A mile into the walk, on schedule, the rain comes down in icy sheets that soak through my coat before I can pull a windbreaker out of the bag. I push forward into the wind, against the spray of the passing lorries. I’m freezing, but the rain wakes me up; it’s the slap in the face I need.
By the time I enter Ballycastle, my clothes have gone from drenched to damp, but now the rain starts up again. I trudge straight down to the terminal, hoping to catch the ferry to Rathlin. The doors to the building are locked, the parking lot empty. At the end of the dock, three fishermen are unloading something from a boat. They seem oblivious to the freezing rain. I ask about the boat to Rathlin. All three stare at me as if I have just arrived from another planet. Their responses come back in a language I don’t understand. Seeing my confusion, the captain explains patiently that the ferry to Rathlin is part of the transportation strike. “I hope you’re not in a hurry,” he says.
Fuck.
I head back into the center of town. I can’t help thinking it’s a pretty place, even in this relentless rain, with its brightly colored buildings and green cliffs overlooking the sea. Alice would love it here. I find a travel agency, but it’s closed. I duck into a pub, the Dog & Shoe. The place is packed. As I step through the door, twenty different conversations stop abruptly and every head turns my way. A second later, just as abruptly, the din resumes. Years ago, I gave a talk at a conference in Tel Aviv. Afterward, I remember wandering around the town alone. Each time I walked through the door to a café or restaurant, all of the talk would cease, and all heads would turn toward me. Instantly, they would all do the same calculation, conclude that I was not a threat, and continue on with their discussions.
I find a dirty table in the corner by the fireplace. I drape my wet coat on the back of my chair and let my eyes adjust to the darkness before heading up to the bar. I’m dying for a Diet Coke to take the edge off my exhaustion, but all they have is beer, lots of beer.
“Is there any way out of town?” I ask the bartender.
“Not until the strike ends.”
“Can’t I hire a water taxi?”
He shakes his head, apparently amused by my ignorance.
I order a Harp and return to my seat to contemplate my next move. I turn on my phone, surprised that it works. I bought a new cell at the airport in San Francisco. The phone was cheap, but the two-year plan cost an arm and a leg. It was a small price to pay for something without a blinking blue P. I had all the calls from the old number forwarded to this one, just in case Alice calls.
She hasn’t.
I stand and face the room. “I need to get to Rathlin,” I say loudly. “It’s urgent.” There’s a prolonged silence, then a chair scrapes back. A compact, muscular man strides over to me. “No boats,” he says. “When we strike, we strike.”
“It’s a matter of life and death,” I plead, but I am met with blank, angry stares.
Outside, the rain has stopped. I hurry back to the marina, where a couple dozen abandoned vessels knock about in the wind. A lone fisherman sits on a boat, untangling a line.
“I’ll pay you five hundred pounds to take me to Rathlin,” I say, pulling the stiff new bills out of my wallet.
He assesses me for a minute. “Make it a thousand.”
I step onto the boat, pull out another five hundred, press the bills into his palm.
He glances at my wrist. “And the watch.”
“It’s from my wife,” I say.
“Taking you across won’t make me too popular around here,” he says. He goes back to his fishing line.
Reluctantly, I undo the clasp and slip off the watch. I glance at the inscription one last time. He fastens it onto his wrist and admires it for a second before pointing me toward a rickety bench at the stern. “Grab a jacket, Friend. Might get rough.”
89
If Ballycastle was small, Rathlin is tiny. From what I can tell, it is home to a rooming house, a pub, a café, a gift shop that doubles as a post office, and a mile of empty coastline.
I walk over to the rooming house. “Crowded?” I say to the teenage boy behind the desk.
“Just you.”
For an extra nine pounds, I get a room with a window looking out over the sea. It’s a shared bathroom, but apparently I’ll only be sharing it with myself.
“I was wondering if you could direct me to—”
“Orla knows you’re here,” he says. “She’ll call for you when she’s ready.”
Before I respond, he has already turned back to his game. I go upstairs, pace in my small room, and stare out at the sea. There is no cell service.
Anxious, I go for a walk. The beach is empty in both directions. The sea here looks astonishingly similar to the beach where Alice and I take our weekly walks. The waves are treacherous, and the fog reminds me of home. It’s dark when I get back to the rooming house, and there is no message awaiting me. The boy is still watching soccer.
The following morning, more impatient, I linger in the lobby. “It’s extremely important that I see Orla,” I insist.
“Look, sir,” the boy says, “things in Rathlin don’t move the way they do in San Francisco. No need to stand around. I’ll find you.”
I wander the island. I hike up the hills, among the sand dunes, over the slippery rocks. I find the one spot on the island with cell service—and yet there is still nothing from Alice. I stare out at the ocean, exhausted and depressed, wondering if I have lost my wife forever.
That night, I wake in a panic from a nightmare in which I’m swimming through a turbulent sea, trying to get to Alice, but she is always just out of reach.
And then, finally, on the third day the boy hands me a parchment envelope. My name is written in elegant cursive across the front.
I go up to my room, sit on the bed, and take a deep breath. My heart is racing. Inside the envelope, I find a map of the island. A blue X marks a spot toward the north end. Written on the back of the map are the words Ten A.M. Walking shoes required.
I lie awake all night. At dawn, I dress warmly, plow through an English breakfast, and trek to the far end of the island. Where the X is on the map, I find only a bench overlooking the ocean. The sea is steel-gray. Beyond the bench, a trail leads westward along the cliffs. I’m more than an hour early, so I sit. I do not see anyone or anything in any direction. Slowly, the fog moves in and swallows me up. I wait.
Later, I hear movement and glance up to see a woman standing over me.
“Friend,” she says. “Walk with me.”
90
Orla is taller than I expected, her silvery-white hair cropped short, her outfit plain. My anger at her nearly chokes me, and I’m ready to hate her, to hate this thing she created, this ugly conspiracy that has caused Alice and me so much harm. There are so many things I long to say to her—statements of opposition, of critique, a long, scathing monologue.
Yet I know that I must tread carefully. I know that with Orla, as with many of my patients, the confrontational approach will not work. I want to lash out at her, to scream—but it would get me nowhere. It would only make more trouble for Alice. Shouting implies threat, and Orla is not a woman who will respond to threats. In order to achieve my goals, I must be as calm as she is, and more calculating.
We walk in silence. In the beginning, I keep an eye on her, waiting, ready for the dialogue to begin, waiting for the words to turn poisonous. Her silence is maddening, and it’s difficult to resist the urge to empower her by filling it with my own words.
“I like to walk,” she says at last. “It allows me to think clearly. Do you believe, Jake, that you are thinking clearly?”
“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in months.”
She doesn’t reply.
Eventually, we crest a hill, and I see a wide cottage blending into the grassy landscape below. The house is instantly recognizable. Its combination of reclaimed wood and walls of glass brings me back to the photographs lining the hallway outside the courtroom in Fernley. Is Ali
ce there in the courtroom? Has she looked at those photos the way I did, desperate to be in a different place? Is she safe?
Orla glances at me, and the expression on her face makes me wonder if I spoke my thoughts aloud. “Friend,” she says as we make our way down the hill, “we have much to discuss.”
I’m surprised by the size and simplicity of the home’s interior. Yes, it is impeccable, with its polished concrete floors and magnificent views, but it somehow manages to feel modest. The furniture is sparse and white. I expected something more—a world headquarters, a command center, video monitors, smart boards, a building filled with administrators, sycophants, and acolytes.
There is none of that. In fact, as far as I can tell, it’s just the two of us.
“Make yourself at home, Friend.”
She slips off her walking shoes and disappears. I pace the room, impatient for her to return. I parse the contents of the bookshelves, looking for some clue to Orla’s character. I find the collected works of Yeats; William Dean Howells’s brilliant marriage novel, A Modern Instance; collections by Joan Didion, Cynthia Ozick, and Don Carroll; signed first editions of 1984 and Catch-22. On the top shelf, Romney Schell’s At the Disco stands beside Michal Choromanski’s Jealousy and Medicine. My gaze falls on a tattered spine, and I do a double-take: Stanley Milgram’s Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View.
And there are photos. A picture of Orla, a man who is perhaps her husband, Ali Hewson, and Bono. Orla with Bruce Springsteen and Patti Scialfa. A younger Orla with Tony Blair and his wife, Cherie. Bill and Melinda Gates. A blurry black-and-white of Orla with the late James Garner and his wife, one with the Clintons. Jackson Pollock and Dolly Parton with their respective spouses. Scattered among the books and photos are a few knickknacks. I pick up a Breitling watch with a red 5 on the front and turn it over to find an insignia that might not be popular with all of the residents of Rathlin.
I browse with a boldness that surprises me, yet even this time alone in her house feels orchestrated. If Orla didn’t want me to look at her things, would she have brought me here?
In the kitchen, I find a metal container of ten different spatulas, all different types and colors. I’m turning the purple silicone one over in my hands when Orla returns. “I was trying to see where it was made,” I say. “Believe it or not, I collect spatulas.”
“I know.”
I drop the spatula back into the container.
“That one is from a design shop in Copenhagen. Richard and I were there nearly a decade ago, and the color caught my eye. I didn’t say anything, but somehow he noticed. A few months later, it mysteriously appeared in our kitchen.”
She moves to the counter and hits a button, prompting a touch screen to rise from a hidden compartment. “When the architect gave me the keys to this house, he told me it was designed to go better with music. I’m not sure I understand why, but I’ve come to think he was right.” Alfred Brendel’s rendition of “Für Elise” emanates from hidden speakers throughout the house.
Orla takes a bottle of wine from a cabinet. “It’s a special bottle,”she says, “a gift from a member. I’ve been wanting to open it, but I guess it’s still a bit early.”
“It’s night somewhere,” I say.
She opens the bottle and pours the wine. It is a pinot noir, mossy and dense.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, leading me into the living room.
“I’m not sure I can drink red wine on your white couch.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Seriously, one sneeze and Alice and I will be bankrupted.”
Orla almost smiles, and for an instant I catch a glimpse, I think, of the real woman behind the measured responses. “You would be doing me a favor. I despise that sofa.” She swirls the wine in her glass and sips, closing her eyes to savor it.
I place my glass on the coffee table and sit. Orla slides into the leather chair next to me. She moves like a much younger woman, tucking one foot underneath her, holding her glass high and straight.
“I’ve come to talk to you about Alice.”
“Of course you have,” she says serenely.
“One week ago, my wife was kidnapped. Dragged away, terrified, half-dressed.”
Orla looks at me directly. “I am sorry, Jake. I will be the first to admit that excessive force was used.”
Her reaction takes me by surprise. I assumed she would admit nothing, apologize for nothing. “She’s at Fernley?”
“Yes. But in the hotel wing.”
I think of the comfortable bed, the view, the room service. I imagine Alice there. And yes, I admit, I remember Declan’s words—“Adultery in the First Degree”—and I imagine her with nothing to do but contemplate our marriage. Then, guiltily, I picture her in one of the solitary confinement cells, or worse.
“Why should I believe you?” I demand.
“Your wife has a powerful ally in Finnegan,” Orla replies, unfazed. “I will tell you the details later. But first, humor me. I’ve been waiting for so long to talk to you.” Clearly, she will talk about Alice when she’s ready and not a moment sooner. I can almost hear Alice’s warning in my head: Play nice.
Orla leans slightly toward me and I can sense that she is sizing me up. “Allow me a question. Assuming that five hundred years from now the planet is still here and mostly the way we know it, do you think marriage will exist?”
“I really don’t know.” I’m impatient with this nonsense. “Do you?”
“Not how it works. I asked you first.”
I think for a moment. “Deep down, our one true goal is immortality,” I say. “The only way to achieve immortality is through procreation. When a couple remains together, particularly within the legal construct of marriage, the offspring have the greatest chance of survival, and thus the individual has the greatest chance at immortality. The question of children aside, I believe that most people have a strong desire to have a life partner.”
“I imagined you would say exactly that.”
Orla is gazing at me intently. I’m not sure if she has complimented or insulted me.
“Can I tell you a story?” Orla asks.
I have a feeling she’s about to give me some version of the narrative I heard that first day, when Vivian showed up at our house with the contracts we so naïvely signed, the contracts that sucked us into this nightmare. I remind myself that, despite her warm hospitality and the seemingly instant rapport, this frail, silver-haired woman is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or more accurately, a wolf in fine linen.
“My parents were poor,” Orla says. “My father worked in a coal mine in Newcastle; my mother was a seamstress. While they provided a supportive home for my sister and me, they never gave us any advice. They had opinions, but their opinions were without conviction or clarity. When it came to the big things—religion, politics, work—I had to find my own way. I don’t blame them. Our world is growing at such a rapid pace, how can any of us be equipped with the right tools to pass on to the next generation? The world today is not the same one my parents grew up in—it’s not even the same world in which I grew up.
“I’ve become concerned that the modern world is evolving in a way that might leave marriage behind. This has a great deal to do with globalization and the sharing economy.”
“What does globalization have to do with the death of marriage? What does any of it have to do with this brutal system you’ve created?”
She sits back, eyebrows raised, apparently surprised by the anger in my tone. “Marriage is inefficient!” she proclaims. “The whole construct is a model of wasted resources. The wife often stays home to care for the children, or even a single child, abandoning the career she worked so hard for, losing years of creative output. Beyond the wasting of talent, think of the physical waste. For every home, there are so many redundancies. How many toasters do you think there are in the world?”
“I have no idea.”
“Seriously, just guess.”
“
Ten million?” I say impatiently.
“More than two hundred million! And how often do you think the average household uses its toaster?” Once again, she doesn’t wait for my answer. “Just 2.6 hours per year. Two hundred million toasters are sitting unused, statistically speaking, more than 99.97 percent of their active lives.”
She sips the last of her wine, rises, and goes into the kitchen, returning with the bottle. She pours more for me without asking, then for herself. “The world wants to conserve resources, Jake. People are waking up to the fact that we don’t need all of these toasters; we don’t need the small family units and their selfish, self-contained homes. Evolution always rewards efficiency. Modern marriage and the single-family unit are simply not efficient.”
There is something slightly mad about her passion for the subject. Of course there is. Without madness, how could The Pact exist?
“So you’re saying we should move away from marriage?” I’m stunned. How can I reason with someone who so blatantly contradicts herself?
“Not at all! I am not an economist, Jake—thank God! This is what I believe: Efficiency is not always good. What is easy, what is even good, for that matter, is not always good. Why do I believe in marriage?” She stands in front of me. “Because it is not easy. Because it challenges us. It challenges me to bend my ways, to consider other points of view, to get beyond my own selfish desires.”
“Let me get this straight. You believe in marriage because it’s difficult?”
“Maybe it is difficult, but that’s beside the point. What matters is that marriage creates a platform for understanding. It enables you to put yourself inside the thoughts and needs of your partner, to truly explore the essence of another person.”
Orla is moving around the room now. “This understanding is an empowering point of departure for creativity and thought beyond what is available to the single, self-interested being. Humans too often drift toward repetition, toward doing what is safe and easy over and over. Marriage challenges that tendency. The Pact, as you know, grew out of the failure of my first marriage. I saw what marriage could be, but I knew that most marriages, like mine, were powerless to achieve it. I wanted strict rules that would strip away the selfishness.”
The Marriage Pact Page 35
