I touch my nose. Christmas-tree accident, I say.
Christmas tree? Chad says. Jolyon, it’s May.
I can’t think what to say, how to avoid mention of Dee. There is a great tranquil presence about this older Chad, an aura that makes me nervous. I blurt out the first thing I can think of. Great weather, I say. No humidity yet.
Chad only nods with a trace of bemusement.
I thought about making you one of those name signs, I say, feeling myself beginning to blush. And why did I say this? It’s not even true.
Hey, you should have done, Chad says, with a genial laugh. A sign with my name, that would have been great, I’ve never had one of those.
But you wouldn’t have seen it, I say.
No, he says, I guess that’s true.
I try my best to listen for clues, to feel for invisible currents. I used to be good at this but I can tell nothing more about Chad than what lies on the surface. Good-looking and happy, at peace with himself.
Chad puts his hand on my shoulder. It truly is good to see you, Jolyon, he says.
His touch makes me flinch inside. I should go, I say.
Go? Chad says. But you only just got here. Jolyon, I asked you to meet me at the airport because I thought we might catch up. At least share a cab with me, that’ll give us an hour to chat. I’ll drop you off at your place on the way to my hotel.
I flinch when Chad talks about my place. It reminds me that he has found me here, has hunted me down like a fugitive from justice. I really think I should take the subway, I say.
I’m paying, Chad says.
I just bought a Metrocard, I say, quickly blushing again.
Sure then, Chad says. We can play this any way you want to, Jolyon. Chad looks muscular and tanned, he doesn’t even look tired after his flight. We really do need to talk though, he says. Can I come to your apartment tomorrow? What time’s good for you?
Any time, I reply, I don’t think my schedule’s especially hectic tomorrow.
Good, Chad says, see you tomorrow then. He shakes my hand firmly again. But then, as Chad is about to leave, he turns back and says, Oh, I nearly forgot, I have a present for you, Jolyon. I mean, it’s dumb really. He reaches into his suitcase and hands me a small gift in silver wrapping. But don’t open it here, he says, you’ll embarrass me.
I am shaking the gift next to my ear, feeling its weight.
Come on, I’m like beetroot over here, Chad says. But this isn’t true. He swipes paw-like at the air. It’s really great to see you, Jolyon, he says. And then as Chad walks away, not looking back, he raises an arm as high as it can stretch. He points at the sky with his forefinger, waves a loose farewell. When he lowers the arm he is lost in the crowd.
LXI(iii) I open the present while I ride the Air Train to Howard Beach. Inside I find, folded up so that it is no bigger than a deck of playing cards, a small tablecloth. It is round and white, made of delicate lace. Also there is a box. I remove the lid and peer inside. The box is lined, foam rubber with two cut-out holes that nestle two eggs. Chad has carried with him, more than three thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean, a tablecloth and two hard-boiled eggs.
I think about the gift for some time and how genial Chad seemed in the airport. And I wonder if I am mistaken about the purpose of his visit. Perhaps he wants everything to be finished between us, a renewal of friendship, remembrance of happier days.
Two eggs. Old friends. So much potential.
LXII
LXII(i) Jolyon’s diary extracts counted out his days for him like a prisoner’s scratches, the marking of time on the cell wall. No. 3, no. 4, no. 5, no. 6, no. 7 . . .
And then he could take no more, he kept his eyes low in the bathroom, ignored his final humiliations written up there in his own words.
Saturday arrived, the Game’s hiatus would be over the next day. Again they had pushed a note beneath his door to inform him.
Jolyon lay on his bed looking up through his window all day. The darkness was falling into his room. And that’s when a new sensation suddenly flooded his chest, a feeling that broke over him even before the words. He whispered it out loud, the words turning a feeling into truth. ‘I can quit,’ he said. ‘In the morning, I’m going to quit.’
Jolyon jumped off his bed, he should write it all down immediately, his formal resignation from the Game. To have such a letter waiting on his desk would be a release from everything. Maybe he wouldn’t need the pills any more. Game Soc would return his deposit and he would give the thousand pounds to Mark right away. The solution was simple. Everything would be over in only a day or two.
He wrote the letter hurriedly, offering congratulations to his opponents. He was leaving without any grudges and wished them the best of luck. And when Jolyon finished and read the whole thing over, he started to laugh. He laughed at the silly lines he had strung together from all those silly letters looped into even more ridiculous words. Words like sincerest, wholehearted and aforementioned. The pomposity was hilarious. And then he realised, while reading the letter, that his fingers were playing with something they had idly picked up from the desk, turning the small thing over and over.
Jolyon looked down and there it was, his tooth. He placed it in front of him on the desk. ‘The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth,’ thought Jolyon, everything now so amusing. His lucky charm stood there, casually leaning on the tips of three of its roots, and suddenly he began to hear a voice. He could almost see the regimental tie. ‘Have you noticed, old chap, how the dentist always arranges the most painful procedures to take place at two thirty? Ha, tooth hurty, every time.’ Jolyon smiled at this joke – yes, he had noticed the same thing. And then the tooth spoke again, but this time in a deep and serious voice. ‘Remember, old chap,’ it said to Jolyon, ‘you can’t be beaten. There’s nothing they can do to you. Nothing at all.’
Jolyon blinked and looked around the room. He felt disorientated, as if he had just awoken from a dream. He stared hard at the letter as two choices jostled inside him. A minute later, he picked up the letter and started to tear it to pieces.
When he was done he took one of the strips of paper, rolled it into a ball and popped it into his mouth. Jolyon chewed until the ball became a soggy pellet which he manoeuvred with his tongue to plug the gap where his tooth had been. He piled the remaining strips of paper into an ashtray and set them alight.
When the letter was nothing but ashes, Jolyon got up from his desk and moved to the spot on the wall that roared in the night-time. And he started to tap with his head there, gently and rhythmically at first. Then harder and harder and harder. And was it the sound of his head, the beat of a song? Or maybe someone was knocking on . . . Yes, someone was knocking on his door.
Jolyon staggered across the room. He had to lean against the wall to keep himself upright as he opened the door just a crack, just enough to see her standing in his hallway.
LXII(ii) He had not seen Emilia for two months. Not since Dee had come into the room and spoken their names, two loud exclamations. ‘Jolyon! Emilia!’
Dee had run from the room. And Emilia, her eyes brimming with her wounds, would have run from the room too were it not for her leg in its cast.
LXII(iii) His head didn’t hurt. It must have been the new pills. Emilia was flickering in the half-light of the corridor. Jolyon shook his head and managed to steady the picture. ‘Emilia,’ he said, sounding delighted to see her.