The Enemy of the Good (5 page)

‘Some chance! He still thinks he’s the student rebel of thirty years ago.’

‘Desmond wish that I leave bar. He say he make enough money on site. I say no. And he hit me. Not hard. Not like Justin. Not because he wish to see me with blood. But because he is hurt too. So I am understanding of him. But he is not understanding of me. He say I go to bed with Steve. I swear to him on Holy Quran this is not true. But he listen only to himself, not Rafik. This is why I never tell him I am coming here. He must kill me.’

‘Yes, you said so before.’ Clement felt nervous now that the threat was so much more real.

‘So I tell him I work more hours in bar. And I give him more money. Which make him happy. Then last afternoon he go to bar and find no Rafik. He think to himself I am with Steve. He is very quiet until it is evening and we eat. He tell me I go to bed with Steve all day when he is on site. He hit me when I tell him “no”. Then he pick up knife from table and walk into next room and he push knife in Steve’s chest. Like this.’ Clement was chilled by a gesture as poised as a fencer’s thrust. ‘There is too much blood. Everywhere. It fall on me and I am by door. I shout and persons from house they come and call hospital. I know then my time in this land is finished. I think to myself I must run away. But there is too much blood and I must not leave Steve.’

‘Be sure to say that to Mr Shortt. It’ll count in your favour.’

‘The police come and they take away me and Desmond. They ask
questions
… so many questions. They find out soon I must not be here. And their faces change. And their voices change. It is like I am man with knife. This is when I make call to you. Now you know story of Rafik’s life.’

Clement knew that it was an outline rather than the story, nevertheless he found it both poignant and enlightening. He returned to the sketch while Rafik lapsed into silence. At four thirty, having waited as long as he could to see Mike, Rafik left for his shift. Clement dismissed his offer to remain,
assuring
him that Mike and his friends would call in for a drink very soon. ‘Try keeping them away,’ he said brightly. After confirming the next day’s session, he showed him out. He decided against ringing Mike who was sure to have been caught in traffic, hoping that Rafik’s presence in the drawings would make up for his absence in the flesh.

Even after eleven years he remained uncertain of Mike’s opinion of his work. Friends related his pride in commissions and prizes, but that spoke of love for the artist rather than the art and, unlike Clement, he was able to divorce the two. He played the devoted consort at dinners with collectors and curators but showed little curiosity about the creative life, viewing
Clement’s
ten-foot mosaic of
Jacob and the Angel
as if it were a Victorian lady’s languid pastels. Clement never complained, since he knew that Mike spent his days among children who would as soon burn down a gallery as step inside one. Nevertheless, he could not shake off the suspicion that his reluctance to engage with his work owed less to his self-professed ignorance than to a
distaste
for Clement’s themes. Magritte-style jokes or Matisse-style decorations would have been fine, but God was beyond the palette.

Mike arrived and, as ever, Clement found that the studio seemed to shrink in his presence. He passed on Rafik’s regrets, to which Mike responded with a tirade against redundant roadworks. Stifling a cyclist’s smug smile, Clement asked if he wanted some tea, adding that they could pop to the community café across the road, but Mike preferred to take full advantage of his ‘private view’. Clement busied himself at the sink, surprised by his keenness to defer the verdict.

‘You are aware how much you give away in these?’ Mike asked, leafing through the sketches of Rafik.

‘How much of what?’

‘I think the polite term is
ardour
.’

‘Nonsense,’ Clement said, trying to wrest them from him, unsure whether to feel insulted or relieved by Mike’s amusement.

‘Don’t knock it. At least it’s something real.’

‘He’s sitting for Christ.’

‘Oh well then, ardour’s out! I remember your story about the Renaissance painters who used women models for Christ because they were afraid to show his masculinity.’

‘I said that that was the practice, not the reason.’

‘I’ve never understood why Christians are so scared of the body.’

‘Says who? I’m perfectly happy with my body. But, unlike some – ’ he glared at Mike who continued to hold the sketchbook out of reach, ‘I maintain that a person is bigger than his body. Just as a painting is more than a set of pigments, so a person is more than a set of cells.’

‘If I were to choose an official symbol for Christianity – ’

‘Dream on!’

‘I’d ditch the cross for a pillar.’

‘Why?’ Clement asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

‘Not Christ suffering to save the world but St Simeon Styletes running away from it. Stuck on top of that giant erection for God knows how many years!’

‘You may have turned your back on the Brethren – ’

‘As I recall, I didn’t have a great deal of choice. “I wish you were dead” – no, I tell a lie: “I wish you’d never been born” – is fairly unambiguous. So much for the Prodigal Son! But then, of course, he didn’t send a few mildly racy
love-letters
to a seventeen-year-old classmate.’

‘Your parents were mad. Believe me, I’d never defend them – ’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘But you must still know to respect other peoples’ faith.’

‘Why? We don’t respect any other delusion. We lock up people who believe they’re Christ, yet we’re supposed to humour those who believe in him.’

‘By definition, faith is irrational: a belief you hold against the normal rules of evidence.’

‘In which case I believe in Jedi.’

‘There’s no point discussing it. You’re just out to make me look loopy.’

‘That’s because there’s no one I’d rather see sane.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘You don’t. You excite me. You intrigue me. You delight me.’

‘Don’t change the subject!’

‘But for such an intelligent man you have this extraordinary blind spot.
Religion
is the triumph of tradition over truth.’ Clement feigned a yawn as Mike mounted his hobby-horse. ‘The relic of an age when superstition was enough to explain the universe. We’re living two centuries after the Enlightenment.’

‘It’s a miracle, all things considered, not just that we’re still together but that we haven’t murdered each other. Oh I forgot; you don’t believe in miracles.’

‘Says who? I just look for them in different places. Take these wonderful sketches –’

‘You like them?’

‘I don’t know which is the greater miracle: the beauty of the model or the drawing.’

‘Thank you.’ Clement savoured a compliment which showed that, however much they disagreed about God, they shared a deep and abiding faith in humanity. ‘Shall I lock up and meet you at home? We can both use the journey to cool down.’

‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with me a little longer. If you ask very nicely, I might give you a lift.’ Clement looked at him in bemusement. ‘I passed your bike on the way in. Somebody’s nicked the saddle.’

‘
Noli me tangere
doesn’t apply to painters,’ Clement said with a forced grin. The Dean and his allies laughed, while Major Deedes and Sir Brian
MacDermott
sat with faces as stony as the cathedral bosses. Clement shifted in his seat and thought of all the indignities heaped on artists since the first cave painter had seen his antelope mistaken for a bison.

He was in a fusty Roxborough consistory room to present his sketches to the Dean and Chapter. The Dean had described it as a mere formality, but so far the formality had been shown in their treatment of him rather than their endorsement of his work. The committee consisted of two lay canons and three clergy and their degree of support for the project reflected the
professional
divide. The first stumbling block was the fee, which the Dean assured them would not come out of cathedral funds. Nevertheless Sir Brian, a local poultry tycoon, was appalled by the figure of £75,000. ‘For one window?’ he asked, glowering at Clement as if he had caught him stealing lead from the roof. Struggling to stay calm, Clement cited the expense of his fabricator and materials. ‘We’re in the wrong business, eh?’ Sir Brian said to a neighbouring canon, who looked outraged at the thought of being in business at all. The Dean took it as a grudging acceptance and moved on to discuss the design.

It was now Major Deedes’ turn to take the offensive with his claim to be deeply disturbed by the juxtaposition of the clothed Adam and the naked Christ. It reminded him of a painting, whose title he failed to recall but which, from the self-revealing description, Clement identified as Manet’s
Déjeuner sur l’herbe
. He had anticipated such objections and outlined the thinking behind the image, explaining that he did not accept the existence of Hell, either physical or metaphysical. Just as his father believed that the concept of God was God (a statement that sent the Major into a fit of coughing), so he believed that the concept of Hell was Hell. Human beings were condemned to eternal suffering in a doctrine of their own making. They could be freed from it by their faith in Christ, not the traditional Christ who came laden with two thousand years of baggage, but the essential Christ, unvarnished and free.

‘And this Christ will be – how shall I put it? – in a state of nature?’ the Major asked.

‘Absolutely. Although I’d prefer “a state of grace”.’ Clement thought he heard the Dean suppress a snicker. ‘What’s more, it avoids setting him in any particular period. Or would you prefer him in biblical robes?’

‘And why not?’ the Major asked.

‘Because it immediately restricts his meaning. It makes him remote to ordinary visitors who may not possess your grasp of history.’ Clement bit his tongue. ‘Adam wears a suit because he’s our contemporary, but Christ will be clothed in nothing but light.’

‘Yes, let’s not forget, Major,’ the Dean added in voice at once unctuous and steely, ‘that we’re talking about a window. I might take a very different view if it were an altarpiece or a statue, but this will be as insubstantial as air.’ Clement smiled, grateful for the backing if not the analogy.

‘That’s all very well. But how do we know that it won’t attract the wrong sort of people?’

‘Like who?’ Clement asked disingenuously. ‘You might as well ban Van Gogh’s
Boots
on the grounds that it would attract shoe fetishists.’

‘Well I think that about wraps it up,’ the Dean interjected quickly. ‘Thank you all for a most interesting exchange of views. I really don’t think that we need take up any more of Mr Granville’s time. I’m sure he’s eager to return to London.’ He cited the capital with the wistful air of one who had felt his talents wither in the provinces. After shaking the committee’s hands, by turn limp, fleshy, clammy, cold and calloused, Clement took his leave of the Dean, who promised to ring him as soon as he had a result.

Clement returned to London in an overheated train opposite a sulky
ten-year-old
who sucked her plaits. He had barely begun making dinner when the Dean called with the news that the majority view had prevailed and the design been accepted. Shrewd as ever, he insisted that unanimity would have been a sure sign that the image was bland. After restating his belief that the window would be a splendid addition to the cathedral, which Clement, anticipating future guidebooks, read as a splendid monument to the Dean himself, he sounded a note of caution. ‘We still have to gain approval from the Fabric Advisory Committee over which I have no – I repeat, no – control. But I trust that that won’t deter you from celebrating.’

‘As soon as he saw my face, my boyfriend brought out a bottle of
champagne
,’ Clement said, emphasising the relationship.

‘Quite right. Water into wine, as I always remind the Methodists,’ the Dean replied, leaving it unclear if he were diplomatic or deaf.

Although the imminence of the meal forced them to open the champagne before it was chilled, Clement professed not to notice. Mike proposed a toast to the window, which he insisted on interpreting as an allegory of a repressed man being liberated by his bolder self and calling
Coming Out
.

‘It’s
The Second Adam
,’ Clement retorted.

‘Oh sure! And St Teresa never had an orgasm.’

Mike’s marking and his own self-restraint meant that they drank only half the bottle, so he took the rest in his saddlebag when he made his way to Dartmouth Park the following morning. He was having lunch with Carla, ostensibly to discuss the window, but he knew that she was preoccupied with thoughts of the child. He was anxious not to leave her in suspense and
reckoned
that, while a full bottle might raise her hopes, a half-full or, rather,
half-empty
one would let them down gently. In the event he miscalculated for, as soon as he opened his bag, her face lit up.

‘Oh Clement, thank you.’

‘Please, wait a second! It’s only what’s left over from last night.’

‘I think it’s great news. Really great,’ she said, in a voice so flat that he was eager to fill it with bubbles.

‘I thought we could have it at lunch. But if you’d like a glass right now.’

‘No, lunch is good.’ She led him to the spacious workshop which, without his qualms about working at home and with no Crown Estate
Commissioners
to object, she had built in the garden. A faint odour of linseed oil hung in the air. ‘Sit anywhere,’ she said, switching on the heater. ‘I’ve laid out some samples.’

‘You look stressed. I’m sorry. Shall we leave the window and discuss the other matter first?’

‘If you think it’s appropriate.’

‘I think it’s essential.’ Carla paced the room, as if anticipating the worst. ‘First I want to say how touched I am – and flattered – that you should ask.’

‘Oh God!’

‘I’d do anything… anything within my power to help. But I wouldn’t be bringing you life but death.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m
HIV
positive.’

‘What?’

‘And I have been for twelve years.’

As Carla burst into tears, Clement knew that his instinct for secrecy had been sound. Even so, he felt an immense relief at having finally opened his heart to a member of his family. ‘There’s nothing to cry about. Truly! I’m in excellent health. God and the drug companies willing, I’ll live out my biblical span.’

Her initial shock gave way to hurt, tempered with resentment that he had kept the truth hidden for so long. ‘And all this time you’ve said nothing? Do you trust me so little?’

‘Believe me, it’s not you I don’t trust but myself. Knowing I’d never manage to tailor different stories to different people, I decided that the best thing would be to tell no one.’

‘Not even your parents?’

‘Them least of all. You, more than anyone, know what they’ve suffered. I can’t put them through hell every time I catch a cold.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It’s very brave of you.’

‘Mike thinks it’s cowardly.’

‘Then he’s wrong!’ she said with unexpected vehemence. ‘I’ve always known you were a compassionate man, Clem. I never realised how much.’

‘You’ll make me blush!’

He explained that keeping well was a routine matter of taking his pills and managing the modest side effects. The real problem lay in his mind. The sense of playing host to a deadly virus not only alienated him from his own body but threatened his intimacy with Mike. He found it increasingly hard to respond to his lovemaking, let alone take the initiative. Mike had little patience with his fears. For him, the safer sex guidelines were protection enough but, for Clement, the comparative contained a warning. So, night after night, he lay beside the love of his life, longing to give himself without restraint, tortured by thoughts of ulcerated gums and split condoms.

‘I think I’d like that champagne now,’ Carla said. She led the way to the kitchen, the gleaming white cabinets looking even more sterile in the
aftermath
of Peter’s departure. While she heated the soup, he tentatively broached the subject of using an anonymous donor.

‘Never!’ She shuddered.

‘Not even a Nobel Prize-winner?’

‘I want to raise a child, not breed a racehorse.’

Fearing he had wounded her, he was doubly grateful for her keenness to return to the workshop and restore their relationship to its former footing. He showed her the sketches and ran through the budget hammered out between Gil and the Dean. He suggested that they mix different kinds of glass,
something
opaque, either antique or semi-antique, for the figures, and hand-blown, even streaky, for the surround.

‘What’s behind it? Are there any buildings we need to blot out?’

‘None at all. One advantage of such a backwater is that the close is
completely
unspoilt.’

‘I suppose you’ll want the figures painted?’ He nodded, knowing that she thought it old-fashioned but also that he had to carry the conservatives on the FAC.

‘Unless there are serious financial implications.’

‘It’s much of a muchness. What you save by not using flash glass, you lose by spending longer on the painting and cooking.’

Their wariness with each other made it easier than usual to agree on a scheme, although he was aware that it left scope for future conflict. He set out a provisional timetable. He was to present a scale design to the FAC at the beginning of April. Then, provided that the glazier was prompt with the template, he hoped to have a cartoon ready for her to start work within six weeks. She in turn confirmed that, other than repairing a large art deco panel for an exiled sheik in Godalming, she was totally free. ‘After all, I shan’t have any reason to take things easy.’ Feeling as though he had been kicked in the teeth, he kissed her and cycled home.

He spent the next two weeks in the studio. Despite having finished the drawings for
The Second Adam
, he asked Rafik to sit every morning. As he filled his pad with sketches of a man whose every pose was as natural as
sleeping
, he knew that he had found not just a model but a muse. Besides, it was clear that Rafik needed distraction as well as cash. The manager of the bar had sacked him the moment he learnt of his status, leaving him far too much time to brood, especially after his interview at the Asylum Screening Unit in Croydon. ‘If they wish to make me feel bad to stay here, they have success. Persons are as cold and hard as building.’ Then, on the eve of the FAC meeting he arrived, wrapped in gloom, and without uttering a word held out a letter. A quick glance confirmed Clement’s worst fears; the Home Office had rejected the appeal. He longed to take him in his arms but was afraid to offend him. So, with his sunniest smile, he pointed out that it was exactly what Shortt had predicted and that the real test would come in court.

‘I ask who they will put in court first: Rafik or Desmond?’ Rafik said,
presenting
Clement with a quandary that was painfully remote from his own experience. Beyond registering the irony that Desmond’s morbid fear of losing Rafik had been self-fulfilling, he had trained himself not to think of him. He could no more conceive of the horror of being held on remand in Belmarsh than of being sent back to a country overrun by homicidal Islamists. He was forty-two years old, but the bitter reality of countless lives was merely a TV-lit flicker in his brain.

Thinking that a trip out of London would lift his spirits, Clement invited Rafik to accompany him to Roxborough. ‘It is kind, but I am saying no. Rafik bring only bad luck.’ So the following morning he took the train alone. His anxiety about delays ensured that he arrived two hours early. Braving the drizzle, he strolled through the market square with its quaint rows of
family-owned
shops, their ornate signs proudly proclaiming the dates of their establishment, and at the centre a monumental allegory to monarchy over a drinking fountain that had run dry.

With the drizzle turning to rain, he made his way to the cathedral office of works where, after a dispiriting wait, he was ushered into an oak-panelled room to find his six inquisitors sitting at one end of a walnut table that had been designed for twenty. The FAC was younger and more varied than the Chapter and he presumed that the additional layer of bureaucracy, along with its exclusively lay constitution, was intended to reflect the cathedral’s new role as a heritage site rather than a mere place of worship. The chairman, a
surveyor
, introduced his five fellows by profession as well as by name:
archaeologist
; architect; artist; accountant; and builder, which Clement construed as a pledge of their expertise. He noted wryly that the artist and builder wore charcoal grey suits and ties and the accountant a maroon rugby shirt. Past acquaintance with such bodies had taught him that, having volunteered their services, they believed themselves both obliged to speak and bound to be heard. He swapped glances with the Dean who, as though to underline his role as an observer, sat at an angle to the table with an empty chair between himself and the rest.