Cleaver

by Tim Parks

  Sounds fascinating, Alex said amiably. Then he asked: I was saying to Dad, I want to see the place where he has been living, is that possible?

  Rosl and Hermann conferred. Schneeschuhe, Jürgen said.

  Irritated, Cleaver asked what had become of his watch. Did he really want to take his son to Rosenkranzhof? It galled him to think Amanda had known all along. I need to change, he told them. His trousers were filthy from cleaning out the cows.

  The watch was found at once on the mantlepiece. Und Ihr Hut! Hermann cried. He ran to the pile of things on the shelf by the door. The broad brim was battered now. Hermann crushed it down on Cleaver’s head. Was für ein Landwirt! he laughed. You look great, Dad, Alex said. My son is determined, Cleaver thought. After years of indifference, years when we barely spoke, and then everything that he wrote in that obscene book, he is determined to be reconciled. I’m exhausted, he complained, and it’s not even lunchtime. Müde, he repeated. Ach, die Kühe. Hermann shook his head. Very hard work, Englishman, die Kühe. Like women! Nicht wahr, Jürgen? Jürgen, hoi, woch au!

  I will make you a picnic, Rosl offered. Her skirt was dark green and she had a high-necked, rust-red sweater. For the first time her blonde hair was loose. It is streaked with grey. You have hurt you-self … here, she said to Alex. She touched her cheek and nodded to him. It is red. What has happened? I banged my head, Alex laughed. No, I knocked it. He made a great play of using the word they had just learned. Knocked. On a door post. He went to the door and mimed a man turning and walking into something he hadn’t seen. Without words we all become clowns, Cleaver thought. Perhaps it was preferable. Faking dizziness, his son grabbed a chair. That slap seems to have cheered him immensely. Cleaver smiled. Rosl was at least six or seven years older than his son, he guessed. Hermann said that if the two Englishmen walked down to Rosenkranzhof, he would come later and pick them up with the sled before returning to Luttach for the night of the Klöckler. Frau Schleiermacher salutes you, he told Cleaver, and he winked again.

  Nice people, Alex remarked a little while later as they set off. Rosl had given him a knapsack with black bread, speck and Graukäse.

  The trick with the snowshoes, Cleaver told his son, is to lift your feet high before pushing them forward, and always plant them flat and well apart. One foot at a time. Otherwise, you trip over yourself.

  A steady breeze was blowing across the snow now, chilling the sunlight on the high plateau. They wore hats and gloves. Alex put on sunglasses, but as they descended into the gorge the air became icy and grey and the snow hardened. They walked in silence.

  So, who won the presidential election? Cleaver finally asked.

  Your man, the President, of course.

  Despite my interview.

  That was a brilliant interview, Alex said. I wanted to tell you.

  He kept slowing his step to let his father catch up. Cleaver could hardly put any weight on his ankle.

  I was in a rage because I’d just finished reading your book. I took it out on him.

  After a few moments silence, Alex said: Perhaps that interview was your masterpiece, after all.

  My famous masterpiece, Cleaver smiled. Actually, he conceded, I quite liked the first section of your book. If you’d left it at that … the rest just seemed infantile and vindictive.

  Funny thing is, your reputation skyrocketed, Alex said. I couldn’t believe it. You’d have cleaned up if you’d stuck around.

  I cleaned up long ago, Cleaver remarked sourly. A few yards on he relented. He stopped for a breather, leaning on a rock. So, did they give you the big prize?

  You bet! Alex bent down, scraped some snow together and threw it at his father.

  No! Cleaver stood still and let the snowball fly just inches over his head.

  Alex laughed. Are you joking? They gave it to some pc thing about five generations of a gypsy family. Discrimination, romance, incest. Dark wisdom of antique civilisation. Bit of magic realism. Quite a cocktail.

  Huh, Cleaver said. He found it hard to hide his relief. Well, Larry will be happy, he said.

  Right. I hadn’t thought of that. Alex threw another snowball that hit his father on the knee. Author was pretty too. Anita something. You would have liked her. Younger than me. Tits. Latin skin.

  No comment, Cleaver said.

  Speaking of which … Alex put his arm in his father’s now. Cleaver let him, but wouldn’t respond. Walking close together, the snowshoes clashed. Cleaver stumbled. His son held him. Yes, you would have laughed. When you left, like, when you disappeared, everybody thought you must have run off with a woman. You know? The tabloids ran a sort of roll-call to see if anyone remotely associated with you had gone missing. It was quite a list.

  Cleaver grimaced. Gratifying I’m sure.

  That Melanie Clarke phoned me to ask if I knew who it was, the woman you’d run off with, that is. Remember Melanie? She wasn’t one of your girlfriends, was she?

  Cleaver felt uncomfortable. It seemed inappropriate for father and son to talk women. Where was the angry voice of Under His Shadow? he wondered. Where was the outrage, the accusation, Cleaver the source of all evil?

  If she was, I wouldn’t say, he said stiffly.

  Anyway, everyone was most disappointed when all the suspects turned out to be present and correct.

  People only want the obvious stories, Cleaver said, because they already know how to tell them and how to respond. As he spoke, he remembered that the presence of younger people always made him pontificate. Don’t.

  A few minutes later they turned the last twist in the track and there it was. Long icicles hung from the rock face over the roof where the sun must have struck earlier on. Wow. The young man took off his sunglasses and read the name: Ros-en-kranz-hof. Very pretty, he said. Remind you of anything? Cleaver asked. Alex frowned. Rosenkranz and Guildenstern are dead, I suppose. He didn’t seem to recall what he had written in his book.

  As always, the door scraped on the uneven stone floor. The hinges squealed. Then, while Cleaver lit the fire, his son explored. Tell me if you see a mouse, Cleaver called. What’s with the broken stair? Alex shouted from above. Cleaver explained. He listened to the footsteps moving back and forth. The flames caught in the grate.

  And the bloodstain?

  The what? Where?

  In this little storeroom.

  Cleaver pulled himself up the stairs. Even after only a day’s abandonment Rosenkranzhof had taken on its old musty smell. Their breath hung in the air. I must have mistaken it for a shadow, Cleaver said. Are you sure it’s blood? He opened the window to get a little more light. My eyes are crap. In fact it was quite a sizeable stain on the wooden floor beneath the chair in the old Nazi’s little room. This room was locked when I arrived, Cleaver said. Perhaps the guy had an accident, Alex suggested.

  Downstairs again, Cleaver boiled snow for tea. There were still some tea bags. I thought it was going to thaw, he said, but it was just a bit of warm sunshine. Sitting in front of the fire, his son asked: So what are you writing, Dad? Where’s the desk, the old laptop, the notebooks?

  I’m not. There isn’t one.

  The younger man seemed perplexed. He leaned forward to warm his hands. Looking at the sharp nose, the narrow, eager mouth, Cleaver was strongly reminded of the young Amanda of years ago. They both had the same irksome resilience.

  Really?

  Really.

  Oh … Sorry, I just assumed that’s what you must be doing out here. Like, you’d finally retired to produce the great work. Or the great rebuttal even.

  You were worried? Cleaver asked.

  Alex reflected. Not really. He paused. He seemed newly alert. So what are you doing?

  Nothing.

  The young man’s eyes narrowed. Nothing, like …?

  Like eating, shitting, walking, thinking, Cleaver said.

  Oh. But in your head … you’re planning something.

  Cleaver began to laugh. No, absolutely nothing. No project, no grandiose ambitions.
r />   It doesn’t sound like you.

  Well, there you are, Cleaver said.

  Alex drank his tea, warming his fingers on the cup. It’s a shame though, he said after a few moments. I know Mum was hoping that’s what you were up to. She kept saying, let’s leave him a month at least and he’ll be back in fine form and with the definitive object, the great work.

  I was left alone to write my masterpiece.

  Alex smiled. I guess so.

  Something that would rival Under His Shadow.

  I think that’s what Mum thought. She said it was good you’d been spurred into action.

  Cleaver shook his head. He had to breathe deeply. That’s not going to happen.

  There was a long pause. The logs crackled and settled. Then Cleaver put down his cup: Alex, there are millions of masterpieces. They change nothing.

  His son frowned. Who needs to change things? There’s always the work itself, isn’t there? The pleasure of something well made and the feeling …

  Cleaver was exasperated. How could his son not see there was a stumbling block the size of a cathedral between them? You do it then, he said sharply. You write a masterpiece.

  Dad …

  Alex, I bequeath you this task. Okay? You can write my masterpiece. Cleaver produced a frighteningly harsh laugh. He stood up and limped quickly to the window. What is happening to me? he wondered. The whole encounter was unreal. I was only left alone so I could write my masterpiece. I hadn’t hidden myself at all. Put your boots back on, he announced sharply. There’s something I want to show you.

  What is it?

  Put your boots on. Let’s go.

  Outside the house, Cleaver fussed back and forth to find where he had tossed away his walking poles. The wind had dropped and the air was freezing again. In the shade, the snow was frozen hard. The cold bit into their cheeks and fingertips.

  They crossed the clearing and started down the track towards the ledge. Alex was silent for a while, but quite suddenly Cleaver exploded again. He could not contain himself. Just tell me one thing. What on earth put it into your head to write that stupid last scene?

  Take it easy, Dad.

  Inadvertently, Cleaver had lifted one of his poles. Tell me why you wrote it!

  Alex hesitated. Okay. To be honest, you know, I didn’t know how to finish the book. I needed an end of some kind, but in reality the more I thought about you, Dad, the more I couldn’t imagine you ever doing anything but more of the same. If you see what I mean. So I went and invented something weird. Like, a bit of a joke, to finish with a bang, I never really asked myself whether it was offensive or not.

  Bullshit.

  Alex sighed.

  Bullshit, Cleaver repeated.

  They had reached the place where an iron railing was fixed to the rock. The track had crumbled and what was left was deep in snow.

  Take off your snowshoes for this bit, Cleaver said. You’ll need to dig your toes in.

  Where are we going?

  You’ll see, Cleaver told his son. He felt a bitter determination to open his eyes somehow, to place him before his crime.

  Tricky … Alex said. Damn! A shred of his smart ski suit had torn on the rusty railing. The woods above and below lay in deep silence.

  As if to lull his son into a false sense of security, Cleaver resumed: So at the end of the day you just couldn’t imagine me doing anything but fighting with Amanda Cunningham in a house in Chelsea while playing celebrity journalist in interminable talk shows.

  Pretty much, Alex admitted. He was beyond the railing now. After all, Dad, most people would kill for a life like that, wouldn’t they, the kind of celebrity you have? He buckled his snowshoes back on and began to walk swiftly down the last part of the track to the ledge. It was steep here, curving sharply to the left and downwards. The snow was icy and Alex slithered. He laughed and tried to skate on one snowshoe. All the rocks and contours were gone in a sheet of ice. I should have brought skis, he called. Way hey! He slipped again and slithered down a yard or so.

  All at once, limping behind, Cleaver guessed the danger. Stop, he yelled. Stop, stop, stop!

  Dad? Alex grabbed a small tree and tried to stay on his feet. What’s up?

  Stop. Alex, please, just stay where you are. Right there. Don’t move. Cleaver approached slowly, placing his feet sideways to the descent, digging in his walking poles. He halted a few paces above his son. Where the ledge should have been, some ten yards below, the snow stretched smooth and sheer in a steep slope right to the edge. It was a chute. All the footholds were gone. You wouldn’t see the drop until it was too late.

  Alex, don’t move! Cleaver suddenly felt nauseous. He sat down on the ice. His breath steamed about his face. Just stay where you are. Okay? Stay there. He was shaking. His son would go over the ledge. Cleaver could hear his cry. He saw the body falling.

  Dad, Alex scrambled toward him, but slipped.

  Stop, I said stop! Stay there. Hold onto something. Don’t slip, for God’s sake.

  But what’s up?

  I’ve made a mistake. We have to go back, Cleaver shouted. Take this. He threw one of the poles to his son. The younger man missed it and it slithered down the ice.

  Don’t go after it. Don’t!

  Can’t I just take a look? Alex turned and peered. He made to go down again, treading carefully.

  No! Cleaver yelled. It’s a sheer drop. There, where it looks like the path turns. We shouldn’t have come. Take this one. Carefully now. He slid the second pole down towards his son and this time Alex got it. Staying at the edge of the track, grabbing the trees that clutched the side of the gorge, he climbed back up to his father.

  Alex.

  You’re crying, Dad.

  Let’s get out of here, Cleaver said.

  They negotiated the section with the railing and began to climb. Then Cleaver explained: he told his son about the ledge, the photograph of Jürgen’s wife. He was still trembling. I wanted you to see. Just that I hadn’t thought of the snow drifting and then being frozen like that.

  It’s okay, Dad.

  Cleaver’s thighs and calves felt unsteady. His ankle ached. Actually, I nearly stepped over myself the first evening I went, he admitted. I should have thought. He shook his head to clear the dizziness. His son took his arm. It’s the date, Alex, I wanted you to see the date. Cleaver stopped and looked into his son’s eyes. She died in 1990, remember? 1990. His son held his gaze. Your book would have been fine, Cleaver said quietly, without the stuff about Angela.

  Alex turned away. Let’s get back, he said.

  Rosenkranzhof had its usual sly, picturesque look. The smoke drifted almost vertically from the chimney. The rosary beads looked like berries against the black wood of the door. Inside, they pulled out the food Rosl had prepared. The place was warmer now. Chop up the onion and eat it with the cheese, Cleaver said. There were four bottles of beer. This is cheese? Alex asked. It’s disgusting.

  They sat at the table, eating. The black bread was hard work. Bloody mouse is still around, Cleaver complained. There were droppings by the stove. You wonder what he finds to eat. His son was intrigued now by the system that brought the water across the roof. How long are you planning to stay? Cleaver asked at last. Where are you going to sleep?

  I just came to find you, really, Alex said. I mean, Mum thought it was time someone came and talked to you.

  Sweet of her.

  And that’s all. Are you staying?

  Cleaver looked at his son. The younger man had unzipped the front of his ski suit over a bright white pullover. He looked so neat.

  I’m in a dilemma, Cleaver said.

  Alex raised an eyebrow.

  In the sense that it will be hard to stay here now with the snow. I’m limping. Walking is hard going. I need someone to restock the larder.

  Rosl had packed some sort of fried doughnuts in a white paper bag. If you ask me, it’s crazy, Alex said. He licked his fingers. Exciting for a while, I can imagine, but, hey, enough i
s enough. Why not come back with me? You’ve tried it now. You’ve done it. What is there to prove? You said yourself that books and films mean nothing. People forget. They won’t bother you about what I wrote. I noticed …

  Alex, Cleaver interrupted, Alex, sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t come here just because of your book, you know. Perhaps you haven’t grasped that.

  Dad, I was only …

  Cleaver lifted a ham and farted. Both men laughed.

  Tell me why then, Alex said.

  There’s nothing to tell. It’s just that I can’t go back. I mustn’t. I can’t stay here and I mustn’t go back. If I go and immerse myself in it all again, if I’m just around televisions and newspapers, all that endless churning of information and opinion, and your mother of course, your mother most of all, I’ll die.

  Rubbish, Alex said crisply. It’s more likely you’ll come back to life.

  No doubt, but not the kind of life I want. Then Cleaver added: Remember the newspaper-reading scene in your book? The Sunday mornings? Or your description of me arguing with the TV? Well, now I’m like one of those exalkies who knows that they must never touch the stuff again. Never. A single drop would be the end. Same thing with Amanda.

  You’re far more likely to die here, Alex pointed out.

  I’m not worried about that, Cleaver said.

  Alex pursed his lips. It’s like, you’re denying who you really are.

  I wish I could.

  But Mum …

  If your mother wants to see me, she can make the trip herself, can’t she? Since she always knew where I was …

  So you’re staying? Alex said.

  Cleaver shook his head. I don’t know.

  His son looked at him: You’re voice has changed, he said. There’s something different about it.

  How.

  It’s like … Alex looked puzzled and smiled. Then his face cleared: Just different.

  I’ll take it as a compliment, Cleaver said.

  They opened the remaining beers and moved to the armchairs and the fire. Alex noticed the eagle above the fireplace. Someone’s broken his wing, he said. He stood and examined it. The bird had been frozen as if in action, its neck outstretched, claws extended to kill, but the feathers were dusty and the stick propping the broken wing very obvious.