I did not give the question more thought, but now, a day later, at home, that letter makes me angry. No, it makes me furious, I am pressing down hard on my pen in my fury. Donovan! He was supposed to be my referee! Was that all he could come up with, this mealy-mouthed reference? What was all this about ‘my recollection’ and ‘I can recall’? Was I no more than a feat of memory? Did I amount to nothing further than the contents of one of his precious engrams? I am made of flesh and blood! He knew that! He knew that I existed independently of his recollection of me! So why, then, did he not simply and unequivocally affirm my qualities — James Jones is a capable young man, James Jones will be an asset to your firm?
I deserved better. I am not saying that the man should have lionized me, but I was due an accolade, a proper pat on the back. That he failed to do this, to do his duty by me, is a black mark against his name. You may say, Well, he’s an important man, he has a hundred and one things to do every minute of the day, he cannot be blamed for falling short on matters of detail. Tell that one to the marines. If he was a genius, a man of history, then I might buy that — but Donovan, it has transpired, is nothing of the sort.
Yes, if Supranational Law had appeared as planned, I would not have minded how Donovan treated me. It would not have mattered, my association with him, even if painful, would have been worthwhile. I could have said, Those footsteps on my back are where history went striding by, those bootprints on my neck are the treadmarks of progress. But I cannot say that. All I can say is, I’ve been walked all over. I’ve been trampled on. And betrayed, too. I know this is a strong word, betrayed, but am I not right to use it? I was banking on Donovan. If he came good, I came good. Whatever he went on to I went on to also, in my own way. My road ran on to his road.
But Donovan’s road has gone nowhere. Donovan’s road is a dead-end. He has not come good, he has gone bad. All he has ended up as is an overworked divorcee. A socially inadequate, self-centred man who has nothing to say for himself, a man so one-dimensional that he is unable to write a love-letter to his wife without striking the stiff, ridiculous note of the lawyer.
(I pause there to note that I have just opened a bottle of Bulgarian wine, downed a glass in one mouthful, and refilled it to brimming.)
Something has occurred to me about one of those letters, about the last one, the incoherent, emotive one where Donovan begged Arabella to come back to him. Let us think for a minute about what was not said in that letter, let us home in on that scratched out, unfinished phrase Remember everything we have done together, remember when … Well, I have been visited by a moment of lucidity. It has come to me what that uncharacteristic little correction is all about. The answer arrived just now, as I put down my wine glass and picked up my pen. I felt it prickling its way up through my legs and down through my wrists: Donovan had quit on that phrase not because he felt that its sentiment would be out of place, or because something else had occurred to him, but because he simply could not remember anything he and Arabella had done together. That was it. He had no memories of himself with Arabella.
Yes, I think that I am right. I think that, for once, and at last, I have hit the nail on the head. Donovan had wanted to woo Arabella by reminding her of the good times they had had together, unforgettable magical moments and blissful dawns; but he had simply been unable to: he had not stored away any such times. When he had tried to dig up a few episodic souvenirs, a telling memento of his love for her, his mind had gone blank. For once that beautiful memory of his, that golden bin, had let him down.
It all makes sense: that is why he had not recognized me at that party and yet still was able, years later, to remember my name and the name of the firm I worked for. His mind was too crammed with words to accommodate the face of James Jones. James Jones and Batstone Buckley Williams, yes, that was no problem, he could slot those appellations in with all the other case-names, theories, laws, languages and other semantemes he had stashed away — but James Jones himself, the little guy with the bald head, chubby neck and wrinkly suits? The fellow who leaned towards kebabs, daydreams and late-night taxis? Sorry, full up. The same thing applied when he came to write my reference: once I had finished my pupillage, out came the mental eraser. He had rubbed me out of his life.
Donovan does not even know who I am!
Now I am beginning to see how Arabella must have felt. If she formed no significant part of Donovan’s memories, how could she be said to exist for him? She could not, is the answer. Donovan had reduced her to a thing of naught. Yes, and if I think about it, that is how Donovan has made me feel about myself. Like a zero, a nullity, because whatever I did for the man glanced off the surface. It was as though he was composed of bumper rubber — you bounced off him, nothing you could do could leave a dent. And if you cannot leave a dent somewhere, who is to say you are anywhere at all?
It is the middle of the night and rays are arriving in my room. A new day — and, it might be thought, the time to say, Enough. That is enough about Donovan. No more. The water has flowed under the bridge.
I agree. I too think that it is over between us, that it is time for a divorce. But although I am letting Donovan go, I am not going to let him off. No; he may think that everything is hunky-dory, but most assuredly I do not. There is one last matter to deal with before I acquit him: he has to face the charge that he, Michael Donovan, did ruin the life of James Jones. Yes, it is time that the action of Jones v. Donovan was commenced.
Members of the jury, I am the plaintiff in this matter. I am the one who has suffered loss and damage — look at me, look how I have ended up, writing furious nonsense in the middle of the night, my career in ruins, my favourite women alienated, myself in turmoil, my world flat and lustreless. Members of the jury, I will show that the cause of all this sits over there — Michael Donovan.
Donovan comes in at this point. I can see him getting to his feet to make, in his warm, inevitable voice, two points. Number one: my life was not ruined. In fact, I had suffered no lasting loss at all. My career was recoverable, as were my friends. The turmoil of the past months I would soon get over. Number two: there was a problem of liability. Even if my life was in ruins (which he denied), he, Donovan, was not to blame. My downfall was my own fault. The facts spoke for themselves: he came to me as a client and, unbeknown to him, this triggered off a whole set of ridiculous and destructive fantasies on my part, which fantasies had led me to my present position. The problem here was not Donovan, it was me. Donovan could not be blamed for the fact that, when he met me, I was full of dammed-up desires and memories. He could not be blamed for the neurotic symptoms I was displaying because this repressed material had suddenly been released. That was his case: why should he be responsible for my character deficiencies?
Here Donovan regains his seat, an amiable, confident look on his face. I say nothing to this, but I do allow a mysterious smile to play on my lips.
I call my first witness. He comes striding across the court, a good-looking, well-dressed man in his early thirties. I clear my throat and start to my examination-in-chief.