by Tim Parks
I wldn’t mind, the fourth or fifth message said, if u’d gone away to DO something. Cleaver lay on his bed. E.g. to write the famous masterpiece, said the fifth or sixth. Remember? And the eleventh or twelfth added: Or even if u were with another woman … How does she know I’m not? he wondered. He smiled at the Tyrolese doll. The porcelain face seemed softer now he was getting used to it, the glittering eyes more credible. The sharp glitter, Cleaver remembered, in the mourning woman’s eyes was quite riveting. Olga, he said out loud.
Having succumbed to the messages, he was resisting the temptation to turn on the TV. Outside, the rain fell heavily, as it had fallen heavy and hard on the crowd gathered round the graveside. Three turns around the church – why? – and then the short procession to a fresh grave beside the outer wall. The woman was not grieving for her husband’s death, Cleaver reflected now. The set lips and fixed gaze, the chin held high, even as she sprinkled water over the coffin with a sprig of pine, were a declaration of self-assertion, of survival. What grieves Amanda, he decided, is the idea that I have got away, clean away, while someone in his grave can always be kept tabs on. You can sprinkle holy water over them. Of course, my father was away that fateful night, his elder son had written. Did he really have to write fateful? Do they really give literary prizes to people who use words just because they ask to be there? Fateful night. Tragic accident. Hopeless attempt. Breathed her last. Holding the phone inside the lampshade, right beside the bulb, Cleaver opened another message. These things happened years ago. His eyes strained. After all, he read, when u were with another woman, i knew u’d soon be coming back to me. My father would regularly stay out for the night, his elder son had written in his purportedly fictional autobiography, with this or that excuse, this or that story, the comedy of it being the way he tried to make his stories credible and the way Mother pretended to believe them, so that we twins were actually on the point of leaving home before we finally twigged. It is not so much, Cleaver decided, replacing the phone on the bedside table, his being wide of the mark that irritates me, nor even the thought of more or less everyone I know reading these hurtful half-truths, as that he couldn’t have written this without her collusion. Only Amanda could have told him that the Indian woman at the funeral was his father’s girlfriend. To this day, his elder son had written, etc. etc.
Cleaver stood up, found the remote, turned the television on. There was a noisy slither of violins. The flat grey screen was transformed into a deep field of colour where ballet girls spun in dizzying white. Furious, he turned it off at once. I must have the television removed from my room. He felt shaken. Seeing the quiet despair in his eyes, his elder son had written – could the boy really remember the expression on my face fifteen years ago? – I imagined I was discovering the vulnerable, human side to my father for the first time. My heart went out to him. Instinctively, I forgave him for not being at home the night it had happened. In the end they did not have the perfect relationship, and Mother, it has to be said, was no saint. What utter crap, Cleaver had fumed, reading this sanctimonious account of what, after all, was a thirty-year partnership, only hours before he was to interview the President of the United States. For two whole days he had been riveted by the book, entirely ignoring the piles of documents his research assistants had sent him. Instead, his elder son had written, when I realised that he had brought his girlfriend of the moment along, to his daughter’s funeral, when I saw him talking to the TV cameras outside the porch of the church, my blood ran cold. It seemed to me it had all been a show: my father had no real grief. Perhaps he had no real personality at all.
Cleaver found himself looking out of the window at the blank stone facade across the narrow street. You keep telling me you love me, Priya had said, but you won’t let me anywhere near your real life. There is no limit, it seems, to the years some words will reverberate. But how could he write, My blood ran cold? Watching the heavy rain come down, Cleaver wondered vaguely who that woman had been, jumping out of a taxi, dashing through puddles in the graveyard to catch the mourners. Was it a name, the word she had called? He couldn’t remember it. No real grief, he muttered.
Then all at once he knew he was in peril. I must react. He was trapped in this shabby room with a TV and a mobile and a doll. Cleaver glimpsed his jowly reflection dissolving in the wet glass. Perhaps I am about to have some sort of fit. I must not not not watch ballet, he announced out loud, not unless I go to watch it in the flesh, not unless I sit there for the duration in the flesh-and-blood presence of the real-life dancers. No, he actually wanted to have a fit, he realised now, to feel his mind seized and confounded. And I must not not not go to funerals unless they are my funerals. What business did I have scrutinising the faces of the mourners, a fat fifty-five-year-old in a red hiker’s waterproof, with no real personality?
Cleaver snatched open a drawer and pulled out a dry pair of trousers. What had become of his composure on the journey out here, he asked himself, of the decision so swiftly and confidently taken to live in silent dignity in some remote mountain habitation? Why can I never win this battle of being alone? It was his being alone that so shocked Amanda. He dragged the trousers up his thick legs. She doesn’t believe I can do it. Where was the sweater he had bought? I must get out of this horrible room, rain or no rain. He pulled the new wool over his eyes. My father was a quick-change artist, his elder son had written. He put on emotions like hats, yet at the same time, and however quickly he changed from one thing to another, he was always convincing. That evening, after Angela’s funeral, for example, I turned on the TV and saw the interview he had given to Newsnight, and he really was awesomely convincing: Disbelief, my father told the viewers. He was standing in the porch outside the church and he spoke softly and very slowly, you might even say seductively. His eyes were bright with pain. Nobody knew how to look into a camera like my father, to look right into a viewer’s heart. Nausea, he said. You know? Loss. His face really did seem as if only the most extraordinary act of will was keeping it from breaking into sobs. And then that terrible anger, he said, that comes from thinking, if only, you know, if only this, if only that … When all the while his mistress was standing not five yards away, the woman he had been sleeping with when my sister was bleeding to death on the pavement.
Who told you that? Cleaver demanded, buckling his trousers viciously into his paunch. He was aware that his mental state had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Your mother of course. Why does it have to rain now? Why can’t I go out and walk? The idea of living in a remote mountain habitation had been to walk and walk and walk. To walk himself into tranquillity. The South Tyrolese peasants were so composed at the funeral, Cleaver found himself remembering, so compact in their mourning, and that business of everyone sprinkling holy water over the grave, with pine sprigs. He turned his daughter’s funeral into an advertisement, his elder son had written, while cruelly showing off his mistress to friends, his Indian actress intellectual. Perhaps even at the graveside he was already planning his documentary on bereavement, screened not six months later, a truly excellent piece of work, all the critics and specialists agreed. Perhaps …
Rebut him, if that’s the problem, Amanda insisted when Cleaver had warned her of his imminent departure. Write a denial. Sue for libel. For Christ’s sake, take the envious little bastard to court! Show who you really are, Harry. You don’t have to throw our lives away after all these years just because your son’s written a spiteful book. You told him! Cleaver shouted in the gloomy room of the Unterfurnerhof. Why hadn’t he said it to her face? The doll’s eyes glittered unblinking. You play the lover when we’re making love, Priya complained – fifteen years ago if it was a day – but you never let me anywhere near your real life. I have to go, Cleaver had told her, hurrying into the night after receiving that call. That terrible call. Your daughter has had an accident. My father could act any part, his elder son had written, mimic any voice, only to tell you an hour later that all parts and voices were meaningless. No wonder Angel
a got lost in drugs and drink. I don’t let you into my real life, Cleaver told Priya, because there is no such thing. Which brings us, his elder son had concluded one of his chapters, to a curious contradiction in my father’s career: that while half the country was convinced that he had invented a masterful voice and TV manner that everybody else imitated – the news voice of the eighties no less – the other half was equally sure that he merely copied whatever flavour of the day was successful.
Who gives a fuck! Cleaver demanded. I am really shouting now, he realised. Who could ever begin to distinguish between imitations and originals in this crazy world! Who cares? Suddenly he kicked out at the cabinet holding the television. He has forgotten he only has socks on. Not wishing to walk dirt around, he had left his wet shoes downstairs in the porch. His toe crunched against the stout wood of the cabinet. Idiot! The pain shot up past his knee. Oh Christ. The doll stared. Then, as Harold Cleaver sat on the floor to grab and nurse his toe, swaying violently back and forth, the bedside table suddenly and strangely buzzed. Twice. Two sustained vibrations. Meanwhile, his elder son had written, Angela was really dead, there was nothing fake about that. The mobile, Cleaver realised. I should throw the thing out of the window. My sister had lost her way looking for something intense enough to be a counterweight to the constant drama of my parents’ unknottedness. BOOTS the message list said. Squinting, holding the phone at arm’s length, Cleaver could just make out the letters: Lovely afternoon in the park. Having tea with Larry. Wish it was u.
Cleaver crashed out of the room and down the stairs. Running on wooden boards in just his socks, he stumbled twice. Perhaps he had picked up a splinter. The foot was already painful. The dolls kept watch, floor after floor, window ledge after window ledge, in noisy silence. Why would anyone want so many, and all alike? Like quiz shows.
The Stube was empty, echoey, stale. Pulling on his walking boots in the porch, Cleaver isn’t sure whether he is planning to hobble up the mountain in the heavy rain, on and on upwards till he drops from exhaustion, or whether he will find a taxi somehow in the main street in Luttach and be back in Chelsea belligerent and bloody-minded before the clock strikes midnight. Even in the porch, there are two dolls, both with red ribbons in golden hair, and on the wall a large bunch of plastic flowers in a brass vase. There was no point, Cleaver knew, in rebutting this or that claim his son had made. Why would people living in the country keep plastic flowers? That wasn’t the problem. It isn’t. He hasn’t left the UK because of his son’s book. The mystery, for example, of Amanda’s having invited Priya to come to the funeral without even telling him remained one of the great unexplained mysteries of his life. Why didn’t I have it out with her? But fifteen years ago. And the beginning of the end of his relationship with Priya, of course. Who cares now? I don’t care. I’ve forgotten these things. The problem is living, Cleaver decided. Or rather, having lived, having a version of some kind that you can tell yourself. I couldn’t offer a more convincing one, he knew. My son’s book is nothing if not convincing. But I would never try. The more convincing a documentary is, my father used to say – and this, his elder son had written, was typical of his defeatist strategy – the more you can be sure it is omitting, or just plain lying. Under His Shadow, Cleaver remembered, made no mention at all of the fact that Larry Shiner was also at the funeral, that Amanda told me to say a quick word to Newsnight to get them to go away. A convincing story is always a lie; that was one of my father’s favourite lines. But this was still not the problem. I don’t need to be convinced of what happened, let alone convince anyone else. The porch smelt of wet dog, damp doormat. It was curious Amanda didn’t understand this. It’s curious he hasn’t seen the dog, since evidently there is one. Somehow the situation wouldn’t have arisen had it not been for the extraordinary farce of the interview with the President of the United States. I must shut my big mouth, Cleaver repeated. This is your only hope. Say nothing.
Wet shoes on his feet, wet waterproof on his back, wet hood pulled over his big bald head, Cleaver pushed open the door on a soaking street. The gale flung the rain at him. His cheeks were stinging. At least I never wrote my masterpiece, he thought. The temperature must have fallen ten degrees in a couple of hours. Already his trouser bottoms are damp. It doesn’t matter. With no idea where he was going, Cleaver forced his way against the wind to the corner of the street where he collided with Armin in full flight for home, his trumpet in his hand. Hurrying behind the boy were Frau Schleiermacher and Hermann. ’tschuldigung! Armin was shouting. He raced for the porch. Mister Englishman! Hermann cried. He was fighting to keep an umbrella over their heads. Mr Harold, where do you go bei diesem Wetter? He grabbed Cleaver’s shoulder. Rain was clattering on an awning. A van raised a slap of water from the cobbles.
Suddenly they were all back in the porch. Cleaver was aware that Frau Schleiermacher was telling him something quite animatedly. Her face seemed younger. The fine wrinkles round her eyes were alive with energy. What was she saying? She seems excited, happy. I have to look for somewhere to live, he protested. I want a place, high up. In this rain! Hermann had a naturally loud voice. His laughter was explosive. Everyone was cramped in the porch, unlacing shoes, struggling out of coats. We have a drink, Englishman, a drink! The man’s face was chill and bright, his blond moustache glistened. Hanging up his jacket, Armin turned and smirked. They’ve been drinking, Cleaver realised. Wonderful, Südtirol funeral, don’t you think, Mr Harold? Why do you not come after for the lunch? Lots to eat. Somehow, Cleaver had allowed himself to be pushed back into the Stube and was sitting damply at the big wooden table that the card players had sat at the first evening. Old Tyrol tradition, Hermann insisted. The crucifix was directly above him. Everybody welcome at a funeral! Now he had an arm round Cleaver’s shoulders. Katrin, Bier! Hoi, halt a mo!
Armin had been slipping off into the passageway by the stairs. Hermann called him back. Blos di Trompete! he boomed. The boy didn’t want to. His mother was fussing and humming behind the bar. She had turned on the lights. There were four heavy plastic shades pretending to be parchment. For some reason the bulbs seemed exceedingly yellow. The room was actually darker in their glow. Blos, blos, blos! Hermann clapped. He had a manic energy. He turned to Cleaver. Do you want that he plays? Cleaver nodded. Always merrier with music, he said. He was collecting his wits. Armin’s pale eyes flickered under the lank, dyed hair. He had stripped to his vest and his feet were bare. Why isn’t he freezing? Spiel là!
Unexpectedly, the boy lifted the trumpet to his lips and blew out his cheeks. The mournful notes of the funeral dirge rang out with a piercing sadness. Nein, nein, nein! Hermann was remonstrating. He said something rapid and persuasive, then turned to Cleaver: We are not in the Friedhof now! Cleaver didn’t understand. Armin had stopped. Friedhof, Hermann insisted. He was gesticulating. Grab. Tomba. Cimitero! Not now. Not yet! The man exploded with laughter. Pouting, Armin said something that ended in whisky. Shush! Hermann brought a dramatic finger to his lips and glanced over his shoulder in pantomime caution. He banged a fist on the pine table. Whisky! he shouted. Katrin! Do Engländer will an Whisky trinkn!
The trumpet began to play something jazzy, muddled and fast. Armin! Frau Schleiermacher protested. She was carrying a tray with beers. She had put on a blue apron. Haben Sie schon gegessen? she asked Cleaver. Nein, he said. Möchten Sie noch? Ja. He speaks German, Hermann shouted. Recht gutes Deutsch! Sitting with legs planted wide apart, the cowboy had begun to clap a rhythm. Is he really drunk, Cleaver wondered, or at that critical stage when people like to act drunker than they are?
Armin sat down to play his trumpet. Sitting near him, Cleaver was struck by the boy’s youthful presence, the smooth freckled pallor of his oval face. Clap! Hermann insisted. He had pulled his sleeves up on thick forearms. Cleaver laughed. It’s scandalous, he thought, how rapidly I can rediscover my party personality. Then he asked who had died. Whose funeral was it?
Hermann kept clapping. The trumpet squeaked and wheezed and sli
d over the notes. The boy was trying not to laugh as he blew. Oh when the saints, he began. He threw back his head, hamming it. Frau Schleiermacher returned with a platter of bread and speck and cheeses. She has a lovely, businesslike walk. There was a glass of whisky too. Whoever it was, you don’t seem very unhappy, Cleaver was saying.
Unhappy! Hermann roared with laughter. His eyes were brimming with tears. He pulled a face of mock misery. Katrin, Katrin! He caught Frau Schleiermacher’s long skirt as she turned to go, said something loud – et traurig! – clapped his hands in exaggerated mirth. She pulled a wry face, but with a shrewd, girlish grin. How erect and solemn she had been in the procession. That was a terrible man! Hermann shouted, a terrible man. No one is sad!
Armin gave a great blast on his trumpet, stopped, turned it upside down to shake out the spit and picked up the whisky that Hermann had supposedly ordered for Cleaver. Turning away for a moment, he downed it in one. Hermann spluttered applause. A terrible man! Better dead. But a lot of people came to the funeral, Cleaver objected. I thought he must be well loved. To celebrate! Hermann cried. A lot of people want to see sure he is dead! For a moment it seemed he would choke. Traurig!
Noch einmal Whisky, Cleaver called. Hermann was delighted. Der Engländer spricht Deutsch! Frau Schleiermacher turned with a look at once suspicious and indulgent. While I was plunged into crisis, Cleaver realised, the funeral has cheered everybody else up. The woman had fine ankles. It’s a cause for celebration.
