All That Follows

by Jim Crace

  AT LAST LEONARD HAS THE HOUSE to himself. He has already, from the pillow, made his resolutions for the day. More exercise, indeed. But first, and shamingly, he has to escape from Lucy Emmerson. He has to free himself from her and revoke his promise. He can, of course—he has considered it—not take her call at all, even though he has demanded it himself. He can just sit and watch the set vibrate. Then, when he does not show up at the airport rendezvous either, she’ll be bound to figure out that Leonard isn’t kismet after all. That should be the end of it. But she might persevere. She is the sort and age to persevere. She’ll not be shaken off so easily. He quantifies the risks: she has his cell phone number but not his unlisted home address. She might make a nuisance of herself by phoning constantly, but surely not by knocking at his door. He has a sudden image of her trawling round the streets of his hometown, certain that she’ll find and recognize his “creepy van.” She daubs it thickly with black paint: LEONARD LESSING—SCARED TO DEATH. It is an improbable nightmare but a disconcerting one. No, there is no avoiding it. If Leonard wants to enjoy any peace of mind during the final day of his forties, he must put a stop to Lucy Emmerson at once. Their conversation might be thorny and embarrassing, humiliating even, but hardly as thorny and embarrassing as allowing her mad plot, this not-so-genius idea, to survive a moment more. He’ll take the call. He will be rid of her. Then he can begin to mend his ways. No more bellyaching about his shoulder, he determines. No more frittering the best part of each day. No more wasting his sabbatical. He’ll draw up a plan for the months ahead and for his sixth decade: the walks he’ll take, the meals he’ll cook, the worthy books he’ll read, the music he’ll try to write, the efforts and the sacrifices he’ll make for Francine’s happiness.

  It is not yet 9 a.m. Leonard uses the remaining half hour before Lucy’s promised call to shower properly and dress before sitting at the pivoted table in the kitchen with his Times online and breakfast plate. The Rise-Time show is drawing to a close. He listens to but does not watch the weathercast, some joshing, parting repartee among that morning’s commentariat, and finally the rising headlines for the day: the Balkan Federation elects its president; another water crisis in Australia (“It’s H2Oz again!”); new treatment figures suggest that senile dementia has declined by almost 30 percent in the past decade; the death of the last Rolling Stone; Proposition 101. But not a word regarding Maxim Lermontov. Leonard checks the EuroFox channel and one or two of the more serious UK digitals, but discovers nothing. That’s both surprising and suspicious. It has to signify a news blackout under the Home Defenses Act. Such “benign security obstructions” have become more frequent recently, especially with the fast-approaching summit and inevitable disruptions on the streets.

  There is, however, a brief, dry summary in the home news columns of the Times, under the misspelled strapline “Seige Enters Third Day.” Their correspondent writes: “The named suspect, an American national, is reported to have a record of criminal convictions including arson and motor vehicle theft as well as political ones, both in the United States and in Canada, where he sought and was granted protected residence in 2012 as a ‘citizen by birth.’” Leonard can predict Maxie’s irritation at such accurate reports, can almost hear him protesting in his stagy High Texan with that distinctive Yiddish edge, “I’m Russian, man! Russian out of U.S.A. So what, I wrecked a car or two? So what, I introduced some hellfire to a church ’n’ cindered it? ’N’ I hate to be picky, but it wasn’t arson, it was firebombing! Y’all hear?” Then, in the closing paragraph, Leonard reads, “The armed group are thought to have been under police surveillance since entering the United Kingdom in early July, and although their purposes are unclear, it is not counted in security and intelligence circles as happenstance that their arrival coincides with the upcoming Reconciliation Summit.”

  Leonard would have preferred it if Maxie’s apparent “purposes” had been less commendable: unambiguously criminal, perhaps, with psychopathic tendencies, brutally expressed. That would better befit a man who, in Leonard’s opinion and experience, is “purposeless” and deserves little sympathy from liberals, a man who is more intent on turmoil for the sake of turmoil than on turmoil for the sake of change. But as ever, Maxie’s immoderation of action is validated by latching on to a rational and sympathetic cause. No one vaguely progressive, Leonard included, could wish the Reconciliation Summit well. So long as nobody gets injured, any boisterous and dramatic disruption to the week of meetings—even this armed and desperate hostage-taking in Alderbeech—might almost be welcome, might even be counted proportionate, given what one campaign group has already labeled passionately, if not pithily, “the vile offenses of the summit’s detestable guests.” But with Maxie, as Leonard knows too well, there are always injuries. The day is not complete without a bloody nose.

  There is, of course, Take to the Curb, a peaceful vigil Leonard can attend himself on Tuesday afternoon, if he’s so concerned, with protesters lining the forty-kilometer route between the airport and the summit venue. It’ll take more than eighty thousand people, standing shoulder to shoulder, if there are to be no gaps, or one third of that if they are prepared to stretch their arms and hang on by their fingertips. But no matter how hard he tries, Leonard cannot imagine himself in line these days. He means to play a part but rarely does. His shoulder isn’t up to it, of course. It’s shaming, actually, to be so disengaged. What will his contribution be, this fist-clenching man who only yesterday claimed he “hasn’t lost the fire,” when the summit and the demonstrations start? Not waving fists, for sure, except in private and at the telescreen. Not waving placards or leafleting. Not even standing silently in line. No, standing back, nursing his shoulder. He’ll be standing back and watching it on-screen, at home, watching all the politics on-screen.

  It’s far too easy, though, in Leonard’s current anxious and tormented mood—what will Lucy think of him?—to imagine Maxie at the demonstration, magically escaped from Alderbeech, just a couple of kilometers away from the route, and doing what he can to turn the vigil wild. Take to the Curb? It’s not enough, he says. Take Up the Curb and throw those stone blocks against those limousines. Shoulder to shoulder? Hand in hand? Too tame, he says. Too fucking British. No, leave the line and put your shoulders up against the horses and the police and sweep those enemies away. Pit yourselves against their flesh. Tear into their flesh. Wrap your fingers round those bastards’ throats. Then Maxie’s at the summit gates. If there’s a fracas, he is there, wielding the shaft of his placard like a truncheon. If only Maxie were less … no, commendable is not the word, Leonard thinks. Resolute is better. Wielding and unwavering. Now the pseudo-Texan leads the way into the summit grounds, into the summit hall, and stands with his handy placard shaft in the middle of the summit’s “detestable guests.” And sixteen gray-haired heads of state are knocked to the ground like scuttlepins, sixteen heads of state and one first lady of America. Blood is dripping from her nose onto the lapel of her pearl pantsuit. Leonard shakes his head, tries to drive the memory away. That final part is far too real, too near the truth, to contemplate again.

  Lucy should be calling soon. He’s almost eager for it now. Let’s get it over with. He sits down on the futon with his cell phone resting on the arm. While he waits, prompted by his success with tracing the Emmersons last night, he idly enters “TelecomUK” and types in “Sickert,” the name of Francine’s dead first husband. It’s something that for fear of finding nothing he hasn’t dared to do, at least in any depth, since Celandine’s original e-mail and phone accounts were canceled. Where should he start his search? He cannot specify a town or approximate a location code, a country even, but to satisfy the Web site’s insistence, he narrows the field and offers the initial C. All he is offered in return is “Too many results found. Refine your search.” This is not the way, Leonard thinks, closing the tab impatiently. He’ll not secure a lead that easily. Instead, he Googles “UK Only, Celandine.” It is the kind of given name a girl might either hate or love
so much that she could never abandon it, no matter what. Francine’s daughter never claimed to dislike her name, as far as he can recall, although she disliked many things, given half a chance. In fact, as a teenager she decorated the ceiling of her bedroom with suspended models of flying swallows, the bird from which her name (in Greek) was taken. They even had to call her Swallow for a while. More than fifty thousand results pile and tile onto the screen, twenty-five to the page. He shuffles through the openers as quickly as he can, but everything is horticultural—the greater celandine, the lesser celandine, the marsh celandine, the edible celandine—until the fourteenth page, where there are links to a Celandine Café in Bath and a sailboat called Celandine for hire in Falmouth Harbor. He does not reach the fifteenth page. His cell phone rings, and it is Lucy, button-bright and punctual.

  “My God, that was so weird last night, about the bike,” she says, before Leonard has a chance to speak. “How did you know about the bike? Did I say anything? What did I say? I told my mum I’d had it nicked. I’d flogged it, though. Now she thinks some bloke has found it. Wow, that’s hilarious! Except it’s put me in a fix.”

  “Listen,” Leonard says.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Today.”

  “Midday, I’ll be there, yeah?”

  “I won’t be there. Sorry, Lucy, but I can’t.”

  “Don’t say you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. Your idea’s genius, it is—”

  “But? But?”

  But it’s too risky, Leonard wants to say. It might be safe enough for you. You’re just a lively kid who wants to rescue Dad. But I’m an adult and I have to be sensible, I have to be responsible. Except he dares not speak those words to her. Sensible. Responsible. Those are the words that teachers use on school reports for someone dull.

  “Francine isn’t up for it,” he says, though he says it softly, just in case his lie can fly the nine kilometers to where his wife works.

  “Oh, shit. Why not?”

  “Well, number one, it’s kidnapping a teenager, and that’s against the law, big-time … she says.”

  “But I’m the one that’s up for it. It’s my idea.”

  “I told her that. She says you’re just a child. I know, I know. She’s anxious that she’ll be held responsible. Even if it’s not kidnapping exactly. She could be done for wasting police time.”

  “That is fucking useless, isn’t it?”

  “All right, calm down.”

  “I don’t feel calm. I am pissed off.”

  “Well, don’t blame me.”

  “I’m not pissed off with you.” A pause. “So is she there?”

  “Francine?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s gone to work.”

  “Why all the whispering?”

  “I promise you, she isn’t here.” He’s frightened of this girl.

  “Call her. Let me speak to her.”

  “There isn’t any point.”

  “It’s probably a woman thing.”

  “How can it be a woman thing? What sort of woman thing?”

  “Because you want to bring a girl into your home, Leonard. And set her up in your spare room. Maybe Francine doesn’t like the sound of that. I have to talk to her.”

  “Lucy, listen, I can promise you it isn’t that …” He pauses, takes a different tack. He has to stop her even trying to speak to his wife. “But actually, you’re not entirely wrong. Francine’s own daughter ran away—she ran away from that spare room—about eighteen months ago. Spring last year. Okay? April the twenty-fourth. Just nineteen years of age. A girl like you—a girl who wanted to disappear.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. They had a three-month quarrel, then a fight. Just fists. And feet. She packed a bag. She ran away. She disappeared. We know she’s been in touch with some of her mates. So she’s alive, at least. But Francine hasn’t heard a word since then.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “That’s worse than bad, it’s killing her. That empty bedroom with her daughter’s stuff is all she’s got to give her hope, to keep her sane.” Leonard’s straying into melodrama now. Still whispering. He has to bring it to an end. “You’re right,” he says, raising his voice. “No way she’s going to take a lodger in that room, not even you, not even for a day. Now do you understand? It’s difficult.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m getting it. She’s squashed us flat.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. I did my best. But she went absolutely mad. We had a row about it. Quite a blazer, actually. There is no reasoning with her now. I’m just as disappointed as you are. I’m furious, in fact. It would have been, well, not exactly fun but …” He can’t locate the word. But he thinks valiant.

  “I think it might have made a difference. At least we would have given it a go,” she says, dejected now.

  “Yes, possibly. Let’s talk again. I have to run. I hope we’re going to stay in touch. You’ll text me in a day or two, okay? Best not to phone.”

  “Don’t worry, Comrade Leonard, Mr. Activist, Mr. Perkiss Number Two, I won’t embarrass you.” But now she has embarrassed him. Leonard flushes, head to toe. She adds, “I guess I should have known it was never going to happen when you wouldn’t cut yourself yesterday, when you wouldn’t shake on it with blood.”

  “Now, that’s ridiculous—”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “The missing girl.”

  “Her name is Celandine Sickert.”

  “You’re kidding me. I’d run away.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means deed poll to me.” She’s being petulant, just for the hell of it.

  “You’d change your name?” he asks, mostly glad that she has changed the subject.

  “Thelandine Thickert? That is terrible. Boy, yes, I’d dump that name. Anything with ‘Sick’ in it. And Celandine is pretty bad. It sounds like medicine. But Cel’s okay. Yes, Cel is absolutely radiant.”

  “Sorry, Lucy,” he says again. “Out of my hands.”

  “Hey, it’s cool.” A sigh of resignation now.

  “So that’s it, then? Hey, it’s cool, and on our way?” Job done, thinks Leonard. Time to finish this conversation, before she wounds him any more.

  “I guess it is.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Not happy. My little bag was packed. My father’s still out there. I’m all fired up. Now what?”

  And he can see her all fired up, tough and innocent, her great expanse of hair, her taming red beret, her little bag, waiting with a cigarette among the noonday vehicles parked outside the Zone superstores, the airline traffic deafening, a tough and stocky angel coming to the rescue of her dad.

  “It’s for the best,” he says. But he’s already talking to himself. She’s gone. She really is a child.

  IT IS ONLY 9:25 A.M. and Leonard has secured the rest of Friday for himself. He sits back on the futon, not certain whether he is feeling less burdened or more. His phone conversation with Lucy, or at least the outcome of it, has not been a mistake. He feels that in his bones. It certainly has simplified his day. He can breathe easy, knowing that there’s nothing ill-advised ahead. This episode is finished with. He’s got away unscathed again. He’s made it back to shore. This is the day, he reminds himself, when he can take charge of his life. He will not fail again today. He will not disappoint himself again today. He lifts his one good fist and clenches it.

  The Selmer has not been touched for several weeks. Its case has not even been opened. Leonard lifts the instrument out of its baize-lined mold. Taped inside the case lid is a timeworn gallery of memorabilia: a copy of his Mercury citation; a CD cover (Less Plays Lester) with a pleasing and convincing digital mock-up of Leonard sitting in a 1950s diner with Lester Young at his side; some small family photographs, his sister with his mother, happy days; shots of Francine and Celandine draped around ea
ch other at some music festival, more lost and happy days; and, on the flap of a torn cigarette packet, the fading, scribbled telephone number of Francine’s old Brighton flat. She’d put it there herself, that windy and rewarding night of nursery rhymes. “But that was then,” she said.

  The saxophone feels heavy in his weakened arm. He has lost muscle tone. His frozen shoulder refers its pain across his back and down as far as the upper finger joints of his right hand. He clamps his jazz-soft Vandoren reed in place, ducks into the neck sling, checks that the spatulas and tone holes are still snugly sealed, and exercises the keys and rods with the usual practice set of unvoiced scales and melodic patterns before licking his lips and gums, lifting the horn to his mouth, and closing on that familiar, comforting rubber mouthpiece. But still he will not make a note. He takes deep breaths and pillows his diaphragm with enough air to support the sound, if and when it comes. He seals a tight, single-lip embouchure around the reed as carefully as a beginner might, judging how best to allow but still constrict a note, readying his tongue, his jaw, his pharynx, larynx, glottis, and his vocal cords, until these two vibrating tubes—the flesh, the brass—are ready to collaborate.

  What to play? Not nursery rhymes. That day has passed and dimmed. He tests the sound. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Four hurried notes. He voices them again. Do it, do it, Davey Davey, do it now. But then he settles for something less agitated, something further from the bone: Simmy Sullivan’s “Midnight at the Lavender.” It’s his graduation piece; it’s his lollipop; he’s played it round the houses, tired it out—on radio, at festivals, solo and in combos. Once—and this is not a happy memory—in Austin, Texas, even. Feel-good music. Schmooze. It ought to be unchallenging. But Leonard wants to test and exercise himself. It is a worry, always was a worry, that his musical daring might, like hearing, eyesight, concentration, sexual potency, continence, be a faculty that degenerates with age. Therefore he shifts up half a tone, toys with the opening four bars, and then returns to flatten it. An awkward sound. He starts again, jettisoning the basic chord progression and introducing vagrant notes. So he drifts away from key and stays away, lick after lick, until—almost out of the blue, though not exactly out of the blues—he finds a route from Sullivan’s favorite Brooklyn bar to Davey Davey, do it now and finishes up with a piece he has arranged before, Shakespeare’s greasy Joan. This is something—Love’s Labour’s Lost and agitated schmooze—that the world or at least the walls of this living room have never heard before—ba-dum ba-dum, doo-wah doo-wah, tu-whit tu-whoo, a merry note—and will never hear again, not quite like that, not quite so desperate and fine, not quite so raw. The tapered lights and shadows of the house seem, at moments such as this, architect-designed for jazz, chambers sloped and angled for the nuances of sound.