by Sean Rabin
It was not the possessions Lucian would leave behind that made death so difficult to accept. It was things like this. The music he had not yet heard. The books he had not yet read. Had not yet been written. All the things he would miss out on because he would be no longer conscious. It seemed so unfair that he should stop living while the rest of the world continued to grow. He was not tired. Lucian felt he had the energy of a twenty year old. So why couldn’t he stay awake forever and see what was going to happen?
What’s the new CD like? asked Michael as he returned to the sunroom.
Lucian looked up and blinked away his tears. It’s…
74.
I made a mistake, okay?
Penny put down her knife and stepped sideways, closer to Paul, so her son would not overhear. It was the first day of school holidays and Matthew was loading plates into the dishwasher. Losing your wallet is a mistake. Or forgetting to set your alarm clock. That, however, was not a mistake. That was an assault. And it was not your fault.
Paul touched his bruised eye socket and assumed it was going to be even darker by the end of the day. He already had a reputation for clumsiness, so the elaborate story he concocted about hitting his head on a low beam in the cellar was not questioned by any of the regulars who sat along the bar. But Penny knew from experience what domestic violence looked like and refused to be complicit by pretending to believe such a ludicrous tale. It irritated Paul that she would not mind her own business. And at the same time he found it comforting to know that someone cared for his welfare.
Carl didn’t mean it, Paul explained. It was just a misunderstanding.
All he needed to do was tell you he was straight. He didn’t have to hit you.
We were both drunk, and I suppose things had gone a little too far.
What do you mean? How far did it go?
Paul looked over his shoulder at Matthew. Can we perhaps discuss this at another time?
No. Penny grabbed Paul’s hand. We’re going outside to pick some parsley, she told Matthew. Go stand at the door and keep an eye on the bar. Come and get us if anyone starts serving themselves, okay?
Matthew pulled off his rubber gloves. He recognised the expression on his mother’s face from the times he had got into trouble at school, or forgotten to do his homework. Can I have some chips? he asked.
Of course you can, said Paul.
No you can’t, corrected his mother. It’s not even lunchtime yet. Now go and do what I asked.
Paul stood under the back awning watching rain fall in heavy sheets of grey. The air was freezing, and he could see that the back of the pub needed a fresh coat of paint. More money, he thought. How was he supposed to pay for something like that?
Look, I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself.
Penny lowered her voice so no one in the men’s toilet could eavesdrop. I know you can. I didn’t say you couldn’t. But I thought we all took care of each other. You, me and Matthew. And I don’t intend to let anyone hurt you, no matter whether you think you deserve it or not. This guy might have all the money in the world, but it doesn’t give him the right to give you a black eye.
Carl’s not that rich.
Well he certainly acts as if he is.
It was just a mistake. I think you’re overreacting. So how far did it go?
I’m not giving you any details.
Did you kiss him? asked Penny. Did he kiss you back?
We’d been drinking all night. That’s all I’m telling you.
So you had your tongue in his mouth and he suddenly remembered he was straight?
It wasn’t like that.
Well then tell me what it was like, because it sure as hell isn’t obvious to me.
Paul leaned forward so he could whisper. All right, look, I was giving him head when I touched something he didn’t like.
His cock was in your mouth and he didn’t want to be touched? Exactly where didn’t he want you to touch him?
Where do you think? Paul could see the confusion on Penny’s face. His bum.
So his dick is ok, but his arse is out of bounds?
I know, I know. I just thought he was being playful so I started to play along too. But then things got out of hand.
Too right they did. That eye is going to take weeks to heal.
It won’t happen again. I promise.
No, I promise you it won’t happen again. Because if it does I’ll make sure that no one in Wood Green buys a thing from his store, and we’ll send that bastard bankrupt faster than you can say South African prick.
Paul smiled at Penny’s protectiveness, but knew she understood little of the nocturnal subtleties that went on between men. And certainly would not have been able to accept that he and Carl had already reconciled.
The kitchen door opened and Matthew leaned outside. Wobbly Bob fell off his stool and no one is helping him to get back up.
Let’s give him a hand, said Paul. Come on, then we’ll bring in some wood for the fire. It’s colder than the North Pole today.
Matthew checked his mum’s expression and saw it had grown more benign.
Then can I have some chips?
75.
Michael opened the front door to Maureen holding a cardboard box full of books. Hello.
Hi. These are Lucian’s.
Oh, okay. Here, let me take them for you.
I can manage. All right if I go through to the library?
Of course. Michael stepped aside as Maureen kicked off her boots and crossed the threshold. I can do that for you if you’d like, he said as she began returning the books to the shelves.
I don’t mind. I know where they go, and it’ll probably be the last time I get the opportunity.
When are you and Tim due to leave?
In a couple of days.
How’s the packing going?
Well I’ve finished the books. Is Lucian working late today? I waited until the afternoon so I wouldn’t disturb him.
No, he’s asleep. He got up feeling unwell and went back to bed pretty much straight after breakfast.
That’s not like him. Is he all right?
He doesn’t seem to have a temperature.
Have you checked him?
I did a couple of hours ago. I think it’s just the flu.
Mind if I put my head around the door to see if he’s okay?
As Maureen stood inside the bedroom watching Lucian’s chest gently rise and fall, she felt a tinge of jealousy that Michael had been allowed to share the author’s house when she had not. But a moment’s reflection of her current circumstances – selling the store; separating from Tim; no particular plans for the future – clarified the reason why Lucian had chosen Michael. Business arrangements were always so much easier to negotiate than emotional ones.
I’d better get back to my packing.
Michael pointed to the kettle on the stove. I was just about to make us a pot of tea.
Maureen lowered herself into Lucian’s regular position on the leather couches and watched Michael move about the kitchen. He seemed so at home – aware of where everything lived – as if he had made the tea a million times before. The coffee table was littered with the usual offenders, and Maureen wondered if being stoned might make packing boxes a little more bearable. Mind if I put some music on?
Go ahead.
Maureen selected Terry Reid’s River, just because it had a swing like no other record, and placed the album cover on her lap to admire the artwork. Do you think Lucian would mind? she asked holding up the half-smoked spliff that had been left on the ashtray.
Michael delivered a tray of tea and biscuits. I doubt he’d even notice. Maureen had placed her black stockinged feet on the edge of the coffee table and Michael caught himself admiring their shape. Sadie leapt onto the couch and rested her snout on top of his thigh.
Looks like you’ve made yourself a friend.
Yeah, we’re getting there. I feed her most days so she’s started to accept my presence.<
br />
Did you bake those yourself?
They’re not very neat but I think they taste all right. Lucian has been going to bed early, and there’s not much else to do up here besides read and listen to music and bake.
They’re delicious.
Michael beamed. Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.
I’m not that good a cook.
The moment you’re gone I’m sure everyone on this mountainside is going to realise exactly how good you are.
If I get stoned I might grow greedy with those, so stop me at three if I forget myself.
No problem. So long as you do the same for me.
Maureen pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her jaw was aching from laughing so much. They had eaten all the biscuits, and after Michael closed the sliding door to the sitting room he had turned up the music and rolled another joint. Maureen acknowledged there was a frisson in the room. More than once she had caught Michael admiring her legs or holding her gaze a little too long. But perhaps the pot was making her imagine it that way. They had graduated to Gal Costa’s debut album, and were so involved in a conversation about José Saramago’s Blindness that both of them squeaked in surprise when Lucian slid back the door.
In his dressing gown he appeared sleepy, and perhaps a little cross.
Having a party without me?
Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you.
How are you feeling? asked Maureen.
Better, thank you. You didn’t wake me. I think I’ve had enough sleep for one day.
Would you like a cup of tea? asked Michael.
Yes please, that would be lovely.
Maureen shifted across the couch so Lucian could occupy his regular position.
He felt the warmth of her body in the leather and admired her black stockinged feet curled up beside him. What brings you here?
I was just returning a box of your books…but I seem to have become a little distracted.
Lucian scanned the evidence on the coffee table. So it seems.
Having Lucian and Michael in the same room confused Maureen’s antennae. She felt she had to be a different person for each of them, and could not decide which Maureen she preferred to be.
Are you going to have another cup as well? asked Michael.
You know I don’t think I will. I really should get back to the shop. It’s not going to pack itself, and I’m only half done.
Lucian stood at the front door while Maureen pulled on her boots.
This is for you, she said as she slipped an envelope into the pocket of his dressing gown. Their kiss goodbye felt indifferent and perfunctory, though Maureen assumed the pot was again clouding her perception of reality. Well of course it was. That was what it was supposed to do. The cold air struck her face like a bucket of water. Anarchic. Intense. And in the end, amusing. As Maureen walked down Brenan Street she felt her head begin to clear. And noticed the mountainside – quiet and damp – was even more exquisite than usual.
76.
Tim knew he needed to time it exactly as he had before. Allow Maureen a few moments to get settled, then gently reach over when she turned on her side. Why not one more time? This was going to be their last night together. Ever. So it was not unreasonable for him to make an approach. On the contrary, after the last time she might be waiting for him. Expectant. Eager for a repeat performance. A frenzied last hurrah. Impersonal. Depraved. Surely all modesty was redundant at this stage in their relationship. There, she was in position. Tim knew it was not the moment to hesitate. It was already well past midnight and in a few hours the removalists would be knocking at their front door. Seductively he touched Maureen’s hip.
No fucking way, she shouted, and violently pushed Tim’s hand aside.
77.
Lucian glanced up from the biographical notes that Michael had written during the afternoon. Pardon?
Why are there no photographs of you around the house?
What would I want to look at myself for?
Okay, sure, but I haven’t found anything in the boxes either. The only picture of you I’ve come across is the same publicity shot that all the newspapers use, which must have been taken when The Bombardier was published.
Lucian shrugged and went back to his reading. Don’t worry too much about photographs. They tend to be a pretty unreliable source of information.
But you must have a photo album somewhere. And it might help me to place you in different locations.
Lucian pretended not to hear and continued to read.
What about those pictures on your bedroom wall? Michael knew there was a risk that Lucian might complain about his privacy being violated, but as a carer there could be no corner of the house he was prohibited from visiting.
What about them?
You’re not in any of them?
Had a close look did you?
Michael stood at the kitchen bench waiting for Lucian to stop being childish.
I’m not in any of them because I’m the person who took them. Seems obvious to me.
But shouldn’t we go through them and identify who’s who so I could add them to my notes.
Sorry. Can’t help you. I don’t remember half the faces in those photos. They’re strangers to me as much as they are to you.
Michael reproached himself for his lack of sensitivity. Sorry.
No problem. I sometimes forget why you’re here as well.
But what about the people you do remember? You don’t think it’s worth writing down who they are?
Lucian set Michael’s notes on the coffee table and stood up with grunt of effort. Come on, come with me. I’ve told you this before but it seems I have to explain it to you again. He walked into the library and indicated to the shelves lining the room. This is my photo album. An entire lifetime of reading. Every one of these books contains a memory of a place or an event or a person that’s more vivid in my mind than any photograph.
All right then, said Michael as he sat in the chair next to Sadie’s basket – she rolled onto her back and offered her stomach for him to rub – let’s put it to use.
Right now?
Michael reached for the pen and paper that was always on the small round table at the centre of the room. You want to wait until you forget this as well?
Lucian could see that Michael was determined to have his way, and conceded there might be merit in the idea. He turned to his bookshelves looking left and right, up and down. The main difficulty was that there were so many books to choose from. And Lucian was surprised at how many stories he could actually remember.
All right, here we go. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather. You see for me that book is Ladbroke Grove in London. Grey streets. Grey sky. A basement flat with traffic just outside my front door. Crap job, which after rent and food left me with barely enough money to go to the cinema. Terrible homesickness. And a constant yearning to see the sky. Thankfully the pages of this book are filled with sunlight. Well for me they are at least.
Here’s another London one. Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake. By the time I was reading this I was on my feet a bit more. Had a better-paid job, knew my way around Soho, and was sharing a house in Kensal Rise with some people who worked in the bookstores along Charing Cross Road. It also reminds of the National Portrait Gallery in St Martin’s Place. You ever get the chance to visit it, go and see Mervyn Peake’s self-portrait. Captures his sensibility perfectly.
Lucian selected a worn paperback of The Third Policeman. Read this in Venice. On the top floor of an apartment in the Jewish Quarter. Like most people the first time I went to Venice I got hopelessly lost. But the second time – the time I read this book – I used public transport and seemed to find my way around just fine. Ate like a king. And I’ll never forget the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. More Jackson Pollocks than I’d ever seen before. And you could stand so close to them.
Okay. Here we go. The Book of Ebenezer Le Page by G.B. Edwards. To me this book is Greece. A small island with one shop, two restaura
nts, lots of donkeys, and the sound of turkeys gobbling just before sunset. Stayed there for six weeks doing nothing but reading and writing. Lived in a converted boatshed right on the harbour. Fantastic swimming. And the most exquisite little chapel I’ve ever seen. The book is set on an island as well so it must have been why I decided to take it with me.
Lucian shuddered as he pulled out Gilbert Sorrentino’s Aberration of Starlight. I dropped some heavy acid in Canberra once that completely messed with my head, and I remember reading this book three times while I stayed in bed trying to recover. Sorrentino can be a steely mother, but you need that when the bedspread is pulsating.
Whereas this one reminds me of Wood Green, said Lucian as he handed Michael a paperback of The Man on a Donkey by H.F.M. Prescott. A friend in London sent it to me after I left Pisa. He thought it might help take my mind off Grace. And I suppose it worked for a while. But now it just reminds me of how bad I felt at the time. Which is a shame really. It’s a wonderful book. Should be better known.
The Cardboard Crown by Martin Boyd. Patricia’s mother gave me this. Kind woman. Excellent mother-in-law. Tried to make me feel welcome in the family by reading an Australian author. I think it was her first. Reminds me of the deerhound they had as a pet. I’d be reading this on the lawn and he’d walk over and drop down right beside me. Almost on top of me. Lovely animal. I think his name was Fin.
Found this in New Mexico, Lucian said half to himself as he pulled out The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington. Incredibly imaginative book. Unlike anything else I’d read at the time. I must have recommended it to my students because what it reminds me of most is staring at their blank expressions after I asked them what they’d thought of it. I suspect that was the moment my teaching career officially ended.
