Tim Parks - The Server

‘Carl’s a nice guy,’ Jonathan said after the evening in Soho.

‘He’s a great guitarist,’ I said. ‘He’s great at arranging the songs.’

Jonathan thought. ‘He is a talented guitarist, Beth. You’d know that better than me. But he doesn’t have your balls.’ He laughed. ‘Carl isn’t ruthless. He isn’t going anywhere.’

‘Am I ruthless?’

Again he hesitated. ‘You are, Beth, yes. I think you are.’

‘And you?’

He smiled again. Jonathan could say terrible things with a smile on his face. ‘You should ask my wife.’

‘And what would she say?’

‘That I’ve always put my work first, always. That I married young because of my work and had affairs because of my work, that I left her because of my work and stayed with her because of my work. She’d say I adore you, Beth, because of my work, but won’t fight for you, because of my work.’

We were in bed, which is pretty well where we always were.

‘Was it worth it?’ I asked.

He thought quite a while about that. What I loved about Jonathan was that he really did think about things when you asked a tough question. He did try to tell you the truth, even if it wasn’t the truth you wanted to hear. ‘Yes and no,’ he finally said. Then he said: ‘Judge for yourself, Beth. I have this studio, don’t I? A nice enough place. I paint. Well enough. Pretty well, actually. And from time to time I sell something. From time to time. I have the price of a taxi when I need one, the price of a restaurant. I have you, Beth. Tonight. Tonight I have you. But no, I haven’t changed the history of painting. No, I’m not on everyone’s lips.’

‘Who cares?’ I snuggled up to him.

‘I do,’ he said at once. He didn’t have to think about that. ‘But the question isn’t really, was it worth it, the question is, could I have done otherwise? And the answer there is, I don’t think so. It’s impossible to be categorical — how can one know? — but I really don’t think so.’

‘What if we had a baby?’

‘We won’t,’ he said.

‘But what if we did, Jonnie? After what we’ve just done.’

‘We won’t,’ he said.

‘You mean because you don’t want one. You’d make me have an abortion.’

‘I wouldn’t make you do anything, Beth. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.’

‘So what makes you so sure?’

‘Because you don’t want a child, Beth. You don’t want one, and least of all with me.’

‘But what if I do?’

‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘And since you don’t, you won’t.’

In the female servers’ loo I washed my hands and took a fresh tampon, the last in the pack. Now was another moment when I could walk over to the men’s side and leave a message in GH’s diary. ‘Given that you’ll never be able to leave your wife,’ I could write, ‘why don’t you stop tormenting yourself and make the best of it?’ Or I could take my clothes off and lie in his bed and wait for him. That should be enough to get me thrown out of the Dasgupta.

‘You look amazing,’ Jonathan said. He didn’t forget to paint my teeth into his picture, or the explosion of hair.

‘You look fantastique ,’ Philippe said. ‘Your tits are fantastiques .’

‘I can’t believe you’ll be breastfeeding,’ Carl said. ‘I can’t wait.’

Carl could already smell the milk. He was already changing the nappies. On the beach there was a gale. All the red flags were up. Stepping out of your jeans, you knew you shouldn’t be there. It was wild. We were drunk and doped.

‘Scaredycats,’ I shouted. ‘You’re scared scared scared.’

The boys were shivering. ‘No, pas du tout , Elisabeth. Pas du tout .’

We held hands and ran towards the surf. It was huge. I can feel the hard sand under the balls of my feet, dry first then damp, the sting of the spray as the sea comes towards us, now the water is frothing at the ankles, freezing the knees. ‘To the buoy and back!’ The surf was shining slightly as it rolled in, but beyond the ocean was black. The breakers roared. ‘The buoy and back! The buoy and back.’ Maybe in the distance Carl was yelling, ‘Beth!’

I walked up the path to the Metta Hall. This would be the last time. I hadn’t drunk any water. On purpose. I hadn’t eaten. I will sit all night, all tomorrow, all tomorrow night. For as long as it takes. Without a break.

‘Why are some people ruthless and some not?’ I asked Jonathan.

‘I don’t know, Beth. I really don’t know.’

I will sit as long as it takes to change. I won’t get up. If they force me to get up, I’ll leave the Dasgupta at once. I’ll shout and scream. I’ll tell them Ralph kissed me, Mrs Harper hugged me, GH keeps a diary, plus a million things that aren’t true. I’m going to change my head, or go crazy trying.

I slipped off my shoes, opened the door and closed it quietly behind me so it wouldn’t disturb. But even the tiniest click has an effect. There were a hundred and forty people in there, towards the end of an hour of Strong Determination, some erect, some slumped, cross-legged or kneeling, some hugging their knees, one or two on chairs at the back, and when the door closed that tiny click shivered through every one of them, as if a pebble had been dropped in still water, and as I walked along the rows towards my place, stepping carefully between one mat and another, there were stirrings and sighs to each side of me, as if plants under water were swaying as I waded by.

I don’t think I’d ever walked into the Metta Hall when everyone was so concentrated, so peaceful. It gets like that around day eight. All at once I felt I loved them. I was happy. I really loved them all. Even Marcia. And before sitting down I turned and looked around. Mrs Harper’s big head was bowed. Mi Nu was ghostly, floating. Across the room my diarist was hunched forward, his chin on his chest. It seemed he might fall on his face any minute. I looked at the girls. Meredith was solid and solemn. Kristin was kneeling. She was sitting on her heels. I could never do that for a whole hour. Kristin’s pushing herself. Her pale lips were parted. For a moment I thought of touching them, I could lay a fingertip between her lips to feel the breath flow in and out. Would she mind?

I sat down and assumed the toughest position I can, a tight half-lotus. I shall not shift from this posture till something happens, till I have reached some change. I don’t care if this is the wrong spirit. I will not shift till something budges, till deep inside me something breaks or opens or dies or is born. I won’t eat won’t drink won’t piss won’t shit.

I sat still, placed my hands palm up on my thighs. I took a last look round before the plunge. A last look. Then I realized I was crying. There were tears in my eyes. I felt so happy, so ready . At last. Everybody was sitting so beautifully. Even Marcia. I remembered the fourth evening — was it the fourth? — when the white blankets and the grey had been the sea, the blue cushions, the white blankets, and now all these people were sitting in the sea together. We were sitting in the surf. All these good people were rocks in the surf, sitting solid against the tide. Bless them. Bless them.

Before closing my eyes I looked awhile at Mi Nu. I would take inspiration from Mi Nu. I would only open them again when I had become like Mi Nu. If ever a person could sit still in the sea, right in the surf, that was Mi Nu. She was sitting slightly above us on the teacher’s raised seat. The blanket draped over her shoulders made a triangle, a lighthouse, a buoy. It was a big off-white shawl tossed around her shoulders, falling straight to her feet. Tilted slightly downward, her face glowed. Her face lights the way for those in peril. She lights the path between the rocks. Then for the first time I understood that her beautiful Buddha stillness depended on the chaos around it. The Buddha sits up there so still, so serene, because the world around him is chaos. Or the world is chaotic because he sits so still. The Buddha needs the world chaotic and the world needs him still. Something like that. The lighthouse needs the stormy sea. Its light is there because the waves are dark and rough. Mi Nu needs me, I thought then. That was a strange idea. To sit there so serene and pure and still Mi Nu needed Beth Marriot, she needed my mess my pain my filth.