Hugo Hamilton - Disguise

He was a nervous child, constantly peeing in his pants at school, always coming home wet and stinking. She traded with him, allowing him to sleep in her bed as long as he didn’t pee. And that’s how things stood for years, a close and sometimes suffocating relationship, until one day when he was suddenly banished from his mother’s bed. A man from nowhere walked in the door and took his place. His father had arrived back from the war and took over the role that Gregor had enjoyed to himself till then.

The man bought him a scooter. And a mouth organ. He took him hunting and taught him all about nature. But maybe there was always something missing, some absence, some feeling that Gregor was never adequate. A failure in his father’s eyes.

He retreated into his boyhood fantasies, mostly about trapeze artists. Circus women dressed in spangled tops and the string tights. It was not the animals or the clowns that attracted him as a boy, but the woman who could wrap her legs around the rope and flew through the air, smiling down at him from above. The circus came once a year in the spring and he could not tear himself away. He hung around all day and once saw the trapeze artist standing in the door of her caravan, smoking a cigarette and wearing a pink dressing gown. Another time, he saw her lying on the ground in a field nearby in the long grassy verge with one of the men from the circus, kissing and smiling at him as though she was still gliding through the air with her arms and legs and breasts just barely holding on to the rope.

Mara used to say that Gregor’s childhood was like the dark side of the moon. There was little evidence of how he grew up. She did not have a single photograph of him when he was a small boy. No heroic images of him with sword or a bow and arrow. No shots of him and his dog. No first ride on his bike, no first day at school, no smiling pictures of him with missing teeth or with his arm around his mother.

He never talked about that very much. Only the mushroom picking and the endless hunting episodes. He said his mother could be a bit possessive. She could also be a saint sometimes, believing that the whole world was out to wear her down. Please, Gregor, I beg you, don’t ask me any more questions, she would say. Please, Gregor, if you want a bicycle, draw it for yourself. Then she would do the singing yawn again, descending into a segregated mood in which she seemed beyond reach, inside her own world. She sometimes wished the worst on herself. He remembers how she broke her arm falling off a hunting tower in the forest. He can still see the broken bone sticking out, bent like a stick underwater. But instead of calling for help, she became a stoic and proudly climbed back up the ladder with her lips tightened, biting back the pain in order to the show her husband what had happened. She was deeply Catholic. She was the kind of person who found some kind of elegiac, victim comfort in apocalyptic events. She had been forced to look at dead bodies, along with a hundred other women, paraded and photographed as they stood by decomposing corpses. It made her rejoice in calamity. A code of premonition in which she and her husband discussed world events with doomed enthusiasm.

There is a feeling of vertigo that comes along with memory. Or is it the apples falling? The sight of people high on ladders? The feeling of being upside down in this orchard after looking up into the branches for so long?

He has a fear of falling back into that emptiness. The strict ambitions of his father, the endless hunting days, the training for survival. When he was a teenager, he remembers coming back from a school trip in the Alps and finding his parents standing in the hallway. They looked him up and down in disbelief, speaking about him in the third person as though he had not quite physically returned yet. ‘There is our son,’ his mother kept saying, to make sure there could be no doubt about it. ‘Make him sit down and tell us everything, slowly. On the balcony? No, make him sit at the table. Wait, don’t begin yet.’ They had to know everything, who he met, what mountains he climbed, what he ate, what mistakes he made, every detail of every day. He was their only child and they had always lived through him, just as he also had the feeling that his trip only became a reality through them, in the making of the story which he brought home with him. You must write all this down, his mother kept repeating. Make a list of everything, so you’ll remember it all later.

He told them that he was nearly killed. It was a family test, the moment of separation when a boy tries to find out how much his parents would miss him if he was no longer alive. He had lost his footing and almost gone over a cliff. He was lucky, he told them, that they were climbing below the treeline because he was stopped by a single pine tree growing almost horizontally out of the side of the rock. He dangled there on this tree, the last coat hook on the mountain, looking down at cattle the size of grasshoppers in the fields below until his companions cautiously made their way down with ropes to rescue him.

He gave them the cartoon description, the light bravado with which the other boys put the shock behind them when they got back to the hostel that evening, knowing that he was safe. That fucking pine tree had your name written on it, they kept saying. They described it as though Gregor had suddenly decided to put on an acrobatic performance on the side of the mountain. They worked up the funny side and said he had an expression of surprise on his face as he leaped upwards, trying to do the cartwheel in the air. He looked so flexible, double-jointed almost, indifferent to gravity and immune to pain. Rubber man, or action man, with his head turned back one hundred and eighty degrees, his torso twisted to the opposite side, his legs and arms all belonging to different men who could not agree on which way they should be heading from now on. His right foot kicked upwards into the sky like an extremely clever soccer trick, a bicycle kick with which he was trying to score a last-minute goal before falling off the mountain. They described him waving his hand in a desperate farewell, before he began to slide towards the edge of the cliff. They embraced him and smiled at him, slapping him on the back like a hero for days.

‘We thought you were gone, Gregor,’ they said. ‘You were a dead man there for a moment.’

His mother stood up and began to rifle through his rucksack. What was so urgent about the washing? Gregor remembers thinking. He thought his father would be proud, but instead he remained sitting at the table with fierce eyes while Gregor continued. He was expecting the sympathy of a family homecoming, the kind of back-from-the-dead welcome. Instead, he found their eyes bearing down on him as though he had been careless and damaged some precious belonging that he had been entrusted with. He felt like a family asset, such as the car of which they were so proud. Even the way they had explained the facts of life to him had a proprietorial basis. His mother was deeply Catholic and spoke about purity, while his father clung to a kind of fascist simplicity where sexual organs seemed more like state property, not to be abused or tampered with. A man was given one set of testicles and was under obligation to take care of them because they could not be replaced. They were like standard army equipment or like a passport which didn’t actually belong to the person to whom it was issued, but to the larger family. You could not let anyone punch you there in that irreplaceable region because that would mean that you would never have children. With the result that Gregor sometimes felt his testicles were made of porcelain and should have been locked away safely in the glass cabinet with all those other figurines of miniature deer and miniature people in the costumes of another century.