Authenticity

by Deirdre Madden

  She began to draw and as she worked, they both became wholly absorbed in the project. Roderic moved into that remote and rigorous part of his consciousness that was completely given over to art, and that had remained inviolate down through the years in spite of everything that had happened in his life. He could see his daughter’s pleasure as, under his guidance, the drawing began to emerge. ‘Relax your fingers more. Hold your pencil like this,’ and leaning over to adjust her grip he touched her hand. Again that heady sophisticated perfume, again that physical warmth, unknown now for so many years.

  Allegra sensed his sudden emotion. She released the pencil and closed her hand over his. ‘Don’t worry, Papà,’ she said. ‘We all know it can’t ever be the same as it was before, but things will work out. Everything is going to be all right’

  And for the first time since his return to Italy, Roderic felt that what she said might be true.

  Chapter Thirty

  She came into the room carrying the cat by the scruff of its neck. With his eyes narrowed and his paws stuck straight out before him, Max looked like a small child pretending to be a ghost.

  Roderic glanced up from the open book on his knee. ‘This is a fine thing you’ve bought for yourself.’

  ‘It was a present,’ Julia said. ‘William gave it to me.’ She released the cat’s neck and Max dropped to the carpet with a loud thud. ‘It was a peace offering, as a matter of fact. We had something of a falling out a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Did you indeed.’ It was a comment, not a question. He turned the page. She half hoped he might ask what their quarrel had been about but instead he said, ‘And now you’re friends again.’

  ‘We are, yes.’

  After closing the shop one evening in early September, Hester had come up to Julia’s flat. ‘Someone left this for you.’ The large package she handed over was so tightly wrapped and sealed that Julia had considerable difficulty in getting it open, even with the help of scissors. Inside was the book on Venetian art she’d admired some four days earlier, together with a letter from William. His apology was so complete, so finely judged and delicately phrased that she felt to refuse it would be churlish. She did, however, attempt to return the book when next she saw him but he insisted that she keep it. What he didn’t realise was that because of the disagreement connected with her acquiring it, the book felt tainted to Julia. She didn’t, couldn’t, feel the same about it as she had when first she saw it, or as she would have done had it been a straightforward gift.

  ‘You can borrow it if you like,’ she said to Roderic.

  ‘Sometime, perhaps, but not for the moment, thanks. I have too many other things on hand.’

  ‘By the way, would you do something for me? Would you, when you come to see me, ring the bell twice in quick succession so that I’ll know it’s you?’

  He looked at her shrewdly, answered her question with a question. ‘So William’s being a pest, is he?’

  ‘Just a bit. Once or twice lately he’s called in mid-afternoon when I’m working. I’d always let you in, but if I thought it was him I’d rather not open the door.’

  Roderic pointed out that he would never drop in at a time when he knew she would be in her studio, ‘But I’ll ring the bell twice if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He closed the book and set it aside. The cat hopped up on to the sofa beside him and he reached out absentmindedly, ruffled its fur. He looked, Julia thought, rather preoccupied.

  ‘You’re not worried about him, are you?’ she said.

  ‘Who, Max?’

  ‘No! William.’

  ‘Not in the least. I’ve told you before, he’s your concern, not mine. You’re a free agent. No, to be honest with you I was thinking about my old companion in misfortune, Jeannie. I saw her in town today.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Much as she ever was.’

  Wretched, in other words, tottering along unsteadily looking miserable and unkempt in an old brown jacket she’d had for years. She’d been wearing it, Roderic remembered, on the day she’d said to him, ‘It’s not as bad for you as it is for me, not being able to be with your children, because you’re a man.’ It was an occasion he’d never forgotten, because it was the only time in his life that he’d been sorely tempted to hit a woman.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t speak to her.’ Hello, Jeannie. Piss off, Roderic. That had been the sum total of their exchange the last time he’d seen her in the street and approached her, an experience he saw no point in repeating. There’s nothing I can do to help her,’ he said. ‘It’s not in my gift. It never was.’

  He was always cautious in talking to Julia about his past life. While he thought it important that she knew a certain amount of all he had been through so that she might know who he was, he was wary of telling her too much to no real purpose. There was no point in simply shocking her, in imposing all his past misery for the sake of it. After he came out of hospital, his confidence all shot to pieces, he’d gone into six successive newsagents one afternoon before he could summon up the nerve in the seventh to go to the counter and actually buy a paper. Incredibly, he’d told Julia about this shortly after they got together because he thought she might find it entertaining, instead of which she’d come back on it several times in the following days. ‘I hate to think of you like that. It breaks my heart’ He didn’t point out that the anecdote was linked to his recovery and that it was the tales from his drinking days that were truly heartbreaking, but ever since then he had been insistent about the facts, sketched out in broad strokes, while sparing her the detail. He was mindful too of the other people who were implicated in his life and of the need to respect their privacy: Marta, Jeannie, Dennis, even.

  For all that, he felt the balance was generally right and now that they were on the subject of his old life he pressed on to say, ‘I’m thinking of going back to Italy again towards the end of the year.’ Although he was reticent about his past, he was forthcoming about his present: ever since getting together with Julia he had talked to her freely and frequently about his daughters. He had passed on bits of news about them gleaned from letters and phone calls, sharing the minutiae of family life. Serena had done well in her exams, Oriana had got a new dog. When they sent photographs he showed them to Julia and he had recently sent to Italy a few pictures taken by a friend at a reception, in one of which Julia appeared.

  ‘I think that the time is right for another visit. The next time I’m on the phone to them we’ll try to fix up a date that would suit everyone, perhaps December or even early January.’ Julia said nothing. In his turn he now thought she looked preoccupied. ‘Does that sound all right to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. I don’t know why you’re asking. It has nothing to do with me.’

  In the remarks that had brought about their estrangement for a short time, William had unsettled and disturbed Julia. By speaking of the future he’d forced the issue, pushed things up the agenda long before either she or Roderic were ready for them. Although she’d always known that the complexities of his past had serious implications for their future life together, Julia hadn’t yet thought them all through, much less discussed them with Roderic. She didn’t believe this was an evasion; the time simply wasn’t yet right. Rather than plunge straight into imponderable questions she had thought it best that they simply enjoy being together and get on with life. On the strength of that, she had always thought, they would be best equipped to deal with the difficult issues when they did arise.

  But what William said had planted a doubt in her mind. Take children. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t herself ready to think about having them, and wouldn’t be for years yet. But what were Roderic’s views on the matter? She had no idea, none whatsoever, and she had only realised this after William had so blithely predicted what Roderic must surely think. Worse, what if he were correct? What if she did ask Roderic and he stated categorically th
at he didn’t ever want to start a second family? She didn’t know how she would react to that, was nowhere near ready to deal with it. Damn William, anyway, for starting all this! Even though they had re-established their friendship she realised now that she still held this simmering grudge against him. Although she knew it was irrational and unfair, she was also irritated that Roderic didn’t pursue the cause of her quarrel with William so that she might broach the subject, however obliquely. Still, he knew something was up.

  ‘Nothing in particular troubling you, Julia?’ All she could do was shrug. ‘Work going all right?’

  ‘Work’s going fine.’

  She’d told him recently that she’d put aside the project on fragrance for the time being, as she hadn’t been able to find a satisfactory form in which to present it. Instead she was collecting new material, recordings of people talking about a relationship that had been important to them. Julia would make a box for each person, incorporating an object they had chosen. These boxes would be displayed with headphones beside each one, so that while looking at each particular box the viewer could listen to the relevant recording. She got up from her chair and Max, thinking that she was going to the kitchen, lifted his head in expectation, but when she only crossed to the cassette recorder he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. ‘I spoke to this woman yesterday,’ she said. ‘The box will have fishing flies in it, what else I don’t know. I may subdivide the interior with panes of glass into a series of closed compartments, I haven’t quite decided.’ She put a cassette in the machine and pressed the play button. There was silence and then a woman’s voice, hesitant and uncertain.

  For years and years I never thought of him. There’s almost nothing to remember: there never was. That’s the whole point. We were both really young. It was my first job, and he was sent up from the country for a month’s training. What did he look like? I have no clear image of his face. He was pale, fair-haired, I suppose he had blue eyes but I honestly don’t remember. Big lad: big boned, heavily built, maybe a bit on the plump side. I’d say he had a weight problem when he got older. He had a big personality too. Not bullish or aggressive or anything, he wasn’t like that, not at all. I used to hear him laughing in the next room. He used to always buy a newspaper every day, one of the tabloids, I don’t know which one. The other people in the office used to say to him, ‘How can you read that rubbish, that rag?’ But then when he left it sitting around they’d pick it up and read it. And that drove him mad. I mean not really angry, he wasn’t that kind of person, it was just he didn’t like double standards. If they hadn’t criticised the paper and then asked for it he’d have given it to them. There’d have been no problem. He was straight, you know? There was no side to him.

  What else? His father was in the guards. I think he had a sister. He told me once that the thing he hated more than anything else was wearing brand new shoes and that if ever he was a millionaire he’d find someone with the same size feet as himself and pay them good money, just to break in his shoes. That would be their job. He told me his grandmother said she’d once seen a ghost but he thought she was making it up. I’m sure he’s forgotten me. I’m sure he’d be amazed if he knew this total stranger remembered all these little things about him.

  And then after a month he went away again. I don’t remember his leaving, just as I don’t recall the day he arrived. To be honest with you, I don’t think it bothered me greatly at the time. I’ve probably given the impression that we were close but we weren’t. We weren’t at all. That’s the point.

  My own father was a brute; he terrorised the whole family. I left home as soon as I could and swore I’d never have anything to do with men ever again. When I was twenty I was so – well, damaged is the only word for it, I suppose – that I wasn’t ready or able to learn the things this other man was teaching me without his even knowing he was doing it. That not all men were like my father. That there were decent, good men in the world too.

  One last thing: he was mad about fishing, this fellow. He didn’t like being in Dublin, couldn’t wait to get back down to the lakes again. One day when I came back after lunch he told me he’d bought some fishing flies, and he showed them to me. That’s my clearest memory of him: of the palm of his hand spread open, and lying on it all these little hooks with their coloured feathers, and him naming them for me. Claret Bumble. Sooty Olive. Black Pennell. Jacob’s Ladder.

  The effect of this was so powerful that for a few moments Roderic didn’t know what to say. ‘What gave you the idea?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I read something a while back that spoke of “the fragility of human relationships” and I immediately thought, No, that isn’t true. Or at least, it isn’t quite that. What’s extraordinary is how fragile and yet enduring they can be at the same time. I mean, look at my parents, what happened there and the effect it has upon my father to this day. Then I decided to explore the whole idea further. I’m not looking at families – siblings, parents and children – because I was more intrigued by the idea of people who started out as strangers to each other. It’s not just a question of how close you can ultimately get to someone, it’s also whether or not, having been close, or even having been somehow connected at all, you can ever really get away again.’

  ‘That’s a good way of putting it’

  ‘What do you think it is that makes the difference?’ she asked.

  He replied without a moment’s hesitation, ‘Children. Once you have children with someone you’re linked to them for the rest of your days.’

  Julia was silent and then she said again that he could borrow the book if he wished, that he could hold on to it for as long as he pleased. Roderic looked at her, trying to work out what was in her mind. ‘I don’t know what’s at the back of all this and I don’t particularly want to know, but I’ll tell you one thing: he’s not worth it’

  ‘Who?’ she said. ‘Max?’ But she did smile.

  Before he left that night he offered to take her to lunch on Saturday. They clattered down the stairs together and when she opened the front door they saw at once that the moon was full. When she went back upstairs she crossed to the window and stood for some time looking out. On a night such as this it was easy to see why ancient peoples had worshipped the moon. A veil of mist gave it the quality of opal, yet still its light was considerable, enough to cast shadows. Her father would have gone outside to admire it. She imagined him standing alone at the gable of the house at the edge of the silent orchard, the compass of his world lit by this cool benevolent light. Her father! He had said he was coming to Dublin in September: he would be here this weekend. She should have remembered that when Roderic suggested lunch. Frowning, she wondered how she might square these two things but then her thoughts drifted away again and she fell into a kind of reverie.

  She remembered a mysterious thing that had happened concerning the moon around the time she met Roderic, now more than a year ago. She had never spoken to him, nor indeed to anyone, about it because it had been an experience so strange that even now she found it difficult to say exactly what it was that had happened. Wandering the streets aimlessly, on that day too a kind of trance had fallen over her. Her gaze intensified until she felt she was completely entering into the life of the things she saw. She stopped outside a baker’s window full of doughnuts bristling with sugar, and split crusty loaves, ordinary things in themselves but the quality of their reality was different today, as though they had always existed and could never now not be. Turning away she glanced up and noticed the moon, a little sphere of white bone in the daytime sky, insignificant and unremarkable. But it was the moon and to see it was to be reminded of what the world was. It was to be made aware that the earth she stood on was also a globe suspended in the darkness of space.

  How busy it was in town today! She drifted to the edge of the pavement and the crowd thickened about her, waiting until the lit red figure would change to green. Then the traffic stopped and the people surged forward but still she stood there, jo
stled, lost, until the lights changed again. The state of heightened perception was still upon her. Once again the traffic drove past and a crowd began to gather, waiting to cross the road where she stood. She was aware of everything around her, the clear eyes of a small child carried in a papoose level with her face, the texture of an old woman’s skin, the chipped paint around the button for the lights. All the noises of the city, traffic, voices, a siren and above it all the sky’s blandness. And then it happened: whatever it was. All the noise died away, all movement abated, as if the world were slowing down on its axis, as if time itself were being held in suspension. And now, even as she stood at the heart of the city, she stood at the centre of complete stillness and silence. It was, she thought afterwards, as though she had somehow moved behind the sky. It was as if she were not just participating in the present moment – this one, here, now – but watching it from a great distance in both time and space. Everything around her no longer existed, had ended thousands of years ago. What she saw was an ancient shadow; the relentless immensity of the city was no more than a spark. Something had permitted her to glimpse behind reality. And then her consciousness broke. She was once more absorbed into the temporal world, its noise, its convincing solidity. The light changed to green but she didn’t want to cross the road. She turned away and was carried off up the street, became lost in the crowd.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The door of the building was ajar when he arrived so he pushed it open and went in. A small fair-haired woman in dungarees was in the poorly lit hallway, about to enter a door from which music came. Mozart: the clarinet concerto. The woman looked him over, taking in his briefcase, his shirt and his blue silk tie, his impeccably polished shoes.