Jo’s far more welcoming eyes.
Jo was drunk. She might have kept pace with me, but at a hell of a cost. Her eyes shone like moist beads as she struggled to focus and she leant her head on a hand that hardly seemed able to balance the weight. Her knee was rammed against mine now as it had been throughout the dance. She talked about herself once she had my attention but I listened to nothing. She had grown more attractive with age and her short bobbed hair suited her better than the big perm of her youth. I hadn’t thought of her once since we’d left school, but I knew by the way she gazed into my eyes that she had thought of me. We’d groped once, when we were sixteen at a party in Sandringham in an old shed at the rear of the garden. It was the only haven from the frenzied drinking and dancing of teenage excess in the house. With parents away and a first true party for our peers it reached critical mass and threatened a meltdown. The shed smelt of potting mix and rotting daffodil bulbs. We shared her last joint, kissed and went a little further: a hand on her breast (my first) and her hand on my erection through tight jeans. Sex was close, but neither of us knew how to tell the other what we wanted and the moment passed as lust slipped away. What regrets lurked for her all these years later?
‘Tell me, Jo, who do you like better, John Lennon or Paul McCartney?’
She smiled and her head slipped from the palm of her hand. ‘No comparison, it’s John Lennon every time. I mean, could you see John Lennon writing the frog song or whatever it was called?’
‘What were you saying about your husband?’
‘I knew you weren’t listening to a word I was saying.’ She elbowed me in the ribs, probably harder than she wanted but she had little control now over her movements. ‘I’m not married, you silly sod.’