‘The Palace. That’s ironic, right?’ He looks down at the dingy carpet, then up at the flyspecked light shade and the battered wood panelling.
‘Again, I suggest you read your introductory pack.’ Luckily she’s still looking more like a schoolteacher than a siren. ‘The Palace has always been the name of the institute, regardless of location, from the first year that Geoffrey founded it.’
‘That introductory pack! It sounds a must-read. What a great way to kill some time before we meet again at our too-early dinner.’ Bright sticks out his hand. ‘Thanks, Dr —’ But although he now trusts his hand (she takes it, briefly, in a soft smooth palm) he doesn’t trust his tongue. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
His toe is hurting, his head aches. It’s been a rough start and, clearly, he’s bungled things without meaning to. How does he end up alienating people so quickly? He almost apologises, but there’s a lump in his throat so large that he simply sketches a wave and starts off down the long corridor. A month! It stretches ahead of him: dull, suffocating, unendurable. Soon he’s muttering under his breath, just to keep himself walking. ‘Chlorine, garlic, scorn, new shoes. Chlorine, garlic, scorn…’
PEAS, BEANS AND STORMS
THE NEW BUILDING IS long and low, lying like a whitish slug behind the old hotel, connected to it by a badly laid strip of asphalt. As Gibby enters the foyer he feels as if he’s in a flimsy plastic-coated doll’s house. One good puff of wind and they’ll all be whipped off to Oz.
‘You’re late!’ Admin is pinning up lists on the communal notice board and speaks without turning around. ‘Dinner starts at seven, you know.’
‘I didn’t realise we had to turn up on the dot.’ He peers at Admin’s mannish watch.
‘Regular living creates regular minds,’ she replies, vigorously driving pins through paper. But when she turns and sees that it’s Gibby hovering behind her, she relents. ‘Well, not to worry. The first few days are always chaotic. And Bavarians seem to have a similar attitude to Californians when it comes to food. Vast quantities of everything, so even if you’re late you won’t miss out.’
‘What about you? Are you joining us?’
‘Far too busy to eat.’ Computer printouts fly from Admin’s hands like lightning bolts from Zeus. ‘I have to get these up before Geoffrey arrives.’
‘Who’s Geoffrey — the director?’ Gibby holds his hands out like a paper-catcher.
‘He insists on using first names.’ Admin purses her mouth. ‘He’s extremely casual in that respect. Personally, I believe it’s advantageous to maintain a certain distance. To avoid improprieties, you understand.’ Her fingers hover at the neck of her blouse, checking that it’s fastened all the way up to her chin. ‘But his ways have always been somewhat unconventional.’
‘Where is he?’ Gibby glances over his shoulder. ‘Is he in there?’
‘The dining hall? Goodness no, he’s still en route from St Petersburg. Now, can you see a rubbish bin, dear? Geoffrey always expects rubbish bins. Do you think Southern Germans don’t see the need for them?’
‘Sorry, I’m not familiar with Bavarian refuse habits.’ Gibby takes a deep breath. ‘I suppose I’d better find some dinner.’
‘Where’s your friend Grace?’ Admin sharpens. ‘I hope she’s not skipping meals already. Non-compulsory attendance is something else Geoffrey insists upon. But missing dinner never does anyone any good.’
‘She may be in there already.’ Gibby skirts the issue.
‘That’s all right then.’ Admin snaps a rubber band around the errant printouts. ‘Mens sana in corpore sano. Don’t forget!’
Peering through the smeared glass doors, Gibby feels anything but healthy. He wants to turn on his heels and sprint. Last night’s Welcome Buffet had been mercifully brief, held in a shabby conference room. Paper plates, plastic cups, desultory introductions — and Lace at his side. But entering a hall full of talking, seated people whose names he’s already forgotten is completely different. He feels as if he’s back in school swimming class, and has to remind himself that lingering on the diving board was far worse than entering the water.
‘Is everything all right, dear?’ Admin rustles behind him.
‘Fine!’ says Gibby, and he rushes loudly through the swing doors like the newly arrived stranger in a western.
Low ceilings, hot lights, clattering cutlery, smeared conversation. (He’s in, at least.) Keeping his head down, he walks as quickly and unobtrusively as he can towards yet another buffet.
‘Sorry!’ He’s bumped against the chair of someone he met last night — a Swedish painter with bitten-down fingernails and skin so pale it might never have seen the sun. ‘Hello, again!’ — this time to the small fierce Canadian man with a battered nose. By the time he’s reached the salad bar he’s sweating all over, and the fluorescent lights are buzzing ominously. Not here, not now. He concentrates on the memory of Lace, her shoulders hunched under her blanket. He’s on a mission: eat fast, get out. No time for an episode.
Picking up a plate, he stares around cautiously. What Admin optimistically calls the dining hall is, in fact, a cafeteria. Round plastic-topped tables, bucket chairs, a tiled floor. In the centre of the room is a large table where the loudest, most confident people have gathered. Around them, at smaller tables in clusters of twos and threes, are those who are shy, nervous, or perhaps merely contemplative.
Carefully, he places a few cherry tomatoes on his plate. They roll about like marbles, and he fences them in with some vinaigretteladen green beans.
‘Hello, Giddy!’ It’s one of the twins from last night — but which one?
‘Nice to see you again, Giddy!’ The second one emerges, seemingly from her twin’s shadow. Both girls have soft brown hair and smooth olive skin — and both have his name wrong.
‘Where’s your friend?’ they ask in unison.
Gibby offers the tongs to the nearest twin. ‘She isn’t feeling well tonight. It came on about an hour ago, quite suddenly.’
‘It must have been the Welcome Taramasalata!’ The girls nod in perfectly coordinated concern, their bobbed hair shining above their round white collars. ‘We thought it looked too pink. Mass-produced roe products are notorious for food poisoning.’
‘I don’t think it’s that. But thanks for the warning. I see it’s making an appearance again tonight.’
The girls laugh in a unified arpeggio, their eyelashes fluttering over plates piled with creamed corn. ‘Lace is so beautiful —’ says one. ‘That we thought she might be a film star,’ finishes the other.
‘She’s certainly a star,’ he agrees, ‘but not a film star. Just a regular one.’
‘Oh, Giddy! You’re so funny.’ They’re laughing again, breathlessly, and it’s strangely contagious. Now Gibby also starts laughing, staggering a little, without meaning to. Standing in a line — Gibby, Twin, Twin — giggling, they offer each other spoonfuls of curried sausage and mashed potato, hands rising and falling over the warm steel trays.
Finally all plates are full, and their lungs are empty. ‘See you for dessert, Giddy,’ nod the Twins, hurrying back to their table.
‘It’s Gibby!’ But it’s too late. He’s left, misnomered and marooned, beside the tureen of stew.
Where shall we sit? That’s what he’d say if Lace were with him. But she’s back in the old building, alone in her room, watching the darkness pressing against the blank windows. He feels draughty and exposed: is there a window open? But looking behind him he sees only a closed serving hatch, and hears the faint roar of a dishwasher.
The Twins are now seated with another girl, three heads in an impassable, impossible huddle. The broken-nosed Canadian boxer and an elderly man with a pinched mouth sit in silence, ignoring their food and each other, concentratedly reading magazines. The noise from the centre table is like a swelling fountain in the middle of the room. Chairs tip backwards and thump forwards again, and Gibby’s hands become slippery; he drops his fork and catches it against his chest, so his shir
t is indented with four parallel marks.
Over near the steamy windows, at a mottled grey plastic table, is one lone red-haired person. ‘Is it all right if I sit here?’ Without knowing how, Gibby is standing beside him.
Blazing hair, thin face, brilliant green eyes. ‘Sure,’ he nods. ‘Just finishing a postcard.’ He returns to his task, writing in small capitals like a low shout. ‘I was kidnapped by the driver and taken to bavaria.’
Gibby sits quietly on the other side of the table and shovels sausage into his mouth. In spite of the low ceiling and the too-loud talk, in spite of the fact that Lace has begun to cry again and is unable to get out of bed, in spite of the erratic mobile-phone coverage which means he can’t check up on his mother — in spite of these things, he feels reasonably steady. Now he’s spent two nights away from home. Sixteen hours of rest in a foreign bed, and rarely has he slept so dreamlessly, nor woken with such a blessedly vacant mind.
The boy looks up. ‘Well, that’s done. Just informing Eduardo that I’m not in the Swiss Alps, in case he decided to drop in on his way back from Monte Carlo.’
‘You were supposed to be in the Swiss Alps?’ Gibby speaks through a mouthful of meat and onions.
‘To be honest, I really don’t know. I stopped answering my phone, which seems to have been a big mistake. Let’s just say I’m here by accident.’ The boy starts to laugh. ‘Yes, that’s what started all this. One large, dramatic accident.’
Gibby watches him shaking salt over his dinner. The thin wrists, the slightly hectic flush, the nervous but definite movements — they’re familiar. ‘I’m sorry,’ he admits. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.’
‘How could you? We’ve never met before.’
‘But weren’t you at —’ He tries to recreate last night’s shuffling crowds but dredges up only the unwelcome image of a large garrulous woman from Ohio devouring a pork knuckle.
‘The Welcome Wiener Buffet? No, I needed to catch up on sleep. Seems we’ll be served sausages every night, anyway. So have you been here before?’
‘To The Palace?’
‘No, Bavaria. I came here once, on a school trip. All I remember is the horrifying sight of grown men in leather shorts.’
Gibby laughs. ‘I thought that was only in films.’
‘Nope. An unfortunate phenomenon all over Munich. Though even lederhosen might be preferable to being stuck out here.’ Now that his flush has faded, he looks almost haunted. ‘I can’t stand the countryside. It scares me. The layers of silence.’
‘Wait till you go to the village!’ Gibby raises his eyebrows. ‘It’s a whole new level of scary.’ He rears back. ‘What the —!’ A bread-roll has soared over his head and landed with a splosh on his plate.
‘Sorry!’ The diners at the large table are hooting, leaning back on their chairs, staring over at them. ‘That was Andre’s fault,’ calls one of them. ‘He can’t catch.’
‘May I?’ Deftly, the red-haired boy fishes the roll out of Gibby’s food and lobs it back. It flies like a sodden homing pigeon, scattering gravy behind it.
Gibby mops around his plate with a too-thin paper serviette. ‘Idiots.’
‘They certainly don’t look like geniuses, do they?’ The boy is surveying the rest of the room through the bottom of his water glass. ‘Not a single one of them. But then I suppose nor do we.’
‘Geniuses? Why would you expect them to look like geniuses?’ Gibby blots up the excess sauce with his cuff.
‘Oh, not that it was specified. Not in so many words. But wouldn’t you think that the researchers would need not only the experience itself, but also high levels of articulacy and self-awareness, to enable the best possible descriptions of the experience? They’ve handpicked us pretty carefully, after all.’ Putting down his glass, the boy stares hard at each table. ‘No, not them. Definitely not them. Hmm, maybe them. They could be the Close-to-Genius Club.’
‘There were some fairly stringent entry criteria,’ agrees Gibby, bemused. ‘But I thought it had more to do with places being limited, and also the desire for a well-balanced group.’
‘Well-balanced?’ The boy raises his water-glass monocle again. ‘I don’t see any evidence of that, either. Perhaps we’re going to be divided into different streams.’
‘I did see group lists being put up on the noticeboard.’
‘Aha! So there are to be sheep and goats, then?’ Looking satisfied, the boy picks up his fork and starts to eat.
‘Maybe.’ Gibby feels doubtful. From his brief glimpse of Admin’s lists, he’d gathered that sub-groups were divided alphabetically. ‘I’m Gibby, by the way.’
‘Bright.’ The boy sticks out his left hand while his right remains perfectly steady in mid-air, loaded with a pile of bright-green peas.
And with that, the night of the newspaper building is back in Gibby’s head. The darkness, the light shards, the smashed newspapers, the terror. Sweat under his arms: Is there anyone but me to take care of this? The limp head, the lolling tongue and split mouth. ‘Hello,’ he says hoarsely, forcing himself to take the boy’s hand.
He grips the sides of his chair. Too late. It’s already happening. The speckled table is stretching apart with a loud ripping sound, turning into an expanse of complex molecules roped together by sinewy gluey strands. Boing! It’s Bright’s glass being placed on the springy plastic surface and the sound is deafening. Slap! Slap! Again, painfully loud. This is the water slapping against the sides of the glass, waves against a breakwater.
‘Jesus Christ,’ mutters Gibby, holding even more tightly to his chair, his knuckles cracking. Everything is moving and shuddering: salt grains rattle like gravel, paper serviettes chafe like the palms of aged men. From behind him comes a cacophony of scraping and clanging. Can it really be chairs and cutlery? It sounds like the din of a battlefield.
The Boy Who Jumped is saying something, but as he speaks he puts down his fork — and Gibby is transfixed by the shifting roaring plate. Peas clashing, sprouts splintering into green shards, beans splitting open with loud groans. Beyond the localised chaos, he hears a rising shriek like twin jet engines — making him instinctively close his eyes and duck.
‘Those twins.’ Bright’s voice filters through the noise. ‘For such small people, they’ve got horribly loud laughs.’
Although his first phrase booms like a sound check in a stadium, by the end of the sentence his voice level sounds almost normal. Cautiously, Gibby opens his eyes. It hasn’t been this bad for a long time.
‘You okay?’ Bright is scrutinising him, with eyes as green as the peas still on his fork.
Gibby gulps some water and wipes his forehead. ‘I’m fine!’ But Bright’s gaze is too intense for him in his weakened state, and he stares at the table to steady himself.
‘You’re freaked out by my food choices.’ Bright sighs. ‘Admit it.’
‘Your food choices?’ Gibby glances at Bright’s dinner and feels nothing but relief. The plate sits perfectly still on the tabletop, which has pieced itself together again.
‘The fact that they’re all green.’ Bright chivvies the food around with his knife. ‘I was hoping for wasabi, for a dash of exoticism. Overly optimistic given the country we’re in.’
‘I hadn’t noticed any colour scheme,’ says Gibby truthfully.
‘My father interprets this sort of action on my part as provocation — a deliberate attempt to confuse or distract. The last time we were forced to have dinner together, I was in an alphabet phase. Every comment I made had to include at least one word beginning with P.’
Gibby’s eyes widen. ‘That sounds strenuous.’
‘It stretched my vocabulary and my concentration to the limit,’ agrees Bright. ‘I didn’t want to be banal, so there were some unexpected results. My father accused me of wanting to show up my stepmother’s poor linguistic abilities. It was an unnecessarily rancorous evening.’ He stares down at his mono-coloured dinner, suddenly bleak. ‘It says a lot about his insecurities, don�
��t you think? If you had an obvious P evening, wouldn’t your parents ask why, rather than assuming it was an insult?’
Gibby hears a quick burst of noise (shouting commentator, shouting crowds, a shouting Mrs Lux: the Melbourne Cup, or the Grand National?). ‘To be honest, my parents don’t listen to me much. I’d have to offer a hundred and eighty channels and be operated by remote control to get my mother’s full attention.’
‘You’re lucky.’ Bright pushes away his half-eaten greenery. ‘My father thinks everything I do is carefully planned to annoy him. If he weren’t so in awe of God, he’d place himself at the centre of the universe.’
‘Why do you do the food colour thing?’ Gibby looks at Bright’s pointed elbows, his toothpick-thin body hunched in his chair. ‘Is it some sort of special diet?’
‘If I don’t do it,’ says Bright, in a rational and certain voice, ‘I’ll die. I have to set challenges for myself, just to get through the days. My childhood set the pattern for my life: moments of terror, interspersed with periods that were the colour and consistency of porridge. Early on, I developed a strategy to save myself. Daily games. Weekly tests. Monthly experiments. Anything to stop myself sinking.’
‘Does it work?’ Gibby’s forehead is clammy; he wants to tell Bright where they’ve met before but his stomach twists at the thought. Too soon. Not the right place. A coward’s excuses, he knows, and he despises himself, even while letting himself temporarily off the hook.
‘Most of the time.’ Bright stares at the ceiling, his voice deliberately careless. ‘I’ve found it best not to rely on other people for entertainment. Or, for that matter, to save you.’
Gibby tries to nod, but the tiny action sets his head swimming.
‘Keeping oneself interested is the key to staying alive. It’s such a short step from boredom to despair.’ Bright gives a short, odd laugh. ‘Don’t you ever feel you’re going to go mad with boredom?’
Suicide Club, The Page 20
