Us

  ‘Yes, you might have got that impression …’

  ‘I thought I was going to be a dad!’

  ‘Yes, that was sort of implied. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Do you know what that feels like?’

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I’m seventeen! I’ve been going nuts!’

  ‘Yes, I can see how that might have come as a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Was that your idea?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Whose fucking idea was it, then, Dad?’

  ‘Hey, Albie, that’s enough!’ People were staring now, the museum guard poised to approach. ‘Maybe we should go somewhere else …’

  It seemed Albie had already thought of this because he was loping off at quite some speed, head down against the tide of tourists who were suddenly flooding the atrium. I did my best to follow, throwing out ‘scusi’s and ‘por favor’s until we were outside, the light unnaturally bright now, the heat quite shocking as we tumbled down the steps and headed for the tree-lined avenue that skirts the museum.

  ‘It would really be a lot easier to explain if we could sit down.’

  ‘What’s to explain? I wanted to be alone to think and you wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘We were worried!’

  ‘You were worried because you don’t trust me. You’ve never trusted me—’

  ‘We simply wanted to know where you were and that you were safe, that’s not unusual. Would you prefer we didn’t care?’

  ‘You always say that, Dad! Right after you’ve been screaming and shouting at me and jabbing your finger, it’s always because we care! “We care!” you say while you’re pressing the pillow down on my face!’

  ‘There’s no need to be melodramatic, Albie! When have I ever …? Albie …’ He was pretty nimble on his feet, and I was having difficulty speaking now. ‘Please, can we … this would be a whole lot easier if we could …’ I stopped, hands on my knees, hoping that he would not disappear. I glanced up, and he was there, kicking at the path with his heel.

  ‘I wanted … to apologise … for what I said in Amsterdam …’

  ‘What did you say in Amsterdam, Dad?’ he asked, and I realised my son had no intention of making it easy for me.

  ‘I’m sure you can remember, Albie.’

  ‘But just to make sure …’

  Perspiration was dripping from my forehead onto the footpath. I saw the drops hit the ground, counted them, one, two, three. ‘I said I was … embarrassed by you. And I wanted to say that I’m not. I think your behaviour was over the top, I think there was no need to start a fight, but I didn’t express myself very well and I wanted to apologise. In person. For that. And for other times when I may have overreacted. I’ve been under a lot of strain recently … at work and, well, at home too and … Anyway. No excuses. I’m sorry.’ I straightened up. ‘Do you accept my apology?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. May I ask why?’

  ‘Because I don’t think you should apologise for what you really think.’

  ‘What do I really think, Albie?’

  ‘That I am an embarrassment.’

  ‘How can you say that, Albie? I care about you very, very much. I’m sorry if that’s not always been clear, but surely you can see—’

  ‘Everything you do, Dad, everything you say to me, there’s this … contempt, this constant stream of dislike and irritation—’

  ‘Is there? I don’t think there is—’

  ‘Belittling me and criticising me—’

  ‘Oh, Albie, that’s not true. You’re my boy, my dear boy—’

  ‘Christ, it’s like I’m not even your favourite child!’

  ‘What do you mean, Albie?’

  He inhaled sharply through his nose, his features bunching up, the face he used to make as a small boy when trying not to cry. ‘I’ve seen the photos you’ve got stashed away. I’ve seen you and Mum look at them longingly.’

  ‘They’re not stashed away, Albie. We’ve shown them to you.’

  ‘And don’t you think that’s weird?’

  ‘Not at all! Not in the least. We’ve always been honest about your sister. She isn’t some secret – that would be awful. We loved Jane when she was born, and then we loved you too, just as much.’

  ‘Except she never fucked up, did she? She never embarrassed you in public or fucked up at school. She got to be perfect, whereas me, your stupid fucked-up son—’

  And here I must admit I laughed. Not maliciously, but at the melodrama of it all, the adolescent self-pity. ‘Albie, come on, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself—’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me! Don’t! Can’t you see, everything you do shows how stupid you think I am!’

  ‘I don’t think you’re stupid—’

  ‘You’ve told me I am! You’ve told me! To my face.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yeah, you have, Dad! You have!’

  And I suppose I might have told him that, maybe once or twice.

  I closed my eyes. I suddenly felt very tired and very sad and very far away from home. The futility of this whole expedition seemed suddenly overwhelming. I had told myself that it was not too late, that there was still time to make amends for the raised voices and bared teeth, the indifference and thoughtless remarks. I had regrets, certainly, about things I’d said, things I’d done, but behind it all there had always been … wasn’t it obvious that there had always been …

  I sat heavily on a stone bench. An old man on a bench.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Albie.

  ‘I am. I’m fine. I’m just … very, very tired. It’s been a very long journey.’

  He came to stand in front of me. ‘What are you wearing on your feet?’

  I stuck a foot out, turned it from side to side. ‘You like them?’

  ‘You look ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. Albie, Egg, will you sit a minute? Just a minute, then you can go.’ He looked left, then right, already planning his escape. ‘I won’t follow you this time. I swear.’

  He sat down.

  ‘I don’t know what I can say to you, Albie. I had hoped the words would just come, but I don’t seem to have made a very good job of expressing myself. I hope you know I have regrets, things I shouldn’t have said. Or things I should have said but didn’t, which is often worse. I hope you have some regrets too. You haven’t always made it easy for us, Albie.’

  He hunched his shoulders. ‘No. I know.’

  ‘The state of your room, it’s as if you do it deliberately to annoy me.’

  ‘I do,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Still. You can have it back now.’

  ‘You’re still going to college then? In October?’

  ‘Are you going to talk me out of it?’

  ‘Of course not. If that’s what you want to do with your life—’

  ‘Well I am.’

  ‘Good. Good. I’m pleased you’re going. I mean not pleased you’re leaving home, but pleased—’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘Your mother’s terrified of what it will be like without you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So much so that she’s thinking about leaving too. Leaving me. But you’ve always been close, so I expect you knew that.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘She told you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I sort of guessed.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  He shrugged again. ‘She doesn’t seem very happy.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t, does she? She doesn’t. Well, I’ve been trying to address that. I had hoped that we’d have fun together this summer, our last summer, all of us together. I’d hoped to change her mind. Perhaps I tried too hard. I’ll find out soon enough. Anyway. I’m sorry for what I said to you. It’s not what I believe. Whatever I might have said, I’m very proud of you, though I might not show it, and I know that you’ll do great things in the future. You’re my boy, and I’d hate for you to go off into the world without kno
wing that we will miss you and will want you to be safe and happy and that we love you. Not just your mum, you know how much your mother loves you. But me too. I love you too, Albie. There. I think that’s really what I came to say. So now you can go. Do whatever you want, as long as it’s safe. I won’t follow you any more. I’ll just sit here for a while. Sit here and rest.’

  160. museo reina sofia

  Later that afternoon, we went to see Guernica. We had both calmed down by then and while still not quite at ease – would we ever be at ease? – we were at least more comfortable in our silence. As we walked around the Museo Reina Sofia, I stole little sideways glances. He was, as far as I could tell, wearing the same clothes that he’d worn in Amsterdam: the stained T-shirt that showed his bony chest, jeans that cried out for a belt, sandals on his blackened feet. His vestigial beard was scraggy and unhygienic, hair lank and unwashed and he seemed very thin. In other words, nothing much had changed, and I was pleased.

  We found ourselves in front of Guernica. I found the picture very striking, much larger than I expected and moving in a way that I had not associated with more abstract works (goodness, Connie, listen to me!). I would have liked to take in the picture quietly, but I allowed Albie to talk me through the historical context and significance of the work, insights he had clearly garnered from the same Wikipedia entry that I had read at breakfast. I watched him as he spoke. He talked a great deal, pointing out things that were obvious to anyone with even a passing knowledge of art. Wanting to educate me, I suppose. In fact he was rather boring on the subject, but I kept quiet and took comfort in that old saying about fallen apples and their distance from trees.

  In a commuter café opposite the Atocha station we had churros con chocolate. The overhead lights blazed off the zinc tabletops, greasy discarded napkins littered the floor. It seemed entirely the wrong time of day and year to be eating deep-fried extruded batter dipped in thick hot chocolate, but it was pleasant to be out of the midday sun’s atomic heat. Albie assured me that this was what everyone did here and, despite the café being empty, I chose not to contradict him.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m in this hostel.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s a hostel.’

  ‘I’ve never stayed in a hostel.’

  ‘What, a seasoned inter-railer like you?’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s grim. Hostile. It’s a hostile hostel.’

  ‘I have a suite in a hotel on the Gran Vía.’

  ‘A suite? What are you, some oligarch?’

  ‘I know. It’s all very sumptuous.’

  ‘I hope you’re not drinking from the mini-bar, Dad.’

  ‘Albie, I’m not mad. Anyway, the point is there’s a spare room that might be more comfortable. A fold-out sofa-bed. While you decide where you want to go next.’

  He paused to concentrate on wiping the sugar from his stubble beard. ‘Are you not eating your churros?’

  I pushed the plate towards him. ‘How do you eat so much and stay so skinny?’

  He rolled his bony shoulders and posted another doughnut into his mouth. ‘Nervous energy, I s’pose.’

  ‘Yes, I know something about that.’

  161. clever man

  We fetched his things and returned to the hotel late in the afternoon, and I lay on the bed while Albie showered for an absurdly long time. I had not checked my phone for twenty-four hours, and with some dread I turned it on to find a selection of texts from Connie, the impatience spiralling into irritation.

  When are you home? Can’t wait to see you.

  Information please. Are you alive?

  Are you back today, tomorrow, ever?

  Frantic here. Douglas, please just call.

  There was a voicemail, too, from my sister, and I played it back with the phone some distance from my ear.

  ‘Why aren’t you answering your phone? You always answer your phone. Douglas, it’s Karen. What the hell is going on? Connie’s frantic. She says you’re wandering round Europe looking for Albie. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell you this but she thinks you’ve had some sort of nervous breakdown. Or a mid-life crisis. Or both!’ Karen sighed and I smiled. ‘Give it up, Douglas. Albie will come home when he wants to. Anyway, call me. Do it, D. That’s an order!’

  Albie was standing in the doorway, wrapped in the hotel dressing gown, demonstrating that unique ability he has to shower for twenty minutes and still look dirty.

  ‘Can I borrow your razor to shave?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘Your Auntie Karen.’

  ‘I thought I heard shouting.’

  ‘I’m going to call your mother, Albie. Will you speak to her?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘Now?’

  He hesitated a moment. ‘Okay.’

  I dialled immediately and waited. ‘Hello?’ said Connie.

  ‘Hello, darling.’

  ‘Douglas, you’re meant to be home! I was expecting you this morning. Are you at the airport?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t catch the plane.’

  ‘You’re still in Italy?’

  ‘Actually, I’m in Madrid.’

  ‘What are you doing in …?’ She paused, gathered herself and continued in the kind of voice used to persuade people down off ledges. ‘Douglas, we agreed it was time to come home …’ I tried not to laugh.

  ‘Connie? Connie, can you hold on for one moment? I’ve got someone here who wants to speak to you.’

  I held the phone out. Albie hesitated then took it from my hand. ‘Hola,’ he said, and closed the door.

  I picked up a Spanish magazine with that exact same title, and stared at pictures of unfamiliar celebrities. I looked through the magazine once, twice. Connie and Albie spoke for so long that my sense of triumph was tempered by a growing anxiety about the cost of the call, and I thought about interrupting the conversation and asking Connie to call us back. But as I looked through the gap in the door to the other room, I noticed that Albie was somewhat red-eyed, which would mean that Connie was crying too and so not in the mood to discuss international call rates. I also noted that, true to form, Albie had managed to use all eight of the hotel towels, large and small, and to distribute them around the room, including one on a lampshade where it might easily burst into flames. Deep breath. Let it pass. Let the burning towels pass. I looked through the magazine a third time, and then a hand poked through the bedroom door and waggled the phone at me.

  ‘Pick up the towels, please, Egg,’ I said, taking the phone.

  ‘“You treat this place like a hotel!”’ said Albie, and closed the door.

  I waited a moment then put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello, Connie?’

  I could hear her breathing.

  …

  …

  ‘Connie, are you there?’

  ‘Clever man,’ she said, and hung up the phone.

  162. in chueca

  I do not know what Connie said to Albie in that call, but later, much later, as we ordered more drinks in a taberna in Madrid’s gay district at some ungodly hour in the morning, I tentatively raised the subject of future plans. The bar was dark, wood-panelled, packed with noisy and attractive madrileños drinking – was it sherry? vermouth? – with Serrano ham and anchovies and oily chorizo.

  ‘This is delicious!’ I shouted, wiping grease off my chin. ‘But I’m worried that they don’t eat enough vegetables. As a nation, I mean.’

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow!’ Albie shouted back. ‘For Barcelona! First thing!’

  I tried to hide my disappointment. In truth, I had not entirely abandoned the idea of Connie joining us and us all returning to the Grand Tour, perhaps retracing our steps to Florence. Our hotel reservations were still in place, and those tickets for the Uffizi …

  ‘Oh. Okay. That’s a shame. I thought
we’d go back to—’

  ‘You could come with me!’

  The room really was very noisy and I asked him to repeat himself. He put his mouth to my ear:

  ‘D’you want to come with me?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Barcelona. Just for a night or two.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Barcelona.’

  ‘No, that’s why I asked.’

  ‘Barcelona?’

  ‘It’s on the sea.’

  ‘I know where Barcelona is, Egg.’

  ‘I thought it would be good to swim in the sea.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘You can even-up your tan. Colour in your left side.’

  ‘Does that still show?’

  ‘A little.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Okay. Okay! We’ll go. We’ll swim in the sea.’

  part eight

  BARCELONA

  –

  ‘It’s nothing to come to Europe,’ she said to Isabel; ‘it doesn’t seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay at home; this is much more important.’

  Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

  163. running towards the sea

  It was with some relief that I discovered Barcelona had almost no art galleries at all.

  That wasn’t quite true, of course. There was a Picasso Museum and a Miró Museum and perhaps I should dip a toe into the world of abstract, non-representational art after so many Old Masters. But there was no single monolithic institution like the Louvre or Prado and so no pressure. Instead Barcelona offered us an opportunity to ‘hang out’. For a day or so. We’d hang out. Just … hang out.

  This was the extent of Albie’s itinerary, and he had already showed admirable organisational ability in getting us to Madrid’s Atocha station in time for the nine thirty train. Quite a sight, the Atocha station, more like a botanical garden hothouse than a conventional transport hub, with a vast jungle of tropical plants filling the central atrium, and I would have appreciated it more had I not been suffering from the most appalling hangover of my life.

  Our night in Chueca had turned into what Albie referred to as a ‘big one’. We had stayed in that particular bar for many hours, sitting on high stools, eating wonderful food from the edge of my comfort zone; fishy pastes, squid, chopped octopus and fried hot green peppers, all of it very salty and dehydrating, which caused us to drink even more vermouth – I’d developed quite a taste for vermouth – which in turn allowed us to chat happily with strangers about Spain, the recession and the euro, Angela Merkel and the legacy of Franco, all the usual bar-room chat. Albie, amicably drunk, kept introducing me to strangers as ‘my dad, the famous scientist’ and then drifting off elsewhere, but everyone was very friendly and it was refreshing to have actual conversations with people of another nation, rather than just buying tickets or ordering food. Anyway, the evening went very well – so well, in fact, that we stepped from the bar into a hazy dawn, birds singing in the Plaza de Chueca. I associated dawn with anxiety and insomnia, but the partygoers and clubbers we passed on their way home all seemed in high spirits. ¡Buenos Días! ¡Hola! It was all very open and friendly, and we decided that we liked Madrid, and Chueca in particular, very much. It was only some months later, when Albie announced to Connie and me that he was gay and in a serious relationship with a fellow student, that I realised this night out had been his first heavy hint. I had missed it at the time. I’d just thought he was being terrifically sociable.