I could masturbate. Yep. I could pull down my jeans, my panties, stretch back in the armchair, smell myself, lick my fingertips. That drove Jonathan wild. He nibbled my knuckles. Please make yourself come, Beth, please please please. I love it when you come.
No, I couldn’t.
With the curse as well.
I could check my email. Out of the kitchen, left towards the main door, then right and I’m in the office. They won’t have a password on the PC. It’s not in the Dasgupta spirit. Or something like, BEHAPPY. User name: ALLBEINGS, password BEHAPPY. I cross the kitchen, go into the office, turn on the computer, check my mail. Servers are allowed occasional Internet access, if they ask permission, if they don’t visit the wrong sites. To keep in touch with their nearest and dearest, of course. I used to dream about it the first month at the Dasgupta. It was one of the hardest things to get out of my head. I open my mail and his name pops up. Scores of messages. Jon Jon Jon Jon. I want you back, Beth. I want to live with you. I want to paint you day in day out. Please. Forgive me for not believing about the coma. Forgive me, Beth. Come back, Beth. I need you, Beth.
There will be mails from Carl, mails from Zoë, mails from Mum, from Dad, from the producer, the manager. Where are you, Beth? Dear Elisabeth, where are you? Betsy, what’s become of you? You don’t have to do this.
Forgive me for not believing you, Jonathan has written. Just looking in your eyes that evening …
I got over these fantasies months ago.
Apparently not.
‘If there are thoughts, daydreams, unwelcome mental projections, gently return your attention to the breath, to the in-breath crossing the lip, the out-breath crossing the lip …’
You’re lucky you still have a breath.
Maybe Hervé will have written. Il ne faut pas te sentir coupable, chère Elisabeth. Ce n’est pas ta faute si nous sommes venus nous baigner avec toi.
Did Philippe die, Mi Nu?
Is an induced coma a form of embalming? Is he still there in the hospital bed?
‘They asked you to go in the sea, Beth, not you them.’
Carl was by my side, my bedside. I kept my eyes closed, texting beneath the sheets.
‘They’re only inducing the coma, Beth. It’s a controlled thing. He’ll recover. It’s not your fault. And thank God it’s not you.’
But I was planning to kill myself, Carl. No, I didn’t say the words. I couldn’t speak to him. And killing yourself is something you should do on your own. Not with two nice French boys. They would never have gone in the sea without me.
Not on a night like that.
They would never have gone with me if they knew I was planning to kill myself.
Carl sat by my bed for days. The perfect boyfriend. ‘Think about the child, Beth,’ he said. ‘For Christ’s sake. Think about us.’
I lost the child, Carl. Haven’t the doctors told you? I didn’t speak. I kept my eyes closed. I had a perfect boyfriend and I’d completely failed to love him. I tried, I couldn’t. I betrayed him. I cheated him. Every evening making love in the tent, I tried to be there, really to make love, I think I tried. I couldn’t. I couldn’t love. My only plan was escape. If he wouldn’t disappear, then I must. I must dissolve in thin air. Or walk into the sea.
Instead the child vanished.
I’M IN INTENSIVE CARE, I texted. THEY ARE GOING TO INDUCE A COMA. IF YOU LOVE ME, COME BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.
It’s not true I could check my email. I couldn’t. Maybe I’ll never look at email again.
What if the news were all good, though?
Beth, Philippe’s out of coma. He’s asking after you.
Beth, ‘Better Off On My Own’ is number one. Everyone’s looking for you. Everybody wants you. Where on earth have you buried yourself? We have bookings for every major festival. We have contracts for two new CDs. We have money for a house.
I’m sorry, Carl, that’s not what I want any more.
I’m sorry, Carl, I’m not me any more.
This is the wrong email address for me, Carl.
I’ve escaped, I’ve disappeared.
Dear Elisabeth, I’m afraid Dad’s cancer has come back. He’s very poorly. Whatever your reasons for disappearing, do please come now. It’s unkind not to.
There’s no way I can check my mail.
Why can’t the moths leave be? Can’t they feel they’re destroying their wings, scrabbling at the light, pressing their bodies where bodies can’t go?
The moths are a torture. I feel compassion for them.
My pen is pushing and scrabbling where I can never go. Pein. Nice word, Mr Diarist.
An hour ago I was just fine, reading his diary. I was enjoying his troubles.
A week ago I was fine, living the Dasgupta routine, accepting the Dasgupta rules.
I was fine washing rice and kichada beans.
Fine chopping celeriac.
Fine mashing potatoes with soya milk.
Fine spraying crap off dishes.
Writing, I push myself against a hard place, without getting anywhere, but without really suffering either.
Does that make sense?
Maybe I mean, without any chance of dying.
I stood up, went through the kitchen and switched on the lights. They hadn’t cleaned up very well. My throat was raw from the cigarettes. And I was getting sticky. There was a bowl of chopped cabbage that should have gone in the cold room. The tea-towel covering it was filthy. Vikram would go ballistic. I put on a clean tea-towel and moved it. Imagine getting locked in the cold room. You’re someone else’s leftovers, freezing to death.
I loaded a trolley and took plates and bowls and cutlery into the dining halls for breakfast. The female hall. The male hall. I turned all the lights on. I checked the cereals, the spreads, the milk, the marge, the butter, the honey, and replenished them. I could do these things in my sleep. I don’t need to make a decision to check if there’s soya and dairy, sesame seeds and ground nuts. I don’t need to be someone. The Rooibos has run out on the men’s side, the hummus on the women’s. If only there was more to do. If only I could serve and serve and serve. Serve and serve. Night after night. Day after day. A nobody. If I could wash someone’s clothes, polish someone’s shoes, cut someone’s hair, cook someone’s meal, iron someone’s shirts. Like Mum did for Dad, not loving, just serving. ‘Like hell I’ll iron your shirts,’ I told Carl. I couldn’t love him. I did try. Maybe I didn’t. What do words like ‘try’ mean around words like ‘love’? ‘I don’t do laundry,’ I told him. ‘I don’t do meals. I definitely don’t do ironing. When we’re famous we’ll live in a hotel. We’ll be waited on hand and foot.’ Why did I stay with a boy I didn’t love? That’s the weird thing. For years. Why did I treat him so badly? The pleasure of serving people at the Dasgupta is precisely that you don’t know them, like hotel guests. This person is not your father. He’s not Jonathan. He’s not Carl. Not a mother or a girlfriend or a sister. You expect nothing back. You don’t feel resentful. Their being nobody becomes your being nobody. Not knowing them you don’t know yourself. You’re a server serving. Serving mankind, serving yourself. Being nobody is serving yourself.