by Nigel Packer
With love to Suzie, Michael, Gillian and yourself.
Your father,
Otto Leibowitz
Twenty-Four
Early the next morning, before his final interview with Chloe, Otto left Marlowe House in the brackish dawn to go in search of a pint of milk. Venturing out like this, into the darkness and the cold, was not an agreeable experience, especially since he had forgotten to take his scarf. But there were guests to be welcomed, there was tea to be made, and he didn’t want Chloe and her team to think that his standards were slipping. He walked as far as the Old Kent Road before finding a shop that was open.
Back inside the entrance of Marlowe House, Otto noted that a lift was out of order. It was the same one they had filmed inside a few days earlier. A sign saying COUNCIL ALERTED – REPAIR IMMINENT was stuck to its door. As he pressed the button to call one of the others, he became distracted by the building’s central staircase, spiralling above him into the murk. Standing on its bottom step, he saw what looked like an endless wheel of spokes, radiating outward into the many different levels. It was the centrepiece of Marlowe House, the hub from which its mathematical logic unfolded. Otto remained proud of its distinctive design, which was partly inspired by the lines of a seashell, and partly by the structure of DNA.
Inevitably, the staircase was in poor condition. Its yellow paint was chipped and flaking, in places gone completely, revealing a metal frame showing signs of rust. But its twisting form and sense of movement remained undeniably striking, to anyone who might take the trouble to glance upwards. At the time of its completion, it was described by one critic as ‘architectonic perfection’. The other members of Unit 5 had beamed with delight upon seeing these words in the paper, and insisted on taking Otto to the pub to celebrate.
It was quite an achievement, Otto thought, even though I do say so myself. The closest I ever got to transcendence in my own work, although Cynthia could achieve such things as a matter of routine. It was certainly the most poetic effect I created.
During filming of the original documentary, the director had utilised its visual potential to the full. Shooting upwards from the hallway, he had captured the rangy and athletic young Otto as he bounded effortlessly up its bottom reaches, his long legs taking two or three steps at a time. Chloe loved that shot and had insisted on recreating it for her own film a couple of days earlier. This time, however, Otto struggled to even make the first few flights. Slowly and methodically he had worked his way to each level, pausing occasionally to catch his breath. Chloe later told him she would use a split-screen technique in order to juxtapose the two shots (one from the mid-1960s, the other the present day) for the opening sequence of her film. But she sensed from the expression that passed across Otto’s face, quickly extinguished though it was, that this might not be such a good idea after all.
With head now spinning from his contemplation of the staircase, he reached out to steady himself on the banister. Next he inspected the tile-work of the mural lining the hallway. The original design, the work of a respected artist of the time, had hovered between the figurative and the abstract. The image depicted was intended to be evocative of small boats bobbing on a bay. Fifty years on, however, there was no discernible pattern to be found amid the chaos of individual tiles. Most of the originals had either been broken or worked their way loose, and been replaced with whatever came to hand.
Otto strolled thoughtfully around the hallway, piecing together fragments other than tiles. The artist, rather than his design, was the focus of his attention.
He was the last of Cynthia’s lovers. Such a shame to see his work in ruins like this. He was a very talented artist.
Otto leaned forward to study the cracks on one of the original tiles.
I liked him, too, oddly enough, even after learning about the affair. He had a strong face, an honest face, and he meant much more to Cynthia than the others. To her, I think, he must have represented a parallel but unlived life – the husband she might have had if I hadn’t appeared on the scene. She knew him before she knew me, after all.
Had there been something between them, he wondered, in those months in London before she and Otto had met? He doubted it, somehow. But there definitely was something later on, during those years of near estrangement. They had even discussed him together back then, early in 1979, on those nights when they started to piece their broken marriage back together.
* * *
‘What?’ Cynthia asked him, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.
‘Do you love him?’ Otto repeated.
He was sitting on the edge of her bed, in his dressing gown and slippers. Cynthia, in her nightdress, was moving restlessly around the room, on the pretext of searching for some aspirin. The tone of the conversation was familiarly awkward. Their words, back then, after several years of strain, had become a sequence of chords without resolution; a perpetual circling, without ever coming to rest. Otto’s sudden question had transgressed the unspoken rule between them. They never sought to deny the affairs, but neither did they discuss them.
Cynthia chose not to answer him directly.
‘And if I do love him? Would that make it any worse than the others?’
‘Not worse,’ said Otto, ‘but different. Better, I suppose, in some respects.’
‘Better?’
‘Yes. It would feel less like some bizarre game of brinkmanship between us.’
‘And is that how you regard all this … a game?’
‘No. To be frank with you I regard our situation as rather tragic.’
They were talking about it now, for the first time, perhaps. They were moving onto difficult territory. Anger, long suppressed, was resurfacing.
‘So why did you stray?’ Cynthia asked him. ‘Remind me again. Were you trying to prove your virility in some way? All those high-rise buildings not enough for you?’
There was a wild glint in her eye as she rifled through the drawers of her dresser. Otto, in contrast, appeared tired and listless.
‘I really can’t remember. I suppose I wanted to feel more alive.’
‘And did you?’
‘At first, maybe … but not later on. By then it had become something else. Painful, for a time. Later still it became deadening.’
Cynthia’s tone was challenging.
‘Painful? But I thought you and I were supposed to be immune to that sort of thing. We’ve mastered the art of indifference, haven’t we, Otto? Isn’t that what our “open” marriage is all about?’
Otto looked up at her.
‘I’ve never been indifferent to your affairs, Cyn. I simply became numbed by them.’
She turned from the dresser to face him, sarcasm spilling into her voice.
‘Then why didn’t you say something, if they displeased you in any way?’
‘It would have been hypocritical of me to speak out.’
His answer riled her further.
‘So you’re saying this whole thing has been some sort of misunderstanding between us?’
‘Please, don’t get angry—’
‘We’ve both been fucking around these past few years by mistake, is that what you’re saying? Exactly how many have there been now, between the two of us? I’m afraid I’m losing count.’
‘Please, let’s try to talk seriously—’
‘Seriously? If you were halfway serious about saving our fucking marriage you would have tried to stop this “game of brinkmanship” long ago!’
These last words were slung at him like crockery. Otto flinched beneath their weight.
‘I have stopped,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s no one else, now. There hasn’t been for some time. Nor will there be again.’
Cynthia paused a moment, surprised. Then her anger redoubled.
‘And you expect me to stop now, too, is that it? You started this, Otto, when you slept with that woman in Paris. Now you want it all to finish, because you believe it’s getting out of hand. Is that what concerns you – that I’m
having more fun these days than you are?’
She looked defiant, but vulnerable. Her upper lip quivered.
She’s at the end of her tether, Otto thought. What on earth have I done to her?
‘I’m not asking you to stop,’ he replied. ‘That’s why I’ve raised the subject now. I realise this one is different to the others. I realise you’re in love with him.’
Her eyes flashed at him.
‘And what makes you say that?’
‘Because I sense, with him, that it’s no longer anger that is driving you. I sense he has returned you to yourself.’
She halted and stared down at him. The retort that had been swelling on her lips had died.
‘And so?’ she said, after several moments of silence, her voice now quieter.
Otto looked at her evenly.
‘And so you should think about leaving me, moving in with him, making the break completely.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’
‘No. Goodness knows, no. But you have to make a decision, Cyn.’
‘For your sake?’
‘Partly, yes, because it’s exhausting me. That much, I’m sure, is obvious. But also because it’s exhausting you. I’ve seen your nerves worsen in recent months. And I can’t stand to see it any more.’
Cynthia paused for a moment, unbalanced by the direction the conversation had taken. Searching again for the aspirin in the dresser, she gestured suddenly towards the door.
‘I’m tired … I have to get some sleep now, Otto. Let’s talk about this another time, shall we?’
For three nights running, Otto barely closed his eyes. In the small spare room where he now slept alone, he lay surrounded by the remnants of family life. A ping-pong table, a bicycle with stabilisers, objects forgotten or outgrown. Through the darkness, as he gazed, he saw before him the trajectory of his life, tailing off like a falling star. If she decided to leave, he must give them his blessing. She had every right: she deserved to find happiness. It would show great courage on her part to put an end to this. Yet despite these finer feelings, Otto’s soul shrank painfully within him. He was powerless to do anything but wait.
When the time came to discuss it again, he sat once more on the bed with his head slightly bowed. Cynthia, standing before him, mirrored his stillness as she spoke. The restlessness of a few days before was gone. She had summoned him to her bedroom to talk things over, and he expected the worst.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I probably do love him … Certainly I care for him a great deal. And I’ve thought long and hard about leaving you, Otto, believe me. But you needn’t be worried, if indeed you are, because it’s too late for me to do anything about it.’
He hesitated.
‘I don’t understand.’
She took a small step forwards.
‘I won’t be leaving you. I can’t. It’s something I’ve come to realise in recent days. The affairs were an act of self-deception, you see. I thought I was asserting my freedom, proving I could leave you whenever I wished. But that’s because I didn’t love any of them. I knew I would never have to face that decision. Now that I do care for someone, perverse as it sounds, I realise I am unable to walk out on you. Faced with a real alternative, I’ve found I can’t possibly take it.’
The lines on Otto’s forehead eased a little, but returned immediately.
‘You mustn’t stay with me out of a sense of duty,’ he told her. ‘It would be worse for all of us, worse for Daniel, if you did that.’
‘It’s not a sense of duty … it’s nothing to do with that. I wouldn’t make that kind of decision for the sake of appearances. I really don’t care what the neighbours think. No, this is something deeper. We’re conjoined, psychologically, you and I. It’s hopeless to try to pretend otherwise. Why do you think we’re still together? How many other marriages do you think could have survived this sort of strain? If we were able to live apart, it would have happened long ago. It would have happened on the evening Sandrine telephoned you here.’
Cynthia took a few steps towards the door, as if seeking one final escape route, before returning to the bed and sitting down beside him. He tentatively took her hand, and she made no attempt to remove it. She spoke calmly now; the tension between them was dissipating.
‘I blame all that time,’ she continued, ‘the years we spent together. I can’t just put them to one side and begin again. I am exhausted, you’re right about that, but it’s your unhappiness, not mine, that’s exhausting me. It’s your loneliness that haunts me. I can’t stand to see you like this, the desolation on your face. I want it all to stop, and then of course there’s Daniel…’
Otto glanced up at her briefly and then downwards again.
‘What a ridiculous mess I’ve caused. Forgive me.’
These last words were barely audible. He was sitting bent forward and holding onto her hand with both of his, looking defeated. She reached up and pushed back the greying hair from his face.
‘I’ve played my part. We both have misdemeanours to forgive. And it was I who suggested that we go our separate ways. It was a mistake. You’re a depressive, Otto, both of us are. We have moments when we get very low. And we sought the wrong panacea to try to make ourselves feel better.’
He stared up at her, a little dazed.
‘So you’re staying?’
She nodded minutely.
‘Yes.’
‘I had this mental image of you, as I lay in my room … You were packing your case. I thought perhaps it was over.’ He stared blankly into space a moment, before continuing, ‘I’m so relieved.’
She gathered him slowly into her arms and they held each other awkwardly, consolingly. A few minutes later, the emotions reappeared, with a strength that effectively sealed their fate together. All other futures closed off to them in that instant. Despite everything that had occurred, they had somehow hit upon a way forward together.
Otto ran a hand over the broken tiles in the hallway.
She cooled things off with him after that – decided that enough was enough. No more affairs, for either of us – just stability and a new openness.
Somehow their marriage had survived. More than survived – it had flourished. As Daniel progressed through his teenage years, then later moved away to university at Cambridge, Cynthia and Otto discovered a new richness in their lives. They were like pearl-fishers, stumbling upon a new and unexpected catch, somewhere out in the depths beyond their previously circumscribed territory. They were almost absurdly happy together as they entered their fifties, the difficult years of their forties now behind them. Otto was grateful, in retrospect, that they had been given those final years of calm and peace, during which they often revisited the past; taking trips to those places where their happiest memories lay: to India, southern Italy, and – much closer to home – to the Chiltern Hills, where Cynthia had been born and raised.
They would travel there regularly at weekends, sometimes staying over with her elderly parents, who remained living in the family home; at other times booking into a pub or B&B.
In thirty years of visiting the area, it was not only Cynthia and Otto whose faces had become lined by experience, creased by the cares of the world. The countryside across which they travelled at weekends now also bore such marks. The M40 motorway cut a swath through Buckinghamshire and beyond. New suburbs ribboned outwards from High Wycombe and Aylesbury. The rural peace Cynthia had known in her childhood was supplanted by the drone of traffic and the sprawl of new housing estates. She felt these changes, Otto sometimes thought, as though the scars on the landscape were her own.
There was still peace to be found, however, among the hills themselves, and it was there that they would escape whenever time allowed.
* * *
One afternoon, in the spring of 1985, as they sat side by side on the high hill of Ivinghoe Beacon, Cynthia asked Otto a question.
‘How would you feel about selling up in Hampstead? Moving out to the countryside? So
mewhere truly rural.’
A model aircraft buzzed overhead.
‘It’s a nice idea,’ said Otto. ‘I know how much affinity you feel with this area. I like to come visiting here myself.’
She sensed the slight reticence in his voice and squeezed his hand.
‘I realise you’re an urban creature, with a fear of open spaces. But you may find those fears are unfounded, once you give it a try.’
Otto smiled.
‘It’s not that. My concerns are more practical. What about our professional commitments? Could we realistically fulfil them from the middle of nowhere?’
‘Not as things stand, no. We would both need to make some changes; hand over control to others. Maybe I could sell up the textiles firm altogether. But I don’t see why not. Neither of us exactly enjoys the business side of things. We could focus more on design, like we used to.’
The engine of the model plane cut out suddenly, causing it to plummet to the ground some fifty yards from where they sat.
‘And Daniel?’ Otto asked. ‘What if he wants to return to Hampstead after finishing at university? We really ought to talk it through with him first.’
Cynthia looked away a moment, the breeze catching her hair as she turned.
‘I already have,’ she said. ‘Dan won’t be returning to the family home again. He’s not that type of person. Too restless, independent, eager to discover life for himself. He’s gone now, Otto. It’s just the two of us once more.’
Otto watched the model plane – set upright, by its owner – trundle up the incline of the hill.
‘Sounds like you’ve been thinking this through,’ he said.
‘I have, I must admit.’
She leaned over and brushed her face against his. Her eyes shone with some of the thrilling intensity of old.
‘I’ve a feeling it might be time for us,’ she said. ‘We’re both in our fifties now. It would mean that you and I could be together properly, without all those distractions.’
She reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead.