Joanna Kavenna - Inglorious

‘I understand you are sated with turmoil. You have run the gamut. Your spirit is almost dead. And you were clinging to something that had died a long time ago,’ Grace said. ‘You were shattered, mourning your mother. You weren’t in a state to be courageous. You still aren’t. But your relationship was dead. You knew that. I could see it, as soon as I saw you and Liam together. And I know you want Liam to be happy. He is, he really is happy. He suffered for so long, living with you.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Rosa. ‘That’s fine. Vade in Pace.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Grace.

‘Enjoy yourselves. Why not?’

‘We have to meet and talk this through.’

‘Ughghu?’ said Rosa.

‘By the end he was a counsellor for you, not a lover,’ said Grace. ‘And he’s a young, beautiful man. You wouldn’t want him to imprison himself in a moribund relationship?’

‘Dear Grace, we are all in a moribund relationship with something.’

‘Well, that’s precisely the sort of remark which makes me understand what Liam means.’

‘Means about what?’

As a concession, Grace pretended to stutter. That was a feint; she was so far from being awkward that it was a holiday humour for her. ‘Say what you like now, I understand it’s hard for you,’ said Grace. ‘But you must keep articulating. We must keep the lines of communication open.’

That made Rosa flush with a renewed sense of humiliation, and then she said, ‘Shugugug’, and put down the phone. Unplugged the phone, ripped out the cord, and explained it to Jess later.

Things to do, Monday

Get a job

Wash your clothes

Clean the kitchen

Phone Liam and ask about the furniture.

Buy some tuna and spaghetti

Go to the bank and beg them for an extension — more money, more time to pay back the rest of your debt

Read the comedies of Shakespeare, the works of Proust, the plays of Racine and Corneille and The Man Without

Qualities

Read The Golden Bough, The Nag-Hammadi Gospels, The Upanishads, The Koran, The Bible, The Tao, the complete works of E. A. Wallis Budge

Read Plato, Aristotle, Confucius, Bacon, Locke, Rousseau, Wollstonecraft, Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard,

Nietzsche, and the rest

Hoover the living room

Clean the toilet

Distinguish the various philosophies of the way

Clean the bath

Now she stirred and walked along again. Rosa, a handsome woman, if thinner of late and a little pale, was turning the corner, heading for the bank. Still she heard the sounds of the street. She was thinking, as she always tried to, about the day ahead. It was clear to her that she had to be more dynamic. Action was required to scoop herself up, avert the slough. She had a list in her head of things to do. She was telling herself there was a lot to be cheerful about. This was a positive thinking exercise someone had told her to do, one of those benevolent quacks she had been seeing. She was thinking how good it was that the sun might shine and how lucky she was that she was still fit, though she had been dizzy recently and suffered from headaches. Stress, she assumed. The decline of her faculties, the clash of warring theories eroding at her cortex, the human condition! Yet even now, she wasn’t down and out, not destitute at all. There was no reason to cave in yet. The earth hadn’t yet exploded in a ball of plasma. There had been no catastrophes, no meteorite showers, nothing that immediately threatened the existence of the species. She had not been productive recently, but she was sure the dam would burst. It was late in the day, but not too late. She still had a bed to sleep in, though Jess had recently stopped talking to her. That was a shame, but she was sure she could claw it all back.

She was moving through the furtive morning of the city, saturated clouds hanging over the high-rise buildings, human currents coursing along the streets. It was winter and dawn came later by the day. She was outside a burger bar, chrome seats housed in an art deco building. She noticed bricks and fluting; at her side she found a row of shops — a jewellers, an Indian Fusion shop, a Chinese medicine shop, Middle Eastern restaurants, a Plant Essences House, whatever that was, a shop advertising BIG BIG SAVINGS! She stamped her feet as she walked and kicked up dust. The pavement was spotted with litter. The post office had been closed down, said a sign. It was being turned into luxury flats. She nodded and passed under a red canopy which was fluttering in the wind. Very deep is the well of the past. Shall we not call it bottomless? and then she thought, That hardly helps. She had been living in untruth, that much was true. Yes, yes, elegant as anything, your thoughts. The untruth of the true. The truth of the untrue, discuss, with reference to some philosophers you have been taught to trust! She was one of those that can bear no grief and desire but to bathe in bliss. That was a quote, though she couldn’t remember the source. She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, said to herself, One who has no god, as they walk along the street headache envelops them like a garment. Did it have to be so melancholy? Since sadness had got such purchase on her, how could she bash it away without developing her illusions again? To live free from illusions, but content. Impossible! she said, aloud. Insane! Now a shop grill rattled up behind her. A man passed her, with a dog at his side. Then there was an early morning pensioner, dragging a bag on wheels. She passed a renovated church, sandblasted, and in a garden she saw a forest of miniature trees. A line of cars crept past her and she stood at a crossing, wondering whether she should walk or wait for the lights to change.

She saw spray-painted letters spelling TEMP — she had been seeing this around for months. A lonely word, splashed on bridges; she had once seen it on the side of a train, blurred by speed. TEMP — a cry from the secretarial classes, or those who worked in the constant peril of a short-term contract, she thought, passing it by. Or an unfinished word: Tempo, Tempus fugit, like a warning, or an elegy, temps perdu . It seemed to be important, but she wasn’t sure. She felt it was a hint, something she should try to follow. She saw the trains snorting towards Paddington, their noses on the tracks. She understood that everything was accelerating. She had thought that diving out of the office would make the days go slower, but it seemed like they were speeding up, racing towards a conclusion she couldn’t anticipate. She saw things in quick-step, like an old-fashioned film played on modern equipment. Quick march Rosa went, along the street, as if there was a prize for getting to the bank first. She skirted round the news-stand and started running under the bridge. The cars pounded above her. A car honked and she crossed and waved a hand.

As she walked she thought that she must definitely wash her clothes. And clean the kitchen. She should certainly — today, having failed to do so yesterday — call up Liam and ask about the furniture. It would help if he sold it, or gave her the money. She should call Kersti — though Kersti was sometimes frosty, if you caught her at the wrong time. But before, Kersti had offered to help; Kersti who was a lawyer had said she would write a legal-sounding letter to Liam. Dear Mr Peters, Our client Rosa Lane expects the return of her furniture or a financial agreement. Failure to comply will result in another such letter, phrased in a more baroque dialect. Then we will whirl you into the abyss of legalese. As well as that she should really get a job. That was clearly a priority. Reading History of Western Philosophy was not immediately necessary, but it might help her with the basics. There was much she had to read, but she also had to buy some tuna and spaghetti. Sit down with Jess. The bank — she had been putting that off for days, but a quick personal appearance might still win them round. Shakespeare, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and sundry others — if she had time. Hoover the living room and most important of all — clean the bath and toilet. And now she really had to write to Whitchurch. She felt bad now, that she hadn’t apologised. She should have thanked her. Though for what, precisely? The beer, the consolatory shandy? That had been kind, the carrion hunting vulture. She thought of calling her up. Hi, Sandra, sorry to bother you at work. How are you? I wanted to call to say I’m very grateful for all your kindness. Let’s meet again soon. She thought of Whitchurch in her office, biting her pencil, totting up accounts. Truly, she was blameless. Dear Sandra. Great to see you. Thanks so much. Thanks so very much. Soon you’ll be ashes, or bones. Yours, Rosa . If she had an hour before bedtime she could consider the lilies, sort through her papers and phone her father. Now she could hear the sound of birds singing. They were perched on the branches of the trees, and for a moment she thought how beautiful. The colours were pristine in the morning — the cold white sky, the white buildings dappled with sunshine. Everything was scrubbed and pure, the streets were clean.