A Thousand Paper Birds

by Tor Udall

  By three in the morning, Jonah is still sitting at the piano. He is peering at the patterns in the night, the soft fuzz of dots that swarm in the air; he first noticed them as a child. He squints closer, trying to manipulate the coloured flecks, then wonders if everyone sees this, or only those who have been awake for twenty-two hours. His legs involuntarily twitch, occasionally kicking the piano.

  By four, he is watching porn. From the sanctity of her photo, Audrey witnesses her husband tugging and jerking his way to a blistered sleep. When he finally naps, his pants by his ankles, he looks like a Greek god that has been given salvation.

  Masturbation becomes his way to relieve the monotony of solitude; but it only buys him short spells of sleep. The accumulation of five months of insomnia make the pavements topple as he walks down the street. The sky lists, buildings leer in puddles, and Jonah jumps as rubbish is tipped into a lorry: the clang of a metal bin. He struggles to complete lesson plans, his department so low on resources that he emails friends to see if they have an old instrument in the attic – an unplayed guitar, or violin.

  Occasionally he is invited to dinner parties, where he becomes acutely aware of the uneven number of table settings. As he takes in the noisy camaraderie, it feels like he’s looking down a wind tunnel. Friends, picking bones from their sea bass, ask how he is. After listening to his stilted reply, they agree that life can never be the same.

  ‘But as time passes, it can still be good.’

  ‘Do you think, Kate?’

  He stares at Audrey’s friend. Pregnant for the third time, she looks exhausted. Repeatedly she has explained that she’s not drinking. Each time she pours another glass for her companions, she is the epitome of passive aggressive.

  ‘I was thinking about my colleague, Nicky,’ she says. ‘Just become single. I know you’re not ready yet. But—’

  ‘You’re right, Kate. It’s too early.’

  In November, the islands on the lake are vibrant with tupelo trees, a tapestry of reds and russets. As Jonah sits on the bench, his eyes flutter between sleeping and waking. He catches images of falling leaves, Audrey’s hair brushing against his face – but she is always ephemeral, slipping between his fingers, impossible to touch.

  A week before Christmas, Jonah douses his grief with whisky in a local pub. A third drink, a fourth drink later, the words on the coasters are blurring and a woman asks for a light. Audrey? His gaze focuses on a blonde with fuchsia lipstick. An hour later, he confesses he’s widowed and she looks at him in a way he vaguely remembers. She is perusing him as if he is someone whose hair should be ruffled, a man who could suggest going home with just his eyes. Perhaps he really did seduce the crowd at The Borderline with only a love song, and now this woman is putting her hand on his shoulder and asking if he lives nearby.

  Once they are in his flat, Jonah cannot comprehend the position she prefers, her excessively sweet perfume, but the trophy is this: afterwards he sleeps for a few hours, soothed by her arms and her wine-tainted breath.

  He wakes to find a stranger in his bed. He moves to the wicker chair by the window then cumbersomely folds his knees to his chest.

  ‘Good morning.’ The woman wraps Audrey’s green-swirled duvet around her unfamiliar breasts. ‘Jim? Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not . . . I . . .’

  She gets out of bed. He blinks at the soft patch of hair between her legs.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I guess I should be going. Perhaps I’ll leave my number? If there’s anything you need, or if you want some company . . .’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The woman gets dressed. She pauses by the door. ‘Call me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  After suffering his first Christmas alone, Jonah agrees to go on a date. Who knew a noodle bar in Richmond would feel such a hostile place? He doesn’t know the rules, the etiquette.

  ‘Each week, Mam calls me,’ says Nicky, her chopsticks snapping the air. ‘She tells me about her friends’ grandkids, then says, when are you going to get a boyfriend, Nic?’

  Come on, Jonah, pretend everything is OK – but he is remembering the winter when he and Audrey toured London pubs searching for the perfect banoffee pie. She had charmed a headwaiter called Pierre, and although Jonah had no idea what they were saying, he loved their mock-flirtation, the luxury of watching his wife from a distance. Jonah remembers the day they first met, the book she was reading.

  ‘Aimez-vous Brahms?’

  Nicky sucks in a noodle. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I was saying Brahms, do you like him?’

  ‘What books has he written?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. What would you like for pudding?’

  In early February, a drummer takes Jonah to a pub along the Thames. He has decided that Jonah doesn’t need a relationship; he simply needs to get laid. They walk along the dark cobbles then enter the warmth, shaking off the rain. As they go up to the bar, there are other people looking for a canopy of skin to sleep under. A refuge is not only made of bricks and mortar. His mate points out a glorious yacht of a woman, then a pretty, ramshackle girl, but Jonah shakes his head and suggests playing snooker.

  While he digs around for his wallet, his mate offers three girls a round.

  ‘This is Jonah,’ he introduces. ‘He’s a singer.’

  ‘Yeah, right, pull the other one.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What kind of stuff do you sing?’

  Three pints later, the girl with the kindest eyes notices his wedding ring. The conversation blurs.

  ‘I hope I’m not boring you.’

  ‘No.’ She touches his arm.

  ‘The thing is, my wife . . . she passed away.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘That reminds me—’

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  Jonah swigs his beer; she reaches for a cigarette.

  ‘Well . . . freezing weather.’

  ‘Whether what?’

  ‘Whether I could come back?’

  ‘Can I have—?’

  ‘Just a little piece of you?’ She twirls her hair around one varnished nail. ‘Tell me something fascinating.’

  ‘She broke her neck.’

  ‘Do you believe in—?’

  ‘Never.’ A cough. ‘Sorry, after you.’

  ‘You must be lonely.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Under the watchful eye of his wife’s photos, he takes the woman back to his flat. Everyone needs company, some kind of consolation. This is the rough comfort of strangers, the sympathy of touch.

  ‘All neurotic behaviour is a substitute for grief.’

  Jonah laughs with a grunt, as if he’s been punched in the stomach.

  Paul Ridley rubs his deep-socketed eyes. ‘You’ve had sex with four or five women – but you refuse to see any of them twice?’

  ‘They help me sleep. But then I hit some part of my brain pattern where I realise it’s not Audrey’s arms and—’

  ‘You wake up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Both men cross their legs, inadvertently mirroring the other.

  ‘What else do you get from these encounters?’

  Pity and passion. Relief. Jonah tries to think about the different women, but all he sees is the view from Audrey’s bench: peacocks, swans, geese.

  ‘I just want to get some sleep. It’s only for three hours, but that’s a bloody gift. It may seem callous, but . . .’

  He breaks the reflection. He’s been seeing this therapist for nine months, this balding man, who has no idea what it’s like to lose a wife, or endure three miscarriages. But there’s some comfort in their continued acquaintance, some sanctuary in this tiny, neutral room, beautified with paintings of landscapes and pastel cushions. It is the one place he can slosh around in his ugliness; revel, even.

  ‘After nine years of monogamy I might as well enjoy my freedom. Each woman is different . . .’ He rolls his shoulders, tries to be ma
nly. ‘I’m having fun.’

  ‘Fun? That must be it.’

  A stalemate. The two men wait for the other to give in. Both blink.

  The branches remain barren. In late February, Jonah is tempted to use sex to punctuate the dark hours, but he can no longer bear his whoring. He feels too guilty about not calling, the empty flattery, the waste of a woman’s kisses. But alone, he faces the consequences. At three in the morning he paces the flat, berserk with exhaustion. His legs spasm and he falls, kicking the door of the bathroom. He beats on the door with his bare feet until he breaks the wood – then he spends the rest of the night on the floor, picking out the splinters.

  When he finally gets up, he washes his sunken features, then stares at the bathroom mirror. Gone is the idealistic musician who proposed to Audrey. Instead, there is a hard-faced thirty-eight-year-old, behaving like a teenager. Not even forty and a widower, he thinks; almost forty and nothing to show for it. Womanising is his only way to sleep; the alternative is to down a bottle of pills and never wake. Opening the cabinet, he stares at the ominous jars on the shelf and considers the gap between thinking it and doing it. What would make someone take that leap?

  A Guitar Riff

  The air is tinged with spring. At closing time, people return to Victoria Gate, meandering from different directions. Many walk slowly, begrudgingly, not yet ready to leave this blossomed world; but the constable stands at the gates, ushering them out on to Kew Road. The street is jammed with cars trying to squeeze through the bottleneck of the bridge to the M4. The visitors, dazed by pollution, reluctantly disperse.

  As dusk falls, the quiet settles in the Gardens like dew. Windows are ajar at Temperate House. Inside there is a silent city, the plants assimilating the day’s sunshine. Breathing. Parakeets gather in the treetops as Harry takes an evening stroll towards the Princess of Wales Conservatory. Inside this glasshouse, cacti are blooming, and flowers are perfuming the twilight with scents more exotic than any woman.

  A cockroach crunches under his foot and Harry curses. Pests are a constant bugbear: a plague of thrips, an infestation of whiteflies. He walks past the baobab trees, checks on the carnivorous plants – sundews, Venus flytraps – then he enters another zone and opens a glass cabinet.

  Inside is a deep-throated comet orchid. Harry wipes his clammy hands against his trousers then stretches out his fingers. It looks as if he’s preparing to conduct a choir; instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a toothpick. Gently, he prods the male sex organs of the orchid, dislodging the pollinia from under the flap of the anther. His toothpick carries this treasure to the stigma of a second plant, where he splits the tiny white cap of his load, exposing two balls of pollen. He carefully pokes the toothpick into the stigma’s delicate opening. If accepted, the stem will become turgid.

  As Harry checks whether he has caused any damage, he wonders how many times he has waited for the stink that announces a particular flower is ready. Here, men do the work usually performed by hummingbirds, moths and night-flying beetles. Once these seeds mature, he will sow them, then present Milly with her very own baby orchid. It might not be as playful as a kitten but it will give her something to care for, to nourish.

  What was that? Something moves outside the darkened window. A smudge of white, Audrey’s face – Harry rushes towards her. But there’s no one there. Perhaps a gull flew by, or it was falling blossom. Harry knows all about the art of patience. With the flowerpot still in his hands, he repeatedly knocks his forehead against the glass, a bruise slowly forming.

  Over by the lake, Jonah slides out from his hiding place behind the tangled branches of a red osier dogwood. He sits on Audrey’s bench, his chin buried deep in his collar.

  The night brings the breeze and the whispered language of secrets. Jonah beats his arms for warmth, listening to the creak of the trees, the snuffling of an unknown creature. As the moon rises, he jumps at rustling leaves, then tells himself it is nothing supernatural. It’s just other people doing things they shouldn’t: couples screwing, a few kids on a dare. At closing time it’s easy to hide in these three hundred acres, in one of the follies or dells. But once the darkness falls, there are no streetlamps to guide, just the scurrying of rabbits and a man’s wishful thoughts.

  He tries to ignore the cold by remembering yesterday’s session with Paul Ridley. For the umpteenth time they’d discussed Audrey’s death.

  ‘She loved me. You don’t kill yourself if . . .’

  There had been no reason for Audrey to crash their Ford Ka. The police had checked her phone to see if someone had distracted her from the wheel, but there was no record of a call. Two witnesses saw her coming out of High Park Road and indicating right on to the A205. One was a mother in a Nissan Micra who’d been driving towards Kew Bridge. She reported that Audrey didn’t stop for the Give Way sign, that she’d accelerated rather than braked. The other was a child on a skateboard. He had seen her right indicator blink, but Audrey had driven straight into the T-junction: a white wall. Her head must have been turned to the left, the coroner said, for her to break her neck the way she did. Jonah remembers identifying the body, her lacerated face. He thinks of the car hitting the bricks, the white dust, the moment of impact.

  ‘Shit!’

  The planks of the bench suddenly dip under another’s weight. The crash of two bodies, the warmth of a stranger’s thigh against his. Then the shocking heat disappears.

  ‘What the hell?’ The woman’s feet resound against concrete. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ She has dropped a bag, the rustling of plastic.

  ‘Nothing,’ he stutters.

  She sounds young, in need of reassurance. He tries to calm them both. He stretches out his legs, easing out the stress they endured mere seconds ago.

  ‘I’m Jonah.’

  She makes to go.

  ‘I was just sitting here,’ he adds, ‘minding my own business, then . . .’

  ‘You freaked the hell out of me! I didn’t see you.’

  The rising moon must have navigated her way to the lake, his silhouette hidden by the dogwood.

  He tries to imagine what she looks like from her voice, which is pitched high, ready to fight. But she isn’t fighting, she’s fleeing. He can only just make her out, leaving the decking, her feet unsettling the gravel, and all of a sudden he doesn’t want to be alone.

  ‘There’s always a few people skulking around,’ he calls out. ‘They’re bound to bump into each other.’

  Why can’t he think of a joke? Something funny and friendly – with a punchline that convinces her he’s not Jack the Ripper. Her footsteps stop. As he senses her turn, there’s something thrilling about not being able to see each other, the air charged with fantasy, imagination. The adrenalin contorts. He can still feel his heart beating; he can almost feel hers.

  ‘Actually, I work here.’ He can hear her moving towards him, rummaging in her bag. ‘I should report you.’

  Shit. His mind races about possible fines, or worse.

  ‘Wow!’ He never uses that word. But he’s all innocence, as if they’ve just been introduced. Perhaps she’ll forget that they’re not in a sunny, public place, that he’s not supposed to be here at all. ‘What kind of work do you do?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Suddenly he is blinded. Her torchlight scalds him. The tyranny of a tiny, electric bulb.

  She seems to be relishing the advantage. The light moves around his body, measuring him up, as if she is the one holding the man’s gaze and he the object. He blinks, trying to seek out the shape behind her weapon: a knee-length skirt, the silhouette of an androgynous, angular figure.

  ‘You don’t look like a gardener,’ he mutters.

  She strengthens her grip on the torch, her stance feline, aggressive. Instinctively he raises his hands, as if she’s holding a pistol; then he splutters with laughter.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she says flatly.

  ‘No.’

  The darkness prickles.
/>   ‘I’m researching stuff.’

  ‘Stuff? I’m not sure you work here at all . . .’

  A tiny battle of a pause.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘admit it. If this is where you want to be, I can go.’

  ‘I’m not lying. I’m researching trees . . . shadows in the moonlight.’ She rams her hand into one of her shopping bags and pulls out a crumpled ball. As she shines the torch on it, she reveals a tiny paper bird.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘Origami. What’s your excuse?’

  Jonah laughs incredulously. ‘You’re as mad as the moon.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘what about you?’

  The light is on him again. He can imagine what she sees: his unkempt beard, his sallow, hope-drained face. He looks more like a tramp than a teacher.

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘You know a way out?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stands up, then looks her over. ‘You’re hardly dressed for the occasion.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it would get so cold.’

  He begins to stroll away. ‘Are you coming?’

  She hesitates before following. He plans to avoid the paths, Victoria Gate, and asks her to switch off her torch. He wonders what kind of girl would trust a stranger, but she seems to be enjoying her recklessness, as if this is a story to revel in later. Or perhaps she’ll tell her friends the truth: There was a sad guy on a bench. There was no way he’d hurt me. He was as weak as a punctured balloon.

  As they make their way through the Berberis Dell, he begins to enjoy their shared crime, his accomplice’s stealth. They can’t see their next steps, but she continues walking, as if trusting the land beneath her. He can feel her listening to it too – the sap moving in the trees, the stilling of wings in the branches. There’s a spaciousness to the wide sky, the way they are working together. Each is sensing where the other is, where they might need to duck, or negotiate some nettles – then they halt as a large bird takes to the air, perhaps a spooked owl. He smiles at her, perhaps she smiles back – neither of them can tell.

  They reach the path running parallel to the main road. Jonah asks for some light as he ventures beyond it, into the undergrowth. The girl shines her torch against the brick wall, the beam catching a disused door. It has a statue of a unicorn above it. Jonah leads her further into the shrubs where the ground slopes upwards. He invites her to put her foot in his hand. As she hauls her weight up, he supports the back of her woollen knees, her bony ankles. Once she has thrown her leg over the wall, he follows her, until they are both standing on Kew Road.