The Finkler Question (10 page)

Does he blame me? Treslove wondered. Or worse, does he dread my visits in case the same thing happens to him? Doctors read the genes the way fortune-tellers read the tea leaves; they believe in rational coincidence.

Whatever Dr Gerald Lattimore dreaded or remembered, he always handled Treslove more roughly than Treslove believed was necessary,

‘How painful is that?’ he asked pinching Treslove’s nose.

‘Bloody painful.’

‘I still think nothing’s broken. Take some paracetamol. What did you do?’

‘Walked into a tree.’

‘You’d be surprised how many of my patients walk into trees.’

‘I’m not in the slightest bit surprised. Hampstead’s full of trees.’

‘This isn’t Hampstead.’

‘And we’re all preoccupied these days. We don’t have the mental space to notice where we’re going.’

‘What’s preoccupying you?’

‘Everything. Life. Loss. Happiness.’

‘Do you want to see someone about it?’

‘I’m seeing you.’

‘Happiness isn’t my field. You depressed?’

‘Strangely not.’ Treslove looked up at Lattimore’s ceiling fan, a rickety contraption with thin blades which rattled and wheezed as it slowly turned. One day that’s going to come off and hit a patient, Treslove thought. Or a doctor. ‘God is good to me,’ he said, as though that was who he’d been looking at in the fan, ‘all things considered.’

‘Take your scarf off a minute,’ Lattimore said suddenly. ‘Let me see your neck.’

For a doctor, Lattimore was, much like his fan, insubtantially put together. Treslove remembered his father and imagined his grandfather as men of bulk and authority. The third Dr Lattimore looked too young to have completed his studies. His wrists were as narrow as a girl’s. And the skin between his fingers pink, as though the air had not got to him yet. But Treslove still did as he was told.

‘And did the tree also make those marks on your neck?’ the doctor asked him.

‘OK, a woman scratched me.’

‘Those don’t look like scratches.’

‘OK, a woman manhandled me.’

‘A woman manhandled you! What did you do to her?’

‘You mean did I manhandle her back? Of course not.’

‘No, what did you do to
make
her manhandle you?’

Culpability.

From before Treslove could remember, first the first Dr Lattimore, by implication, and second the second Dr Lattimore, by looks and stern words, had punished him with culpability. It didn’t matter what ailment he turned up with – tonsillitis, shortness of breath, low blood pressure, high cholesterol – it was always somehow Treslove’s fault; simply being born, Treslove’s fault. And now a suspected fractured nose. Also his fault.

‘I am innocent of any responsibility for this,’ he said, sitting down again and hanging his head, as though to suggest a beaten dog. ‘I was mugged. Unusual, I know, for a grown man to be beaten up and then to have his pockets emptied by a woman. But I was. I’d say it’s my age.’ He thought twice about what he said next but he said it anyway. ‘You might not know that your grandfather delivered me. I have been in the hands of Lattimores from the beginning. It might be time now for a third-generation Lattimore to recommend me sheltered accommodation.’

‘I don’t want to disabuse you but if you think you’ll be safe in sheltered accommodation you’re mistaken. There are women there who’d rob you as soon as look at you.’

‘What about an old folks’ home?’

‘The same, I’m afraid.’

‘Do I look that soft a target?’

Lattimore looked him up and down. The answer was clearly yes. But he found a tactful way of putting it. ‘It’s not about you,’ he said, ‘it’s about the women. They’re getting stronger by the day. That’s medical progress for you. I have patients in their eighties I wouldn’t want to tangle with. I’d say you’re safer out in the world where at least you can run.’

‘I doubt it. The word must be out by now. And they’ll be able to smell the fear on me anyway. Every woman mugger in London. Even some who have never before given a thought to armed robbery.’

‘You sound cheerful about the prospect.’

‘I’m not. I’m just trying not to let it get me down.’

‘Very sensible. I hope they’ve caught this one at least.’

‘Who? The police? I didn’t notify the police.’

‘Don’t you think you should have?’

‘So that they can ask me what I did to provoke her? No. They’ll accuse me of propositioning or abusing her. Or they’ll warn me against going out at night on my own. Either way they’ll end up laughing. It’s thought to be amusing – a man copping a broken nose from a woman. It’s the stuff of seaside cartoons.’

‘It’s not broken. And I’m not laughing.’

‘You are. Inside you are.’

‘Well, I hope you are, inside, as well. Best medicine, you know.’

And strangely, Treslove was. Laughing inside.

But he wasn’t expecting it to last.

And he wasn’t convinced his nose wasn’t broken.

5

There was something else Treslove had wanted to bring up, because he needed to bring it up with somebody, but in the laughter had thought better of it. And Lattimore, he decided, wasn’t the man for it either. Wrong type. Wrong build. Wrong persuasion.

What the woman had said to him.

Treslove wasn’t exactly on secure ground about this, even with himself. Maybe he had only imagined that she had called him what she’d called him. Maybe she had, after all, only asked him for his jewels, referring possibly, and in a spirit of violently affronted ribaldry, to his family jewels. I’ll have your manhood, she could have been saying. I’ll have your balls. Which indeed she had.

Then again, why not not just leave it at her identifying him, for her own private satisfaction, as ‘You Jules?’

Trouble was – how did she know his name? And why did she want, of all people’s balls,
his
balls?

None of it made any sense.

Unless she knew him. But he’d been through this. Other than Joia (and Joia was ruled out), and Joanna whose face he’d painted (and Joanna was ruled out because Treslove wouldn’t allow himself to think of her), what woman who knew him would want to attack him? What bodily as opposed to psychic harm had he ever done a woman?

No matter how often often he revolved it in his mind, he came out at the same place. No to jewels, no to jewel, no to Jules, no to Jule, and yes to Ju.

You Ju
 . . .

A solution that created more mysteries than it cleared up. For if the woman wasn’t known to him, or he to her, what was she doing making such a mistake as to his – he was damned if he knew what to call it – his ethnicity, his belief system (he would have said his faith but Finkler was a Finkler and Finkler
had
no faith)? His spiritual physiognomy, then.

You Ju.

Julian Treslove – a Ju?

Was it simply a case, therefore, of mistaken identity? Could she, in confusion, have followed him from Libor’s, where she’d been waiting for Sam Finkler, not him? He looked nothing like Sam Finkler – indeed, Sam Finkler was one of the few people he
didn’t
look like – but if she was simply obeying orders or carrying out a contract, she might not have been adequately apprised of the appearance of the person she’d been hired to get.

And in the confusion he had not had the presence of mind to say, ‘Me no Ju, Finkler he Ju.’

But then who would be out to get Sam Finkler? Who other than Julian Treslove, that is? He was a harmless, if wealthy and voluble, philosopher. People liked him. They read his books. They watched his television programmes. He had sought and earned their love. There were some troubles with fellow-Finklers he gathered, especially of the sort who, like Libor, called Israel Isrrrae, but no fellow Finkler, let him be the most Zionistical of Zionists, would surely attack him and abuse him on the grounds of their common ancestry.

And why a woman? Unless it was a woman Finkler had hurt personally – there were certainly a number of those – but a woman Finkler had hurt personally would surely know the difference between Finkler and Treslove up close. And she had got up very close.

He had smelt her body odour. She must have smelt his. And he and Finkler . . . well . . .

None of it made the slightest sense.

And here was something else that made not the slightest sense, except that it made, if anything, only too much. What if the woman hadn’t been addressing him by his name –
You
or
You’re Jules
 . . .
You Jule
 . . .
You Ju –
but had been apprising him of hers – not
You’re
or
Your Jules
, but
Your Juno, Your Judith
, or
Your June
? His, in the sense that a Spanish fortune-teller with a Halesowen accent had once promised him a Juno or a Judith or a June. And warned him of danger into the bargain.

He didn’t, of course, believe in fortune-telling. He doubted he would even have remembered the fortune-teller had he not fallen in love with her. Treslove never forgot a woman he fell in love with. He never forgot being made a fool of either, not least as the one often followed hard upon the other. And then there was Sam’s smart-arsed D’Jew know Jewno joke, designed to show him that when it came to lingusitic virtuosity a non-Finkler didn’t hold a candle to a Finkler. D’Jew know Jewno was as a scar that had never healed.

But what he remembered aside, the only way a fortune-teller could have known the name of the woman who would mug him thirty years later was by her being the woman who would mug him thirty years later, and what likelihood was there of that? Nonsense, all of it. But the idea of something foreordained can shake the soul of the most rational of men, and Treslove was not the most rational of men.

None of it might have had meaning, but then again all of it might have had meaning, even if it was only the meaning of extreme coincidence. She could have been calling him
You Jules
or
You Ju
or whoever
and
telling him that she was his Judith or whoever. Jules and Judith Treslove – Hules and Hudith Treslove – why the fuck not?

Knocked him senseless for his credit card and phone and then used neither. Therefore knocked him senseless for himself.

No, none of it made the slightest sense.

But the conundrum added to his unexpected (all things considered) breeziness. Had he been more familiar with the state he might have gone further and declared himself – to use the word that had pissed off the woman who had fucked him in her Birkenstocks (for her, too, he had never forgotten) – exhilarated.

Like a man on the edge of a discovery.

For the same reason that he didn’t tell the police, Treslove didn’t tell either of his sons.

In their case they would not even have bothered to ask what he had done to provoke the woman. Though the sons of different mothers they were similar in their view of him and took his provocativeness for granted. This being what you get as a father when you walk out on your children’s mothers.

In fact, Treslove hadn’t walked out on anyone, if by ‘walking out’ some callous act of desertion was implied. He lacked the resolution, call it the independence of soul, for that. Either he drifted away, as a matter of tact – for Treslove knew when he wasn’t wanted – or women deserted him, whether on account of flies, or for another man, or simply for a life which, however lonely, was preferable to one more hour with him.

He bored them into hating him, he knew that. Though he had promised no woman an exciting life when he met her, he gave the impression of glamour and sophistication, of being unlike other men, of being deep and curious – an arts producer, for a while, an assistant director of festivals, and even when he was merely driving a milk float or selling shoes, artistic by temperament – all of which combined to make women think they had been assured an adventure, of the mind at least. In their disappointment, they took his devotion to them to be a sort of entrapment; they talked about dolls’ houses and women’s prisons, they called him a jailer, a collector, a sentimental psychopath – well, maybe he was a sentimental psychopath, but that should have been for him to say, not them – a stifler of dreams, a suffocator of hopes, a bloodsucker.