The belfry of the Church of the Holy Trinity is a story in itself. For decades it stood miraculously alone, then sank slowly under its own weight from the cliff onto the beach, where it remained upright – a wonder documented in the annals, paintings and drawings of the day: a lone, arthritic index finger, warning of a fate that had happened long ago.
In nasty weather they say you can still hear the bells of the Holy Trinity ringing in the waves.
When my mother had finished doing my makeup, I would go to my room. The cloud in my chest hot and blood red. I lay down on the bed and unbuttoned my trousers. My head on the pillow I tightened the muscles in my neck – fluttering images on my retina, up to and including the spasms. The minor shame afterwards, mild as a shake of the head.
There was a life before and a life after the discovery of sperm. I masturbated as though possessed. I ejaculated into dirty socks, towels and the insides of trouser legs, I even ate it when there were no jack-off rags to be had.
The obscene thoughts about my mother, her role in my fantasies, ended one week after my fifteenth birthday. A postcard, with stamps from a faraway country, in a hand I did not recognize, landed in our letterbox. Addressed to me, albeit with the wrong surname. To Ludwig Schultz it read, as though the card was not written but dedicated to me. Schultz was my father’s surname; in England my mother had had it replaced with her own. The text of the postcard consisted of one line, only two words: Love me.
I brought the card to my mother. She took it and read it. In any icy voice she said, ‘From your father.’
My father had sent me a card! I now deciphered the scribble beneath the text as Bodo. He knew I existed, he had spoken my name! And he had given me an assignment. Love me. That was the when the shame fell like an axe. Love me, it said. Not her, his wife, but him, my father. With that barebones message Bodo Schultz had renewed his claim upon her. From far, far away he had read my filthy thoughts, he had looked into the secret chambers. With the postcard, taboo suddenly stood like a pillar of lead between me and my mother. Those two words were his warning, but with the warning also came the absolution: were I to mend my ways he would requite my love with his own. All this lay encrypted in that Love me.
My father’s card gave me a father. A man with handwriting, a hand that wrote, an arm with which he waved to me from a distance, a torso in which beat a heart that might just have kept a place for me.
The front of the card showed a statue of a man. A copper pirate, he had one arm and one leg and was brandishing a cutlass above his head. He was cleaving the deathly blue sky in twain. The yellowish cardboard on the back bore the imprint Cartagena de Indias, and Estatua Blas de Lezo. That must be the pirate’s name, I realized, Blas de Lezo. The postmark told it had been mailed two weeks earlier, one week before my birthday. Perhaps my father had intended it as a birthday card – an assumption that made me happy. He had gone to the trouble to find out where I lived; who knows how many cards he might have posted throughout the years? To Alexandria, for example? Perhaps there was a pile of them waiting for me there, bound up with a red ribbon?
I went to the library and looked up the man whose picture was on the card. I found Blas de Lezo in a number of places, but most useful of all to me was a book entitled The War of Jenkins’ Ear. It dealt at length with Blas de Lezo y Olavarrieta – no pirate, but a Spanish naval hero who had fought from Sicily to Oran. In consecutive order he had lost a leg at Malaga, an eye at Toulon and an arm at Barcelona, and was therefore referred to as Mediohombre, the half-man. His statue stood in Cartagena, Colombia, because he had defended that city against the English admiral Vernon.
Vernon had tried to take Cartagena, the point of departure for the Spanish treasure fleets, with one hundred and eighty-six warships, with two thousand cannons and an army of twenty-four thousand men. Blas de Lezo defended the town with only three thousand soldiers, a couple of hundred Indian archers and a handful of frigates. It was one of those battles that captures the imagination, in which what would seem to be a hopelessly outnumbered band of men defeats an over-whelming army. Blas de Lezo, however, paid for his victory with his life.
I detected no real meaning in it, in the name Mediohombre. The half-man was simply a half-man on a postcard, plucked by Bodo Schultz from a rack in Cartagena to send to his son in England. Behind the hero of Cartagena one could make out a dark old fortress, a wall, the roundels. On the wall a slender metal cross. What was my father doing in Colombia? What wind drove the restless waves?
The face with which he had until then occupied my fantasies, that of a janitor at the Schutz American School in Alexandria, was replaced by that of a Spanish naval hero who, judging from his portrait in copper, had a prominent lower jaw and fleshy lips that pouted angrily.
In my imagination, my father and I never looked alike. I was my mother’s child, as confirmed when I was little by shop girls and little old ladies on the beach who always tousled my hair and said what a handsome little fellow I was.
I don’t know whether my mother was aware of the connection between the postcard and the end of our makeup sessions. Sometimes she tried to lure me in.
‘Oh, come on, just for me, just one more time?’
One winter evening, the house fat and round with the smell of wood smoke and cooking, I let myself be drawn in. One more time, as she’d asked, because I longed for the intimacy between us, which had never been more powerful than when she was doing my face. It smelled so lovely, so heavy, in that shadow chamber of hers, where she slept on a raised bed amid an ocean of pillows. Feathery light veils hung from the ceiling – the holy of holies, shielded from the eyes of the impure. Her atmosphere settled over me like a voile, her smell crept into my nostrils and made my knees weak. She studied my face intently in the glow of the lights on her vanity table.
‘You’ll have to start shaving soon,’ she said. ‘A little reddish, it looks.’
She applied a layer of foundation cream.
‘But your complexion is perfect. You have my skin.’
She had the skin of a young girl. Old skin has no light, it doesn’t reflect it the way a young, tanned complexion will, but absorbs it. Old skin sucks up light the way a wall sucks up basecoat. You can tailor away wrinkles and folds, vacuum away fat and shoot yourself full of Botox, but the gleam of young skin cannot be imitated.
She picked up a brush and tapped it against her hand, the silken soft bristles slid over my face. It was waxen and pale now, a porcelain doll. With steady hand she drew lines beneath my eyes, her breath brushed my cheek. A message blinked on and off like a dying neon light inside my skull – LOVE ME LOVE ME. The mascara brush stroked my lashes, she held her face close to mine and smiled. To my lips she applied Chanel, the bright red lipstick she sometimes wore when she left the house.
A little later, as I was jerking off in the bathroom – Caesarion Philometor – I caught an involuntary glimpse of my own face in the mirror above the sink, just as I reached orgasm, my feminine, corpse-pale likeness, and was overcome by a feeling of such horror and filth that I had to close my eyes to myself.
That next Wednesday evening I went to the field where the rugby club held its practise sessions. It was dark and cold, but the little wooden clubhouse was warm. Out on the field men and boys were tossing a ball back and forth. A tall mast cast out nets of light over them, beyond that was the darkness. From a changing room at the side of the clubhouse came a big man, who asked what I was doing there.
‘Coming to see whether I like it,’ I said, ‘rugby.’
‘Have you got gear with you?’
‘No.’
‘Next time bring your gear,’ he said.
He jogged out onto the field. The training started, they ran laps. Standing at the edge of the dome of light, I watched them. Plumes of white steam came from their mouths and nostrils. A halo of steam hung round the head of one older, bald player. When they started running through their set moves, I soon lost track. After a while, though, I realized that you had to throw t
he ball behind you, preferably to a player in motion. I discerned two groups: the gang of tall, heavy men who together formed the scrum, and the faster attackers, who spread out across the field. I entered into conversation with another spectator, a boy on crutches. He was captain of the seconds, he had broken his shin during a match. His name was Michael Leland, call me Mike. He explained the basics of rugby. It seemed to me to be a sport of the clenched fist and the open hand – the fist symbolizing the clenched power of the forwards, the open hand the speed and agility of the three-quarters. It looked interesting and hard, it seemed to me fitting for the assignment I had given myself: to become a man.
I bought boots with metal studs, socks and a rugby shirt in yellow and black, the team colors of the Alburgh Rugby Football Club. Was I planning to play rugby? the old saleswoman at Fraser’s warehouse asked. Then I would also need a mouth guard, and shin guards and sports tape.
At home I dropped the mouth guard into a pan of boiling water and, while it was still soft and screeching hot, pressed it around my upper teeth. It felt like the enamel was shattering.
My mother tried to talk me out of it, she was afraid I would break my fingers and no longer be able to play the piano, but the very next Wednesday I went back to the clubhouse. I changed uneasily in the presence of strangers, in that cold changing room with its rampant outbursts of fungus, the brown rings on the ceiling and the odd hole in the wall. The smell was unfamiliar to me, but countless changing rooms would follow, and all of them smelled the same.
What I remember of that first training: biting cold, and the moment I found myself facing the man who had asked me last time where I’d left my gear. The top of my head reached his chest, I realized I needed to tackle him, and that meant: hit his upper legs hard with my shoulder and throw him to the ground – which I failed to do. I sort of hung on to the hem of his shirt till he shook me off casually and continued on his way to the try-line.
Not long after that I played my first match with the juniors, at wing, a position where I couldn’t do much harm. I heard a gray-haired cynic on the sideline say that the winger was the only spectator allowed to get involved in the match. For the time being, I showed no special talent for any other position. On my team was a boy named Selwyn, a god-given athlete who scored three tries that first day. He was a fly-half and a joy to watch. His body contained power; when he went in hard and low you could hear the opponent’s suffering. His tries were almost ruined by my clumsiness along the line; I let my own man pass on two occasions. I was still afraid of the clash, of bodies running at me, and clawed halfheartedly at shirts and shorts.
‘Your man! Your man!’ the coach screamed.
But I was lying on the ground and my man was on his way to his try. The boy on crutches was standing on the sideline as well. I avoided his eyes. The second time I let my man go I was saved by Selwyn Loyd – who came roaring in from halfway across the field, grabbed the boy who had passed me from behind just before he reached the line, and smacked him to the ground.
The Wednesday after that I was given tackle training.
‘And eat more pork,’ the trainer said. ‘Or don’t you eat meat at home?’
Apparently I had the aura of a vegetarian.
‘We eat meat, Mr. Gorecki,’ I said.
‘Steve.’
He approached me, zigzagging.
‘Go all the way through with your tackle,’ he said.
After he stiff-armed me, I found myself lying on the grass, looking up at him.
‘You didn’t go all the way through. Hit him with your shoulder and finish it. Don’t let go till your man’s on the ground. Concentrate on the thighs, not the ball.’
Fleshy tree trunks, those thighs, pig’s bristles and mud. I could barely get my arms around them. Still, I succeeded in tackling him a few times. He wasn’t too enthusiastic about my technique, but my perseverance pleased him more.
The field, where I learned that I had a body, was beautifully located. It lay atop the rise beside Alburgh, the golf course began below it. Behind the eastern goalposts lay the sea, behind the clubhouse was the water tower in a rolling landscape of grass and gorse. The wind was almost always blowing hard.
That spring I noticed that my body had grown stronger, harder, and that I had started enjoying standing around in the canteen after training or matches and laughing stupidly with the people around me. I drank beer for the first time, because they always forgot to bring along Coke for me. From rudimentary kitchens came an endless flow of hot pork sandwiches on which we squeezed out rusty-brown HP sauce. I liked the stories and anecdotes told by the older players, men who seemed to me to have been not so much born but sprung full-blown from dragons’ teeth. I kept a keen eye on their matter-of-fact, alert manner, and imitated it. The windows of the canteen were always steamy, I remember the eternal rain and the sea in the distance. And that Mike Leland drank from a mug in the form of a tit, with a hole in the nipple from which he sucked his beer. After the match songs were sung beneath low ceilings; when I joined in my individual identity slowly grew fluid and passed into something communal, a place where things were light and easy.
Sometimes I thought about my father, about how I was being faithful to his assignment, and imagined that he could see me in the midst of that rugged, jovial crowd, and that he approved.
It’s almost four-thirty, an early Sunday morning in Suffolk, and I’ve just walked Linny Wallace to her room. Both exhausted, the bottle empty but for the last two fingers. The point of hesitation, the uneasy moment at which people sometimes become lovers, that first kiss, the hungry rustling of fingers over cloth, the magnetic card slipping into the lock and the door falling closed behind everything else that follows. I know that I have seen many such nights of hasty, aggressive sex, but at this moment I can’t remember any of them individually.
The cell phone is dead now. The screen lights up for a few seconds when I turn it on, then falls back into the yawning darkness of an empty battery. I stand there looking at the phone in my hand with a growing feeling of isolation; I am now beyond reach of the accusations of women and badmouthing hotel managers. Hate mail is also a form of attention.
I wake up with my clothes on. It’s already past ten. I drink three large glasses of water, take an ibuprofen and undress. Then I sleep on, until early in the afternoon. I have lunch in the restaurant: bread, bacon and eggs, two double espressos and big glass of orange juice.
As agreed, I meet Linny in the lobby at one-thirty. Her eyes are fresh and bright, not misted-over like mine. I’m glad we didn’t go to bed together, even though I’m accustomed to the uneasy contact that tends to follow that. I know the way. Questions remain hanging in the air, hints. Sometimes you feel like it, sometimes you don’t.
We go outside, I want to show her the cliff.
‘You’re not a grasshopper at all,’ she says. ‘You’re a storyteller on a square in Marrakesh.’
I feel ashamed. I’ve been bending her ear with my life story, a madman who grabs you by the arm on the street and walks along as he relates his gruesome history. Then, when it’s all over, he asks you to buy him a gravy roll.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I let myself get carried away.’
The desire to tell her about my parents, the things that happened only so recently, confuses me. So much floating around inside me, all that debris in orbit. The reason for my confession, as far as I can tell, lies in the desire to impose order, something that overcomes me sometimes at restaurant tables when I pile up the dirty dishes after the meal, the knives with the knives, forks with the forks. It’s hard to refrain from doing that, even though I’ve noticed that in some circles the piling up of dishes is not viewed as a sign of good upbringing.
‘How far along are we in the story?’ Linny asks.
‘Halfway, more or less.’
‘Your story was a dream, last night. I couldn’t remember my own life anymore.’
‘I don’t know what got into me.’
‘It was hard
for me to let it go. You are going to tell me more, aren’t you?’
‘You fell asleep.’
‘I was so tired. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.’
‘You stuck it out amazingly long in that madhouse.’
Her bright laugh. Her voice would be perfect for telemarketing.
‘A madhouse, yes, it is that a bit.’
We walk up onto the esplanade. I point out to her House Avalon, along the walkway. A deep front garden, from the drawing room the inhabitants can see the sea.
‘English eclectic,’ Linny says. ‘I’m awfully fond of that.’
I know the white house from the inside. In front of the low hedge was a bench. Misty season, the inscription read. We look at the house behind its white picket fence. The memory splinters behind my eyes.
Selwyn, the rugby player, lived here. He became my friend. A boy who sailed along this coast as in a painting by Hopper. His father was a physician, his mother played cello with the Norwich Philharmonic Orchestra. There was a Blüthner in the drawing room; the first time I visited them I did my very best on a couple of Chopin waltzes. I liked Selwyn’s mother. She was mildly eccentric. A chocolate fondue fountain after a dinner could move her into a state of disquieting rapture. Selwyn had an older brother as well, who came home sometimes at the weekend. They didn’t look much alike.
Linny and I head towards the pier. She has pretty hair, I notice that as she walks in front of me, down the steps to the beach. It’s very soft, when it’s just been washed she might say it sticks out all over the place. I feel like laying my hand on it.
Little Caesar Page 7