Original Bliss

by A. L. Kennedy

  “Helen, do I look insane? You know my opinions on that. Those things don’t make you happy. They just mean you can’t remember you’re depressed. Anyway, you’re not depressed.”

  He looked at her for too long.

  “Then what am I?”

  “If it wouldn’t make you sad to hear it, I think you’re bereaved.”

  So that was it. Now she could understand how he thought of her. That was good. His phone call, his attentiveness, new gentleness, his eagerness to offer her whatever came into his mind were all because she was God’s widow and that deserved respect.

  Helen was relieved, definitely mainly relieved. She could now accept Edward’s kindness without reservation because what they were to each other had been made quite clear. This was all good, entirely good; in no way disappointing.

  He strolled her back towards her hotel through a chain of pedestrian precincts and underpasses, not taking her arm when the crowds seemed to threaten, but somehow suggesting in his stance that he would be ready to do so, if required. Helen reassured him about her enjoyment of the heat, her lack of fatigue and the pleasantness of the lunch they’d shared. He submitted to each of her statements with a steady and caretaking smile.

  Edward would go away after this and she would have another rest until the evening and perhaps some room-service sandwiches. He had seen her through the end of her crisis, apparently, and there would be no need for her to bother him any more. No need for her even to write. Today she could think there was mercy beyond her in a place she couldn’t see and that her time would pass and she would be content. She would apply herself and look forward to that.

  “Here we are, then, home.”

  Edward nodded and held the hotel door out wide for her while she stepped inside. He followed and she turned to him.

  “That was . . . I do appreciate your letting me have such a lot of your time. When is your flight?”

  He shifted his weight very gently towards one hip and glanced away. “I had to leave the Summit— enough is enough—and I did intend to leave Stuttgart, yes. Then I changed my mind.”

  “Why?” Having asked this, she found she didn’t want to know.

  “I’m not sure. I think I needed a rest. You’ll know all about that. When I go back to London, I’ll be rushing straight into something. The sooner I get there, the sooner it starts and I want another two or three days to be on my own.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to spend so long with me.”

  “Oh no, that was just like being alone.” He flinched at himself. “I do apologise. That isn’t at all what I meant.” She let him pat at one of her shoulders. “I mean you were an absolute relief to be with. Very educated people—no—very educated academics are not always very intelligent and certainly not always good company.” He shook his head in almost serious despair at himself. “And all of this only proves what I said before—James Stewart would have told you the right thing there: that you are intelligent and good company. Of course, I managed to mess it up.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. From what I remember, James could be quite charmingly embarrassed. When he did mess up.”

  Edward looked out over her head and then let himself examine her, while she examined him. “Like I said—intelligent. I think I’d better get up to my room.”

  She let herself giggle. “No, wrong hotel. This is where I get up to my room.”

  “I didn’t say? I’m staying here now.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Well, I could hardly claim to be leaving Stuttgart if I didn’t even check out of my hotel.” He was taking pains to sound plausible. “Now I’m in hiding. Will you give me away?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Good.”

  They rode the lift together in silence, Helen thinking her way through a mainly numb surprise. Edward had chosen to stay here. He must have thought it might suit him—couldn’t be bothered to try somewhere else. That must have been it. That made sense.

  Edward’s floor slid down around them and together they jolted into place. He nodded to himself as he set off away from her, inclining his head round to say, “Obviously, this isn’t the last time we’ll meet, but I won’t impose. I have a lot here to keep me occupied. I promise.” He seemed keen to be reassuring—she must have appeared more concerned than she wanted to.

  “Goodbye, then, Edward.”

  He nodded to himself. “I hope not completely goodbye.” The lift door began to glide shut. “But I definitely won’t impose. See you.”

  She didn’t reply, the lift having closed against her before she could usefully speak.

  For two breakfasts, Helen approached the dining-room with a tick of anxiety in her chest. She couldn’t be sure if he would be there, already picking through the buffet, or if he might emerge while she drank her coffee and gathered her concentration for the day. Nothing would be more normal, people tended to eat their breakfasts at breakfast time, and he would probably come to sit with her because that would be the civil thing to do, but early-morning conversation usually left her in a state of unconditional defeat. She didn’t look forward to failing to impress.

  As an exercise, she tried to imagine the way she ate breakfasts at home. At home; that other place. She made an effort to think of what happened there. Did Mr. Brindle ever compliment her bacon, ask her to pass the jam? Helen found it difficult to remember. There was also something mildly irrelevant about that house, that kitchen, that tired stumble through tea-making and toast and being sure to put the milk in the fridge and the bread in the bread bin and not the reverse, even if you are crying tired, because you don’t want to excuse and explain yourself again; when the whole point to your situation is that it does not change and Mr. Brindle, you already know, hates explanations.

  But now her situation had changed. Helen was falling faster and faster and faster asleep. She had unreasonable energy and appetite. When she flew back to Scotland, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself looking different. Mr. Brindle might not like her different.

  “My husband doesn’t understand me.”

  She practically did say that out loud. As if the snugly breakfasting couples and tidy families would have the remotest interest in the way that her life had been melted down into an unconvincing sexual cliché.

  Of course, she needn’t have worried, not as far as being joined for breakfast went. Edward either didn’t like food in the mornings, or ate it in his room. He was true to his word and did not impose. Edward neither purposely disturbed her nor crossed her path accidentally when she slipped out to visit the gallery, or to buy Mr. Brindle a present from the specialist hologram shop.

  Helen was aware that if a person was expecting someone, even in an uneasy way, and that someone did not then arrive, a person might feel disappointed. That person might miss the opportunity of finding that someone inconvenient.

  Added to which, Helen had a very good reason for speaking to Edward again. She wanted to say how much better she was. She could not do anything but delight in walking for hours without feeling faint, or buying and eating two whole pretzels on impulse and then a slice of apple cake, because the food was there and she was there and she wanted to eat very much. When strangers looked at her, their eyes did not pause for an instant too long, clouding with concern or embarrassment. She was smiling out and other people were smiling in. If there was still only minor comfort from the world beyond this one, she was at least finding a compensation in things present and tangible. It would only be fair to thank Edward for his part in that.

  By her third unattended breakfast, Helen began to wonder how long Gluck would be in Stuttgart. Maybe he’d already left and not told her. This seemed unlikely but not completely out of the way. More to the point, she was only staying for two more days herself. Then she would have to go home.

  People went home all the time, it was something they liked to do, because home was a comfortable feeling and not just a building they’d lived in before. Helen knew this in theory, but not in experien
ce.

  “Edward?”

  “Hello?” His voice was slightly cautious and faint along the line as she sat on her bed and wondered about the best things to say in the call.

  “Edward?”

  Now she could hear him being happy. “Oh. Hello. It’s Helen, isn’t it?” He was happy to hear her. “How nice. What day is it?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “That’s precisely what I mean. When I’m very involved in something, I lose track.” He sounded more preoccupied than brusque, but she was sorry she’d disturbed him.

  “No, no. You haven’t disturbed me. Thursday already . . . I wouldn’t have guessed that. And you’re leaving me when?”

  “I’m leaving you—I’m leaving Stuttgart on Saturday morning.”

  “Then, if you’ll forgive me, I won’t suggest that I take you for dinner. There are things I have to finish with here.” Helen felt a blunt disappointment nudging in. “But if you wouldn’t mind, if you’re not doing anything else, I would really appreciate if we had a drink together in the first-floor bar at something like nine. Or half past. That would do me a monstrous favour, actually.” He was trying too hard again, being too studiously polite. “I need a break. And I want to say cheerio. And see how you are. Of course. How are you?”

  “Well. Very. Nine would be good.”

  “That’s splendid. I shall aim towards you then.”

  “Nine it is.” As she spoke, the hot metal smell of prohibition breezed in about her—a signal that something of God might not be too far away, because even if He was a He, God disapproved of men. Helen had always been taught that, and told not to meddle with them.

  But she didn’t intend to meddle, so all she had to do was appreciate the clearer trace of Presence in her room.

  “Helen, don’t go.”

  His voice snatched her back to the receiver.

  “I wasn’t. What’s the matter?”

  “Well, no, there’s nothing the matter. Do I sound as if there is?”

  “A bit.”

  “Oh. No, I’m only tired. Don’t worry. I . . . I wanted to thank you for calling. That’s all. I needed this, really.” He did sound tired. “One of the hazards of the Process, or of the powers it will release, is an increase in one’s capacity to focus on an activity for very long periods. This can be extremely useful, but it can also be extremely like going to jail. I forget I own the pass key. Um, listen, my room is 307, could you knock on my door and come to get me? I’d hate to lose the place again. Help me with that, could you? Hm?”

  So at a touch before nine o’clock—it does no harm to be prompt—Helen rode the lift to Edward’s floor and walked along a hallway he must have been quite familiar with by now and reached his door and waited. She realised she had no ideas about what to do next.

  “Edward? Edward.”

  She could hear movement and then a shout. “Hello. Yes.”

  “Well, should I knock, or should I tell you who it is?”

  “Never called on a gentleman in his hotel room, hm?” The shout was nearer.

  “No.”

  “I don’t know if,” a lock turned, “gentleman is exactly accurate . . .” and the door eased open. “Anyway, never mind knocking, just come in. Oh, yes, and maybe tell me who you are.” His gaze slithered below her face.

  “Me.”

  He shook his head slightly as if trying to clear his mind, offered her a nod, a grin. “Oh. Hello, me. Hello, you. Good. Good.”

  307 was not untidy, more like dishevelled. The furniture and fittings made a left-handed copy of her own room, two floors above, but there was a smell of human warmth here, not unpleasant but slightly unexpected, intimate. Edward, who was not dishevelled, more like untidy, waved her towards a seat as he struck out purposefully for the bathroom.

  “I am ready and I was expecting you, all I need to do is shave. Obviously. Sorry. Sit down. Won’t be long.”

  Sure enough, the abrasive buzz of an electric razor worried into life and Helen waited, glanced around. Edward’s desk was mountainous with papers, articles, folders and what she assumed were his hand-written notes. In the same way she tended to look through other people’s windows when they left them bared at night, Helen had never been able to resist the attractions of a working table-top.

  She slipped over to stand above his papers while Edward continued shaving with what sounded like considerable force. This was where he worked— where he was a genius for real, pacing his mind against itself with no one ahead to stop him and no one behind him to fear.

  While taps ran in the bathroom, she had enough time to scan diagrams in heavy black ink, sheets of dense typing and a stack of photographs. She could have examined all the pictures, but the first one stopped her. Initially, Helen tried to understand it and was pausing simply to do that, but then its meaning decoded completely in a rush and she stood and looked and stood and looked because the image wouldn’t let her remember that she could do anything else.

  The girl had shockingly white skin and made a remarkable background for her hair which shone, oil-black and long enough to rest on her shoulders. A dark stubble showed at her underarms and a fuller shadow glistened between her legs. Her mouth was pursed in something like concentration. Beneath the girl was a man, also stripped but almost hidden, and beneath him was a chair, hardly visible. The girl’s weight seemed borne almost entirely on her braced calves and arched feet. There was visible tension in her thighs. Also there was the other thing: what they were doing.

  After an indeterminate time, Helen stepped back and to the side and paused, avoiding an opinion of any kind. Gluck emerged: tie neat, cuffs buttoned, cheeks thoroughly cleaned and smoothed. The combination of fresh aftershave and laundered cloth made her think instantly of home and good evenings she could remember having a while ago. This was the scent of being close and then going out to move among strangers and get closer still. Edward smiled and she didn’t join him.

  When he asked her, they were in the lift. “You saw those photos, didn’t you? On my desk.”

  “Yes. No. Only one.” Her left side was against the safely carpeted wall, her right side towards him.

  “I thought you had. I’m sorry they upset you. They are upsetting.” He rubbed at one of his eyes. “I am . . . ahm . . . conducting research into paraphilia, Helen. And a group I advise is trying to treat men who have an addictive use of pornography. They are people who deserve our sympathy, our help.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Don’t say that, if you aren’t going to mean it.” He spoke softly without facing her.

  “I’m sorry. I misunderstood.”

  “That’s all right. Understandable.”

  The lift doors opened and she tried not to step out too fast. Edward hung back, eventually being forced on to the landing to save being shut back inside and dropped away. Then he stood and watched her until he seemed satisfied she would hear him out.

  “I wouldn’t have shocked you for anything. I’m sorry. I was too tired to think straight; I should have cleared the damn things away. They’re not even necessary. But please understand, these people need help. We’re not talking about recreational use—that kind of relaxation—whatever you happen to think of it. We’re looking at a group of men who make themselves almost incapable of sustaining relationships with other human beings in the real world. If they ever have intimate partners, they can’t cope. Their jobs come under threat, they lose interest in their surroundings, they don’t eat, their lives are centred around a satisfaction they find harder and harder to achieve. De-conditioning can help them to an extent, but they need something better than that. I hope to find that better something.” He rested his palms at both of her shoulders and let her study his face. “I am sorry. Please. Helen.”

  “Please what? I don’t know what you’re asking me for.”

  “Help me not to spoil our night.”

  As he dipped his head forward, she understood she should kiss his cheek and that made them fine again,
sorted out.

  Edward shut his eyes and released a breath. “Come into the bar and talk to me—so I don’t think about all of that pain.” He looked sad tonight and there was a hesitancy, a light hurt laid across the way he moved. “Will you do that?”

  “Yes. I can do that. Anyway, I’ll try.”

  Edward’s third wheat beer was mostly done when Jimmy Stewart decided to put an appearance in. “Aaaw, you know, I think we should drink a toast to good old Bailey Park.” Edward was trying to please her, to joke her out of the stillness that fell whenever she thought of leaving Stuttgart and goodbyes. “Whadaya think?”

  “Bailey Park? You’ll have to tell me, I don’t know it.”

  Genuinely amazed, Edward let Jimmy’s drawl desert him. “Bailey Park. You really don’t know? Don’t remember? But you’re such a clever woman with everything else.”

  She felt pleased out of all proportion, but muffled her smile.

  “Everybody has blind spots. How are you at choux pastry?”

  “Okay, you’ve got me there.” He couldn’t suppress a type of grin. “Pastry, though, I don’t mean to . . . but I can’t imagine you. You standing in a kitchen, making pastry.”

  “I did try standing in the garden, but the flour kept blowing away.”

  “Should have tried the flour bed, hm?” He sipped his drink, trying out an expression that she hadn’t seen before. He was being careful until he could tell if she’d let him be daft. For the first time, she realised he was wary of what she might think.

  “Go on, less of your nonsense.”

  He peered down at his feet, apparently on the verge of being happy. She tapped at his hand.

  “Tell me about Bailey Park. Complete my education.”

  “Well, Bailey Park was the housing estate that George Bailey built in It’s A Wonderful Life. People left their overpriced, rented slums—you never had to see them, you could imagine—and they went to live in the houses that George had built them with the money they’d invested in the good old Building and Loan. It was like a possible Promised Land. Good houses and good people, doing good things—the whole place made the way that George would like it. Good old George. So here’s to Bailey Park.”