Эдвард Докс - Pravda ['Self Help' in the UK]

“I do not understand you at all.”

“I do not ask you to.”

She turned to him and searched his face. This was it—at last, this was it: the real questions behind all the other questions.

“Why—in God’s name, why did you cheat on her so… so openly, for so long, and with such contempt? Why torture her? How do you think that made her feel?”

“I tried not—”

“And why cheat on us? We could never trust you. Do you have any idea how it feels for a child to know that her father is fucking every man and woman who comes through the front door?”

“Yes, I have a very good idea of how that feels.”

“Then all the more so—why? I knew. Gabriel knew. Dad, you had people—you had lovers to the house. You rubbed our noses in your… your… your—”

“I could not leave. I had made a deal. I had made a commitment to your father, to Ma—”

“Rubbish. You could’ve left. You could have worked it out with Grandpa—with Max. Left for good. Properly. Split up. Gone. We could have visited you at weekends or whatever. You could’ve spared Mum—you could’ve spared us all—the torture of having to know you and… and witness. You wanted an audience.”

His eyes held hers.

She did not look away.

“Isabella, I cannot explain any of this, least of all to you.” “Why not? I would say that it is specifically to me that you owe an explanation.”

“Because the answer is not rational.”

“But only a moment ago you said that I was the queen of the emotional high seas, that—”

“Because—” His voice raised, he cut her short. “Because you are who you are—my daughter, in every important way.” He looked away, then softened, speaking again to the river. “And if I even begin to attempt to explain myself to you, it will only make you… only make you dislike me all the more. No child likes to hear of her parents’ true lives.”

But she was mesmerized by the moment. And involuntarily, her hand reached sharply for his sleeve, as if to grasp hold of something within her father that she had not seen or touched before.

“For Christ’s sake, Dad, please stop. Stop shielding me. Stop acting for me. Stop trying to control everything. Let me decide. Let me know. Let me deal with whatever I have to deal with. It is not for you to worry about me—if that is what this is.”

“You sound like Gabriel’s bloody magazine.”

“Forget that I am who I am. Forget that we are who we are. Forget everything. Just try to tell me the truth, as one person to another. A stranger, if it helps.”

“Clever of you to understand that strangers help. Your mother saw that too.” Nicholas sucked his crooked teeth, then turned to face her again. “Very well.” He drew his cane toward him so that his chin was almost resting on his hands and half turned, speaking into the space between them. “All my life, for reasons that I do not know, Isabella, I have wanted—no, I have needed —the intimate company of other human beings. Dear God, believe me, I have thought that it was psychosis, I have thought that it was insecurity, I have thought it was loneliness, madness, vanity, selfishness, lust, anger, depression… And it’s all of these things, I admit it. I admit it to you—as surely as those idiots on that boat would admit that they wished they had paid the extra for the headphones instead of pretending to themselves that they can speak French. But more than any of these, much more, it’s actually to do with feeling alive. And I can say that now and really mean what I am saying.” He inhaled heavily through his nose, as if to emphasize how much he had come to value every breath. “This fact your mother understood. Intuitively. Yes, it is to do with feeling life’s only meaning close up. You know—the chaff and chatter all stripped away, the naked beauty of creation right there and present and real. Action and reaction, the body and the mind, offer and response. Where words end and even freedom itself flags, that’s where the act of love begins. And I know, of course I know, that for some people—for most people—a single other is enough, is all they want, is satisfaction. But for me—for me, not so. Again, your mother understood this. And there was shelter in her understanding. And I loved her for it. I never wanted ease or comfort or familiarity or affirmation or the certainty that bills would be paid and children fed. I did not want any of life’s kindly smothering disguises. I could not be contented like that.” His voice strengthened, and he raised his head as if to address the river itself. “No, I wanted life naked and truthful, and I wanted to gaze upon its revealed face over and over again by the changing light of a hundred different souls. I wanted to feel its brutality, its gentleness, its recklessness, its caution, its power and its weakness, its give and its take. I wanted to fix it in my arms and see it shining in every pair of eyes I lay with. I can’t play the violin or—Christ knows—paint, I really cannot paint, Isabella; I can’t write; and I have neither the hands to work the land with nor the obsequiousness required for any kind of office. I can’t teach or heal or make.” He seemed to wince against some new pain. “Forgive me, Isabella, but the act of love was—is—as close as I could get to life’s disappearing quiddity. I was born that way. Or I became that way. Born or made—who knows? You can answer that question better than I. But every nerve of mine asks me to it again and again. Even now, it is what forces me to take each one of these tortured steps. For me, it is life.”

Isabella was silent awhile. The river ran on.

“And yet, Dad, there are some lies still, even in what you’ve just said. Because you did have the bills paid, you did have security. Okay, we never had much money, I know that, but—”

“Some lies too.” Nicholas interrupted her quietly. “Always some lies. The salt.”

“But in fact,” Isabella continued, ignoring him, “you never had to worry about feeding or clothing your children. Our true father saw to that. If we’d only known the real reason he was giving you money. We both thought he was just being a nice grandpa! Christ, did you ever have any of your own, Dad? Was it all his? I bet Mum paid for our summer holidays with the money she earned. But how did you fund all those trips abroad that none of us went on?”

Nicholas said nothing. And suddenly she was empty and tired and she wanted desperately to leave him. To go, swiftly, directly. To Russia. She turned away. “Do you have anyone? Apart from Alessandro.”

“I have lots of friends here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“There is a woman—Chloe—whom I would like you to meet…” He hesitated. “If we are to become friends again.”

“Is that what you want?” she asked. She felt his eyes on the side of her face.

“I would like it if we could see each other from time to time. Continue this conversation.”

“I don’t know if I can ever have this conversation with you again. I’m sorry, Dad.” She looked at him again but could not meet his eyes anymore. “You’re right. I am your daughter. Maybe not born but made so. And I can’t suddenly be your friend and… and everything. Not just like that.”

“I do not expect anything to be quick. But let’s at least admit that we find each other interesting company, if nothing more.” He tapped his cane. “Where are you staying?”

“No. I am not staying. I’m going home this evening. Back to London with Gabriel.”

“What about Christmas?”

“We are ignoring Christmas. We are going to Petersburg. We’ll have Russian Christmas in January.”