In a Deep Blue Hour, page 7
She had her children relatively late, her girls are both in their teens, though still under twenty, she did tell me the ages, but I forgot. At any rate, she was about my age when the children were born. They’re both in high school, one is about to graduate, and they both have strikingly unbiblical names, Ann and Ella. I wonder what they would say if they knew…I’m thinking one of them may be Wechsler’s—perhaps both. There are apparently more mailman’s children than is commonly thought.
I google mailman’s child. The worldwide figure is around two percent. Still. Among the Yanomami it’s closer to ten percent. Now, who are the Yanomami again? A case for Dr. Google. Indigenous people living in the 1,500-meter-high Serra Parima on the borders of Venezuela and Brazil, between the Orinoco and the Amazon. Also known as Yanomama and Yanomamo. Warlike in outlook, but afraid of crossing deep water. Well, no reason to fear them, then. But they’re a bit more interesting than pasta varietals. Where was I?
As we were driving up to the village we stopped at a small lake where Wechsler and his friends often used to go swimming when they were all kids. He told me about it in Paris. I made a note of the name and saw from the map that it’s more or less on our way. This lake crops up in many of his books, once a couple make love there for the very first time, another time two friends bike there at night, bathe naked, and then something dramatic happens, and one of them loses his life.
The lake lay in a valley between two villages and was maybe a kilometer long. It was ringed by some narrow woods, in a few places the shore was grown over with rushes. At one end there was a bathing place with changing cabins, a kiosk, a barbecue spot, and even a swimming raft. When we arrived, there was no one there, and the entrance was open. We sat down in the meadow and looked across at the water.
A beautiful spot, isn’t it, said Tom.
Do you feel like a swim? I took a few steps down to the waterline and dipped my hand in. It’s not cold.
But Tom didn’t care for water that much. He liked beer better, he would say sometimes, and think he was being hilarious. He suggested coming here with Wechsler, and framed a view with his two hands as though to suggest a shot, it must be something he cribbed from some famous director.
We have the sun going down, and he’s sitting on the grass looking out over the water, and we get an actor to read the passages from his books. A bit of music, a bit of sparkle on the water.
Sounds super.
And then on to the village, which turns out to be farther than I thought. It was almost half an hour by car. And yet they cycled there at night in Wechsler’s book? Stretches credulity.
* * *
—
The crisis meeting didn’t solve anything. Wechsler will come or he won’t. Tom has banged Sascha or he hasn’t. The film is going to be made or it won’t. Ignis fatuus.
Did I not want children? Wechsler asked me when we had lunch together after our swim. Or rather I had lunch, he just ordered coffee.
What about you?
He again didn’t answer, but then I hadn’t answered either. Is it that the books are his children? No, he didn’t care for that metaphor, he thought it was pretentious. Children are children, and books are books. He found the notion of having children a strange one—one more thing that he found strange. Even the verb seemed wrong to him, do you have children in the sense of having a house or a car or a dog? But no better expression came to his mind.
I imagined being Wechsler’s daughter. Would it feel different? Presumably he would interfere in my life, give me advice, be proud of me or disappointed, depending on my progress. He would be worried about me, and he wouldn’t like Tom, because fathers never like their daughters’ beaux. At least that’s what they say. He would be sad that we would be losing touch, and yet unable to do anything about it. And what about me? I would endure him, maybe love him. He would be familiar to me. I would know what he spends his days doing, what his habits are, what his smell is like, what he looks like in underpants. I wouldn’t read his books. Afterward, I would be sad that we hadn’t had more of a life in common. Would I call him Papa? Or by his first name, Richard? He would certainly offer to pay for our meals together. As is the case now.
You don’t have to.
No, I don’t have to.
He told me an elaborate story about always being paid for when he was a young author, and now…nothing important.
Incidentally, Tom doesn’t need to know that we were swimming together, all right?
Sure, says Wechsler, and winks at me, as though we’d been to bed together.
Then we walked along the Seine, silent most of the time, that was nice. I had the feeling he liked me, in a very discreet, reticent way. I liked him too.
That night I had a dream about Wechsler. We were eating together in some unspecified place that felt both private and public, maybe an ambassador’s residence or a rich patron’s home. Wechsler had cooked our dinner and brought it along. I see him walking up the stairs with dishes full of food, and I see he’s in pain. His knees are hurting him. We sit down on a kind of terrace at a nicely laid table, with nice porcelain and silver and silver candleholders. We eat and talk. He is telling me about a young man who is full of fears, he describes everything in great detail, but I can’t remember what the young man was so afraid of. The possibility of freedom, perhaps?
It’s gotten dark on the terrace, the candles are flickering, light comes out from inside the house. It begins to rain. We could go inside, but we stay where we are. The rain is a warm summer rain, and in next to no time we’re sopping wet, but we carry on eating and talking, as though nothing were the matter. Then we walk through a park with old trees. We’re barefoot, I’m carrying my shoes in my hands, they are exquisitely made designer things with high heels, I have never owned anything like that, nor would I ever wear them, but in my dream, I love these shoes more than anything. The earth is sodden and soft, it’s like a mire in which we’re sinking. We wade through the water, first up to our ankles, then up to our knees. The hem of my dress touches the water. What am I doing in a dress? I hardly ever wear dresses. It must be silk, it feels smooth, cool, slinky. I slow down, hold my shoes high over my head to protect them. Wechsler comes up to me from behind, takes me round the waist. It was a beautiful dream, and I was happy beyond dreams.
* * *
—
No sooner have I finally fallen asleep than Tom wakes me. It feels like I’ve been asleep for about ten minutes. I’m going to write a book myself now. About what assholes men are. About what an asshole Tom is. Something to give him a slap in the face. Even that would be too generous.
We are breakfasting with Sascha. She’s all done up to the nines, well, she’s washed her hair. And she’s brought down all her gear into the breakfast room, no idea why. Does she think it makes her look cool? Or is she meaning to get started right away? Or leave? I wouldn’t mind.
Tom and Sascha are playing at being normal and being professional. They are talking in extra-loud voices about microphone brackets and plug connections. It sounds pathetic, I don’t understand this game. Maybe they’ve sensed my suspicion. I don’t pay any attention to them and just read the newspaper.
In a book review in the arts section, there’s a sentence: How can you write about a life? As a movement from an unknown source to an ever-more-blatant ending? Some Swede wrote that. Another Swede. What is it with these Swedes all of a sudden? There aren’t even all that many of them, all told. Then there’s a report about gangs in Göteborg. There seems to be something rotten in the state…no, that was Denmark.
So: from an unknown source to an ever-more-blatant ending? Is that right? Maybe we keep our backs turned to the past? The past changes, we can manipulate it, but not the future. And least of all the end, because it never slips into the past.
Nothing much happens in the village. Wechsler hasn’t shown up, and he hasn’t got in touch either. We conducted a couple of interviews, captured some atmosphere, cats and dogs, birds, the school, the pub, the forest, the river. We even filmed the vineyards, the grapes are not yet ripe, but no one will see that. I called Judith to see if we can meet again. She has no time, she has a funeral to prepare for. I don’t know if that’s actually true or not. Maybe she was upset about confessing to me.
I gave Tom the third degree, he denies everything, he says I’m paranoid. He has never had anything with Sascha, and wasn’t proposing to either. She wasn’t even his type.
And what if she were your type? Would you take up with her then?
I’m unfair. Maybe he’s telling the truth and I’m imagining everything. If I were him, I would certainly be having an affair with her, the way I’m treating him. But he is not me. We check out. We can forget about the film. It’s over.
II
Bagneux? Bagneux.
Bourg-la-Reine? Bourg-la-Reine.
Parc de Sceaux? Parc de Sceaux.
I never noticed that, says Judith.
I wouldn’t have noticed it either, if Richard hadn’t pointed it out to me.
Now that he’s no longer around, I’ve taken to calling him Richard. As though we had grown closer since his death. And have we? At any rate, he can’t avoid me any longer. But then he doesn’t give me any more answers either. The last word has been spoken, so to speak. The dice have been thrown. No, that doesn’t fit.
We get off at the next stop, says Judith.
In the village, I had briefly supposed that the reason Wechsler wasn’t coming was because he had suddenly died, but of course that wasn’t the case. As a rule, people don’t die suddenly, or not when you’re expecting it or dreading it. We had gone on having dealings for a while, the whole thing was a pretty sordid story. He had signed an agreement, Richard Wechsler, hereinafter known as The Author hereby, blah-blah, blah-blah. The Author declares himself willing to participate in this film project for no payment, and during the creation of His Next Work, to be accompanied and filmed by a camera team. And so on and so forth. Details (in particular the number of shooting days, the locations, individual scenes, et cetera) to be worked out in an ongoing manner by agreement with both parties.
That was the rub, the ongoing manner, it could mean anything. We had talked about the shooting plan, and to begin with Wechsler had participated and stuck to his side of the agreement. Why wouldn’t he, after all? My word is my bond. But then…The material from Paris wasn’t enough for a film, not even technically. The producer was forced to repay the grant money, she was left with the expenses, our own wretched fees were canceled. She wanted to sue Wechsler, but her lawyer advised against it. What good would it have done? A long legal wrangle, bother, costs. Would we have ever seen any money at the end of it?
He never came up with any justification. I wrote him a couple of emails, first hopping mad, then later just asking for some kind of explanation. Why? Silence. Maybe the fatal illness had set in by that time. What is it they say? After a long, heavy illness, which he/she bravely bore, and still full of plans for the future, he/she was taken from his/her active life.
Following the disaster with Wechsler, I struggled on for almost another two years. I split with Tom, that was the easiest part of the new beginning, at least for me. After that, I had one or two irons in the fire, female subjects, but none of them was realized. My savings melted away. Eventually I understood that I couldn’t go on like this, and I started looking for a job. But there’s nothing I can do, and who wants a failed filmmaker with no degree and questionable social skills? I quickly abandoned the idea of becoming a cemetery groundskeeper when I saw what a pittance they earned; to work for the post office meant getting up at five, which was out of the question for a night owl like me. I was lucky finally to land an office job in the marketing wing of a large insurance company. They seemed to like me there, God knows why. I was due to begin there in the middle of October, when the woman who was going to show me the ropes was due back from maternity leave. That was fine by me, a few more weeks of freedom. So, next, the short vacation with Judith.
* * *
—
We didn’t talk much on the train. Judith read, I watched YouTube videos. For unknown reasons, I’ve recently had loads of recommendations of features on serial killers, no idea what that’s about. I’ve never ordered butcher’s knives or cable ties online or other stuff you might need if you were going to be a serial killer, and I haven’t googled the subject either. I’m not interested in serial killers. But for some reason I got stuck on the subject. You don’t learn a whole hell of a lot. There’s always a female journalist sitting in a narrow interview room, and some figure in prison clothes opposite her. The journalist always seeks cautiously and respectfully to learn what makes a murderer, but the murderer doesn’t know the answer. They have a way of looming into the camera, they lean forward as though to grab the viewer by the throat, and then they talk about their murders the way other people might talk about an evening with friends or a weekend outing with the family. Some seem aggrieved with how everything’s turned out, how they’re in prison now, are only allowed one shower a week, are maybe facing the electric chair, it’s all so unfair. Often they laugh, because they’re amazed by what they’ve done. Then wow, I like cut her throat. The journalists are often Australian women, there’s evidently some interest there in serial killers. Something we don’t have in common. Well, there are a few others besides. For instance, I’d never eat kangaroo, and I would never dare drive on the left, not even on a bicycle. And then the connection breaks, and I’ve used up my available data.
I pick up the newspaper. Someone’s written something on Proust, more particularly on why he doesn’t read Proust. Or he started reading Proust, and then gave up. Myself, I’ve never read Proust. I’m not interested. But I’m even less interested in why others aren’t interested, and less still in why others, having been interested once, no longer are. And yet I read the article. And copy down a sentence I like from it…When I claim I have an existence outside myself; that day in and day out I leave myself, and will sooner recognize myself in others than others in myself. That sounds grand, I think. It asks to be put to music, lofty, hymnal music.
I sneak a look at Judith, try to make out the title of the book she’s reading. She must have noticed me, because she turns the book round and holds it out: Gershom Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism. Huh. I suppose that’s the kind of thing a minister is bound to read.
Richard gave it to me, she says, but I’ve never read it. He didn’t either. He said, I expect it’s more in your line.
She smiles. Here, listen:
When the Baal Shem had a difficult task before him, a secret task for the benefit of creation, he would go to a certain place in the woods, light a fire, and meditate in prayer—and what he had set out to perform was done.
When a generation later the “Maggid” of Meseritz was faced with the same task he would go to the same place in the woods and say: We can no longer light the fire, but we can still speak the prayers—and what he wanted done became reality.
Again a generation later Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov had to perform this task. And he went into the woods and said: We can no longer light a fire, nor do we know the secret meditations belonging to the prayer, but we do know the place in the woods to which it all belongs—and that must be sufficient; and sufficient it was.
He would have liked that, says Judith. I wonder what it was: a secret task for the benefit of creation?
Telling stories? I suggest.
* * *
—
We met up again at the funeral. I learned about Wechsler’s death in the newspaper. There were two death announcements, one from his publisher, the other from his family, with a nice if somewhat nihilistic chant:
The world goes on its way,
The people come and go,
As though you’d never been,
As though nothing had passed.
* * *
—
In the arts section a couple of days later, there was a brief tribute, no photo, a single column. A quiet but distinct voice, died in the city that was his adopted home, and then something about light and rooms and atmospheres. It was written by a reviewer who had never liked him and who regularly panned his books. Wechsler had once complained about him in a rare display of self-pity, and I had said so. Yes, he said, it’s an aspect of me I don’t like either. And he changed the subject.
Then, later: There are moments in company when I really don’t like myself. I think the people with me failed to notice it, I was behaving more or less in the way they expected, but it didn’t feel like me, I wasn’t being honest. Strangely enough, those moments of deceit and disguise were my most successful. But every so often there would be someone there who would look me in the eye and give me the feeling they were onto me. I didn’t see contempt in the way they looked at me, at most gentle mockery. But my embarrassment in front of this person weighed more with me than the success I had with the others.
And what was your way out of this fix?
I would withdraw into myself and avoid such situations altogether.
* * *
—
I like the word eulogy. You speak well of someone, there’s a Latin phrase about that, and maybe on the bounds of life and death, in that white light that people have reported seeing who have gone up to the brink, they hear you. Wechsler would turn in his grave if he could hear me. To him the idea of life after death was unhygienic, he once said. No, not unhygienic, unesthetic. In the same way as sequels of every hit film that you get nowadays are rarely as good as the original. Except The Godfather, I said, Part II is at least as good as Part I. Well, maybe, he said, but there’s to be no sequel to my life, it has a distinct beginning and ending. And it’s no better or worse than it has to be. And was it good, then? I asked. He thought about it for a moment, and said, yes, it was good, very good, even.
