Joseph O'Neill - Netherland

Not that long ago, at yet another gathering of familiars, our host, an old friend of Rachel’s named Matt, makes some remarks about Tony Blair and his catastrophic association with George W. Bush, whom Matt describes as the embodiment of a distinctly American strain of stupidity and fear. On this side of the Atlantic, this is a commonplace judgment, so commonplace, in fact, as to be of no real interest; but then the conversation strays in a direction that’s rare these days, to the events synonymous with September 11, 2001. “Not such a big deal,” Matt suggests, “when you think of everything that’s happened since.”

He is referring to the numbers of Iraqi dead, and as a matter of arithmetic I understand his argument, indeed must admit it. He refers also to the dark amazement with which he and, if my impression is correct, most of the rest of the world have followed the various doings of this American administration, and on this score I again have not the slightest urge to contradict him. I speak up nonetheless.

“I think it was a big deal,” I say, interrupting whatever somebody is saying.

Matt looks at me for the first time that evening. It’s an awkward moment, because I look right back at him.

Rachel says unexpectedly, “He was there, Matt.”

Out of the best of intentions and acting as my loyal wife and Englisher, she wants to accord me a privileged standing — that of survivor and eyewitness. I’d feel dishonest to accept it. I’ve heard it said that the indiscriminate nature of the attack transformed all of us on that island into victims of attempted murder, but I’m not at all sure that geographic proximity to the catastrophe confers this status on me or anybody else. Let’s not forget that when it all happened I was a rubbernecker in Midtown, watching the same television images I’d have watched in Madagascar. I knew only three of the dead, and then only slightly (though well enough, in one case, to recognize his widow and his son playing in the sandpit at Bleecker Playground). And while it’s true that my family was displaced for a while, so what? If ever, out of a wish to appear more interesting or simply to make conversation, I’m tempted to place myself closer to those events — and, perhaps because I work in the financial world and am easily to be imagined in a high tower, some people have assumed I was closer to them — I only have to think of the waving little figures who were visible for a while and then not.

I say, “That’s not my point. I’m just saying, it was a big deal.”

“Well, of course,” Matt says, his tone marking me out as a nitpicker. “I’m not arguing with that.”

“Good,” I say, with as much abruptness as the situation allows. “So we’re in agreement.”

Matt makes a pleasantly concessionary face. Someone else picks up the chatter, and everything goes back to normal. However, I notice Matt leaning over and out of the corner of his mouth muttering to his neighbor, who mutters back. There is a secretive exchange of smiles.

For some reason, I’m filled with rage.

I lean over to Rachel. I gesture with my eyes, Let’s go.

Rachel has not followed what has happened. She looks surprised when I stand up and put on my jacket. It’s a surprise for all, since we have not finished our roast chicken.

“Come on, Hans, sit down,” Matt says. “Rachel, talk to him.”

Rachel looks at her old friend and then at me. She stands up. “Oh, piss off, Matt,” she says, and waves good-bye to everyone. It is quite a shocking moment, in the scheme of things, and of course exhilarating. When we step out together into the wet street, holding hands, there is a tang of glory in the air.

Gratifyingly, Rachel doesn’t ask me what exactly transpired. But in the taxi home, there’s an epilogue of sorts: my wife, mooning out of the window at rainy Regent’s Park, says, “God, do you remember those sirens?” and, still looking away, she reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

Strange, how such a moment grows in value over a marriage’s course. We gratefully pocket each of them, these sidewalk pennies, and run with them to the bank as if creditors were banging on the door. Which they are, one comes to realize.

Which brings me back to Blackfriars: Cardozo wishes to have that most British conversation about getting away to foreign parts, or so it seems as we discuss his imminent romantic weekend in Lisbon, where Cardozo’s ancestors lived and, according to Cardozo legend, in their capacity as mastic importers ran into Columbus himself. Then, with shadows creeping up to us from across the street, Cardozo says, “I’m going to ask Pippa to marry me. In Lisbon.”

I raise my glass of black beer. “That’s wonderful,” I say.

Toasting Cardozo’s matrimonial future, we each take a sip and renew our watch over the vehicles grunting toward Blackfriars Bridge. There are pedestrians to keep an eye on, too, hundreds of them, all trotting downhill to the train station.

“Any advice?” Cardozo says. I see that he is wearing a candid expression.

“About what?” I ask.

“All of it. The whole marriage deal.”

He’s not an idiot, Cardozo. He’s heard through the grapevine that my wife and I have been around the old block, and he thinks that maybe I can be the Dopester in this regard, too — in the matter, that is, of what lies around the old corner.

I wrinkle my mouth and give my head a wobble of difficulty. I am able to say, “You’re sure this is what you want?”

“Pretty sure,” Cardozo admits.

“Well, I was pretty sure, too,” I say.

Cardozo looks at me as if I’ve said something important. “But what about now?” he presses. “What do you think now?”

I feel a great responsibility toward my inquirer, who is twenty-nine years old but gives the impression at this moment of being a very young man indeed. I recall Socrates’ unhelpful advice to his young friend—“By all means, get married. For either you will end up happy, or you will become a philosopher”—and feel that I, by contrast, ought to be able to pass on a practical tip or two of the sort that I myself might have benefited from, the kind of lowdown you would readily give a voyager bound for a corner of, say, the Congo that you’ve visited yourself and about whose drinking water and mosquitoes you have gained some costly knowledge. But of course things are more complicated than that, and the notion of married life as analogous to life in the Congo is simply unintelligent. This particular voyager, Cardozo, will be setting forth from Lisbon, a city which, perhaps because I have never been there, I have always associated with departures into the ocean and dreadful and beautiful extra-European adventures. So I am full of goodwill for my youngish mariner friend, but I have nothing precise to tell him — by which I mean, nothing that might not be construed as discouraging. And this is the one thing I feel sure about, that I am under a duty to not discourage; and I am visited by a shiver, because it seems I have truly crossed into what one might call the largely exemplary stage of life, which may be a slightly tragic term for adulthood, and I must make an effort, on the sunny and shadowy pavement, to not feel a little sorry for myself as I inwardly wave Cardozo bon voyage.

Meanwhile he is still expecting me to speak. So I speak. I say, “What do I think now? I think I have no regrets. None at all.”

Cardozo, I see, is considering this statement very seriously. I take the opportunity to finish my beer and make my move. We split, Cardozo heading for the Tube to Sloane Square, I going on foot to Waterloo Bridge and from there to the London Eye, where on this fine July evening I have arranged to meet my son and my wife.

One Sunday morning, back in June, Rachel calls down from the storage room. She has been performing a thorough cleaning. If in doubt, throw it out, is Rachel’s slogan in such situations.