by Dan Proops
‘He’s given her back to you, hasn’t He?’
‘Cassandra, all I have is her letters and my weirdo American family who say they’ve seen her. Fuck your stupid God. He’s taken everything I have.’
Cassandra pushed herself back in her chair and turned away from him. She was unable to help, and was compounding his anger towards the one thing that was helping her: her faith.
Thirty - Seven
The next morning Adam was in a studio he hadn’t seen in two months. He lifted a hunk of wood onto a plinth and, chisel in hand, attacked it with venom, the tool clipping the edges of the wood as it splintered. He hit the chisel with a large wooden hammer and every blow was born of rage. He was imbued with a cathartic amusement in brutalising the block of wood, and after a while, through tiredness and the desperation to express himself, the wood was treated with more care, the blows judged with precision. After four hours, Adam had created a cross, perfectly crafted, the edges sanded and smooth; he blew the sawdust, then held it in open palms.
‘Will you take her from me, like you took the others? You weren’t happy taking my mother; no, you had to take my sister, and now the woman I love. I hope you’re fucking satisfied.’
Adam sat in a heap in an old armchair and picked up a newspaper, the cross resting in his lap. The front cover had a photograph of people sunbathing on a European beach, some running, some screaming, blood flowing from wounds on their limbs: faces bloodied, fear in their eyes, a blurred photo of a man with a Kalashnikov and corpses in white sheets. He read about the shock of the nation and the condolences from the prime minister: ‘Our hearts are with the families who face terrible losses today. This is an appalling terrorist atrocity.’ Adam saw a mother holding the limp body of her six-year-old son.
He returned home and Nigel was in his paisley dressing gown eating marmalade on toast. Over the previous few weeks he’d gone through a remarkable metamorphosis: Nigel’s venomous tongue, put-downs and quips had been transformed to kind words, compliments and remorse; he’d become a self-deprecating man who’d been living under the shadow of suspicion, and had to endure the misery of court appearances where he was cross-examined by aggressive barristers. The pressure of a jury finding him guilty and the threat of prison had taken its toll on Nigel, both mentally and physically. A work colleague had been found guilty of fraud and Nigel had been exonerated of any crimes.
The cold war had thawed.
Nigel smiled warmly as Adam brought his coffee to the table, soft morning sunshine drifted in through the net curtains, and the front room was bathed in a warm glow. As various pieces were moved across the board, they commented on each other’s strategies, and the games were always close as Nigel had caught up to Adam’s level; they’d discuss the moves in detail, their implications, possibilities and faults. The morning passed peacefully, with breaks for coffee.
Adam talked with Nigel after their games and asked if he was still looking for a job, and he said he was. He’d lined up a few interviews at several banks, and he offered to pay Adam some rent when he found work. The offer was declined.
‘I bought you some marmalade and toothpaste. I hope you had a nice time in New York.’
‘Yes, I did. Thanks for the toothpaste.’
‘I’m sorry you heard about me and Cassandra. I didn’t think you’d find out. I know it’s a late apology, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I couldn’t believe she told you about it. I’m not a cruel man, Adam.’
‘S’all right Nigel. I don’t think you meant to hurt me.’
‘No, I didn’t. I’m weak. I’m a loser—got nothing. And I’ve given nothing to life; I take as much as I can from it. You’re different to me. You’re a strong person. I’ve got nothing to offer, and never will.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. We all do things on the spur of the moment.’
‘I don’t know why I do certain things. It’s like I lose perspective.’
‘Nigel, we all make mistakes. It’s part of life.’
It was the second time in a day Adam had been referred to as strong, and he felt anything but. As he went to his room, his body was as fatigued as his mind. He slept for fourteen hours, then slumbered until early evening. He was to meet Eva later that night.
She was in a white dress and wore silver teardrop earrings. They were in a café in Soho. It was intimate, with low lighting and candles aflame on wooden tables set close together.
There was a lot of talk about Brooklyn and how much Eva liked it. Adam saw her playing with the stem of an empty wine glass and noticed her elegant fingers as she turned it in her hand. In a mirror, she adjusted her raven hair. Her lashes, heavily mascaraed, framed her blue eyes. The candlelight danced in them. She drew a finger across her mouth and ran her hand through her hair; there was a coquettish look to her as she talked.
‘I have a nice bed at home,’ she said. ‘I love it. It has white cotton sheets.’
‘Mine’s pretty average—good mattress though.’
‘I like slipping into mine naked, and I love the sensation of the cool sheets on my body.’
‘Bet you look good getting into bed.’
‘I look glorious. Got skin as soft as velvet. Touch my arm.’
Her eyes were dancing again, with wavering candlelight reflections shining in them. Adam reached across the table and the heat from the candle warmed his hand as he passed it; he ran a forefinger along her forearm. She closed her eyes and sighed, and then her silver eyelids opened slowly.
‘See, I’ve got smooth skin, haven’t I? Nice to touch it?’
‘Yes it was. Very nice.’
‘You wanna feel more of it?’
Adam wasn’t surprised by her directness. She’d betrayed a confident air when he’d met her in Brooklyn. And, like a skilled puppeteer, she was controlling her marionette with mastery.
They spoke about hotels and she asked if there were any Adam liked: the Savoy, the Ritz, the Carlton, then a local one, a chain. Eva said she liked the sound of a cheap but comfortable hotel and asked if there was one Adam liked. He asked if it mattered and she said it didn’t. They ate at leisure, savouring the night ahead as much as the food.
They made their way to the room. Adam sat in a corner of the suite. A television was on one wall and some photos of flowers hung on the others. Eva stood in front of Adam, her red mouth curved into a smile. She unclipped her dress, removed her underwear, and stood naked in front of him with confidence, displaying her sexuality with no anxiety or restriction. She ran a hand down her body, her finger traversing the contours; she licked a forefinger and drew it across her breast. Eva stood for a few moments gazing into Adam’s eyes, and then she lay on the bed and with a forefinger raised, called for him to join her, and he did.
Eva pushed him to the pillow, commanding and dominant. There was a hint of lipstick on her teeth. He succumbed to her passion. Their lovemaking was chaotic and desperate. She withdrew from him and lay next to him, and then she kissed the side of his face. It was the first real pleasure he’d had in months, and the ghouls, phantoms and apparitions were laid to rest. Eva was smoking a cigarette. She pulled the bedding away from her and walked naked to the window.
‘Want a smoke, Loverboy?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Adam pulled on a white bath robe, stood behind her and ran a finger down the back of her neck. She offered him the packet and he took a cigarette. They smoked together in silence and there was the scent of the evening and the scent of her perfume. Adam gazed with soft eyes to the light on the windows of the office block opposite; the sunshine had painted them with liquid bronze.
As wreaths of smoke twirled blue and grey, he needed nothing, no compassion or kind words or confirmation or encouragement. His life of searching and relentless craving had been diluted to distant voices, barely audible. A mind that had been savaged by relentless pursuit was at peace: at peace with the sun on her shoulder, the curve of her back and the memory of their union.
Shifting orange light w
as cast on the wall behind her. She leant over and took his hand, and he enjoyed the warmth of her touch. Now there was nothing to look for, or to mourn; no ambition, loss or grief, as everything was found by beholding her beauty. He drew back her fringe and kissed her cheek, and she laughed and pulled away, and then said she was getting cold. He closed the window, they fell back into the bed and their flesh was one as they pushed their love into the night. There were kisses and gentle caresses; and he pulled her closer, and her flesh was warm and wet against his. She gripped his arms and her head twisted and turned. Her hair fell in front of her forehead, and with a quick motion she pulled it away, and the fire of passion was furious in her eyes as she pushed him back onto the bed, as she was above him, forcing him onwards, until exhaustion set in, until he was spent. She lay next to him, breathing heavily. He heard the click of her lighter as she lit another cigarette.
‘You’re beautiful, Loverboy. You’re gonna exhaust me.’
‘You’re beautiful too, Eva.’
‘Good at it, aren’t I? Made you feel good, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you did. You took the pain away.’
‘Good. I’m looking forward to more, and I’m gonna have as much as I want. Greedy girl, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, and I’m glad you are.’
He saw moonlight across the ceiling and the breeze from the window cooled him. She kissed his forehead and said she was tired. He lay back, his arms crossed behind his head, looking at the moonlight shadows shifting slowly. He heard her breath soften, allowed his eyes to close, and was drawn into sleep.
It was morning. She was lying next to him resting her head on an open palm, a cigarette smouldering between her painted fingers. She nudged him.
‘Wake up, Sleepyhead.’
‘Smoking already?’
‘Yeah, want one?’
‘Nope, need some coffee first.’
Adam went to a chrome kettle, filled it, waited for it to boil, then made coffee for them. They smoked and drank coffee to the sound of birdsong. A light breeze blew into a white net curtain that billowed in front of the window. He touched the curve of her breast, she laughed and said it tickled, and then she went to the window, closed it and began dressing. She said she was late for an appointment with her maestro, but said she’d had a lovely night. She blew him a kiss and he heard her close the door.
Thirty - Eight
Over the next few weeks, Adam saw Eva a few times in the same hotel suite. And he took Darius for his walks. He played chess with Nigel most days, and Adam played without malice: he’d forgiven him, and their games were friendly, relaxed and enjoyable, with comments on various moves as their friendship was reunited. They spoke of their days at university, and various people they knew. One Saturday, a letter from Sarah arrived.
Dearest Adam,
I hear you’ve been to Brooklyn. I’m sorry I missed you, but I was in bed most days, and couldn’t really go out. Heard you met that weirdo Sam. I can’t believe Harold hangs out with him; they’ve been friends for years. I think Harold’s pretty weird too. Did he tell you about his obsession with pizza! I’ve never met a guy who likes pizza so much. But he’s kinda fun, and I go round there every now and again: I just make sure I’m in the mood for an American Hot!
I’ve been feeling a lot better over the last week or two, still go to the pagodas in Prospect Park but haven’t seen Travis in ages, thank God. I bumped into weirdo Sam a few weeks ago. Luckily our conversation was short as Oliver was in one of his moods that day. But things are improving with him, like I said in my last letter. He’s behaving in school and is being good to Maddie. I think it’s been very difficult for her, dealing with Oliver’s outbursts. I need to find a job Adam, as money’s running short since Alec left.
I’m thinking of going back to teaching, which I loved. And now Oliver’s getting on better at school there’s a chance I’ll be able to work again. It’s such a pity we didn’t meet up in New York, but knowing you were here makes me feel good, that we were near each other for a while. If I want to feel your presence I look at my bracelet and think of you. The motif, Sarah And Adam Forever: It’s beautiful.
You’re in my heart and thoughts, darling Adam.
Sarah
Adam folded the letter, placed it in the photo album and slipped it alongside the other letters, now a sizeable collection. But hearing about her life was like reading a book, her thoughts, actions and experiences reported to him. She’d become adept at avoiding him, being unwell when he visited Brooklyn. It was all too convenient and contrived. He felt like Tantalus, with cool water rising to his waist, and as the thirst grew he’d reach for the water; and it would recede.
The bizarre night with Harold and Ida’s mistakes regarding Sarah haunted him, because he needed proof now. He didn’t care how many family members had seen her: he needed to see her corporeal being, to touch her hand or arm or shoulder. The obsession about her was now reignited, and was draining him with every line of her letters, and the sightings by his oddball family in Brooklyn. He had no idea how to respond to her letter, as anger was festering, verging on rage towards her for keeping herself from him, for making him beg like a starving dog, for making him want to see her so much.
There was hatred toward her absence, towards shadows, hints and insinuations. She was an illusion created by herself, a master conjuror, appearing in his life like a character in a work of fiction. And he was fed up with fucking fiction and the stories she sent, and reports from the mouths of relatives. He was tired of the hunt, of the covert nature of it all, tired of seeing the mirage and racing to it only to find sand falling through his fingers, then the mirage again, and the hope in his heart as he raced to her, and again he’d be disappointed, for the mirage had no sweeping palms, or glistening water, or wild fruit: just a white desert stretching ahead of him.
He decided not to write back, the reason being, he didn’t know what to say. He had no words for her. He needed a whisky, and set off for the pub.
Adam was in the Soldier’s Arms and he’d tried to avoid Mr and Mrs Smith, but they’d bustled over and asked a litany of trivial questions about the cost of his electric bill, his water bill, and whether he thought they were paying too much for their services. Adam answered as best he could but said his father looked after the accounts and the administration. Mrs Smith looked impressed by this, as if Adam had found the key to world peace. She said:
‘You’re very lucky to have a father that sorts out that stuff.’
‘Guess I am.’
‘Look, I brought you this. I’m unsure if it’ll go with the other one.’
Mrs Smith had found another plastic eye for the sheep and wanted Adam to tell her if it worked well with the other one or not.
‘I’ll try it out. I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ said Adam, with a pang of guilt, as he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sheep and wondered if he’d lost it. Mrs Smith had been kind to give him a fluffy sheep, even if it only had one eye, and Adam made a mental note to find it. He thanked her for the present, and she was beaming, then nudged her husband who’d been against the sheep from the outset; he’d said Adam didn’t need a little fluffy sheep. Mrs Smith took great pride in being right.
Adam finished his whisky and made his way to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. He waited in a brightly lit room and watched a silent television. An hour passed as he watched the silent presenters show a young couple round a two-bedroom house; they looked thrilled to be there, and as they hugged the presenter, Adam’s name was called. He adjusted one of the white flowers in the bouquet he’d brought. He was shown into the room where Cassandra lay, tubing in her nose, her face the colour of parchment, sleeping, her mouth slightly open. The memory of seeing his mother in hospital fled through him as he sat next to Cassandra. A nurse came in and said he could wake her. Adam reached out a hand and touched her shoulder, and she turned to him.
‘Adam, you brought flowers!’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘T
hey’re lovely.’
‘When you getting out of here?’
‘A week, something like that. They’re really nice, the people here.’
‘Good. This is hard for me, Cassandra.’
‘I know, which is why I’m so grateful you came. I may look a bit weird, but they’re very pleased with me. The cancer has been obliterated by the chemo; it’s on the retreat, at least for the moment.’
‘But it’ll come back?’
‘Yes Adam, it will. But in a week we can meet at our restaurant by the river. I love it there.’
‘So do I, Cassandra. Will you call me when you’re out? I need to go now, and I’ve only been here two minutes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘One minute would be enough. You shouldn’t come if this is hard for you. Can’t wait to see you for lunch.’
‘Yes, Cassandra, I’m looking forward to it.’
Adam kissed her forehead, and ignored the nurse who said goodbye as he tore down white corridors into metal lifts and out onto the street; he curled his hands into tight fists and the insides of his palms were sore when his nails cut into the flesh. The Fulham Road was crowded and he accidentally bashed the shoulder of a woman and she almost fell, but there were no apologies for the sanguine woman of health. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and vitriol breathed from every pore. His pace slowed as he looked at the people laugh, talk, push strollers and walk arm-in-arm. He wished pestilence and plagues to all of them; he’d bring suffering to the door of every living thing. The tears released some of the pain.
In his studio, Adam lifted a heavy block onto the plinth and almost dropped it as he shifted it into place. He carved the face of Satan, with demon-like horns, a smile and wide, staring eyes. He worked slowly, with every strike of the chisel directed with instinct and talent. He watched as the face came to life, as the detailing round the eyes found form, as did the delicate hollows in the corners of the smile. He worked for nine hours, until his arms ached from the weight of the hammer and chisel, until he couldn’t raise his hands. The sweat stung his eyes.