Now Mother opened the door — not so wide that she could see us, or us her — and announced that she was going to bed.
‘Good night,’ I called.
Dad was right about kids. But what could I do about it? I had bought an old factory at my own expense and had converted it into a theatre studio, a place where young people could work with established artists. I spent so much time in this building that I had moved my office there. It was where I would head when I left here, to sit in the café, seeing who would turn up and what they wanted from me, if anything. I was gradually divesting myself, as I aged, of all I’d accumulated. One of Father’s favourite works was Tolstoy’s ‘How Much Land Does a Man Need?’
I said, ‘With or without children, you are still a man. There are things you want that children cannot provide.’
He said, ‘We all, in this street, are devoted to hobbies.’
‘The women, too?’
‘They sew, or whatever. There’s never an idle moment. My son has written a beautiful essay on the use of time.’
He sipped his tea; the Beethoven, which was on repeat, boomed away. He seemed content to let me work on his legs. Since he didn’t want me to stop, I asked him to lie on the floor. With characteristic eagerness, he removed his dressing gown and then his pyjama top; I massaged every part of him, murmuring ‘Dad, Dad’ under my breath. When at last he stood up, I was ready with his warm dressing gown, which I had placed on the radiator.
*
It was late, but not too late to leave. It was never too late to leave the suburbs, but Dad invited me to stay. I agreed, though it hadn’t occurred to me that he would suggest I sleep in my old room, in my bed.
He accompanied me upstairs and in I went, stepping over record sleeves, magazines, clothes, books. My piano I was most glad to see. I can still play a little, but my passion was writing the songs that were scrawled in notebooks on top of the piano. Not that I would be able to look at them. When I began to work in the theatre, I didn’t show my songs to anyone, and eventually I came to believe they were a waste of time.
Standing there shivering, I had to tell myself the truth: my secret wasn’t that I hadn’t propagated but that I’d wanted to be an artist, not just a producer. If I chose, I could blame my parents for this: they had seen themselves as spectators, in the background of life. But I was the one who’d lacked the guts — to fail, to succeed, to engage with the whole undignified, insane attempt at originality. I had only ever been a handmaiden, first to Dad and then to others — the artists I’d supported — and how could I have imagined that that would be sufficient?
My bed was narrow. Through the thin wall, I could hear my father snoring; I knew whenever he turned over in bed. It was true that I had never heard them making love. Somehow, between them, they had transformed the notion of physical love into a ridiculous idea. Why would people want to do something so awkward with their limbs?
I couldn’t hear Mother. She didn’t snore, but she could sigh for England. I got up and went to the top of the stairs. By the kitchen light I could see her in her dressing gown, stockings around her ankles, trudging along the hall and into each room, wringing her hands as she went, muttering back to the ghosts clamouring within her skull.
She stood still to scratch and tear at her exploded arms. During the day, she kept them covered because of her ‘eczema’. Now I watched while flakes of skin fell onto the carpet, as though she were converting herself into dust. She dispersed the shreds of her body with her delicately pointed dancer’s foot.
As a child — even as a young man — I would never have approached Mother in this state. She had always made it clear that the uproar and demands of two boys were too much for her. Naturally, she couldn’t wish for us to die, so she died herself, inside.
One time, my therapist asked whether Dad and I were able to be silent together. More relevant, I should have said, was whether Mother and I could be together without my chattering on about whatever occurred to me, in order to distract her from herself. Now I made up my mind and walked down the stairs, watching her all the while. She was like difficult music, and you wouldn’t want to get too close. But, as with such music, I wouldn’t advise trying to make it out — you have to sit with it, wait for it to address you.
I was standing beside her, and with her head down she looked at me sideways.
‘I’ll make you some tea,’ I said, and she even nodded.
Before, during one of her late-night wanderings, she had found me masturbating in front of some late-night TV programme. It must have been some boy group, or Bowie. ‘I know what you are,’ she said. She was not disapproving. She was just a lost ally.
I made a cup of lemon tea and gave it to her. As she stood sipping it, I took up a position beside her, my head bent also, attempting to see — as she appeared to vibrate with inner electricity — what she saw and felt. It was clear that there was no chance of my ever being able to cure her. I could only become less afraid of her madness.
In his bed, Father was still snoring. He wouldn’t have liked me to be with her. He had taken her sons for himself, charmed them away, and he wasn’t a sharer.
She was almost through with the tea and getting impatient. Wandering, muttering, scratching: she had important work to do and time was passing. I couldn’t detain her any more.
I slept in her chair in the front room.
When I got up, my parents were having breakfast. My father was back in his suit and my mother was in the uniform she wore to work in the supermarket. I dressed rapidly in order to join Dad as he walked to the station. It had stopped raining.
I asked him about his day, but couldn’t stop thinking about mine. I was living, as my therapist enjoyed reminding me, under the aegis of the clock. I wanted to go to the studio and talk; I wanted to eat well and make love well, go to a show and then dance, and make love again. I could not be the same as them.
At the station in London, Father and I parted. I said I’d always look out for him when I was in the area, but couldn’t be sure when I’d be coming his way again.
Weddings and Beheadings
I have gathered the equipment together and now I am waiting for them to arrive. They will not be long; they never are.
You don’t know me personally. My existence has never crossed your mind. But I would bet you’ve seen my work: it has been broadcast everywhere, on most of the news channels worldwide. Or at least parts of it have. You could find it on the net, right now, if you really wanted to. If you could bear to look.
Not that you’d notice my style, my artistic signature or anything like that.
I film beheadings, which are common in this war-broken city, my childhood home.
It was never my ambition, as a young man who loved cinema, to film such things. Nor was it my wish to do weddings either, though there are less of those these days. Ditto graduations and parties. My friends and I have always wanted to make real films, with living actors and dialogue and jokes and music, as we began to as students. Nothing like that is possible here.
Every day we are ageing, we feel shabby, the stories are there, waiting to be told, we’re artists. But this stuff, the death work, it has taken over.
Naturally we didn’t seek out this kind of employment. We were ‘recommended’ and we can’t not do it; we can’t say we’re visiting relatives or working in the cutting room. They call us up with little notice at odd hours, usually at night, and minutes later they are outside with their guns. They put us in the car and cover our heads. Because there’s only one of us working at a time, the thugs help with carrying the gear. But we have to do the sound as well as the picture, and load the camera and work out how to light the scene. I’ve asked to use an assistant, but they only offer their rough accomplices and they know nothing, they can’t even wipe a lens without making a mess of it.