by Zoë Jenny
Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,
London EC2M 5UU
[email protected]
www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents © Zoë Jenny 2010
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of
this work has be asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978-1-9065581-7-8
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and
place names, other than those well-established such as towns and
cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Set in Times
Printed by J. H. Haynes and Co. Ltd., Sparkford.
Cover designed by Gudrun Jobst
www.yotedesign.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation
to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution
and civil claims for damages.
Selected other works by Zoë Jenny
The Pollen Room
The Call of The Conch Shell
A Fast Life
The Portrait
The Pollen Room is the all-time bestselling
debut novel by a Swiss author and
has been translated into 27 languages. This
is Zoë Jenny’s first novel written in English.
Praise for Zoë Jenny
‘In her apartment in Basel’s old town, however, wearing earplugs to block out the noise of the trams and with sheaves of writing paper at her side, she achieved something momentous: writing by hand, she composed a 134-page novel that has become the talk of Swiss literary circles.’ NEW YORK TIMES
‘As Jo’s child’s eye narration covers everything from a haircut to an abortion in the same mesmeric deadpan style, it soon becomes apparent that this is not so much a narrative as a portrait of a state of mind in extremis... At times reminiscent of both Plath and Hemingway – a memorable debut.’ SUNDAY TIMES
‘Zoë Jenny’s account of a marriage break-up is both barmy and believable and her words are an exciting mish-mash of dreamy images and reminding realism.’ THE TIMES
‘The story of a psyche, but one unadorned by selfconscious or analytical comment, mediated through poetic detail and precise, concrete images. The prose is spare, assured and evocative, the tone matter-of-fact and utterly without self-pity... There’s an undertow of danger lurking beneath the surface which makes you want to re-read this intriguing, haunting novel as soon as you’ve finished it.’ OBSERVER
‘A moving account of a disturbed childhood, and the prose works many of its best effects through understatement and absences.’ SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
CONTENTS
About the author
Begin to Read
Book Group Questions
About the author
Zoë Jenny’s first novel The Pollen Room was the all-time bestselling debut by a Swiss author. Translated into 27 languages, it has won huge critical acclaim worldwide. Her published novels since include, The Call of the Conch Shell, A Fast Life and The Portrait and Zoë Jenny is widely regarded as one of the best writers of her generation.
With The Sky is Changing her first novel to be written in English, she has become one of the first writers to create original fiction in more than one language.
Zoë Jenny was born in Basel, Switzerland, in 1974. After years of travelling and living in New York and Berlin, she has now settled in London.
For Matthew
*
The rosebush was already there when they moved in. Someone must have planted it many years ago; perhaps it had only been a little plant back then and the person who put it in the earth never had the chance to see it in full bloom. Intertwined with the passionflower, the roses had climbed up and covered almost half of the brick wall at the back of the garden. The scarlet and purple flowers were so vibrant, it surprised Claire that something so beautiful was able to grow in this little dark backyard, and she couldn’t help but hesitate before she snipped off a bunch of roses with the secateurs. There was something sacrilegous about it, like when she had taken that glorious orchid while on a walk, which had then wilted by the time they got home. Why did she have to take it; wasn’t it enough just to look at it? But this time, the flowers weren’t for herself.
Claire looked up into the bright blue sky and followed the white jetstream of a plane leaving London. How quickly this year had passed, she thought. How good the world was at looking normal and concealing its tragedies.
“Let’s go,” Anthony shouted from inside the kitchen. “I haven’t got all day!”
Claire smiled as she knew that while it sounded as if he had something very important to do, he just wanted to be back in time for the match.
“You don’t have to come, you know. I can go by myself,” she said. He didn’t even answer, just rushing out of the house instead.
It was a hot, humid day. City Road was jammed with traffic and a line of buses moved sluggishly forward, like a herd of ancient animals slowly dying in the sun.
“Don’t you want to try again?” Anthony asked tentatively when they reached Upper Street, Angel Tube station just a few steps away. “It’s only one single stop to King’s Cross, you know.”
Claire shook her head.
“You don’t want me to have a heart attack, do you?”
It happened shortly after the bombings a year ago, somewhere on the Northern Line. It was rush hour, and Claire had found herself pushed to the back of the carriage, unable to move. People were swaying with every turn, and she could feel the cumulative weight of the passengers smothering her. Her heart was racing in her chest so hard it was as if a living creature was trying to get out. ‘Calm down, for God’s sake,’ she had said to herself, but her heart just went faster. The noise of creaking metal and rattling wheels cutting through the darkness at high speed gave her a drowning sensation. Staring at the door and counting the seconds, she remembered the expression: ‘soft target’. She could die here with all these strangers, in an instant, just like that. The fear and aggression in the air was almost palpable; everyone on survival. Suddenly something inside her changed, a sudden diffusion of chemicals in her brain. She had to get out of there, right then.
With both her elbows she pushed people aside. Someone swore at her, “Stupid bitch”, but she didn’t care, she was someone else now, brutish, raw, animallike. She would have punched anyone who dared to stand in her way. These weren’t people anymore, just obstacles, stinking, hateful flesh.
When Claire had finally emerged from the Tube, stepping into the daylight, she was covered in sweat and out of breath, her mouth dry. Stumbling into the toilet of a nearby Starbucks, she looked at her face in the mirror: it wasn’t just pale, it was as white as a sheet. Her knees weak and shaky, completely exhausted, she sat on the lid of the toilet seat to recover. She propped her head in her hands, ashamed of herself; she couldn’t believe that she had behaved like that. For a brief moment she had actually lost her mind.
After that incident Claire had decided to never, ever go down there again and was relieved that Anthony didn’t insist on using the Tube. Even though he was convinced it was just one of her fads that would be forgotten with time, he had bought her a scooter as a gift.
Pentonville Road was a long stretch, and Claire carried
the flowers head down so they wouldn’t wilt as quickly in the heat. Anthony checked his BlackBerry and there was a Happy Birthday greeting from his mother. He read it somewhat disappointed, as if he had expected it to be from someone else. Claire felt sorry for him, that they had to do this on his birthday – that this day was a day of grief for so many.
She could see other people with flowers now, someone even carrying a giant teddy bear under his arm. A large crowd had gathered just a few metres to the right of King’s Cross station entrance. There was a little square behind some railings with a tree in the middle, at night a seedy place where drug dealers and prostitutes hang out.
Now there were dozens of people creating a temporary memorial, and Anthony and Claire joined the queue, waiting for their turn. A security guard made sure that not everyone went in at once. Policemen were protecting the site, batons and guns at the ready. Most people just laid down their flowers and left, but some were kneeling in front of a photograph or wreath, praying.
Even though King’s Cross was a busy, noisy spot, on this particular day there was a strange silence, interrupted only by announcements from the loudspeakers inside the station. Claire was looking at the photographs and children’s drawings. There were flowers everywhere, some still wrapped in foil, sweating away in the sun, releasing their sweet, heavy scent. The smell of death, Claire thought, and she laid the roses next to a photograph mounted on a piece of cardboard. It showed a young girl with short blond hair. Underneath, in big red letters, was written ‘Why?’
A man next to her wept, holding on to the picture of a woman, almost tearing it apart. Suddenly he let go of it and left, looking around with darting eyes. He appeared completely lost, as if in panic, not knowing where to go. Eventually he disappeared into the shadowy hall of the station.
They didn’t talk on their way back. One of the reasons she loved him so much was that Anthony always seemed to know when it was time to be silent. She touched his hand with her finger, briefly and gently, as if to reassure herself it was real, that if needed there was this hand she could grab and hold on to.
The noise of the football on the telly filled the afternoon. It was a welcome distraction and had the comforting sound of normality, the rhythm of everyday life.
Claire was in her room upstairs, sitting at the desk by the window surfing the internet. There were speeches and readings in Regent’s Park and several other commemorative events all over London. She found a website with photos and a short biography for each of the 52 victims. There it was again, the picture of the blond girl. She was from Poland, 27-years-old, and had been on her way to work that morning – perhaps thinking of her next trip back home to her family in Krakow when the bomb hit. They identified her because they found a fragment of her tooth in the rubble.
Claire wondered how her parents had learnt of her death. They couldn’t get her corpse back in a coffin. There was no corpse. There weren’t even ashes. Maybe one morning her parents had received a package, bearing a London postmark, containing that fragment of their daughter’s tooth.
Claire scrolled up and down the photographs. All these faces were still fresh in the memory of the public, but they would be soon forgotten. A year after the bombings she had brought flowers, but would they do it the following year and the year after that? She doubted it.
Claire realised that people die twice and it’s the second death that’s final – when no one remembers you anymore, when all that remains of your existence is wiped out, then you are completely and truly gone.
She turned off the computer. From downstairs she could hear Anthony shouting and clapping his hands in excitment. Arsenal were winning. He would be in a good mood tonight and they were going out to celebrate his 33rd birthday.
Looking out of the window, Claire could see the evening sun about to disappear behind the rooftops and chimneys of Islington, the sky red and orange, slowly turning darker.
Anthony was usually reluctant to do anything on his birthday, but when she told him they were going out for dinner with some friends he seemed flattered that she had made the effort.
He liked the Moroccan restaurant, with its low, round tables and dark little corners where people could play boardgames and drink sweet mint tea served in tiny glasses.
Sam, Christine and David were already there when they arrived, sharing a big mezze platter. Sam and Christine had just come back from India and their photos circulated around the table. Pictures of women in colourful saris on a backdrop of lush green, children on a roadside, waving, Christine on her bike, wearing a weather-beaten helmet. It had always been one of Sam’s dreams, riding around India on a motorbike, and Christine had got her licence just for the holiday.
Claire was impressed by Christine’s courage, and the fact that she was 37, childless and completely relaxed about it. One night she had asked her whether she was anxious to get pregnant. “We love to travel, and if it happens that’s great, but, if it doesn’t, I’m not going to beat myself up about it.”
Claire felt instantly relieved and comfortable in her company. Both Christine and Sam were teachers, and their double income and generous holidays allowed them to travel. They always seemed to have just come back from some faraway place: Easter Island, Galapagos, Vietnam. There was a constant whiff of adventure and foreign lands about them.
Sitting next to her, Claire was admiring an intricate silver bracelet on Christine’s tanned wrist that she had bought for next to nothing in a market somewhere in Rajasthan.
“It would be impossible for you to leave Britain,” said Sam in a loud voice to David. “You would die of hunger.”
David, one of Anthony’s work colleagues, notoriously neurotic when it came to food, was raving about a place in Notting Hill where one could get wheat grass shoots.
“Probably one of the reasons why you are still single,” said Anthony, “is your grassy breath.”
They had tried to hook David up several times, but to no avail. Especially with Sadie, which had been the biggest disaster so far. “How could you send me a vegetarian?” she had said after she’d invited David to one of her dinner parties. Sadie was an excellent and keen cook, and told them how David had picked out the vegetables from her slow-cooked beef casserole.
For Sadie this was not only a turn off, but a complete insult. “A man who doesn’t eat meat must be rubbish in bed,” she once concluded.
“My body is my temple,” David had replied in his defence when they asked how the evening with Sadie had gone. “She even eats dead animals for breakfast!”
Anthony and Claire were laughing as he told them. “That’s what it comes down to,” Anthony commented, “food. Even falling in love is dietary related. Sadie is a bloody carnivore and David’s a cow. I can’t believe we even let them near each other.”
They had just finished their first course when Sadie arrived with her new boyfriend, Paolo, in tow, whom she introduced proudly. He was from Brazil, and Claire knew immediately that he must have something to do with dancing; she could tell from his upright posture and precise, slow movements and there was a pride in the way he carried himself that only dancers have.
‘Shame it’s not going to last long,’ Claire thought, offering him a chair. Sadie never had a boyfriend for very long. Sometimes she had girlfriends, too, and they tended to stay a bit longer. One girl, ten years her junior, had even moved in with her, and at the time Sadie had become obsessed with the topic of same-sex marriage. When the girl left her for an artist, Sadie claimed her “heart had been broken”, and from then on she changed her boyfriends in quick succession.
Sadie was 42 but young at heart. She exuded in abundance what Anthony called “joie de vivre”. When she entered a room the chemical composition of the air seemed to change. Everyone looked at her, men and woman alike. The one thing that struck Claire most about Sadie was the fact that her mature beauty seemed far more powerful and threatening than the obvious beauty of youth could ever be.
David hugged her, tapping her shoulder
in a manner old friends do. He was probably just relieved he didn’t have to put up with her himself; everything about Sadie was much too much for him. Claire almost laughed out loud – seeing them together, she realised it was the most unlikely match.
Paolo and David got immediately engrossed in a conversation about some new action film. Claire wondered whether Paolo knew that Sadie was bisexual, and whether that played a part in his being attracted to her. Maybe it was something shifty in his eyes, or his apparent confidence that made Claire uncomfortable about him. He was probably just too good looking – in an obvious sort of way. She had always been suspicious if a man was too good-looking, especially when he knew it.
Anthony was sitting on the other side of the table. He was wearing the blue Paul Smith shirt she had given him for his birthday and his eyes and hair appeared darker, nearly black. Depending on the light, there was a hint of red in his hair – the Irish influence, a sign of his Celtic ancestry. His olive skin was unusually dark for a Brit and luckily he didn’t share the pasty complexion of his family members. While they got burnt by the first hint of summer sun, he developed a tan almost immediately. His slender wrists and long hands implied sensitivity, and she liked the way his wristbones protruded under the skin when he gesticulated with his hands. She had always assumed he would be good at playing the piano. At times Claire wondered whether Anthony wasn’t wasting creative capacity and whether it did his talents justice working as a junior analyst at HowlandRoberts. He was responsible for the pharmaceutical sector of this well-respected City firm, and his prospects there matched his ambition to climb the career ladder.
Anthony was explaining something to Sadie, elaboratly gesticulating. He liked to use them to great effect while talking, just like an Italian, she thought; it was entertaining to watch.
Sadie was laughing and nodding at what he said but, when he realised Claire was observing them, he winked at her – a quick, sexy gesture across the table, throwing it at her like a ball she was supposed to catch. She appreciated that he showed his attraction to her so openly, especially in front of Sadie.
