The last chapter. I hope you enjoyed the novel as much as I enjoyed writing it. Creating this story and these characters provided me with tremendous joy and fulfillment. Thanks so much for reading and see you soon. JR
Clerkenwell, London
“Let
me get this straight,” Ben Hampton had taken a heady first sip from his pint.
“You sat naked …”
“Completely
Billy Bollocks.” Julius Novak cut in, foam on his upper lip.
“ … on
a little stool, in a classroom … for eight-year-olds while a group of Vermont
villagers, whom you knew, had a go at sculpting their blocks of clay into a
representation of your middle-aged body.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Forgive
me. I’m trying to picture the scene in my mind. Little chalkboard, little
desks, a riser with soft cushions. Am I close?”
“Posters
showing letters of the alphabet, with arms and legs, chatting.”
“Ohhh,
God!” Ben rubbed his eyes.
“The
one, true Theatre of the Absurd.”
“Did
you find yourself bewildered, troubled, or obscurely threatened?” Ben asked,
unloading a portion of his Cambridge education.
“I
just went with the flow. We journeyed beyond language. We subverted logic.”
Ben
and Novak sat at a table near the bar. Well, every table was near the bar in
The Jerusalem Tavern. Every table was filled, and so were the barstools. Loads
of thirty-somethings were standing and sitting outside on Britton Street around
the corner from Farringdon Station in fashionable Clerkenwell. The two men,
both blending in to the Friday afternoon London crowd, craned their necks in
something like disbelief at the swell of upwardly-mobile bodies.
The 18th
century pub is remarkable for several things, one of which being the sign that
hangs above the front door featuring John the Baptist’s head sitting on a
platter. Both men had been terribly busy, in the six weeks or so since Novak
had returned from his extraordinary visit to Marianne in Vermont, and had only
spoken once. That was the conference call with Rosalie having to do with “One
Man’s Loss,” and they only discussed work, nothing personal. Ben had known
neither the details of Novak’s trip nor the reasons for his having left England
so suddenly. He assumed it was something to do with Isabel.
“When
did this place go all fucking trendy?” Ben asked.
“Not
sure,” Novak said. “Welcome to Clerkenwell, I suppose. I used to pop in back
when I lived in town – ’01, ’02, I think; and … nothing. Just me, the young
bartender/rock musician from Cumbria …”
“Coom-bray-ar!!”
Ben raised his pint.
“… and
maybe a couple of sheep herders from Suffolk having a nice St. Peter’s.”
“Getting
back to your stunning, American debut …”
Ben
tried, honestly, but couldn’t help sense some kind of metaphysical thread between
two episodes of nude modeling separated by twenty-five years.
“Yes?”
“This,
I hazard to guess, was to symbolize your willingness to …”
“Do
anything …”
“Do
anything to get Marianne back … in your life … like before.”
“Pretty
much,” Novak said, channeling New England colloquialism.
“Then
… what are you doing here?”
Novak
stroked his stubble of beard and looked down before regaining eye contact and
answering.
“We …
uh … decided to take a raincheck.”
“What
happened?”
“She
felt strongly that I didn’t really mean it, that it was a type of gesture – a
nice gesture; but that we were probably better off the way we are rather than …”
“The
Way We Were?”
“Exactly.”
“I’m
in shock. First I’m in shock that you … I mean, that the two of you … I don’t
know what to say.”
“I
really thought I wanted to. I was prepared in my heart, I think. But afterward
– after I put her dad’s little bathrobe back on – we went and had a drink, and
there was strangely nothing in the air. We had nothing natural to say. We’ve
known each other twenty-five years. Something powerful stopped us then;
something equally formidable saw to it again. I saw it in her eyes, and I
watched her face as she saw it in mine. There was no way forward, no joy, no
primal thrill at the prospect of being back together – in that way.”
“I’m …
I’m sorry, Julius.”
“Thanks.
Cheers.”
“Cheers.
Who spoke first then?”
Novak
just stared at him with raised eyebrows.
“What
did she say?”
“She
said it was really sweet of me. And that I didn’t have to do this. And that I’d
be miserable not living in England. And she wasn’t about to argue about it or
listen to anything disingenuous or sentimental.”
“I
would have thought you had her on the away-goals rule.”
“I
might have, had I not been so far behind on aggregate.”
Ben
chuckled and pretended to cut the wit with a knife.
“Would
you be miserable … leaving Britain?”
“Yes,
absolutely. Well, not just Britain; being able to pop over to the continent
anytime I wish. To be honest, I could never handle the states for more than a
week or two. Don’t even like Vermont all that much.”
“You’re
joking.”
“Nah.
Not enough Vermonters. I could maybe see San Francisco or somewhere out there,
but that’s the other side of the world practically from Europe. It’s like
thirteen hours in the air. I can be in Florence in three hours. That’s what I
call living. This is my home.”
“Well,
you bloody Brit.”
“Selfish,
is what I am. I don’t even deny it anymore – not even to Marianne to keep her
from getting behind the defense. That, in a weird, sort of half-defeating/half-triumphant
way, actually puts me on the path toward the emotional honesty that could have
prevented her from leaving me in the first place.”
“Did
she cry?”
“No.
She’s really fucking content.”
“Well,
that’s good. Isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Novak looked as though he knew it was both good and not good. “She seemed to
take great delight in pointing out the irony of my starting a company that builds walls.”
“Ouch.”
They
debated whether to stick around to sample the cream stout or walk a few blocks
over to the Old Mitre for a Caledonian Deuchars IPA.
“Honestly,”
Ben looked him in the eye. “You’re decision had nothing to do with the fact
that you would have to live in a town in which many of the residents had seen
your dick, and you could be reasonably sure that said ‘Johnson’ was now a
legitimate topic of conversation down the general store.”
“Certainly,
the old Julius could not have gotten that thought out of his mind or out of his
nightmares. But I don’t think that’s me anymore, Ben. I really view the whole
exercise as having been … art.”
Ben
nearly laughed. He and Novak now joked like old mates. But, like a proper mate,
he could see that the man sitting across from him was being something like
genuine.
“My
bit of it was no more and no less important than the artists, or what they were
shaping or sketching or carving, or even the space we occupied. I feel
perfectly normal about having helped out.”
“I
don’t know you anymore,” Ben tried to look grave but couldn’t stop himself from
a chuckle.
“No, I
guess twenty-five years of being around fucking artists slowly rubbed off on
me. This is how I wanted to feel back then when I was chasing her around
Cologne. It just took me a little while to blend in, you might say. Now I’ve
got a grown-up daughter throwing Samuel Beckett in my face, and her dad’s a
nude model.”
“I’m
proud of you,” Ben said.
“For
what?”
“Exposing
your testicles in front of the volunteer fire chief – not to mention what I
reckon to be a shocking roll of flab.”
“Marianne
said his sculpture was the most accurately rendered.”
“Let’s
drop it.” Ben looked suitably appalled. “Have you seen the book?”
“Oh,
yeah. Lovely stuff. When do we start the tour?”
“What
do you mean ‘we’?”
“Are
you kidding me?”
“No.
The author doesn’t take characters from the book on tour. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh,
you just want it to die on arrival? You need me to help sell it, you fool.”
“Don’t
make me laugh. You’re no one. You provided a few mildly helpful interviews. End
of story.”
They
took a sip of bitter.
“Rosalie
thinks it’s a good idea.” Novak offered, demurely. “You know, the publisher?”
“I’m
calling her.”
Ben
reached for his cell phone.
“She’s
the president of the company. You can’t meddle in day-to-day decisions.”
“The
hell I can’t. I’m on the board. She reports to me.”
“She
reports to the executive committee of the board; not to individual board
members. What are you, Mussolini? Have you ever heard of governance?”
“What
am I supposed to do then?”
“Why
should I help you? You said I’m not coming on the tour with you.”
Novak
looked away and sipped his pint.
“I …
honestly don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Ask me,” Novak looked back at Ben and
ducked his chin.
“Julius,
would you like to join me on the book tour?”
“Really?”
“Yes,
I’d very much like you to.”
“I’ll
have my assistant check my calendar and see if we can work something out. We’re
pretty tight this time of year.”
The
author shook his head. Did he really put together investors and call in favors
to finance the start-up of a publishing house premised on a book about the
loves and cup-ties of this man across the table from him – Julius Novak? Was it
all because he wanted a continued work relationship and friendship with the
inimitable Rosalie McMahon? Did he honestly think Rosalie could guide Fag and
Lager Press around and beyond what many in the book world and in the City
predicted to him would be little more than a depressing money pit? Had he ever
wanted to be in publishing in the first place? Yes. Yes. Maybe. And, not
really.
Ben
had gotten an e-mail from Marianne Papineau over the weekend saying she would
be in Paris and London several times between mid-summer and the holidays and
would still very much like to meet his wife. Julius was welcome, as far as she
was concerned; but Ben was certainly not to consider his absence a deal breaker.
‘I
believe our friendship going forward to be both with #14 and apart from him,’
she wrote.
So
thoughts of her, and what he believed she meant to Novak, floated back to the
surface.
“Why’d
you do it, Julius, really?”
“What,
the Full Monty in front of the church rummage-sale committee?”
“Yeah,
that.”
Novak
passed Ben the bowl of peanuts while pulling on his Best Bitter, as he gave his
friend’s serious question the thought it probably warranted, before answering.
“I
guess I was throwing myself on the sword in a way and saying to Marianne that I
was sorry … for everything, about all the things I know she shared with you
about me. And that I acknowledged a generous portion of her characterizations.
I was admitting to her and to myself and … to you, I suppose, that her accounts
of events were ninety-nine percent accurate. My behavior, particularly back
when it mattered, left a lot to be desired.”
“Come
on, is that the best you can do?”
“It’s
the best I’m going to do. What do want to write another fucking book?”
“God,
no!”
They
sipped and looked at each other.
“Marianne
is a wise woman,” Ben said. “And a very fortunate one to have you in her life.”
They clinked glasses. “… and to have dodged the bullet of having you even more
in her life than is recommended.”
“I’ll
accept that as the piss-taking that it was.”
They
both smiled and chuckled -- the famous writer and the footballer whom he never
really liked all that much … until he got to know him.
“So,
you’ve shot yourself in the foot, as it were. Still I’d say you’re a relatively
young chap. What are you going to do for legitimate and honorable female
companionship?”
“Are
you suggesting I would seek illegitimate and dishonorable female companionship?
My good man, I’ll have you know … “
Just
then a group of sweaty and sooty landscape gardeners, male and female, nudged
through the throng of Londoners and joined some friends at the one long table
near Ben and Novak. One of the crew, perhaps even the foreperson or owner, was
a trim, Greek or Turkish-looking woman who looked about thirty-five but might
have been older. Her short sleeves revealed tanned and sleekly muscular arms.
Her face, flecked with dirt, was mysteriously attractive, kind of like that
chief of medicine lady on “House.” Anyone could see she was looking right at
Novak, while she spoke on a cell phone, then turned quickly away as if she
hadn’t been. Novak was grinning – either adorably or devilishly, depending on
one’s view -- as he looked back at Ben.
“Well,
as our good friend José Mourinho is fond of saying …”
“Hold
on!” Ben nearly jumped from his seat. “Don’t you dare quote a Chelsea manager
to me.”
Julius
Novak gave his best Iberian shrug, wrinkled his mouth and eyebrows and spoke
with relaxed Portuguese vainglory.
“I
have no fear of the future.”
~
THE
END.