by Peter Barry
This is how it started, the beginning of the end – which came more than three years after the beginning.
‘You’ll never be a writer because you can’t empathise with people. You’re too caught up in your own feelings to understand how someone else feels.’ That’s what she said to me the last time I saw her, before she left my flat forever. After three years of pretending to believe in me and pretending to support my endeavours, she suddenly did a complete backflip and revealed her true feelings. She turned. Turned is right. Like a leaf in autumn, like a sunbaker on the beach, like a Rottweiler, like a worm, she turned. Like all women, she turned.
I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe she’d been lying to me all this time. She’d only been pretending to believe in me as a writer, and now she was saying she didn’t have faith in me at all. All those words of encouragement were just bullshit, and when she said, ‘Don’t give up, Milan, you’ll make it, they’ll recognise your talent one day,’ she obviously hadn’t meant it at all. It had been lies from beginning to end, totally insincere. Women are so devious, despicable and two-faced, it’s staggering. Although I can’t get my head around such duplicity, I think I have a sneaking admiration for such a persuasive and professional performance.
For a while she had inspired me – for a while. She was emotional, not in the sense of shouting and crying, but in the sense that she lived through her heart rather than her head. That’s what appealed. She was a woman who became emotional at the slightest excuse. I found this attractive, for a while. It made her seem alive, and more involved in life than me. I felt she could open new worlds to me, feminine worlds, new experiences. When we saw a puppy in the street, she had to go up and stroke it. What warmth, I marvelled. When we sat in a field, she made daisy chains. How natural, I told myself. When we sat in a café and watched passers-by, she stared in wonder as if she’d never seen people before. So sensitive, I felt. When we went to the cinema together, invariably she’d say, sobbing in her seat, blowing flabbily and damply into her handkerchief as the credits rolled and the lights undimmed, ‘That was so beautiful.’ Although I thought this was dim, certainly none too bright, I was fascinated at the same time. There wasn’t an ounce of cynicism in her – despite working in the advertising business. It was both uncanny and unnerving.
She definitely changed over time. Since we first started going out together, she’d become more her own woman, more argumentative – ‘standing up for myself, my rights’ is how she’d probably have put it. She started to see her work – in the fake world of advertising, for heaven’s sake! – as being as important as my writing. She couldn’t see the difference. She became ambitious for herself, and got increasingly caught up with her quick-witted, smooth-talking, Hugo Boss’d colleagues, especially the creatives, the glib salesmen of washing powders, baked beans and haemorrhoid creams, coveters of international awards, pursuers of the latest hot young directors and frequenters of five-star restaurants. ‘Honestly, Milan,’ she’d gush, wide-eyed with that same admiration she’d once bestowed on me, ‘some of the scripts they write are just so brilliant; really clever and off the wall. I don’t know how they come up with such ideas, I could never do it.’ Her attention span, which had never been awe-inspiring, shrank to thirty seconds.
I argued with her about the immorality of being involved in an industry that fed the discontent of the proverbial man in the street, the common man – neatly labelled, boxed and categorised in the C socio-economic group; how her genius creatives filled this unfortunate individual with unrealisable dreams, flogging utopias of materialism that he could never – never ever – hope to attain.
I tried to explain to her, in simple words of one syllable, the error of her ways. ‘Why dangle carrots, like the excessive luxury and breathtaking speed of a top of the range BMW, when the average fellow is going to have to make do – if he’s fortunate – with a clapped-out, rattling, ten-year-old rust bucket? With vinyl seating,’ I added for good measure.
‘But it gives them something to strive for, Milan. It gives them hope. Why shouldn’t these people have their dreams, too? Why shouldn’t they have their ambitions? You have your dreams, why shouldn’t they?’
‘Because their dreams are unattainable, that’s why. They’d have to win the lottery to buy a BMW, you know that. And the same goes for the Poggenpohl kitchen, the holiday in the Bahamas, the Rolex wristwatch and the Mont Blanc pen. They’re not even likely to be able to afford a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, for fuck’s sake.’
‘You exaggerate, Milan. You always do, you go completely over the top. You can’t discuss anything normally, calmly, like other people. You just go crazy. And it’s simply not true what you’re saying. People want a better life, and they want to believe they can achieve it. That’s what they hope for. And that’s what we give them: hope. I don’t think there’s any harm at all in encouraging people to better themselves.’
Such arguments became more and more regular. Little Miss Wide Eyes started to stand up for herself in a most unhealthy way. I found it most disconcerting. She no longer took things lying down, well, apart from that, and even that became much less frequent. One evening in early December (I can see now that she’d obviously been keen to clear the decks for the first of the advertising industry’s excessive Christmas parties), after we’d eaten and quite without warning, she came out with those dreaded words: ‘We need to talk.’ No other four words in the English language can strike such dread into the heart of man. I grunted, struggling for a mix of non-commitment and disinterest. It was so unlike her to speak out, to have her say, but I knew with absolute certainty that she was about to make her bid for independence. All I had to do was decide on my reaction to this.
She said something about admiring me for being so single-minded about wanting to be a writer, and about putting everything else aside to concentrate on that. I could hear the ‘but’ coming, galloping like the cavalry over the horizon to rescue her, and sure enough …
‘But I want more than this, Milan.’
At that moment I remember being more stunned than angry. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; I’d just cooked her dinner – a very tasty spaghetti bolognese. And how was it possible I’d allowed her to get in there first, to put the boot in before me – which I was thinking about doing anyway?
She went on to suggest that she’d given me a year to crack it as a novelist, although I have no recollection of this, and that after a year (which I gather was now up), I either had to have succeeded or I had to get a proper job – by which I suppose she meant being a copywriter on a toilet paper account and writing about the ‘nice, puppy dog softness.’ That was her idea of writing.
She went on to point out, very considerately, that I hadn’t become, during the past year, a best-selling author, nor had I even managed to become a published one. ‘I’m not happy going out with a janitor, Milan – a janitor who’s thirty-six, as well. I’m ashamed to tell people what you do. I’m sorry, but it’s true. It’s embarrassing.’
‘You forget I’m a qualified teacher. The only reason I’m a janitor – apart from it giving me the time to write – is because the education system in this country stinks, thanks to your Conservative friends.’ She’d once confessed to me, to my absolute disgust, that she voted Conservative. She admired Thatcher’s ‘strength and purpose’, was the cliché she used, and now Major was carrying on the Iron Lady’s good work. ‘You can tell your friends I’m a teacher if it makes you feel any better.’
‘Often I do,’ she said, quite without shame. ‘What I’m saying is’ – she was trying to get back on track – ‘I don’t know where this relationship of ours is going, but I do know it’s not working.’
‘Count yourself lucky I’m a janitor,’ I said, trying again to get us off the track she wanted to be on. ‘If I were a genuine writer, I’d be on the dole. I wouldn’t waste my time even being a janitor.’
‘You’re not listening to me, Milan. I’m being serious.’
This wasn
’t about my job, or not entirely, I could see that. It was summed up in that sneaky second sentence: ‘I don’t know where this is going.’ I knew with absolute certainty that the ‘commitment’ word was hovering above our heads somewhere, waiting for an opportunity to insinuate itself into the conversation. She wanted to get married. She wanted to settle down. She probably wanted babies. And sure enough, she added, ‘I’ll be twenty-five next year, and I want more than this, before it’s too late.’
I looked at her. I frowned. I pretended not to understand what she was talking about. It wasn’t difficult.
‘Our relationship …’ she started, but stopped. She changed tack. ‘You’re not happy, Milan, and I’m not happy. That’s about it right now. It’s that simple.’
‘Don’t put words into my mouth.’
‘All right then: I’m not happy.’
Which is when I made the mistake of asking, ‘And why’s that? Why aren’t you happy?’
It all came out, pouring out, in a flood. How selfish I was, how I used her, how I was never there for her, and that the only thing that interested me was my writing. ‘You don’t have time for a relationship, Milan, that’s as clear as day to me. You’re totally caught up with your writing.’
I denied it all, of course; I felt obliged to. I didn’t like this new person, this creation of mine, like a rather pretty Frankenstein stepping down from the operating table and telling me, its creator, what was wrong with me. The script was wrong; it certainly wasn’t anything I’d penned.
‘I’ve tried so hard to make it work, but it has never been enough for you.’ She had her handkerchief out now and was twisting it into horrible shapes in her hands, obviously wanting to have it ready for eye duty when required. And I knew it would be required if her body language was anything to go by: she was beginning to sag, to make a round shouldered retreat, to return to the little girl of her past. But she hadn’t quite given up. ‘I’ve thought about this a lot recently. I feel you observe me, watch me, all the time, Milan. It’s like I’m some kind of experiment you’re involved with, and it freaks me out. We’re not together, not like a real couple is together. We’re separate.’
‘Who wants to be like other couples?’ I appreciated immediately this was a somewhat feeble response, especially when, in all likelihood, it was Bridgette’s sole ambition in life.
‘You know what you say to me sometimes when we make love?’ She looked at me and now there were tears forming in her eyes, being drawn up from that deep emotional well women seem to possess. The handkerchief was being untwisted in preparation for use. ‘You say, “Give yourself to me.” You cry it out. You shout it out, so urgently, always so urgently. “Give yourself to me. ”’
‘So? That’s not so weird, is it?’ I wasn’t sure, to be honest.
‘But it’s you who doesn’t give yourself to me. You hold yourself back – and all the time, not just in bed.’
‘But you have orgasms now. And you told me you never used to.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand, do you? You really don’t understand. It’s not about orgasms, Milan. It’s about being with someone, the two of us being one. Together. I don’t give a damn about orgasms.’
She started to cry. I lit another cigarette – it gave me something to do – and I thought: ‘She should have said, “I don’t give a fuck about orgasms.” That would have sounded better, certainly been more literary. I must remember that line.’ I felt a little sick. I’ve never been able to cope with women leaving me, I have to leave them. That’s how it was supposed to work, that made it more bearable.
‘You’re after perfection, Milan. Nothing’s ever good enough for you. No woman is ever going to live up to your ideals, it’s an impossibility. No woman will ever be beautiful enough, loving enough, clever enough for you. It’s all in your head. It’s all in your imagination. I want someone who’ll accept me for who I am.’
‘Please don’t use clichés,’ I said.
With her head down and her voice gone all quiet and the handkerchief carrying out mopping-up duties around her face, I could barely hear her. When she started again, after a moment’s silence spent dabbing her eyes, I had to lean towards her to catch what she was saying. I shouldn’t have bothered. ‘The fact is, our relationship has been very ordinary, nothing special.’
Even months later those four words are still burned on my conscience: ‘very ordinary, nothing special.’ She’d dismissed our three years together with such finality, summing them up with just four words.
‘Well, see how special it is with one of your fucking creatives!’ was the best reply I could come up with at the time – and I call myself a writer.
A minute later, when she stood up to leave, her handkerchief still clasped in her hand, I said, ‘I want my letters back.’
She looked taken aback, momentarily lost for words. ‘But they’re mine,’ she finally said. ‘You sent them to me, you can’t ask for them back.’
During our time together I’d sent her many letters. I’m not sure why. I think it was a part of being in love – I told myself it was what lovers did, but it was also a part of how I saw myself – as a writer. A writer should write love letters, that’s what writers did. I asked for the letters back because I wanted to punish her: I knew she’d want to keep them, probably to read through in her old age. But I also thought they might be useful to me one day. I might put them in a book. A collection: Milan Zorec’s love letters – no, better to say, Love Letters. Milan Zorec. Or maybe just include them in my collected correspondence, possibly a companion volume to my Rejection Letters.
‘I don’t want to give them back. I want to keep them.’
I had this rush of hatred, a desire for revenge. I wanted to hit her then, hurt her, smash her complacency and her niceness, and her betrayal. I could see her leaping into one or other of the creatives’ beds within days. She was pinned against the wall just inside my front door, and I had my fists either side of her head, our faces almost touching. ‘I want my letters back. You’d better send them to me, otherwise I’ll come round and get them.’ She had her head down and her hands up to her face and she was crying now, really crying. I was happy I was making her suffer, but I was also, perversely, unhappy that there was now nothing left between us. It had all evaporated. I didn’t hit her, and I didn’t get my letters back, and that was it, finished, all over between us.
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It’s late April (I’m not sure of the exact date, and rarely am), and this is the scene that confronts me most days.
The city is covered by a grey mist. The dark cobblestoned streets shine damply, and the river tumbles between stone embankments and ancient bridges. I’m reminded of a Scottish town. It has the same old-world feel, like something out of a Victorian novel. Probably it would be more accurate to say it’s a city from the end of the Second World War, a Dresden or a Berlin. It’s almost impossible – unless I look towards the outer suburbs – to see any building that’s remained untouched by the bombardment. Like soldiers returning from the front, heavily scarred and with limbs missing, or bandaged carefully in a vain attempt to stop their guts falling out, the faces of the skeletal buildings are gouged by shrapnel and bullets, complete walls have disappeared, and windows have been blown away and replaced with plastic sheeting. They could fall at any time.
Packs of scavenging dogs are the only creatures at home in these surroundings. Like a flock of birds in the sky, the pack swings this way and that, ebbing and flowing, keeping perfect formation as it casts first one way then the other for prey, wheeling and swooping through the deserted city streets it now rules. Sometimes, if there are no people around, a sniper will pick one of them off, out of sheer boredom. When this happens, it’s interesting to note how the victim’s companions scarcely break their stride. There might be the smallest of hesitations, as if they were saying, ‘Oops, Rover’s caught it!’ but then they continue on their way. If they react at all, it’s to run faster, as though to distance themsel
ves from their unfortunate friend. They return eventually, when they think it’s safe to do so, to claim the victim, having carefully studied the body – their dinner – for some time from the end of the street, doubtless with much salivating and rumbling of stomachs.
When I was young – I don’t remember what age, but under ten for sure – I would build pyramids with other boys, usually of stones, cans or bottles, and sometimes all three, and then stand a certain distance away – this had to be agreed on by all of us and strictly adhered to – and we’d proceed to throw rocks at this edifice. Having constructed it, we then attempted to knock it down. Always it ended the same way: with each boy creeping closer and closer as the pyramid crumbled before our onslaught – a whoop of triumph greeting every direct hit – until, at the end, we’d be standing on top of the site trying to smash the last rock, can or bottle from point-blank range. It wasn’t possible to knock this lone object off anything because it was the last remaining one and was already lying on the ground. The fun lay in pulverising what had already been weakened. It struck me the other day that this is what we’re now doing to Sarajevo. There’s barely anything left standing, so we’re just trying to flatten what’s already been flattened. We’re like kids jumping up and down on a mound of dirt, screaming with glee, throwing bombs and bullets instead of rocks at the dust at our feet, trying to destroy what has already been destroyed.
Skeletal people, certainly short of food and possibly starving, dressed in dusty, dirty rags, wearing shoes made from strips of carpet or pieces of wood, continue to go to the wells for water and to their offices for work. I ask myself why they don’t give up and leave. For that matter, why don’t we give up and leave? I’ve only been here a few weeks, but already this siege strikes me as pointless. I don’t say this to the others because I know they’d disagree with me – they are having a very enjoyable time. So long as I continue to gather material I guess I’ll stick it out. If that’s what the besiegers of this city want to do, and if that’s how the inhabitants of the city want to live, good luck to all of them. I’ll continue to jump up and down on this pile of rubble with them. I’ll continue to destroy everything in my path. It’s mad, but like most madness it has a certain appeal.
