Tim Parks - The Server

But I thought you wanted to die.

Two moths are fluttering against the lightshade in the female servers’ room. Why have I stopped killing insects? It’s creepy how they bang and scrabble against the paper globe. It’s mindless. All Dasgupta lightshades are Ikea. One moth drops to the floor, twitches its filthy wings, whirrs up again. Jonathan killed flies by clapping his hands. He never got angry or irritable, except when you tried to talk about his wife. ‘My ex-wife,’ he said. ‘Ex marks the spot.’

It’s very still in here. Except for the moths. They’re creepy the way they seem to look for death, but I do feel compassion for them. I feel lost. Maybe I should kill a fly or two, just to get back in the saddle. Maybe that’s what I need, to shag and kill and be brutal: fuck Ralph, fuck up Ralph, tear up the diary, swat these stupid moths, write some obscene graffiti with menstrual blood. DASUCKTA!

It’s two a.m. and Beth’s at a turning point.

With nowhere to turn.

Do I leave this place or do I stay?

Nothing. Stuck.

Say I went to bed and listened to the mouse gnawing, to Stephanie snoring. I could. I could do that. What does the mouse want in that bedroom? To gnaw our toes? To nibble our ears? To pee on our bedding? Or just to be there, to share our company?

What do animals do all day? What are these moths doing, really? How do they know what to do?

Their bodies tell them.

A sort of nibbliness! Rabbity. The teeth, I suppose.

Say I went back into the kitchen and pigged out on yesterday’s leftovers. I could do that. It amazed Carl how much I ate after concerts. We were so sweaty and smoky and drunk and alive. Sausages. Pizza. Kebabs. Then sex. Sometimes I hardly knew who with. Carl was always up and down, happy or depressed. He wanted so much to marry me. He could already smell our babies. They were puppies or baby rabbits. Carl wanted to change the straw. He was a sweet little boy in need of a pet. It should have been obvious I wasn’t the one. I do feel compassion for him. He was a fantastic guitarist. So slick. So clean. So talented. But he would have accepted a job at Marriot’s any day. Marketing. Perhaps he already has. Perhaps Carl is working there now, for Dad, selling Marriot’s synthetics. I feel compassion for him. I feel compassion for myself. I envy my diarist’s pregnant girlfriend. Teresa. Nice name. God, I envy her. Think. All she has to do is let her creature grow. Let her body do its thing. Like the mice, the moths. Woman in the row behind me. Who cares who the father is? I didn’t care, really. I just didn’t want to bring up a child with Carl. It was obvious Jonathan would never accept one. I could go to Mi Nu and ask, Why do I never know what to do? Time ticks by and everyone is sleeping or busy. The moths are busy, the rabbits are busy. The mice are busy. My diarist is dreaming demons. I never know what to do. I can’t sleep. I didn’t let my creature grow, Mi Nu. I failed to love failed to love.

I could masturbate. Yep. I could pull down my jeans, my panties, stretch back in the armchair, smell myself, lick my fingertips. That drove Jonathan wild. He nibbled my knuckles. Please make yourself come, Beth, please please please. I love it when you come.

No, I couldn’t.

With the curse as well.

I could check my email. Out of the kitchen, left towards the main door, then right and I’m in the office. They won’t have a password on the PC. It’s not in the Dasgupta spirit. Or something like, BEHAPPY. User name: ALLBEINGS, password BEHAPPY. I cross the kitchen, go into the office, turn on the computer, check my mail. Servers are allowed occasional Internet access, if they ask permission, if they don’t visit the wrong sites. To keep in touch with their nearest and dearest, of course. I used to dream about it the first month at the Dasgupta. It was one of the hardest things to get out of my head. I open my mail and his name pops up. Scores of messages. Jon Jon Jon Jon. I want you back, Beth. I want to live with you. I want to paint you day in day out. Please. Forgive me for not believing about the coma. Forgive me, Beth. Come back, Beth. I need you, Beth.

There will be mails from Carl, mails from Zoë, mails from Mum, from Dad, from the producer, the manager. Where are you, Beth? Dear Elisabeth, where are you? Betsy, what’s become of you? You don’t have to do this.

Forgive me for not believing you, Jonathan has written. Just looking in your eyes that evening …

I got over these fantasies months ago.

Apparently not.

‘If there are thoughts, daydreams, unwelcome mental projections, gently return your attention to the breath, to the in-breath crossing the lip, the out-breath crossing the lip …’

You’re lucky you still have a breath.

Maybe Hervé will have written. Il ne faut pas te sentir coupable, chère Elisabeth. Ce n’est pas ta faute si nous sommes venus nous baigner avec toi .

Did Philippe die, Mi Nu?

Is an induced coma a form of embalming? Is he still there in the hospital bed?

‘They asked you to go in the sea, Beth, not you them.’

Carl was by my side, my bedside. I kept my eyes closed, texting beneath the sheets.

‘They’re only inducing the coma, Beth. It’s a controlled thing. He’ll recover. It’s not your fault. And thank God it’s not you.’

But I was planning to kill myself, Carl. No, I didn’t say the words. I couldn’t speak to him. And killing yourself is something you should do on your own. Not with two nice French boys. They would never have gone in the sea without me.

Not on a night like that.

They would never have gone with me if they knew I was planning to kill myself.

Carl sat by my bed for days. The perfect boyfriend. ‘Think about the child, Beth,’ he said. ‘For Christ’s sake. Think about us.’

I lost the child, Carl. Haven’t the doctors told you? I didn’t speak. I kept my eyes closed. I had a perfect boyfriend and I’d completely failed to love him. I tried, I couldn’t. I betrayed him. I cheated him. Every evening making love in the tent, I tried to be there, really to make love, I think I tried. I couldn’t. I couldn’t love. My only plan was escape. If he wouldn’t disappear, then I must. I must dissolve in thin air. Or walk into the sea.

Instead the child vanished.

I’M IN INTENSIVE CARE, I texted. THEY ARE GOING TO INDUCE A COMA. IF YOU LOVE ME, COME BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.

It’s not true I could check my email. I couldn’t. Maybe I’ll never look at email again.

What if the news were all good, though?

Beth, Philippe’s out of coma. He’s asking after you.

Beth, ‘Better Off On My Own’ is number one. Everyone’s looking for you. Everybody wants you. Where on earth have you buried yourself? We have bookings for every major festival. We have contracts for two new CDs. We have money for a house.

I’m sorry, Carl, that’s not what I want any more.

I’m sorry, Carl, I’m not me any more.

This is the wrong email address for me, Carl.

I’ve escaped, I’ve disappeared.

Dear Elisabeth, I’m afraid Dad’s cancer has come back. He’s very poorly. Whatever your reasons for disappearing, do please come now. It’s unkind not to.

There’s no way I can check my mail.

Why can’t the moths leave be? Can’t they feel they’re destroying their wings, scrabbling at the light, pressing their bodies where bodies can’t go?

The moths are a torture. I feel compassion for them.

My pen is pushing and scrabbling where I can never go. Pein. Nice word, Mr Diarist.

An hour ago I was just fine, reading his diary. I was enjoying his troubles.

A week ago I was fine, living the Dasgupta routine, accepting the Dasgupta rules.

I was fine washing rice and kichada beans.