Cleaver

by Tim Parks

  My mind was so deeply embedded in all that electronic back and forth, Cleaver remembered. The text message certainly makes an affair easier, but that doesn’t mean it’s an instrument of freedom. How thick the web had become. And Amanda texting him too. Constantly. BOOTS, her name appeared on the display. Having a coffee at Georgie’s. Kisskiss. Have u seen hoo won Cannes? Kisskiss. Whatever the picture painted in Under His Shadow, Cleaver had definitely been kinder to his partner after Angela’s death. And she to him. Bereavement brought us together. It was a brilliant move, Cleaver realised now, on Amanda’s part, to let our respective lovers witness our togetherness in suffering, to invite both of them to the funeral. What affair could survive such a revelation? Larry too had become a kind of ghost, Cleaver had sensed it. Unlike Priya, though, he had lacked the courage to let the dead bury their dead. Goodbye Harold, Priya said. A simple goodbye. She was gone. But Larry continued to haunt. Perhaps these later girls understood that I wanted to hear their troubles. They sensed I wanted more than sex. And that’s probably why they gave themselves to me: I was hardly an attractive physique after all. I wanted sadness, Cleaver thought. Jolly sex and sadness. Certainly I never solved anyone’s problems. Rather, I became part of their stalemates. They understood at once that no relationship with Cleaver would ever go anywhere. You wanted them to be real relationships – this was the truth – precisely in order that they go nowhere. We have so much potential, Sarah sighed.

  Potential! Cleaver lay still. The words are on his lips now: The death of a talented young woman, he whispered into the shadowy air of the dusty room, a talented and pregnant young woman, your daughter to boot, is more or less equivalent to the death of meaning, tout court, is it not? The music Angela would never play, the love Angela would never know. That was when your mind detached itself from the world, when you began your journey to Rosenkranzhof. You could not take a talk show seriously after Angela had died. Not really. You would not fight to keep Priya. Truth was understanding the illusion of potential. There is no point, he told Giada. And Sandra, and the others. Each time, with each girl, you savoured the death of that potential, of the thing that cannot be, the death of the young woman. He definitely chose them younger after Priya. Love was most present to me, Cleaver decided, when both near and impossible, when savoured but already lost, in the unreal space of the hotel bedroom. A future that wasn’t to be.

  Cleaver remembered a girl whose nervousness getting past the reception desk of the Kensington Palace Hotel always brought on an attack of runs. She was so grateful that he didn’t mind. And yet you didn’t give up the talk shows. He chewed a lip. Or the sex. You didn’t stop behaving, or appearing to behave, like a jolly roué. My father jealously defended a celebrity he claimed to despise, his elder son had written, no doubt because it guaranteed him a constant supply of ingenuous young women. He had given Melanie five-thousand pounds to pay her way through drama school. What would the critics think if the boy had stuck that in his book? Her father was a rich man, but insisted the girl pay her own way. I want you to realise your potential, Cleaver had told her. She was barely adult, on the brink. How many years had gone by like this? You must find another boyfriend if you want a family, he had told Sandra. He had certain formulas now. You should have a family, he told her. There was a solemnity to it, a ceremony of loss. Of all of them it was Sandra who had understood him most and most refused to accept what she understood. Run away with me, she insisted. Astride his thighs, she daubed MY MAN on his stomach with menstrual blood. He remembered her reaching a hand between her legs then smearing the blood on his stomach.

  Angela died while I was with Priya.

  Cleaver shook his head. The room brooded. A whole month has gone by and you have got nowhere, he announced. Crossing the roof, the piped water murmured its prayers. You have made no progress. A month of silent living and you are still buzzing with interviews, with protests, with accusations. You see an abandoned piece of agricultural junk in the midst of the most breathtaking landscape and at once you are thinking about the conundrum of freedom, coercion, sexuality. You are thinking about yourself. Same when he had seen two large and ugly beetles toiling over each other among the pine needles. Endless reflections.

  Cleaver tried to lie still and concentrate on the small sounds of the house. Something creaked somewhere. If I could see the landscape as a whole, he decided, when I was out walking, or even just standing at the window; if I could apprehend the wholeness of it, perhaps then this voice and the past would dissolve outward into that whole and the mind would be still. Or if you could just concentrate concentrate concentrate on the simplest of physical truths – a rock, a tree – and really get the damn thing into your skull. Hadn’t that been the plan, the first or second day: to contemplate simple silent shapes and forms, cutting out all the noise, the television and traffic and text messages, really to be there where you actually were with the objects around you, eliminating all false consciousness, eliminating false interest in things you had no connection with, developments in Sudan, gay-couple adoptions? Yet a month later, in a silent room lit by a smoky oil lamp, the mind was even louder than everything it had rejected. The mind was deafening. Did the old Nazi talk to the troll? he wondered. It was the waterfall in the deep wood. Is that a solution or a symptom? I must stop talking to Olga, Cleaver decided. I should get rid of her. After all, it wasn’t my plan to bring her here. She was foisted on me. He remembered Frau Schleiermacher’s laughter. Ihr Mann ist ein Jäger, Hermann chuckled. A hunter. Pam, pam. I will lock her up in the cupboard with the troll, Cleaver suddenly thought. Or chuck them both off the ledge into the void. Please Harry. It was Amanda’s voice. He heard it quite distinctly.

  Cleaver is sweating now. Did you remember your tranquillizers, Harry? How well she knows me. Having T with Larry. Wish it was U. How many messages she must have sent these last weeks, not even knowing whether he was reading them. How many interviews my son will have given. Maybe he did win the prize. He’s famous. They’re making the movie. If I phone him he will insist it was fiction. It’s just a novel, Dad. He is expecting me to phone. If you can’t concentrate on a single visual image, Cleaver decided – which after all was hard in this flickering lamplight – perhaps you could just repeat a single word. One word, muttered over and over, would break the flow. He assumed that was what mantras were about. A sort of crowbar to smash one’s way out of the trap of reflection. Even you, Mr President, once had a serious alcohol problem. Isn’t that so?You needed help. Troll. Cleaver began. The word had a nice round dull sound. Troll, troll, troll, troll, troll, troll.

  Cleaver fingered the rosary beads. Mantras and beads couldn’t be far apart. Didn’t they have prayer wheels, blown by the wind, or turned by mountain streams? Not unlike the cowbells. The world was turned into a praying machine. Prayers that kill thought, Cleaver told himself. Perhaps that was what religion did. Troll, troll, troll, troll, troll, troll. It was close to doll too. Troll doll troll doll. But a monk doesn’t comment on the mantra he repeats. Then his fingertips touched one of the larger beads. Angela, Cleaver whispered. Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angela …

  There came a fierce knocking on the door downstairs.

  Engländer! Someone was shouting. Engländer!

  XI

  CLEAVER HURRIED DOWN the stairs. He was so relieved to be called out of himself; this voice was so urgent. He trod heavily on the fourth step from the top. Engländer! The stair splintered. It gave. Cleaver’s foot crashed through and he fell forward. The oil lamp flew out of his hand, bounced on the stone floor and sent a sheet of flame up the wall. Tumbling onto his wrists, Cleaver had a vivid impression of the stuffed eagle garishly illuminated above the ever-complacent Olga. By the time he had recovered his wits, the flame had sunk to a small fierce fire against the nearest armchair. Water, he thought. He was shaken. Engländer! Wo ist Seffa? Someone wa
s pounding on the door. I must have bolted it.

  Cleaver dragged himself to his feet. A pain shot up from his ankle. By the light of the flames, he hobbled breathless round the armchairs, through the kitchen and pulled the bolt. Jürgen thrust his way in. Wo ist Seffa? The man began to speak urgently. Feuer, Cleaver protested. Hopping to the sink, he turned on the tap. Jürgen’s clothes smelt of the cowshed. His eyes were bloodshot. Realising what was happening, he ran through to the sitting room. Then Cleaver picked up the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Achtung! he shouted. He heard the man stumble but apparently survive. Seffa, he was calling, Seffa! Then Cleaver was just hobbling toward the armchair with a bowl of water, when Jürgen came racing down with the open sleeping bag that had been spread on the bed.

  The fire had caught a corner of the upholstery. Olga continued to smile into the flames. Cleaver slopped his water on the chair and Jürgen threw on the sleeping bag. The light died. Jürgen was holding the quilted bag around the fire, pressing his body against it. Disorientated, Cleaver smelt smoke. The room is filling with smoke. He started awkwardly toward the window. He can barely put down his right foot. Wo ist Seffa? Jürgen demanded. He was scrambling to his feet. Somehow the two men banged into each other. There was a stink of cow shit and spirits and chemical fumes. Then a torchlight snapped on in the kitchen. The beam swirled with smoke. Jürgen, Herr Cleaver? It was Frau Stolberg. Wo ist Seffa? She seemed stern, but anxious. The voice was measured. Wo ist sie? Jürgen pushed open the window. Das weiss ich nicht, Cleaver said. I don’t know.

  There was no spare oil lamp. Why hadn’t Cleaver prepared for such an emergency? Jürgen took the torch and went to examine the fire. Mehr Wasser, he said. Frau Stolberg had started to climb the stairs in the reflected light from the torch. Seffa! she shouted. Her voice raised, she produced a torrent of words. Achtung, Cleaver told her. The stairs! Jürgen was speaking too. Seffa! Frau Stolberg cried.

  Cleaver turned on the tap again. While the bowl was filling, he pushed open the window. The air was cold, the water icy. There was time now to locate his own torch on the shelf. The beam trembled in his hand. I’m shaking. He hobbled back, clutching the torch against the bowl.

  The room was lit by a flame again now, but it was only Jürgen’s lighter playing over the wood in the fireplace. The smoke was thinning. Kommen Sie doch, he told Cleaver. It was strange to hear the sounds of footsteps clattering over his head. Frau Stolberg must have found the splintered door, perhaps the pornography by his bed.

  Seffa ist nicht hier, he told Jürgen. Ich habe nicht Seffa gesehen. The flame on the logs finally caught. Jürgen stood up and shouted something to Frau Stolberg. The woman came carefully down, speaking all the while. She was angry. Jürgen poured the bowl of water into the burnt upholstery of the armchair. My sleeping bag is ruined, Cleaver thought. He sat down heavily on the chair opposite Olga.

  Herr Cleaver. Frau Stolberg reached the bottom stair and came to speak to him. The room was flickering with the flames catching in the fireplace now. She turned off her torch. Her eyes were as steady as they had been at the funeral, her back rigid in a heavy coat. She wore a black headscarf. Wo ist Seffa? she insisted.

  Sitzen Sie, Cleaver said. He gestured to the armchair. The doll could be moved to the floor. Entschuldigung, he tried to explain. Die … stair ist brochen … gebrochen. Jetzt. Ich bin ge … He had no idea how to continue. Drink? he asked and turned to Jürgen. He felt sure the man would understand. Trinken? But Frau Stolberg had started speaking very rapidly. Jürgen went to the window, tugged it open, pushed his head out and in a tremendous voice yelled: Seffa! SEFFA!

  Cleaver was aware of the cold air flowing in. The door was open too. They think I might have staged the accident to give the girl time to get out of a window, he realised. He protested: Es ist vier wochen ich sehe nicht Seffe. He held up his fingers. Four weeks. I haven’t seen her. Seffa ist nicht hier. Willst du Whisky trinken? Es gibt eine Flasche in der Kuche.

  The two began to talk again in the firelight. Jürgen wore a heavy leather jacket and the small cap he used for milking. The girl has disappeared, Cleaver thought. Perhaps she hasn’t come back from shopping in Luttach. He felt overwhelmed. It must be the effect of these days without speaking to anyone. How could they have imagined she might be with him? Wo ist der Hund? he asked. It was grotesque. He had to repeat before they would pay any attention. Der Hund? The girl couldn’t be involved in a traffic accident, he thought, surely. They didn’t reply. Frau Stolberg hadn’t said anything about the upstairs door being broken.

  Watching mother and son discuss the matter in the light of the fireplace, Cleaver had the distinct impression that it was Frau Stolberg who was the more anxious of the two; Jürgen was actually smiling now, protesting, as if, having found that the girl wasn’t with Cleaver, all danger was over. It was something silly Frau Stolberg had imagined. Has the girl been dropping hints about me in order to cover up something else that’s going on? Cleaver wondered.

  Es gibt, he announced, nein, es gab … how to say it … ein anderer Mann hier, heute. Another man, he repeated in English. Why he had decided to say this, he didn’t know. Now they were paying attention.

  Wer war das? Frau Stolberg wanted to know.

  A hiker, Cleaver said. He didn’t know the word. Ein Junge, am Fuß, mit Rucksack. Er ist am … He had no idea how to say gone to the ledge. Unter gegangen. Unter? Cleaver struggled to his feet, hopped to the window and pointed down past the lavatory toward the track. There.

  Suddenly the two Tyrolese were arguing. Frau Stolberg seemed extremely determined. She was giving orders. What could the handsome hiker have to do with the unattractive Seffa? Cleaver wondered. He limped back to his armchair.

  Sie isch mei Tochto! Jürgen was yelling. All at once a personality came into focus in his face, as if he were truly present for the first time. His unhealthy eyes gleamed. Sie isch mei Tochto!

  Frau Stolberg stared. Daughter? Cleaver wondered. Jürgen shouted another sentence which definitely included the word Engländer. It appeared to be spoken with scorn. Cleaver had to twist his neck to follow now since they were moving through to the kitchen. He got to his feet and again had to put all his weight on the left.

  Sem gea i alluon, Frau Stolberg said. It sounded like alone. Jürgen was beside himself. As Cleaver rounded the back of the armchair it was in time to see the man plant himself in front of the Bozen Polizeiregiment and spit on the glass. Without a word, Frau Stolberg picked up her torch and walked out into the night.

  Cleaver made to lift his ski jacket from the hook and follow her. A heavy arm barred his way. Das macht nichts, Engländer. The peasant laughed rather sourly. He had a good forty-eight hours of stubble on his chin. As on the day he had found him mending the fence above Trennerhof, Cleaver wondered if Jürgen wasn’t a little drunk, or mad.

  Wo ist sie gegangen? he gestured to the door, though he knew perfectly well where the woman had gone.

  Das macht nichts, Jürgen said, shaking his head.

  Apparently having no trouble finding his way in the dark, he walked round the table to the shelf where Cleaver kept his bottles. Uncorking the whisky, he noticed the cowbell. Wie schön! He clanged it vigorously. Mariangela! Bruna! Puttane! He rang the bell, laughing raucously, took a deep swig and offered the bottle to Cleaver. Though he didn’t actually want any, Cleaver also took a swig. There was something wonderfully stormy about the man. Since in the end, Cleaver’s elder son had written, my father never had the courage to break entirely with convention and reputation – why else would he have worked so long for the BBC, why else have stayed so long in a relationship without love? – he was always attracted to crazies, to people who went to extremes, which probably explains why his talk shows were so successful.

  Entschuldigung, Tatte, Jürgen was saying. Once again the farmer was standing in front of the photo of the Bozen Polizeiregiment. When he lifted the bottle, Cleaver was convinced he was about to smash it through the glass. Instead, in the reflected light from
the fire in the other room, Jürgen touched the neck of the bottle against the glass and raised the bottom so that a trickle of whisky dribbled down the severe young men of sixty years before. Ha! Das is gut, Tatte, nicht wahr?

  He is speaking so I can understand, Cleaver realised. Tatte must mean father. He is enunciating carefully. It can only be for my benefit. Jürgen laughed again and lifted his elbow to rub away both whisky and spit. He rubbed hard, grunting and laughing. This is pantomime, Cleaver thought. From the distance, Frau Stolberg’s voice came faintly through the cold air, Sef-fa! What did she hope to accomplish, going to the ledge; and what if she smelt the hiker’s fresh shit and imagined it had been Cleaver? Verrückt! Jürgen was pointing a forefinger at his temple and twisting it comically from side to side. Sie ist verrückt!

  Still drinking from the bottle, Jürgen now went back into the sitting room. It seemed they must wait for Frau Stolberg. It was almost midnight. Vielleicht ist Seffa in Luttach, Cleaver said slowly. She stayed in Luttach. Jürgen was not paying attention. He picked up Olga, sat down in the still-smouldering armchair and placed the doll beside him. Ein hübsches Mädchen! Mmmmbw! He kissed the doll on the forehead, then bent down, picked up the accordion and immediately, vigorously, began to play.