The Extinction of Snow

by Frederick Lightfoot

  “There’s nothing to say, Mrs Tennant.”

  “But there must be, Gareth or why spend so much time not saying it?”

  “I really must get back to my work.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “But you have to go. You can’t stay here all day.”

  “I’m sorry Gareth. It’s all become a little deranged, but I’m sure you understand something of what the feeling is. The more I ask the less I know and I suspect it’s because I’m not listening properly. Do you know, Gareth, that whenever I think of Joseph, which is all of the time, a piece of music goes over and over in my head, Spiegel im Spiegel. Now why do you think that is?”

  “Because he liked it?”

  “Yes.” I hadn’t really expected an answer, my question entirely rhetorical. “He did in fact, liked it very much. But I don’t think that’s the whole answer. There’s something else, a reason that I should hear that particular music. Maybe I’m lucky. It is a beautiful piece of music. If it was something else it might send me crazy, but it doesn’t do that, or does it? How can I say, Gareth?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Mrs Tennant.”

  “Tell me the truth Gareth.”

  He looks horrified. At that moment the door behind me opens. A shiver runs through me. There is alarm in Gareth’s face, which he can’t disguise, though he is trying to look relaxed. I turn around to face whoever has entered. There is a security guard standing in the doorway. He is middle-aged, with a heavy round face, with staring, distrustful eyes, though maybe I’m imposing that on him, knowing his role, knowing that I am to be ejected. He has my coat in his hand, holding it as one might a rag for a sniffer-dog.

  “Mrs Tennant was just leaving. She wanted to know if her son had left any of his effects here, which he has not,” Gareth says without conviction.

  I stand up and smile at Gareth. I am well aware that he is telling the security guard who I am. The name must have significance, be familiar to the entire staff. I find that surprising, bewildering. Each event deepens my incomprehension. “Thank you Dr Gate,” I say, “it was very kind of you to listen. I hope all goes well with you for the wedding. Do you have any thoughts about the music?”

  “I should keep listening I think.”

  “Yes, I agree. Goodbye Dr Gate.”

  The security guard moves aside allowing me past and holds out my coat for me to take. He is not about to put it over my shoulders for me. He doesn’t handle me but as we make our way to the lift I feel like a criminal being taken into custody. It is belittling. A series of images rush through my mind: school day punishments from irate, disturbed nuns; cowering in a corner as my father swears and strikes my mother; sitting in the back of a police car, guilty until reprieved. There is a child in me that suffers them all, the accumulated years of punishment, unjust and just. The guard doesn’t speak but acts as if I have disappointed him, affronted him in some way. As the lift doors open I say: “I am upset about my son, that’s all.” I realize that I’m trying to summon up my grief to confer on me some dignity. He doesn’t answer. To my surprise he follows me into the lift. Evidently I am to be escorted right off the premises. The ground floor receptionist eyes me coolly as I am led through the lobby. I may have got her into trouble so it is understandable. But what do they fear from me? Is a grieving mother bad for business? Nothing makes sense. On the steps the guard finally speaks. “Goodbye, Mrs Tennant.” It is final. I am never to return. A part of my son’s life is off-limits to me.

  I ring for my ally, pleased to discover that he has indeed waited. He wants to know whether my trip was satisfactory. I tell him that it’s hard to gauge. He says he’ll give it another few years then call it a day, there’s no fun in it anymore, though he does meet nice people from time to time, which from the look on his face in the mirror includes me. No, I think, there is no fun. My trip has been a disaster. I want to run back to London as quickly as I can, back to my own way of thinking, my own version of things, back to my own perverse normality.

  Chapter Six

  The southern offices of Rennstadt are grander than their northern branch. They stand back from a road in Esher, fronted by a mighty billboard. The surrounding landscape has no focus or symmetry. The roads are numerous, busy and fast, with endless roundabouts, passing sports fields, small parks and random buildings. Most things are built away from the road, shaded by trees and walls. The road merely connects. The aesthetic is small scale and close up, the larger picture arbitrary and functional. Development has been cellular. I feel adrift. Without a taxi I would be lost, a ridiculous pedestrian. It seems I increasingly need guides to get me to the places I need to be. In function if not appearance I am letting myself grow old. Age is deliberate. I want to be out of step and I want to be seen to be out of step. My floundering is not coquettish, a trick to attract attention and assistance, but a judgement, a moment of dissent. I refuse the mechanism of this world: it took my son.

  Maybe, once upon a time, I should have considered architecture. I seem to have become a commentator of the modern landscape, a critic even. The idea is absurd of course. I could never have stood the rigours of the essential science or the demand of costs. My materials, my made up objects, are small scale, intimate. I’m always thinking I should have done this or that, ridiculous things like become an anthropologist or archaeologist – and now architect – and that’s just the a’s, but it’s all nonsense. I love my little constructions, minor additions in the sum of creation but mine all the same. My little works were behind my fall-out with Frank. I have always wanted to be useful, to give pleasure: he wanted art to resist interpretation. But what’s the point? He was arrogant, stupid and deluded. I ran away, ran to John.

  The taxi driver hasn’t spoken at any time, except to utter things under his breath, particularly when the office sounds on his radio, a fairly constant stream of pickups and destinations. He isn’t relaxed driving but at war with everything: other drivers, other cars and his own gear-stick and steering wheel. He directs the car with great movements of his shoulders and only brakes at the last moment, leaving scarcely any space between his car and the one in front. I don’t know how he faces each day with such impatience and temper.

  After a while, I realize that he doesn’t hate it but loves it. This is his game. He is a man of action, his mission to navigate through the dense absurdity of contemporary development. Is it a good mission? Does it rank as an example of man’s basically tragic state? Perhaps. Who am I to say otherwise? In the end it will kill him, stroke or heart-attack; he’s way overweight. He probably gets little exercise and eats on the move. I’m not surprised he hasn’t spoken to me. He probably despises anyone who can afford his services, especially someone asking for a destination like Rennstadt, with its ostentatious billboard, fish-pond with golden carp and revolving door. I am becoming so judgemental. I have lost my love. I simply exist. He is impatient when I ask for his number. He doesn’t have a card so writes it quickly on a scrap of paper. I have to check the number with him. He drives off at speed. Thank God it’s the office number and not his so the return driver may be different. I enjoyed thinking the taxi driver in Leeds was an ally, though it doesn’t surprise me that here they aren’t. There isn’t enough time or space for alliances; it isn’t cost-effective.

  The entrance to Rennstadt is very grand. It is a gallery of abstract paintings – originals not prints – pot-plants and desks. The desks are arranged in a broken semicircle with shining polished steps between and ramps running from both right and left towards lifts to the rear. A security guard saunters around, exchanging a word and a smile with the girls at the desks intent on their computer screens. If I’d needed to break in here it would have been a wholly more daring affair, demanding real criminal acumen. Luckily I have an appointment. Mr Davidson’s secretary had no hesitation in putting my name in his diary, and didn’t even inquire what the meeting was about. It seemed to me that I was expected to call, but that is absurd, unless the Leeds’ office made contact,
warning them, but I don’t see how I could be that important.

  The girl at the desk, who is oriental with long, straight, jet-black hair, is extremely polite and has an exquisite smile. I feel heartened. I am being treated to courtesy. Word has not spread to this desk that I am an obsessive, a grieving trouble-maker. She tells me that I am expected and to go right up, the fourth floor, and directs me to the lift. On the fourth floor I am greeted by Miss Steele – Mr Davidson’s PA, she informs me – who is smartly dressed in grey jacket and skirt, and a white blouse cut low enough to reveal the outline of her substantial breasts. Offering no more than that introduction she walks briskly away and I assume I am to follow. She leads me into a spacious office, announces me and leaves. Mr Davidson gets up from his desk, smiling, and offers his hand. He doesn’t shake my hand but holds it, holds it for longer than might be deemed normal, but I can tell by his expression that he isn’t treating this as normal but rather assumes he will have to console me. He takes his jacket from the back of his chair and puts it on. I am to be afforded formality. He is a tall man, probably in his late thirties, with dark hair swept back from his head, revealing a dominant forehead below which his face is sharp and triangular. He smiles and gestures for me to sit and resumes his own.

  “I am very sorry for your loss, Mrs Tennant,” he begins immediately, his voice slightly husky, catching in his throat. “We all are. Joseph was very popular.”

  “Yes,” I say, not particularly agreeing with anything, simply uncertain with a stranger’s sympathy, unsure what I am supposed to do with it.

  He smiles again, the gesture somewhat awkward. He is not easy with me – who is in the face of drastic loss, someone symbolizing all and everyone’s fragility and mortality? I expected him to be older. Perhaps an older man would have succumbed to my symbolism rather more. I expected a plain looking, rather aloof, staid business-man, not a good-looking young man. He makes me feel older than I am. I can’t work that out, other than with the dismal thought that I know I am probably not attractive to him. I flatter myself with the word probably. Mr Davidson waits. He has worked out how to make it easier for himself. I have come to him. It is my place to speak. He is happy waiting.

  “I just thought,” I begin falteringly, “that it might be helpful to talk to you.”

  He smiles again, leaning forward, his elbows on his desk, his fingers spread across his chin. “I don’t know that I will be of any help, but if I can, then of course.”

  “It’s just . . . well, I thought my son was working for you, in France I mean.”

  “Me personally, do you mean?”

  “No, no, the company. I thought he had gone with his work.”

  Mr Davidson splays his fingers, two spindly blossoms either side of his cheeks, indicating sympathy for my lack of understanding, but also a comical assertion that that’s how it was. I want him to say something but he continues to wait.

  “It was a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  I eye him intently, pleading to be afforded some understanding, some inkling as to why Joseph would abandon the life he had. When I said, that’s all, it was absurd. It is just a starting point. After the shock there are a million and one considerations. They contend, bringing to mind contradictory and sometimes crazy narratives. My son abandoned his wife and child because . . . (the mother wanting to preserve her child’s prestige imagines, tells herself) because he was still with the company and it was all a monumental misunderstanding. Or the mother tells herself that her son fell fatally in love with someone else, but had every intention of remitting money to wife and child. He must have been working for someone, needed references, some contact.

  He sits back, his hands in front of him in an attitude of prayer. “Of course,” he says, “it was a shock to all of us. No one ever expects, but . . . but I wouldn’t suggest that I could know how you feel.”

  “No,” I respond gratefully, thankful that he hasn’t suggested that he knows how I feel. Even I don’t really know that. Of course he may have experienced many things; he certainly speaks with an air of maturity. “I’m pleased you could see me all the same.”

  “Of course, the least I could do, though I must admit that I don’t quite know why you wanted to see me.”

  “Do I need a reason?” I snap, surprising myself with my own petulance. He doesn’t respond. He purses his lips, apparently suffused with compassion. I feel my temper physically possessing me, my mind trying to transform it into ideas and words, though at the same time acknowledging its irrationality. But why shouldn’t I want to see someone my son worked with, worked for? Is it so strange? My son died in mysterious circumstances and I have a need to contend with that mystery. People he worked with have been told not to speak to me. I utter that spontaneously. “Employees have been instructed not to talk to me.”

  He shakes his head and smiles, indulgently, parental. “No, Mrs Tennant, that is not the case. We would never make such an instruction.”

  “Gareth, Dr Gate, was told not to speak to me.”

  “Again Mrs Tennant I can assure you that is not the case. There may be things Dr Gate would rather he didn’t say to you. I can fully appreciate that. I find Dr Gate rather reserved. I respect it.”

  “I’m sorry?” I say, questioning the meaning of what he has just said. He looks uncomprehending. “Do you mean I don’t, or didn’t, respect Dr Gate?”

  “There are protocols and procedures about discussing company matters. Dr Gate quite rightly felt obliged to follow those principles.”

  “I just wondered what my son’s favourite books were.” Mr Davidson smiles, but breaks eye contact. “I wondered if he knew his favourite view.”

  “I’m sure as his mother you would be best positioned to answer those things.”

  “Yes, you would think so.”

  “Or his wife. Joseph was married.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you didn’t know that, Mrs Tennant.”

  “No, I mean you are right. A wife is the person who should know all these things, but I thought there would be no harm in asking Dr Gate, Gareth. They were friends. Gareth has stayed at our house, our being Joseph’s father and me.”

  “These are personal matters Mrs Tennant. I don’t quite know what to say.”

  “Why was Joseph in France?”

  He shakes his head, and extends his hands expressing incomprehension.

  “He wasn’t working for you?”

  “No Mrs Tennant, Joseph was no longer working for us. I really am not in any position to tell you anything about Joseph being in France. I can’t really advise who you should talk to other than his wife. Do you get on, you and your daughter-in-law, I mean, if you don’t find the question impertinent?”

  “As daughter-in-law and mother tend to do.”

  “Mine get on very well. I’m lucky I guess.”

  “You are married then?”

  “Yes Mrs Tennant, I am married.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I’ve been married for twelve years, Mrs Tennant, and have two young children.”

  “Thank you. I feel I know you very well now. Dr Gate says Joseph wasn’t happy when you withdrew some research he was working on.”

  “Did he?”

  “Have I got Gareth into trouble, breaking company protocol and policy?”

  “Of course not, Mrs Tennant. As with any organization, funding is tight, and some projects prosper and others have to be sidelined. That’s the way in this business. It’s unfortunate sometimes, but we can’t put resources into everything we would like to. I didn’t know that Joseph had concerns. He certainly didn’t talk to me about them.”

  “Would he have spoken to Amy?”

  “Dr Tomlin. No, I don’t suppose so.”

  “You seem sure.”

  “I know the people I work with, Mrs Tennant. We work closely.”

  “Am I able to speak to Amy?”

  “Of course you could, but unfortunately she is in Mad
rid at present.”

  “Holiday?”

  He smiles, indulging me again. It is evidently an absurd suggestion. “She’s speaking at a conference. She is quite an asset, a rising star. But you didn’t come here to listen to me praise one of our employees.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  He smiles again and takes a quick look at his watch. “I would like to be able to say something you’d want to hear Mrs Tennant, but I don’t know anything about Joseph’s life after he left us.”

  “Is that why he resigned, because his research wasn’t funded? He always was a bit, well, stubborn, bloody-minded at times. I know that.”

  “Look Mrs Tennant, this is delicate.”

  “Protocol and policy.”

  “No, just difficult,” he says rather sharply, his expression contracting with a moment of temper. “I don’t find this easy.”

  “I’m sorry for that, but I don’t find it easy either.”

  “I appreciate that Mrs Tennant. I think we should just leave things as they are.”

  I seize on that. It suggests an understanding from which I am being excluded, but can’t comprehend why. My son obviously battled here and I want to know about it. “No, Mr Davidson, I don’t want to leave things as they are. I’d like to know why my son left this company and I think I have a right to know.”

  “He was sacked.”

  “Sorry?” I utter, feeling as if I have been struck. I simply gaze ahead, avoiding Mr Davidson’s eyes, despising the control he has, his knowledge.

  “His contract was terminated.”

  “Can I know why?”

  “Of course, though I’d rather not tell you.”

  “I need to know everything Mr Davidson. I can’t carry on with mystery.”

  “I’m afraid that Joseph’s own personal drug use was getting out of hand.”

  “My son never touched drugs. I am afraid of drugs Mr Davidson, really rather in dread of them, and that is how I taught him.”

  Mr Davidson shrugs, his expression quizzing yet compassionate. “I’ve seen it before Mrs Tennant. People in this business think they can manage it. I’ve seen bright, serious young men who think their knowledge makes them immune, not just young men either. We have to stay on the right side of the fence. The whisper in this business is self-medicating, as if calling it that makes it all right and safe. But it isn’t. And I am afraid it isn’t tolerated. I’m sorry Mrs Tennant.”