The river is the river

by Buckley, Jonathan;

  The crouch and the smile are held for too long; a point is about to be made, Kate sees; the carcass will prove to be in some way pertinent to the teachings of Bernát. She imagines the instruction that will be drawn from the convenient little carcass. Perhaps: ‘In the end, Katie, this is all we are.’ It would be said in the voice with which Naomi had once informed her, as if she thought her sister was in need of disillusionment: ‘In the end, Katie, we’re all forgotten.’

  But Naomi walks on, and for a full minute says nothing. Staying two paces ahead, she draws deep and sonorous breaths, demonstrably relishing the view. Then she turns, and she starts talking about Bernát again. He took himself to the brink, she tells Kate. He talked about ‘peering over the wall’. There was a place near the house but out of sight of it, a small ridge, sheltered by trees, where he would sit for much of the day. This was as far as he could walk by then.

  ‘And what about you?’ Kate interrupts. ‘You weren’t in that state, were you?’

  ‘No, I was not. I’m the sensible one,’ she says, amused by her sister’s alarm.

  What Bernát experienced, Naomi continues, was related to what Lizzie Vidal had seen at the very end of her life, which Bernát now, at last, disclosed to Naomi. She had seen the boundaries between objects dissolving, said Lizzie. Perspective had become as strange as in a dream, she told him: things that she knew were near appeared to be far away and then close and then far away again; everything was in motion, in a perpetual slow flow. There was a vibration in every object, and she could hear the sound of this vibration, a soothing low white sound that had everything in it. It was wonderful, Lizzie told Bernát. And what happened to Bernát, as he sat watching the land and the air, was also wonderful, says Naomi, as tears begin to form in her eyes at the thought of what he had seen. Now, when he looked over the terrain around the house, at the grass and the trees and the heather, what he saw was not a landscape of discrete and solid elements but a ‘constellation of energies’. The hills trembled in the light, as if releasing their energy as heat. He saw the horizon quiver and shrink, as it would shrink in the energy of the wind and the rain over thousands of years. The earth, like the clouds, was in motion, and he could sense that motion, says Naomi. His body was a minuscule element in the infinite exchange of energy between the earth and the air – he understood this, and he felt it, she says. He was aware as never before of the air moving into his body and out, taking particles of his body away with it. His nerves seemed to burn in the excitement of the light; he was conscious of the radiation of his skin. Having taken his body to its limit, Bernát was looking at death at close quarters, and he knew it for what it was: a translation, from one form of energy to another. ‘That’s all death is: a translation,’ she repeats, as if making a presentation of the insight of all insights.

  And it goes on, this nonsense. Calmly, in a tone of lucidity, she celebrates the mental and physical break-down of Bernát – or rather, his attainment of grace. There is too much for Kate to remember; it becomes unendurable. This is lunacy, she wants to say. Instead, as Naomi is expatiating on vibrations and energies and ecstasy, she stops her with: ‘If he’d died, you would have been in trouble.’

  This is taken as a remark that might be insulting. ‘What do you mean?’ Naomi asks; her face undergoes a contortion of incredulity.

  ‘There would have been questions to answer, if he’d died,’ says Kate; she finds it impossible to use his name; the name itself is ludicrous.

  ‘He was not going to die,’ says Naomi.

  ‘It can happen. When the body gets so weak—’

  ‘He was not going to die,’ she repeats. Bernát knew exactly what he was doing, she says; he had given her instructions for bringing him back; he had researched the procedure thoroughly, says Naomi.

  ‘And now he’s as right as rain?’

  ‘He’s recovering,’ she says. ‘He went further than me, so it’s taking a little longer.’

  They have reached the humpback footbridge that spans the river. The way home is to the right, away from the water, but Naomi turns left. ‘One last look,’ she says, and she strides with determination to the apex, where she stops; holding the handrail with both hands, straight-armed, as if bracing herself at the edge of a precipice, she surveys the river. Kate follows; standing beside Naomi, she can hear her sister’s breathing; Naomi’s hands are quivering with tension. ‘Look at it,’ she says in a whisper.

  It’s a drab scene: a featureless sky; a sluggish river, bordered with mudbanks and grasses; here and there, on the floodplain, a cow; a magpie; a pigeon; some crows, or rooks, in the thinning trees.

  After half a minute of silence, Naomi says: ‘I’m starving.’ Then she laughs loudly; the laugh has no mirth in it.

  23.

  At the table, in the evening, Naomi barely says a word. The chief topic of conversation is Lulu’s catastrophic new English teacher, a man for whom, Lulu complains, reading a book is a process akin to filleting a fish the wrong way round – he takes out the themes, as if extracting the bones, then throws the flesh away. ‘He obviously doesn’t enjoy teaching, and he doesn’t seem to enjoy reading very much either,’ she says. Her father makes some observations about the education system which on another evening might have roused Naomi to disagreement; instead, she smiles and shrugs. It appears that the afternoon’s monologue has drained her. She clears her plate, however, as if to make a point; she even takes a little more. Then, twenty minutes later, she excuses herself; she goes upstairs to the bathroom, though she could have used the one downstairs; she’s absent for a long time.

  Restored, she returns to watch a programme that Lulu has recorded, a talent show. Without a word they arrange themselves on the sofa as before: Lulu at one end, Naomi at the other, with Lulu’s feet on her lap.

  Four teenaged boys are the first act. Starting in a cluster at the back of the stage, when the slow drumbeat starts they begin to move towards the front, separating. The camera turns on the best-looking boy, who slithers towards it, smouldering poutily.

  ‘This is supposed to be sexy, I’m assuming,’ Naomi comments.

  ‘You’re not the target audience, dear,’ answers Lulu.

  ‘Looks like he’s checking for spots in the mirror.’

  Lulu says nothing.

  ‘Doesn’t anyone know how to play a guitar any more?’ Naomi asks.

  ‘Wrong kind of gig,’ Lulu tells her. ‘And please don’t comment on the hair, OK? That would be mega-boring.’

  The warning is accepted without protest. For fifteen seconds Naomi manages not to intervene, then she says: ‘Is there a lab somewhere, growing these boys in test tubes?’

  ‘I believe there is.’

  ‘Why do they all sing like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Where are they from? Watford, was it?’

  ‘I didn’t hear.’

  ‘I think they said Watford.’

  ‘Well then, Watford it is.’

  ‘So why put on those voices? They’re from Hertfordshire. Why pretend to be from Los Angeles?’

  ‘It’s what they all do,’ says Lulu.

  ‘And that one can’t hold a note.’

  ‘Shush,’ says Lulu sharply. ‘He’s cute. And he can dance.’

  ‘He’s flat.’

  The four boys end their number with a synchronised four-way salute. Screaming erupts from every row. Girls are clawing at their faces in simulated ecstasy.

  ‘Jesus Christ. It’s not the bloody Beatles,’ Naomi heckles.

  ‘That’s the format,’ says Lulu.

  ‘These people are not in their right minds.’

  ‘Just doing what they’re there to do.’

  ‘But why do it? Are they paid?’

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s an honour to be part of the experience. And a thrill.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Wait till you see the next guy. You’ll love him. He’s terrible.’<
br />
  ‘Bring him on,’ says Naomi, and so the double-act patter goes on.

  Kate withdraws, intending to read for an hour or so. But on the way to her room an idea occurs to her; on the landing she hesitates, though aware that the decision has already been taken, then silently, cloaked lightly with shame, she goes up to the guest room. Naomi’s case lies open on the floor; it seems to have become her laundry basket. On the bedside table a small English–Hungarian dictionary rests on top of a notebook; some of Naomi’s bracelets are scattered alongside; under one of the bracelets there’s a book, a selection of essays by Simone Weil; underneath the book, Kate finds the phone. As carefully as a detective at a crime scene, having taken note of the precise alignment of bracelet and book, she extracts the phone, and finds that it has not been locked. She holds it in her palm, as if testing her motives by testing the weight of the thing. One consideration prevails: she must have corroboration of what her sister is telling her; and so she finds the number, memorises it, and descends to her room.

  ‘Hello?’ Gabriel answers. It is the voice of a man who receives few unscheduled calls. Behind him, a soprano is warbling.

  ‘It’s Kate,’ she says. ‘Kate Staunton.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asks, preparing to be told that everything is not.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she assures him. ‘But I just want to ask you something. Do you have a minute?’

  ‘This is about Naomi, I assume.’

  ‘It is. But if you’d rather not—’

  ‘No. It’s fine. Let me just turn this down,’ he says, and the music fades away. ‘Is she still with you?’

  ‘She is. She’s going back tomorrow.’

  ‘And how’s it going?’

  ‘It’s going OK. No rows. But have you seen her recently?’

  ‘I have. Once. Diplomatic relations have now been broken off.’

  ‘She looks awful, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘And she told you about—’

  ‘The transcendental crash diet? Yes, she told me.’

  ‘It’s idiotic.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And you know she’s going back?’ says Kate, in the faintest hope that this part of the story will not tally with what Gabriel knows.

  But he answers: ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘Same as you, I imagine, Kate. But what can we do? It’s her life. Nothing I say is going to make any difference. I have a clear conflict of interest, you see,’ he says, with a tone of downbeat irony that her sister used to find appealing.

  Kate asks: ‘You met this character?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Gabriel, over a grim chuckle.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of him.’

  ‘Didn’t much care for him myself, to tell you the truth,’ says Gabriel. ‘“Bogus” is a word that springs to mind. “Pompous” and “smug” would also be applicable.’

  Hearing some bitterness, Kate says: ‘I understand if you want to stay off the subject. It’s just—’

  ‘Oh no,’ says Gabriel. ‘I’m happy to talk. It’s therapeutic. What can I tell you?’ he asks.

  His account more or less matches what Kate has been told: the encounter in the bookshop; the sighting at the piano recital, with the elegant older woman; the meeting at the other concert, the ‘purgatorial’ one, followed by the walk to the Tube station with Bernát, whose pontifications about the music were like a recital from memory of some fantastically pretentious sleeve notes, says Gabriel. He recalls Bernát making a note for him – it was like being handed a presciption by some Harley Street bigwig. There had been an invitation to Bernát’s house, he confirms. This had led to an argument with Naomi, who suggested that the reason Gabriel was disinclined to take up the invitation was that some jealousy had been kindled. But that wasn’t the case, says Gabriel; he simply didn’t much like the idea of being further patronised. And when Naomi reported back on proceedings, he was glad he’d stayed away; Naomi, however, seemed delighted to have been inducted into Bernát’s suburban court. So they had argued again. He was so negative, Naomi complained; his ‘negativity’, as Gabriel pointed out, had not been a problem hitherto. And as Naomi knew, he had never liked parties of any kind.

  At this, Kate recalls an arduous dinner party, with almost-mute Gabriel withering at Naomi’s side; four strangers had been too much for him. ‘She says she’s not attracted to him,’ she says.

  ‘Clearly she is.’

  ‘But not—’

  ‘No. It’s not about sex. I mean, sex isn’t happening, and it won’t be happening. I’m sure of that,’ says Gabriel, with untypical force.

  And Kate, quelling the impulse to disclose what she’s been told about Bernát’s proclivities, has to ask: ‘Because?’

  ‘Because Naomi has certain—’

  ‘Insecurities?’

  ‘I’d rather not go into it. I think we can be sure that sex will not be a feature of the rural idyll. Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘You’re talking about body image,’ Kate proposes.

  ‘One way of putting it. But we should move on.’

  ‘OK,’ Kate concedes. ‘So, if there’s no sexual attraction—’

  ‘God knows. He has a nice house, I believe. And an outstanding CD collection. Perhaps that’s what hooked her.’

  ‘Seriously, Gabriel.’

  ‘Seriously? I don’t know. He has a hammy sort of presence, I suppose. I imagine he’d like to be described as “imposing”. He puts a lot of work into it. You’ve never seen a beard so well groomed. Not a silky whisker out of place. And the way he talks. The phony precision. Always “I have not”, never “I haven’t”. So I don’t understand it, Katie. I really don’t. Naomi has fits of enthusiasm, you know that. Some more understandable than others. With Naomi you’re never on an even keel. That was what I liked. One of the things.’

  ‘I think he’s dangerous,’ says Kate. ‘For Naomi, I mean. He’s dangerous for Naomi.’

  ‘Not a good influence, I agree.’

  ‘She’s done damage to herself.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘And what about the nonsense with the drugs? Unbelievably stupid.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Bernát’s magic mixture. The mind-bending tea.’

  ‘No. I’m not with you.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Kate, for a moment uncertain of her memory. ‘I thought you knew,’ she says. She tells Gabriel about Bernát’s adventure in Brazil and his psychotropic drink.

  ‘So many strings to that man’s bow,’ Gabriel sighs.

  ‘But someone like Naomi, especially, shouldn’t be messing with things like that.’

  ‘I completely agree,’ he says.

  ‘She says it was a one-off, but who knows?’

  ‘If that’s what she told you, I’d be inclined to believe her.’

  ‘It’s not really a question of believing her. It’s what might happen when she’s up there, with that person. Given what’s already happened.’

  ‘We don’t know,’ says Gabriel. ‘But she’s made her mind up. Nothing we can do.’

  ‘I need to address this thing head-on,’ says Kate. ‘I have to be straight with her.’

  ‘I was assuming you’d already done that.’

  ‘I didn’t get the full story till this afternoon. And you know what it’s like with Naomi. Tiptoe tiptoe.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Gabriel. ‘Well, good luck.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for talking to me.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he says. Then, as if a brighter conclusion were needed: ‘How’s Martin?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘And Lulu?’

  ‘Doing well. And what about you? You’re seeing someone, Naomi says.’

  ‘For the time being,’ he answers.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s nice. But, you know—’ he begins; he does not go on.

  ‘OK,’ says Kate; she has some affection
for Gabriel.

  ‘Anyway, nice talking to you,’ he says.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘Take care, Katie,’ he says, in his tone of resignation; it is like his favourite, most comfortable coat.

  ‘And you,’ she says.

  Downstairs, Naomi and Lulu are watching a film, a high-cost thriller. Men in T-shirts are crashing through windows and walking away unbloodied. It’s impossible to believe that Naomi is enjoying it, but she says that she and Lulu are having a laugh; the film has an hour to run, and they are staying to the end, says Naomi, as if she has intuited that her sister needs to talk to her, now. Another fight begins; each fighter takes half a dozen punches to the face, without bleeding; Kate goes to bed.

  It is past eleven o’clock when Martin finishes what he has to do. Kate wakes up as he is undressing. ‘I have to tell you the latest,’ she says, and she gives him a summary of what Naomi had told her during their walk. And she has done some research: severe fasting, she has found, produces significant increases in depression and emotional distress, to say nothing of the damage to the body. ‘So what do we do?’ she asks, slipping into the cradle of his arm.

  Martin’s reading of the situation is much the same as Gabriel’s: there is no evidence that Naomi’s mind is unsound, and nothing that anyone says to her is likely to change her mind, other than to increase her determination to do what she has decided to do. They must try to stay in contact with her, he says, and hope that this infatuation, or whatever it is, will blow over. He recalls a troubling boyfriend of Naomi’s from many years ago, Radomír, the ‘staring Czech’; somewhere in the house there’s a CD of Radomír’s ‘music’, a single seventy-minute track that sounds like two tortoises ambling up and down the keyboard.

  ‘God, he was awful,’ Kate remembers, hearing Naomi on the stairs; it’s too late to talk to her tonight.

  ‘Wonder if he was into S&M too,’ Martin murmurs. ‘Wouldn’t have been a big surprise, would it?’