“And I think forty is one of those times. Well, for lots of people it is anyway.”
Tom nods and lies silently for a minute. Then he says, very quietly, “I don’t like my life though. I’m not sure I like myself much.”
I sigh and stroke his shoulder again.
“I’ve been, I am, so unhappy…” His voice is taught and ready to crack anew.
I nod and sigh deeply. “Then you have to change it,” I say.
Tom shakes his head. “I don’t think I can,” he says. “I don’t think I know where to start.”
I lie watching him for a moment. It strikes me, that – practically speaking, absolute-truth aside – Tom needs a lifeline. He needs some hope.
“You could…” I say. “Change things, I mean. I’d help you.”
Tom smiles at me weakly. “You want to be my guru?”
I laugh. “You wanna be mine?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says sadly.
“What do you want Tom?” I say. “What kind of life?”
Tom squints at the ceiling for a moment before replying. “I think I want to slow it all down,” he says.
I remember him saying exactly that at Dante’s farm. I frown and wait for him to continue.
“It’s all too fast,” he says. “Too shallow. Too disconnected.”
A thought is blossoming in some corner of my mind – something unexpected and yet expected, something obvious but profound.
“Disconnected,” I repeat, waiting for it to reveal itself.
“Take my job,” Tom says. “It’s all about turning one currency into another, about swapping one kind of money to another kind. I mean, what’s the point?”
“What’s the point of anything,” I say. “I mean, if you…”
“That’s not true,” Tom says. “I mean, if you’re growing food, or building furniture for people to sit on, or, I don’t know, healing people…”
The thought is bursting out now, all over the shop. Realisation is rushing – like a tidal wave – into my mind. A deep, powerful swell of overdue comprehension about who Tom is, about what he needs, and above all, about why the whole episode with Dante happened.
“Is that why Dante was so…” I say, propping myself up on one elbow.
Tom nods and frowns. “Dante? Oh… I suppose so,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t see Dante for what he was really… I saw him as… Oh I don’t know…”
“A symbol?” I say.
Tom nods. “Maybe,” he says. “A symbol of a better way of living.” He sighs. “Certainly got that one wrong, didn’t I.”
I nod and lick my lips as I take this in. Realising that in a couple of seconds I have understood, and that in understanding I have forgiven, I start to smile.
“Dante was your all-in-one solution,” I say.
Tom snorts. “Yeah, well, I have an all-in-one solution for Dante,” he says. “Death.”
I frown at Tom’s sudden bitterness. It’s not that I don’t understand, it’s just that it isn’t like him. “That’s maybe a bit extreme,” I say. “But I know what you mean.”
Tom looks at me seriously. “He should die for what he did,” he says quietly. “He would have killed us, you know.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, lets not get into a whole debate about the death penalty, eh?”
Tom frowns at me. “Don’t you think he should die? Don’t you think the world needs to be protected from madmen like him?”
I roll my eyes. “The trouble with the death penalty – and you know it – is that no system, no government, is ever trustworthy enough to be allowed to take those decis…”
“But I know, we know,” Tom says. “If I had the chance to kill him, don’t you think I should?”
“Tom,” I say. “Maybe. I don’t know. Probably not. I mean, he didn’t actually kill anyone. But it’s immaterial; because you don’t have the chance, do you… If you really wanted to do something, then you know what I think… that you should go to the police.”
Tom shakes his head. “I can’t, I couldn’t… I couldn’t get involved, and who would believe me. And he’d have Paolo on his side… We talked about this already.”
I nod. “Well we never did really,” I point out. “Look … I don’t know why we’re talking about it now. That’s not the point I was making at all.”
Tom swallows hard and nods. “My fault,” he says. “Sorry, carry on.”
I have to think for a moment to remember where I was. “What I was saying… suggesting…” I say eventually. “Is that Dante wasn’t just a symbol, he was a practical means too, a way to change your life.”
Tom nods. “An escape route,” he says. “And a guru too.”
I nod. “Oh Tom,” I say, laying my head on his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
It’s a strange thing to say. And what I mean, that I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Dante, that Dante let him down so badly, is an even stranger thing to think. But it’s true, and it’s heartfelt. I can see how Dante came to represent salvation for Tom. I can see why he attached so forcefully, so madly to the wholesome living philosopher guru. And I am only now grasping just how badly that fall from grace has hurt him.
“No,” Tom says, stroking my hair. “I’m sorry.”
For some reason, something to do with the tenderness I’m feeling towards him, I can feel an erection stirring. It seems… what would Tom say? Inappropriate.
“It was a mirage,” Tom says.
“Dante?”
“The whole package,” Tom says.
“In Dante’s case,” I say. “Well, it was worse than a mirage. It was a lie. But people do live like that. There are people who live quiet, ecologically responsible lives. They’re just not Dante.”
Tom breathes out heavily and rubs a hand across his face.
“You could build a life like that,” I say. “If you wanted.”
Tom shakes his head making his chest vibrate. “I couldn’t,” he says. “That’s the whole thing. That’s why I was looking for someone else to do it for me. Someone who had already done it.”
I click my tongue, and move back next to him so that I can enlace him in my arms. “Oh babe,” I say.
“I’m really lost right now,” he says, his voice weak. “And still angry too… knowing that he’s still there, that he’s just carrying on his…” Tom looks at my frown and sighs. “I’m sorry…” he says. “I am lost though… I feel like I’m floating, like I’m disconnected from everything. Like I don’t know where I’m going.”
“But that’s okay,” I say. “I mean, we all feel like that sometimes. That’s what relationships are for.”
“Are they?” Tom says with mock humour. “I always wondered.”
I pull away just enough to look into his eyes. “Sure,” I say. “They’re so that when one person’s lost, the other knows the way. You just have to take it in turns.”
Part Three:
Good Thing Bad Thing
I watch Tom’s buttocks moving up and down beneath his beige cotton shorts as he weaves along the path before me. They are fleshier than before – with the weight he has put on – but they are actually more sensual, more inviting because of it.
He turns his head half towards me and says, “Where do you think this path actually goes? I mean, why would anyone go this way?”
I shrug and weave around a bush; it’s covered in tiny purple flowers. “Maybe just tourists,” I say. “Hill-walkers and the like.”
To our right the Alps begin in earnest, thrusting up from the flat of the land into jagged snow-capped points unworn by millions of years of weather. To the left the valley sweeps to the north, green and deep and lush with an almost unbelievably turquoise river along the middle.
Our own path weaves along from the tiny hamlet we’re staying in to an outcrop of grey, marble-like rock in the distance, weaving its way up and along the ridge of this, the largest of the foothills or the smallest of the southern Alps, I’m not sure which.
The air
is cold, the sky a stunning deep blue; the sun, piercing through the thin air, pricks my arms as though they were covered with drying salt.
We have only walked ten minutes from the gite, but as far as the eye can see – and that’s a long, long way – there is no sign of life at all, no indicator of human society apart from this thin dusty path worn through the scrub by the constant flow of people wanting, for no apparent reason, to walk to the same point we are now approaching.
At the tip of the outcrop we see that the path actually continues, weaving down the side of the rock face and on up, way into the distant mountains.
“When you said the Alps,” Tom tells me, pausing and pulling a bottle of water from his backpack, “I thought you meant, like, hills… I didn’t realise there were proper mountains like this around here.”
He hands me the bottle of water and I take a mouthful before replying. “Nope, those are the real thing,” I say. “What now? Onward and downward?”
Tom looks to his left and nods towards a lone gnarled plane tree. “Shall we sit in the shade a bit first? I know we haven’t gone far, but…”
I shrug and head past him to the shade. “It’s not a race,” I say.
The leaves shift as the branches oscillate in the gentle breeze. We lie on our backs watching the light filtering through the almost fluorescent green of the leaves, at the turquoise sky peeping through the gaps.
“Have you noticed how good the air smells?” Tom asks.
I hadn’t, but I do now. I breathe in deeply and mull over the mixture – burnt earth, a cold, metallic mountain smell, floral hints from the wild lavender… “Yeah, it’s amazing,” I say. “And the noise of the insects. They sound like a squadron of B-52’s.”
Tom cocks his head and listens and then turns and points at a tiny tree behind us. “It’s bees in those white flowers,” he says. “Amazing.”
“Elderflower I think,” I say. “My dad used to make wine out of it.”
“Elderflower wine?” Tom says.
I nod and wrinkle my nose. “Tasted like cat’s piss… Not that I ever tasted cat’s piss of course.”
Tom frowns. “So why did he make it?”
I shrug. “Dunno. People just did. The war generation… well, they made wine out of anything… out of everything in fact.”
Tom breathes in deeply. “It makes you want to breathe more… This air, it sort of makes you conscious of the pleasure of breathing.”
A fly is buzzing around Tom’s chin. He swipes it away repeatedly. “They never show the bugs,” Tom says. “In films, I mean.”
I smile.
“It’s always idyllic picnics and stuff. Never people picking wasps from the chutney.”
I grin. “I think it is pretty idyllic,” I say, flicking an ant from my leg. “Despite all the beasts.”
Tom reaches over and grasps my hand. “Me too,” he says. “It’s stunning. Really.”
We lie for a moment watching the patterns formed by the leaves. Tom sighs heavily.
“Happy sigh or unhappy sigh?” I ask.
Tom snorts. “Ah! The master of the complex sigh!” he says mockingly.
I raise an eyebrow and roll my head towards him. “So?” I prompt.
Tom shrugs. “A mixture I suppose,” he says. “Sort of a happy/sad sigh.”
I frown, so he continues, “It’s just that this is so perfect, and that makes me think about going back, and going back makes me think what a difficult year it’s been, and that kind of makes me sad.”
“The bitter-sweet edge of joy,” I say. “The fact that nothing ever lasts.”
Tom swipes at the fly again and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.” He thinks for a moment and then says, “In the same way, sadness should make you happy really.”
I frown at him.
“I mean, if when you were sad you thought about the fact that it never lasts either… well it could work the other way around. Only I never seem to get sadness tinged with happiness…”
“You are feeling better though, aren’t you?” I ask him gently. “I mean, you seem better.”
Tom nods vaguely. “I think so,” he says. “I still feel a bit… Well, a bit vague really. And sometimes that worries me; because it feels like that curtain…” He clears his throat. “…that curtain of disconnectedness is coming back again. And that scares me. But it actually doesn’t. It hasn’t been anywhere near as bad really. Not since I stopped the Prozac. Ironically.”
I nod. “Good,” I say. “Jumping through coffee tables at 4 AM was getting scary.”
“I still have the scar,” Tom says, lifting his t-shirt and showing me his side. “Anyway… it’s still hard,” Tom says. “In a way. I mean these holidays help…”
I frown at him.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong… this is lovely. It really helps. But it almost makes going back worse.”
I nod and sigh. “Well, you really need to think about quitting that job then,” I say. “I mean, you’ve never liked it.”
Tom nods. “I know,” he says. “But it’s not that simple. I mean, it’s a family business. You can’t just walk out without warning.”
I shrug. “You could give notice though,” I say. “If you’re really unhappy.”
Tom picks a blade of grass and chews it and I copy him and do the same. It tastes bitter with chlorophyll.
“Maybe later in the year,” Tom says. “I kind of owe my uncle a favour.”
“What for?” I say.
Tom licks his lips, but then looks away. “Oh, nothing really, just family stuff. You know how it is.”
I roll my head back and look up through the leaves again. The flickering light tires my eyes, so I close them and after a few minutes I am hovering on the edge of sleep – still aware of the insects buzzing, of Tom beside me, but also starting to drift and dream. It feels gorgeous.
“Have you noticed how nice people are up here?” Tom says. His voice suddenly seems very loud.
I force my eyes open. “Yeah, everyone’s been really sweet,” I say.
“That cook, in the restaurant last night, in, where was that place?”
“Guillaumes?”
“Nah, not the town. What was the restaurant called?”
I shrug. “Le Provençal or something,” I say.
“The way the cook pulled up a chair and just, you know, joined us…” Tom says. “I can’t remember the last time anyone took the time to do that.”
“I think he was intrigued by our marital arrangements,” I say. “You know how he kept asking which of us was married to Jenny. Which of us was Sarah’s dad. I think he thought we were some sort of ménage a trois.”
Tom giggles. “Yeah. I guess. But he still wasn’t rushing home was he. I mean, in England, he’d be rushing home after work to watch TV, Big Brother or something… He was more interested in us, in our lives.”
I shake my head. “I guess,” I say. “But then French TV is shockingly bad.”
“I wish there was no TV at all,” Tom says.
“Says the man who just bought a sixty-four inch widescreen,” I laugh.
“It’s thirty-two,” Tom says. “But if everyone didn’t have TV, well, you wouldn’t get bored would you. Because everyone would be looking for things to do.” Tom brushes away another fly, or it could be the same fly. “If everyone agreed to give up telly at the same time, I’d do it tomorrow.”
I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
“Will you go away!” he says exasperatedly swatting at the fly again.
“The great outdoors,” I say.
Tom jumps to his feet and reaches out to help me up. “Let’s go back and have lunch,” he says. “I’m starving.”
“The great adventurer,” I laugh.
Tom frowns.
“Ten minutes out and ten minutes back,” I say.
Tom grins and pulls me to my feet. “Hey, put lunch inside me and this afternoon this baby will go as far as you want,” he says.
“As far
as I want,” I say provocatively raising an eyebrow. “Sounds good.”
As we round the final bend – where the path joins the circular track that rings the tiny hillock that is Chateaneuf d’Entraunes, Sarah comes into view.
“Mark!” she shouts starting to run wobblingly towards us. She calls both Tom and myself “Mark” for the moment. Jenny says it’s because of the goatees. Jenny trots into view a few feet behind, grinning.
“Weird seeing her so grown up already,” Tom says. “I know it’s a cliché, but it does seem to happen so fast.”
“Hello boys,” Jenny says breathlessly.
“She running you ragged?” I laugh.
“Oh she’s having a whale of a time, aren’t you… It’s great because there’s no cars.”
Sarah points vaguely the way she came and says, quite clearly, “Shit!”
“Sheep,” Jenny instantly translates. “And they’re goats, but… well…” She shrugs. “Anyway, I’m glad to see you two… I was wondering what to do about lunch.”
Tom sweeps Sarah up and onto his shoulders and starts to jog off along the track. “Show me where the shit is,” he says.
“Have a good walk?” Jenny asks me, linking her arm through mine.
I snort. “We didn’t get far,” I say. “The great adventurer there sat down under the first tree. It was nice though.”
“Tom seems better,” Jenny says. “He seems more human since he got here.”
I nod, “Yeah, the country is definitely his thing.”
“Oh,” Jenny says, glancing surreptitiously up the path and pulling a folded newspaper page from her pocket. “I took this… from your Sunday Times.”
She hands me the folded paper. I frown and shake it open. “What is it?” I ask.
“I thought…” Jenny starts, but Tom has turned and is looking back at us. “Hey look…” he says, but then his eyes drop to the page in my hand, and his interest roused he starts to walk back towards us. Sarah, frustrated on his shoulders strains and points the other way. “Shit!” she says. “Shit!”
Jenny tuts and snatches the page back from me. “God you’re hopeless,” she says, quickly re-folding the page and stuffing it into her pocket.
“What is it?” Tom asks, now back with us.
Good Thing Bad Thing Page 15
