Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
About the Author
Dedication
Picture Acknowledgements
Acknowledgements
Random Acts of Heroic Love
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781407033310
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.rbooks.co.uk
RANDOM ACTS OF HEROIC LOVE
A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 9780552774222
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Doubleday a division of Transworld Publishers Black Swan edition published 2008
Copyright © Danny Scheinmann 2007 Maps by Neil Gower Illustrations by Julia Lloyd
Danny Scheinmann has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
The extract from The Teaching of Don Juan by Carlos Castaneda, copyright © 1968, Carlos Castaneda, is reprinted by permission of Toltec Artists Inc. Permission to reprint lines from ‘Time and Pace’ in Collected Poems 1909–1962 by T. S. Eliot granted by Faber & Faber Ltd.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment
Design by Julia Lloyd
Typeset in 11/14pt Giovanni Book by
Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.
Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
About the Author
Danny Scheinmann is a writer, actor and storyteller. He has performed at the National Theatre and in over thirty countries. His tours include storytelling in Siberia and a year and a half working for an avant-garde theatre group creating shows with street children in Colombia, the Philippines, Cambodia and Vietnam. He also co-wrote and acted in the acclaimed independent film The West Wittering Affair. He was born and brought up in Manchester and now lives in London with his wife and three children. Random Acts of Heroic Love is his first book.
www.rbooks.co.uk
In loving memory of Stella
Dedicated to Sarah
Picture Acknowledgements
7: © Arctos Images/Alamy; 35, 115: © imagebroker/Alamy; 57: Kevin Schafer/Alamy; 151: © image 100/Corbis; 213: © Peter Frost/Alamy; 259: © Arthur Morris/Corbis; 305: © Maximilian Weinzerl/ Alamy; 363: © hadyn baker/Alamy; 395: Juniors Bildarchiv/Alamy; 405: © julie woodhouse/Alamy.
Acknowledgements
Six years, ten drafts and endless tweaking. I feel like I have been to Siberia and back. Sometimes I would dream of writing acknowledgements just so it would be over. I could never have got here without the support and advice of friends, the knowledge of experts and the guidance of people in the industry.
From Transworld I would like to thank Jane Lawson for her great editing, Neil Gower for his terrific map drawings, Julia Lloyd for her lovely notebook designs, Lucy Pinney, Deborah Adams, Claire Ward and Manpreet Grewal for all their hard work.
Thanks to Edina Imrik and Cristina Corbalan at Ed Victor Ltd, and to Philippa Harrison for knocking it into shape, but especially to my remarkable agent Sophie Hicks, who believed in me before I believed in myself and who has been my mentor and friend through some difficult times. Without her I would not be an author.
I am indebted to Yulia Mahr for her invaluable help, and to David Scheinmann, Rowena Mohr, Hannah Kodicek, Jess Gavron, Amy Finegan, Jo Olsen, Olivier Lacheze-Beer and Julian Wells, who each suffered one of my early drafts and gave me useful feedback. You are the most generous, erudite, articulate and (of course) good-looking set of guinea pigs anywhere to be found.
I learnt everything I know about ants from Dr Rob Hammond, who was kind enough to show me around his laboratory and give me an insight into the sordid world of ant mating.
Thank you to Professor Mark Cornwall, who supplied me with a reading list for the Eastern Front and gave me clear answers to some knotty questions.
I was hugely inspired by my friend Dr Maurizio Suarez, with whom I had numerous conversations about quantum physics. I hope I will be forgiven for going so shamelessly off piste with both the physics and the physicist.
The story of my grandfather Moshe was told to me by my wonderful and charming uncle Adi. Mum and Dad added to it with memories of their own. I am grateful for their love, unconditional support and openness.
And a big thank you to the person I am bound to have forgotten: you know who you are – I just wish I did!
Deep love to my kids, Poppy, Sol and Saffron, who brought me back to earth when I returned home from the British Library with my head up my backside.
Last and most to my gorgeous Sarah, who, over the years, did more editing on this book than anyone and who for some inexplicable reason seems to love me whatever I do. Boy, did I get lucky!
1
THE MIND AFTER A SHARP BLOW TO THE HEAD IS LIKE A house after a hurricane: unrecognizable shards, shreds and splinters.
Fragments of memory lie scattered in the wreckage. All the pieces are there, somewhere – but the landscape is so distorted that, stumbling across them, the brain has no idea what they are or where they are from.
‘Where is Eleni?’
‘Muerta,’ says the doctor.
Leo’s eyes close, he is oddly calm watching the bomb hurtle towards him. One last look before he is swept away. He searches his mind and d
oes not recognize the view. A thick fog smothers everything; he can just make out a few faintly familiar shapes. Muerta. He already knows she is dead. At the point of asking he had no idea but when he hears the answer it sounds like the confirmation of a memory he can’t seem to bring to his mind. Something lurches out of the blur into sharp focus. Eleni. Droplet brown eyes, rich mane of ebony curls, bundle of electric energy, singing. Always singing, like others breathe. For a fleeting moment he feels her brightness and warmth. They were like a single atom, indivisible.
The bomb is almost upon him. The atom is about to be split. The energy to be unleashed, ferocious and uncontrollable.
‘Can I see her?’
‘No es buena idea.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Here, in another room.’
A game is being played. The doctor doesn’t want the patient to see his dead lover – at least not yet. He is saying, ‘Let’s pretend she is not really dead. Muerta – it’s just a word.’ This is a game of damage limitation. Leo plays along. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there. He has no memory of recent events. He knows only that he loves a girl called Eleni and that he must see her at all costs. He senses the panic in the doctor. If he shows any sign of cracking, the doctor will keep them apart. So he plays calm.
‘Please let me see her.’
The doctor clocks the steely determination in Leo’s eyes and seems reassured; maybe the boy can cope after all. He doesn’t know the story of these two young foreigners. He doesn’t know the strength of their relationship.
‘Venga,’ he says softly and indicates the door.
It is only then that Leo realizes he is lying on a bed and that he must have been unconscious. His waking words were for Eleni. Something of that delirious soup lingers with him. Why does the doctor speak Spanish? The question hangs in his thoughts like a piece of string whose other end is lost in the haze. He pulls it and a thread emerges from the fog. A memory clings to it. I’m in Latin America. I came here with Eleni. But where? Guatemala? No, we flew to Colombia from there. Colombia then? No. He tugs at the string harder. No, not Colombia. After Colombia came Ecuador. Ecuador, what comes after Ecuador? Where were we going next? He pulls harder, the twine is fraying. Peru. From Ecuador to Peru. How? How did we get to Peru? The string snaps. No memory of getting to Peru. I must be in Ecuador or Peru. Probably Ecuador. I can’t remember Peru. He contemplates the broken thread; he has no idea where to find the other end. He is at the edge of a hole whose size is as yet unfathomable. He stares into the void like a senile man who in a moment of lucidity knows that his mind is lost.
He pulls himself to his feet. His head swirls and he puts his hand on the bed to steady himself. He blinks hard and tries to focus on the enamel basin on the wall opposite. One of the taps dribbles annoyingly; it must have been leaking for years because the water has left an ugly brown stain in the sink. Wherever he is, it is in a state of neglect. The paint peels from the walls and thick spiders’ webs hang undisturbed in the corners. A solitary gecko surveys the scene from the ceiling. The doctor takes Leo by the arm and leads him down a corridor.
They stop in front of a closed door. Leo knows she is on the other side. The doctor pushes it open. Eleni lies on a trolley bed. There is blood on her blue shirt; her shoulder is out of joint. There is a graze on her cheek. Now the bomb hits. Something inside him yields and the full implication of events explodes inside him. His blood thunders out of control, coursing through him like a river that has burst its banks; legs shudder and give way at the knees; breath shortens and rasps in his throat. His heart rejects the returning blood and empties itself; stomach locks, sending undigested waste crashing into the colon; anus pulls tight to prevent evacuation. His nose charges with fluid mucus, eyes blink obsessively, vision blurs with tears. He collapses to the floor and screams a high guttural scrape. Nurses three rooms away stop in their tracks like mothers responding to a baby’s cry. People come running from all directions. The doctor closes the door. A murmuring crowd gathers outside. Some of the people know what has happened. They are witnesses who are being treated in the clinic themselves. They have been wondering what would happen when the gringo came round and was told his girlfriend had died. ‘My God,’ they have been saying, ‘when that boy wakes up . . . it is too terrible to contemplate.’ And they cross themselves and thank Jesus that they will see their loved ones again.
Leo is sobbing in a crumpled heap. He has never been so alone. Lost in some nameless South American town with his mind half gone. He stands up and goes to Eleni. He caresses her face tenderly. Her skin is still warm. Perhaps she is not dead, maybe she can be brought back to life. He looks at the doctor with a wild stray optimism in his eye. The kiss of life, maybe he can bring her back with the kiss of life. He pinches her nose and opens her mouth and breathes his desperate hope into her. Again and again he pours his life into her. Then he beats on her heart to make it beat. Harder he pummels. He knows that he is hurting her, that she will be bruised, but it is the only way. The doctor puts his hand on Leo’s shoulder. But a pathetic tenacious hope has gripped Leo.
‘Electric shock. Have you got shock treatment? Er . . . choc electrico. Tienes?’
‘No hay, señor. Esta muerta.’
She can’t be dead, he will not believe it. He continues to breathe into her. He begs for a miracle and a miracle happens. A low raspy breath comes up from deep within her. It is a sound he will remember for the rest of his life.
‘She’s alive. She’s breathing. Did you hear it?’
The doctor is motionless. Leo is suddenly animated, he doesn’t need this stupid, lazy doctor, he can resuscitate Eleni on his own. He fills her up feverishly and each time she responds with a breath.
‘Señor, señor!’ The doctor places his hand again on Leo’s shoulder. He ignores it, his heart is flying, he almost wants to laugh.
‘Señor, she is not breathing. It is your breath coming back from her lungs.’
Leo feels for Eleni’s pulse. There is nothing. Once more he plummets into despair. He kisses her forehead and whispers words learned from her native Greek: ‘Matyamou, karthiamou, psychemou.’ My eyes, my heart, my soul.
He strokes her hair as he used to sometimes when she was sleeping. Slowly the heat leaves her body. A minute later he is howling like a dog. How long this lasts he has no idea.
The old doctor looks on from a corner. He battles back his own tears, he does not want to let his feelings conquer his professional dispassion. Later he will return home and weep in his wife’s arms and hug her hard for many minutes, savouring her breath, her perfume and her love.
The story has spread through the hospital and the crowd outside the door have been overcome by that unsavoury curiosity that grips people in the face of tragedy. Someone pushes open the door. They see a man ravaged in grief, his face raw and twisted, and next to him a small woman lying gnarled and lifeless on a bed. As one they draw in a sharp breath, and for a moment their faces mirror Leo’s.
‘Go away, clear off. This is not a freak show. Leave me alone . . .’ And even as he speaks Leo’s voice cracks and fades away. They have seen enough, they are ashamed and someone closes the door.
The episode triggers a thought in his clouded mind. Why do I recognize those people? He turns to the doctor.
‘What is the date?’
‘It is the second of April, señor.’
‘The second of April?’ He searches desperately inside for a connection.
‘Where am I?’
‘Latacunga, señor.’
Latacunga – he knows the name. Yes, now he remembers that he has been through Latacunga before. There is a busy market in the town square. He changed buses there with Eleni to go into the mountains. He is in Ecuador.
‘What date is it?’ He forgets that he has just asked this question.
‘It is the second of April.’
‘The second of April? What happened?’
‘You were in a bus crash, señor.’
Nowhere in his memory can he place this information. It does not even create the slightest ripple across his psyche. He sits with the idea for a moment. No, he does not remember a bus or a crash. The thought hangs outside him like an alien trying to gain entry. His brain refuses to connect this information to any synapse or nerve ending. And yet somewhere lost in the internal wreckage sits the little black box, the flight recorder which carries the truth of what happened. A strange protective mechanism has kicked in which prevents him getting too close to the epicentre of his trauma. Like a witness in a court case who is not obliged to give evidence which could implicate him, so the body refuses the mind access to the information which could damage it.
‘What date is it?’ He wonders if he has asked this question before.
‘The second of April, señor,’ the doctor repeats patiently.
‘What year?’
‘1992.’
Leo grapples with the year. He set off in 1991. When in 1991? The end, near the end. December 1991. So what happened over the last four months? A small light switches on and he sees himself lying on a beach with Eleni. It is New Year’s Eve; they have taken a day trip from Cartagena in Colombia to a tropical island. Eleni is wearing her pink swimsuit. They lie there in sunbleached bliss with the surf at their feet. He turns to her and kisses her warm cheek.
‘You know, I can’t think of anything in the whole universe that I want. I’ve got you at my side and I love you and that’s it. There’s nothing more to life than this.’
Eleni smiles, leans over and kisses him. ‘Let’s photograph it,’ she says. She takes out their small instant camera and holds it at arm’s length above their heads and points it towards them. They check their positions in the reflection on the lens and take the picture. Click.
He looks down at her corpse. The memory acts like a pair of hands that plough through his breastbone, rip open his ribcage and expose his heart to the elements. His spine melts away and he stands before his dead lover like a piece of limp flesh. He cannot breathe. His only thought now is that he wants to die and go with her.
Random Acts of Heroic Love Page 1
