Джон Бойн - A Ladder to the Sky

When my mother broke her arm slipping on some ice, we decided to go to my family after all, instead of yours, for Christmas and I got the impression that you were relieved about that. Although I knew that your parents had never particularly liked me – your mother blamed our miscarriages on my writing, telling you time and again that you should not ‘let’ me work, while your father refused to accept that I was English, insisting that my skin colour meant I was an immigrant, regardless of the fact that I was born in Hackney – I was willing to put up with their outdated gender stereotypes and casual racism if it meant not having to be around my sister. But eventually my conscience got the better of me and I knew that I couldn’t leave my mother to cater for herself, Rebecca and the boys without some help, particularly when I had barely seen her since September.

The smell of pigeon peas, plantain, cush cush and candied yams that drifted through the air brought me instantly back to my childhood. My parents had arrived in England from the Caribbean in the early 1960s and, when we were kids, the whole family returned there once every couple of years to see the relatives they’d left behind. I felt out of place there, though, more at home in England, which was the only home I’d ever known, despite the fact that the children in school, and even some of the teachers, had no hesitation in using racial epithets against me.

We went into the living room with glasses of wine and I made my way over to the shelf by Mum’s reading chair, where she kept her library books, and as I scanned the titles I was surprised to see a copy of The City and the Pillar by Gore Vidal.

‘Look,’ I said, holding up the cover, and you glanced over and smiled.

‘I wouldn’t have thought that was your sort of thing, Amoya,’ you said, turning to my mother. ‘All that boy-on-boy action.’

‘Well, I didn’t realize that it would be so full of sex when I borrowed it,’ she replied. ‘But I’m rather enjoying all the rudeness. Now that Henry’s gone, reading about sex is the closest I ever get to it. Speaking of which, you know that Rebecca is bringing Arjan with her, yes?’

‘I didn’t know it for a fact,’ I replied. ‘But I guessed she would. Have you met him yet?’

‘I have,’ she replied cautiously, for she loved Robert just as much as I did and didn’t want to appear disloyal. ‘It’s very difficult to know what to say, isn’t it? None of this is his fault, after all, and he does seem like a very nice man.’

‘Where’s he from?’ you asked, for you hadn’t come with me the day I’d visited him and Rebecca and had shown scant interest in him in the meantime. ‘India or somewhere?’

‘Eastern Europe, I think. Latvia or Estonia. One of those places.’

‘And what does he do?’

‘He’s an actor. Or trying to be. He’s younger than Rebecca, though, which should come as no surprise. And very good-looking.’

‘Well, if you’re going to cheat on your husband and then leave him,’ you said, ‘I suppose there’s no point doing it for someone old and ugly.’

Afterwards, we all tried to blame the argument on what Mum delicately referred to as Arjan’s not quite perfect grasp of English, but of course there was much more to it than that.

Rebecca, Arjan and the boys arrived laden with Christmas presents. Too many, I thought, as if she was trying to prove something through her generosity. Damien and Edward both had new phones, which seemed ridiculous, considering they were only nine and seven years old, and she had bought me one of my favourite perfumes but had forgotten to remove the Heathrow duty-free sticker from beneath the box.

‘If I’m honest,’ said my sister, sitting back in the armchair with a glass of champagne, ‘I would have preferred to stay at home this year instead of coming here.’

‘Well, you could still go back,’ I told her. ‘The roads will be quiet at this time of day and we could always do you up a doggy-bag.’

‘My schedule has been simply crazy,’ she continued, ignoring me. ‘Two weeks ago, I was actually in three different countries over three different days. Absolutely exhausting.’

‘Which countries?’ I asked. ‘England, Scotland and Wales?’

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘England, France and Italy, if you really want to know.’

‘I’m not sure England counts, dear,’ said Mum. ‘I mean, you do live here, after all.’

‘Of course it counts. It’s a country, isn’t it?’

‘So, tell us a little about yourself, Arjan,’ you said, turning to him, and I could see that you were uncertain whether to be on his side yet or not. He was ten years younger than my sister, who had only recently turned thirty-eight, and very handsome with a muscular frame and beautiful skin. Of course, that also made him six years younger than you.

‘What would you like to know?’ he asked politely.

‘You want to be an actor, is that right?’

‘Oh no,’ said Arjan, shaking his head.

‘That’s what we were told.’

‘I don’t want to be an actor,’ he said. ‘I am an actor.’

‘Right,’ you said. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ve been acting all my adult life.’

‘And are you in something at the moment?’

‘Not right now, no.’

‘Resting, I suppose,’ you said, nodding your head. ‘I hear a lot of actors do that. Well, it’s not as if you have to wait on tables, is it? Not with the money Rebecca earns.’

‘Actually, I don’t take any money from Rebecca,’ he replied with a certain dignity. ‘I get enough work to pay my way.’

‘Arjan has just been cast in a major new television series,’ said Rebecca. ‘He’s going to play a serial rapist who dismembers his victims afterwards and dines on their internal organs. So who knows where that will lead?’

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to work in film or the theatre?’ you asked, an edge coming into your tone now.

‘I’m happy to take whatever work comes my way,’ said Arjan, taking no obvious offence from your condescension. ‘Maybe I’ll get some film work in the future but that doesn’t happen for everyone. As long as I get to keep acting, I don’t mind.’

‘Yes, but I’m sure you didn’t grow up hoping to be a serial rapist. It’s not exactly Shakespeare, is it?’

‘Anthony Hopkins played something like that in The Silence of the Lambs , didn’t he?’ I asked. ‘And he won an Oscar for it. What was he called again?’

‘Hannibal Lecter,’ said Mum. ‘Hannibal the Cannibal.’

‘I couldn’t sleep after watching that,’ said Rebecca with a shudder.

‘Actually, I played Laertes for six months once,’ said Arjan.

‘Really?’ you replied, raising an eyebrow as if you didn’t believe him. ‘In whose Hamlet?’

Arjan frowned, clearly confused by the question. ‘Shakespeare’s,’ he said.

‘No, I meant who played Hamlet?’ you said with a derisive sigh, and when he named the actor you shook your head and claimed that you’d never heard of him, even though I knew you had. We’d watched him in a mini-series not so long before and both thought he was rather good.

‘I’ve done some other classical theatre too,’ said Arjan. ‘I played Perkin Warbeck at the Royal Exchange, Manchester, and Bonario in Volpone at the Edinburgh Festival. And last year I played McCann in The Birthday Party , although I didn’t get great reviews for that.’

‘Oh yes?’ you asked, smirking. ‘Why was that?’

‘The critics said I was too young for the part. It’s meant for a much older man. Someone your age, I think.’

I was taking a drink of my wine when he said this and almost snorted it out when I saw the expression on your face.