The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

‘Perhaps you need a doctor?’

  ‘A quack? To examine and poke me? Get me a duck. It can do the quacking.’

  ‘What’s the matter, exactly?’ asked Oscar thickly, nearing the open windows of the bedroom. As he reached over to rest a hand on the frame the sun’s dying rays struck the tenement building and a pearl-colored light flooded in, reshaping the room by revealing previously hidden corners.

  ‘Nothing...I’m dying,’ came the weary response.

  Oscar hung his head out of the window. His dark hair flopped over, as if electrified. A young girl, perched on some steps, was blowing soap bubbles happily. He watched as they hovered and popped in orbit around her small figure.

  Bloch wished Oscar would come away from the window before he tumbled to a disemboweling death.

  ‘I said I’m dying.’

  ‘I heard you,’ Oscar half-shouted.

  ‘Is that all you have to say? My life is ebbing away and I have no idea why. Perhaps you could shed some light on it.’

  ‘I’m not used to shedding light. That’s your department.’

  ‘Since when? Why am I suddenly the source of all wisdom? I’m nothing special, just another mid-life crisis merchant, peddling his wares on street corners, hoping someone will hand him a powerful enough loud speaker to shout his insults through.’

  Oscar walked back from the window and declared, with a certain urgency, ‘I could be your loudspeaker, now that I’m turning into a television personality. Only joking.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That’s what I thought we might discuss.’

  Bloch squinted up at Oscar, puzzled. He was finding it harder and harder to connect the person standing in his bedroom with the person he thought of as Oscar Babel.

  ‘What do you want from me? Blood? You keep coming here. Why?’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘No, forget it. It’s just that...you and I...we seem to be – hanging on to nothing, except each other. Yes, I know you want to go out there, into the big bad world, to do battle with it, confront it, to wave your saber around like a lunatic. As for me, I’ve had my fill; I’ll leave you to be glitzy, to taste the strawberries and blow raspberries. I’m tired of all that shit.’

  ‘I think you need a holiday. Why don’t you – ’

  ‘Because I’m not going to find whatever it is I’m looking for in the company of boarding passes and sun cream! I need inoculating. I need to hibernate, meditate, forget Natalie. But she’s still there, blowing kisses. How cruel of her to have spent all that time fine-tuning that landscape body, avoiding red meat, flossing twice a day, waxing her legs, cycling ‘til her tires blew up...what a performance! And then that old fart comes along and the next thing I know I’m dying for a cuddle in the middle of the night. But tonight I’ll get my revenge. Love’s a snake-pit.’

  Oscar had a dozen questions about Bloch’s private references, but didn’t know where to start. As Bloch’s phrases buzzed in Oscar’s head, Bloch thought of the words he had written before falling asleep; they already seemed ghostly, fragments destined for the dustbin. What is the secret to weighted words? He sat up, legs crossed, head held in enclosing hands, his fingers typing as if at the keyboard.

  ‘When you say love’s a snake pit – what – I mean – now that we’re on the subject...,’ Oscar muttered vaguely.

  ‘Love?’

  ‘Listen, can I ask your advice about something?’

  ‘What now?’ Bloch mumbled through the wall of his hands.

  ‘Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’

  ‘Actually, yes; I mean no. Get me a gin and tonic. Gin’s in the kitchen next to the teapot, tonic water’s in the fridge. I think there’s ice in the freezer.’

  In the kitchen Oscar washed and rinsed a couple of glasses. As he did so a second question he had been trying not to ask clawed at him, promptly erasing the original one. He hoped that posing it from another room might render it more palatable.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he called, ‘did you ever get around to writing any more of that story...about me?’

  Bloch’s face instantly shed what animation the last moments had mustered.

  ‘No, I didn’t get around to writing any more,’ he lied, as he had in fact started the third chapter and never shown it to him. ‘I’m afraid that piece has been spiked, as the journos say. I didn’t really see a way for it to go, and I couldn’t find it...it was all...maybe some other time, when the mood’s right...the thing is Oscar, I really don’t want to think about it anymore...my head might explode. When I was writing it...I thought Big Ben would stop chiming...that cakes would bake themselves in the middle of the night...that Oxford Street would fill with sardines.’

  The gin and tonic fizzed and hissed as Oscar dropped the cubes into the glasses. Giving them a stir he shouted, ‘Well, one thing’s for sure, or rather a couple: I still don’t like Wagner, and I haven’t managed to paint a stroke. I think it’s too late.’

  ‘That’s just as well, then.... Isn’t it?’

  Oscar returned with the drinks and Bloch took his glass with an air of incurable boredom.

  ‘You referred to love as a snake pit just now....I had the impression it wasn’t so...,’ said Oscar.

  ‘So what? What kind of love are we talking about anyway? Filial, paternal, platonic, sexual?’

  ‘Sexual.’

  ‘Maternal, divine, unrequited, unconditional...?’ Bloch continued.

  ‘Sexual. Sexual love.’

  ‘I was afraid of that. That’s the tricky one. Because it contains elements of all the others, potentially. I was thinking...’ He trailed off.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about Natalie? You never really speak about her. Get it off your chest. Or is that a bad idea?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have brought her up – the reason I did is because, before you rolled in, I was knocking together some scraps about her. Fag ends. Nostalgia. I may be romanticizing the past, but looking back on it now when I was with her – and only her – I felt more truly alive than ever before or since. Consequently, I’ve been asking myself this question: Can that freezing of time – that strange something acquired in the act of copulation, screwing, bodily irrigation – help you live your life more creatively? In other words, can sex be a gateway to some higher perception? As in Tantric teachings, which I’ve been imbibing. Perhaps. The real thing might come close, but not the kind of fucking that goes on behind the bicycle sheds.’

  ‘How would you define that kind?’

  ‘Sticky, mechanical. It’s fading into memory even when it’s happening. A non-event.’

  Oscar was slightly unnerved by how dismissive, even misanthropic Bloch’s remarks were. But he nonetheless produced a notepad and began scribbling all over it, as he moved his chair closer to the bed. Bloch was growing more animated.

  ‘But if you were in love, whatever that means...if intimacy made a wind blow through your body, turned water into wine, turned the pimples and freckles on her face into diamonds and brocades, almighty emeralds from the Maharaja’s private collection, giving her reality the stamp of great art...that, to me is what love could mean when it’s really soaring: a revelation, a manifesto of how to live. That’s what it was like with Natalie...I think...sometimes.’

  Oscar stopped writing, looked up; he had an intimation of having heard something vaguely momentous.

  ‘That’s...beautiful,’ he whispered.

  Bloch was suddenly light-headed. Perhaps it was the gin. And his hearing had grown more acute. The noise of the traffic from outside seemed greatly magnified, the sound of slamming doors floated up through the floorboards. He could hear the kitchen clock ticking very distinctly. For a moment the activities of the world were with him, in a room which had turned into its echo chamber.

  ‘All my life,’ Bloch resumed, ‘I don’t know why, but I’ve managed to make a mess of the love that the romantic love magazines devote a thousand-and-one paragraphs to each day, the lov
e everyone’s dying from lack of. For me it took two forms: the promised land, or the land mine. Love should be beyond judgment, though it hardly ever is. It should be unconditional but who can truly love unconditionally? We all expect some return, ugly little egos always getting in the way, fouling up the works. By the way, orgasms are deceptive; their tiny moments cajole you into promising eternity.’ Oscar had resumed his note taking.

  Colors, shapes, contours were becoming more defined. He felt roused by a fevered eloquence.

  ‘And why the hell, tell me, does love usually come with the imperative of wealth? But I grant you that, sometimes, very rarely, it turns out like a fairytale. And, as I say, when it’s working, really working, it can even stop time, gloriously fuck up its springs. Then everything shimmers.’

  He rested, took some deep breaths.

  ‘But this is all very lofty, very grand, isn’t it? Look at me, I’m so good at preaching, but it’s pissing in the wind. I mean, can you think of anything more humiliating than having your wife leave you for your father? I can see the salmon swimming behind me, struggling to keep up, poor little salmon, big cruel whale churning in the ocean. Natalie saw the salmon as well; no doubt why she eventually opted for the beached whale that is my father.

  ‘But aren’t we all deceiving ourselves with these weak words? Oh yes, words can make everything all right, neutralize pain, give the gravedigger something grand to think about as he shovels earth. When they find me here, what will they say about me? What words will they disturb the leaves with? I’m tired; I’m spent. Leave me now, leave me; I’m not fit for company at the present time. Or take me to the water, I want to be beside the sea, Oscar. If I’m to die, I’d like a last glimpse of the sea. Do this for me, Oscar, let me go gracefully like a fish in the tide, not struggling in the net, but still in the silence of the sea.’

  Oscar stopped scribbling.

  ‘What...what are you saying?’

  Moved by the pathos of Bloch’s words Oscar reached his hand out and held Bloch’s in his own for a time. Bloch squeezed his eyes shut and slowly whispered, ‘Why is my imagination swamping me? Why now?’

  Oscar didn’t have an answer. Bloch, his eyes still closed, speaking more softly, with a voice so small that it seemed afraid of disturbing even the air, said, ‘You’re young; you’re not like me. You’re not judgmental; you’re not bitter, like me.’

  Oscar caught himself peering out of the open windows and studying a line of terracotta rooftops, stretching into the distance. In the last few moments the light had been changing imperceptibly; now it was the color of whiskey, turning the room into a warm and golden sanctuary. A baffling, spell-binding stillness enveloped everything. Then, as if on cue, the skyline began to coalesce into a haze of cobalt and magenta serenity. What world out there awaited him?

  ‘Oscar, you’re young; you’re full of beans,’ Bloch repeated.

  ‘I owe everything to you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Without you I think I’d cease to exist.’

  ‘Oscar, I’ve something to tell you. I feel – I feel like it might be hard for me to get out of this bed for a while. You really might have to be my foghorn, while I’m busy getting sucked into the swamp.’

  With these words sudden, indiscriminate exhaustion knocked him sideways and his face caved in. Even as his face assumed an odd fixity, the pose of a death mask, his remarks ushered in oblique, skewed freedoms.

  Oscar was on the verge of saying something but he was stopped short by the startling sound of the buzzer. At once Bloch’s eyes were wide and manic. He yanked Oscar’s arm so violently that he cried out in pain. Bloch wailed, ‘My father – he’s here already – Oh Christ – shit – I’ve got to get dressed – he can’t see me in my pyjamas – he can’t see me like this – quick, let’s talk about the something real – practical – I’ve got to flush my mind out.’

  Oscar backed off, massaging his arm. Bloch got up and shoved some clothes on over his pyjamas, feeling increasingly disassociated from his actions. He was connecting with reality spasmodically, one moment finding himself aware and the next in thrall to oblivion. He pressed a button on the intercom jerkily.

  ‘Get the door, get the door! Keep him happy, keep him happy.’

  Oscar waddled into the hallway and opened the front door with his undamaged arm, holding the other close to his chest. He heard slow footsteps. An angular, distorted shadow was climbing up the wall in advance of its owner. After a minute, the figure of Webster, the antiques dealer, emerged. He was panting and wheezing. At last his breathing steadied and he was able to form words.

  ‘Hello, we met at the swimming baths,’ he said, squeezing the words out of the corner of his mouth, as was his habit. Then, gripped by embarrassment, he collapsed into helpless laughter and his face went red.

  ‘Come in. Bloch isn’t feeling very well,’ Oscar said drily.

  Their host appeared from the bedroom, looking as if he had just crawled out of a tumble dryer.

  ‘Oh. Webster. I thought you were my father.’

  ‘What? Oh. Sorry to hear you’re indisposed. I wanted to ask a favor. Could I use your bath? My boiler’s on the blink, has been for weeks. I’m refusing to pay the rent, to make a stand. All landlords are mean – first law of real estate.’

  Oscar said, ‘Mine’s in love with a bag lady, so he’s turned nice.’

  Webster ignored this and muttered, ‘I’ve brought you some doughnuts.’ He rummaged around and produced a paper bag which could not have been more stained or wrinkled. He offered the bag to Bloch with a limp hand.

  ‘What do you say? I’d love a soak.’

  Bloch snatched up the bag of doughnuts and snapped, ‘Shall I put these in water, as well as you?’

  ‘What do you mean? They’re not flowers, you know; they’re for eating. They should go in the fridge. Let me do it as you’re not feeling too sturdy.’

  ‘That’s awfully kind of you, Webster, but that will hardly solve my problems.’

  Webster stared blankly, feeling more and more uncomfortable, trying to think of an appropriate response. He carried on automatically, ‘They’re nice doughnuts. I got them from this patisserie in Little Venice. The owner’s a friend of mine. She makes the best coffee cake I’ve ever tasted.’

  Bloch, determined to wrong-foot him again, said, ‘That’s wonderful. I’ve always considered that to be the defining hallmark of a good woman. That and a vagina smelling of Earl Grey tea.’

  Webster made an inchoate sound while Bloch peered inside the brown bag and saw two or three sad-looking lumps.

  ‘Do you think I’ll ever see Natalie again?’ he asked miserably. Oscar looked at Webster; Webster looked at Oscar.

  ‘Have you ever missed what’s in front of your nose?’ Bloch continued.

  ‘No, because it’s usually a pimple. I have quite bad skin, you see, and it’s irritated when I don’t wash,’ said Webster, quite proud of the way he had slipped in the suggestion that he needed to bathe.

  ‘I’m speaking of what life’s about, of the inner meanings. The least you can do is maintain a semblance of intelligence! Straight from the horse’s mouth come pearls, and you just sit and salivate.’

  ‘Daniel, Webster didn’t mean anything by that.’

  ‘Not you, as well. Don’t start, don’t start. Isn’t it enough that I’ve set this mad process into being? Isn’t that enough for you? And now I’m splintering; isn’t that enough, haven’t you got all you need from me? Aren’t you happy now?’

  By now the hallway was feeling extremely uncomfortable and Oscar, for his part, had the odd impression that he was no longer in someone’s flat but in an airplane as it plunged screaming toward the earth, seconds away from igniting into a fireball.

  ‘You have to go now...both of you...I have to wait for my father,’ Bloch mumbled, turning away, his voice fading, his back slouched. He shuffled into the sepulchral bedroom, leaving in his wake two dazed forms, hanging like scarecrows in the gathering shadows.<
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  They bounded down the stairs and into the open air, both shaken by the vehemence of Bloch’s remarks, the sense that he had been on the brink of an eruption.

  ‘He’s not himself today, you see,’ Oscar muttered as they walked.

  ‘So, who is he then?’

  Oscar made no reply.

  ‘Bloch despises me, doesn’t he? Thinks I’m an idiot? A dolt.’

  ‘No, no. It’s all right. I’ll have a word with him. Let’s go to the park.’

  By now the sun was no longer visible. In its place there was an afterglow of color, red and tangerine. All around, as far as the eye could see, the skin of the sky was being stretched and tightened. The walk continued in silence. They were conscious of fragrant smells of honeysuckle and jasmine, swimming at the threshold of awareness.

  Oscar felt more and more dazzled by his friend, as if by a marvelous waterfall. But there was no doubt that Bloch was behaving strangely; he was raging against the world. Perhaps, Oscar thought, he could communicate his friend’s observations through a less savage persona, a more gentle prism. But then fear re-asserted itself, the fear of being conspicuous, criticized, or exposed. He was embarking once again on something utterly alien, but what was the alternative? To go back to projecting films? To go back to life-modeling? To get a job washing dishes?

  As they slipped through the gates of Regent’s Park Webster mumbled, ‘I really need a pee.’ He tumbled toward a tree and furtively unripped his fly, watching to make sure no one was within range. As he urinated, willing his bladder to empty itself quickly, he remembered the time as a boy his cousin had spied on him in the lavatory and he felt a stab of pain.

  Oscar spread himself out on a patch of grass beside a large oak tree. The grass was still warm from the sun. His eye followed the curving line of trees, some close together in clusters, others dotted about singly. His gaze came to rest on a rectangle of large-flowered carmine tulips in the distance. The tulips summoned up images of Lilliana pottering about in her shop. He thought fondly of her, but felt slightly guilty because he hadn’t been in touch for so long. He liked her because she appreciated people for who they were and not because they necessarily struck chords with her life or shared her opinions or feelings.