Narcissism for Beginners

by Martine McDonagh

  The people who really lost out were those out in the villages, whose access to him was reduced to the few hours he could salvage from our monthly trips to Salgueiro.

  The effects of the switch were masked at first by an improvement of the general health of the commune – presumably due to the reduction in alcohol and drug use – for which Mrs F took all the credit. Unfortunately your father interpreted this as proof that his regime was working and saw fit to take another more dangerous step and do away with all conventional methods of medical diagnosis. Instead, diagnosis was to be by auric interpretation only, which only the guru was qualified to perform, and then only when he was strong enough to be in the company of the sick. He discovered a renewed interest in you at this point and hauled you in to assist and confirm his diagnoses. You were ten years old. You objected of course, on the grounds that it would reduce time spent playing football.

  In early 2003 Ken’s weight dropped dramatically. Your father diagnosed AIDS and after a thorough inspection of the communal aura declared a state of emergency in the commune: he diagnosed the majority of residents as being HIV positive.

  Under a new diktat, all trade with local farmers and fishermen ceased and the school and clinic closed to local children. The gates to Quilombo Novo closed and the commune tipped into a speedy decline. Food productivity dropped as people became weaker. People became malnourished from the lack of protein, and anyone who got seriously ill was denied proper treatment.

  When Ken finally diagnosed himself with the real reason for his weight loss – cancer of the pancreas – I tried to persuade him to leave and seek treatment, but he knew he didn’t have long and he wanted to stay. People with perfectly curable illnesses were at risk of dying because of your father’s stupid rules and beliefs. I even suggested a plan to kill your father, it would have been easy enough to do, but he insisted I concentrate on getting you away, not because of your father’s fictional HIV and AIDS diagnoses, but to protect you from him. Ken reassured me he could handle the rest.

  Do you remember our escape, Sonny? Crawling through that water pipe with a football stuck up the back of your shirt? You have always been such a good egg.

  I guess, right?

  You know how sometimes you can be told about an event you were present at and you don’t remember at first, but then someone says ‘you know, chocolate and strawberry’ and suddenly it all comes back. Truth is, I don’t remember any of that, none of the bad stuff, not even with all the information Thomas has given me. I don’t even remember how we got to Redondo. We lived in Brazil then we lived in RB, with nothing in between.

  I can’t relax. All the complimentary first-class coffee’s buzzed me up and I’m determined to arrive in London knowing how this story ends. I man right up and open envelope number five:

  I’ll begin with the sad news. I wrote to Ken, care of Fabio senior, to let him know we’d landed safely in the US. A year later, I got his reply, along with a note from Fabio saying Ken had died peacefully at the clinic in Salgueiro a few weeks before and that they’d found his letter to me in amongst his belongings.

  I won’t go into all the detail but, soon after we escaped, your father hatched a plan and was mentally defective enough to believe Ken would carry it out. He made a pronouncement from the verandah that the ban on pharmaceutical use was to be temporarily set aside so that every man, woman and child there was to be injected, at great expense, with drugs to prevent the onset of AIDS. Meanwhile, Ken was ordered to procure sufficient insulin supplies to inject them all – your father, Ken and Marsha being the only exceptions – with a lethal dose.

  Talk about drug of choice, right? I can’t wait to tell Ruth.

  Ken knew he needed to act quickly, not least because his own days were numbered. Instead of the insulin he ordered large quantities of injectable multivitamins. He did order some insulin, but just enough to first convince your father that he’d carried out his instructions, and then kill him. Everyone else was given the vitamins. In the end it was Marsha who injected your father, but she had no idea what she was giving him.

  Oh My Gosh. Marsha Ray killed my dad and doesn’t know? This is turning into a fucking Greek drama. With dramatic irony and everything. With knobs on, as Thomas would say. I wish I’d known this before I went to her house. Imagine if I’d interrupted her when she put on that fake dreamy voice and pulled the fake sad face and yelled, IS THAT WHY YOU KILLED HIM? Oh My Gosh, can you imagine? Her face would be Blue Steel to the power of a gazillion. Fuck fuck fuck. I think I’m going to die of overstimulation, right here on the train.

  I’ll be honest, my motives for getting out of there weren’t entirely unselfish. The only real way I was going to maintain my sobriety was by assuaging my guilt and returning you to your mother. One night before we left, Ken helped me sneak out to Fabio’s bar to call an old private investigator contact in the UK. He tracked Andrew down, which was easy – thankfully he hadn’t moved – and he gave us enough information to pass on to a friend of Ken’s in San Francisco who was a computer whizz. I’m not sure it would have been so easy to trace her if her husband had been less well known.

  I’ll get to the point.

  Sonny, I have met your mother, once, here in LA. She lives in Pacific Palisades…

  WHAT?! That’s so close to RB. I’ve been hiking up there like a million times. With Thomas. Fuck.

  … and is married to a Christian Evangelist preacher, one of those guys with their own TV channel.

  Fuck. I guess you have a type, right?

  She’s had three more children with him, two girls and a boy. The eldest, one of the girls, is a few years younger than you. That’s all I know about them.

  I imagined it would all go like clockwork. I’d bring you to California where I could arrange a mother–son reunion, hand you over and be on my way. As you’re well aware, that’s not how it worked out. But Sonny, I promise, I really tried.

  You may remember, or more likely not, that when we first arrived in LA we stayed in a motel in Santa Monica and I hired an agency babysitter to take you down to the beach to play for a few hours every day. That was so I could spend time trying to contact your mother. I won’t bore you with the details but eventually I went up to her home. They live in one of those fortress-like villas up in the hills there, all bougainvillea, razor wire and ocean views. We’ve actually walked past it a number of times to go hiking and each time I’ve fantasised about your mother seeing us, relenting, and taking you in.

  Anyway, the day I went to the house, I rang the buzzer at the gate and asked to speak to her. As soon as I told her why I was there she cut me off and I stood there waiting, imagining her rushing out of the house in a state of excitement to come and let me in personally. After ten minutes, I buzzed again and was told your mother wasn’t available. I had to say I would pitch a tent outside the gate and buzz every three minutes of every day before she would speak to me again. Finally she came out to the gate, but it wasn’t good news, Sonny, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. She told me that she’d never told anyone about you, not her husband and definitely not her other children, your half-siblings. As far as she was concerned your father was evil personified and your soul was contaminated. In short, she wanted nothing to do with you, and no amount of reasoning could change her mind.

  Fuck you, bitch. Contaminated?!

  I rented the house in Redondo so we would be close, or close enough, that if she relented we could be at her door before she had time to change her mind. I wrote her a letter giving her our address, and repeated that there was no pressure, that she could meet you without you knowing who she was, convinced that once she met you all her religious prejudices would crumble. I said that if we moved on I’d be sure to tell her where we were going. All I got by way of reply, a few weeks later, was the handful of photographs I’ve since passed on to you, no note or anything. And that was the last I heard from her until she forwarded the letter about your inheritance.

  Sonny, here is her address. Yours to do wh
at you want with. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner.

  I change my mind about staying in London. I’m up for a fight, and the only person I have access to that I have ammunition against is Marsha Ray. I’m not proud of the impulse, but when my train arrives at Euston I get straight on the tube to Victoria and take the next train to Hove.

  Listen to Your Heart, Right? #2

  I don’t call, I just show up. She’s delighted to see me, and I’m kind of delighted to see her too, now I’m seeing her in a whole different light. Obviously it’s twisted to find it funny that someone you don’t like killed your dad, so let’s just say I am appreciative of the irony. It’s like everything he ever said about Karma packaged up in a neat metaphor.

  I wouldn’t say I have a long game in mind, but I’m definitely not about to come straight out with it. I even get into chit-chatting a little, while she makes us tea. She’s overjoyed I went to Keswick, practically misty-eyed, like it’s her spiritual home or some shit and that my going there was a pilgrimage to the founding seat of our relationship.

  She suggests we go sit out on the verandah, and as we walk through her garden I have a sudden realisation about Marsha Ray, which for a fleeting moment makes me sad. If I could have met Marsha Ray’s garden before I met her, or, better still, instead of meeting her, I think I might have formed a whole different opinion. There’s no doubt that, when it comes to knowing which flowers to put where, she is an artist. I think even Thomas would have liked her if he’d seen her garden. Some people are best appreciated through their art, through what they produce. Everyone has a redeeming feature, right? Hers kind of takes the zip out of my excitement about telling her she killed my dad.

  I tell her I need to know exactly what went down in Brazil, and for once she drops the performance and gives me what I need.

  ‘We took a taxi from Recife airport to one of those big tourist hotels at the beach. It was either still being built or half-falling down, I couldn’t tell. I was so exhausted. Robin had told Thomas at Manchester airport to pretend he didn’t know us until we got to Recife. I had to carry you everywhere. You’d been asleep since Thomas brought you to the lake house, so I assumed that junkie had given you something to knock you out and was really cross that no one had asked my advice.

  ‘The next thing I knew, I was being bounced up and down in my bed. I opened my eyes and squinted at this pale shape that was you jumping up and down next to me, reciting in your funny little voice that also jumped up and down as you bounced: Way-cup-a-mungry, way-cup-a-mungry. Like one of Robin’s mantras. I’d been told you were called Little Man so I said, “Little Man, please stop jumping.” And you said, in your sweet little Scottish accent, “You’re not my mother.” I sat up then and you stopped jumping and we peered at each other in the gloom. The curtains were shut but they were glowing orange so I knew the sun was up. It hadn’t occurred to me that you would have an accent. It did occur to me that your father wouldn’t like it, especially as Andrew was Scottish. “No,” I said, “I’m not your mother, but I’m a very good friend of your father, and I used to be friends with your mother before she went to live in Scotland.” I’ll never forget what you said next. “Do you know my sperm father or my Andrew father?” That did make me laugh. Like all bright children you didn’t wait for an answer but kept firing more questions. “What’s my mother’s name, then?” “Suki,” I said. And you said, “That’s wrong. You don’t know her. You’re a liar. She’s called Sarah.” I didn’t know she’d changed her name. “Suki was her special name,” I said, guessing what had happened. I’m a quick-thinker like that. “You ask her next time you see her. How long have you been awake?” ’

  Just as I’m warming to her she goes and fakes a Scottish accent.

  ‘“All the time. I’m hungry. Are we on holiday? Why’s there a swimming pool? What’s your name? Marsha? That’s the same as my granny’s name. I can’t have two Granny Marshas.” You started bouncing again, so I suggested you jump over to the other bed so that I could get up and dressed and take you to find some breakfast. I had no idea what the time was, but if a child’s been asleep and then woken up, the meal should always be breakfast.

  ‘“Then can we go to the swimming pool? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez?” You put your little hands together as if to pray, with a funny little smile on your face, then you bowed and my heart melted. I had to laugh. You inherited your father’s charm all right. I didn’t know yet what Robin had planned for us so I told you to wait and see what he had to say. You perked right up then. “Is my father here? My sperm father? The bad man said I would meet my sperm father.”

  ‘It wasn’t even six a.m., they didn’t start serving breakfast until seven, so we went and sat by the pool and naturally you wanted to go in the water and had stripped down to your underpants and jumped in before I could stop you. You were a remarkable swimmer for your age; you said Andrew had taught you when you were a babby, and you could dive before you could stand on your own two feet.’

  Do I still like to swim? It was my favourite thing to do when I was fucked-up. I haven’t done it in a while.

  ‘We ate breakfast out there by the pool. You mixed four different cereals together in one bowl and ate them dry because there was no soya milk. I wrapped you up in a towel so you didn’t have to put your dirty clothes back on and we went up to our room.

  ‘You were sitting watching TV when Robin poked his head round our door. You were engrossed in a cartoon, not bothered at all that it was in a strange language. Robin stepped back so you couldn’t see him and put his finger to his lips. He was obviously furious about something and I assumed Thomas had upset him, but that wasn’t it. “You allowed the boy to swim without my permission,” he whispered. “Don’t do that again.” I supposed he had seen us from his window. To get him off the subject I asked him for your bag so I could dress you in clean clothes. He handed me a bundle of notes. “The boy’s mother gave us nothing. Take him out and buy him new clothes. And some dye to lighten his hair. Get enough for both of us.” “There’s no need to dye it,” I said, “it’ll soon lighten up in the sunshine.” Your hair was dark as it is now, and I knew it’d only go yellow or orange if we bleached it. ‘“Get the dye,” he said. “He looks too much like her. And from now on you are his mother and he is to call you by that name, so make sure you tell him.” I protested at that, but he was adamant. “Any woman can be mother to any child,” he said. “He’ll soon forget her.” Well I knew that to be true, so I stopped arguing.

  ‘We stayed one more night at that hotel then went by taxi to Olinda. I was delighted to hear that Thomas had been sent on ahead to the commune. He gave me the creeps, always being around and me always having to speak to your father through him. I hoped it would be more like the old days with him gone. I hoped we’d seen the last of him. Robin had rented a beautiful deep pink house halfway up a steep, narrow cobbled street, with an incredible view from the back garden all the way to Recife. Olinda was lovely, with its colourful houses and music playing everywhere, but unfortunately you had nowhere to swim because the reef there attracted sharks.

  ‘The first thing you said when we arrived was, “Is Andrew and Mummy here?” and Robin flashed me such a look, as if it was my fault you were missing your mother, but I knew he only wanted you to be happy. To be honest, I was surprised we didn’t hear from her, but your father said she’d given you up for good. I didn’t know how she could have given you up, poor little mite.

  ‘I had terrible trouble adjusting to the heat over there, and the humidity was unbearable. But you were extremely well behaved, polite towards your father and me. You made for a funny picture, the two of you, both with your bright yellow hair and your father in his pink outfits. I’d accidentally dyed all his whites pink by washing them with the new red underpants I’d bought him in Recife. He was so gracious about it, said he actually preferred them pink.

  ‘We had a live-in maid, who came with the house. I don’t remember her name –’

  The reason she doe
sn’t remember Maria’s name now is because she didn’t take the trouble to learn it then, even though it was Maria’s home we were living in.

  ‘– an overweight black girl who dressed every day in the same tight black cycling shorts and horrible, tight fluorescent vests with sequins spattered across her enormous breasts. I have a photograph upstairs of the two of you together.’

  ‘Really?’ Finally, a photograph I actually want to see.

  She ‘nips to the loo’ and returns with photos, which she instructs me to hold by the corners so the chemicals in my fingers don’t damage the picture or some shit like that. She passes me the first one and says it’s not for me to keep. I’m only interested in the photo of Maria, but she insists on handing them to me one at a time.

  Me and my dad at Quilombo Novo. I almost don’t recognise him, he’s so hunched over. But he’s wearing his pinks so it can only be him. I’m not exactly healthy-looking either. I guess I’m seven or eight, weird-looking and skinny. It’s not so much a photo of us together as a photo of us standing next to each other. The photograph is of him; I just happen to be there. I’m happy to give it back.

  The next one, the one I want, she says I can keep. Five-year-old Sonny. My hair is daffodil yellow, and I’m wearing a white dress shirt and long pants and sitting side by side on a step under a palm with a short stocky teenager. Maria! One of her spread thighs is wider than my entire body. All the more to love. Her beautiful young face is just all smile. She’s wearing a tight tank the exact same yellow as my hair. We are turned to face one another, each holding up a green coconut shell, bigger than my head, raised in a toast to our mutual affection. And I instantly recall how much it hurt to leave her.

  Never mind what Thomas did, my dad and Marsha Ray were the real kidnappers. Or at least Marsha Ray was my dad’s enabler. To take me away from Andrew and from you. And then from Maria. Anyone who loved me had to go. All to make him feel better about himself.