26
His eyes snapped open. He turned to look at her. He was used now to the disruption of sleep which sleeping with her involved, but for every disruption there was the sweet recompense of contact between them: when she would sleepily sigh and ask him to hold her; when her arm would unconsciously slip down to his thigh and rest there awhile; when each adjustment allowed for their still being threaded through one another.
He remembered the dream.
He was swimming. He was underwater, but he had neither mask nor oxygen cylinders, drifting through deep recesses of the sea. As he floated past, silver bubbles and strands of seaweed moved alongside him at slumberous pulses and a shoal of disc-shaped butterfly fish, their golden shades catching the light, fanned out in a breathtaking arc, dissipating themselves on his behalf. They scurried off in all directions and were soon lost to farthest reaches of shadow. He was astounded by the ebb and flow of life, the squids darting about, the slow undulating arms of octopi. Looking upwards, he saw the ceiling of water shimmering with broken light whose quality was oddly serene and muted. But as he glanced down once again his nostrils and mouth were filling with water, water which was causing him to balloon and he was sinking, a deadweight capsizing to the bottom; and as he fell he could see layers of dirt being dislodged and coming up to meet him in great murky clouds.
Then he knew he had to get in touch with Bloch.
His brain was rioting, overturning all vestiges of composure, as he picked up the phone, dialed, listened, on the point of hanging up, about to cross the border into relief, when he heard a sleepy voice say, ‘Hello.’
‘Daniel?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My name’s Oscar. Can I speak to Daniel Bloch?’
‘Oscar, hey, at last. Bloody hell. I didn’t know how to get hold of you. I managed to get the name of your hotel but they told me you’d checked out.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, sorry; it’s Webster here. They told me you’d checked out.’
‘I hadn’t checked out. I was airlifted out, via the window.’
‘What? Listen, I’ve got bad news; Bloch’s in the hospital, has been for...must be going on for a fortnight. He’s in pretty bad shape. I think you should go and see him.’
In the instants before Webster formed the words Oscar was already hearing them in his head. Of course Bloch was in the hospital, he said to himself. Where else would he be? Hadn’t he known all along?
‘What’s wrong?’
‘He’s anorexic. I think he might be losing his marbles.’
‘Don’t say that – don’t use that disgusting phrase.’
‘Oh, sorry, so sorry. I tried to tell you that night, in Kensington Gardens, but I couldn’t get to you. I’ve been taking him some grub but he won’t eat a thing. He’s on a drip. He won’t take anything solid.’
‘Which hospital?’
‘Charing Cross. Hold up and I’ll give you the details.’ Oscar heard him rummaging around.
‘Hello? It’s on the Fulham Palace Road. He’s on the 3rd Floor. They’ve given him a private room. Mind you with the gunk they dole out...He said I could stay in his flat, and seeing as I was getting miffed with my van – ’
‘I’m very grateful to you.’
He had to ring off and sit down. All the blood had drained from his body.
This was the end.
He scribbled a note for Najette while she slept. He gently lifted up the covering around the easel and glanced at the canvas, which was now almost finished. It was good, very good. Studying its intricacies he knew he was right about her.
As he made his way down the hill he started getting nervous. Ryan Rees’s minions would be beating around.
By the end of that day Najette had finished the painting. There was a deep melancholy within the female union; it had nothing to do with the smashed plant – it was simply a statement of the sadness of life, a recognition of some universal calamity. The plant itself was rendered with such rich expressivity that it seemed as potent and emotional as an atrophying face, imbued at the same time with the detached significance of a holy relic or ruined fetish. The painting was an amalgam of primitive disquiet and abstract enigma; it was two paintings spliced into one, and yet the two central tableaux managed to join. Standing back, attempting to detach herself from the work, Najette was able to celebrate the exaggerated attenuation of color, the way the painting called on the viewer to access indirect channels of communication. She signed it on the back in crayon and wrote underneath, with slapdash disinterest: “Displacement.”
In the evening she polished off two bottles of red wine. The alcohol having duly rid her mind of its contents, she collapsed on the sofa and slept well into the next afternoon.
*
Oscar was standing outside his old home in Elephant and Castle, wearing dark glasses and a broad-brimmed, down-turned hat he’d stolen from a man snoring on the train. The exterior of the house looked completely different, resurrected by two coats of immaculate off-white paint.
During the agonizingly slow train ride from Egham he’d tried to establish how he felt about seeing Bloch again. On some level he certainly dreaded the meeting; but he also perceived how important a re-union would be, how necessary and vital. He wished he could put the clock back and re-connect with the unsullied mood of their former friendship. But in the end, anxiety triumphed over anticipation and that was why he was here, in south London, apparently motivated by a sentimental hankering for the past, when he should have been in Hammersmith, at the hospital. He was trying to delay the moment at which he would have to confront him, postpone what he knew would be a painful encounter, in more ways than one.
As he stood there he craved anonymity, invisibility, insignificance. The presence of the expansive hat and glasses went some way toward reassuring him.
Then the front door opened as if Oscar’s protracted, fixed gaze upon its panels had caused it to give way. And the heterogenetic figure of Mr. Grindel stepped out. He was wrapped up in his old overcoat, his hands thrust deep in the pockets, the coat like an old, inseparable companion. He was so unshaven he looked ill. His shorts, his parasol, his joy – all were gone.
‘Oh, it’s you; what do you want?’ he demanded aggressively. At once Oscar was tongue-tied, unprepared for this re-emergence of Grindel’s old character.
‘Mr. Grindel...I...was there any...you said you’d redirect...I just came to see if there was any mail for me.’
‘You left your room in a stinking mess. I’ve seen cleaner pig sties.’
‘Oh, but, I thought I – ’
‘Do you think I had time to re-direct your mail? She gave me the boot; she went back to her husband!’
‘Do you mean – you didn’t tell me she was married.’
‘She taught me how to cook and clean, then she pissed off back to Louis. Left me with egg on my face. She mashed my heart with a wooden spoon, Babel. I’m never touching love again. She changed! Oh, she changed! She started getting crazy ideas. Said I was a capitalist pig. Said she didn’t respect what I did. That, from a cleaning woman! How she changed; she never returned my calls; every time I tried to kiss her she turned green. This is it. No more. Never again. You heard it here first. Now she’s with that plumber again. A plumber, for Christ’s sake! How could she prefer a plumber to me! He gets to hold her hand and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. I could have whispered sweet nothings in her ear; my sweet nothings were sweeter than his. I can’t bear it, oh I just can’t bear it. You’d better come in.’
Oscar was genuinely overcome with pity for the pathetic lump in front of him. He felt obliged to offer some consoling words but all he could say was, ‘You’ll meet someone else.’
‘No, I won’t. No other woman gave me the time of day. I’ll never meet another woman like her. She was one in a million.’
‘That’s not true, Mr. Grindel. Of course you’ll meet another one; it’s natural to – ’
‘What do you know? I’ve got re
sponsibilities; I’ve got to make hundreds of decisions every day, people rely on me; I’m under pressure. Look, are you coming in or what?’
Stepping through, Oscar was taken aback by how luxurious the hallway now looked, with its plush carpeting and hessian wallpaper. Grindel squinted resentfully as he shut the door, as though the sight of the pristine hallway was an affront to him; as though Grindel, now sequestered in his own private hell, associated the vitality of his surroundings with the light of a heaven he’d been banished from.
Once inside his maisonette Grindel bundled into his kitchen, while Oscar noted with familiar dread the re-ignited, stifling heat of the radiators, the sealed windows. Once again, it was nearly impossible to take a breath without choking at the same time. A small television was switched on, the volume turned down. Someone was milking a cow but with each squeeze of the udder the creature grew more and more uncomfortable until it broke into a slow trot toward a place untouched by humankind. Grindel re-emerged, popping bubble gum ineptly, the meagre substitute for love he had hit upon.
‘So, it looks like those builders did a good job in the end,’ Oscar offered tentatively.
‘Oh sure, and I ended up paying through the nose for it. The leeches. I hate the place. I hate what it’s become; every lick of paint reminds me of her, seeing as she was the one who got me to hire those crooks in the first place. Just can’t bear it.’ The bubble gum popped loudly.
‘But think of the way your property’s market value will rise, Mr. Grindel. And you’re bound to attract a better class of tenant.’
‘What better class? There is no better class; educated tenants just make more trouble for you, with their whining and griping and letters of complaint. Spongers and free-loaders trying to get a free lunch. They never pay on time, even the ones with money. They’re all out to screw you.’ Pop.
Oscar experienced an overwhelming desire to leave Mr. Grindel’s repellent views (and company) behind. He murmured in a small voice, ‘Was there actually any mail...in fact...that you might have kept for me?’
‘What?’
‘Mail?’
‘Are you still banging on about that? Okay, Okay. There’s a box somewhere full of all the crap which hasn’t been picked up. I always keep it for a bit before I bin it. ’Cause I know my responsibilities, see.’
‘You did say you’d forward – ’
‘Mail’s lost its charm. Now it’s all slush. Letters from estate agents offering to muscle in; junk mail from supermarkets; charities begging for money; Internet banking, Internet shopping; pizza delivery, falafel delivery, noodle delivery; Jehovah’s Witnesses telling us the time is upon us – I wish it was; council crap about overgrowing trees in the backyard, and it goes on. What’s it all in aid of, that’s what I want to know.’
‘Well – ’
‘I’ll get the box.’
His biggest bubble yet exploded and the torn skin of the gum latched onto his cheeks. He clawed at it randomly. He rummaged around the bookcase and produced a cardboard box overflowing with the kind of mail he had just savaged and handed it over.
Oscar speedily separated out those items addressed to him: a letter; a small package; seven separate communications from credit card companies; and two envelopes stamped with the words “The Earl Gallery” – he imagined these were invitations from Nicholas to private views. He opened the package first, intrigued, and found within, wrapped in transparent paper, a small music box. There was a note which came with it.
Kentish Town
11 August
Dear Oscar,
Please find enclosed your belated birthday present. At last!!! I really can’t imagine why it’s taken so long for me to get around to sending it. I suppose I thought it would be easier to give it to you, but now that you’re famous I should have known better. And now it’s August, and your birthday was in May! I’m so sooorry. Originally I had a nice calathea number lined up for you but God had other plans, if you know what I mean; so I got you a music box instead.
I didn’t know where to send this and as you never come and see me anymore...
I thought I’d try your old address. I know this is a bit risky, but I don’t think anyone would throw out a parcel, would they? But then again they might. I hope this gets to you anyway. I gather you’re living the high life in Chelsea. It’s all right for some.
Since last I saw you a strange man has moved in with me. This is working out surprisingly well. It’s amazing what a little fire will do in one’s life.
What’s been happening to you? I’d love to hear from you. Come and see me at the usual place. Have you seen Najette? I’m afraid I’m too dull for her. It’s funny how you meet people and you think they’re part of your life, that your life has touched theirs in some way, and then they just seem to fade away. Do you think she’s relationship material? What’s her painting like?
I’ve got to go. I have to meet the strange man. He’s the last person on earth I’d have expected getting together with. He’s irritable, hard to pin down, but a big chunk of him is also perfect for me – perhaps because I’m not editing myself. You see, the thing is, I just feel whole when I’m around him. It’s not a big romantic thing; it’s just very very natural. I just feel I accept him – it’s hard to put into words but before, when it came to men, I used to get upset by the slightest things they said or did, when they didn’t phone, when they snored in bed – I’d think, it’s not as it should be. But when he does the things which should annoy me they just don’t annoy me. He’s my knight in shining amour. Some day I’ll tell you how we met – it’s a good story, lots of love, Lilliana.
He lifted the lid gently and the box began to play a meditative, wistful melody. As it unwound he opened the letter. He recognized the compressed outlines of Bloch’s handwriting on the first sheet; the words on the second and third sheets were in the unmistakable courier type of his old Underwood.
12 August
I found this
When I sprang cleant
It’s piss
that’s heaven sent
the last bit of that wretched fragment
thought you might like to see it
written all those pale moons ago
when I still resembled remotely a human
I LIED I LIED I LIED
when I said I’d written no more
it’s the mutiny within the mutiny within the mutiny within
Assailed by blind panic, his eye raced through the contents of what followed while Grindel launched into another aggressively stupid monologue about his old lover.
Chapter Three: the fabrication of wisdom
Oscar Babel, destined for greatness, destined to be admired from afar and from near. It is true that the man ultimately acquired a status which was mythic. In the end he transmuted into a philosopher who was popular, a thinker who was entertaining. His words became honed and weighted, sacred words. People were drawn to him. He spoke to future converts, dined at plush restaurants, enjoyed the attention of certain women. He became, in effect, a spiritual teacher, a guru, and the observations he made were received with an ardor which bordered on idolatry, as he held forth and horsewhipped society for its pursuit of the vacuous. The hotel room he finally embraced became his spiritual headquarters, the shimmering, flickering lectures like no others as the lackeys of the media elected to shut their mouths for once, as they journeyed along the road to enlightenment. Oscar proved fatally effective – he spoke words which made him the blessèd one, making mincemeat of our slumberous, constipated art worlds: corpses kept barely alive with heavy-duty drugs.
Inevitably I noticed a certain deterioration in him, of body and personality.
Oh, how the shining lights of the past, the noble grand dreams of men and women have been killed by hysterical consumerism and by the noxious oil spill of the ever-expanding, ever-lobotomizing, worldwide spider’s web!
He was borne aloft on the wings of the mass-turbating-media, and certain figures that must remain nameless (and were
already faceless) accompanied him and facilitated the journey, lubricated it so to speak. And yet
Past, present, future: The terms were rendered meaningless, as though he occupied a vantage point where time curved; in which earthly perspectives, having been left behind, now revealed their local, small shroudedness. He was in a different place; he could see everything, see around the corners and boundaries of sequential, linear time. If you stepped far back enough you could see everything, he thought. He was hearing a voice from the past that was the voice of the future, in the house which contained his past, now transformed. But then, wonder fled and his thoughts darkened. If all that he had become during the summer had been anticipated – had (in a sense) already occurred in Bloch’s head – didn’t this mean he had had no free will? Had the course of his life that summer been determined before it had actually taken place? Was he merely following a pre-laid path, as passive as a branch led by the currents of a sloping river? Was he, in fact, anyone at all; or just an adjunct to his one-time friend, a shape for a fleeting succession of masks to enfold until at last a strong wind would find him and cause him to crumble like an ash doll?
The music box stopped playing.
Grindel stopped speaking.
Oscar looked up, dazed.
What was he doing here? Why was he here? Why had he come here? He had found his destiny here, as much as it was possible for any man to. It was there, in black and white. There was nothing for him here now. He let the sheets of paper fall and walked over to the door without a word. Grindel started after him and shouted, ‘Hey, where are you going? I’m talking to you! What about all I’ve done for you? Don’t I even get a thank you then? Where are you going? I’m talking to you. Are you listening to me?’
The Fabrications Page 43