Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

To act, he knew, was to involve himself; no act could succeed because a11 involvement was failure; and love, a selfish faith, was the end of all active thought — it was a memory or it was nothing. But he had come too far, known too much to evade blame, and he sought to conclude the act he had begun on impulse that summer night. He wished to release himself with a single stroke that would free him even if it left him a cripple — like a fox gnawing his leg so he could drag himself from the trap: an amputation, true terrorism.

They got drinks from the kitchen and stood next to the stairs, watching the drunken actors (some were preening; several sang; here was one doing another’s horoscope). Hood put his arm around Lorna and kissed her hair. He had overcome his horror of holding her. Once, he had not been able to touch her without feeling the pressure of her husband’s corpse; now touching her reassured him and she could rouse him simply by seeming wounded or lost, which, he had come to see, was her permanent condition. Not love — it was more drastic than that, a hunger for her very flesh, and what kept him away was his fear that her hunger was greater than his and almost unappeasable.

They remained on the fringe of the party, watching what could have been another act of the improvised Peter Pan, a cheerier one, noisy and uncomplicated, like a spirited mob scene, all the actors talking at once. Lorna spotted several famous faces — an actor from a film she’d seen; a comedian looking oddly tense; a child star; then a girl who appeared regularly on a children’s programme, and she said without irony, ‘Jason should be here — he’d be dead pleased.’

‘Maybe we should go,’ said Hood. ‘I don’t see the bitch.’

‘That one — he does the Angel Snow advert,’ said Lorna. ‘I seen him on telly.’

It was the young man who had played John. His mask was off but he still wore his top hat and striped pyjamas. He was not tall. He passed by as Lorna spoke and hearing her he stopped, did a humorous double take, and greeted them.

‘Brother. Sister.’

Hood said, ‘How’s the family?’

‘I know you,’ said the man. ‘What company are you with?’

‘General Motors.’

‘He’s funny,’ said the man to Lorna. ‘Does he make you laugh?’

She flinched. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Don’t knock it,’ said Hood. ‘You’re pretty funny yourself. What’s your name?’

‘McGravy,’ he said. ‘You probably know my sister, the so-called Irish playwright. Everyone does, mainly because her plays are banned in Ireland. Censorship made her a household word. She’s not even funny, but’ — he tilted his head and clicked his heels — ‘vee haff vays of making you laugh.’

‘I can do a German accent better than that,’ said Hood.

‘Yeah, well, I guess that’s cause you’re Amurrikan,’ said McGravy in an accurate imitation of Hood’s own way of speaking.

‘Try something hard. Can you do a Japanese?’

‘Hai!’ said McGravy, sneezing the word, Japanese-fashion. Then he said in a halting monotone, ‘I can do bettah than many lidicurous men in crabs. You know crabs? Night-crabs?’

Lorna laughed. ‘He’s like Benny Hill!’

‘Bud Benny Hill is daking doo much of rupees and pinching backsides of vooman, my goodness,’ said McGravy, waggling his head like an Indian. ‘In my country is not bermitted on estage, oh no!’

‘He really sounds like a Paki,’ said Lorna. She was amused; she stared at McGravy’s comic face.

Hood said, ‘West Indian.’

‘What, mun? Trinnydad or Jameeka? It’s a flamin big place, mun. So many i-lands.’

‘Cuban.’

‘Hasta la vista,’ said McGravy, and started to go.

‘Wait,’ said Hood. ‘Don’t go yet. I’ve got a tough one for you.’

‘I’ll bet you do,’ said McGravy, again in Hood’s voice. ‘A real ball-breaker, right?’

‘He’s taking the mickey,’ said Lorna.

‘Ulster,’ said Hood.

‘Catholic or Protestant?’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Fussically,’ said McGravy, putting his jaw out and speaking in a heavy Northern Ireland accent, ‘there’s no dufference. But the mumbers of the Pro’estant Uni’y Parly tund ta talk like thus. Ya go’ ta swalla some sullables.’

‘Catholic,’ said Hood.

McGravy closed his eyes. ‘Give me something to say.’

‘Say, “Mary had a little lamb.” ’

‘Murry had a luttle lamb.’

‘Say, “Look, I know where it is now.” ’

‘Luck, ah know whirr ut uz nigh.’

‘ “It’s in an upstairs room at number twenty-two.” ’

‘Ut’s un an opstairs rum at number twenty-tow.’

Hood muttered the phrases to himself, then said, ‘I wish I could do that.’

‘If you could, I’d be out of a job,’ said McGravy. ‘Though there’s not a hell of a lot of work around. I do juves — boy parts. It’s my face. I’m thirty-one, but I’m cast as a teenager. If I’ve got this face at fifty I’ll still be doing juves and foreigners with funny accents. I’m not tall enough to play a real man. Who wouldn’t be a revolutionary?’

Hood smiled. ‘That sounds like your real voice.’

McGravy bent close to Hood and said, ‘Kill the bastards.’

‘Why are you whispering? Scared someone will hear you?’

McGravy sized him up, as if trying to decide whether the taunting question deserved a serious reply. After a moment he said, ‘There’s too much shouting.’

‘Are you afraid of that?’

‘Yes,’ said the actor. ‘Sometimes these people scare me more than the police.’

‘They’re safe,’ said Hood. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

‘Sure they do.’

‘Then why are you afraid?’

McGravy said, ‘Because they aren’t.’

‘When you said, “Kill the bastards” I thought you meant the police, the army, the politicians.’ He smiled at McGravy, ‘Now it turns out you want to snuff your friends.’

‘No,’ said McGravy. ‘I know who the enemy is.’

‘What happens if you fail?’

‘We fail.’ He spoke with equivocal emphasis, doubt and certainty subtly balanced, then he added, ‘You see, I’ve played in Macbeth. Fleance, naturally.’

‘It’s your funeral.’

McGravy shook his head. ‘It’s everyone’s fight.’

‘Not mine,’ said Hood. ‘I used to think that, but it’s pride that makes you think you can fight someone else’s battles — in Africa, Southeast Asia, here, wherever.’

‘Pride,’ said McGravy with a touch of sarcasm.

‘Yes, pride, because it’s their weakness that involves you. The illusion that you’re strong is pride. But when they discover how weak they are the only dignified thing they can do is kill you. Notice how often it happens — the Third World is a graveyard of idealists.’ Hood smiled. ‘I’m sympathetic — sympathy is a cowardly substitute for belief. No one dies for it, but if you believe —’

‘What do we have here?’ It was Araba. She had changed into faded tight, blue jeans and a jacket covered with patches. She posed next to McGravy and ruffled his hair. ‘I love his head — it reminds me of Lenin’s.’

McGravy ignored her. He turned to Hood and said, ‘I may see you again — maybe at the barricades.’

‘There aren’t any,’ said Hood. ‘So don’t wait for me.’ But he felt tender towards the man, and it was as if the actor was bearing the most fiery part of himself away: he believed; he might survive his belief.

Araba said, ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘Lorna,’ said Hood. ‘Score me another drink.’

Lorna hesitated.

‘Don’t do it, darling,’ said Araba, touching her on the arm.

Lorna went for the drink.