Jubilate

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘More stars in the universe than there have been heartbeats in the history of mankind.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Loath as I am to offend her, I cannot let the claim pass unchallenged. ‘If you think how many you and I alone will have in our lifetimes …’

  ‘I know. And how many millions of “you and I”s there have been since the world began. But a wise old man told me.’ She laughs. ‘No, it’s true, I promise; I did some research. Isn’t it amazing? If we talk of trillions of trillions, it just sounds like another impenetrable statistic. But if we talk of the human heart …’ She smiles, and one heart misses a beat.

  ‘It’s a beautiful image,’ I say, ‘but doesn’t it make you doubt your belief in a divinely ordained universe with a special place for us?’

  ‘No to the first and yes to the second. Whoever said that we had a special place?’

  ‘Genesis for a start,’ I reply, suspicious of the question.

  ‘I don’t take it literally, any more than you do. Far from shaking my belief in God, the infinity of stars actually strengthens it. Even if there were only a fraction of their number, it would be utterly inconceivable that on one of them – if not on many – there weren’t intelligent life, indeed, far more intelligent life than ours. If I thought that we were the be-all and end-all of creation, then I really would despair. Are we the best that God can come up with? The answer is no! There’ll be life forms on other planets that are much more worthy – much more expressive – of Him.’ She peers down at the square. ‘See how small everyone down there looks to us. Think how much smaller we must look to God. It’s a sign of His boundless love that He still cares for us. I’m sorry –’ She breaks off as if in embarrassment. ‘But that’s what I believe.’

  I stare at her in awe. I have been treating her beliefs as though she learnt them at her mother’s knee or, at any rate, kneeling in a convent school chapel. In setting them out, she has shown them to be far more considered.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘it’s a fascinating proposition and one I’ll need time to digest. Though you won’t be surprised to hear that I see things differently. To me, one of the most admirable things about human beings is our self-belief. It may be an illusion, but good on us for perpetuating it! What could be more heroic than to maintain a sense of purpose on the edge of the void?’

  ‘Will we ever find anything to agree on?’

  ‘Lots. Besides, respect counts for far more than agreement. Look at Tadeusz and Lucja.’ I want to look at them more closely now I know everything that their marriage has endured. ‘They hold diametrically opposite views, but that doesn’t stop them loving each other.’

  ‘I love Richard.’

  ‘But do you respect him?’

  ‘It’s turning chilly. Let’s go and get that drink.’

  Eager to agree, I suggest that we exit by the upper gate rather than return to the square where the crowd is already dispersing. We walk down an unlit tree-lined road, whose sinister aspect is intensified by the rustle of leaves and the occasional feral squeal, and arrive at a small row of shops. I gape at the effrontery of names – The Mysteries of Mary, The Grace of God, The Sacred Heart of Jesus and Notre Dame de Lourdes – which are as shrewdly designed to reassure customers as their merchandise is to exploit them. Even at this late hour the aisles are full. Pilgrims sift through the ubiquitous baskets of Madonnas, crucifixes and Bernadettes, with all the hunger of their counterparts in a Soho sex shop, an image I prefer not to share with Gillian. Instead, I guide her towards the Gallia Londres hotel where we head straight for the bar, which is less crowded than it was last night.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’d better stick to tomato juice.’

  ‘Dare I ask for a Virgin Mary?’

  ‘You dare!’

  The waitress, a filigree crucifix nestling in her puckered bosom, takes our order and we start to relax. ‘I wanted the chance to clear the air,’ Gillian says. ‘We only have two more days here – one full one – and then we go our separate ways. I’d hate to leave you with the wrong impression.’

  ‘What do you mean? I only have the very best –’

  ‘Please, let me finish! Then you’ll have your turn. There’s something unreal about Lourdes: that is it’s a place where everyday reality is put on hold and something more intense – more mysterious – takes over. I’m afraid that I – that both of us – have let it go to our heads. Don’t get me wrong. I’m flattered by your attention. When a man shows an interest, for whatever reason, it makes me feel … well some of the same sense of possibility as when we were looking at the stars. It’s done me a world of good to meet someone who takes me seriously; who wants to know how I am, not just how well I’m coping; who cares – or seems to care – about me.’

  ‘There’s no seems about it.’

  ‘Thank you, but please wait one more moment. This isn’t easy to say. I allowed myself to get carried away this afternoon. I took advantage of your good nature –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘By landing you with all that stuff. No wonder you ran a mile.’

  ‘Stop there! That’s just what I was afraid you’d think: that’s why I was determined to get you on your own tonight. I’d have dragged you off by force if necessary.’

  ‘Patricia would have loved that.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear it when you were talking about Richard’s affairs as if he were the dirty one and I was squeaky-clean. Believe me, I’m no better than he is. Worse. I don’t have his family history as an excuse. My father only ever looked at one woman his entire life (he didn’t look at her very much, but that’s another story – sorry, bad joke). I didn’t tell you everything last night about Celia and Pippa.’

  ‘You had no call to. It’s private.’

  ‘Not from you.’ Having spent years seeking women to help me blot out the past, I have now found one with whom I can share it. ‘I loved Celia with all my heart. Before that, love had been a catch-all word for everything from Christmas cards to foreplay. Suddenly it was something real: a word with millions of different meanings for millions of different people, but one that was unique and unequivocal for us.’

  ‘She must have been very special. I wish I’d known you both in those days.’

  ‘Yes … no. I wish that for everyone else, but not you. And the odd thing is it no longer makes me feel disloyal, let alone guilty. You’re right; she was very special. Beautiful, so beautiful, clever, sensitive and strong. Although we couldn’t have come from more different backgrounds, we shared the same values and ideals and, perhaps most important of all, the same sense of humour. You’d have thought that would be enough for any man. But not for Vincent O’Shaughnessy. There was a part of me that was never satisfied. I lived in a world with illicit opportunities on every corner, or, at least, in every bar.’ She glances around her instinctively. ‘I told myself that my casual affairs were of no consequence. If anything they strengthened my marriage since I went back home refreshed and reinvigorated, having fulfilled my genetic imperative. And I accuse the Church of sophistry!’ I gulp my drink which, unlike Gillian’s, is appropriately Bloody. ‘Then, eight years ago, when I was making a series about London Zoo, I went out after work with a young woman (a researcher not a keeper). One thing led to another and we ended up at her place. It was half-past eight when I remembered I was supposed to pick up Pippa from her friend’s. There was no way I was going to let that stop me from getting my jollies. So I called Celia to say something had come up: a giraffe had gone into labour; which she’d have been bound to tell Pippa about the next day – had Pippa been alive the next day. Now you see what a lying, cheating bastard I am!’

  ‘You don’t have to put yourself through this.’

  ‘I’ve put myself through it every day for the past eight years. Where was … oh yes! Celia was furious since, as she’d been reminding me for weeks, she’d invited some big-shot impresario to the house to meet one of the Russian pianists she repr
esented. Everyone had left, but she’d had a few drinks and didn’t want to drive. I told her to ring for a taxi, but she said it would take too long. For the sake of a fuck – some meaningless fuck with a woman whose name I can’t even remember; no, worse, whose face I can’t even remember – I was willing to sacrifice my daughter. A cheap fuck!’

  ‘Everyone’s staring at us.’

  ‘They won’t all speak English, or has Hollywood made fuck universal? Sorry, sorry.’ I offer a general apology to the room before turning back to Gillian. ‘Or should that be mea culpa? So where was I? Oh yes, on Battersea Park Road with a German juggernaut hurtling around the corner. Did you know that European lorries have a blind spot when they’re driving on the left? Did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor did I. At the inquest the driver was exonerated. The coroner made a recommendation about fitting more effective mirrors but, when I last checked, it had still to be taken up. Celia was above the legal limit for alcohol and so, in most peoples’ eyes, she was culpable. But not in mine.’

  ‘Was she hurt?’

  ‘You mean injured?’ She nods. ‘Two cracked ribs and a broken wrist. I envied her her pain.’ She lays her hand on mine. I leave it as long as possible before reaching for my glass. ‘There was even some talk that she might be charged, but the matter was dropped. Perhaps they thought she’d suffered enough?’ I struggle to remain composed. ‘Would it have made any difference if I’d been the one at the wheel? Would quicker reflexes have enabled me to swerve? Who knows? And what makes it so unbearable is that I’ll never know. At least if there was a God, I’d find out when I got to Heaven and St Peter read out a list of all my sins before damning me to Hell.’

  ‘Would there be no one to speak up for you?’

  ‘Oh yes. And although you’ve never met her, you know who it would be. That’s what makes it even harder. And it’s also why I backed away from you this afternoon. You think I’m different from Richard, but I’m exactly the same. Groin-led.’ She replaces her hand on mine. ‘I’m not asking for sympathy.’

  ‘If you were, you wouldn’t get any.’

  ‘Pippa was six. If she were here today, she’d be fourteen: a young woman. How can anyone make sense of that? She was so beautiful. I know every father says the same thing, but in this case it’s the truth.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  ‘No, she took after her mother. She was lucky in that, if nothing else. Sometimes I wish I’d lived in an age when child mortality was a commonplace. Isn’t that the sickest thing you’ve ever heard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It should be. Celia stopped speaking to me after the funeral. I mean she stopped talking. It wasn’t that she wanted to punish me; there was nothing left to say. I think we both went a bit mad, but even that didn’t make us closer. We were as remote from one another as we were from the world.’

  ‘How long did that last?’

  ‘Weeks, months: I can’t honestly remember. All I know is that Pippa died in July and I was alone by Christmas. I threw myself into my job. I was offered compassionate leave, but the only compassionate thing would have been to load me with so much work that I couldn’t see beyond it. One night I came home to find Celia had shaved her head. She never referred to it and neither did I. People assumed that she had cancer. I think she found misplaced compassion easier to bear. Not long after, she moved back to her parents. Officially it was only temporary, but we both knew she would never return.’

  ‘Do you still see her?’

  ‘No, only a couple of times since the divorce. It helps that she lives in Scotland. I’d like us to be friends, I really would. We had so much together; it can’t all have been smashed. But she’s moved on. The last thing I’d want is to burden her with my grief.’

  ‘And have you moved on?’ she asks gently.

  ‘On?’ I ponder the question. ‘No, but I have moved round, which may be the best I can hope for.’ I laugh, which sounds alarmingly like a sob. ‘The pain doesn’t die but, in time, you find better ways to deaden it. In the early days all I had was drink. Once when I was in Sainsbury’s buying whisky – it somehow felt less compromising from a supermarket – I was sure I saw Pippa. How, I don’t know; I could never have mistaken her face. But all I saw was the hair: the flame-coloured curls down to her shoulders. I reached out my hand to stroke it – so happy, so grateful, just as the girl’s mother came up the aisle. She screamed. The next thing I knew, I was grabbed by a pair of security guards and frogmarched into an office. When I realised my mistake, I broke down. Tears poured down my cheeks – all the tears I’d been holding back since Pippa died. You wouldn’t believe that one body could contain so much fluid. The police were called, along with my boss at the BBC, who explained about the accident four months before. At a stroke everything changed; the villain became the victim. The police referred me to a bereavement counsellor, who I saw for a couple of months to satisfy my friends. Not that it did any good. Packaging my grief into two weekly sessions felt like another form of infidelity.’

  ‘What kind of a world have we made for ourselves when the slightest touch becomes suspect?’

  ‘Would you have said that if she’d been your child?’ She stares into her glass. ‘Fuck! See, that’s how insensitive I am!’

  ‘Of course you’re not. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘Do you want to know the worst thing? I still have the feel of that girl’s hair on my hands. Not Pippa’s. Not the daughter whose hair I kissed and stroked and brushed and smelt for six years, but a stranger’s: a child I touched for at most a few seconds. Why?’

  ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  I look at her in bemusement. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Please don’t make me say it again.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you that as a come-on.’

  ‘I never imagined you did.’

  ‘Even I have better lines.’ As mistrustful of myself as ever, I wonder if I am telling the truth or if, at some subconscious level, I bargained on her responding to my confession.

  ‘I’m not throwing myself at you.’

  ‘Of course not!’ I say, scared that she might be having second thoughts. ‘It’s all been the other way round.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been entirely celibate since … in the past eight years.’

  ‘Not entirely, no. I’ve had a few women. To relieve myself; to punish myself; in some perverse way, to prove that I’m still alive and yet not worthy of life at the same time. But no one I’ve truly cared about. Not till now.’

  ‘No more! If we talk about caring, we’ll talk ourselves out of it. Let’s just stick to tonight or, better still, the next couple of hours.’

  ‘Of course.’ I wonder whether her pragmatism is innate, or if the years of looking after Richard have hardened her. ‘Shall we go back to my hotel?’

  ‘We can hardly go back to mine!’

  ‘I could book a room here.’

  ‘And tell them what? Our car broke down on the way to Biarritz and we’ve walked here without any luggage? We might as well sign the register Mr and Mrs A. Dulterer.’

  ‘We’re in France.’ She looks at me wryly. ‘No, you’re right. I’m at the Bretagne. It’s a ten-minute walk.’

  We are both so nervous that we make it in six. I pick up my key, which feels more than ever like clocking in, and stand before the proprietress’s desk as if it were Sister Theresa Anthony’s at primary school.

  ‘Madame … je regrette mais je ne connais pas votre nom.’

  ‘It’s of no consequence.’

  ‘Je vous présente Madame Patterson. Une de nos pèlerins.’

  ‘If you have come to watch the television, you will find many of your compatriots in the bar. We have Sky Sport especially for our English guests.’

  ‘Thank you, but we have pilgrimage business to discuss,’ I say, abandoning the linguistic struggle. ‘It’s quieter in the room.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur. There are two very respectable chairs.’

 
I summon the clattering lift and lead the way to my room. Halfway down the corridor I remember the photograph of Pippa by my bed, which I fear will prove a greater deterrent to Gillian than all the priests in Lourdes combined. Improvising fast, I announce that the main light-switch is broken and ask her to wait by the door. Then I hurry in and turn on the bedside lamps, first popping the photograph into a drawer. The low wattage has the unexpected bonus of bathing the room in a semi-romantic haze.

  ‘It’s not the Ritz, but I can at least offer you a drink. No tomato juice, I’m afraid. Vodka, vodka or vodka.’

  ‘What the hell! In for a penny.’

  ‘I’ll fetch a glass.’ I search the bathroom and come back with a cloudy tooth mug. ‘Or the Lourdes equivalent.’ I pour her a generous measure. ‘Here, have a Minty Mary.’

  ‘Whenever I’ve imagined having an affair – don’t look at me like that; I said an affair, not an orgy – it’s always been in France.’

  ‘Alain Delon? Daniel Auteil?’

  ‘The man was immaterial.’

  ‘That’s nice to know.’

  ‘I meant that I pictured a small hotel. Shutters on the windows. Vines climbing up the walls. A millrace down a leafy path.’

  ‘You had everything planned.’

  ‘I had everything dreamt.’

  ‘And here we are. Skegness circa 1980.’

  ‘Believe me, this’ll do fine.’

  ‘I wanted you the moment I saw you.’

  ‘Please don’t say that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It makes me feel arbitrary, expendable. Just a face in the crowd.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t just your face; it was something deeper. Your spirit, your aura, the energy you give out.’

  ‘I think someone’s had too many Minty Marys.’

  ‘Then let’s try something else.’ I kiss her, and for the first time I have no fear of being rebuffed. I let my tongue savour her mouth, as if the confusion of taste and touch will transport us to a realm beyond the senses. After a while, she breaks away and rests her head on my shoulder. I lace my fingers through her hair, marvelling at the richness of every strand, before lifting her face and covering her cheeks with kisses. ‘You’re tickling,’ she says with a smile. ‘No, don’t stop!’ I want to obey, but there is so much of her still to explore and I am worried that the ‘couple of hours’ she specified in the bar may be all that we have. I slip my hands under her jumper and run my fingers over her skin. She flinches.