Although she had explained to me, quite clearly, that the orchestra would need more of her time this term, I hadn’t imagined her absence would be so wide. She had won the prestigious position of soloist for a performance by one the university orchestras. The piece was Sibelius’s Violin Concerto in D Minor; it has a metallic, alien sound, an emotional slipknot at the throat. The emotion of it is so unlike Jess that, the first time she played the CD to me, I could not imagine that she could channel it. At times, the mood is almost cheerful, even romantic, and then within moments it becomes frantic again, broken-hearted, filled with despair. It is a manic-depressive episode in half-hour miniature. Sometimes I sat in the conservatory, trying to work as she played, but it often became unbearable as she repeated the same musical phrase twenty or thirty or forty times, searching for an intonation that pleased her. She claimed not to mind — or even notice — whether I was there or not, and so I frequently left her to play alone.
On occasion Randolph, another violinist, would come to practise with her. His face was red and bull-like, his demeanour unsettlingly aggressive. He listened to Jess with a frown, and corrected her, his hand on her shoulder blades as she played, his fingers dancing with hers on the neck of the instrument. He greeted me curtly and took, without invitation, to calling me ‘Jim’.
With Jess’s own academic work still pressing, she was often out of the house until 11 p.m. or midnight, waking up at 6 a.m. to begin practice again. She reserved Sunday afternoons and evenings to spend with me, but I could not help feeling that I had been scheduled like a visit to the dentist or some weekly chore. Still, I told myself, it would not last long.
‘The problem,’ said Mark, ‘your problem, is that you don’t understand about love.’
We were quite drunk. There had been a number of us in the Old Fire Station bar, several of Mark’s friends and Simon and some of his OUSU cronies, and we had drunk quite a large amount and quite a quantity of it had been champagne, for no other reason, Mark said, than that it was Wednesday.
I stared at Mark. He, perhaps, was not quite as drunk as I. ‘Whajoo mean?’
‘The nature,’ he said, rolling his glass in his hand, ‘the nature of love. You don’t understand it. Not at all. You don’t understand it at all.’
‘Me?!’ I said. ‘I’m the one wither girlfriend.’
‘Yes,’ said Mark, ‘but you’re not a Christian, thass your trouble. You don’t understand that love is sacrifice.’
I thought on this, a little confusedly.
‘I thought love was supposed to be fun,’ I said, ‘fun fun fun. Like in pop songs.’
Mark shook his head violently but then stopped, looking queasy.
‘Nonono. Sacrifice. Don’t you understand?’ He spoke very earnestly. ‘Sorry, sorry, I know I go on about it too much, I know I do, but Jesus …’ He sang a few bars. ‘ “Little children all should be, kind obedient good as he.” Point is … point is … The Imitation of Christ. Loving selflessly. Not putting yourself first, not asking for anything, only looking what you can do for them.’
I thought about this, turning it over.
‘But then what d’you get out of it?’
He smiled. ‘Satisfaction. Alllllso, they should be sacrificing themselves for you. So it all works out! But most important, think of them not of you.’
‘S’that why you never date then, Mark? All that sacrifice too much for you?’
He stared at me, his eyes defocusing, then, snapping his head up sharply, he said clearly, so clearly that I would have half believed he was stone-cold sober, ‘Who do you think pays for everything, James? The house, the food, the parties? Who’s paying for the drink this evening? Believe me, I understand about doing things for other people.’ His head lolled forward again and his speech was slurred. ‘Sacrifice. Thass what I’m talking about.’
I knew that he was drunk and I was drunk, but I was stung. I had been spending more time with Mark over the past few weeks, while Jess was so busy. And it was true that he had paid my way in bars and restaurants more often than I had. But he was always insistent that I shouldn’t concern myself with such trifles, that he could well afford it, that he would barely feel the cost. I did not like to have this thrown in my face now.
‘Fine,’ I said, scarcely thinking of what I was doing. ‘Barmaid!’
A bored-looking woman slouched over to our table.
‘I’d like the bill, please,’ I said, ‘for the whole table. I’ll pay it.’
‘No,’ said Mark, ‘no, no. Thass not what I … I didn’t …’
‘It’s fine,’ I said to Mark, ‘my treat. Sacrifice.’
There had been ten of us at the table, until Simon and his friends had gone to a Student Union party. We had drunk a great deal. The woman returned with the bill. The figure on it seemed to have a decimal point one place further to the right than I had expected, but nonetheless I pulled from my wallet the credit card my parents had given me ‘for textbooks and emergencies’.
‘Put it on that,’ I said.
I began to feel queasy before we left the bar, with a thumping, throbbing sensation in my arms and legs. We were on Little Clarendon Street, working our way up towards Jericho, when the roiling in my stomach became too much to bear. I think it was the sight of the George & Davis’ ice-cream café and unavoidable thoughts of rich, thick, sugary, buttery fat that finally convinced my complaining gut to offload its cargo. I vomited, long draughts of alcoholic liquid, my head pounding, stumbled and ended up kneeling in my own beery effluvia. I had hit the ground hard going down and a bloom of pain burst in my fragile knee. I vomited again.
Mark supported me the rest of the way home, arm around my waist, my arm around his neck. I felt exhausted, unwell, needing a bath and a sleep. We stumbled into the kitchen to get water and there was Jess. She was drinking a mug of the camomile tea she liked so much, listening to Fox FM playing quietly, reading a textbook, one knee pulled up, foot resting on the edge of the chair. Her nose wrinkled as we crashed through the kitchen door. I remember I was giggling. The room distorted and Jess was staring at me with unconcealed revulsion.
‘Whassamatter?’ I said. ‘Whassamatter? We’re jus’ getting some water.’
She smiled a little, and I remembered how much I loved her. Like apple daisies, like moonshine calves, like waterfall rainboxes and blue-crystal electricity spaceships.
‘Nothing’s the matter. I’m tired, that’s all.’
I tried to communicate the love, how I loved her smile, like it was the battery that kept my heart beating, and how her little brown ponytail and her tipped-up nose made me want to grab her and bend her over the table and fuck her like crazy because of all the love for every part of her sweet and beautiful body, but all I managed to say was, ‘I love yooooooou.’
‘I love you too. But please have a shower before you come to bed, OK?’
‘Ohhhh, Jess,’ I said, and tried to nuzzle my face against hers, ‘I love you, love you, love you.’
She thrust a protesting hand at me and I grabbed it and pulled her up.
‘Come and dance with me, lovely Jess, sweet Jess, I’m a mess, full of stress, but you’re the best, yeah I confess, I … ummm …’ I ran out of rhyme, but pulled her into a dancing embrace, in time to the soft music from the radio.
She tried to move away, still laughing a little.
‘I confess,’ she said, ‘I like you less, when your excess has placed a stress on your finesse.’