Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

‘He’s blind ,’ she says.

‘ What? ’

‘Since that night I sent you home. Didn’t you notice ?’

I shake my head.

‘Did he not mention it to you?’

‘No.’

My voice sounds hollow.

‘Then say nothing.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘Just pretend.’

So that’s what I do.

He’s never asked why Aphra doesn’t come. But he’s asked about the food.

‘Did she bring the food?’ he’ll gasp.

And I’ll say, ‘Of course she did.’

Then I’ll open the containers and describe what she’s prepared.

‘So we’re looking at a strange, hollow green thing, like a tiny courgette. Seeds in the middle…’

‘Okra, you tit .’

‘With whole red chillies…’

‘Mustard seeds and coconut…’ he takes over, grinning behind his mask, as he recollects.

‘And in here …Uh…a strange kind of pink slop …Looks like…’

‘Strawberry mousse,’ he sighs. ‘Try some.’

I dip my finger in.

‘Describe,’ he whispers.

And I’ll describe it in the best way that I possibly can.

Sometimes I’ll tell him exactly which shoes she was wearing when she made the delivery (If I got close enough, at any point, to take a proper look), and he’ll smile and he’ll nod.

Death is close upon him now. The room feels full of Death’s strange, sweet breath. It vies with the scent of the perfumed candle. Death makes the bedsheets crackle. He makes the chair squeak on the lino. He knocks the cards over and forgets to pick them up again.

Death is here.

Even the nurses feel his tingle.

Let’s not talk about the pain.

Let’s not think about the pain.

Nothing to be gained by that, eh ?

Look–

Here’s a turn up: the table next to the bed is almost bare now (the books are all read). The suitcase by the window is completely empty (the little note books are all full). And no new cards have arrived, lately, with their uplifting little messages, insisting that he Get himself Well.

Yesterday, when he reached the last page of the notebook he was using, I took it from him, walked over to the case, opened it, fiddled around inside it for a while, then brought him back the exact-same one.

He took it from me, frowned (when he felt the rough texture of the pages with his thumb), then nodded, smiled, and continued writing.

‘Absinthe?’

Long pause.

Long pause.

‘Makes the heart grow fonder.’

I laugh. He laughs. Then he coughs (tears pouring down his cheeks. Feet curling up).

Was it then?

(I’m struggling to remember.)

Was it then that the lights went out?

I read for another hour.

I complete the chapter.

I close the book.

I stand.

Death pulls the chair back for me (very obligingly).

Death sighs, then taps his foot, then checks his watch, officiously.

It’s time for the Family.

I grab Shane from the bedside table and stick it in my pocket. Then I take it out again and hide it under his pillow.

Good book for a journey, eh?

I find Aphra where I knew she’d be.

It’s almost dawn. But not quite.

I sit on the wall, a few feet along from her.

‘Houdini,’ I murmur, ‘was close to his mother.’

She says nothing.

‘His father was a rabbi, but very traditional, and when they emigrated to America his views were considered a little old fashioned for the New World. So things got tough for the family. The father moved away to work. Houdini was only about twelve at the time, but his father made him swear to take care of his mother. And he did. From that point onwards he worked tirelessly — almost maniacally — with that single aim in mind.’

She says nothing.

‘Blaine felt he never got that opportunity; to care for his mother in the ways he felt he should’ve. He believes that the only real love is the love between a mother and her child.’

She says nothing.

‘But there’s this strange conflict within him,’ I say, ‘because when Blaine first found his wings in the world of magic and performing, when everything finally came together for him — both creatively and ideologically — when he cut his hair and grew his goatee and started dressing in black; when he became ‘David Blaine, Street Magician’, basically; this transformation corresponded, almost exactly, with the death of the one person he loved most in all the world.’

Still nothing.

‘He’d taken this trip to France, lived the high life in St Tropez for six months with the extremely wealthy Steiner family. When he came back, though, his mother was dying. He felt like he’d let her down — when she’d needed him the most — like he’d betrayed her.’

She finally turns to look at me.

‘ Did he?’

There’s an unexpected urgency in her voice.

I can’t answer.

‘He says her last three words, before she died, were “ God is Love ”.’

I clear my throat. It’s tightened up, for some reason.

‘But when he was standing on that ninety foot pole, in the middle of New York,’ I continue, ‘a whole eight years later— Vertigo , May 2002–he had this strangely powerful revelation in which he suddenly realised that life was just a series of sunrises and sunsets. Nothing more.’

‘Does he still think that?’ she interrupts.

‘Maybe. I don’t know. But what I am sure of, is that at some level he believes that magic took his mother from him. Magic is his life’s other great love, see? But it seems destined to be a tragic one.’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Now you’re just being ridiculous. This …’ She points. ‘This is all about living . The closer to death he draws, the more alive he becomes.’

I shrug.

‘His friends apparently despair of him,’ I say, ‘they get furious with him when he pulls these stunts. They do everything they possibly can to try and stop him. But once his mind’s made up, there’s literally nothing anybody can do to make him change it. And it’s only a grim awareness of this fact which finally makes them supportive. Blaine might be in physical danger, but he holds the people who love him emotionally captive. That’s a very cruel transaction which he seems perfectly at ease with.’

She frowns.

‘Imagine that,’ I say, smiling, ‘having the whole world standing by, utterly helpless, in the thrall of your self-destructiveness.’

She kicks out a leg. She’s wearing a crazy pair of Greek-style sandals in pale grey leather, the laces of which criss-cross up her shins to the hinge of her knee, concluding there in a loose, leather bow.

‘ Like them?’

I give this question some serious consideration.

( What? Absolutely not . They make her look like some kind of low-rent, Roman serving boy.)

‘Yes,’ I answer, ‘I think they’re lovely.’

She gives me a straight look then turns away.

‘Barely worth all the chafing , really,’ she says, with a sigh.

That’s probably the last time I’ll ever see her.

There are some things you just know , huh?

But I stand on the bridge and watch the sunrise that morning.

And it’s a perfectly adequate one. Nothing too spectacular.

I walk home. I make myself some toast. I have a shave. I take the dogs to the park. I watch some kids’ TV. I fall asleep. And when I awaken, it’s early evening. The TV’s still on. It’s an ad-break. There’s an advert for shampoo, then one for car insurance, then an image of Blaine flashes on to the screen.