The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

  ‘Right. Actually, you don’t seem quite yourself, Mr. Grindel.’

  There was a meaningful, pregnant silence, broken at last by puppy-like gurglings; then his voice assumed an idiotically infantile pitch: ‘I must confess – there is – this thing has happened...with a cleaning lady. She is...she reminds me so much of my armchair. The other day she trimmed my toenails for me. I felt like I was in heaven. Deep down, don’t we all just want to be loved?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we do...I do...,’ Oscar said, his voice trailing off.

  His landlord allotted himself a moment in which to look triumphant. Then, without another word, he walked out and shut the door with greatly exaggerated consideration.

  Obviously, Oscar thought, Grindel’s metamorphosis had taken place independently of Bloch’s story; the transformation of his landlord couldn’t have had anything to do with Bloch’s imagination. Apparently Grindel was in love. And yet – Oscar couldn’t help asking – would Grindel have changed if the story hadn’t been written?

  He closed his eyes, deeply bewildered, and the cat, deeply traumatized, slowly clambered into his lap. After some time it managed a muted purr.

  *

  Lunch with Barny Crane, his agent, had lasted for six-and-a-half hours so that it was evening by the time Bloch got back, fairly drunk. Between them they had demolished five bottles of Merlot. Barny was a short, corpulent man, a formidable connoisseur of wine, who had a habit in conversation of blowing his cheeks out after making a significant observation, in the manner of a visual exclamation mark.

  Bloch struggled with the keys for a moment and then the front door yawned open. In the living room sheets of paper and postcards were swirling everywhere, spinning in a dance of fractured form. He had left the windows open and a strong wind was blowing, tearing sheets from tables, sending them shivering into space where momentarily they were held aloft in a vortex of motion. He shut the windows in a hurry and at once everything fell to the floor, thus revealing the extent of the room’s disorder.

  Opened bottles of wine were waiting to be consumed but they were destined for neglect. Piles of books sat in armchairs. Coffee cups nurtured liquids that were on the point of becoming solids.

  Bloch made a basic attempt to order the chaos, picking up the sheets and cards, adjusting a bundle of papers here, wiping a surface there. But these half-hearted maneuvers only brought home how mammoth an undertaking it would be to really tidy the room. He went to the kitchen, drained three glasses of water in quick succession and made a pot of coffee to sober up with. He took a cup into the living room and slumped into one of the armchairs.

  The shrill sound of his phone startled him. He staggered over to it, rehearsing speech with a few random words. He didn’t sound too bad: he would be quite coherent.

  ‘Yes, hello.’

  ‘Hello, Daniel, it’s Samuel.’

  The voice was oddly familiar, yet Bloch wouldn’t allow himself to realize who it was on the other end of the line.

  ‘Samuel who?’

  ‘Samuel. Your father.’

  There was a pause. It was true then – joyous contractions scurried along the cranium of consciousness, but before he had a chance to savor them Bloch forced himself to quash his excitement as he remembered what his father had done to him.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Bloch.

  ‘What does it matter where I am? How are things?’

  ‘Things? I don’t know...what...how do I answer a question like that...where do I start? Whose things?’

  ‘Daniel, don’t complicate everything. This is hard enough...for both of us.’

  ‘That’s true. It’s excruciating.’

  The cigar-seasoned voice at the other end now started holding forth heartily, but there was a certain aftertaste of uncertainty in the voice, a hesitance which qualified his zeal.

  ‘I have to tell you about this recurring dream. I’m asleep. A sound wakes me up. I get up and I hear it again. It’s coming from the kitchen. Anyway, I go inside and instead of finding the uninvited guest, a burglar, I see two birds who’ve decided to pop in – a blackbird and a robin. One of them starts flapping about like a lunatic and makes his getaway, but the other takes it into its head to waddle into the bedroom...’

  ‘Dad, where’s this leading?’

  ‘Just be patient, you’ll see. So this robin wanders in and sits there, won’t move. I try everything to shift it, but it won’t budge. Then it starts to shit everywhere: on my floor, the bed, my jackets and ties. Pretty soon the whole room is covered in this bird’s shit. The shit just seems to keep piling up. I have to leave the house and get some air. The next thing I know I’m dancing with this gorgeous belly dancer, having a great time. But then this bird shows up, and starts shitting everywhere again. Now, you tell me, what the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Dad, why did you ring me?’

  ‘I rang you...I rang you...because I want you to forgive me.’

  There was silence, the vacuum of an unoccupied telephone line. Bloch tried his best to digest these details, to imprint the nature of the dream, as it had been told in all its oddity, on his mind, but everything was taking flight. His memory couldn’t gain a foothold; unnamable vultures pecked at his awareness, made facts fade, made the essence of what had passed between them vague. He had been so unprepared, so unsuspecting of his caller’s identity.

  ‘Forgive you? You...pop up after all this time. Let’s talk about you. Are you well? Are you married? Have you found any more wives to seduce?’

  ‘Listen, Danny. Natalie seduced me. I’m more sorry about that than you’ll ever know, but it happened. I’m asking for forgiveness, humbly, as a man...’

  ‘Are you a man or a rat?’

  Even in the middle of Bloch’s effort to pull out melodramatic cards he realized some mechanism of defense had shut down, a pattern of resistance had resolved into one of acquiescence.

  ‘Daniel. I’m a man – just about – not a rodent, but I’m scared I won’t be around much longer. From where I crawl the sunset takes on worrying implications. As for Natalie, she’s no longer a part of my life; she left me, and I’m here for you, if you’ll have me back. Listen to me, I sound like I’m proposing. Danny, the thing is, in all this mess...that affair...Natalie...spoke so fondly of you, did you know that? She kept saying no one else could touch you, was as interesting, as funny...’

  ‘Listen, Dad, I don’t really want a character reference from my exwife relayed through my ex-father.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  A note of grim anxiety had crept into the croaky voice on the other end.

  ‘What does ex-father mean?’

  ‘It means, old boy, that I don’t really feel a phone call can change that much. You killed me. Both of you.’

  ‘But I want to make it up to you, Daniel. I can make it up to you. I’m a better person now, I really am. Can’t I see you? It’s not right, father and son not talking like this.’

  Bloch was aggressive once more, full of rage, his fury triggered by what he took to be a sanctimonious final remark.

  ‘Whose fault is that? Did you ever take a look at yourself, once? Did you? Have you managed to acquire even a scrap of self-knowledge? Look at your life, and tell me what you see – no, I’ll tell you: an aged adolescent chasing women a quarter of his age, diving into an ice pool every day. People like you shouldn’t be allowed to have children; you’re too irresponsible. People like you should be made to take an offspring test and once you’d failed it, be sent packing to an island free of people since you just seem to bring disaster on everyone you come in contact with. I expect buildings to topple when you walk past them, dogs to go mad when you feed them, and children to cry when you play with them.’

  During this Samuel Bloch felt pain shoot through him, but he bore it, determined to take the punishment his son was meting out, even if it stopped his heart from beating.

  ‘Have you finished? Well, can I just say something? Can I? At the risk of boring you? I
can’t promise the same colorful images but – ’

  ‘You won’t bore me; that’s something you never do.’

  ‘Well then...listen, Danny, when you get to a certain age, as I have done, when you get to a certain age...the personality hardens. It sets. That’s where I am now. It’s too late for me to change, too late...I can’t wipe out my faults, but I’m trying to make amends...and afterwards, I might not be able to, if you know what I mean...I just want to call on you...I just want to see my son, the son I’ve thought about, who I’ve missed every day for the last five years.’

  Bloch was suddenly crying – his father’s words were unleashing whips which pelted his tear ducts.

  There was another long silence. Through the glassy membrane, speech for Bloch came falteringly, painfully: ‘Five years...that’s a long time, isn’t it? Where did all it go? Sucked into a black hole, I suppose. All right, see me, if your heart’s set on it. See me!...But we’ll talk about it later...I can’t talk now...I just can’t.’

  He quietly, gently returned the phone to its cradle, walked over to the kitchen and poured himself more coffee. He took a big gulp and sat back shakily in his armchair.

  Hours went by. Hours passed in meditation, in thinking about his father, recalling his strange character, the sense that he had never really known him, always perceived him as someone who may or may not have been his father, who had gradually to become his father all over again each time he rejoined the household – after one of his frequent periods of absence.

  Then the phone interrupted him once more, inviting him to assume his life was further to have its shape changed.

  ‘Daniel.’

  ‘Oscar, what’s up?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago Mr. Grindel offered me soup and didn’t mind Dove, though he did pull her tail...’

  ‘Who the fuck is Dove?’

  ‘My cat. He offered her some chocolate. All right, it’s kind of demented, but it’s something wouldn’t you say? What do you think?’

  ‘What are you crapping on about now?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, forget it,’ Oscar said in a hurry, suddenly resolved not to mention the story, given the irritation in Bloch’s voice. Rapidly coming up with another line, he continued, ‘Can I tell you about this woman I’ve met? You’d like her. She’s a brilliant painter. I saw these two nudes; in one the woman sat or rather melted into the sofa. The texture was so polished, she must have gone over the colors a hundred times, smoothing them down with a palette knife, so I didn’t see the strokes. Beautiful. I feel my luck’s changing. Suddenly this woman’s crept into my life...the modeling, the prospect of painting again. It’s fantastic. I wanted to talk about her before but didn’t get around to it, and I thought talking about it might spoil it, make it too real or something, when it’s still really just a daydream. But how should I go about things?’

  Bloch was relieved Oscar wasn’t still pressing him to go on with the story and was determined not to mention the aborted third chapter he had started that morning.

  ‘Are you there, Daniel?’

  At last he said, ‘Yes, I’m here. What was the question? Oh yes, women. I don’t know; perhaps it’s best to be subtle. Women are stronger than us. Since they’re the life-givers. The feminine spring of creativity gushes from them...so don’t bung that spring up with words. Let her find the secret places naturally; don’t feel you have to point out either hers or yours all the time. Don’t offer it all on a plate. Anyway, that’s my opinion. That’s coming from someone who’s made a mess of love, by the way. All right? Satisfied now? I’ve got some things to mull over.’

  Oscar said nothing. Bloch’s remarks seemed so important that he wished he’d recorded them but the fixity that he craved was unreachable, as words scuttled and hurried away into the dim caverns of memory.

  5

  Lilliana had to do some shopping off Tottenham Court Road on Saturday morning. She wanted to buy peat and plant food and chamomile tea and almond oil. The particular shop she needed was tucked behind murky alleyways and side streets. She passed a tapas bar, and then a barber, and then a shop called “Lobgot,” whose purpose was extremely difficult to ascertain. As she walked, on a pitifully inadequate pavement, unfriendly looking men pushed against her, repeatedly failing to apologize.

  The side streets had the shape of jagged arcs and curves. A garage, its door opened, invited her to look in, which she did, catching a glimpse there of an old man in greasy overalls bending painfully as he spat on his shoes. As she watched him, an unfriendly eye leered at her. She moved on.

  She started thinking about her life. The shop took up most of it, she reflected. It was all very well to think that she could brighten up people’s living rooms by selling them roses, but she perceived now in all of this a fatal seed of the inconsequential that she had herself planted, now flourishing unstoppably. It seemed to her then that she had spent her whole life in being good, observing rules (another man brushed against her; she looked at him pointedly, but he didn’t see), and trying to lift others with her enthusiasm. The reason she had opened the flower shop was because she wanted to live among color. But among all those stems and petals where had her own happiness been? What had she really craved? To be well thought of? To be secure? To be loved? Perhaps...

  In the time it had taken her to get from the underground station to this street she had passed from contentment to mild despair.

  She stopped suddenly, struck by a tattered poster that hung on a black door. She studied the words inscribed in a decaying Gothic script.

  Mr. SOPSO: FORTUNE TELLING, TAROT READINGS, ETC.

  Obeying some half-forgotten impulse, she gave the door a slight nudge, and to her surprise it yawned open easily. She could see some unlit steps leading to a basement. The last few steps vanished into a black cavity. All the signs suggested she should leave, but, resisting her fears, she began a careful descent, guided by the light of her cellular phone.

  At the end of the stairs she came to another door, in green. She nudged at this and found it locked. She knocked, feebly and then more vigorously. From within sounds stirred. After what seemed like minutes a man with a foreign-looking face appeared and showed her in. She noticed her heart was beating very quickly.

  She was in a large room. It was slightly surprising to find that its subterranean setting had not rendered it ugly and dangerous. In fact, in addition to being big the room was distinctly inviting.

  The man smiled at her, informing her that Mr. Sopso would be down shortly. He disappeared through a silk curtain which fluttered opposite the door by which she had entered. She found an armchair upholstered in rich red velvet and surveyed her surroundings, feeling a little less nervous.

  Hardly an inch of the room wasn’t taken up with clutter. Incense burned steadily and it was only now that Lilliana noticed the strange music playing: guttural chanting of some kind. She was intrigued by the innumerable objects scattered here and there: baskets of fruit, pairs of reading glasses and pince-nez, miniature bottles of vodka, broad-brimmed empty vases painted in serene colors, decanters and silver letter openers, wide half-melted candles. There was too much information to assimilate; the curious chanting was ever-present in her consciousness, yet at the same time faint, as if it came from behind the walls.

  A man dressed in a purple smoking jacket walked in through the silk curtain. It was hard to tell his age. He could have been anything between thirty and fifty. He was wearing an ill-fitting toupee that appeared to be held in place very uncertainly and his lips were raised in a half-smile which vanished as soon as it was scrutinized. He held a coffee cup and smoked a pipe, the aromatic smell of which joined that of the incense. The man found a large mat, slumped himself down on it and beckoned for Lilliana to do likewise. She joined him, cross-legged. He stared at her until she began to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Something to drink? I’m on Lebanese coffee. We have fruit teas, Indian teas, whatever you like.’ He spoke in a very high-pitched, small voice.

  Lill
iana was unsure of what to say or do or even think. She suddenly felt a wild desire to laugh but bit her lip savagely to stop herself. She looked around once more, trying to adjust to the baroque atmosphere. Mr. Sopso produced a small fork and began to tinker with his pipe.

  ‘Anything tickle your fancy? A drink?’

  ‘Some tea, please.’

  ‘Orange blossom, peppermint, ginger, darjeeling?’

  ‘Orange blossom sounds nice. I don’t think I’ve ever had that.’

  Mr. Sopso called out a name and the servant appeared noiselessly. Mr. Sopso spoke some words in a foreign tongue with difficulty and turned back to Lilliana.

  ‘Are you comfortable on the floor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  A minute passed. The chanting – a richly mournful male voice –was now held on one note for an endless time.

  Mr. Sopso again tinkered with his pipe, and Lilliana’s eye followed in turn the candles and vases, wondering what on earth she was doing here.

  ‘How much do you charge, by the way?’ Lilliana demanded in a slightly shrill voice.

  ‘Fifteen pounds for half an hour’s read; thirty for an hour.’

  Mr. Sopso tried to smile and look at her at the same time. As a result his face disintegrated into tiny triangles of flesh. His eyes became spots lost within creases. The cracked smile suggested that things were somehow not quite right, neither with himself nor with his establishment. Lilliana was trying to find the right moment in which to announce her departure. At last she spurted out, ‘You know, I was thinking, perhaps I’d better...’

  But before she could finish the servant came in with the tea on a silver tray. The arrival of the tea made it harder for her to say she was going. The servant put the tray down and left after adjusting a picture frame. Mr. Sopso poured Lilliana her tea, but she had decided she wasn’t going to drink it after all, in case it was drugged.

  ‘Now...what’s your name, by the way?’