The Illusion of Separateness (2 page)

W
hen he was growing up in Paris, there was an alley behind the bakery and a park opposite. Martin was allowed to go there and run around. Rough boys from the housing blocks sometimes threw stones or chased him into the alleyway. Priests from a nearby seminary perched on the benches in twos and threes. They hissed at the bullies and shook their fists. In winter, the priests wore long coats and shared cigarettes.

The homeless slept at one end of the park as a group, then rolled out across the city at first light.

Martin sometimes took them food. His father always scolded him, but never told him to stop doing it. One of those men had a disfigurement too. He hardly spoke and never came forward, so Martin made sure he brought enough for everyone.

S
o much has happened since then, yet nothing has changed. Martin sees the same men on benches in Santa Monica, and though their faces are different, they eat their day-old pastries from the Café Parisienne with the same expression.

T
he sign is finished, but one of the letters is too low and falls out of the word as if trying to flee.

COME WELCOME NEW RESIDENT

MR. HUGO

3PM TODAY

STARLIGHT LOUNG
E

Martin had planned to watch car racing in his room. Saturday afternoon is usually his. But twenty minutes won’t hurt, and there will probably be sandwiches and cookies. The new resident, Mr. Hugo, might even have an interesting story. Maybe he too was once married and now forced to live alone. Maybe his childhood is a mystery. We all have different lives, Martin believes—but in the end probably feel the same things, and regret the fear we thought might somehow sustain us.

IV.

A
FTER OPENING ALL
the windows in the cafeteria, Martin checks the ice machine because it jams. He wants to go back upstairs and make toast with the television on, but all the table vases are empty. Mrs. Doyle insists on flowers. This makes more work in the garden, but Martin doesn’t mind because it keeps things cheerful and reminds him of his late wife.

There is a pond near the garden. It attracts dragonflies. Sometimes Martin sets down his wheelbarrow and follows them to the edge. Water conjures the surface of an afternoon, but remembers nothing.

He cuts an armful of purple flowers and carries them inside.

M
rs. Doyle arrives sometime after lunch. The windows are closed because the air-conditioning is on. Martin can hear laughing in the kitchen. Mrs. Doyle will be pleased that he went out of his way to cut flowers and that he’s wearing a necktie. It makes her look professional, she says—as do filled vases, and a functioning ice machine.

Martin can hear Mrs. Doyle in the kitchen, but her voice is soon covered by the scream of a metal tank that boils water. Steam and scalding drops. The chatter of cups turned over. She bundles through double doors with a platter of food. Lettuce staggered along the edge. Radishes carved into bloom like Arctic flowers. The sandwiches are cut into triangles. The tablecloth is a stiff, dumb white. Purple flowers in vases of clear water.

Chef appears with a tray of teacups and saucers. His turban is yellow. His wife works in the kitchen too. Once a day they go outside to argue. Mrs. Doyle tries to straighten the letter in the message board, then gives up.

Martin imagines what he would be doing otherwise: the ascending pitch as engines tear across the asphalt. Hot tires. A gray track streaked with black lines. As Chef pours tea, somewhere in the world, thousands of people cheer as men steer cars around the racetrack. The sound is deafening, but the drivers hear nothing. They wear white cotton balaclavas under their helmets. The weight of the helmets won’t be felt until after the race, when shoulders burn.

In the arms of their wives and lovers, they will recount the drama of a single bend, the spike of concern for a driver whose car is in bits.

As old men, they will dream of this afternoon in their beds—jaws clenched as frail feet press ghost pedals.

M
artin chews a sandwich. The cucumber is sliced thin and mixes well with the butter. Bursts of crying from the kitchen, then more laughter. One of the cooks had a baby and brings her in on Saturdays. Mrs. Doyle doesn’t mind. All her children are grown. Most of the residents are delighted. Many want to hold it, but are not allowed, so they cradle it in their minds instead, and remember the lives they once inhabited.

A
bout three o’clock, the new resident, Mr. Hugo, appears. His head is badly deformed. Martin wonders if he fought in World War II. He looks old enough. His mouth is open and breathing is labored, but he walks without hesitation toward the table of sandwiches. His eyes are milky gray and probably don’t see the purple flowers. Then his legs suddenly fold and he drops to the floor.

Martin rushes over. Mrs. Doyle is frantic. Chef sprints toward the kitchen shouting his wife’s name, but the old man has only a minute or so left.

Martin reaches under his body and cradles him like a child. He is breathing and conscious, but his eyes are rolling around. There is blood because he bit his tongue.

Martin has seen this before. He reassures the man that help is coming, and the new resident steadies his eyes. Martin’s gaze must not falter because there’s always fear.

He strokes the old man’s hair and holds him tight. When Martin hums a song he remembers from long ago, the old man’s eyes sparkle with recognition. His head is deformed because many years ago he was shot in the face.

There are signs for what is coming. Martin leans down and whispers the words his late wife whispered to him during her final moments.

Then, breathing slowly and, almost deliberately, stops. But for a moment the old man doesn’t realize he is dead. He can feel Martin’s heart and mistakes it for his own.

V.

M
ARTIN WENT
BACK
to his seat when the paramedics arrived. Mrs. Doyle watched them load the body and chatted with the medical examiner, who wrote things on a clipboard.

“He’s gone to a better place,” she said.

“Not everyone believes in God, Mrs. Doyle,” the examiner remarked.

“That doesn’t matter, Doctor,” she reassured him. “
He’ll
catch him in His net.”

The race Martin wanted to see is over. People screaming as drivers pour Champagne over each other’s heads.

Outside, a few residents are talking on the bench beside the pond. This is something they never get used to.

Martin imagines taking off his clothes and giving his weight to the water. The bottom is soft, and his feet sink in the soggy darkness.

He dips beneath the surface and opens his eyes. It stings but he can see.

He was given to his mother by a man he can’t even imagine.

He assumes the best because he knows so little.

The Starlight Retirement Home did not exist back then. Los Angeles was a suburb of voluptuous cars and hamburger stands. It was always hot and there was dust.

At night, puffs of neon lit the boulevards.

Mr. Hugo’s body is being taken away.

We cross from memory into imagination with only a vague awareness of change.

The carpet in the cafeteria where the old man died was once shallow forest. Beyond that—a slow river where lions drank in gulps, water dripping from their mouths.

In the distance, smoke from fires of dried grass.

The people here collected acorns and shellfish. They killed deer and small animals.

Buried under the Starlight pond are the bones of a woman, famous in the tribe for performing ancestral songs. When she sang them by the fire, no one moved.

The person she loved most was her daughter. They liked to arrange feathers. Others would stop what they were doing and watch.

The curb where the ambulance is parked is where the woman’s daughter once found a small bird.

She waited all day for its mother, then at dusk, carried the animal back to her home.

Other children ran to see what she had, and there was general excitement.

MR. HUGO

MANCHESTER,
ENGLAND,

1981

I.

I
WOU
LD LOOK UP
from the television and see Danny’s face at the window. I motioned with my hand,
Come in, come in
. Door handle turned itself.

He made me watch children’s programs. Then evening came. We shared something hot to eat. Always
Thank you, Mr. Hugo
. Polite boy, Danny was.

I met Danny after he moved in next door. I worked nights at Manchester Royal Infirmary then. Sometimes I would finish all my work before the shift ended. I would sit and read. Drink coffee. Watch night drain.

I lived in a terrace house. Next door was empty six months before Danny and his mother moved in. I remember walking home with bags of shopping, stopping to look through the front window. The sadness of empty rooms.

One day a van pulled up. I watched through the curtains.

A procession of chairs, beds, and boxes. Men in overalls. At lunchtime, the men sat and ate something. Then they drank tea and closed their eyes.

Later in a brown car a woman and boy arrived.

I met the woman on our doorsteps a few days later, bringing in the milk and eggs. She held up a bottle of chocolate milk.

“It’s my son Danny’s birthday today,” she said. “We just moved in.”

I nodded.

She was from Nigeria and spoke English gently, words handed, not thrown. She came to England with her parents as a girl in the 1950s.

I
t’s cold here, and dark in winter. Always raining too.

I sat quietly thinking. A boy’s birthday next door. The television was on, but I was elsewhere. A balloon was tied to the front door. It bobbed at my window when the wind caught it. Children arrived with their parents about three, then went home a few hours later very tired (some were crying). I watched all through the curtains.

Sometimes I left tomatoes on her doorstep. I grew them myself in the greenhouse. The English like to fry tomatoes for breakfast.

T
he night I first met Danny, I was woken up by the doorbell. I was frightened because it was late.

Danny was holding his mother’s hand and wearing pajamas. A blue robe tied at the middle. I had never met the boy before but heard noises through the wall: jumping on the bed, jumping off the bed. Shouting. And when he was sick, coughing all night kept us both up.

“Sorry to disturb you so late, Mr. Hugo,” she said, “but I have a bit of an emergency.” The boy was trying not to stare at my misshapen head. His mother must have warned him. It frightens everyone at first. But over time, you get used to almost anything.

I touched the bristles of my chin.

“I absolutely have to go out, Mr. Hugo. It’s work, but I can’t leave my son home on his own—would you mind?”

I nodded yes.

“Thank you so much; he’s a good boy.”

His mother leaned down:

“This is Mr. Hugo, Danny, who leaves those delicious tomatoes for us.”

“But I hate tomatoes,” the boy said with sleep in his eyes. There were racing cars on his pajamas. His small hands didn’t know where to go.

The night was cold, and our three bodies moved in the darkness.

“It’s really an emergency; just put him on the sofa for a few hours, he won’t be any trouble.”

She turned to go.

“Danny-be-good-boy-for-Mummy.”

I led the boy into the sitting room. He looked at his feet. I told him to sit. Then I put the lights on.

“Suppose you want tea?”

He nodded yes.

The kettle rose to a boil. I watched him through the serving hatch.

“What’s your name again?”

“Danny.”

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Want sugar?”

Nodded yes.

“How many?”

“Five lumps.”

“That’s a lot.”

“I know.”

I
sat opposite him in a deep chair. We held mugs and sipped. I considered putting the radio on but didn’t.

Then the boy said:

“Excuse me, but what time is it?”

“Late.”

“How late?”

“Very.”

“Then it’s early, isn’t it? It’s so late it’s early again,” he said.

I nodded yes.

“What’s the emergency for your mother?”

“Mum looks after old people, and sometimes they need her at night—like if they fall down the stairs or die.”

“Who looks after you?”

“Janice. She lives next door on the other side.”

“Where is Janice?”

“Dunno.”

“Where is your father?”

“Dunno. Mum said he works on an oil rig.”

“You met him?”

“Not yet.”

W
e sat up talking, then fell asleep where we were. His mother came late the next morning. I was turning sausages in the pan. The doorbell rang. She had cans of lager in a white plastic bag and looked tired.

“Here you go,” she said, handing over the bag. “Just to say thanks.”

The ground was black with rain. Danny’s slippers squeaked on the doorstep. The house was quiet again.

I
went upstairs.

Sat in my bedroom.

Drew the curtains.

Lay down with my eyes open.

Quite soon, I saw Danny dragged from his bed.

The officers kept order.

Screams outside, then gunfire. Neighbors peek into the street through lace curtains. Danny is separated from his mother. It’s not in black and white like films, but in color like real life.

Different people are pulling his arms. His slipper comes off, then his mother is shot in front of him. Her head opens. Something white. Her hair is clumped. Danny’s small fists closing and opening.

It’s how we might have met. It’s the job I
could
have been given. Something I could have been ordered to do but wasn’t. I did other things. I wore the uniform. I marched. Saluted the
Führer
. Loaded my weapon. Fired my weapon. And there was always blood, always somebody’s blood.

I
vomited on the carpet. A thick paste. I fingered my coarse gray hair and the bare, misshapen area where nothing grows.

I stood in a cold shower. Lost feeling.

Those days, I often punished myself, but nothing changed.

Downstairs, I stared at the almost empty teacups on the counter. Still warm. I conjured his slippers. His small feet. Racing-car pajamas. His gentle eyes asking,
Where is your head?
There was something to him, like the boy in Paris who brought cakes to the park for me and the other homeless ones.

Now another child.

No:

Another small God. And Mr. Hugo is the child over there, on the sofa, with tea, and someone to sit with in silence, night passing.

I
had been woken from my dream by someone else’s.

II.

D
ANNY USUALLY CAME
after school. His mother didn’t mind because she worked late. I made something for him to eat. Danny’s favorite was fish fingers, beans, and American-style french fries. He took the french fries from the freezer, then arranged them on an oven tray. The fish fingers had to be cooked slowly or were cold in the middle. Danny watched television, laughing from time to time. I listened through the serving hatch and felt light, felt unafraid.

Then we ate together. A man and boy eating: I felt echoes from long ago. The knife and fork were too big for Danny. I thought of
the
knife. Remembered
the
knife. My father kept it on the mantelpiece. I should have buried it. Then Danny interrupts. Always more ketchup, Mr. Hugo, always more brown sauce. He puts vinegar on his french fries, then on mine. I don’t like vinegar, but it’s too late and would just hurt his feelings. Danny always saved one fish finger for last. I never knew why.

I cleared up after he left. Sometimes I left the dinner plates until next morning. Beans hardened against the ceramic were almost impossible to remove, but felt light, felt unafraid.

O
ne afternoon, Danny brought new pencils, and so before children’s programs, we made drawings.

“Your clouds are good. It’s like you stole them from the sky.”

Silence.

Strokes on paper like sighing.

“That’s impossible,” he said.

“What is?”

“To steal clouds.”

“I know, I just meant it’s a nice drawing.”

“I draw a lot in school. I wish we just drawed all day but we don’t.”

“What else do you do?”

“Dunno,” he said.

“You don’t know?”

“Stuff that’s too hard.”

“Like what?”

“Like reading. I’m just not good.”

I thought for a moment. “Many things are hard, Danny. Life comes at you in pieces sometimes too big to avoid.”

He seemed hurt.

Dinner was boil-in-the-bag fish. Peas. Bread and butter.

I watched him push peas off the plate. He said he didn’t like fish when I knew he did. I think I understood then what was going on.

His mother hadn’t come by the time
Carry on Laughing
had finished. The ten o’clock news started. We listened to Big Ben and the headlines. Danny said everything in the world was going wrong.

Then his mother called. She said the old person she looked after was still bad.

I asked Danny if we might draw a little more. His eyes were fixed on the television.

“Mum will be here soon,” he said.

“Come, Danny, let’s draw, because there’s something I can’t figure out.”

“What’s that?”

“Just lines.”

“Lines?” he asked. “The ones you draw?”

I nodded yes.

“Lines are easy,” he said. “Want me to teach you how to do them?”

By midnight, when his mother rang the bell, we had pages and pages of lines in felt-tip pen.

“They’re not as straight as I wanted,” Danny said. “But you get the idea.”

“They’re straight enough for what I am doing.”

“What are you doing that needs not-straight lines?”

“A book.”

“What’s it called?”

“The book of lines.”

A
week later we worked on curved lines. Then after that we played games with sounds, and gave each shape its own voice. We marveled at how the shapes can tell you that someone is hungry, cold, afraid, bored, or disappointed.

I tried to convey to the boy how people’s lives are often altered by curved lines read slowly from paper, sand, or stone.

Danny listened to all.

Weeks passed until, tying lines into shapes with his pencil, Danny recognized them from school and was suddenly reluctant to go on.

I’m not proud to admit that I bribed him with bars of chocolate, but we were so close by then—he knew the voice of each letter, and so it was just a matter of confidence, which would come with practice.

Two months later, a breakthrough over bedtime drinks.

After ten minutes of staring at a container of chocolate powder, the word
instant
burst through Danny’s small lips.

He ran around the house screaming.

Not long after that, his mother gave me permission to take him to the library, where Danny taught Mr. Hugo about dinosaurs, comets, gold miners, and steam.

W
hen Danny turned twelve, his mother fell in love with a Scottish man, and they moved to Glasgow. He was doing well in school by then, and had a special friend called Helen. She had red hair and a deep voice. Her father worked in a bank. A very important man, Danny said. They came around after school. A polite boy, Danny was—always made sure she had enough to drink, enough to eat, and somewhere to rest her feet when they watched television. He must have explained early on that Mr. Hugo’s head might shock, because when we met, Helen’s first words were: “Isn’t it nice how people are all different?”

She didn’t ask what happened, and I’m glad she didn’t because I can’t remember everything. I know I woke up in a French hospital in a body I didn’t recognize. I know some of the things I had done because there were faces that haunted me. And I know that the missing part of my skull was in Paris, splintered into pieces too small to find.

A
fter Danny and his mother moved away, life was quiet again.

Television, weather, tomatoes, nightmares . . . watching all through the curtains.

Then. One morning, a month into the silence, I woke in the early hours. Winter, but I went outside and stood on the back patio.

The air was frigid. I moved my arms in the silvery outline of dawn.

Could smell rain coming.

A stick of Danny’s chalk glowed from a crack in between the paving.

I got down on my hands and knees and drew straight lines on the stones with the chalk. Then I drew curved lines and made letters. Then I bunched letters into words and made sentences. Soon the patio was covered:

. . . Swing of Danny’s legs from park benches. Frying chips and putting ketchup on them. Running up and down the stairs. Mother’s shoes on doorstep moment before bell. Socks coming off. Spoon stirring tea. Drying forks and putting them in the drawer. An anchor of hair on his forehead. Hot chocolate. Falling asleep in chairs. Danny’s face at the window. The door handle turning itself. Squeaking slippers on the step. Kettle rising gently to a boil.

Rain fell but I kept going.

Soon the drops were falling faster than my hand could write, but I went on, I continued until there was nothing to see, nothing to read, nothing but the single moment of pressure with nothing before and nothing after.

This was Danny’s gift.