‘It’s great to see you but please don’t start ticking me off, please don’t tell me I’m a fraud. I don’t think I can handle that right now. I know I’m a fraud, and I’ve mourned the fact, and I’ve mourned your loss. Christ, I’ve mourned your loss, but I’m just so tired. I need to sleep and I’m high and I’m low and I’m in between. All at the same time. I’m everything. I’ve been through everything tonight.’
The way he was finding his way around himself so precisely took her aback. His voice, its burnt-out weariness, was oddly seductive. His supernatural exhaustion leapt out, and his eyes were still, behind veils of indifference. He didn’t need her, was happy to say he didn’t by not saying it. He just didn’t have the energy to be anxious around her. She was intrigued by this transformation and drawn to it.
‘Oscar, I’m not going to give you a hard time. I’ve already done that.’
She finished her drink and started on her next one, using her middle finger as a stirrer.
‘I wouldn’t have come all this way just to sting you again. The truth is...I actually missed you.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. And in a minute I’d like to discuss it, but not before I finish this.’
He rummaged around for some cigarettes, offered her one, (she declined), and lit his. The alcohol in his system quadrupled the appeal of nicotine and he took a succession of quick drags, inhaling deeply.
‘Look, do you mind if I just get changed. This tunic feels a bit strange.’
‘Be your guest.’
When he returned from the bedroom his make-up was gone, he was dressed in a shirt and jeans and the sandals had left his feet. He took up his cigarette and watched as she knocked back the final inch of her rum, at the same time giving her head a shake, as if to maximize the effect of the alcohol on her brain. She stood up with haughty aplomb, and strutted over to the stereo.
‘What about some music?’
She found something she liked with tipsy decisiveness. It was a recording of The Threepenny Opera. An evil, guttural voice launched into “Mack the Knife.”
‘I love this music, it’s so...pungent,’ she murmured, sitting down again, inching slightly closer to his walled-off spot on the sofa.
‘Did you really miss me?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I did. I should say I missed your specificity. You were specifically Oscar.’
She leaned forward elastically and reached for a cigarette which she now sped through with such flair and elegance that Oscar perceived how amateur his own efforts were.
‘Of course now you’re specifically Oscar Babel, in inverted commas. Maybe I did feel a little bit jealous – where was I going? Nowhere fast, as they say. But the jealousy was incidental. That time in the cafe, after we saw that film, I watched your face and it was so...full of hunger, hunger for me. I wanted you to be hungry for me, really hungry. But I didn’t want to hurry things; I wanted the time to be just right, like the soufflé, remember?’
He nodded.
‘When the newspapers got hold of you, when you started becoming a product, it worried me. I didn’t want to go around with a man in love with himself. Not like Nicholas. Someone hidden in a performance. I wanted someone who could see himself clearly. But what chance of that was there when you were being recreated everywhere?
‘When we met, at first it was perfect. Each meeting closed the gap between what we said and what we meant. I thought with you I could really say what I felt. Now it all seemed in danger of being messed up, and your real self – ’
‘I have no real self. I’m a series of fleeting selves, and that’s why I make such a good celebrity because I’m a void and everyone can fill me with whatever nonsense they like.’
‘I think that’s a bit harsh, Oscar.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘When I thought about it, and I have been thinking about it, I came to certain conclusions. It bothered me that you were willing to play along with this media game, but what did some poster, some opinion about you from someone who didn’t even know you, some television appearance really have to do with us, with our relationship? Was it you who’d changed or was it just your situation?
‘I knew you weren’t really a prophet, but I missed you. So I thought I’d invite myself back into your life. But it’s only the small Oscar, the struggling Oscar I’m interested in, do you understand? Not the inflated, grand Oscar running about, making lots of noise, disturbing the blades of grass.’
She folded her arms, as if to say: ‘There, I’m finished now.’
He found her remarks deeply affecting. He would have liked to have kissed her there and then – but he knew how premature (indeed presumptuous) this would have been. If Najette was magnanimous enough to let him back into her life (for he saw her being there in these terms, not the other way around), he would have to shape up. And he needed his wits about him if he wasn’t to spoil this wonderful opportunity; and yet he must make light of his excitement. She really had every right to despise him. Why was she giving him another chance? Perhaps it was his very faultedness which made him interesting to her. Why did he always have to spoil everything with thinking? She was here, this was the essential thing; she wasn’t a mirage.
‘You know,’ he began, ‘you always seemed to me to be, I would say, roughly three times as alive as everyone else.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that. I think I’m like a piece of wood which needs constant varnishing. When the painting’s going well I’m shiny. But when I’m wasting time, staring into space...yuk. I really go dry. My idea of a good day is to get up around six, go for a jog, work till noon, meet someone important – a dealer, a curator – for lunch at Valerie’s, work till six, be a news junkie for an hour, reading everything I can lay my hands on, then rustle up a gargantuan meal with feta cheese and avocados and aubergines. Then get blotto with a gypsy violinist. And then to bed after poetry.’
‘What poetry?’
‘Emily Dickinson...Shakespeare’s sonnets.’
‘I can see how that would add up to a good day. Even if you’re only three times as alive as everyone some of the time, I think you always manage to make life less boring. I mean if you – wait, let me show you, graphically.’
He found a piece of paper and a pen. She started to laugh.
‘Right, here’s a circle, or rather an oval shape. This is life. I’ll shade in the part which represents excitement, adventure, fun.’
He shaded in approximately one twentieth part of the total area.
Najette’s laughter subsided into a knowing smile.
‘So, there we have it. Five percent of life is pleasant; the rest is boredom or work. Yes?’
‘OK.’
‘Now – this new circle,’ – he drew it – ‘this represents a life lived with Najette. I shall now shade in the part which represents adventure, excitement, fun...’
He shaded it all in in a mad rush.
‘So, as you can see, and as I have demonstrated conclusively, life is usually a piece of shit, whereas with you it is an exotic, stimulating safari.’
‘Safari?’
‘Yes. Can I kiss you?’
‘No.’
She stood and went to the stereo; so long as there was music, music to lubricate any creaky silences, she would be varnished. She found “The Ballad of Immoral Earnings” and a waltzy, smoky pulse was taken up, leading to wistful passages from the woodwind and eventually to a duet between Polly and Mack, mingling beauty and sneering menace.
‘Another drink? I’m beating you,’ she asked.
‘No, I think I’m all right, actually. But you go ahead.’
‘I think I will. I don’t want all these riches to go to waste.’
He watched her as she re-located the rum, then treated the ice bucket with disdain. Her eye peered at him from under her black hair. The sable strands reminded him of a barcode, clustered together at one end, and separated by intervals of space at the other. As she finished mixing her drink, he decided she was
incapable of carrying out even the most humdrum of actions without a certain panache.
What was she like in bed? he asked himself. Images of a hypothetical union flashed through his mind. He had to stop tormenting himself like this. But her body, it was there, not five feet away, he could just reach out and touch it. No. This is ridiculous. This is not going to happen. It might in the future, when she’s more comfortable around me. But not tonight. Definitely not tonight. She said no when I asked to kiss her. That’s pretty unequivocal. But I shouldn’t have asked. Of course not. You never ask. Stupid clumsy twit. You don’t ask a woman like Najette. You beg her. No, you don’t do that either. God she’s beautiful. I’m going to pass out or start to cry in a minute. Or pull my hair out. Haven’t I learnt anything? I’ve got to get a grip. I have to take the lead, I just
‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve swallowed a maggot.’ She sipped her drink lazily.
‘It’s nothing. I’m just tired.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Do you want to go to bed?’
(Yes, with you).
‘No, no, I’m fine. Verily, is the night not balmy? Shall we go and stand by yonder window?’
‘If you like. Just, for pity’s sake, don’t talk like that.’
There the balmy night, like a generous host, whipped up more breezes on their behalf. They watched their reflections in the darkened glass. He thought of the women he’d met recently: the girl at the party who wanted to see exploding stars; Anna; even Cressida. Each in their way was interesting and attractive, but he knew now that when he’d spoken to them he’d been looking for Najette all the time. And here she was, two times, in the glass, and beside him.
Without turning to look at her, Oscar began, ‘Did you like – ’
‘How long do you intend to stay holed up here?’
‘I don’t know. I’m making it up as I go along.’
‘Don’t you want to return to the real world?’
‘What real world? I’ve never understood what people mean by that phrase. When does the world become real – when a certain level of hardship sets in? When cancer is diagnosed? Does that mean someone who’s healthy and happy is living in the unreal world? Is the real world the world of corporate finance? Then does that mean engineers don’t live in the real world? Is someone who lectures at university not living in the real world? Shouldn’t someone pat him on the back and say, “Excuse me, you’re not living in the real world.”’
‘God, you’re so complicated.’
She traced a line along his cheek with curled fingers. Goose pimples instantly sprouted along the back of his neck.
(Oh God, what does that mean? That means she is interested. Or maybe she’s just being affectionate. But you wouldn’t be affectionate with – )
‘Oscar, maybe I should make tracks, as they say.’
(She was just being affectionate).
‘What?’
‘It’s getting late and – ’
‘Okay, then, off you pop.’
‘What? “Off you pop.” Am I a toy gun?’
‘Listen, don’t go.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want you to go. For about two seconds back then I was trying to be – ’
‘I know. But don’t. And now, my darling, I really – ’
He planted a very wet, very bungled kiss on her lips and her eyes dilated in surprise. Then she started laughing like a maniac.
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ he whined. ‘Anything but that.’
‘What was that? I felt like I’d been kissed by an octopus.’
‘I’m very flattered.’ He went red.
‘It was...it was so...so wet. Wet kisses are really high up on the ladder. You don’t just dive in with such a degree of moisture. Don’t you know that?’
‘I do now. But I was – ’
‘In any case, dry kisses are so much more refined.’
‘I hadn’t really – ’
‘Here – look – the monsoon season’s over.’
She grabbed him and kissed him with magnificent authority and as they connected Oscar felt his body shrinking and his soul soaring. She didn’t flinch – she stayed just as she was – a kisser equipped with a prodigious technique.
‘There – see – Dummy. Next time, choose a dry climate.’
How did she manage that? Single-handedly transmute awkwardness into comedy, friction into jollity?
‘You’re lovely,’ he said.
‘And you’re a lamb...in octopus’s clothing.’
‘I can’t think of anything to say.’
‘That’s all right. Between us I think we’ve exhausted language.’
She turned back to her drink – and stretched out on the sofa. Oscar fell into the beechwood rocking chair.
‘You’re quite sure – ’
‘I’m never quite sure. Oscar, I think I’ll need to sleep soon or I’ll exceed my sell-by date.’
‘If you like you could take the bed and I could take the sofa.’
She reached for a cigarette. Words and smoke wafted from her mouth.
‘Ah yes, chivalry. Hardship endured for the sake of the lady. The bathtub would be more chivalric; you take the tub and I’ll sink into the foam. Enamel for Oscar, air for Najette. Or is that just an implicit way of stating masculine strength? She needs her beauty sleep so she can look good for me; or he has to be alert at night so he can slay the nocturnal dragon. Don’t worry. I’m not about to embark on a feminist diatribe; there’s others who can do it so much better. I had a tutor like that at college. Miss Fincher. She was a fright; every day she spouted something about male oppression. She droned on and on about the evils of the male libido, about how men couldn’t think straight because their brains were swimming in testosterone. Castration would solve all the world’s ills, she said. I think it was from her that the word “frump” entered the English language; she had these wigwam Tartan skirts with gigantic safety pins holding them tightly in check. Woolen chastity belt. She never smiled. It’s not a good idea to hate men so much. It’s okay to hate them a little bit, to keep your hand in. That’s all right; I can live with that. I do live with that.
‘I’m sorry; I don’t know where this is coming from. Must be the grog loosening my tongue. Friction between men and women – what about it? We need a bit of friction. Men and women are after the same thing; they just have mutually exclusive ways of getting it. Where were we? Oh yes, the sofa – you were suggesting we be segregated. I have a better idea. When I was snooping around earlier I noticed your bed’s bigger than some people’s front rooms. Do you think with a bit of wriggling we might both squeeze in?’
This truly was a better idea, an infinitely better idea. And yet why did it still feel as if they hadn’t pushed through that line which separates friends from whatever it was he wished them to be? Why did their connection still seem platonic? Could it be too much time had passed, that whatever urgency there was had been destroyed? In any case, she was the master now. She made up the rules, and broke them when she felt so inclined.
She stubbed her cigarette out.
‘I’ve realized something,’ she went on, taking the remaining cigarettes, passing through to the bedroom, ‘I’ve realized what it was about that time in the Sun Well,’ – she located a pair of Oscar’s pyjamas with quiet efficiency, sneaking a head start on him, as it were. ‘You do know I’m doing some studies of that photo you saw?’ she called, sliding back behind the door and, slipping off her dress and underwear – ‘Lilliana’s Sun Well?’ his voice asked – she got into his floral top and bottom, hurriedly buttoning herself up before he caught up with her.
‘Yes, Lilliana’s Sun Well.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘The reason why I think I was drawn to the smashed plant pot, why I’ve become obsessed with it, with the context that went with it’ (she looked at herself in a mirror and adjusted her hair, flashed a row of straight teeth
at herself ), ‘is – is – how can I say? – is because the moment when the soil fired out of the pot was a millisecond of unfettered energy, and that, for me, is the essence of creation. And...to capture that in the stillness of paint, that would be something.’
‘You look sweet in those,’ he said, appearing suddenly at the door. He didn’t want to talk about painting.
‘Thanks. I sometimes think a painter makes it impossible for herself, because she’s using this blobby, thick stuff. It’s packaged in tubes, like toothpaste, for Christ’s sake.
‘How can you create life, even the illusion of life, how can you hook that thing and stick it in a two-dimensional frame? Van Gogh did it, Gorky kind of did it, Otto Reinhard almost did it, Modigliani didn’t really – his work is dead, there’s no mobility, it’s exquisite but it’s like an etching.
‘The only way to ever do anything good is to tax the medium to bursting point. Listen to me – I sound like – like – so pompous. Isn’t it liberating to talk bollocks?’
She glided through to the bathroom. Oscar tried to think of something intelligent to say but nothing came. So he got changed after switching off the stereo and closing the windows, leaving a small one ajar. He waited for her at the edge of the bed, anxious. He really hoped the night wouldn’t be one of interminable, sleepless frustration. She came back and climbed into bed.
‘Coming?’ she asked matter of factly.
‘In a second.’
He brushed his teeth, turned off the main lights, and switched on a side-lamp. So now they were to be an old married couple and he feared they had, courtesy of some maddening, perverse logic, managed to bypass all the excitement and arrive at an innocuous place drained of even the possibility of sex. He remembered the man who had come up to him in the park, zipping up his fly. Were they now going to be old friends, happening to be sharing a bed? Surely not. They had kissed, after all. But what did that really mean?
The Fabrications Page 37