To Heaven by Water

by Justin Cartwright

  The questions come fast. The women are interested in his personal life, how he was able to reconcile travel and family. They want to relate his life to their own experience; they want to know how his children and his partner coped while he was away. He doesn’t, of course, tell them that Nancy coped by having a two-year affair with an old boyfriend. Instead he says that, as in all marriages, there were strains, but they worked their way through them; the hardest thing for him was to hear that the children were having problems at school when he was thousands of miles away, unable to help.

  The human temperature in the room is rising. He finds this warmth, the nearly-young women, Sylvie’s proprietorship, the desire for some common understanding, unexpectedly uplifting. None of the women asks him directly about his wife but he senses that the unspoken question concerns his plans.

  One woman asks him how he manages to stay so thin.

  He says, ‘Since my wife died, I have found I don’t cook much, and I try to resist invitations. Most of my friends and my daughter think I am too thin. Yes, one daughter, twenty-six, and a son who is thirty-two. He’s a lawyer. Obviously he looked at my life and decided he had better get a proper job.’

  It’s not true. Even now Ed is struggling with the idea that he is a lawyer, or that ‘lawyer’ is his defining principle. Perhaps the partnership, even the cut-price partnership Robin has given him, will soothe him. Money so often has this effect. It also convinces its beneficiaries that they have acquired wealth for some good reason, some special knowledge. That is why successful businessmen speak that crazy spiritual-practical language: they have understood the springs of society; they have understood the unwritten, that is to say the real, laws of human behaviour.

  After an hour or so, Sylvie declares that it is dinner time. Most of them set off through the resounding hallway in the direction of the Rasa, although both men have dropped out. The air outside is cool. Sylvie is still concerned about the dog’s tragic disappointment at being left in the flat.

  ‘Will you come with me afterwards to take Wolfie for a short walk?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Oh, great.’

  She squeezes his arm for emphasis.

  ‘You were great, by the way, awesome.’

  ‘Just the usual banalities, I am afraid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say so. You were brilliant.’

  The restaurant is empty, but one long table is laid for them and the owner greets them warmly. Sylvie introduces David. There’s an air of suppressed panic in this place, as though the furtive waiters from some backwater in Kerala are expecting the Revenue and Customs or the Border Agency to launch a raid at any minute.

  It’s only ten o’clock when Sylvie and he go back to collect the dog; it shows no lingering bitterness as it bounds out of the front door and in the direction of the woods, which are deep and dark.

  11

  Rosalie has adopted a resigned look. Her face, her dancer’s face, the features slightly taut from excessive exercise, is now composed. Her hair is severely pulled back, which contributes to the tautness of her features. Ed thinks of those widows he once saw in an Andalusian cemetery, placing small bunches of flowers in a wall of tombs. The look says, I have been foolish and naive and now I must accept what God has dealt me. There is a logical problem, of course: IVF can bring about the miracle of birth but so far there is no cure for death. He finds Rosalie reordering her clothes closet, as if she has to decide what clothes are appropriate for her reduced rank as a childless person. Her philosophic demeanour is more painful to him than any row they have ever had. He feels deeply sorry for her; he knows that his compassion is suffused with guilt, because he has been banging Alice. Only twice, of course. At the same time he feels a little anger: Rosalie is far too ready to strike a pose. He’s sure they will have a baby by one means or another, but already she has gone into tragic mode. He wonders if the ballet isn’t in some way to blame: it’s all so damn melodramatic. He’s late for work because he wanted Rosalie to reassure him that he could go, but her permission – ‘Yes, yes, you go. I’ll be fine, I’m sure’ – was spoken with such dismal stoicism that he felt he had to make her some tea; fresh mint is her favourite, very refreshing in Morocco, but slightly nauseating on an autumn morning in England, and then he suggested that they make an IVF appointment with Mr Smythson and get on with it and she looked at him with pity.

  ‘Look, Rosie, we can either roll over and accept this, or we can do what thousands of people do, and go for IVF.’

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, that just a few days ago you were saying don’t worry, I just know we are going to have a baby, and I believed you. Now it’s apparently time to face facts.’

  ‘That’s so fucking unfair. You are miserable and I just don’t want you to suffer. Everybody has to face facts some time; unfortunately that’s not your strong point.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. You know, Ed, more and more you become aggressive when you can’t handle something. I suggest you just toddle off to your little firm, and I’ll stay here tidying the house. That’s all I’m good for, apparently.’

  ‘You were teaching Congolese Pygmies en pointe and pirouette on Tuesday, while I hung about waiting to pick you up.’

  ‘With your sister. Eating curry.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s a crime now? Eating curry with your sister is a crime. I didn’t know.’

  ‘I was only teaching these refugees, who are not Pygmies, by the way, but AIDS orphans, because I am so lonely.’

  ‘Rosie, darling, can we talk tonight?’

  ‘In other words, can I go now and get away from this whining bore? Yes, you may. Go.’

  ‘Please, Rosie, don’t let’s go down this road. We are in it together.’

  ‘Oh good. I’ll see you whenever.’

  ‘I may be a little late, but I’ll ring.’

  ‘Absolutely fine.’

  ‘I’ve got to go now. It’s expected that as a partner, et cetera...’

  ‘As a partner, et cetera, in a clapped-out law firm owned by your dad’s best chum. Carry on.’

  ‘Oh Christ, see you at about eight. And as for my dad’s best chum, you seem happy enough to go looking for bog-roll holders at John Lewis with him.’

  ‘Don’t hurry.’

  ‘Love you,’ he calls, rather unconvincingly, as he opens the front door.

  He’s angry, but he knows that the anger will quickly dissipate leaving him guilty and depressed. When he finally arrives at the office he finds that Alice is not there. Gloria says that Alice failed to show up for work and left no message. Her phone is dead. But Mr Fineman has rung six times, saying that he has been waiting for her since eight-thirty. He says they’re under siege.

  ‘I’ll go and see him. Call him and tell him I’m on my way. And get me a cab, quick as you like. Where’s Robin?’

  ‘He’s not coming in today. He’s gone to Geneva.’

  ‘Was he carrying a brown bag?’

  ‘Oh dear, we mustn’t speak ill of our beloved leader for life.’

  ‘No, naughty me. I’ll wash my mouth out with soap.’

  As he tells the cabbie the address, he wonders if there is some sinister connection between Robin’s unscheduled flight to Geneva and Alice’s non-appearance. He tries her home number now but it, too, goes straight to message.

  ‘Hi, Alice. It’s me. Just off to see Mr Fineman. He’s anxious. Hope all is well with you. Give me a call when you can.’

  Mr Fineman and his assistant are both in a poor state of mind. Olla’s face has become flat and confused. Fineman is angry and vengeful. It turns out that the Council has been adopting very heavy-handed tactics, showering them with writs, hand-delivered by bulky men in leather jackets. This visit may well have reminded Olla of the bad old days her parents told her about. Alice was supposed to have sent them a withering legal reply, threatening action in every court in the land and beyond.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s all bluff. This is a very minor matter.’

  �
��It can be very minor to you, my boy, but to me it’s life and death. Or worse.’

  ‘You vant tea?’ Olla asks. ‘Vee have Vagon Veals.’

  She’s smiling rather too determinedly in what he sees is a state of panic.

  ‘Where is Alice? This is not professional. Most unprofessional.’

  ‘I would love a Wagon Wheel. I’m very sorry, Mr Fineman, Alice had to go to Geneva. Unexpectedly. She said that I should apologise to you profusely, but I was late into the office and did not get the message in time. No sugar, thank you. Just tell me what’s been happening and I will deal with it.’

  ‘What’s been happening? What hasn’t been happening?’

  In truth it’s all pretty small stuff, the sort of bluster and fancy words that public bodies use, even when they are saving the environment. He reads the letters: they are nonsense, pretending to have legal force.

  ‘These are not writs. These are just hot air.’

  He is soon able to calm Mr Fineman, whose appetite for the legal battle, recently so keen, has diminished. It is a good thing. He can’t really win this case for Mr Fineman, although he may be able to get some compensation on the grounds that he wasn’t given the statutory notice. Olla is back on bar-hostess form, now that she sees that the big lawyer has restored some calm to her anguished old boss, who is prone to ancient anxieties. He had earlier sent her to the locksmith to buy a huge, industrial-strength bolt for the door. She skips off to the dingy kitchen behind a plastic curtain and soon she is humming, delightfully, a ditty from her native Carpathians. When she comes back, the little milk teeth and the thin, lively mouth are in full working order again: she produces sympathetic facial gestures as the legal facts are discussed, as if she is not Mr Fineman’s assistant at all, but Marcel Marceau’s. The effect is strangely erotic.

  Mr Fineman, the subsiding volcano, is now subdued. He sinks back, almost crouching, into the swivel chair, a chair of a type no longer often seen, and then suddenly he leans forward, his heavy brow now knotted so that there is a solid groove horizontally across his forehead, like a windbreak planted to shield his eye sockets.

  ‘My boy, I think the time has come we should settle.’

  ‘Perhaps we should. I can probably get compensation for loss of revenue when I demonstrate that they did not serve the notice in due time.’

  ‘How much are we talking?’

  ‘Oh a few thousand. Maybe ten?’

  ‘And legal costs?’

  ‘And costs.’

  ‘Lawyers win every way round.’

  But he says this in a no-flies-on-me, I’m-a-man-of-the-world way: I know how things really work. It’s a delusion of many small operators like Fineman that they believe themselves part of a bigger, wised-up business world. But it’s clear that the threat of writs and distraint of goods has rattled him.

  ‘Leave this with me. If anybody comes to see you, just tell them to refer everything to me. You have my card.’

  ‘I will. Certainly. Olla, you hear that? This matter is in the hands of our lawyers.’

  ‘I goddit,’ she says. ‘In the lawyer hand. More tea, Mr Edvard? Another Vagon Veal?’

  He needs her female proximity, so he says yes please. She stands very close as she proffers another biscuit and he imagines he can feel a nervous heat from her. He doesn’t tell her and her rather rumpled old boss that he will just call the Council’s solicitor, saying that he has persuaded his client not to go to the local newspaper about the victimisation of a small business, and that he has also, with reluctance, agreed to accept a modest settlement as compensation for the fact that the Council did not observe due process and he has lost income. All settled, he leaves the two of them in their den, decorated from floor to ceiling with spectacle frames and certificates of Mr Fineman’s competence. Mr Fineman has an attractive quality, and also a vulnerability, which appeal to him, and the feverish Olla is – he thinks – sending him messages of an unmistakable nature. He thinks of asking her out for a drink after work, but checks himself: a terrible anarchy has already entered his life.

  Back in the office he shuts himself away and tries Alice’s number again, but she is still not answering. Perhaps the bull-calf Scots have kidnapped her or she’s decided a life of eightsome reels and good plain food is just what she needs. But instead of welcoming the possibility that she has jumped ship – and who would blame her? – Ed finds himself desperately anxious to speak to her. I am becoming obsessive. I am poised on the edge of disaster. If Alice were in love with him, ready to do anything to keep him, it would be easier to ditch her, with high-minded assurances and his self-esteem intact. If only she were threatening to kill herself, for example. But the evident fact that she doesn’t really care for him that much is causing him existential pain. He looks out of the window of his new office: two floors below are people going about their ordinary business happily. He looks directly down on to an antique-map shop. Robin buys these maps, which demonstrate his familiarity with the antique world. Next to this is an organic café called Manic Organic. The owners are far from manic, in fact so calm as to be somnambulistic. Until today, despite the fact that the building’s rubbish bins are directly below, he has found this view of London delightful and the knowledge that it is all his, inspiriting. Now his mood has changed: he’s in a hutch with a sliver of London to gaze at, past the service entrance of their three-storey building, a building that Robin owns and leases to the partnership. Also, he sees that the people passing below are unbearable – wage slaves, drones, cretins, all doing meaningless jobs. Maybe there’s something wrong with us as a family, if we are still a family, sneering at honest endeavour and believing ourselves to have some artistic claim on the world.

  His next task today is no great shakes: to call some time-serving lawyer in the Council office and make a deal. You only have to warn them about Health and Safety or the local paper and they forget the law. As Bismarck said, if you like law and sausages, you don’t want to see how they are made. The law garlands itself with principle, but in practice it is a shabby business. He picks up the phone. It’s a good sign that he is put straight through to Kevin Peggley, head of the legal department.

  ‘Hello, Ed. You’ll be ringing about your bonkers client, Mr Fineman, I imagine?’

  ‘Kevin, Kevin, what sort of way is that to talk about a refugee from the Nazis, eighty-six years old, long a pillar of the local community, and a fine optician?’

  ‘Let’s not piss about. We didn’t serve the notice correctly, he’s become nervous and you advised him to settle, am I right?’

  ‘More or less. But you forgot one point: men with big shoulders came to frighten him, presumably because he is old.’

  ‘OK, we’ll wave the penalties, we’ll reduce his rates because of ongoing disruption and we’ll call it a day.’

  ‘I don’t think that will do, Kevin. He’s lost nearly half his income for ten months. His accountant has supplied me with the figures – I am looking at them as we speak – and he’s down nearly forty thousand in turnover. People don’t, apparently, want to be run over just for a new pair of specs these days.’

  ‘You’re hilarious. How much are you looking for?’

  ‘Fifteen grand.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll go to ten if you promise me...’

  ‘If I promise not to go to the local rag to tell them how your goons hounded a man whose parents died in a concentration camp, and how a mother and baby were just a millisecond away from death by a twelve-wheeler outside Mr Fineman’s premises. It says on here on the affidavit, which I have in front of me, that the woman’s name is Ms Dondhi, which sounds Indian, and she is having counselling, it also says here. That’s such a shame. We must share her pain. Just send me a note confirming the details of our conversation. I have been taking notes, by the way.’

  ‘All right,’ he says wearily.

  ‘And we’ll want our costs.’

  ‘Within our strict guidelines, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Thanks,
Kevin.’

  He rings through to reception and asks to speak to Robin in Geneva, but he’s in conference with some new clients, of Russian origin, and can’t be disturbed.

  ‘If you speak to our supreme leader, will you tell him that the Fineman case has settled. Any word from Alice?’

  ‘None. Vanished off the face of the earth.’

  He sits staring out of the window. His mother died two years ago and his soul has swooned slowly. My soul was neatly boxed and bound and now it’s swooning; it’s gone rackety; it’s longing for warm beds, for warm, full-blooded life. Lucy believes that their souls – secular, of course – departed with Mum. She and Dad have quite a flexible idea of the soul. For Rosalie dance is the hidden voice of the soul; when she says this, she’s quoting Martha Graham. Here I am sitting in this doghouse, wanting to fuck Alice, wanting to fuck Olla the Romanian sexpot, wanting ... Wanting what? A child? Flight? The soul is not the sort of thing you can discuss with Brent Council but it’s certainly the sort of thing you could discuss with Mr Fineman, who, despite today’s tactical compromise, is essentially engaged in a struggle with the forces of darkness. He smiles as he thinks of Mr Fineman, a man of high, but crackers, principle, a man who understands instinctively that anyone set over you is bound to develop dangerous tendencies. He still writes to Prague and Vienna regularly, attempting to find details of how his parents died in 1944. When the heavy men from the Council arrived with their bits of meaningless paper, he was taken back sixty-five years and more to the time the Czech police came for his parents and their appointment with Terezin. He was in hiding with an aunt across the river.

  ‘It’s just Brent Council, Mr Fineman.’

  ‘That’s how it starts. Look at Hitler in 1933. Ein harmloser Dummkopf, they said.’

  Historical precedent looms very large in Mr Fineman’s life.

  He calls Rosalie and leaves a conciliatory message: I love you, darling. Please keep calm and we will see the experts.