The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life

by William Brandt

  It was a romantic setting, all right. We were standing in front of Karl Marx’s grave. It doesn’t get more romantic than that. We were standing there in an alley of gravestones, long grass growing. Some council housing just over the fence at the back, which I thought was a nice touch. Postmodern. The sky was leaden gray, the trees were bare. A little mud underfoot. Sophie was looking pale and serious. Her skin tones are great under a gray sky. She goes all luminous. It was cold and the air was making that sort of hollow roaring sound. She was in the deerskin, I was in black and gray and a big scarf. Ideally I would have been barefoot but the weather ruled that out.

  Anyway, there we were, and I was getting some strong sensations. I could feel many strands of history meeting. It was the perfect opportunity. I put an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s have a kid, kid,” I said.

  Sophie had an answer all ready. “We can’t.” She shook her head.

  I really hadn’t expected that. She sounded so definite. I’d always just assumed we’d be doing it some time. We’d talked about children of course the way you do. We’d made up imaginary children. We’d discussed names. We’d imagined what children of ours would look like. We’d tried different combinations of features: for a girl we thought my chin and her nose, for a boy my nose and her chin. In any case, her eyebrows—but never her ears. She has slightly sticky-out ears. I think it’s cute but she hates it. My ears, on the other hand, are perfect. There’s nothing wrong with them, which is rare in an adult.

  “Don’t you want to have children?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “What is it then?”

  “We can’t afford it.”

  “We’ll get by.”

  “I don’t want to ‘get by.’ I want certainty.”

  I’d always suspected a traditionalist streak in Sophie’s character; funny little habits she had, like budgeting and life insurance. But this was getting scary. It was like one of those conversations at a party where you meet a nice person and you’re chatting away and suddenly they’re telling you the Holocaust was just a media beat-up.

  “I didn’t realize that sort of thing was so important to you.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Well, money.”

  She shook her head. A light drizzle began.

  “I mean, God, it’s just money. Right?”

  Sophie lit a cigarette, tossed the match away amongst the headstones. “You have to get real.”

  “I am real.”

  She gave me such a look I began to wonder if maybe I wasn’t.

  “All right,” I said, “what do you suggest?”

  She sucked on her cigarette. She shrugged. “Get a real job.”

  A cold trickling feeling down my spine. This was worse than the dinner-party fascist. This was Invasion of the Body Snatchers. This was Night of the Living Dead. “Look,” I said, “I can always get money. You know that. Mum and Dad will . . .”

  Sophie snorted. “You’re thirty-nine years old, Frederick.” (That seemed like a lot at the time.)

  “I’ll stay home. I’ll look after the kid. I can do that. I’d like to do that. You can keep working. We’ll be fine.”

  “If I have a child, I don’t want to work.“ She turned on her heel. “It’s raining. I’m going to wait in the car.” The drizzle increased. I watched Karl’s headstone getting wetter. I wonder if anyone ever said anything like that to him. Get a real job, Karl.

  Breakfast is complicated. Melissa is overacting terribly—she keeps putting small pieces of food in my mouth and giggling. I really do not approve of giggling. And every time I turn around she’s touching me. People keep looking. I’m going to have to talk to her. Also, I think I’ve spotted the Irish Brothers, over behind a potted palm on the other side of the restaurant. They can’t see me, but I can see their T-shirts. I should go over and say hello, but I’m too scared. Plus, my facial muscles are getting tired.

  “How’s that?” It’s the waitress. I had to send the first coffee back. It was instant. People around here seem to think of instant coffee as a delicacy. She smiles as she puts a bucket of espresso in front of me.

  “Thank you so much, that’s great. That’s just perfect.” I smile.

  “Tank yu too mas.” Melissa’s decided to learn Bislama. She smiles.

  The waitress smiles. “Is alraet.”

  Melissa smiles again.

  I smile again.

  The waitress smiles again. She wanders off, swinging her tea towel and whistling. Truly, this is the land of smile. I feel right at home.

  I look around. I suppose half the people in here are party guests, but I don’t recognize anyone apart from the Irish Brothers. There’s a heavy preponderance of young well-cut guys in tight T-shirts and chunky shoes, well-cut women in sundresses and spangly sandals, and a few older couples in Hawaiian shirts and sensible shorts. It seems I don’t have to worry about Sophie until we get to the island. Thank God for small mercies. It’ll give me a chance to sort Melissa out.

  There’s another movement behind the potted palm across the room. I catch a glimpse of a long thin nose, a mop of curly hair and a flash of stripy T-shirt. Yes. It’s definitely the Irish Brothers. There can’t be three noses like that on the planet.

  “Here, try this.” Melissa reaches across the table and pops a piece of pineapple in my mouth. She giggles.

  The lobby of the Meridien Port Vila is basically a huge thatched roof on poles. The ceiling must be thirty feet away. Fans hang from the rafters, spinning, some slow, some fast, some oscillating alarmingly. I make a mental note to watch where I’m standing. The sunlight in the entrance door is dazzling and it’s getting hotter. Every so often a trickle of sweat scampers down my ribcage like a scared mouse. A small mountain of luggage is being loaded into a waiting truck by a couple of smiling young men in grass skirts and headdresses. Rivers of sweat pour down their backs.

  We’ve been told to assemble here after breakfast, with our luggage, and await instructions. There are little knots of guests here and there all over. I don’t know anyone. Then, over by the reception desk, I spot a tiny blond woman in denim overalls cut off at the knees. She’s talking forcefully to the receptionist, who is looking worried. This is Ella. Standing at a slight distance, pretending it’s nothing to do with him, is a very tall, beaky guy with glasses and fluffy hair, an enormous pink-and-green Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts and Timberland sandals. He looks terrible. He’s got enormous shadows under his eyes. He’s lost weight, he’s lost hair. It’s Russell. I nudge Melissa. “Okay, here we go . . . good friends at twelve o’clock . . . hey, Russell!” I stride over.

  Russell turns. When he sees me his face riffles through a complicated succession of emotions, and settles on pitying affection tinged with nostalgic regret. “Hey, Frederick!”

  “Russell, this is Melissa. Melissa, this is Russell.”

  Melissa smiles at Russell, and slips her arm through mine. She giggles. These giggles are driving me nuts. It would never have crossed my mind in a million years that Melissa could be a giggler. Russell blinks, glances rapidly from Melissa to me and back again. Melissa looks down. “And who’s this little fellow?”

  Sitting in a pool of saliva at Russell’s feet is my godson. Since I last saw him, Brian has got bigger. And uglier. And hairier.

  “Oh,” says Melissa, “he’s gorgeous. How old is he?”

  “Almost nine months now.”

  I kneel down. “Hey there, little guy. You’ve grown since I saw you.”

  Brian removes his hand from his mouth. This takes a while because it’s inserted up to the elbow. When his fist at last appears it’s clutching a small sodden scrap of carrot stick. He holds the carrot stick out to me. I steel myself. I take the carrot stick. “Thank you, I will treasure this always.”

  “I think he remembers you,” says Russell. Brian looks at me. He opens his mouth. He begins to cry. The sound is unbelievably loud. “Quick, give him the carrot stick!” screams Russell. He doesn’t even try to look
amused. I remember last time I was around their place, Brian screamed for an hour and half without stopping. I give Brian the carrot stick. He takes it, but he keeps on crying.

  “The duck, the duck!” It’s Ella, shouting from the reception desk. “For Chrissake, the duck!”

  “I haven’t got the duck!” shouts Russell. “You’ve got the duck!”

  “Oh, fuck!” Ella comes running, patting her pockets, cursing, waving a small yellow plastic duck. Seen up close, she looks even worse than Russell. She’s got the same raccoon eyes, she’s lost even more hair than him and she has a complete new set of forehead wrinkles. Russell takes the duck and gives it to Brian, who instantly stops crying and tries to cram it into his mouth.

  Ella turns to me. “Hi, Frederick.” She hugs me, holds me out at arm’s length. She’s about to tell me off. I can just tell. I shiver with anticipation. “You’ve lost weight,” she says, accusingly.

  “Me? I haven’t lost weight, you have.”

  Ella shakes her head. “You have definitely lost weight.”

  “No way.”

  “And where have you been? We haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been snowed under. You know how it is.”

  Truth is I’ve been on a couple-free diet the last little while. Russell and I hung out a bit when Sophie left, but he was pretty stuck with the baby and it was hard to meet up. Besides, he got so emotional. One look at me and he’d crack up. Russell and Ella were both hit very hard by the split. I went around for dinner once, but it was a complete failure. The first few hours were all Brian, and then when he finally decided to go to sleep we all just sat around a dried-out chicken dinner staring at our plates. Every once in a while Russell or Ella would say, “I just can’t believe it,” or, “How could she do it?” or, “Do you think there’s any hope at all?” I snapped. Suddenly I drank about sixteen cans of Elephant beer and started raving. Ella went to bed and Russell fell asleep on the tabletop. I can’t even remember how I got home.

  Also, I’m fairly sure they’re still seeing Sophie. It isn’t that I resent it, but it feels kind of weird. We divided everything else up. It seems strange to keep friends in common. I’m probably better off with the CD collection anyway. I don’t have a lot of use for friends. I like them just as much as ever, I just don’t know what to do with them. All that happens is I end up raving. I suppose it’s the rogue elephant phase.

  Ella is now eyeing Melissa with a hint of hackle. I introduce them. Melissa hits the right note immediately. “Is he your first? He’s so gorgeous.” Ella strains every muscle in her body to heave Brian onto her hip and staggers across to a sofa near a group of potted palms. We all sit down. She and Melissa get straight down to a very macho conversation about childbirth. I listen, trying not to wince. Russell is right in there, with comments like “and there are only eight pints in the entire human body,” or “a tear heals better than a cut anyway,” or “you should try shitting a pumpkin sometime!”

  Then Ella gets out the photos. I’ve seen them before. There’s one of her sitting up in a hospital bed with a vast blob of baby in her arms. Frankly, it’s hard to tell if Brian is the right way up even. Ella, well, she looks just exactly like a dead person. I know, I saw one once. There is no blood in her face at all. She’s smiling, but her lips are white. Russell, still in surgical greens, hair all over the place, is leaning over her, grinning wildly like some mad experimental brain surgeon.

  Melissa turns to Russell. “So you were there for the birth?”

  Russell nods. “It was the most important experience of my entire life.”

  “I think that’s really sweet.” She looks across at me. “Taking notes, pumpkin?”

  Pumpkin?

  Ella and Melissa carry on with the photos. Russell turns to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s great to see you, Frederick. We’ve haven’t been in touch much lately.” His eyes fill with tears.

  I pat his knee. “It’s good to see you too, Russell.”

  “We must talk.”

  “We must.” What Russell means is we must go over it all again, in the search for a rationalization that makes the whole thing okay after all. As far as I’m concerned the whole thing isn’t okay and I don’t really want to go over it all again, but for his sake I guess I’ll have to.

  “You’re looking good.”

  “Well, hell, I’m feeling good.”

  Ella puts the photos away and Melissa changes seats. She sits right next to me, leans against me, and runs a hand delicately up and down my inner thigh.

  Russell coughs. “So how long have you two known each other, now?”

  “How long have we known each other, now?”

  Melissa mock-frowns. “Don’t you remember, pumpkin?”

  I turn to Russell. “A little while now.”

  Melissa grabs my hand. “It’s our anniversary on Saturday. Our first month together.” Melissa crosses her legs high. Russell swallows hard and averts his gaze.

  “And how did you meet?” Ella is brightly interested.

  “We met in Selfridges. Didn’t we, bunny?”

  Ella blinks.

  “That’s right, as it happens we did.” I put on my most serious voice. I’m starting to get a prickly feeling down the back of my neck.

  Melissa turns to Russell. “It was in garden furniture.” Russell nods, seriously. “He was sitting in a swing seat. He was reading a book and he just looked so cute and adorable that I had to talk to him. I went right up to him and I said, ‘Have you got the time?’ And he said—tell them what you said, pumpkin.”

  “That’s okay, you tell them.”

  “No, you tell them.”

  “You tell them.”

  “He said, ‘Sure, if you’ve got the money.’ Isn’t that hysterical?”

  Ella and Russell glance at each other.

  “She’s just kidding,” I say.

  Ella smiles and shifts Brian on her knee. Brian removes the duck from his mouth. “Dah,” he says. He rotates the duck and reinserts it. Russell coughs. Over Russell’s left shoulder, moving among the potted palms, I spot the Irish Brothers. They’re walking slowly, heads down, discussing something. Seamus is wringing his hands.

  “So, Melissa,” says Ella, “at a guess I’d say you’re from New Zealand.”

  “That’s right, how did you guys know?”

  Ella smiles, sweetly if condescendingly. “What are you doing in London? Are you nannying?”

  “Actually I’m a nuclear physicist.”

  While I’m swallowing my tongue, Ella looks at Russell. Russell looks at Ella. “Ah, really?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  “Well, I’m studying to be one.”

  “You’re studying nuclear physics?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Gosh. Where are you studying?”

  Melissa squeezes my arm. “Tell them, pumpkin.”

  “You tell them.”

  “No, you tell them.”

  “Cambridge. She’s in Cambridge.”

  “So you’re not living in London?”

  “I . . .”

  “She commutes.”

  “Well . . .” says Russell. “That’s . . . wow, I mean, it must be really hard.”

  “Oh, not really. It’s just a knack. You’ve got it or you haven’t.”

  “Wow.” I clap my hands together. “How about Charles, eh? Forty years old! Some birthday party, huh? What about that? I mean this must be costing, what, half a million, easy.” Ella smiles. Melissa picks a piece of fluff off my shirt. She giggles. At this moment I happen to look up. There’s someone standing on the other side of the lobby, watching me with a stricken expression on her face. It’s Tamintha. Oh, God, no. “Excuse me,” I say, “I’ve just seen someone I know.”

  “Don’t be long, sugarbunny.”

  I extricate myself from Melissa and head over that way. I’m not feeling very proud. Tamintha meets me with a tight face. “Hello, Frederick.”


  “Hi. I didn’t know you were invited.”

  “Obviously. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “Well, it’s nice to see you.”

  Tamintha doesn’t smile. “Who’s that woman you’re with?”

  “That’s Melissa.”

  “And who’s Melissa?”

  “She’s, well, she’s a friend of mine.”

  “You could have just said so at the start.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Actually . . .”

  She turns on her heel and walks away. I wonder what her policy is on firing New Zealanders. Feeling about two inches tall, I head back to the couches. Just as I arrive, a tall patrician-looking guy in a very floral shirt who has been standing around near the entrance for some time holding a clipboard now puts the clipboard between his knees and claps his hands together loudly. “Charles Menard birthday group!” he calls in a loud and lisping voice. “Could I have your attention, please, darlings?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, that’s Karl.”

  “Of Ecstatic Experiences?”

  “That’s the one. He’s the camp organizer.”

  “He certainly is.”

  Karl the Camp Organizer claps his hands again and waves his clipboard. “Okay, everyone,” he says, “your minibuses are waiting. Remember we’ve got a long drive ahead of us, so now’s the time, children. Last flushable toilet for two and half hours.”

  “That’s me,” I say. “I’ll meet you guys outside.”

  I head for the men’s. When I get Melissa alone I’m going to give her a serious dressing down. I may even be forced to fire her. I’m just about to get started when the door opens. The Irish Brothers come in, talking heatedly. “They must have satellite on the boat.”

  “Come on, they’re not going to have Sky.”

  “They might.”

  “Frederick!” says Irish One, who is either Sean or Seamus.