by Ian Sansom
Perhaps he'd made a mistake in coming. Had he made a mistake in coming? He couldn't decide.
He put his eye to the little spyglass.
And then, at last, without further further ado, Israel Armstrong took out his key, put it in the lock, turned, pushed and walked in.
Finally, he was home.
'Hello? Gloria? Hello? It's only me.'
The flat swallowed his words.
No one was home.
Gloria wasn't there.
The hallway looked different. He couldn't decide at first what it was-not much. It was just…different. It wasn't as if she'd redecorated or anything. A complete rearrangement would have been easier to understand: but this, this felt more like…It wasn't a riposte. It was more like a subtle undermining. It was the posters. They'd never agreed on the posters. He didn't like Klimt. She didn't like Klee. He had that Matisse. She had a Georgia O'Keeffe. They hadn't agreed on a lot of little things. But it didn't really matter, stuff like that. He didn't like Friends. She didn't like Seinfeld. She loved The West Wing. He loved The Sopranos. It didn't matter. That's just who they were. Israel and Gloria. Gloria and Israel.
His posters had gone.
And the other things: a carved wooden bowl that his mother had given them, for salad, which Gloria had never liked, which they'd used for keys and loose change, gone; the pile of newspapers and magazines which he used to stack by the phone, gone; the old galvanised-steel USA mailbox with the red flag, which he kept by the door for umbrellas, gone. Gloria had stamped her mark upon the place, simply by erasing his. And it was her place. For legal purposes, when they moved in, Gloria had insisted that she sign the contracts for the flat; it made sense; Israel at the time wasn't earning much money. His name was on no piece of paper. He did not officially exist.
On into the main room, the living room.
He'd decorated this room when they moved in. From top to bottom. Stripped the paper. Put up fresh lining paper. Badly. Repapered. Big job. The radiators: he could remember pretending that he knew how to bleed the radiators, to impress Gloria, and how he'd attempted to take the first one off the wall, and not only did he find a stash of crinkly old porn mags stuffed down behind it, but he then discovered to his horror that the radiator itself had rusted to its brackets and the whole wall came away, bracket and radiator attached, and it turned out that his leaching had been rather less than successful because the carpet was soaked with stagnant water, and he just about managed to re-fix the brackets back on using some Polyfilla, but then he couldn't seem to get the radiator fitted back on and attached to the pipe, and there was water dripping not only from the radiator but also from the pipe, and…Everything. He'd done everything here. He'd made it his own; they'd made it their own.
But now…His books. She'd moved his books. His books had been cleared from the top row of shelves, the IKEA shelves, and in their place were photographs. None of him. Photographs of Gloria and her family. Black-and-white photographs-a family in black-and-white photographs; that's the kind of family they were-in modern frames. And Gloria's law books. The kind of book that cost £500. His books-paperbacks, books that cost about £5.99, maximum-were now jumbled and double-stacked on the bottom shelves, down behind the sofa.
He knelt down, pushed away the sofa, looked at his books, stood up.
Took a deep breath.
Into the kitchen. The little baby Gaggia in the corner: his machine. The top-of-the-range blender: hers. It was cleaner than he remembered, the kitchen.
The whole flat seemed to have been deep-cleaned.
Cleaned of him.
And finally the bedroom. Candles in the bedroom. New duvet cover-white. Gloria had a thing about Egyptian cotton. And the pillows had been redistributed, presumably so that Gloria was sleeping in the middle of the bed. His presence had been overruled. His space had been colonised. He checked the wardrobe. Where were his clothes? Since arriving in Tumdrum he'd been wearing cast-off clothes, like a scarecrow or a younger brother. His clothes had gone. He looked under the bed. He had no idea where she might have put his clothes.
He went back into the living room. Sat down on the sofa. The sofa he had carried up the stairs.
He was definitely going to maintain his dignity.
It was fine.
Everything was going to be absolutely fine.
He tried to do some deep breathing-he'd read about deep breathing exercises in a book from the mobile library, Breathe to Live, Live to Breathe, by an American with a foreign name, and he'd tried the exercises a few times, when they were parked up in lay-bys; they made him sleepy, but now, when he needed to, he found he couldn't do it. His breathing was…
He felt himself shaking again, and he began to feel long dormant emotions, terrible forces, welling up within him. He didn't know exactly what they were: rage, passion, lust for destruction. It was as though…He couldn't explain it. It felt like he had suddenly fallen into a whirlpool. Him, he-Israel Armstrong, mild-mannered, vegetarian, Jewish librarian-was drowning. And he had to fight for his life.
He suddenly got up and started to ransack-that was the only word for it-ransack the flat, looking for clues. Clues of something.
Of another man's occupation?
Possibly.
Possibly it was that.
Maybe that's what he was looking for. Maybe he knew. Maybe he'd known all along.
He searched through the cupboards. The wardrobe they'd carried up the stairs together. The chest of drawers that Gloria had inherited from an aunt; he searched under the bed; in every drawer. Nothing. There was no sign anywhere, no trace. But then wouldn't they deliberately hide the evidence? They? Them?
He was shaking so violently now he could barely contain himself. He thought he was going to explode. He realised he could never be satisfied ever again and he found himself yelling out loud, 'I will never be satisfied.'
Then there was the vase. By the bed. A vase that Gloria's mother had given them when they'd moved in together. He'd always hated that vase. White vase. He picked it up. It was full of stagnant water. He held it-felt it, the weight of it-in his hand.
And he went to the bathroom and poured out the water. Then returned to the bedroom, stood by the bed, felt it, held it-and threw it, very deliberately, very hard against the wall on Gloria's side of the bed. It dented the wall-plasterboard walls. The vase shattered.
And that seemed to do it. That broke the spell.
He was overcome then with guilt and shame, and he fell down onto his knees and began quietly sobbing.
He cried, and he cried-deep, satisfying, pointless, lonely, self-pitying tears-and then he picked himself up, went to the bathroom, wiped his eyes, took some toilet paper and returned to the bedroom.
And he carefully picked up every scrap and splinter of the vase.
* * *
He wasn't angry with Gloria. He wasn't disappointed with Gloria.
He was angry and disappointed in himself.
He was stupid.
Totally stupid.
It was late. He lay down on the bed.
That night the ceiling, half lit by the streetlights through the curtains, became the screen for Israel's nightmares. He saw himself with Ted, in the van, travelling forever. Travelling with no hope of arrival or rest. Pointlessness. Humiliations. Gloria with other men. Ted with his mother.
He was stupid.
Totally stupid.
It could never have worked between them. They were mismatched. Gloria's family: they had money. They were 'accomplished'-that was it. There was no higher term of praise in Gloria's family for someone they admired: 'accomplished'. Which meant money, really. He remembered Gloria's mother had once used the phrase 'inferior people'. He was an inferior person. Worse: he was neither one thing nor the other. He was neither inferior nor superior. He was just middling. He imagined himself riding in the van, down the middle of a long road, and then suddenly braking sharply, and the van beginning to keel over. The feeling of the van falling over.
He fell into a deep sleep.
And when he awoke it was morning.
And there was still no sign of Gloria.
The sun was streaming in, bright and pale. He got up, went to the kitchen. Went to the fridge. Ate a couple of crackers spread with cream cheese. Took a slug of white wine from an opened bottle. There was no other food in the house.
Gloria must have been eating out.
The flat felt cold and unlived in.
He didn't know what to do. He thought about leaving a note. That wasn't right. He went back to the bedroom. He looked again at the pile of books on the table beside the bed.
Law books.
Hardback history.
And there, on the top, was a copy of Postmodern Allegories. His friend Danny's book.
It must have been the copy he'd sent Israel.
It was probably the copy he'd sent him.
'Ah!'
It felt as though someone had inserted a knife into his foot. He rocked back onto the bed, and brought his foot round-a piece of the vase was embedded in there. He'd missed a bit. When he pulled it out, there was a little blister, a bleb of blood. A drop of blood on the white cotton sheet.
He lay down in a stupor, a kind of hungover dullness descending upon him, weighing him down, a deep weariness overcoming him.
He was filled with loathing for his life. Not only away in Tumdrum, but also here in London. He no longer had a life in London. You have your life where you're living.
Everything seemed pointless and meaningless.
He thought he might perhaps spend a few days in bed, waiting for Gloria to return. Waiting to see what happened.
Knowing nothing would happen.
The phone rang. He was convinced it was Gloria. He jumped out of bed, ran to the hallway, grabbed the phone before the answerphone message began.
'Hello?' he said. 'Hello?'
The person at the other end of the phone hung up.
Israel dialled number recall.
It was Gloria's parents.
He frantically dialled, unthinking; the phone rang, someone picked up, and Israel said, 'Hello, Gloria? Can I speak to Gloria please?'
And it was Gloria's father saying, 'Who's calling?'
And Israel said, 'It's me, Israel…Gloria's…'
And he detected a slight pause, voices in the background. 'I'll just check if she's here, Israel.'
And Mr Kahn said, 'She's not here at the moment, Israel.' And finally, Israel knew.
It was over.
17
They were driving back through England in silence.
Driving through England meant nothing.
Driving through England felt to Israel like driving through his own loss and ignorance. He understood nothing about England. In Israel's mind, calling himself an Englishman meant taking no notice of what it meant to be English. His identity as an Englishman was non-existent. Yet he had no other national identity: he was hardly European. And he certainly wasn't Irish. He was, notionally, Jewish, but he had effectively reduced all his allegiances down to himself. And now, without Gloria, he was not even a couple. He was an example only of himself. There was nothing to be elaborated or extrapolated from him: he was Israel Armstrong, and that was all.
'Ye're thinking very loudly,' said Ted. 'Ye want to stop yer blertin' there. I can't hear me own ears here.'
'What?'
'Something on yer mind?'
'Mmm.'
'Ye're thinking about?'
'The future,' said Israel.
'What about it?'
'I despair of the future.'
'Well, it speaks very highly of you,' said Ted.
'Let's go home,' said Israel.
'You are home,' said Ted.
'Not anymore,' said Israel.
'I don't know what ye're coming back for. Ye'll be resigning anyway, when we get back, eh?'
'I guess.'
'Shall we stop off at a service station for a coffee and something to eat?' said Israel's mother. 'Watford Gap?'
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For previous acknowledgements see The Truth About Babies (Granta Books, 2002), Ring Road (Fourth Estate, 2004), The Mobile Library: The Case of the Missing Books (Harper Perennial, 2006), and The Mobile Library: Mr Dixon Disappears (Harper Perennial, 2006). These stand, with exceptions. In addition I would like to thank the following. (The previous terms and conditions apply: some of them are dead; most of them are strangers; the famous are not friends; none of them bears any responsibility.)
Mark Adair, Agnostic Mountain Gospel Choir, Lisa Allardice, Mark Amory, Matthew Anderson, Rosie Apponyi, Clare Asquith, Tove Bakke, Brendan Barrington, Oonagh Barronwell, Nicholas A. Basbanes, Carmel Beaney, Tal Ben-Shahar, E. V. Bernini, Andrew Black, Terence Blacker, Shona Blair, Jean Bleakney, Stephen Bleakney, Humphrey Bogart, Walter Bonatti, Owen Bowcott, Sam Bowman, Maureen Boyle, Fran Brearton, Oliver Broderick, Charlie Brown, Claire Burgoyne, James M. Cain, Garrett Carr, Ruth Carr, Ciaran Carson, Daragh Carville, Gavin Carville, Helen Cathcart, Martina Chapman, Lorraine Clarke, Tom Clarke, Faye Clowe, Julian Cope, E.V. Corbett, Victoria Coulson, William Crawley, Edmund Crispin, Robert Crosby, Amanda Cross, Daniel Cullen, Pauline Currie, Cahal Dalat, Robina Dam, Teresa Davey, Emily Dedakis, Jonathan Derbyshire, The Destroyers, Hannah Devlin, Maria Dickenson, Lizzie Dipple, Philip Dodd, Garbhan Downey, Maria Doyle, Linda Drain, Sarah Durand, Terry Eagleton, Joe Eszterhas, Pauline Evans, Paul Farley, Leontia Flynn, Leigh Forgie, Anne-Marie Fyfe, Miriam Gamble, Becky Gardiner, Elaine Gaston, James Geary, Carlo Gebler, Kieran Gilmore, Ray Givans, Alison Gordon, Rebecca Gower, Dominic Graham, Ken Gregory, Michelle Griffin, Lisa Guidarini, The Hackensaw Boys, Salwa Hamid, P.J. Hart, Rabbi Hayim Halevy Donin, Andrew Harvey, Maria Hatchell, Gerry Hellawell, Dr Henry, Katherine Herring, Laurence Heyworth, Reginald Hill, Jonathan Hodgers, Christine Hooper, Caoilinn Hughes, Patrick Hughes, Michael Innes, Kenneth Irvine, Richard Irvine, Chris Jackson, Paul Jeffcutt, Oliver Jeffers, Rory Jeffers, Peter Johnston, H.R.F. Keating, Michael Keating, Lisa Keogh, Dave Kinghan, Lizzy Kingston, Matt Kirkham, Emily Krump, Dan Le Sac (and Scroobious Pip), Dan Leith, Amy-Rachel Lindsay, Leon Litvack, Edna Longley, Michael Longley, Lemas Lovas, Ross MacDonald, Paul Maddern, Maureen Maher, Bernard Malamud, David Marcus, John McAllister, Mrs McAvoy, Niall McCabe, Cormac McCarthy, Eugene McCusker, Rachel McDowell, Philip McGowan, Jayne McKee, Colin McKeown, Olwyn McKinney, Chloe McLenaghan, Fionola Meredith, Robbie Meredith, Richard Milbank, Sinead Morrissey, Oliver Mort, Barbara Morton, Marie-Louise Muir, Jane Murdoch, Fionnuala O'Connell, Hugh Oddling-Smee, Malachi O'Doherty, Philip Oltermann, Christopher Owens, Boom Pam, Otto Penzler, Andrew Pepper, Charmain Porter, Nicci Praca, Gail Prentice, Ellery Queen, Antonia Quirke, Joan Rahilly, Lucy Ramsey, Tom Ramussen, David Rice, Asche Rider, Gareth Robinson, Chrissie Russell, David Russell, Noel Russell, W.L. Saunders, Maureen Scott, Michael Scott, Helena Scullion, Matt Seaton, Maire Shannon, Michael Shannon, Bernard Share, Chris Sherry, David Smylie, Damian Smyth, Diane Spratt, Elaine Stockman, C.J. Stone, Pat Taylor, James Thompson, John Thompson, Sara Tibbs, Susan Tomaselli, David Torrans, Eoghan Walls, Emma Ward, Caroline Walsh, Joseph Wambaugh, Laurence Wareing, Donald Westlake, Emma Whitehead, Vi Whitehead, Paul Wild, Paul Willetts, Alex Wylie, Rachel Younger.
About the Author
IAN SANSOM is the author of The Case of the Missing Books, The Truth About Babies, and The Impartial Recorder. He is a regular contributor to The Guardian and The London Review of Books. He lives in Northern Ireland.
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