Thomas Maloney - Learning to Die

That evening, while taking a satisfied stroll along the canal, hands in pockets, quite by accident but with deific precision, he steps on a snail.

James F. Saunders is taking his mind off Brenda’s physicality with some composition exercises. He’s a stylist. Not in the hairdressing sense, although he did try that once, briefly, with the idea that a secular confessor might gather a rich crop of material from his customers. No, James is a prose stylist — his novel is never going to be described as rollicking.

King Edward’s was rare among state schools in offering Latin through to A-Level. James relishes the dead language spoken, for its precise, merciless exertion of tongue, teeth and lips, but even more he delights in its glinting density on the page. A conventional English paragraph, by comparison, is spattered with ugly little words that say nothing much — pronouns, conjunctions, articles. If English could be rendered down to a comparable density, might it not answer Latin’s mineral glint with something glistening, urgent, wet with life?

It’s not only the little words that have to go. Punctuation is like a disease on the skin of the language, a nasty, nannying obsession of amateurs and minnow-minded school-teachers. On this point James agrees with his great Irish namesake, the writer he calls the Exile and whose faded bespectacled photograph, cut from the TLS a decade ago, is still tacked to his wardrobe door: perverted commas can have no place in his dialogue.

Then there is the question of voice, of seamlessly reconciling authorial omniscience and the immediacy of character; his whole armoury of means and devices must be smoothly confluent with the course of the narrative, the whole sliding inexorably towards its crisis as a river to the sea.

Flawed world, James types, flawless apple. Glossy anomaly, turn you over yes unblemished skin a Monet sky, spotless bruiseless, flesh like crisp snow: temptation to believe in fated love. Minutes later, acid taste lingering, exposed core browning. True love: false love.

The cursor blinks. He nods. Adds a mark to a long tally he’s made on a library ticket. Deletes. Tries again.

‘I have a story for you. Just to remind a married man what he’s missing.’

Dan Mock rolls his eyes. ‘Go on, then.’ He looks forward to these meetings, which alternate between London and Reading. This cosy pub in Little Venice, a short walk from Mike’s flat, is a favourite rendezvous.

‘So it’s like this,’ begins Mike, in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘I have a date, name of Victoria, who’s a friend of a friend of Pete’s. I’ve got tickets for Betrayal , and we’re supposed to meet in the foyer, and then have dinner afterwards. Problem is, she doesn’t show. Doesn’t answer her phone. These are great tickets, and I don’t want to waste them. What do I do?’

‘Phone a friend?’ suggests Dan.

‘No time for that — it starts in five minutes. So I go outside and call out, “One free ticket for the performance starting now! Best seat in the house! Only catch is that you have to sit next to me!” It takes a few goes, but eventually there’s a taker. She’s an older woman, forty, maybe, but—’

‘—strangely attractive,’ contributes Dan, setting down his pint.

‘Not only that, but she’s the kind of woman I’m drawn to. Spirited. Says her name is Carmen. Intense, spirited women are, as you know, my passion. So we’re watching the play, and just before the interval I get a text from Victoria: Mike, so sorry, bath overflowed, disaster, missed your calls on the tube. At the theatre now. Hope we can still hook up. Call me. ’

‘For a minute I’m flummoxed, thinking of Victoria in the bath and not much else, but then the way ahead emerges with perfect clarity. At the interval, Carmen and I battle our way to the foyer and find her — Victoria — looking contrite and stunning. I explain the whole situation to both of them, and insist they watch the second half together while I wait in the bar.’ Dan frowns.

‘It’s the only way you could fulfil your obligations as a gentleman.’

‘Precisely. Anyway, it turns out the two girls get on like a theatre on fire. Afterwards, Carmen thanks us graciously and wishes us a good evening, but Vic’s having none of that, and invites her along to dinner. Of course, I’ve already changed the booking to three.’

‘I must be a mind-reader, because I can see where this is going.’

‘It is going there, but wait for the punch-line. Carmen turns out to be a sculptor, and I mention that I own a few pieces myself, and somehow we all agree to go back to my flat for a drink. We’ve already worked through a couple of bottles by now.’

‘I’ve definitely seen this one,’ says Dan. ‘While you’re making the drinks, the girls start getting friendly on the sofa. There’s a close-up shot of the glasses filling, and then the camera focus shifts to nascent frolics in the background.’

‘I kid you not,’ protests Mike. ‘That’s how it is. I guess they’re fired up by the play and the wine, impressed by my pad, whatever. Things are progressing pretty rapidly and I’m just rolling with it. We’re more than halfway around the bases, and I’m like this—’ he gestures with both his hands ‘—and they’re like this and like this, when the doorbell rings.’

‘You ignore it.’

‘Of course I do. But then I hear a key in the door.’

‘Who’s got a key?’

‘My fucking mother, that’s who! I’d left a set at her house months ago, when I was on holiday and she wanted a stopover in town. “Michael,” she calls softly. “Are you still up?” I’m up, alright. We all start to tidy ourselves sharpish, but within seconds there she is. I make introductions. The girls think it’s hilarious, of course. “I’m afraid I’ve been out on a jolly,” Mum says. “I would have called ahead but my phone died.” Her phone is always dying. She might guess the lie of the land but doesn’t let on, and before I know it the three of them are hooting with laughter.’

‘And then what?’

‘I went to bed. The sight of my dolled-up mother meant I wasn’t even capable of having a wank to let off steam.’

‘And now?’

‘We’re all Facebook friends. I don’t think I could see either of them without thinking of Mum. I’ve moved on to new pastures.’ He wags a finger at Dan’s tolerant smile. ‘Don’t even think of disapproving.’

He rises, clothes-pegging the empty glasses with finger and thumb, then leans and adds in a murmur, ‘Here’s a paradox of sorts. I savour each new girl, each conquest if you want to call them that, the act itself, its — its unique aesthetic details, for weeks or months afterwards. Years, in some cases. I’m a savourer, an appreciator, a connoisseur. And yet at the same time, I struggle to muster enthusiasm for a repeat performance with a girl I’ve been seeing for a month. God knows how you play the game to your rules. When I get back, you can tell me.’

Dan, watching his friend saunter to the bar, feels a blend of pity and envy characteristic of their alliance. Town mouse and country mouse. Fox and hedgehog. Tortoise and hare. Perhaps it’s just as well Mike keeps his liaisons short and shallow. As far as Dan can tell, he’s always respected his philandering and hapless father more than the formidable mother who funded his education. An appreciator? Of X, yes — of half of what life has to offer — but not of Y, not of the whole equation.

Dan feels comfortable defending his own position. His marriage is not a whirlwind of passion, and he has the potential Achilles heel that Natalie was his first and only. But he’s considered this many times: his reward is something finer, a complex, maturing bond of which Mike, for all his japes, knows nothing. Not X, not Mike’s territory, but Y. Right?