Tim Parks - The Server

Way over a hundred .

Cut ‘remarkable ’.

And ‘tremendous ’.

And ‘ultimately ’.

‘ Ultimately’ what?

The gong sounded. The gong. They’ll be coming out. My eye rushed over the page, and the next, and the next. There must have been a dozen completely different versions.

Adventurous crime publisher seeks to save his marriage by showing his wife how much he cares about their daughter who is dangerously besotted with a middle-aged manic depressive. Meantime his beloved mistress is concerned that the child she is carrying

There were footsteps. I jumped out of the bed and moved the curtain. The blokes were streaming out of the Metta Hall. Ten minutes’ break before the evening video discourse. People would take a pee, stretch legs, grab a glass of water. Down the corridor, the outside door banged. Men kicking off their shoes, padding along the wooden floor to their rooms.

Beth paralysed. Too late to make it to the kitchen. Could I slip off in the other direction, towards the Dormitory A loos, hide in a cubicle? Go now!

I didn’t move.

Breathe. Control your breathing. Control this excitement. Focus on the physical turbulence and the mental will subside, Dasgupta says.

I breathed. I felt the breath on my lips, my chest rose and fell.

Footsteps along the corridor. Hurrying. Doors opened and closed. There are no locks at the Dasgupta. Someone sat on a bed in the next room, sighed. Someone was opening a window.

Men all around.

They only have a few minutes between sessions. Most will have gone for a cup of tea in the dining hall. Or for a stroll round the field.

I sat on the bed, picked up his pen from the floor. He uses a fountain pen.

‘You love your pain too much.’

The nib scratched.

Footsteps slowed at the door, then started off again. Others coming back from the bathroom end. Someone dropped something.

I sat waiting.

GH.

Gary, Graham, Greg, Gerald. Gerald is horrible.

Then I was overwhelmed by the question, what am I doing here? Why why why? Trapped here, in a man’s room, in a community that does everything to keep men and women apart. I’d known perfectly well that when the gong rang my diarist could come back.

He’s not your diarist.

Why didn’t I leave earlier? Why do I always end up asking questions about the way I behave? Misbehave. You came to the Dasgupta when you were desperate. You had hit bottom. Remember how bad it was. You couldn’t face anyone, you couldn’t look at people, let alone yourself. You were sick sick sick. Dasgupta saved you. He did. He showed you a way. Alive or dead, his talks are fantastic, fantastically useful. Except I’m not quite there yet. I’m walking the Dhamma path. Trying to. Everybody at the Dasgupta has an old story. Why come otherwise? We’re here to dump our stories, not to write them down, not to read people’s diaries. It’s because I miss my suffering that I’m reading about his. Which is stupid stupid stupid. Is that why people read books? They want to suffer. Jonathan loved sad movies. All the Swedish and French videos he made me watch. Tarsky, Tartosky? I hated it.

‘Why do you want me to share your gloomy view of the world, Jonnie?’

‘It’s safer, Beth. It’s safer.’

‘I don’t want to be safe, Jonnie, thanks very much.’

‘I know, Beth. That’s why I love you.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I do, Beth.’

‘If you loved me you’d fight for me. You’d be jealous of Carl.’

‘I love you, Beth.’

‘Not enough.’

I was on the edge. I’m back there. I’m sliding back. Resist. Breathe. The footsteps were gone now. He’s not coming. I can wait it out. Someone was hurrying at the end of the corridor. I felt very there , in the room, on his bed. Nowhere to hide. Vulnerable. Wired. And really far away too. Calm. Dead. Really not there. Like, if he came, who cared? Every time I feel something I feel the opposite. Maybe that’s what makes it real.

I looked down at the diary on my knees. Its slanted handwriting. Almost horizontal. In a hurry to eat up the page. He was attacking the page. What a stupid idea that you could get a story out of your mind by writing it down. Instead of a hundred words he’d written a thousand. He’d write thousands more with the stupid excuse of trying to forget it. Really, he wants to fill every white page with himself and his shit. I’ve painted you red, Beth, because that’s your colour. You stain the whole world red.

And I was proud!

Stop writing, Mr Wordy Diarist. Stop writing about yourself. Stop tempting me to read you, to write like you and think like you. If you were really suffering you’d prefer these pages to stay white. You’d prefer to be looking at white …

The door banged open and he came in.

He was a big man, taller than I’d imagined. I’m not good at age. Early fifties? Must be. Tall but a bit stooped and he hasn’t shaved since he arrived I don’t think. His face was dirty with beard.

Actually, he was pulling off his sweater as he came in. He was in a hurry. He must have decided at the last minute he needed something warmer for the evening session. The gong for evening discourse had already rung. The last footsteps were gone. He came in pulling up the sweater over his face. Something green. His shirt lifted with it. His stomach was pale and solid and hairy. Then as the sweater came over his head he saw me.

Beth on the bed.

I put a finger over my lips. He was astonished. If he’d seen me before it would have been across the hall on the female side in a sea of other faces. Female faces. Now he was really alert, really fired up. You could see. His face is thin with a beaky nose, high cheeks. Nothing like Jonathan. His eyes looked pleased, curious. He opened his mouth, saw me shake my head, my finger to my lips, and closed it again.

I stood up, still holding the diary, and we were staring at each other. He had his hands in the sleeves of his pullover where he’d pulled it over his head, handcuffed. His skin was pale under the dirty beard, a red beard. He looked tired. But his mouth seemed ironic and kind.

I liked him. More than the voice in the diary. Not speaking, we just looked.

I’ve got big eyes, big tits, big teeth, a ton of frizzy hair. There was a weird knowing in the way we looked at each other. He knew at once I had been reading his diary. I knew about his shit, that he was a married guy who’d maybe got a married girl pregnant and had a daughter who was screwing up big-time. But as we looked — it must have lasted thirty seconds at least — I realized that the most shaming thing was that he wrote about himself in that way , all vanity and drama. And what was shaming for me was that I was reading that stuff. I kept on reading it. I was a Dasgupta server supposed to be setting an example. We should both be ashamed of ourselves. Instead, as the seconds passed — and I kept my finger over my lips, still shaking my head very slightly to stop him talking — instead, I could see he was pleased he had run into me. He wasn’t upset. He was glad of anything that took him out of himself. He knew I was embarrassed and his expression was telling me he wouldn’t cause trouble. His thick eyebrows gave him a severe look, headmasterish, but the way he lifted them, one higher than the other, just meant, OK, sweetheart, so what do we do next? What’s your plan?

Dasgupta rooms are not generous with space. This single was maybe nine feet long by six wide. Door on one narrow wall, window opposite, one long wall empty, the other with wardrobe and bed. Nothing else. I would have to push past him.

We were looking into each other’s eyes. Not speaking had drawn us close. I took a step and handed him his diary. He had to free a hand from his pullover to take it. He could see I’d written something there. My handwriting was big and square. A puzzled look crossed his face, but he saw I wanted to get out and stepped back against the wardrobe.