Us

  117. not a date

  It was not a date, of course. We were merely two travellers taking temporary comfort in each other’s company. But I realised, unwrapping a new shirt and combing my hair, that I had not eaten a meal with a woman other than my wife for perhaps twenty years. It was all very strange and I resolved to be extremely casual about the whole business, selecting in advance a small, unpretentious trattoria that I had noticed on my hike around the city; pleasant but functional and not too cluttered with red candles or gypsy violins.

  Freja, on the other hand, seemed to have gone to some effort. She was waiting in the lobby, subtly but effectively made up and wearing a rather snug skirt and the kind of off-white satin shirt that one might really only term a ‘blouse’. She looked fresh, healthy and tasteful, and yet I found myself instinctively wanting to do up an extra button, and I wondered if I might be the only man in the world to have dressed a woman with his eyes.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, pronouncing it ‘haaaiii,’ giving that difficult word a little Scandinavian twist to be more easily understood.

  ‘Good evening, Douglas.’

  ‘You look nice,’ I said, silken-tongued.

  ‘Thank you. I really do like those shoes. They’re very striking and bright!’

  ‘“Box-fresh” is the correct term, I believe.’

  ‘Have you been playing basketball?’

  ‘Actually, they were meant for walking, but they’ve attached themselves to my feet like some awful alien parasite and now they’re the only thing I can wear.’

  ‘I like them,’ she said, placing her hand lightly on my forearm. ‘You look very fly.’

  ‘My skateboard is parked outside.’ I took her arm and hobbled towards the door and out into the kind of warm, hazy evening which is sometimes labelled ‘sultry’.

  We headed east through the sestiere of Castello, the tip of the tail, walking the back streets and enjoying the feeling of belonging that the serious traveller enjoys when the day-trippers have returned to their coaches and cruise ships.

  ‘You don’t even need a map any more.’

  ‘No, I’m almost a local.’

  We emerged at the immense gates of the Arsenale, the walls crenellated like a toy fort. I’d read about this in the guidebook. ‘The great innovation of the Venetians was to mass-produce ships in kit form, standardising all the parts. It was here that the shipbuilders of Venice amazed Henry IV of France by building an entire galleon—’

  ‘—in the time it took him to eat his supper, and thus was the modern production line born,’ said Freja. ‘Except I think it was Henry III of France. We have the same guidebook.’

  ‘God, what an old bore I am,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all, I’m the same. I think it’s good to have a desire to educate. Perhaps it comes of having children. My husband, ex-husband and I, we used to drive our daughters to distraction, taking them to ruins and cemeteries and dusty old galleries. “Here is Ibsen’s grave, here is the Sistine Chapel … Look! Look! Look!” when all they really wanted to do was go to the beach and flirt with boys. Now they’re older they appreciate it, but at the time …’

  ‘That’s how we were meant to spend this summer. My wife and I were meant to be taking my son around all the great galleries of Europe.’

  ‘And instead?’

  ‘My son left a note and ran off with an accordionist. My wife is in England, thinking about leaving me.’

  Freja laughed. ‘I’m sorry, but that is a very bad holiday.’

  ‘It has been both fun and harrowing.’

  ‘What’s left to go wrong, I wonder?’

  ‘Are there sharks in this lagoon?’

  ‘I shouldn’t laugh. I’m sorry. No wonder you were so upset. I’ll try not to add to your woes tonight.’ Here she took my arm and at that precise moment, as if she had activated an alarm, my telephone rang.

  118. tangled web

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi there. Where are you?’

  ‘Oh, out walking, walking. As usual.’

  ‘No news, then.’

  ‘Not yet.’ To Freja I mouthed, Sorry, one minute, and indicated she should walk ahead. ‘But I’m closing in.’

  ‘What does that mean, closing in?’

  ‘It means I have a good lead. The net is tightening!’

  ‘You sound like a private detective.’

  ‘I’m wearing a mackintosh as we speak. I’m not.’

  ‘No. So – tell me, then.’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘You’ve heard from him? You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘But why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘Trust me, I have material proof that he’s fit and well.’

  ‘Well, should I fly out to you?’

  ‘No! No, I’ve told you, I’ll bring him back.’

  ‘Because it’s been five days now, and I’d really like to know, Douglas.’

  ‘I’d prefer to tell you when it’s definite.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘I think you should come home.’

  ‘I will when I’ve found him.’

  ‘Except you’re not really looking for him, are you?’

  I felt an irrational moment of panic, absurdly turning my back on Freja, who was waiting patiently at the next bridge. ‘I am! I’m out looking now.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. I mean you’re doing something else.’

  Should we turn left or right? mimed Freja.

  ‘I’m about to get something to eat. Can I call you back?’ I said, and mouthed one minute.

  ‘Oh. Okay. I’d hoped we could talk, but if you’re too busy …’

  ‘I’m sitting at a table, the food’s about to arrive. Not the food, the menu – the menu’s about to arrive.’

  ‘You said you were walking.’

  ‘I was, and now I’m sitting at a table. I hate talking on phones in restaurants, it’s very rude. The waiter’s glaring at me.’ With this last detail I had overreached myself, because I could hear Connie frowning.

  ‘Where are you exactly?’

  ‘I’m in Castello, by the Arsenale. I’m sitting outside and the waiter’s standing over me. I can send you a photo if you like.’

  There was a pause that seemed to last an age, a lowering of her voice. ‘I’m worried about you, Douglas. I think you might be—’

  ‘Got to go,’ I said and hung up. I’d never done this before, hung up on Connie. Then, to my amazement, I turned the phone off too, and limped quickly towards Freja.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. Connie, my wife.’

  ‘I thought, when the phone rang, you were going to leap into the canal.’

  ‘It startled me, that’s all. I need a drink. The restaurant’s just here.’ And we turned into a tiny campo. No carnival masks or postcards for sale here. Instead laundry hung between the buildings like celebratory bunting, televisions and radios played in first-floor rooms, and in the corner of the square was a small trattoria that, despite my best intentions, looked undeniably romantic.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it looks perfect.’

  119. daughters

  We were seated outside in adjacent chairs, facing the square. The restaurant had no menu and instead we were brought glasses of prosecco by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair, then small bowls of marinated squid and octopus and anchovies, sharp and oily and entirely delicious. As if to reassure each other of the platonic nature of the evening, Freja showed me pictures of her daughters on her telephone, two startlingly beautiful girls with very blue eyes, born a year apart, growing in montage form into straight-limbed, long-haired, white-teethed young women, the very embodiment of health and vigour, pictured against a varied background of windswept Atlantic beaches and Thai palm trees, the Sphinx, a glacier somewhere. With shrewd editing it might, I suppose, be possible to compile an upbeat slideshow of even the most grim and Dickensian of childhoods, but on the evidence of Freja’s
photo album her daughters had been particularly blessed. They seemed like the kind of healthy, wholesome family who’d be happy to share the same toothbrush. Of course she was far too nice a woman to gloat, but I couldn’t help but be aware that while Freja was usually pictured in the embrace of her photogenic offspring, I could not recall a single photo of my son and me. Perhaps when he was a small child, but in the last eight, ten years? Never mind, here was a photograph of Anastasia Kristensen, swimming with dolphins; here was Babette Kristensen, volunteering in an African village. Here was our pasta, and more wine.

  ‘Anastasia is a documentary-maker now. Babette is an environmentalist. I’m very proud of them, as you can probably tell. I have an almost limitless capacity to bore people about them. I’ll stop now before you slump forward into your linguine.’

  ‘Not at all. They seem like lovely girls,’ I said.

  ‘They are,’ she replied, returning the phone to her bag. ‘Of course when they were younger they could be little bitches …’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t say that even if it’s true – but goodness, we fought! Thankfully those things get easier with time. One more …’ She produced her phone again. ‘I debated whether or not to show you this, you’ll understand why …’

  And here was Babette, twenty years old, sitting naked in a hospital chair, a newborn baby girl the colour of an aubergine at her breast, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. ‘Yes, this year I actually became a grandmother. Can you believe it? I’m a mormor at fifty-two! Good God!’ She shook her head and reached for her glass.

  ‘Who is this here?’ To the left of the chair stood a lean, distinguished-looking man, a Roman senator, absurdly handsome despite the foolish grin and surgical frock.

  ‘That’s my ex-husband.’

  ‘He looks like a film star.’

  ‘And is all too well aware of the fact, I’m afraid.’

  ‘He has incredible eyes.’

  ‘My downfall.’

  ‘Wait – he was at the birth?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘He saw his grandchild … come out?’

  ‘Yes, yes, we both did.’

  ‘That’s very Scandinavian.’

  Freja laughed and I peered once again. ‘He really is a very handsome man.’

  ‘That’s where my daughters get their looks.’

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s entirely true,’ I said obligingly, and Freja nudged me with her elbow. ‘Are they friendly with their father?’

  ‘Of course, they adore him. I repeatedly instruct them not to, but they insist on worshipping him.’

  My son did not worship me, and that was fine. To be worshipped would have made me uncomfortable, likewise ‘adored’. But ‘friendly with’, I could have lived with that. ‘I always thought that daughters were more forgiving of their fathers,’ I said. ‘It always seems like an easier relationship than fathers and sons. I wonder why that is?’

  ‘I suppose it’s because you’re freed of the obligation of being a role model. Or at least the comparison is less direct. Whereas with a son …’

  ‘Perhaps. I’d never thought of that.’ Had Albie ever aspired to be like me? In what respect? If I thought long enough, perhaps I’d come up with something, but now Freja was pouring wine.

  ‘I feel the same about sons. I’d have loved a son. A handsome, rather old-fashioned boy who I could mould and dress up and then hate his girlfriends. Besides, you mustn’t idolise girls. If you had a daughter, that would bring its own problems too.’

  ‘I did have a daughter.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘My wife and I. Our first child was a girl, Jane, but she died.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon after she was born.’

  A moment passed. Over the years I’ve noted that some people, when told we lost our baby, seem almost angry, as if we’ve played a trick on them. Others try to shrug it off, as if it doesn’t really count, but thankfully this is rare. For the most part people are thoughtful and kind and when the situation arises, as it sometimes does, I have a facial expression I produce, a smile of sorts – Connie has one too – to reassure people that we are okay, and I produced it now.

  ‘Douglas, I’m very sorry.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. More than twenty years now.’ My daughter would have been twenty this year.

  ‘No, but still – it’s the worst thing that can happen to a couple.’

  ‘I didn’t raise it to be dramatic, but Connie and I, we have a policy of never avoiding the subject either. We don’t want it to be a secret, or something taboo. We want to be … straightforward about it.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Freja, but her eyes were reddening.

  ‘Please, Freja, I don’t want to spoil the evening …’ No, not twenty, nineteen years old – just. She’d be about to start her second year at university.

  ‘No, but still—’

  ‘I don’t want to cast a gloomy spell.’ Medicine, or architecture, I’d imagined. Or perhaps she’d be an actress, or an artist. I wouldn’t mind …

  ‘So your son …’

  ‘Albie is our only child, but our second child.’

  ‘And is that why you’re here? Because of your son?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s gone missing?’

  ‘He’s run away.’

  ‘And he is …?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Ah!’ She nodded, as if this explained everything. ‘Is he sensible?’

  I laughed. ‘Not always. Rarely, in fact.’

  ‘Well he is seventeen, why should he be?’

  ‘I was very sensible at seventeen.’

  Freja shook her head and laughed. ‘I was not. Are you particularly close?’

  ‘No. Quite the opposite. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Do you talk to each other?’

  ‘Not really. Do you? With your daughters?’

  ‘Of course. We talk about everything!’

  ‘With my son and I, it’s like a rather awkward chat show. Albie’s this surly young pop star who doesn’t want to be there. “So, how are things? What have you been up to? Any future plans?”’

  ‘But if you don’t talk to each other, that must be a worry.’

  ‘It is. It is.’

  ‘Perhaps we should change the subject. Except to say, I don’t mean to underdo – is that a word? Underrate, underestimate your concern, but if he has access to money and a phone for emergencies—’

  ‘He does—’

  ‘And he’s an adult, more or less. Why not just let him be?’

  ‘I promised my wife I’d find him.’

  ‘The wife you are separated from.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said defensively. ‘We’re not separated yet. We’re just not in the same city. We are … geographically separated.’

  ‘I see.’

  We sat quietly until our waiter had taken our plates away.

  ‘Also, we argued, my son and I. Things were said and I’d like to make amends. In person. Does that sound insane?’

  ‘Not at all. It sounds very noble. But if I had to apologise to my daughters for all the foolish things I’ve said to them, we would never talk about anything else. I think, as a parent, one has the right to make some mistakes, and to be forgiven for them. Don’t you agree?’

  120. daughter

  Certainly, I felt guilty about Jane. Irrationally so, of course, but then guilt is rarely rational. We were assured, over and over again, that there was nothing we could have done, that the sepsis that killed our daughter was not a result of behaviour or lifestyle, was not present in the womb. Although she was a little premature, there was every reason to believe that she was healthy and well at birth. Because anger was preferable to guilt, I had searched for blame; the prenatal care, the postnatal care, the staff. The word ‘sepsis’ suggested infection – was that someone’s fault? But it soon became clear that the staff were blameless – better than blameless, immaculate really
– in their handling of the situation. It was one of those things that happens, they told us; very rarely, but it happens. Which was fine, but what were we meant to do with all that anger, all that guilt? Connie directed hers inwards. Was it the fault of some past behaviour, smoking or drinking, was it complacency on her part? She must have done something. Surely there couldn’t be a punishment as harsh as this without some crime? No, we had done nothing wrong and there was nothing we could have done. It was one of those things that happens. That was all.

  There had been no sense of danger at the birth. That had all gone well, the experience traumatic but thrilling, too, both familiar and entirely new. Connie’s waters had broken in the night. At first neither of us could believe this – it was only the thirty-fourth week – but the sodden mattress was undeniable and we put our plan into action, driving to the hospital where we paced and waited, boredom alternating with elation and anxiety. The contractions began mid-morning and then things happened very quickly. Connie was as strong and ferocious as I knew she’d be, and by 11.58 a.m., Jane was with us, mewling and shouting, punching at the air with tiny fists, pedalling away, a shade over 4lbs but fierce; oh, she was a beauty, all the worry, anxiety and pain swept away by her perfection and the joy of it all. She was healthy and we could hold her as we’d hoped. There were photographs and private vows; I would do all I could to care for her and protect her from harm. Connie took her to her breast and though she didn’t feed at first, all seemed well. There’d be no need for an incubator, just a careful eye. We returned to the ward.

  Through the afternoon I sat by the bed and watched them sleep, Connie pale, exhausted and quite beautiful. Goodness knows why it should have come as a surprise, but I’d been shocked and stunned by the violence of the delivery room, the blood and sweat, the complete absence of delicacy. Had I found myself in that situation I’d have opted not just for gas and air, but full general anaesthetic and six months’ convalescence. But nothing had ever come so naturally to Connie as giving birth, and I felt very proud. ‘You were incredible,’ I’d told her when she opened her eyes.