Howard Jacobson - No More Mr. Nice Guy

Frank apologises for the lateness of his call but says he would like to speak urgently to Professor Kurt Bryll.

‘My father’s in America.’

Over the beating of his heart, Frank is listening hard. My father. Which one is this? I have held you in my arms, Frank thinks. The plump round tasty fruit of your father’s plump round tasty sperm. I have tossed you in the air. But he isn’t going to waste time on introductions. Kurt might be back from America any minute. ‘May I speak to your mother?’ he asks.

‘My mother doesn’t live here.’

Klop go the kishkes.

‘Look, I’m an old friend of your parents. Do you have a number for your mother?’

‘A very old friend of my parents. They’ve been divorced for more than twenty years.’

If he weren’t drunk, if he weren’t in a hurry, if he weren’t given over to sinning, Frank would be devastated by this news. Devastated for them and desolated for himself. Kurt and Liz have been a stable point in his life. Tell him that Kurt and Liz haven’t existed and you’re telling him he’s been living a lie all this time. If he weren’t in a dash to perdition, Frank would be vexed with his old friends for letting him down like this. Then he would break down and cry.

‘Do you have a number for her?’

‘She wouldn’t want to hear from you.’

Something catches in Frank’s chest. He tries to laugh it up. ‘How do you know she doesn’t want to hear from her old friends.’

‘I know she doesn’t want to hear from you.’

Which one is this, Frank wonders. He never paid any attention to Kurt and Liz’s kids. He threw them in the air and then got on with shtupping their mother. Is this their revenge?

‘Which of Liz’s children are you?’ Frank asks.

‘You won’t remember.’

‘But you think you remember who I am?’

‘I know I remember who you are. I know you’re in Cheltenham right now. I know what you’re wearing. I know what you’ve been drinking. I know where you’ve been drinking.’

‘How do you know?’

The boy doesn’t answer. Unless a faint snort of selfsatisfaction is an answer.

Egged on by befuddlement, desolation mounts on Frank. Some people are energised by mystery. Frank is saddened and weakened by it. What’s going on here? If this were a girl on the other end of the line he would be better able to see his way clear. A young Liz, spat out of her mother’s mouth — that’s who he saw through the window of the wine bar, and that’s who saw him. Not the mother but the daughter. And he seeing not with the eyes of now but the eyes of then. Time plays these tricks. As for how come she recognised him — easy: either the portrait of him mummy keeps on her bedside table, or the picture at the head of his column. No doubt the latter. These days every columnist has a famous face. Oh look, there’s Frank Ritz the telly critic. Wasn’t he one of daddy’s friends? That’s how the girl knew him. Knew what he was drinking. Knew what he was wearing. The trouble is he isn’t speaking to a girl. So that’s that theory junked.

And since he isn’t speaking to a girl — and as he now remembers, Kurt and Liz had nothing but girls — who is he speaking to?

‘I don’t get any of this,’ he says. ‘But I’d dearly love to talk to your mother. I saw her by chance tonight and I’d love to chat to her again. If you don’t want to give me her number I understand. I’ll give you mine. Just ask her to ring me.’

‘You couldn’t have seen her tonight. She doesn’t live in Cheltenham. She doesn’t live anywhere near Cheltenham. And she doesn’t want to speak to you. I doubt that her husband wants her to speak to you either.’

‘She has another husband?’

‘She’s had another husband for a long time.’

Unbidden, Billy Yuill’s big meandering George Formby mouth conjures itself up, flashing its hopeful lamppost smile. Frank doesn’t need to ask. Some things you just know. Billy stood his street corner. Until at last the certain little lady came by.

‘What about your father — does he have another wife?’ The boy laughs his death-rattle laugh. ‘My father collects wives. He’s marrying another round about now in America. I’m surprised you’ve not been invited to the wedding.’

Unbidden, a seminarful of beautiful dutiful media student mouths conjures itself up for Frank’s displeasure. He doesn’t need to ask. Some things you just know.

The other way of being fifty. Pretending you haven’t noticed. Good old heedless unobservant Kurt. Knight of the Delectable Sperm.

‘And you?’ the boy continues. ‘How many wives have you had?’

‘I’m not the marrying kind.’

‘Children?’

‘I’m not the fathering kind, either.’

‘No,’ says the boy. Or is it, ‘No?’

‘So what’s your name?’ Frank asks.

‘My name?’ There is a long silence. Then, ‘Ha! My name’s Hamish.’

Then he puts the phone down.

Frank sits on the edge of his bed and adds to his list of what he must not do.

He must not think.

He pours himself another glass of wine and contracts the muscles of his face. If he can compress his head, making a steel helmet of his skull, closing down every sensory and cognitive access to his brain, he can keep out thought.

And if you can keep out thought you can keep out grief. Remorse. And dread.

He consults his watch. It is now well into the next day. Is there any chance D will still be sitting in the wine bar waiting for him to return? None whatsoever. Then it will do no harm, will it, if he goes back to look for her.

He puts on his linen jacket.

Montpellier has fallen quiet. A molten summer moon has exerted its magnetic influence and drawn everyone off the streets. The wine bar is closed. Inside, the staff are tilling up, smoking, putting chairs on tables. Fun’s over. A brute asseveration of anti-climax Frank is unwilling to accept. He knocks on the window. They wave him away, making kaput signs with their hands. He knocks again, making emergency signs with his. A waiter comes to the window. The new non-subservient kind, wearing a tablecloth for a skirt. ‘Did you see which way D went?’ Frank shouts.

The waiter puts his ear to the window. ‘Who?’

‘D.’

‘D who?’

‘D D. The comedian.’

The waiter shrugs his shoulders. He can’t be bothered with any of this. D D the comedian. Coco the clown. Not at this time of night.

Frank stands on the street and runs his fingers through his hair. I’m repeating myself, he thinks. Groundhog Day. The price you pay for being a cynic: you forgo surprise, you turn every day into an exact replica of every other. Very well then; in for a penny, in for a pound. He should have thought of it before. Where else in Cheltenham is D going to be staying but the Queens? Probably in the room next to his. He sets into a modest trot. If he’s quick she might not yet have turned over and gone to sleep. The thought of her turning over, heaving her bulk, listing, careening, slows him down. But only a little. There is red wine flowing through his body. His veins are vines.

He asks reception for her room number. Reception is afflicted with falling inflexions. Reception informs him that it doesn’t give out room numbers. Even though he’s a guest at the hotel himself? Makes no difference. Even though he and the lady in question are friends? Still makes no difference. So how is the lady ever to know when someone is calling on her? Reception rings her from the desk. So ring her! It is, he is reminded, rather late. Reception has difficulty pronouncing its Ts. Rather late comes out rather laid. Rather laid! Isn’t this a Five Star hotel? Isn’t a Five Star hotel accustomed to the sort of hours kept by people who are not native to Cheltenham? The lady, he can assure reception, is expecting him. Is even awaiting him. In her knickers, his tone would have them know. Very well, and what is the lady’s name again? The lady’s name is D. D? Is that her surname or her Christian name? He doesn’t know. How the hell does he know. Just D. D D. The comedian.