by Peter Walker
‘Wonderful,’ said Heloise. ‘How old are you, my dear?’
Bernard did not hear the kindly note of condescension.
‘I am ninety-two years old,’ he said, ‘which is to say, I am in my ninety-third year.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Heloise. ‘It can hardly be credited.’
Bernard basked in the flattery.
‘You may not credit it,’ he said, ‘and I may take no credit.’
‘Your parents also lived to a wonderful age?’
‘My mother and my father both. My father, of course, had the finest physique in the British army. His measurements just about matched the Great Sandow’s, except that Father’s thighs were an inch longer and he was accordingly shorter from knee to ankle. He often wondered if this hip-to-knee length gave him his facility as a horse-rider. He was one of the best riders in the army, you know. He was often mentioned in despatches.’
Heloise was drinking her soup, nodding all the while to show she was up with the play, with the Great Sandow, whoever he was, and Bernard’s father’s thigh-length.
‘The Boer War, that is,’ said Bernard, ‘which was before your time. He was a great horseman. Even after he went blind he had a tremendous way with horses.’
‘Your father went blind!’
‘Nothing that couldn’t be fixed in a trice today. But in those days. Before lasers . . .’
‘Do you think,’ said Heloise, ‘that you took up your field of medicine because your father was blind?’
‘That I have often asked myself,’ said Bernard. ‘And the answer is: Perhaps!’
‘Fear,’ Chip was saying at the other end of the table. ‘Fear, and a deep, deep respect for American power. That’s the psychology we have to aim for in the Arab street.’
‘Brute force, in other words,’ said Chadwick.
‘He tamed a rig at Sloman’s stables that no one else would go near,’ said Bernard.
‘A rig?’ said Heloise.
‘A stallion that has been only partly castrated. They are dangerous animals. They feel somewhat bitter towards mankind. But Father mastered that horse, even though he was almost completely blind. He was a man of very high temperament, and a handsome man as well.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Heloise.
‘But, you know, he took agin me,’ said Bernard.
‘Agin?’ said Heloise.
‘He took against me,’ said Bernard.
His face reddened.
‘I never knew why,’ he said.
‘Never mind, dear,’ said Candy on Bernard’s left. ‘He gets upset about this,’ she said to Heloise across Bernard’s back.
‘Good riddance!’ said Bernard.
Everyone turned towards him.
‘Imagine that,’ said Bernard, ‘to your own son!’
‘Don’t worry about it, dear,’ said Candy. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Bernard. ‘That’s the trouble, you see. I can’t – you can’t – find your way back. Not by any means.’
A look of anguish crossed his face. Candy patted Bernard’s left hand with her right several times, and reached at the same time with her left for the long, silver serving fork to spear not one but two roast potatoes, which she knew Bernard liked, and put them on his plate. Bernard took no notice of these ministrations. He was staring at the table cloth trying to remember something. He put both hands on the table, ten fingertips on the edge of the white cloth, looking now, somehow, like an earnest boy.
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
he said,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And – and – and sable curls, all silvered o’er with white
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou amongst the wastes of time must go—
‘Never mind, darling,’ said Candy. For Bernard had stopped reciting. His eyes were filled with tears.
After a moment’s pause everyone began talking to one another again, at first rather gently, and then in ordinary tones.
‘After we finish up in Afghanistan – then it’s time for Iraq,’ said Chip. ‘Hit Iraq! Then Iran. Then Syria. “You’re next!” That should be our message.’
‘Forget Iraq,’ said Chadwick. ‘Forget Syria. Pakistan is a bigger problem. If Pakistan blows . . . And of course none of them is the real problem. China is our real problem.’
Race was not speaking but he listened peaceably. This was not his field. Chadwick had been in the State Department for thirty years. Chip despised the State Department. He stated the fact openly in his column in the Post. ‘The Department of Nice’ he called it. Race was a marine biologist. He taught at the National University. His speciality was proto-zygomatic disguise – camouflage, cryptic colouring, in invertebrates, in octopi especially.
‘Our real problem,’ said Chip, ‘is folks who attack America and kill thousands of her citizens in her streets and you people in the Department of Nice who won’t face up to the fact.’
‘Invading Iraq isn’t facing up to the fact,’ said Chadwick. ‘It’s a thousand miles in the wrong direction.’
‘In Europe—’ said the Belgian husband.
‘Europe!’ said Chip in outrage. ‘Let me tell you a little story. It’s 1988: we have a little problem in the West Bank. The Arabs are rioting. And finally Yitzhak Rabin says: “Go in and beat them. Break their bones so they can’t throw stones any more.” So they went in and broke their bones. Lily-livered liberals condemned him. Europe condemned him. But the voters liked it and he won the next election, and then what did he do? Made peace with the Palestinians. Machiavelli would love this guy! Ok, it was a little rough for a while but in the end – everyone won. If you want to do good you have to be brutal now and then.’
‘Oh, Chip, that’s just plain wrong,’ said Candy. ‘Things are worse than ever in Palestine. Plus there are hundreds of people crippled for life by Rabin’s beatings.’
‘We have to be hard-hearted,’ said Chip. ‘You want nice. I prefer wise. Read Machiavelli, read Hobbes, read Strauss. America needs a pagan ethic. There’s nothing immoral about pagan virtue.’
‘Toby,’ said Chadwick, turning away as if Chip had ceased to exist. ‘How’s England?’
Chip recognised the slight and flushed.
‘England!’ said Toby.
‘You like it?’
‘I sometimes think I need a diving bell.’
‘Toby’s studying in England,’ said Candy to Heloise.
‘What are you studying?’ said Heloise.
‘Popular culture,’ said Toby.
‘Define popular,’ said Chadwick.
‘Popular culture is what doesn’t need studying,’ said Toby.
‘And so?’
‘The theory is, it all looks very simple, but it might be doing things that high-brow culture can’t even imagine.’
‘Example?’ said Chadwick.
‘Example!’ said Toby. He was nervous. Now everyone at the table was listening. Even Chip, who was looking red and angry about something else, was craning at him. He couldn’t think. Then Race sent across a sort of bead of light – this was Toby’s impression – that hit his chest.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘take 9/11. It was terrible and horrific and everything, and no one was ready for it, and yet it was oddly familiar. Remember those big dust clouds coming down the street and everyone’s running away? No one in the State Department saw that coming. No one in big serious novels or big white art galleries had a clue. But we had seen it before. It was in Superman . . . Batman . . . Marvel comics. And maybe that’s what happens. In America, the words of the prophets really are written on subway walls.’
‘And the tenement halls,’ said Gilly.
Jojo should have said that, Toby thought, but Jojo was looking remote, as if she could hardly hear what was being said.
‘And the tenement halls,’ said Toby.
‘A
few comic books?’ said Chadwick, incredulous.
‘Popular culture,’ said Toby.
‘Coincidence,’ said Chadwick. ‘Superimposed meaning. Wishful thinking.’
‘Maybe,’ said Toby. ‘That’s what I’m studying it to see.’
Caspar had slipped into the room and had sat down at the empty place without a word.
‘Take Ghostbusters,’ said Toby. He felt emboldened by Caspar’s poker-face. ‘Now here’s a ridiculous movie. No one could possibly take it seriously. Manhattan invaded by all the old demons of the Middle East. Then, because of official denials, the demons escape – Boom! – and New York is under attack. A crazy story – but a much better prophecy than anything Foreign Affairs magazine or the Washington Post ever came up with. There’s even a shot of the explosion framed by the Twin Towers. Then the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man – America at its most innocent – turns evil and begins to tear down our own structures. Perfect metaphor.’
‘Manhattan invaded by all the demons of the Middle East,’ said Chip. ‘That’s nice, Toby. I could use that.’
‘Thanks, Chip,’ said Toby.
He and Chip were both aware they rarely engaged positively.
‘I might just use that,’ said Chip again, generously. He suddenly wanted to defend his step-son, and to form an alliance against Chadwick. ‘You say “because of official denials”. What do you mean? What denials?’
‘Remember in the movie,’ said Toby. ‘Some guy from the federal government declares there are no demons. They don’t exist. Then the holding facility is shut down and – Boom! – they escape. It’s just like American foreign policy. “We can do what we like in the Middle East. Nothing can touch us.” Boom! September 11!’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa – now just you hold your horses,’ said Chip.
‘I was in London on 9/11,’ said Toby. ‘I saw it all from there. There was this guy from Washington, a White House staffer, running round London, panting into one TV studio after the other yelling: “This has nothing to do with Israel.” The obvious conclusion was this: He thought 9/11 was caused by America’s bias towards Israel.’
‘September 11 had nothing whatsoever to do with Israel,’ said Chip. ‘I hate to hear you even suggest it, under my own roof.’
‘It’s my roof, too,’ said Candy. ‘And Bernard’s roof.’
‘It’s not an unreasonable argument,’ said Chadwick. ‘Bin Laden himself said Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians was a reason he attacked us, and I guess he’d know.’
‘Hitler blamed World War Two on the Jews,’ said Chip. ‘I suppose you’d say’ – Chip put on a simper – ‘ “And I guess he’d know.” ’
‘I will not have that man’s name mentioned in this house,’ said Candy. ‘It’s always the sign of a weak argument when he gets dragged in.’
Bernard had got to his feet shakily. He walked along past all the diners to the sitting-room through the open double doors. Everyone watched him, though as if they were unsure why. He sat down in an armchair and looked back into the dining room, and then beamed at the assembled party.
‘Where were you on 9/11?’ Gilly asked Jojo.
‘I was in LA,’ said Jojo. ‘We were staying at this hotel and my girlfriend rang from down the hall. It was six in the morning. “Turn on the TV,” she said. But I couldn’t work the remote and I went down to her room and on the way the doors were open and everyone was talking to each other in their pyjamas. In the Chateau Marmont! You just knew something terrible had happened.’
Heloise’s eye was perfectly round. She looked more than ever like the blackbird that hears a worm under a lawn. She was, in fact, puzzled. She had not been quite able to place Merle – she assumed at first she was from one of the Caribbean embassies – perhaps even ambassador – but then Merle had risen from her place and, along with Candy, come and gone from the kitchen with an air of familiarity. Heloise had to consider extraordinary possibilities. Could it be Merle was the help? Was this a Thanksgiving Day custom? And who was this youth who arrived late without a word and sat down wearing a dark navy jumper which had – Heloise thought surely not – the black suede epaulettes of a security guard or a gas-pump attendant? Who knew the customs of this strange city?
‘Hey!’ said Romulus. ‘There’s Egypt!’
Candy’s cat, jet black but for one white forepaw, had come into the sitting-room and was advancing across the carpet towards Bernard, her tail up, the tip curling very slightly as she paced along.
‘Egypt!’ said Bernard. ‘Darling!’
4
Chadwick arrived first. The car-park was empty. Chadwick, who didn’t drive, was dropped off by a cab. The sky was an innocent baby-blue but the air was icy. The commuter traffic on Jefferson Davis Drive was already in full spate. Wap, wap, wap went the air buffets. Chadwick, dancing on the spot, checked his watch and then checked it again, but then, just after seven, he saw Race’s old maroon Citroën – just the kind of car, Chadwick thought, that some mad marine biologist would drive – turning in the gate. Race parked the car, and father and son came across the car-park towards him.
‘You crazy young fucker,’ said Chadwick as Toby came up.
‘Hey! What did I do?’ said Toby, laughing, protesting feebly, as Chadwick pretended to attack him and get him in a headlock.
‘All that stuff – to Chip Drake, of all people.’
‘What stuff?’ cried Toby.
‘All that stuff yesterday, about Israel and 9/11. No one says things like that in this town. Not in this entire country.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said Toby.
‘ “I didn’t know,” ’ said Chadwick.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Come on, England’s turned his brains,’ said Chadwick, pushing Toby away and dancing on the spot. Chadwick was wearing a navy ski hat and dark sweats – the costume of a cat burglar – but no one, Toby thought, not even the dumbest city cop, could mistake him for anything but a patrician, a member of the elite, here in the world’s marbled capital. They went through the gates into the Arlington Cemetery and began to jog up the hill, around Sherman Drive and under the trees on L’Enfant. Toby ran on ahead. The old guys, as he thought of them, were hardly running at all. They kept stopping to talk, their heads bent under the low-sweeping branches of the oaks on L’Enfant, some of which were still in leaf. He wondered what they were talking about. It must be weird, he thought – dull, detailed, useful – to have known the same person for thirty or forty years or whatever it was. He ran on. He didn’t mind being alone. ‘I’ll come!’ Jojo had said the night before when the morning run was first mooted, but when the dawn came and Race texted Toby to wake him and Toby heard the phone’s twang and looked over at Jojo asleep in the other narrow bed, he decided not to wake her. It could be adduced as an act of kindness. In fact, he didn’t want her to come with him. They had finally made love in that bed, his childhood bed, but there was still something cold between them, a distance. Even the friendly bear on the rug, he felt, childishly, knew that, when Toby’s bare feet touched the floor . . . He jogged on a few more hundred yards then turned back to meet the other two coming up under the avenue, and then they all walked up towards the great mansion on the crest of the hill.
In the distance, in the bowl of the valley, there was already a knot of people amid the waist-high tombs.
‘Who’s over there?’ said Toby.
‘That must be JFK,’ said Race. ‘Is that JFK?’
‘That’s JFK,’ said Chadwick.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ said Toby, looking at the pillared mansion that rose above them.
‘Yes you have,’ said Race. ‘I used to bring you up here all the time.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t. You were two.’
‘What were we doing here?’
‘We’d just arrived in America. I used to come up here a lot.’
‘Why?’ said Toby.
‘I wanted to climb a hill.’
‘Homesick?’ said Toby.
‘I just wanted a hill to climb,’ said Race. ‘I suppose I needed a view. Chadwick brought us up here, and showed us this.’
They looked out over the city which in that cold hour seemed both solid – the marble dome, the great obelisk – and as evanescent as foam on the long tilt to the continental horizon.
‘So what did you think?’ said Toby.
‘What did I think?’ said Race.
He looked at the city.
‘I loved it,’ he said. ‘I looked at that and I thought there was something old and deep here, which also belonged to me. I can’t justify the feeling. And something good, which is always under threat. Internal, mostly. And dark red apples in America . . . I remember that too, when I first got here.’
‘Apples, huh?’ said Chadwick.
‘Very dark red,’ said Race.
‘What were you doing then?’ said Toby to Chadwick.
‘Me? I was at the State Department by then,’ said Chadwick. ‘Was I? No. Yes. I was an intern with Clark Clifford, then I went to State.’
‘Who’s Clark Clifford?’ said Toby.
‘Who’s Clark Clifford!’ said Chadwick. He took a step towards him.
‘Not the headlock!’ said Toby, dancing backwards.
‘Clark Clifford was a great American monument,’ said Chadwick. ‘In fact, the last time I was here we had just buried Clark Clifford down there.’
They looked down the hill at the innumerable tombstones.
‘He’s there somewhere,’ said Chadwick. ‘He was in disgrace by then, but he was still a national monument. So he got an Arlington burial.’
‘In disgrace?’ said Toby.
‘Banking, some banking scandal. Don’t ask. Jesus! Bankers! In his eighties he was taken downtown and finger-printed. All the same, he was the man who got America out of Vietnam. That was the finest deed of his life, he told me.’
‘You actually knew him?’ said Toby.
‘I worked for him a couple of years – 1972, ’74. I was a nobody, an intern. He was the great insider, about 1,000 light years above me in Washington circles. But he used to talk to me sometimes late in the office. I told him I had seen him at a demonstration. I had been in the demonstration. “What was the demonstration against?” he said. “You,” I said. That made him laugh.’
