The only way to stop wittering like this is to stop wittering. So:
LONG PAUSE FOR RECOVERY OF CALM.
Much later.
Here is my point in best exam-essay style:
I had not been in Karl’s shed, which he called his workshop, before, so everything in it was new to me. To stop myself blathering on I asked about the use of some of the tools and machines. Karl replied briefly. There were some bits of wire on the workbench, which I didn’t take any notice of, because I thought they were bits of rubbish. All the time, Karl was standing at the end of the bench, leaning back against it.
Having looked round the shed (sorry, workshop), and hoping he would allow me to get close now that we had gone round the houses with reconnecting chatter, I ended my tour beside him, intending to lean against the bench in the same posture as him. But as I did this he said with alarm, Hey! Careful! and put his hand on my back to stop me leaning against the bench.
My instant thought was that he did this because he didn’t want me so close to him. But in the next instant I realised he was keeping me from maybe disturbing the bits of wire.
Karl didn’t say anything, just kept looking at me with that observer’s eye. I felt he was waiting for me to say something special, something important, but I couldn’t think what it was. Again, I felt I was being tested.
Of course I understood from what he’d done that these bits of wire weren’t just bits of rubbish.
Thinking it would please him if I showed some interest, I reached out to pick one up, but he caught me by the wrist and said, Don’t touch! (Come to think of it, this could be taken as the motto for the day.)
I said I was sorry and asked if they were something special. He said they were. I asked why. He said they were little models. I asked what of. He said, What do you think? I said I had no idea. And instantly felt a dreadful failure, which made me want to run away, but I was determined not to let him get the better of me. Which is another thing about him. He is very powerful.
Anyway and anyhow I said I didn’t know and Karl said, Guess.
Well, I thought, I’m not going to play this game, I’ve had enough of it.
I said, You’re being horrible to me.
He said, No, I’m not.
I said, Yes, you are. I came to see you, to find out how you are, because I know you haven’t been too great lately, and you’re treating me like I’m something the cat dragged in, like a child, and like you’re some kind of teacher condescending to a stupid pupil. You are patronising me and I don’t like it!
Have a guess, he said, as if I hadn’t uttered a word.
That really did me in!
I said, sharp as I could, I have no idea what you mean or what these nasty-looking bits of wire are for. And to be honest, Karl, I don’t care.
He smiled then. The observer look vanished. He scratched his head. And then said, all politeness and public good manners, Sorry if I upset you. Good of you to call. I’m OK. Doing well, thanks.
Which meant, clear as day, the visit was over. He didn’t exactly go to the door and open it, but he might as well have done.
I said, See you around, and left by the back gate to avoid Mrs. Williamson and her questions.
So, Mr. Writer. What’s going on? What is so special about those bits of wire?
Please tell me.
I have to know.
Your reader, Fiorella
These days, everyone expects instant replies—to emails, texts, blogs, tweets, and who knows what else has been added to the techno list before you read this sentence?
I knew Fiorella would be checking her inbox every few minutes. But decided not to submit to the universal imperative for the instantaneous. She could wait, while I decided what to say to her. If anything.
And it’s just as well I did.
FOUR O’CLOCK. SIXTEEN HUNDRED HOURS. THE FRONT DOORBELL. Dusk falling. No callers without appointment. No one had an appointment.
I spied from my workroom window. The top of Karl’s head in view.
When I opened the door, he was holding out to his sides, cruciform, one in each hand, a couple of trout, his face alive with a broad grin.
“Your supper,” he said. “I’ll cook it, if you like.”
He put the fish in the kitchen sink, asked to use the bathroom, returned, washed and brushed up and burnished from a day in river air, his outdoor gear removed, back in his regulation uniform of black crewneck sweater and jeans. He set to work cleaning and gutting the fish, preparing potatoes and salad.
I sat at the kitchen table and watched.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine. And to what do I owe the honour of this visit?”
“I brought you the fish,” he said, scrubbing away, but he wasn’t a good liar. There was a giveaway wobble in his voice.
“I can tell there’s something. So stop fussing with the fish and come clean.”
A tense moment. I could feel him holding himself down. Then he swilled his hands under the tap and dried them on a towel. He turned to me, but didn’t look at me. “I want to know,” came out in a burst, “what you think.”
Typical Karl! Fill in the gaps. He was an expert at indeterminacy.
“About your models and making sculptures?”
He nodded, still no eye contact.
I said, “I’ve thought a lot about that since yesterday.”
“And?”
“I’m glad you’ve come. There’s something I want to show you. And then I have a couple of questions.”
I led him out into the front garden, where I sat on the sitting room windowsill and indicated to him to sit beside me. There was just enough daylight left.
“Look at the garden,” I said. “What do you see?”
“What d’you mean?”
“What I say. What do you see?”
He looked. Shook his head.
“Well. The garden. The lawn. A border of lavender along the path. The wall with the road on the other side … I dunno! … What am I supposed to see?”
I walked to the centre of the lawn. And stooped over, one arm bent over my neck, the other arm stuck straight up at an angle, and peered at him from under that arm.
It wasn’t an easy pose to hold. But I managed to stay there long enough for the brow-wrinkled puzzlement on Karl’s face to be wiped clean by the dawn of perception.
And then, both of us realising the ridiculousness of my contorted pose, we spluttered into laughter.
I uncurled myself and returned to the windowsill.
I said, “I’ll pay for the materials.”
An unhurried pause.
Before Karl said, “I don’t know what to say.”
I said, “I’d say, yes, thank you, if I were you.”
“But what if you don’t like it?”
“You’ll make a model first?”
“I’d need to.”
“Then we can go step by step.”
“It’s a good place.”
“If it’s the right size. And shape as well, of course.”
“Would fit the garden. And be good against the view of the valley.”
“And I could look down at it from my workroom, which would give another angle.”
“And another from the bottom of the garden and the road, looking towards the house.”
“So what do you say?”
I felt rather than heard his chuckle.
He thought some more.
Then, parodying me, “Yes, thank you.”
“Done!” I said. “Let’s go back inside. I shall get piles, if I sit on this cold ledge much longer.”
As we went in, I suggested he get on with the cooking while we talked.
I sat at the table, and said, “There’s a few things I’d like to ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you thinking of becoming a professional sculptor?”
“And nothing else?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“S
o it’s a hobby?”
“No.”
“Explain.”
“I do want to make sculptures. I’ve been doing a lot of looking on the internet. I’m getting an idea of what’s possible. And I do want to show them. Like the ones we saw at the hotel. In natural places, not art galleries. And I’ll sell them if anybody wants them, which I doubt.”
“You haven’t made any yet, so you can’t know.”
“Yeah, but.”
“That sounds like being a professional to me.”
“But I want to keep on being a plumber.”
“OK. I can see you need to make a living. But if you make it as a sculptor?”
“I don’t know if I can explain this very well. I’ve only thought of it these last few days. And I haven’t talked to anybody about it.”
“Is this why you came to see me today?”
“Yes.”
“I’m privileged.”
“Yeah, yeah!”
“I mean it. So try me.”
“Well … Sculpture is, like, an art, isn’t it?”
“It’s an art, yes.”
“I don’t know anything about art. I’ve never thought much about it. But what I think is art is kind of personal, if you know what I mean? Artists do it to please themselves, don’t they?”
“You can put it like that. I’d say the best artists, and the great artists, do it because they have to.”
“You mean, they can’t help it?”
“They don’t feel they have any choice about it.”
“I don’t quite get what you mean.”
“Let’s see … You had a choice about becoming a plumber. You could have been an electrician or a carpenter or anything like that. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“What I’m trying to say is some people do things because they feel they have to. Some people paint pictures or make sculptures because they want to. They choose to do it. But some people do it because they feel that’s what they must do.”
“You mean, like it’s their fate?”
“I’m not keen on thinking of it as fate, but it’ll do for now.”
“But still … What are they doing … with it?”
“They aren’t doing anything with it. They’re just making something. Making an object.”
“Like you tried to explain to me the other day?”
“That’s it.”
“But why?”
“Why did you make those models? Why do you want to make them into sculptures?”
He finished what he was doing and sat down.
“I don’t know!”
There was desperation in his voice.
“Do you need to know?”
“Yes!”
“Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’m guessing you feel you can’t help doing it.”
“Sort of. Yes.”
“Isn’t it enough to know you can’t help it?”
“No!”
“Maybe you can’t know why you have to do it until you’ve done it. And done it more than once or twice but many times. Maybe it’s by doing it you find out why you’re doing it.”
“But you must have some idea why real artists do it.”
“I think there are probably a number of reasons.”
“All right. Give me one.”
I didn’t want to. I didn’t want him to think the reason I gave was the best or the only worthy reason.
“Come on,” he said, almost violently. “Tell me!”
“All right, all right! … I think the main reason is that it’s the only way they know how to make sense of themselves and the only way they can make sense of life. It’s the only way they know how to say something about themselves and about life they feel they need to say.”
He looked at me with the kind of hard stare that’s unnerving. Fiorella was right. He had a power that could floor you. It was like there was a generator inside that had been running at low power all the time I’d known him and had now revved up to full capacity.
“Is that how it is for you?” he said.
I didn’t want to answer.
“Is it?”
I nodded.
He said, sharp as acid, “Strikes me you’re saying you do it to keep yourself alive.”
That put a stop on me. It had taken me years as a writer before I understood this about myself, yet Karl was saying it as if it was simple and obvious.
He got up and went on with the cooking.
After a few minutes he said, “I don’t want to do something that’s only for myself all the time. I want to do something else as well. Something that’s ordinary and practical and useful to other people. I want to make sculptures, but I want to go on plumbing too.”
“You don’t think sculpture is practical and useful?”
“Not the same way plumbing is. People really need plumbers, don’t they? It’s not much good having sculptures if your house is flooding or you’ve got no water, is it?”
I’d had enough philosophising about art for one night so I didn’t take up the challenge. Let him think it out for himself.
He turned to me with his fish slice in his hand like a weapon.
“Well, is it?”
“I take your point.”
“I want to do both. If you’re talking about what I need to do, I need to do both.”
“Even if you were a successful sculptor you’d still want to be a plumber?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying, OK?”
“I’m not trying to dissuade you. In fact, I think it’s admirable.”
He turned back to his cooking. “You do?”
“I do. I think I understand what you mean. I think what you’re saying is that going on with plumbing isn’t about making a living, though it will do that. It’s about you not losing touch with everyday life and ordinary people.”
“And because I think I’ll be a better sculptor the better I am as a plumber.”
“And vice versa?”
“That as well.”
Enough! We’d said enough. Say more and we’d kill it.
To make a break I did something I hadn’t done since I was a boy. I drink wine and don’t like beer. Karl preferred beer. I have an old jug that belonged to my grandfather, my father’s father. Before dinner he used to fill the jug with beer from his own little barrel (a firkin he kept in the dining room). When my father, who told me about this, was big enough to hold the jug when it was full, my grandfather let him do it. After he told me this story, my dad let me do it once, by taking the jug to the local pub, filling it and bringing it back for my father. Just so I’d done it too.
Now I took the jug, which I’ve always treasured and never used in case it was broken, went to the pub up the road, and brought it back full of beer for Karl.
I was halfway home when I remembered that I’d said something to Karl’s mother during his crisis about how writing helped me to survive. Maybe Mrs. W. had told him this. Maybe he wasn’t so clever after all. Maybe he was only repeating what his mother had told him I’d said.
But then I thought, So what? Which of us ever has an original thought, however clever we are? I haven’t. Everything I say that’s worth saying I’ve come across somewhere else—have heard it or read it. Why should I think any the less of Karl for doing the same? At least he’d remembered and said it on an appropriate occasion. That’s clever enough. Or maybe, maybe after all, he hadn’t been told it by his mother and really had thought it for himself.
I served Karl some of the beer, gratified by his pleasure at what I’d done. And while he finished cooking, I excused myself—extending the break and the silence—went to my workroom and fiddled with some papers, shelved a few stray books, returning to the kitchen when Karl shouted up the stairs that our meal was ready.
By unspoken mutual agreement we said no more then about art or his plans.
I was tempted to ask him about Fiorella. I was dying to know why he had treated her the way she described and to hear his side of the story. I hoped
he might bring it up. But he didn’t and I couldn’t find a way of mentioning her without him wondering why and it being obvious she had been in touch.
So the evening ended with questions secluded in the air.
THAT NIGHT, BEFORE SHUTTING DOWN THE COMPUTER ON THE way to bed, I checked my emails.
Another from Fiorella:
Did you receive my email this afternoon? In case you didn’t, here it is again.
On the spur of the moment and without giving it a second thought, I clicked Reply and wrote:
Think artefact.
If she was as keen a reader of my books as she said she was, she wouldn’t have much trouble working out what I meant.
FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS I HEARD NOTHING FROM KARL.
Mrs. W. phoned every two or three days to ask after me, and keep me up to date. Karl was plumbing full-time now, eating “like there was no tomorrow,” sleeping “like a baby.” A complete change from the bad times. He spent his evenings in his workshop. He said nothing about what he was doing. On Sundays he went fishing. But he wasn’t seeing friends or anyone and she was worried in case he became reclusive and too self-absorbed. As someone who prefers to be on my own I had nothing to offer by way of advice or sympathy.
Fiorella hadn’t shown up again. Karl hadn’t mentioned her. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t been in touch by what Mrs. W. called “virtual chat.”
Dying to Know You Page 14
