The Crane Wife (22 page)

‘You must, my lady, or I will find a way to destroy you. You know this to be true. We are not meant for each other.’

‘We are only meant for each other.’

‘That is also true. We are the same and we are different and every moment that passes where I cannot burn you and melt you and destroy you utterly with my love for you is a torment unsurpassing. And because it is a torment unsurpassing, I will continue to take it out on our child, this world.’ He leans forward, his exposed heart beating faster now. ‘Unless you forgive me, once and for all, my lady.’

‘I cannot.’

‘You know what I speak is true, my lady.’

‘I do.’

‘You must act. Pierce my heart. Bite out my eyes.’

‘I cannot.’

His eyes burn. ‘Then you do not love me.’

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She gasps. She raises her hand to plunge it into his heart.

‘Do it, my lady,’ he says, closing his eyes. ‘Forgive me. I beg of you.’

Her hand is raised, ready to fall, ready to end this torment, which she will admit, if only to herself, is as bad for her as it has ever been for him. She loves him and it is impossible. She hates him and that is impossible, too. She cannot be with him. She cannot be without him. And both are burningly, simultaneously true in a way that grinds the cliché into dust.

But what she cannot do, what she cannot do that has no opposite which is also true, what she cannot ever, ever do–

Is forgive him.

For loving her. For burning her. For desiring her. For making her do all these things in return by his very existence.

She cannot ever forgive him.

She will not end his torment. She will not end hers.

She lowers her hand and lets him live.

‘Y
ou should go.’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘You mean it?’

‘I mean it.’

‘It’s three– No, it’s nearly
four
o’clock in the morning– ’

‘I want you to go.’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘You’re breathing very heavy, George. Are you feeling all right?’

‘Please, I’m asking you to–’

‘What would be the point? What could possibly be the point in me leaving right now instead of in two hours?’

‘Rachel–’

‘You said she wasn’t coming over tonight, that she was working at her flat. Which, amazingly, you still claim to have never properly seen.’

‘I
haven’t.
’

‘What a weird combination of strength and complete weakness you are, George.’

‘You’re talking differently. Have you noticed?’

‘People change. People become.’

‘People . . .
what
?’

‘Do you know why I’m here? Do you know why you let me come here tonight?’

‘So I could possess you.’

‘So that you could– Well, yes, okay, you beat me to it. That was weird. But, so, no, actually, it was so that I could
let
you possess me. Big difference. And in doing so, don’t you see, I also possessed
you.
And that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That you don’t possess her.’

‘That isn’t any of your–’

‘And if you don’t possess her, how can she possess you? Does she even want to? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? You’re thinking, on the one hand, she’s obviously the very best thing that will ever happen to you in your sad little life, but on the other hand,
damn
her and her elusiveness and her secrecy.
Damn
her. And you were angry and you called me, remember, I didn’t call
you
–’

‘Rachel, I would really like you to leave now–’

‘But there’s a deeper question. If she won’t let you possess
her
, how will she ever want to possess
you
? And we all want to be possessed, don’t we, George?’

‘Take your hand off that, please. I asked you to leave.’

‘The thing is–’

‘Get off me–’

‘Make me. The thing is, I know exactly what you’re feeling. I know exactly what all this feels like.’

‘Rachel, I said–’

‘One last time, George, because we both know there won’t be another. I’m on the pill, there won’t be any accidents, don’t you worry. That’s it, that’s the response I was hoping for, one last time and I’ll go.’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘But before I do–’

‘
Rachel–
’

‘I have to say this to you. All these years, I’ve been treating possession as a game, don’t you see? Something only to be withheld. But do you know how lonely that is, George?’

‘I–’

‘You don’t. You actually don’t. You think you know loneliness, but you don’t. Because you allow yourself to be possessed. And everyone loves that about you. Granted, sometimes after they possess you they have their fill and move on, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that when they
first
meet you, you offer yourself, George. That’s what you do. You open your arms and you say, this is me, take me, have me.’

‘Rachel, are you crying?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘This light. The moonlight. Your eyes reflect so strangely–’

‘And by being possessed, you
possess
, because that’s how love works. So what are you going to do with Kumiko? A little faster now, George, we’re almost done.’

‘Rachel–’

‘You
are
crying. Good. You should. That’s what I didn’t understand about you, George. I thought I possessed you like all those other idiots I slept with. Possession while giving nothing in return. But you.
You
, George. I possessed you, and you possessed me. And that’s why I can’t forgive you.’

‘Rachel–’

‘That’s why I can’t part from you either.’

‘Please–’

‘That’s why I’m here tonight. Why. This. Is. Happening. More. I said,
more
.’

‘Kumiko.’

‘Yes, I know. Say her name. I’ll say it, too. Kumiko.’

‘Kumiko.’

‘Kumiko.’

‘
Kumiko.
’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘That’s okay, George. You just weep. You’ve betrayed your best love, and weeping is only proper. I’ll go now. I will.’

‘Your eyes.’

‘What was that?’

‘Your
eyes.
’

‘It’s only my tears, George. And long will I cry them.’

‘. . .’

‘. . .’

‘Did you
hear
that?’

‘No.’

‘It sounded like, from outside the window–’

‘I didn’t hear anything, George. And neither did you.’

H
e was making his final cutting.

He looked up from his desk.
Final.
What an odd choice of word. Not really final, of course, merely the final cutting for the last tile in Kumiko’s set, the one that would make the story complete. She wanted to finish it before they married, but surely there’d be more to make after.

So, not the final cutting. Not the last ever. No.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and went back to work. Even aside from how this nagging fever made everything seem extra bright, a trill of anxiety buzzed all around him these days: the sudden rush of being engaged to Kumiko, the still-elusiveness of her as she threw herself into finishing her tiles, the quarrels he’d had with Amanda, whom he couldn’t seem to speak to lately without snapping.

But most of all, he had slept with Rachel. He almost literally couldn’t believe it had happened and wasn’t just something he’d dreamed. It had, in fact, seemed dreamlike when he called her, dreamlike when she’d come over to his momentarily Kumiko-less house, dreamlike when they’d spent the night in his bed. The sex had been joyless and compulsive, like how drug addicts must feel at the end of their using, but Rachel had been right. He could possess her (and she, him) in a brief but total way that had never happened with Kumiko, that felt like it never
could
happen. Kumiko was unknowable, how many times did he need proof of it? She was like a figure from history or a goddess, and he’d been frightened and angry and–

‘Stupid,’ he whispered to himself, slashing the page he was working on and throwing it away.

He’d slept with Rachel. He’d slept with Rachel. He’d slept with
Rachel.
Kumiko didn’t know about it, there was no way for her
to
know, and he felt the oddest certainty that Rachel would say nothing either. But what did that matter? The damage was done.

‘You don’t look very good, George,’ Mehmet said from the front counter, where he was supposed to be working on a set of conference badges but was instead fiddling with the design for a flyer for some small theatrical drama in which he’d somehow nabbed a supporting role. As far as George could tell, it seemed to consist mostly of audience confrontation and full-frontal male nudity. It was being staged above a chip shop.

‘I’m fine,’ George lied, ‘and that doesn’t look like work.’

Mehmet ignored this. ‘You know, we’re all still waiting for the date.’

‘What date?’

Mehmet gasped. ‘Your
wedding
date. We’ll close the shop, I assume.’

‘Yeah, I guess we will.’

‘Aren’t you excited?’

‘I’m working, Mehmet, so should you.’

Mehmet turned back to his computer. ‘I don’t even know why I bother.’

George looked up. ‘Why
do
you bother?’

‘Huh?’

‘There are other jobs you could get. Even if they’re not acting jobs, they’d at least be closer to it than a print shop. A theatre box office, maybe. Or a tour guide–’

‘A
tour guide
,’ Mehmet practically spat.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘But what would you do without me, George?’

‘Probably much the same as now. Except with fewer interruptions.’

Mehmet swivelled back and forth on his stool, regarding George for a moment. ‘You really don’t see it, do you?’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘The way people are around you. The way they act.’

‘What on earth are you talking–’

‘They’re loyal to you, George. You inspire that. You’re best friends with your daughter. You’re best friends with your ex-wife–’

‘Hardly
best
–’

‘And Kumiko, who is beautiful and talented and mysterious enough to probably have any man in the whole wide world, chose you. Don’t you ever ask yourself why?’

George felt his skin flush, which might not have even been the fever. ‘It’s not because I’m loyal.’

‘It’s because you
inspire
loyalty. No one wants to let you down. Which, frankly, makes them all vaguely irritated with you most of the time – I know it does me – but they stick around because they want to be sure you’re all right.’ Mehmet shrugged. ‘You’re likeable. And if you like
them
, well, that means they’re really worth liking, doesn’t it?’

This was easily the nicest thing Mehmet had ever said to him, and in the midst of everything that was wrong at the moment George felt a sudden dizzying upsurge of love and kindness.

‘You’re fired, Mehmet.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not angry. I’m not even dissatisfied with your work. Well, not much. But if you stay here, you’re going to end up taking over this shop, and that would be the saddest thing that ever happened. You deserve better.’

‘
George
–’

‘I’ve got a ton of money in the bank from these goddamn tiles. I’ll give you a big redundancy. But you need to take the leap, Mehmet. You really do.’

Mehmet looked ready to argue, but then he stopped. ‘How big a redundancy?’

George laughed. It felt like a rare thing. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Mehmet.’

‘What, I have to leave
now
?’

‘No, of course not. You’ve got badges to finish.’

George went back to his cutting, his momentary lightness dissipating quickly. He glanced up at the first tile he and Kumiko had made together, still hanging on the wall above him. The dragon and the crane, danger and serenity, staring him down. That miracle of first creation. How had he done it then?

And how the hell was he supposed to do it now?

The day after the party, Kumiko had quietly set out every tile of the private story she was telling, one by one, along the bookshelves of his sitting room, putting them in front of his books so the story told itself around the room. The mandala of his soul holding the tiles of hers. He counted them. There were thirty-one.

‘There is one left to finish,’ she’d said.

‘The end of the story,’ he’d said. ‘Will it be a happy ending?

She smiled at him, and his heart soared. ‘Depends on what you mean by happy.’

George looked across the tiles. ‘It’s just that it all seems sort of precarious, doesn’t it? Like everyone’s happiness could be snatched away at any moment.’

She’d looked at him. ‘Do you think your happiness is going to be taken from you, George?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

She considered this as she regarded the penultimate tile. ‘One more to go,’ she said, ‘and then this story is finished.’

One more to go
, he thought, looking down at his cutting again now, wondering what the little separate bits were supposed to add up to, wondering which direction he was meant to be heading with them. This assemblage would be for that final tile, but Kumiko had refused, as ever, to tell him what she wanted. Well,
refused
was probably a bit strong, she’d more
eluded
him when he asked her about it, but as the days went on he was growing more and more anxious. It felt increasingly like a test he was failing.

‘You’re an artist, George,’ she’d said. ‘This is what you must accept. And if you are an artist, then you will know the shape when it appears under your hand.’

‘But what are
you
cutting? So at least I’ll know–’

‘It is better if you don’t.’

And then George had found himself saying, ‘What else is new?’

They hadn’t exactly fought after that, but a chilly politeness had descended. It really seemed as if it
should
have been the moment they had a big blow-up, that they needed to have at least one fight that would either sunder them irreparably or – and George really did think this was more likely and not just because he hungered for it – bring them even closer together. But instead, she had (politely) insisted on going back to her own flat, saying it felt important for her to finish her work there before she took the final step of moving in completely.