‘Well, there’s the thing with Iraq standing between you. And you could say you won’t be out of the woods until it’s cleared up.’
Her right hand was rubbing the third finger of her left hand, like a close-up in a movie. ‘I want us to get married before he ships out,’ she said, ‘but Leroy isn’t sure. He’s very superstitious and he says it’s like asking for something to happen and I’ll be the widow who gets the folded-up flag at the funeral. But if we don’t get married and it happens, then I’ll always think, at least we could have had that, at least I’d be his widow instead of just a grieving girlfriend.’
‘I’m superstitious too,’ I said. ‘I think if you get married it might keep him safe.’
Her face lit up. ‘I’ll tell him that,’ she said. ‘Thank you. My name’s Elizabeth.’
‘I’m Christabel.’ We shook hands. The captain announced that we were about to begin our descent. The sound of the engines changed and my ears popped. The sky was grey and so was the ocean.
Honolulu tilted into view with white buildings and soon the wheels touched the ground and we kept our seat belts fastened and the backs of our seats upright and so on until finally the captain thanked us for flying American and the time was now ten hours earlier than it was in London. ‘Are you here for business or pleasure?’ Elizabeth said to me as we left the plane.
‘Visiting a friend,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘Delivering ashes,’ she said, ‘to my grandparents. My mom and dad died on 9/11. They were born here and this is the first chance I’ve had to bring them home.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
She nodded a couple of times. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You have to move on.’
20 Elizabeth Barton
25 January 2003. That woman who sat next to me on the plane, Christabel, she was crying all right. I had a feeling about her, like that shudder you get when somebody walks over your grave. What she said about keeping Leroy safe by getting married, I wasn’t so sure about that. I didn’t think she knew anything about keeping anybody safe. When we were over the water I did ‘Eternal Father, Strong To Save’ like I always do, singing it in my head:
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who biddest the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!
I just do the first verse. I don’t think God needs the whole thing every time.
21 Elias Newman
28 January 2003. I dreamt about a dog we had when I was a boy. Bo, we called him, short for Boris. He was a cross between a German shepherd and a collie, and my father used to walk him twice a day. He was about as old as I was, very quiet and well-mannered except that when he was off the leash he chased cars. One finally hit him the year after my father died. My sisters nursed him devotedly; they didn’t want to lose my father’s dog but his injuries were too severe and he had to be put down. I hadn’t thought about him for the last fifty years or so but here he was in a dream. He was very old and stiff but he took the leash in his mouth and went to the door and looked back at me. ‘Bo!’ I said, ‘Poor old Bo!’ and woke up to a grey day with a cold wind blowing.
For a moment I didn’t know where I was but I felt that something was missing. Then it came back to me — Christabel was on her way to Hawaii for her remembrance day. Yet another mystery. There were always new unknowns with her. In an effort to get my mind off her I phoned Peter Diggs and arranged to meet him for lunch.
I did a morning clinic, then I went to meet Peter at The Daniel Mendoza off Long Acre. I’d first heard about it from a patient who was a betting man with a keen interest in all sporting events. He strongly regretted that boxing had become what he called a namby-pamby sport and claimed that he had several times seen the real (and illicit) bare-knuckle thing. Being Jewish he longed for a new Daniel Mendoza to rise like the golem and show the gentiles how it was done. The restaurant is a dark brown place with prints of Mendoza and other bare-knuckle boxers: Tom Cribb, Jem Belcher, Deaf Burke, Ben Caunt, Bendigo and so on. Also Pierce Egan and various of the Fancy. ‘Patronised by HRH the Prince of Wales 1792,’ said the wooden banner over the bar. A framed poster showed Mendoza coming up to scratch under the words, in large capitals, MENDOZA THE JEW, HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. There were several pen-and-ink portraits in which he looked more a poet than a bruiser. Although only five foot seven and a middleweight, he defeated much bigger men to become heavyweight champion and is credited with being the father of scientific boxing. He wore his hair long and curly, possibly with Samson in mind, but this proved his downfall in a bout with ‘Gentleman’ John Jackson who grabbed him by his hair and gave him a beating from which his status never recovered.
There was a clatter of cutlery and glassware and a clamour of high-cholesterol smells and conversation, much of the latter in Yiddish, with gestures. My people.
‘You come here often?’ said Peter.
‘From time to time when I need cheering up,’ I said, and I told him about the dream. ‘It was so vivid! I could even smell his old-dog smell, Bo looking up at me with a dried-up trickle from each eye — I keep wondering what it means.’
‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘are you an old dog wanting someone to take you walkies?’
‘All the time, but there was more to it than that.’
Peter looked at the ceiling, low and dark brown, with beams. ‘Of course, this may very well be Bo’s dream that you found yourself in.’
‘Bo is a dead dog,’ I said.
‘So? Who can say where dreams begin and end, and where they travel from and to?’
‘You’re strange,’ I said.
‘Everybody’s strange, only most people try to cover it up.’
A heavyweight waiter wearing a yarmulke arrived and we both ordered potato pancakes. ‘Latkes twice,’ he said, and wrote it down. ‘Anything to drink with that?’
‘What kind of beer have you got?’ said Peter.
‘Maccabee,’ said the waiter.
‘Haven’t heard of that one,’ said Peter.
‘You’re not Jewish, right?’
‘Right.’
‘The Maccabees killed a lot of goyim. So we have Maccabee beer.’
‘Bottled or draft?’
‘Bottled.’
‘But I can see beer pumps at the bar.’
‘Those are from a long time ago, never been taken out. Should I sit down and we’ll have a conversation or would you like to give me your beer decision?’
‘OK,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll have a Maccabee.’
‘Make it two,’ I said.
The waiter wrote down our order, frowned, shook his head, and withdrew.
‘I haven’t had this one before,’ I said.
‘Bare-knuckle waiting, would you call it?’ said Peter.
‘He’s a Jewish waiter,’ I said. ‘It’s a role that’s heavy with tradition and he’s doing it the traditional way. Where were we?’
‘Being strange.’
‘Right. You said that Bo was quiet and well-mannered but he chased cars, was hit by one and had to be put down. Did he have a death wish or what? Now he’s pulled you into his dream in which he’s old and you’re sixty-two and he wants to take you for a walk. Do you want to go with him?’
‘Peter, Bo’s dead, OK?’
‘Well, of course he’s dead — that’s not the sort of dream a live dog would have. Are you going to walk with him?’
‘If he dreams me again I’ll let you know what happens. What are you doing since your big success with “Death and the Maiden”?’