The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

  And then at last a tall figure emerged, a mane of salt-and-pepper hair falling around his ears, wiry eyebrows jutting out like the remnants of a bird’s nest.

  The two men regarded each another painfully, but it was a long time before anyone spoke.

  Finally, Samuel Bloch muttered, ‘You look awful; what’s the matter?’

  The sight of his son’s face was a terrible shock. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips had all but lost their color. His hair was more thin and grey than he could possibly have imagined, despite the long passage of time since he had last seen him. And the sweat pouring from his forehead looked like amniotic fluid.

  ‘What’s wrong, Danny?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m fine.’

  ‘Get back into bed.’

  ‘How did you know I was in bed?’

  ‘Never mind that now.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to get into bed. We’ll talk in the living room.’

  Bloch was determined not to appear weak in front of his father. He slumped into an armchair while his father eased his generous frame into another with an air of slight distaste.

  For a man in his late sixties, Samuel Bloch was remarkably fit. In fact, as he now realized, he was in considerably better health than his son, though he liked to make out he was a martyr to old age. He insisted on having a morning dip into an ice pool every day. His diet was extremely spartan – bread, cheese, cashew nuts, avocados, eggs, fish, olives, yoghurt and figs. Occasionally he allowed himself the luxuries of bacon and coffee. He also drank red wine, but only from the most expensive bottles.

  ‘Have you called a doctor? I think someone should take a look at you.’

  He spoke in a gruff baritone, often becoming a mumble which could only be deciphered with the utmost tenacity.

  ‘You seem suddenly concerned for my welfare. What’s brought this on? This strange gush of benevolence. Quick, let’s bottle it and find a cork! It might trickle away.’

  ‘Danny, please, no games, this is more important. Let me call my doc.’

  ‘I despise doctors. None of them know a bloody thing. Drink?’

  ‘I’ll get it. Some brandy might perk you up. Where are we – kitchen for the libations?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Bloch forced himself to his feet, but his body wobbled and toppled over. His father rushed over, lifted him up and steadied him. He was at once phlegmatic and practical.

  ‘Right, let’s get you into bed,’ he said calmly, and, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, they were able to shuffle into the bedroom, forming a curious couple. As Bloch fell onto the bedclothes his father rapidly punched buttons on the telephone.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My GP. Don’t worry, he’s excellent.’

  While his father explained the situation to his doctor Bloch loosened his clothes as gently as he could manage. He was panting and his pulse raced.

  ‘He can be here in an hour. I think brandy’s probably not a good idea right now.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  There was a difficult, interrogative silence. Then his father said, with surprising gentleness, ‘You should look after yourself, you know.’ Bloch stared into his eyes. How little he knew him, how welcome were these scraps of a love normally hidden in inaccessible places. He was suddenly seized with a desire for him to stay a few days, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Pride sabotaged his vocal chords.

  He started to feel a little of his strength returning and his breathing gradually steadied. The conversation resumed abruptly.

  ‘Daniel, I’m expecting someone in a minute or two.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, put it this way – she’s my secretary.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s a mobile secretary. She’s also my...companion.’

  ‘You mean your mistress.’

  ‘I wouldn’t use those words.’

  ‘“Mistress” is one word. How long is it since we’ve seen each other?’

  ‘Five years, isn’t it?’

  ‘Couldn’t you have kept your love life out of this? Couldn’t you have exercised some self-discipline and not brought the cigar butt with you?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘Mistress, more cakes and ale, more wine and roses, more fucks behind the bicycle shed...’

  Fortunately, just as he was getting into his stride, the buzzer went again. This time it lasted for a longer time, as if the person on the other end was deliberately trying to annoy them. Bloch indicated the intercom with a sagging index finger. His father walked over to it and pressed the button which released the front door of the building.

  Once again conversation seemed impossible. Until Bloch launched into a fractured tirade.

  ‘Is this how you want to do things – all your life? Without the remotest conception of what’s appropriate? I mean – you’re meant to be here to see me. Me. That means I don’t want some hundredwords-per-minute bimbo to interrupt. I don’t want – I don’t want sex to get in the way of our friendly re-union. Or perhaps I’m not worth that basic respect – perhaps I’m just a little interlude between the next check-in at the next hotel lobby. Dad, life isn’t all saunas, jacuzzis, velvet bottles of – ’

  There was a knock: very clean, efficient.

  His father, with some relief, scrambled into the hallway. The moment that Bloch had alone in his bed was delicious.

  A minute later, from his prone position on the bed, Bloch was able to see a large woman standing at the door clutching a battered brown suit case. She presented quite a spectacle.

  Her breasts were in a state of such mobility he feared they might divide from her body and start hopping across the floor. Her turquoise dress was barely coping with its contents, stretching and curving and twisting at her hips and waist, acquiring elasticity to deal with her recalcitrant curves. Platinum blonde locks tumbled down to her hips and her blood red lips were locked in a perpetual pout.

  ‘Who the hell is this?’ Bloch bawled.

  ‘This is Miss Van Veuren.’

  A bizarre pattern was now established as father and son proceeded to speak in a manner that suggested Miss Van Veuren was not actually there with them, or as if she couldn’t hear what they were saying. She didn’t seem to mind their disregard and maintained her air of statuesque docility.

  ‘Would you ask her to leave?’

  ‘No can do, Danny,’ Bloch senior called. ‘She takes care of all my arrangements and she has my tickets and everything.’

  Samuel Bloch emerged from the shadows projected by her ample body. He ushered his secretary forward and they ambled into the bedroom. Miss Van Veuren put the case down, found a chair, wiped it with a large purple handkerchief embroidered with hearts, and sat down. The smell of her perfume drifted over to Bloch who regarded her with something between loathing and lust. Then he demanded, speaking rapidly, ‘Miss Van Veuren, do you find that there is a resounding lack of heart in the hearts of people today? Are you not struck time and time again by their inability to respond to anything that does not utilize a maniacal consumerism?’

  After a pause Miss Van Veuren smiled, revealing her perfectly aligned incisors, but uttered no words.

  ‘Look, Daniel, for God’s sake, the girl isn’t a professor.’

  ‘I can see that, Dad. By the way, what the hell happened to my ex-wife?’

  ‘She left me. I told you that.’

  Bloch chuckled softly.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘I suppose I deserve your laughter. But I don’t think we should talk about her now, not when you’re lying here like this.’

  ‘No, let’s do talk about her, an excellent idea. It will be...diverting. Now that you’ve made the pilgrimage, perhaps you could grant me a few insights. How is she?’

  ‘The last time I saw her, nearly a year ago, she’d developed a thing for her tango teacher. I don’t need to tel
l you what she’s like.’

  Miss Van Veuren crossed her legs, and Bloch lapped the sight up greedily. She momentarily acknowledged his curiosity; something registered in the movement of her eyes. Then she was impassive again, supremely disconnected from everything going on around her.

  ‘No, you don’t need to tell me about her wicked ways; I know all about them. Still...a remarkable woman. I got closer to her than you ever did.’

  ‘I don’t deny it. I never meant to hurt you.’

  ‘She liked you because you were a real man, weren’t you – the genuine article, the big whale showing off its bulk, making noise, being confident, with no sub-text of doubt, not even a smidgen of doubt, just self-confidence, no anxiety or angst. No sad swimming salmon hiding behind you; you were hundred-percent whale meat, through and through.’ Weary of these rhapsodic stabs, Bloch abandoned them and said evenly, ‘You could have said no.’

  ‘You know that’s impossible with Natalie; she doesn’t take no for an answer.’

  Suddenly impassioned Bloch blurted out, ‘Oh, please, can’t you think of something more original?!’

  ‘I’m not original; I never claimed to be, Danny.’

  ‘Except in one particular. Your love life is very original; your choice of partner practically earth-shattering. It shattered my world, anyway.’

  ‘Danny, please, I couldn’t...she seduced me; did you know she spiked my drink?’

  ‘With what? Fertilizer? A pity she didn’t spike you.’ The effect of this last remark was so excruciating Samuel Bloch’s brain erased any trace of it the moment after it was uttered.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, anyway?’ his father asked, shakily trying to change the subject.

  ‘I don’t know. Burnt out, knocked for six, if you must know. But I’d love to see her again. I remember when it was bliss just to be around her, just to be in the same room as her. Not even to say anything. Why does that feeling go eventually?’

  ‘You’re the writer. Don’t ask me.’

  ‘I am a writer, of sorts. After forty eight years of life, my writing’s evolving into something new. It’s actually getting serious. That’s something. It’s strange, as my body turns into an old mattress, my mind bounces like a trampoline. Can’t quite work it out. Oscar, I think.’

  ‘Who’s Oscar?’

  ‘An old cunt-friend.’

  ‘And what’s he been up to?’

  ‘Anything I can dream up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s talk about Natalie. Tell me, did she ever show you her trick, when she would pour hot wax on her nipples? The Amazons would have welcomed her with outstretched arms.’

  ‘Hot wax on her nipples?’ Miss Van Veuren interjected in an unidentifiable foreign accent.

  Bloch stared at Miss Van Veuren incredulously, then bawled out, ‘It’s a miracle!’

  ‘Oh please, Daniel, don’t go on.’

  There was a lull. Miss Van Veuren began filing her nails mechanically.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the time Natalie and I were on Port Meadow?’ Bloch asked. ‘There was the most stupendous thunderstorm. Stupendous. The whole meadow became a million-watt bulb. I pushed on, soaking, while she and her pal lagged behind. I was pissing my pants, trying to get to safety, convinced I was about to be reduced to a pillar of ash, when I caught a snatch of the conversation they were having. And do you know what she said? She said, “If lightning tried to strike me, I’d deflect it with my fingernails.” Fantastically stupid, yes, I agree, on one level, but you had to admire the nerve of it, the sheer grandeur, to defy nature, to shake a fist, a fingernail, at it. It was sublime; she was so fucking unflappable. Of course I suppose I wasn’t, and you, in your way, were. That was Natalie – glorious, unruly, mad Natalie. She was wasted on you...why am I singing her praises anyway, turning her body into a source of awakening? You both issued me with a castration order.’

  ‘Danny, listen, I don’t want to be cruel, but you have to face up to the fact that your marriage was over long before she and I....’ He stopped, stumbled into a void, pulled himself out of it, his eyes manic, and resumed, slightly desperately, ‘I didn’t cause the estrangement between you; it just happened, and what happened afterwards was a terrible mistake. But I’m not the reason she drifted away from you in the first place.’

  ‘So what? As if that makes everything wonderful. I know you weren’t the reason. I also know the real reason, don’t worry. She caught a glimpse of my frailty, that’s why.’

  ‘There must have been more to it than that.’

  ‘I think deep down she just wanted someone who could surf on those gigantic, bending-over-backward tidal waves in New Zealand. The best I could manage was a bit of punting on the River Cam. Listen, Dad, don’t bother being analytical; stick to your balance sheets and interest rates.’

  ‘Well, she’s gone now. She’s taking tango lessons.’

  ‘Day and night, eh? Dancing between the sheets, eh? She must have warmed to a man a third your age, papa.’ Bloch uttered the words with icy emphasis.

  Samuel Bloch’s eyes betrayed something – pain, bewilderment, selfpity, perhaps all three, but then they became expressionless. These exchanges, having taken on the character of a slanging match, with Bloch clearly gaining the upper hand, browbeating his father into submission, came to a halt and once more the bedroom was still. But the conflict was not over yet. Bloch decided to try out a different strategy.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Van Veuren, how much does my father pay you for your services?’

  Miss Van Veuren glanced at her employer (and lover) for a moment and then back at Bloch. She smiled, revealing her beautifully bleached teeth.

  ‘Don’t be shy, spill the beans,’ Bloch intoned.

  ‘Well, as his personal secretary and assistant Mr. Bloch pays me £1500 a week. Bonuses include the use of his jacuzzi so long as he’s in it at the same time. Also, the joyride in the Mercedes 280 SL convertible, which can reach speeds of up to 210 miles an hour, plus every now and then a bottle of vintage wine – ’

  ‘Stop! I’ll pay you £2000 a week, and you may have access to my divine body at all hours of the day and night, depending on my mood...and you may also be my own personal nursemaid. I will set you up in the East Wing where you will have your own bidet, with the complete works of Spinoza thrown in.’

  ‘Danny, don’t do this. You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘I think that Miss Van Veuren is quite old enough to make up her own mind. Now then, Miss Van Veuren, what do you say...wouldn’t you like to work for me?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I have to think about it,’ she said, wriggling in her chair.

  Then Bloch senior squirmed about in his.

  ‘Perhaps we should leave you to rest, Danny.’

  ‘Not so fast, Dad. It’s my turn to do some poaching.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’ve told you, I didn’t poach Natalie; she came to me.’

  ‘You’re not leaving, not until I’ve had a chance to woo Miss Van Veuren.’

  ‘Are you serious? This is ridiculous. I mean, what would you possibly –’

  ‘See in her? I’ll tell you: precisely what you do. Nice arse, great tits. Those go a long way in my book.’

  At last, in operatic distress, Miss Van Veuren rose from her chair. Bloch had done it – had succeeded in evoking a reaction, not just a tepid show of interest, but something far more significant.

  ‘I’m not just a sex object, thank you!’ She glanced nervously from side to side, searching to see if she had made an impression.

  ‘You’re right, Miss Van Veuren,’ said Bloch. ‘Indeed you are not a sex object; it’s only men like my father who think you are. So don’t let him.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Danny. Don’t tell me you’re –’

  ‘What?! The fact is it’s you who reduce life’s poetry into commerce. Yes, you are all whale, through and through, because you’ve never doubted anything in life. Everything was ordered, had its place –’


  ‘Danny, what have you got against whales anyway? And what is this obsession with them – and other fish?’

  ‘Whales aren’t fish, they’re mammals. I have an obsession with the sea and what – other than seaweed – floats through it. Maybe it all began with Humphrey.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Humphrey?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Humphrey. The goldfish I had when I was little. The one that went down the plughole. My goldfish! We got it at the fun fair. In Ealing! You bought it for me; it made me happy. I used to feed it. Watch it.’

  ‘Oh, that Humphrey! I never did understand how the loss of a goldfish could be so traumatic.’

  ‘You didn’t understand much. And you weren’t exactly around that much either. You turned up and I used to think: Who’s this character? Is he or isn’t he my father? I loved that fish and after it went part of me went with it.’

  ‘I see – the fish was reliable, was it? Dependable? Trustworthy? Whereas I wasn’t. Well...I mean...didn’t I buy you another one?’

  ‘It wasn’t the same.’

  ‘Well, it looked the same.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘Yes, but I mean, it was only a bloody goldfish.’

  ‘I was only six! Oh what’s the use; you’d better go, we’re not getting anywhere. I can’t string another sentence together.’

  Samuel Bloch stood up and approached the bed hesitantly. He glanced at Miss Van Veuren. He wanted to go over and give his son a hug but he was worried he might not want to be hugged. Finally, in a soft murmured undertone, he asked Miss Van Veuren to leave the room for a moment.

  She smiled, revealing her pearly white, flossed and scrubbed, spotless teeth. After adjusting strategic corners of her dress she sauntered off, her hips swaying, her body rehearsing for a walk down a catwalk that would never exist.

  In a little while both men realized that her being in the room with them – while barely announcing her presence – had actually made it easier for them to talk to one another. She had somehow given them free rein to express emotion, had warded off mute solipsism and the silence that would otherwise – eventually, inevitably – have come. And now they were silent and couldn’t think of a single other thing to say to each other. With each passing second the silence grew more weighty, like clay hardening and setting. This silence was not becalming; it was barren, and as the minutes passed it became harder and harder to break it. They both found themselves wishing Miss Van Veuren would return. But then the question Bloch had been trying not to ask came back, re-surfaced once again. He tried to find a niche, an appropriate corner into which the question might fit, but nothing presented itself. So in the end he blurted it out discordantly, shocked by the sound of his voice, which seemed alien and unfamiliar.