David Szalay - All That Man Is

He is still looking at himself in the mirror. At his monstrously enlarged face, his partially shaved head. At the overall patheticness of the figure he presents.

Those words again.

Amemus eterna et non peritura .

Pomposa.

Memories of the hour or so he spent there materialise in his mind. It is almost disconcerting, the way they are just suddenly there. Walking through the plain spaces of the abbey. The inscription in the porch: Amemus eterna et non peritura . And the thoughts he had while waiting for his soup, his minestra di fagioli , and staring through the window at the still, winter day outside, winter daylight on leafless trees.

So what is eternal?

Nothing, that’s the problem. Nothing on earth. Not the earth itself. Not the sun. Not the stars in the night sky.

Everything has an end.

Everything.

We know that now.

Joanna drives him home in a car provided by the insurance company. She has already sorted all that out.

He had so looked forward to leaving the hospital. On the drive home, however, his spirits are low. He isn’t sure, now, what he was looking forward to. It is snowing lightly, ineffectually. Small flakes that won’t settle, that melt as soon as they touch anything.

They arrive at the house.

They stopped at the Lidl in Argenta first and they take the shopping in, Joanna doing the heavy lifting.

‘That damp patch needs seeing to,’ she says.

‘Yes.’

‘And you know that we have mice?’

‘Yes.’

They sit down to have lunch together. It is strange, them being here together like this, in this house. It has been many years since it was just the two of them, here.

‘I have to leave tomorrow,’ Joanna says.

‘Okay.’

‘I spoke to Cordelia,’ she tells him. ‘She’s going to come and stay with you for a while. A week, she said she might be able to manage.’

He tries not to show how pleased he is. ‘That really isn’t necessary.’

‘I don’t think you should be on your own.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘She’s already got her plane ticket, Tony.’

‘Well, it’s very kind of her.’

Joanna says, picking at potato salad, ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay longer myself.’

He sort of waves that away with his fork.

They eat, for a minute or two, in silence.

‘It’s a shame about the Passat,’ he says, obviously perked up by the news about Cordelia.

‘Oh, come on, it was ancient. It was time to junk it, anyway.’

‘I liked it.’

‘So did I,’ Joanna says.

‘Remember we used to drive down in it?’

‘Of course.’

‘That was fun.’

She says, pouring herself some more wine, and in a tone which is almost drily flirtatious, ‘It had its moments.’

They used to drive down in the Passat — and before that in an old Volvo 740 — down through France, through the Mont Blanc tunnel and out through the Valle d’Aosta into Piedmont, the shimmer of Lombardy. He always particularly loved driving through the Valle d’Aosta — the drama of the valley, and the way that heightened the sense you had there of passing from northern to southern Europe.

How wonderful those long drives seem now. Thinking about them makes something ache in him.

Memories of fresh damp air.

He has a sip of wine. Notices that his hand is shaking.

Anyway, that all stopped when the Passat was domiciled in Argenta, about twelve years ago. It was already fairly old then.

Joanna is telling him something: ‘Cordelia’s going to help you find a new car, she says.’

‘Is she?’ he asks.

It seems there was a hint of scepticism in his voice — Joanna says, ‘She does know about cars.’

‘Yes, she does,’ he agrees.

‘She’ll help you find something. In Ravenna, I suppose.’

‘Or Ferrara,’ he suggests.

‘If you like. Have you finished?’

He nods, and she takes his plate, with hers, to the kitchen.

—

Outside, it has stopped snowing — it’s just miserable. A frozen, damp day. Joanna spends some time on the phone. He doesn’t know who she’s talking to. She speaks to several people. It sounds like work, he thinks, eavesdropping from his wing chair with Clark’s Sleepwalkers on his lap. He’s not making much progress with it. He’s just not that interested, is the main problem. Things just don’t interest him as much as they used to.

She asks him, when she has finished on the phone, if he wants to watch a film.

‘A film?’ he says, slightly as if she’s interrupting him, as if she’s distracting him from something important. ‘Alright.’

He notices the full glass of wine in her hand. She’s drinking a lot of wine, he thinks. She’s uneasy, with them here together like this. ‘What film?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know. We’ve got all these DVDs.’ She is at the shelf, in her voluminous woollens, starting to look through them. ‘ Groundhog Day ?’

‘We must have watched that,’ he says unkindly, ‘twenty times.’

‘Okay. On Golden Pond ?’

‘No.’

‘ The Bucket List ?’

He snorts.

‘How about Driving Miss Daisy ?’

‘God, no.’

She makes some more suggestions, all of which he irritably dismisses.

‘Why don’t you choose, then?’ she says, starting to lose patience. ‘Come here and choose something yourself.’

‘Joanna…’ He is still sitting in the wing chair. He puts his hands together, the points of his fingers, as if about to offer her some wisdom.

Then he just sighs, and says, sounding put-upon, ‘What else is there?’

‘There are loads. About Schmidt ?’

He sighs again.

‘ About Schmidt ?’ she half-shouts, turning from the shelf.

‘No!’

‘Do you actually want to watch a film?’ she asks.

‘Not really,’ he says, with a sort of defiance.

‘Why didn’t you say so, then?’

‘Where are you going?’

She is leaving the room. ‘I have things to do.’

‘What things?’

‘Work. I’m supposed to be in New York.’

That infuriates him. ‘I didn’t ask you to come here,’ he shouts after her.

Alone he puts his hand over his eyes — feels the tenderness of his damaged face, which he had forgotten about.

Then she is there again, standing in front of him.

‘Look,’ she starts, making an effort, ‘I’m here because I thought you needed help…’

‘I don’t need your help,’ he hears his own voice say.

There is a moment of ominous silence.

‘Well, fuck you, then,’ she says quietly.

He hears her walk up the stairs, the sound of her door shutting.

After a few minutes he stands up, stiffly, and follows her. He feels dizzy on the stairs, has to stop for a moment.

Softly, he knocks on her door. ‘Joanna?’

Nothing.

‘Joanna…I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I’m not myself today.’

He doesn’t open the door — that’s not allowed, hasn’t been allowed for years.

‘Please come downstairs,’ he says to the painted wood, which was once white, probably. ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry — I mean it.’

Downstairs, he makes the tea — in a warmed pot, the old-school way. People just don’t do that any more, he thinks sadly.

When he enters the sitting room — when he shuffles in with the tray — he is surprised to find her already there. She is on one of the sofas, with her large unfeminine feet on the pouf, looking unsentimentally at her own hands. ‘It’s just so depressing,’ she says.

‘What is?’

He puts down the tray.

‘I mean, I’m only here for two days, and something like this happens.’