Дуглас Кеннеди - Five Days

‘We are all so absurd, aren’t we?’ I told Richard. ‘Always slouching towards some sort of Bethlehem where we hope to find a measure of peace within which we can act out our lives.’

‘“Slouching towards Bethlehem”. My dream was to fall in love with a woman who could quote Yeats. My dream came true.’

‘And you have fulfilled every dream imaginable for me.’

‘Even if you have no idea how I live my life? As in, I could be a complete slob.’

‘And so could I.’

‘I tend to doubt that,’ he said.

‘You’re right about that. And I would be very surprised to learn that you are all over the place when it comes to things domestic.’

‘Would that be a deal breaker for you?’

‘Nothing would change my love for you.’

‘That’s a dangerous statement. I mean, say I was part of some strange religious cult? Or if I was an amateur taxidermist?’

‘Your imaginative flair is impressive. But even if you were stuffing gerbils in your spare time—’

‘Gerbils?’ I said, laughing. ‘Why gerbils?’

‘They’ve always struck me as a profoundly useless rodent.’

‘And therefore worthy of taxidermy?’

‘So you do have a flair for the absurd.’

‘Like you, sir. Just like you.’

And he leaned over and kissed me.

We ate the dinner. We drank the champagne. We talked, talked, talked. I learned all about his childhood. How his father insisted on him joining the Boy Scouts and forced him to attend a military boarding school for two years — a hateful experience — and how he had a nervous breakdown after a few months and was sent home.

‘This is something I never discussed with anyone — and even never told Muriel about it. I was so ashamed of it all. But that place — it was like a prison camp. I begged my mother to talk Dad out of sending me there — that is, after my father refused to entertain my pleas that I was not military school material. But my mother never went against Dad’s rule of law. “You’ll just have to get through it,” was her statement to me. But I knew I simply wouldn’t get through it. Before Christmas rolled around, the endless drill formations and six a.m. reveries and the hazing and mean-spiritedness of the place finally did my head in. I was found by one of my fellow cadets, crying uncontrollably in a bathroom. Instead of getting help he ran off and got six other cadets. They gathered around me and began to taunt me. Calling me a sissy, a baby, all that wonderful macho American stuff which idiots in packs perpetrate against anyone who is perceived to be different or weak.’

‘You’re hardly a weak man,’ I said.

‘The truth is, I have always been weak when it has come to the voice of authority. Had I not been weak I would have stayed with Sarah. Had I not been weak I would have quit my father’s business years ago. Had I not been weak I would have left Muriel. ’

‘But you’re leaving her now. And you were leaving her even before I came into your life. Just as you started writing again — and you got the first new story you wrote in years published. All that sounds anything but weak to me.’

‘But I hate the fact that I was so compliant for years.’

‘You don’t think I hate myself for being equally acquiescing — especially when it came to making decisions that were counter-intuitive? Trust me, I am the poster girl for weakness and self-sabotage.’

‘But look at how you got your son through his breakdown. God knows I wish I’d had a parent like you when I went under.’

‘How did you get yourself out of it?’

‘I had no choice but to somehow shake it off. My father threatened me with a psychiatric hospital if I didn’t, as he put it, “snap out of it”. But we were talking about your strength. And you conveniently changed the subject.’

‘I still don’t think myself strong, forceful.’

‘You’ve never trusted yourself, right?’

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked, a little unnerved by the accuracy of this observation.

‘It takes a self-doubter to know a self-doubter. And I have wasted so much energy, so many years, thanks to my own profound lack of self-assurance, of any belief whatsoever in my ability. Just like you.’

‘But, hang on, at least you have a creative talent. Whereas I have nothing like that. I can shoot pictures of people’s insides, and that’s about it.’

‘And now I really do think you are engaging in the worst form of self-deprecation. You have hinted how all the radiologists you work with so rate you. And how you can usually work out a diagnosis at first sight of a pattern or shadow on a scan or X-ray.’

‘That’s just a certain technical know-how.’

‘No, sorry, that’s a talent. And it’s a talent that very few people possess. And one which you should salute yourself for having.’

‘It’s hardly creative.’

‘Define “creative”.’

‘Inventive, imaginative, visionary, inspired, talented, accomplished, artistic. ’

‘And how about original, ingenious, resourceful, clever, adept, adroit, skilled? You don’t think yourself adept, adroit, skilled?’

I just shrugged.

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”,’ he said. ‘You are creative at your work.’

‘I’ve not always been adept, adroit, skilled.’

‘I’m also sure you’ve never been told enough just how extraordinary you are.’

‘There’s a reason I’m in this room with you. There’s a reason I did something tonight I never thought I could actually do — sleep with another man while still married. The fact that I have fallen in love with you. that is to do with you, not my husband. But had there been a marriage still there — a sense of shared destiny, of love and support, of proper intimacy, everything you mentioned before — I would not be here. But I am so happy to be here. Because I never thought this possible for me. Because you too are extraordinary.’

‘Extraordinary? Me?’ He shook his head. ‘I am vin ordinaire. All right, I know a thing or two about words. I have written two published works of very short fiction. And I still like to lose myself in the Republic of Letters. But beyond that. I am a fifty-five-year-old man who sells insurance.’

‘And you accuse me of self-abasement? You are an amazing conversationalist. You have a fantastic take on what can be broadly described as life and art. You have passion — which, trust me, is something you don’t bump into every day. And that passion. well, the biggest surprise was. ’

Restraint and modesty suddenly took charge of my vocal cords. But, to my surprise, I shook them off and said, in a near-whisper:

‘I have never made love like that before.’

Richard reached for my hand, entwining his fingers within mine.

‘Nor have I,’ he said. ‘Never.’

‘Pure love.’

‘Yes. Pure love.’

‘And making love when you are madly in love. ’

‘. is sublime.’

‘Kiss me.’

Moments later we were back in bed. This time the passion built so slowly, so acutely, that the final release had me blindsided by its intensity and its immense amorousness. Pure love. With a magnitude and a benevolence that was so intoxicating, so potent, so enabling. As we were clinging to each other afterward Richard whispered:

‘I’m never letting you go. Never.’

‘I’ll hold you to that. Because — and this is another first for me — I actually think everything is possible now.’

‘It is. Absolutely, totally possible.’

‘But when you’ve lived for years without that belief. ’

‘That’s behind us now.’

And we talked on about how we had both, in our own distinct ways, given up on the notion of change; how romantic hope was a concept we had both dismissed as outside the possibility of future experience; and how now.