Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

He did not say love . He did not even think it. ‘I’m hopeless on my own,’ I said.

‘That isn’t true. You’ve always been alone. You thrive that way.’

‘Well, I don’t feel it.’ And I pushed myself upright. ‘I can’t paint any more. I’m done with it all.’

The chair legs scraped. Jim grabbed for my arm. He took my wrist. I scowled at him. ‘Ellie, please, sit down.’ A kindly flutter of his hand. ‘I need to tell you something. It’s important.’ Such levelness to his expression: he gave nothing away. (Petunias.) So I did as he asked.

Inhaling once, sharply. His palms pressed together. ‘I wore this for the trip,’ he said. The opal ring slipped off. It wobbled on the table. ‘It’s not the subtlest bit of jewellery in the world, but it has sentimental value.’ I did not pick it up. My mouth was dry.

‘Sentimental why?’ I said.

‘It belongs to someone dear to me.’

‘Ana Helène.’ Only a fool would assume otherwise.

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘A man from my regiment.’

‘Oh.’

‘I know it’s an ugly old thing, but it makes me proud to wear it.’

‘Is there any water left?’ I said.

Slitting his eyes. ‘Of course. I’ll get you some.’

Filled a glass from the tap. Studied the birds in the garden. The daylight made me sore, but not Jim Culvers. He admired the afternoon for what it was. He passed me the water and sat down again. ‘Listen now, I want you to hear this. It might just stop you doing something stupid.’ I took very slow gulps. ‘I lied to you, months ago. When you asked me where I’d been, I lied to you. And I’m sorry, but I had to.’

‘I know you weren’t in London,’ I said. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

‘Ellie, listen to me now. It’s important that you hear me.’

‘You don’t have to pretend. You care for me, that’s all. And yes, I care for you. Now we just have to get on with it. We don’t need to get married.’

He reached across the table. For the ring, I thought. But no — for my hand. He gripped it tightly. ‘Ana Helène is just a name,’ he said. ‘I made her up — I had to think of something on the spot. Please listen.’

His words could not be trusted.

My mouth felt worse for the water. Pasty thick.

‘Everything I told you about the doctor and the trip to France — that was true. I did go back to Arras. The bar fight part was true, except it happened in Paris not Dunkirk. I hit a poet in the mouth. The rest was just a story. I don’t know if he had a sister but I didn’t go to Giverny with him or anywhere else. I got arrested that day and my friend came to get me. He lives in Paris with his wife. He’s a playwright now, quite a famous one, actually — doing lots of script work for the films. And this ring, I promise you, it genuinely belongs to him. I need you to know I’m telling you the truth.’

‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘You’re here now. And you care for me. That’s all.’

He slipped it back on his finger, twisted it round. ‘I don’t even know if there are Judas trees in Giverny. That isn’t the place I saw them. Ellie, keep listening to me, please. You’re not even — all right, let’s do this later. You rest a bit. You rest, and I’ll see if I can get us something that’s worth eating. How would you like some—’

Fried eggs and beans. The only time Jim ever cooked me anything. The sight of it was sickening. And how long had I slept? The kitchen beads were taped against the frame. Just embers in the hearth. He made me eat again. Some of the beans and most of the eggs. And then we carried on. The ring belonged to his playwright friend — he had told me this before — and his wife who lived in Paris — yes, I knew all this, I said.

‘We served together. He was my sergeant. I’d seen him just a few times since the war, but we wrote to each other a lot. Anyway, that day he came to bail me out the station — well, I could tell how concerned he was about me, you know? I was in an awful state. Worse than in the Army. It was him and his wife who helped me get sober. To begin with, at least.’

Jim made the tea too strong. I could not drink it.

‘Listen, Ellie, listen.’

I still felt a bit light-headed.

‘So I was in a bad way, I’d given up on painting — he could see that I was struggling just to get out of bed in the morning. I was always the one who used to keep his spirits up, you know — I’d draw him pictures to cheer him up when we got stationed anywhere new. Just sketches of the fellas in the regiment. And he knew how much it meant to me, to be painting well. We used to talk about it all the time in our letters.’

He was telling the truth. His eyes were bright and clear. Nothing evasive, nothing shifting. Finally, Jim Culvers was telling me the truth.

‘Anyway. One day, his wife goes out to meet someone, and we’re alone. And he tells me all about this time when he was younger, how he’d been through a similar thing to what was happening to me now — drinking a lot, and hardly writing. Even though his plays were being put on every year, he said he’d felt this despair inside, eating away at him. Something just wasn’t right. He’d tried to kill himself a few times, he said, and I was — well, I didn’t know what to think. Got your attention now, though, I see.’

I was staring at him — at his mouth.

‘Well, he’d clearly managed to get himself straightened out, so I asked him how he’d done it. And he starts talking very fast about everything he’d been through, hitting rock bottom, all of that. I don’t know if he was worried about his wife coming back and hearing, or what, but he really did talk quickly. And, next thing, he’s telling me all about this place he knows in Turkey. Some island off the coast of Istanbul. There was a set-up there, he said, a kind of sanatorium. A place only for artists — not a colony, not a resort or anything like that. A refuge. He claimed it turned his life around, this place, just being there. Gave him back his sense of purpose. Completely cleared his mind.’

It sounded like a perfect spot to disappear.

‘So I just looked at him, you know — same way you’re looking at me now — and my heart was thumping in my chest. I knew I had to get there, wherever it was. No matter what, I needed to get there. I asked him how to find it, and he said, “It’s not that simple. There are rules you have to follow.” I said, “I’ll do anything. Just tell me how to get there.” So he did. He told me everything. And I want you to hear this now, Ellie, and really listen, really listen , because I won’t have a chance to repeat it.’

Waiting at the phone box on a street somewhere in Luss. Expecting it to ring. Jim said I should stay in bed, but I could not sleep a moment longer. The food had strengthened me a bit. I could stand up straight without faltering. We were half under the streetlamp. No cars on the road. Grey smoke shuffling in the darkness, a line of cottages turned in for the night. Already Jim had dialled a number and spoken to his contact. ‘All right,’ he had said, ‘we’ll stand by,’ and he had read aloud the number of the phone box. ‘Doesn’t matter when. However long it takes. If we don’t hear in a few hours, we’ll have to — all right, thank you.’ That seemed like forever ago.

We sat on the kerb, throwing stones, like two kids playing in the lane. ‘You don’t have to worry about anything,’ Jim said. ‘It’s going to be difficult at first, but, trust me, it gets easier. My first season there, I hardly painted anything. I just tried to get used to the surroundings. That’s OK, by the way — you can’t be afraid of losing time. Just let your mind absorb things, let it settle. And, eventually, you’ll work yourself out. My advice is, go up to the mansion roof a lot. That’s where you’ll see things clearest. All the Judas trees come out on the islands in the spring — it’s like nothing else on earth. You can see them from across the water. And when you see them, think of me, remember this moment, OK? Because the main thing out there is not to get lonely. There’ll be people who you’ll get along with, and people who you won’t, but it’s important not to get lonely. It happened to a few people I—’ Phone was ringing. ‘This is it,’ Jim said. He patted the dirt from his hands. Swinging the rusted door open, stepping in. He looked at me, smiling. Picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ A nod, a nod, another. ‘Thank you, sir, yes. I’m keeping well. The work is flowing. Things are selling, too, which helps.’ Pause. Nod. ‘I’ve no doubt that it did, sir, yes.’ A genteel laugh I had never heard him give before. An odd formality to it all. ‘Of course, of course. Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll pass on the good news. And thank you so much again for — no, but I really do appreciate it.’ That laugh again. ‘I will, sir, yes. Hoşçakal. ’