Noah's Heart

by Neil Rowland

  “Oh? Where exactly is that?” I press.

  “You’re definitely not getting my address,” she says.

  “You want to preserve your privacy?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But don’t you owe me an apology at least?”

  “An apology?” she challenges. “Why should I ever apologise to you, Noah?”

  “You haven’t knocked on my door, since I was discharged.”

  “You had the bosom of your family to return to, didn’t you?” she argues.

  I consider the pleasant image. “That’s right, my wife stopped everything to be with me, to drive me up to the hospital.”

  “Then what on earth are you grumbling about?” she wonders.

  “I don’t know. We’re divorced,” I protest.

  “So that makes you a better proposition for the future, does it?”

  “It may help,” I say. “Why should a near fatal coronary come between a man and a woman?”

  “Don’t you have three children? I assume they’re yours.”

  “Whose do you think?” I object. At least I am confident there.

  “The eldest one is a grown woman. I bumped into her the other night as well.”

  “You meet my family more than I do,” I tell her. “What was she doing this time?”

  “She was out with her friends.”

  “Clubbing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh?” Again Angela. She keeps turning up, but only in other people’s anecdotes.

  “Quite a girl, that one.” She could talk. “Then I bumped into her outside the pub last week. They look a funny bunch, her friends. High as kites, all of them.”

  “My daughter doesn’t interfere with my life, or who I choose to see,” I argue.

  “Why should I invite you back?” Corrina argues. “Do you think I need you?”

  “Seeing another guy?”

  “I’m concentrated on my job, to be honest. Next year I aim to become a director. If I want to go out clubbing or to a concert, then I go with someone at the studios.”

  “Ashley?”

  “No, not bloody Ashley,” she scoffs. “Look, Noah, I want to get home.”

  “I said something similar on the Aegean,” I recall.

  “That was all your idea,” she comments.

  “I didn’t know I was knocking on heaven’s door.”

  “There’s never a perfect time for making an exit,” she argues.

  “So you are going to stay, after all?”

  “Look, I’m pleased that you are still around, Noah. Let’s catch up with each other, if that’s what happens. But that doesn’t imply any commitment or feeling on my part.”

  I’m encouraged. “Meet me out on the Down one Sunday morning? If you’re free? I’m usually over there, enjoying my sport.”

  “Flying your kites, do you mean?”

  “That’s right. A relaxing and inspiring sport,” I emphasise.

  “Not a hobby or a pastime?”

  “Definitely, not just those things,” I say.

  “Whatever turns you on then, Noah.”

  “That’s always been my philosophy.”

  “Such as it is.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m pleased you are back to something like yourself, at least.”

  “Something for us to share,” I say.

  “But I have to dash.” All my hopes?

  “So what is your new address?” I add.

  “Not known to you?”

  She collects her crash helmet, encases her cranium, fastens the strap. She’s always kept faith with that infernal machine, if not the ghost contained. Her obsessions are as intense as my own, I have to concede. She loved Robert M Pirsig’s great book, that I loaned out to her: which is the closest we get spiritually, when it comes to the subject of motorbikes. Certainly not the case, when I was gripping hold of her waist for dear life.

  Your life gets written up into your face eventually. You definitely get the kind of snook you deserve. Will she ever want to look at me again? In full day light? I may struggle to keep up with her in the future, even riding pillion. Contemporary times are just leaving me further and further behind. Would she tolerate my dilapidated shape among her friends? How would she introduce me? As her pervy taste in affairs? Screwing about with a sick older man? That’s really going to build up my esteem and improve my health affairs. But desire can be stronger than sense - or even perception. Is it stronger than public opinion? Peer opinion? Can I feel comfortable with the general prognosis? Is she?

  Can she tolerate my degeneration? The marks of mutiliation? She has an old motorcycle accident scar herself. It’s from the middle of her rib cab, squiggling along to her belly button; starting from beneath her right breast. But does this compare to my own scars? On both sides of the fence. Is she hiding her disgust? I don’t get that idea.

  I’m never going to encounter another woman like Corrina. I’m convinced she is the last throw in my love game, here on the planet. I’m still energetic, with cool musical tastes, up to date attitudes. I have something to offer a young woman. Corrina gets that.

  The surgeon didn’t screw up in that regard. The surgeon didn’t make a complete mess. At least he knew how to make neat stitches.

  Part Two

  A Family Affair

  Chapter 18

  On a Sunday morning - a few weeks on - I am back out on Clifton Down, flying my kites. More than ever, this should be the traditional day of rest, but typically I’m back out in the open; reverting to a comforting childhood pursuit, as Lizzie puts it.

  In theory my business partner and I are testing some new model kites; innovations in construction, design or materials; variations of our ideas and fancies; before we put them on the kite market. Often though this becomes a type of free exhibition of kites to the public; children and their parents stand, hands on hips to stare, who also happen to be out on the Down, enjoying a leisurely family Sunday. It’s great to be on the Down: plenty of space and fresh air on this breezy plateau; I’m certainly boosting a good vibe, building up positive karma, as if trying to gain reincarnation as an axe hero. It’s a lovely morning for flying kites, with a moderate fourteen mile per hour wind and a bit of cloud protection.

  Romantic bedrooms are off limits but the skyways are always available. Obviously kite flying is quite spiritual and doesn’t imply any extreme pain or risk. At least you’d think so, that there’s no better way to relax. Nobody likes to be proved wrong, but this particular Sunday it just doesn’t turn out like that. There were a few incidents and somebody turned up from nowhere.

  I’m testing kites with my number-two and financial guru, James Nairn. He’s been living in Bristol for more than twenty years but originally came from Edinburgh. James hammered at the portals of Big Pink that morning at the premature hour of six, having pulled up in our solitary company van. I still was sunk into a hung-over type of doze, with the bed clothes rucked up to my eyebrows, having fallen into the hollow on Lizzie’s old side of the bed. Like Dracula hearing the knocker on his castle door (allegedly) I was forced to climb out of my box to investigate. The little Scottish explorer forced me to get out of doors and into the sunlight.

  What more can I say about this Nairn guy and I? If you could imagine the Marx Brothers running a factory you’d get an idea. No, really, he needs to bring me back to terra firma, should I start to light up my cigar and strut around like Isambard Kingdom Brunel; putting my thumbs into the loops of my Levi’s. I’m fortunate in regard to my business, because undergraduate daydreams turned into reality. I was a type of hippie entrepreneur, if not as successful as others. I’ve never grinned as broadly as Branson but I’ve done all right. When you’re developing kites and balloons you don’t have to invest int
o finding eco-fuels. To me it was an idealistic and peaceful enterprise from the beginning: I’ve never intended to hurt anybody in my life - even if I fall short in my personal life. I created my company in partnership with my best friend from university. That’s a guy called Stuart who’s sadly no longer with us, God rest him. I’ll say more about Stuart later, if I’m able. The business was a principle to me, an exemplar, as much as it was fun. Did my twenty year old self know how hard it is to live up to?

  In modern times the business employs fifteen people. With Stuart gone we’ll always be one man short, but that includes designers, builders, sales people, packers and comedians. I floated the business - so to speak - and distributed shares to family, friends and small investors, as well as to myself and to the Ex of course. I have a majority holding, but that may change if that Chief Exec in the sky calls me to account. I like to believe that my original dream will survive after me. The idea is for Luke to take over the business afterwards. I wish him to guide our Enterprise through the relative time of distant galaxies. That’s after Liz has encouraged him to gain his MBA, after he passes some school exams; although I didn’t have any formal qualifications in business myself.

  In this era the business hasn’t been doing so well. According to James Nairn we face a number of harsh financial decisions. This could even involve sacking people who - many of them - have been with us for years. I was trying to put these off, and my heart attack came to my assistance. Personally I find this to be harsh medicine - invasive surgery. Believe me I am the expert on invasive, painful and questionable surgery. Didn’t we find anything more sophisticated to overcome our problems than cutting and hacking? Just as a balloon may scythe through a storm, I plan to grip tightly to my rigging and survive this turbulence. What will Luke think if he loses my company before he can even leave school? What kind of image is that going to leave him of the old man? No longer one of the savvy hipster.

  Lizzie’s business is going up-hill, so he will never be deprived of designer clothes, electronics or roller blades. But that’s hardly the point.

  The first kite I’m flying this Sunday is the Eddy kite, named after its inventor, who struck on the idea in 1891. This design was a breakthrough because it got rid of a kite’s typical swishy tail. We’ve made a few technical adjustments to our version. It bobs about in its window of sky, simple to control. As I’m not back to peak fitness I don’t want to wrench any strings. Not until I’m sitting comfortably in a lotus position, surrounded by princesses in leotards. I dig my Cuban heels into the turf, as the breeze finds a piece of my hair to ruffle, losing my hangover with the invigorating morning; with the city of Bristol vibrant and lovely below and around us.

  James senses my happiness and absorption, while he’s busy flying a Delta kite. According to the wind the pilot can change the wing angle of this model. This Delta has an impressive, colourful effect; a sail of rainbow colours breathtakingly, far above us. It’s hard to meet demand in the US, as this is our best-selling and best reviewed kite in North America. James is deciding if this version meets design standards. Satisfied, he concentrates on gradually winding the machine back to earth. The breeze has picked up to generate strenuous pull on the line. I wind back a Pear Top and afterwards push up an Arch Top; which has a polyester skin and graphite frame.

  James sends up a Hyper kite; which is an exceptionally fast, sensitive and tricky number, requiring alert piloting skills, through double lines. He requires all the sensitivity of his skilful fingers and the strength in his knotty arms. He succeeds in drawing a pattern of spectacular dashes and swishes across the wide sky, much to the appreciation of by-standers. Already people are gathering to watch us; including impatient dogs and one particular Labrador who once ate a box kite. The kids’ little fibreglass models are waving about like handkerchiefs. This can be painful for me, as it reminds me of the man I used to be; the father and husband.

  The Hyper kite is a stunt kite with a high tensile surface that responds sharply to commands, as well as to errors; requiring James to jig as nimbly as for a family reunion back in Edinburgh.

  It’s no wonder that we attract an audience. Some visitors are kite enthusiasts who know that I am going to be around, as usual. I chat to some of them, as they’re keen to get any technical advice or even to place orders, as well as to enjoy Nairn’s flying skills. Often we send people to the Bristol Kitestore, or other excellent specialists in the city who stock our models. For some time I stand akimbo admiring my partner’s manoeuvres, sharing observations and ideas.

  Liz and I always brought a picnic up here on Sundays. She could put up with kite flying more than my hot air balloons; she always refused to accompany me. We’d shake out our blanket and set out our lunch, as the kids ran around having fun, with their box kites, or sometimes a bird kite. I encouraged them, although kites didn’t pull on their imagination for long. Even then Angela was in the habit of slipping away, going out of sight, reach and call, leading us into desperate searches. You got that desire for independence, for individuality - crazy kid. Even though my concentration has wandered, I always intended to return. Did she want to put my eyes out?

  In our thirties we’d hit the highway in our orange VW Caravanette - complete with peace signs, flower symbols, smiley face and zebra patterned seat cushions; like hippies on safari maybe. We’d pack our gear in the vehicle and set out with the kids to Weston or beyond, for marvellous family holidays between the dunes.

  After all Lizzie and I had been married at the nozzle of a smoking gun, for all that we were crazy about each other. A Russian roulette with happiness? I kept my eyes open all the time. Even though we only had two barrels to play with. How could she decide to jump ship in mid ocean? What was the big draw of Captain Hook?

  What a flawless afternoon. The crowds gather. Avoid airports, dogs and power lines. James is challenging himself with an ultra-light sport kite, that I have been tinkering with for months. He’s thinking ahead to the annual international kite festival. The idea is to show off our wares and to sell.

  Not to be outshone I assemble our best fighting kite, a fantastically curved shape, our Nagasaki Hata. The design of this kite originated in China, moving to Japan during the seventeenth century, due to Dutch seamen. This kite depends on accurate symmetry, as well as delicate balance - which has to be just-so.

  Funny that they called those diaphragm things Dutch Caps. How did Liz and I allow the happy times to escape? Are all those good and happy memories recorded somewhere, like Nirvana at the back of the Cosmos, or pictures on the retina after you close your eyes? God knows. Or maybe all those old family movies just went up in a bonfire, under the heat of an arc lamp. Man, it’s a beautiful but scary world.

  I control my kite well, as I follow it bobbing about in the sky, like watching my son in the swimming pool in a bright rubber ring. But I allow my concentration to wander with my thoughts. There’s too much slack in the line. Such a small mistake is enough to create problems with a performance kite. Consequently the Hata plunges towards the ground. Only at the last moment do I rescue the situation. There’s a first round of applause as spectators gasp at my trick. I know how much care was put into the construction of this kite. I couldn’t look my staff in the eyes over a pile of sticks. One more false move and the kite will crash. For the time being it circles and swerves, confident and graceful as an angel. I begin to feel as if the Hata has a living force; animated. I suffer a type of stir-crazy sensation, even an hallucination, that the kite is flying by itself, or even manipulating the flyer. It is a child controlling the parent. It is looping, darting and plunging, escaping the snares of my gloved hands. I struggle to describe beautiful patterns across the sky, as is the intention, to delight the passers-by. It should have been graceful, exciting and inspiring, but it’s turning into an embarrassing disaster, like a love affair gone wrong. The turns are quicker, the drops are deeper, the ascents steeper, the descents sharper, than ever could be
intended. How can I ever escape while keeping face and saving my soul, such as it is?

  James turns his head to investigate, after his own kite has been reeled back to terra firma. As long as they don’t stamp a spade into the grass, I don’t mind. We all think about that from time to time. I don’t wish to be morbid. There’s the big interested crowd, pointing and discussing. I twist myself around, pulling hard on the right line, battling to avoid calamity. I succeed with only centimetres and a split second to spare. Fantastic flying, partner: a startling round of applause, like a sudden crackling in the ears. Somebody’s turned up the volume. I feel as if my mind is going up in flames.

  “Keep her tight!” James barks. “Don’t let her go with every waff of wind!” He’s flapping around like one of those guys with lollipops at Heathrow airport years ago.

  There are oohs and ahs from the audience.

  Next moment I experience physical discomfort: the too familiar symptoms. Unpleasant sensations of heat and constriction. Not so much pins and needles, as nails and bolts. I realise that I’m losing the battle to fly. Another round of applause is dead static in my head. I know that my heart is playing up again. I can feel the strings breaking on an out of tune guitar. There’s no other explanation for this conflict. There’s no easy cure for dysmorphia. The damaged heart valve may disintegrate, so taking me out of Einstein’s equation. Or is it just shifting position again? Moving with excruciating effects? Your guess is as good as mine.

  The Hata kite plucks and tears my nerves as it dashes about the sky. Not even Fidel Castro in his prime could seize control here. As the precious kite goes on the razzle, I’m caught in a despairing gesture, with all eyes on me. This could be my last turn. My final flying show on the Down. I raise my arms into the air and let go of the reels; abandoning hope. There’s gasping and groaning from the gods. Line rips through my gloved hands, as the kite escapes, jettisons across the sky. The Nagasaki Hata snaps towards the horizon at full pelt and vanishes forever. Like a teenage daughter who isn’t going to listen. The pilot has made a complete naked ape of himself.