White Lies

by Rudolph Bader

  In the evening of the following day, the family assembled at their home in the Meads. It was an unusual situation. George, their father, was still suffering from a slight jet-lag, and the absence of his wife, Andrew’s and Lisa’s mother, created a strange emptiness in the living-room where they all sat down. There was no mother to serve them tea, so Lisa went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Aunt Margaret hadn’t arrived yet.

  “I’ve been to see your mother,” George began. “The doctors say she’ll be left partly paralysed in the left half of her face, and she’ll probably have difficulties moving her left arm. But he was quite confident that physiotherapy might improve things for her in due course.”

  “Did she speak when you were there?” Andrew wanted to know.

  “Oh yes, she uttered a few words. Although they were quite slurred, her efforts at comprehensible speech made me confident that she might eventually be able to speak properly again. Let’s be optimistic.”

  Despite his words, the father couldn’t hide his worst fears from his own children. Lisa came through from the kitchen and put her arms round her father. There were tears running down his cheeks.

  When they had their teacups in their hands, the beverage not only warmed their hands but gave them encouragement. They agreed to visit their mother at the hospital as often as possible and to exchange any information about new developments in her condition.

  When the doorbell rang, they knew it had to be Aunt Margaret. As it so often happens, a stupidly funny idea flashing up in the middle of a serious situation, while appearing almost insolent, could reveal itself as extremely humorous and alleviating. This was the case in Andrew’s mind when the ring of the bell reminded him of Algernon Moncrieff’s statement that “only relatives or creditors ever ring in that Wagnerian manner”, in Oscar Wilde’s fantastic comedy, The Importance of Being Earnest. This unburdening thought brought a smile to his face, which made his sister frown at him.

  “Hi, everyone,” Aunt Margaret boomed as she was striding into the living-room, followed by her friend Helen behind her. Helen only uttered a quiet hello and left the field to her more powerful friend.

  While all the different members of his family were chatting away, exchanging various ideas as to the way their mother ought to be looked after once she was out of hospital, Andrew followed a different train of thought. He decided to visit his grandfather in the nursing home, a thing he hadn’t done for a long time. This time, he admitted to himself, it wouldn’t just be a matter of doing his duty towards the old man. He felt a real urge within himself. Could it be what was just happening to his mother? Or was it the effect of his thoughts about certain aspects of his grandfather’s history being lost unless he was going to do something about it? Whatever it was, he had to see his grandfather as soon as possible. During these ruminations, he felt as if he was drifting away from the other persons in the room. He was drifting away in a cloud, seeing his family as if they were the figures in a pantomime or, even more stunning for him, a shoal of fish in a tank. It was the first time in his life that he experienced anything like this. Up till now he had always felt connected with the people around him, even more inseparably so with the members of his family. Despite the small age difference, for example, with his sister Lisa, he had always felt this strong bond between them. A bond he’d never questioned. But now, although he knew they were just reacting to the situation with his mother, he somehow considered them all, even Lisa, to be running after destiny. They were all discussing things they couldn’t influence in the slightest way. Was this all that we humans could do? Couldn’t we try to make an impact? To learn from the past and apply those lessons learnt accordingly?

  * * *

  He was surprised at the relatively young nurse who received him at the nursing home. She could hardly be older than he was.

  “Your grandfather is sitting in our sun-lounge,” she informed him.

  “Thank you. Is it this way?”

  “Yes, just go through that door, and you’ll see him.”

  Andrew did as the charming young nurse had instructed him. He pushed the door open, and indeed, there was his grandfather, about twenty feet away, sitting in an armchair by the large window. He crossed the room and stood by his chair. The old man didn’t react to his approach.

  “Hello, Granddad,” Andrew addressed him cheerfully.

  “I’m not buying anything from you. Go away.”

  Andrew waited for a moment before he tried again. “Granddad, it’s me, Andrew, your grandson. I’ve come to see you.”

  “And you think you can hoodwink me, young man? I know what’s going on.”

  “Of course, you do.” Andrew sat down on a chair opposite. He gave the old man a pleasant smile. He hoped it was a natural smile.

  “What’s so funny, young man?”

  “I’m just smiling because I like you.”

  “Ah, I see. I know what’s going on.”

  Then the two men looked at each other in silence. Andrew decided to give him time, not to rush things. He knew from what Lisa had told him that it was quite possible for Granddad suddenly to see things clearly, just as suddenly as it was possible for him to slip away from a clear mind into the darkness of oblivion. He was wondering if he ought to keep up some sort of conversation, absurd as it might turn out, when the old man stared at him with a fixed expression.

  “He, he, du bist ein frecher Pimpf. That’s what you are.”

  Andrew’s German was not very good. He’d studied it up to his O-Levels, but then lost most of it again. So he wasn’t sure what a Pimpf was. It was probably something like a chap, a bloke, a fellow.

  “It’s all those things they tell you. Mich können sie aber nicht hinters Licht führen. Mich nicht. Nein, mich nicht! I know what’s going on.”

  He tried again. “Granddad, can you remember your wife, Emily?”

  “Who?”

  “Emily! You loved her. She was your wife.”

  “I never married her. - Anna war so schön. Sie war so schön. - Why did you take her away?”

  Andrew realized he’d never get anywhere. So, he just waited in silence to give his grandfather more time to remember who he was. He scrutinized the old man’s face, then he looked out of the window at the nicely tended garden of the nursing home. He wondered how much of his physical environment his grandfather was able to take in.

  Suddenly the old rasping voice began again, “The Führer didn’t even give me a medal when he visited our camp. But I know what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean?” Andrew enquired.

  “Ah, I see, young man. You’ve come to get me. But I know what’s going on. You don’t know me, do you?” he chuckled. Then he laughed, louder and louder. “Ha ha! You think you know me, but you don’t know me. I cha scho Bärndütsch! Ja, jaaa, I bi kei Souschwab, nenei,” he eagerly stated, nodding then shaking his head.

  Andrew didn’t understand what language his grandfather was falling into. Could it be Dutch or Russian? He knew that the old man had always been a very gifted linguist, but he wasn’t sure how many languages he still spoke. Besides, it was highly uncertain whether any of his utterances really made sense at all. He was probably mixing together all sorts of different things in his life, even mixing them with his own dreams and fantasies. And in all this, despite some angry outbreaks, he appeared to be reasonably happy.

  After another half hour of listening to the old man’s ramblings, which were interspersed with bits from other languages - most of which he identified as German phrases and a few Latin proverbs - Andrew decided to leave. He stood up and bent down to kiss his grandfather on his forehead, which the old man allowed without protest.

  “Good-bye, Granddad.”

  “Hey, don’t leave your old Granddad like that,” came the rasping voice.

  Andrew turned round and saw that his grandfathe
r was looking at him with great tenderness. Obviously, this was a brief moment of mental lucidity.

  “Why didn’t you bring your sister Lisa? And where’s Emily? My dear girl, Emily?”

  Andrew hesitated before he answered truthfully. There was no need to tell lies at this point, but he didn’t remind his grandfather that Grandma had died years ago. “Lisa will come to see you soon, but Mother isn’t very well. That’s Nora. She had to go to hospital. But she’s going to get better. Do you want me to give her a message from you?”

  “Oh, I see,” the grandfather said. “It’s true. Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis. Isn’t it? If only Emily could be here. Tell her, it was all for the best. Tell her I didn’t mean to do bad things.”

  “Yes, I will tell her.”

  After this, they talked about the weather, and Andrew told his grandfather about the first Black American President. Then old Didi was losing his grip on reality again.

  Soon, Andrew left the nursing home. As he was passing through the front hall, he happened to see the young nurse again, the good-looking young nurse who had received him earlier. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He wondered what her name could be and decided to ask her next time. He walked towards the station and turned right at the library. In Grove Road, he went into the newsagent’s to get a paper. Of course, the headlines were full of the new American President. Andrew folded the paper away. As he was walking on he was thinking of all the things his grandfather had said or insinuated. If he put all the puzzle-pieces together it appeared that his grandfather was begging for some kind of understanding or even forgiveness.

  He would really have to talk to his mother about this as soon as she was getting better. Hopefully, that would be soon enough.

  When he reached his flat in the evening he first called his father, who told him that Mum was recovering slowly. He said she might have to remain in hospital for quite some time. After this call, Andrew had a snack and turned on his TV-set. He watched some more commentaries about the possible achievements the world could expect from Mr Obama. Some journalists believed he could really introduce a new era in American international politics, but more commentators were uncertain and warned of too high expectations. After all, there was too strong an opposition from the Republicans in the House of Representatives. Andrew found it hard to understand some aspects of American politics, particularly the prevailing frontier mentality, which was responsible for the power of the National Rifle Association, in spite of all those mass murders in public and shootings at schools. How primitive can you be to believe that the right to carry a loaded gun was a sign of freedom?

  He was getting tired. As he was nearly dropping off to sleep in front of the screen he remembered the good-looking nurse. Lucky Granddad! To be looked after by such a charming young woman...

  The next few days, he was very busy with various things. There were email messages to be answered, there were two of his friends who wanted to meet him for a chat, and there were the regular visits to his mother in the hospital.

  Nora was gradually getting better. As Dr Banerjee had predicted, it appeared that she would remain partly paralysed in her left side and it was difficult for her to use her left hand. Otherwise, she seemed to be in excellent health. However, this stroke had an important effect on her mind. As she told Andrew after a week in hospital, she got the shock of her life.

  “I suddenly realized how limited my life was,” she explained.

  “Oh, come on, Mum. You’re going to live for much longer,” he insisted.

  “You’re talking like your father. In his case it’s inexcusable, but you are still young, so I can forgive you for your ignorance.”

  “Okay, I’m young. But can’t you see that Dad must believe the same thing? He loves you. When a man loves a woman, he cannot imagine the end of her life, or vice versa. Or can you imagine the end of Dad’s life?”

  “I couldn’t, up to now. Now I can. Does this sound harsh?” she asked, looking deep into her son’s eyes.

  He thought about it before he answered. “I guess it isn’t, after what you’ve just gone through. But still, I don’t believe it can help you to have such thoughts. Life is still so full of joy. I mean, you’re only in your early fifties. There are still so many good things waiting for you in your life. It feels strange for a son to have to tell his own mother such basic truths, but I strongly believe in them.”

  “That’s perfectly all right for you, my dear. But my perspective is a different one. I’ve seen things that can destroy even the strongest man’s convictions. So, I’m also more realistic about my own life. You can’t take this away from me.”

  The son frowned. “What things do you mean? What have you seen?”

  The mother remained silent for a longer period before she took up the conversation again. And when she did, she spoke in a strange voice, a voice her son had never heard from her. It sounded as if she was speaking to him from some other sphere, but it was still his mother’s voice.

  “I have thought about these questions for a long time. Now, lying in bed here, with the prospect of going through my remaining days as a cripple–”

  “Don’t say that! You’re not a cripple,” Andrew protested. But she cut him short.

  “Don’t interrupt me. This is important, and I’m only telling you this once. I’m never going to repeat it. But the fact is, I’ve found out things that make you lose all confidence in humanity. Before this time in hospital I always thought I’d take those things into my grave with me. But now, I’ve come to the conclusion that someone in the family ought to know. Those things shouldn’t be forgotten. They should never be allowed to be forgotten. But the problem is, they’re so heavy. They nearly crushed me, and whoever is going to preserve them for the next generation might not be strong enough.”

  She broke off and directed her eyes to the window. He was just going to ask her a question when she continued in the same outlandish voice.

  “Don’t ask me to explain what I mean at this point. Listen, Andrew dear. I know you’re a very strong man. You have enormous potential. Lisa is a good girl, but she’s far too weak. She has such a soft nature, and you know how her emotions can get the better of her. So I’m convinced you are the person to be trusted when the time comes. You will know what to do.”

  “I still don’t understand what you mean,” he faltered. He felt a thick lump in his throat. “Why don’t you want to explain?”

  “Because the time is not ripe. But there will come a day when you can understand everything. One day, my heavy knowledge will pass on to you. It’ll probably be after I’m gone, but it might be while I’m still alive, depending on my medical condition.”

  “You sound like Old Major in Orwell’s Animal Farm,” Andrew was joking, but he realized it was not the right time for lightness. “Sorry, but you scare me with such sombre predictions.”

  “I didn’t mean them to be sombre. Knowledge is never sombre, though its contents may very well be.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. When the time comes you will know. Now, leave me, please. This has made me tired. I’d like to rest. Please.”

  With her right hand she grabbed both his hands and held them for a while. Then she dropped her hand, laid it down on her bed and closed her eyes. Her actions were a clear dismissal.

  Andrew understood. He stood up from his chair by the bedside, kissed his mother’s forehead, muttered a soft “good-bye, Mum,” and quietly left the ward.

  Fourteen

  Life for Andrew continued very much within its normal groove. He did his job at the local council offices, he spent his free time either practising the piano or with friends playing tennis or football. Sometimes he went for a drink at the Dolphin or at the Dewdrop Inn opposite, about every two of three days or so he visited his mother at the hospital, and once a week he went to the
nursing home to see his grandfather.

  After what his mother had told him that afternoon, he often wondered what she could have meant, but he never asked her again. She never returned to the subject. As time went on, he put the matter to the back of his mind, although he couldn’t forget it completely.

  One day, about two weeks after his mother’s stroke, he was sitting at his piano teacher’s instrument. It was a fine Bechstein grand. Sam Westfield, his teacher, was talking about the piece they were in the process of getting to know. Andrew was immediately caught by the magic of the piece. It was Rachmaninov’s Prélude in c sharp minor. Its general mood, especially in the opening bars, took hold of him in a very strange way. It reminded him of what his mother had told him about a hidden truth he was going to find out one day. Somehow, the heaviness of the first section of the Prélude drew him back into the emotions he’d felt at that time. The fast middle section, on the other hand, had an urgency that turned what he’d felt in the first section into some black being that was constantly escaping his consciousness, only to arrive, in the final section, in a land of superior knowledge. He wondered whether he should tell Sam. Even though they had quite a personal relationship - which was really a perfect thing between teacher and pupil in such an intimate subject as the piano - he wasn’t sure if Sam would understand. After all, he didn’t know Mum, and he hadn’t been there when his mother spoke to him about those things.

  Back at his flat, he practised the Prélude very diligently, trying to create the different moods in the piece according to his own sensibility. After a few days, he found he couldn’t go back to his mundane every-day life after playing such a piece. He looked for a different piece that he could play as a buffer between the Prélude and the outside world. He tried the Bach Fantasy in c minor BWV 906 that he’d learnt only a few weeks back. It was only the Fantasy, without the Fugue, which had the right effect for him. But after a few more days he felt that Bach was altogether too logical, too mathematical and also somehow too deep to satisfy him. So he reverted to another piece within his repertoire that finally functioned for him as it should. And this was Schubert’s Impromptu op.90 no.1. Its marching rhythm, together with its wistful main theme, gave him what he’d been looking for. Henceforth, he would practise the Rachmaninov Prélude to get it as near to perfection as possible - which was no child’s play in the middle section - and always play the Schubert Impromptu before returning to normal life and the banality of his physical presence in his flat.