Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

‘That’s his costume , you fool, we have a scene later on — and for another thing, I told him he could drive that wretched car if he wanted to. I mean no one else has so much as looked at it in two years —’ She broke off and for a moment sagged limp against the door-jamb, rubbing her eye with the heel of a hand. ‘This is absurd. Charles, I’m not going to get in an argument with you over who’s more alienated, you or Harry —’

‘No, because I would win,’ I said.

With a gurgle of rage she stormed back inside, slamming the door. Seconds later it reopened. ‘You know what your problem is?’ she said, having thrust herself into a pair of jeans and fastening the button. ‘You expect life to be like some kind of continuous Déjeuner sur l’Herbe , with, with wine and amuse-gueules and women lounging around with no clothes on, and then when it’s not —’

‘Are you referring to Manet’s Déjeuner sur l’Herbe ?’

‘Yes, Manet’s, obviously Manet’s — but then when it’s not like that you just throw your hands in the air and you think that’s good enough —’

‘Well, I mean to say,’ I said mildly — actually I was rather taken with the idea of a continuous Déjeuner sur l’Herbe — ‘it has to be something, doesn’t it? I mean I’m the one who has to live in the damned thing.’

‘That’s just it, Charles,’ she said, furiously waving her sandal, ‘you think you live in there all on your own, you tell me I’m in an ivory tower when you carry the ivory tower, you carry around this fucking house , inside yourself, and you never let anyone in, and you have no inkling what life is like for the people outside — like you complain about having to work, but at least you can work, do you ever think of what it’s like for Vuk and Zoran, who aren’t even allowed to? Do you ever think what it’s like for them, sitting around here day in, day out, what that does for their dignity?’

‘Of course I…’ I began, then stopped, sidetracked by the memory of my own happy days sitting or indeed lying around the house, and how dignity had never seemed to enter into it.

‘And all those people in Bonetown, what about them, all those people who came to this country to try and make their lives better, because this for them is hope ? This for them is over the rainbow?’

‘I’d say they need to have a word with their travel agent,’ I said. ‘I say, wait!’ as with a gasp she pushed free of me and headed down the stairs. ‘Wait! I was only joking —’

I caught up with her mid-sweep and grabbed her elbow; she turned unwillingly around, and to my astonishment I saw that her eyes had filled up with tears.

‘I was only joking,’ I repeated.

‘It isn’t funny,’ she said, her voice slipping down into a whisper. ‘You can’t do this any more, Charles. You can’t come over here and run everything down. You’re just like Father, all you want to do is lock yourself away in your study with your lovely fantasies. That’s no use to me any more, don’t you see? Because… because, God Charles, something has to be good, doesn’t it? Something has to be worth doing? You’re my brother, can’t you just support me? Can’t you just tell me I’m not a fool for trying? Even if you didn’t believe it, couldn’t you just say ?’

Her eyes gazed, over-bright and condemning, into mine; the mysterious pendant ran glittering through her fingers as if it were trying to tell me something, and I realized that this wasn’t just one of her regular harangues, that there was more at issue here than my laziness, or Harry’s plays. I recalled what Mother had said earlier on. Was something really amiss? Was she asking me now to do something about it?

‘Master Charles!’

But these questions would have to wait, for here was Mrs P at the foot of the stairs, bearing a plate of delicious-looking nibbles.

‘Ah, bravo, Mrs P!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake —’ Bel followed me down.

‘What have we got here?’ I examined the platter. ‘Brie… Gorgonzola… Edam… a real international selection.’

‘Mrs P, you’re not supposed to be waiting on him ,’ Bel remonstrated.

‘Oho, what’s this?’

‘I find a little Roquefort too, Master Charles,’ Mrs P said, chortling bashfully.

‘Yes, indeed!’ I held up a tender little morceau like a prospector with a nugget of gold.

‘Mrs P!’ Bel stamped her foot authoritatively. ‘He doesn’t live here any more, do you understand?’

‘Yes, but Miss Bel, if Master Charles is hungry…’

‘Yes Bel, if Master Charles is hungry…’

Bel clenched her teeth. ‘And another thing, I thought we’d agreed we weren’t going to have any more of this Master Charles, Miss Bel business.’

‘Comrade Bel,’ I chuckled through a mouthful of Roquefort.

Bel exhaled sharply. ‘That’s it — Charles, I think you should go now.’

I looked up. ‘Eh?’ I said.

‘Get out, Charles. Go.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I’m quite serious,’ she said. She was. Just as in the bedroom earlier, her mood had changed quickly as a cloud passing over the sun; the tremulous, solicitous Bel of a moment before had given way to a steely, unflinching Bel, who with a thunderous countenance pointed to the door. ‘If you’re just going to come round and try to ruin everything we’ve done, then I think you should just leave .’

‘Can’t I at least finish my cheese?’ I said.

‘ No ,’ she said, snatching the platter out of my hand. ‘Just go.’

I looked to Mrs P for a measure of sanity or reason, but her eyes were set discreetly on the ground. ‘Very well, then,’ I said, drawing myself up to my full height. ‘Mrs P, my coat, please.’

Mrs P went to fetch my coat. Bel continued to glower blackly at me like something out of Der Ring des Nibelungen . I knew better than to argue. Instead, I waited for the coat to return, and then — without fuss, without so much as a backward glance — I proceeded in a dignified manner down the hall, past the malevolently winking wheelchair and out of the front door.

But there I stopped; and closing the door behind me, stood for a time at the top of the steps. The sea shushed invisibly to the east, the fog whirled up over the grass; I stood there, sucking my cheeks and staring into nothingness.

After her daughter Daria was put away, Gene went into a long, long tailspin. Her marriage to Cassini had now completely foundered; she was wooed and conquered by a series of notable men. John F. Kennedy visited her on the set of Dragonwyck . He had just returned from the South Pacific, still thin from the Navy hospitals after PT109. He was about to run for Congress; Gene promptly fell in love with him. They were both part Irish, and their first date was on St Patrick’s Day, when he took her for lunch in New York. JFK was wearing a new hat, which later that night he left in a bar; he never wore one again, no matter how the nation’s hatters pleaded with him, and thus began the slow disappearance of the hat from American life.

She saw him on and off for nearly a year before he told her — casually, waiting for friends to join them for lunch — that he could never marry her. She should have seen it coming: he had his political career to think of, and his mother would never approve of him marrying a divorcée — an actress, and Episcopalian to boot! But she hadn’t seen it coming. She rebounded into a long-drawn-out, absurd affair with Aly Khan, the son of the Aga Khan, whom she met in Argentina while shooting Way of a Gaucho . He was just divorced from Rita Hayworth: with him, her life entered the tawdry whirlwind of the jet-set — polo matches, ocean cruises, meetings on the Riviera with Picasso, a life of leisure conducted in the full glare of the media spotlight and the gossip columns.