It took me 25 chapters to use an image of Lytton Strachey? He's not really in the book; and the chapter isn't about him either. But his spirit does admittedly pervade the work. There is so much going on in this chapter -- one of those in which one must tie a few loose ends, allowing the reader to catch his or her breath. Don't be surprised if more helpful images appear as we go.
On top
of that, she thought, ‘no wonder conservatives mock us; and who could blame
them? This is poor. I clearly love my daughter more than any other parent.’
25
Geneva, Switzerland
As
winter turned to spring, Ben Hampton turned a sports biography (with a Hampton
twist) into yet another thought-provoking novel of ideas. Or if not exactly a
novel, it read like one. The characters really existed, and the events really
happened. The motivations and psyches of the characters and the interpretations
of the events’ significances, however, dwelt either side of the fictive. What
Lytton Strachey had once famously done for the masterpiece legacies of Queen
Elizabeth I and her Earl of Essex, Ben Hampton had now rendered in equally
baroque fashion onto the previously blank canvases that were Julius Novak the
Obscure and Marianne Papineau the Oblique. Granted, there were differences
between the two tales of ‘love denied amidst spectacular circumstance,’ not
least of which being that although there were times Marianne might like to have
had Julius beheaded, she never actually decreed it.
Moreover,
the Shakespearian-era couple had been dead more than 300 years by the time
Strachey put controversial pen to paper, while Julius and Marianne still walked
the earth at the same time they were being pinned up. And the earth they walked
now thrived alongside (or suffered under) an insatiable and often frenzied,
24-hour news cycle.
Could
anyone predict what might happen to Julius and Marianne after their lives were
laid publicly bare by Ben Hampton – an admittedly kind and emotionally generous
man to everyone (whereas Strachey was considered by some to be a pitiful and
vindictive ass); still an acerbically funny and penetrating observer of modern
pop culture. If Ben Hampton sees something and recognizes it, he then portrays
it from his own unique point of view. And ever since ‘Out in the Cold’ and his
first novel, ‘Revolutions per Minute,’ those who occupy the book world have
gotten it, felt it, talked about it and delivered their verdicts in a variety
of forms.
When
Strachey and the Bloomsburys were writing and painting and publishing and
critiquing and protesting and conscientiously objecting and lounging at
Garsington, Freudian concepts of psychoanalysis were in the avant garde.
‘Elizabeth and Essex’ was essentially one of the original Freudian analyses of
historical figures in brilliant prose form. Today, the works and ideas and
proofs of Freud and his followers are so ingrained in our culture and
collective conscience, that when we conduct what is a ‘Freudian analysis’ of
someone, we don’t even realize we’re doing it. And those who hear or read our
words no longer bother to recognize or acknowledge ‘Him’ to whom we pay homage.
Freud is just another cliché. Ben Hampton strove not to be.
Ben
stayed in contact with Marianne and Novak through e-mail and the occasional
phone chat. He flew to Cologne to walk around the couples’ neighborhood and old
haunts. He spoke to former trustees of Wüppertal FC and to ex-teammates. He
sought out old Wüppertal supporters on the club’s current Website and through
other sources. He talked to Novak’s former neighbors in the Essex countryside
and to the fellows of Selwyn College. He even had tea with the retired kit man
at Highbury who saw everything.
In his
obsession to capture … something, Ben threw every other of his professional
commitments overboard. His assistant in London went about putting everyone off
– the film production company; the private-school board of trustees upon which
he was the media chair; various charities; musicians and writers with whom he
had been collaborating; book and literary festivals to which he’d agreed to
appear (even the one in Sicily); TV and radio appearances; initial meetings for
a series of government PSAs on libraries.
Everything
was to be pushed back with as much grace and diplomacy as possible without
setting off alarms that Ben Hampton was at work on a book of biblical
significance – rumored to be some kind of ‘Out in the Cold II.’ Ben cringed
every time he heard that apocryphal title. He set his mind to the task. He
wanted, needed to get it right.
Rosalie
McMahon, of course, as well as Jonathan James and the happy gang (aka the giddy
bunch) at JJI Sports Reform Press, basked in the speculation. Jonathan rose
each morning feeling as though his firm’s ship had finally come home to Canary
Wharf. He had inherited the modest, sports press from a beloved uncle and had
immediately gone about charting a course for greater things. Jonathan believed
he’d done his bit prior to Hillsborough to convince the big football clubs to
stop treating their supporters like cattle in a pen before something truly
monstrous occurred. Something truly monstrous did occur one hellish afternoon
in Sheffield, and JJI Sports Reform Press was in or near the vanguard of the
publishing world in support of Lord Taylor in ensuring nothing similar would
ever again visit the stadiums of England.
From
those modest successes, JJI had soldiered forward, remaining comfortably in the
black, if without great fanfare or glitz. Now, with the prompting of an unknown
but determined literary agent, Jonathan and his solicitors had coordinated a
surprisingly favorable deal with a serious, mainstream publisher to allow Ben …
bloody … Hampton to pen a football book under the hitherto backbench banner of
JJI Sports Reform Press. Percentage of revenue for sales over ‘X’ amount, etc.
As Rosalie had commented, everyone who deserved it would get his pound of Ben
Hampton flesh, including the consumer public in the shape of a “yummy read.”
Rosalie,
for her part, stoked the embers of publicity only a little. She entertained fears
that it was all too good to be true. The chapters that came her way from Ben,
via e-mail attachment, and the periodic phone conversations with the author
(her author? God!!) only increased her anxiety – along with her
inextinguishable sense of thrill. On one hand, she was unsure how to go about
massaging Jonathan James and the editor, Trevor Ball, in regards to the notion
that their little football bio was not completely what they’d originally
bargained for. That was worrying, kind of like a letter from Inland Revenue
that you shove in a drawer.
Face
it; Rosalie was not well experienced in matters of this particular dimension of
the industry. But, who is? That rhetorical was a critical part of Rosalie’s
business philosophy. Nobody really
knows how to do anything! No one is born an expert, and no one has seen it all
(except the kit man). We’re all just muddling through, volleying even the
fiercest of Boris Becker back over the net.
When
it comes to human relations; face-to-face or phone debate; scratching and
scraping; craning to the finish line; completing a task; marshalling forces;
getting people to do things and love it, however, ‘no one is better than me,’
she reminds herself. She felt warm and strong in her self-confidence. And she
always kept three, standing prescriptions of Zovirex at her Vantage Pharmacy.
Like Peter’s bartender with his Marston’s Pedigree, the neighborhood chemists
provided swift and discreet service to Rosalie in her pre-emptive battle with
the occasional and painful herpe spot on the lip.
Marianne
had completed a major series of sculpture commissioned by a Providence, Rhode
Island park, owned by Brown University. She saw Isabel every other weekend at
Mount Holyoke and would sometimes spend the night at an inn with her daughter
in either Amherst or Northampton. The main topic of conversation on these
visits, even more than usual, was Isabel’s dad, Julius Novak.
Ben’s
follow-up questions by phone and e-mail kept ‘Marianne’s ex’ foremost in her
thoughts. She would lose herself completely in her typed responses to Ben’s
queries, and she seemed to reach a newfound acceptance of Julius ‘as he is’ and
would no doubt remain forever. During and after writing to Ben or talking about
Julius to the author on the phone, she experienced a transformation in her
feelings of (something like) intimacy for him -- as though they’d gone through
a great series of trials together, as a couple, and had emerged from a menacing
tunnel and into the sunshine. These troubling emotions would rear every so
often, whereupon Marianne would force them back down to wherever they came
from. She had no time nor any interest in becoming weakened in body, mind and
soul by thoughts of a new life with Julius Novak. She absolutely refused to
torture herself with thoughts of ‘what if …?’ when it came to that man.
In
April, Isabel appeared as several different characters in her school’s brave
production of Alfred Jarry’s burlesque, ‘Ubu Roi.’ Certainly, Marianne thought,
while propping up painfully on the concrete rows of the outdoor amphitheatre,
no one who doesn’t have to would sit through this play more than once.
In
most of the scenes, Isabel and the other young women, wore multi-colored,
knee-length, flopping, cloth phalluses connected to a belt around the waist.
Every time the actresses moved across the stage the fake cocks would bob and
sway irresistibly. It was truly daring, absurdist theatre. Isabel had also
auditioned for ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ but was cast instead for ‘Ubu
Roi,’ because the directors thought her French upbringing would be an asset to
the company’s interpretation of the turn-of-the-century herald to Dada and
Surrealism. But Isabel was proud of the time and effort she put into the
production; and Marianne was proud of everything there was about Isabel.
Novak
spent the rest of the winter and early spring teaching his regular, graduate
students at Wolfson College; traveling to an array of the Europaeum
member-universities – Helsinki, Prague, Paris, Bonn, Bologna – to meet with his
student-project groups; and editing his journals compiled during visits to the
various cities.
In
Paris, his get-togethers took place not ten minutes’ walk from the Papineaus’
vacant, Montparnasse apartment – open to friends and family. On one of these
academic trips, Novak received a midnight phone call while at Hotel Les Armures
in the old town center of Geneva, just across the Pont du Mont Blanc from The
Graduate Institute where his project group met. The caller was Isabel, who was
eating dinner with a group of friends at India Palace in Northampton. She was
having her usual – coconut nan and chicken vindaloo, followed by kulfi. Novak
was lying in bed watching a rebroadcast of Napoli v. Roma from the previous
Sunday.
“Yes.
I miss you. I miss everybody. Everything’s terrible. I want to come home. I
hate school. Come and get me. I want a puppy.”
Her
friends laughed and shouted all at once into the phone, ‘She’s miserable, papa.
She needs more money. Dadddd-yyyyy. She’ll become a lesbian if you don’t send
$5,000. We want to come to Switzerland. We hate it here.”
“Tell
your friends I understand that college is a time to explore and experiment and
to discover who you are,” Novak laughed. “Trial and error. Eyes open at all
times.”
“Daddy.
Come and get me now. I hate
everybody. They’re all dykes.”
“Whooooooh!”
screamed her friends, and they began to sing Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl (And
I Liked It).”
“Do
you girls call all the fathers and do this?”
“I’m
going outside so I can hear you away from these Skanky Whores!”
“Bye
dad!” squealed and shouted the girls. “Bye Julius. Send us money. Send us
Oxford boys. Studs from Oxford. Whooooooh!”
Isabel
walked around the corner and into a coffee shop where she could talk to her
father in peace. She was wearing her usual someone else’s hoody and someone
else’s sweatpants tucked into her tall, flowered Uggs.
“What
are you doing?” she plopped into a chair and watched nighttime Northampton flow
by the window.
“Lying
on my bed in a hotel room eating a chocolate-covered rhubarb cake and watching
football. How about you?”
“I’m
with girls from the cast. You know, not
boys? Why am I at a school with no boys?”
Novak
knew of perhaps a hundred valid reasons having to do with academics; female
empowerment; thriving and becoming leaders in a man’s world; a nurturing
environment; comfortable and clean surroundings; a break just before real
adulthood when men start draining your energy with their infantile needs and
undeveloped hearts, minds and souls; and the fact that tribes of men roam just
five minutes in every direction (particularly north at Hampshire, Amherst and
U. Mass, whereupon, don’t worry, they’ll
find you). But he and Marianne had
said them all to Isabel and to one another countless times before. And she had
insisted on going there. And he was tired. And Napoli had just equalized with
ten minutes to go. So he cooked his argument down to one digestible morsel.
“It’s
better.”
“Daddy,
you know a lot about how Hun became Hungarian. But can I just tell you, you
don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Talking
shite am I? I hear that a lot.”
“I
wish I were there with you having cake. We could get fat together.”
He
heard about his expanding dimensions a lot too. Sometimes people commented by
simply looking at him for a fraction longer than was polite, then saying ‘Oh.’
“The
cast. Does that mean the show hasn’t been cancelled?”
“No,
daddy, it wasn’t cancelled. Tonight’s the finale.”
“Les carottes sont cuite?”
“Daddy.
Your French. Don’t.”
“Ah,”
Novak was still unused to his little girl not loving every word he spoke. “So,
Ubu Roi.”
“I’m
sick to death of it. It’s soooo long, like at least thirty minutes too long. We
hate the director. She’s an angry dyke bitch with issues. I should have done
crew again.”
“Did
mom enjoy it?” he asked, knowing that Isabel would know for sure.
“Maybe
the first time. But she came to three shows, which kind of qualifies as
masochist. I was happy to see her face in the crowd, and so were my friends,
but … you know?”
“Yeah,
I know, sweetheart. I think she came once for me and once for Uncle Dan. I sent
energy. Did you feel it?”
“Yeah,
definitely,” Isabel gripped the little pink cell phone, wishing it were
actually a stuffed animal from her bed rather than a different kind of
indispensable device with psychedelic flowers and different ring tone for every
one of her contacts – last count 237. Novak’s ring tone was “Satellite City” by
Orange Juice.
“Well,
I’m really happy mom is so close by to you, and you can see her a lot. It can
get lonely sometimes at college, even when you’re busy. I miss you too.
Sometimes I can’t think of the right thing to send. What do you need besides
cash?”
Novak
needed to show concern without giving away how gutted he was that she was gone.
He was personally shattered but immensely proud as a father and resigned to the
idea that she was growing up. He had to maneuver without asking her if she were
glad she came to the states for college, or if she wished she were back
somewhere in Europe. He had been told not to bring it up. Marianne had helped
him agree to a steadfast course of emotional support. Unless their daughter seemed
on the verge of a legitimate breakdown of some kind, either emotional or
physical (she was half-Papineau, after all), mom and dad merely would listen to
her moans and be understanding but attempt to keep her cool until the year was
up. Then they would evaluate matters in the summer just like the million or so
other parents of college freshmen all over the globe.
As
distraught as Novak was that his only child and Marianne were across an ocean
from him for the first time, he realized what a rare opportunity Isabel had
earned by gaining entry to such a prestigious women’s college. For intellectual
stimulation, the Amherst-Northampton area was one of the country’s true cradles
of knowledge and, to a stranger, a surprisingly high-level of culture. In
addition, her school was in striking distance of Vermont, New York, Boston and
the Cape. Perhaps once she’s settled, she can spread her wings a bit. She
should love it, they all thought. But you can’t make a young man or woman love
something if it’s not right for them.
Maybe
she should be back in France or maybe Spain. Or England.
‘If I
mentioned Oxford or Cambridge, if I let either one of those names slip,
Marianne would do me once and for all,’ he thought, not for the first time.
“A
plane ticket to civilization would be nice.”
“Honey,
my first year, and mom’s first year, away had its moments of loneliness and
doubt. You really do have kinsmen as far as that goes.”
“Yeah,
you guys met at a big university in a
major city that had men and women. What was that like?”
“Kiddo.
Kids get lonely at the biggest colleges in the biggest cities in the world.
Loneliness is a state of mind having very little to do with environment. Mom
talks about having been lonely in Paris, for God’s sake.”
“That’s
what I called about.”
“How
can you be lonely?” He felt incredulous, then he woke up. “Are you really
lonely?”
“No, I
mean mom. Mom is what I called about.”
“What’s
wrong?”
“Nothing’s
wrong. Well, strike that. Did you talk to her much at New Year’s or spend any
time with her?”
“Yeah,
we talked. We talked every day I was there. You were there. You slept a lot,
but didn’t you see us talking?”
“Not
that kind of talking. Not pass the salt and look how big our little baby is. I
mean, did you have any … you know, talks about … yourselves?”
“Our
selves?”
‘He
really is dense at times, honey,’ Marianne would tell her daughter. ‘We love
him, but how he’s avoided being laughed out of Cambridge and Oxford is
anybody’s guess.’
The
two of them pondered whether perhaps a kind of retardation occurs with
lecturers, like at some point all the intellect you expel to your student
audience is no longer able to return to your system. Sort of an advanced
senility sets in, because you’ve talked too much. You’ve, in effect, given your
brain away.
“Bitch,
are you serious?” Isabel asked. “Are you done, dad? I mean, are you, like,
done?”
“I’m
almost afraid to ask. Done with … what?”
“With
this act. I’ve just done, like, a gazillion hours on stage acting in a fucking
ridiculous French farce where it’s, like, obvious that we’re acting and the
people in the seats are living real lives and observing. I know what’s a play
and what isn’t, you know?”
Novak
turned off the TV. Damn. That had really shaped into a cracking match. Even
Julius Novak realized that his child, who was no longer a child -- if she ever
was, was trying to tell him something.
“I’m
listening.”
“Do
you ever see yourself when you’re on your stage? Do you ever yearn to see
yourself?”
He
knew what she was getting at. Oh, he knew. He had been listening to these
words, spoken at this tone (although at a diminishing tempo and level of
exasperation), for twenty-five years. The existentialist message was familiar,
but the messenger was new. His child had changed, matured yet again, he
thought.
‘Do I
ever see myself? On my stage?? That’s it. No more
philosophical, anarchist drama for her. I have to be able to have a normal
conversation with her. Was I like that? Insufferably pedantic?’
And
Novak always feared this day would come. It had been coming by degrees ever since
Isabel was a baby. She had a way of looking at you, Novak liked to say, that
implied she knew all your motives and what your next move was going to be. She
suffered no intellectual laziness. As a three-year-old, Isabel asked Marianne
to please not use a certain babysitter who lived in their building. She
explained to her mother that the babysitter had attempted to skip pages in a
storybook. The little girl believed the babysitter wanted the book to be over
sooner for some reason, and that was not all right.
He
tried to catch up to where she was in the conversation he didn’t realize they
were having until Isabel had a 200-meter head start.
“Are
we talking about really deep and serious things here like how people choose to
live their lives and how some choices preclude other choices?”
“We’re
talking about what a fucking bizarre family we are, and how it’s not really
working for me anymore. And we’re talking about how mom now won’t shut up about
you the whole time she’s with me. That’s never happened before. Which, on one
hand, I don’t mind because I love you, and you’re a perfectly cool topic. But
why talk if there’s no action, daddy? She does sculpture; and she talks about you. Like, I don’t know if she’s living
in the past, when all there was in her life was you and her materials, or what.
What’s the point in talking about you like you’re her husband who she’s been
with forever, and it’s all normal shit? It’s freakin’ me out. It’s fucking
bizarre.”
Novak
did not know what to do with the emotions he was feeling or what to call them
or where exactly his daughter’s emotions dwelt and what they were. He actually
needed Marianne to explain this conversation to him. Which part of this should
he address right now in this moment with his college-freshman, in-a-far-off-land
daughter? He grabbed a notepad and began scribbling notes about what she’d just
said – in case he had trouble answering Marianne’s piercing questions. He went
the obvious route.
“She
talks about me? In a pleasant way?”
“Most
of the time, yeah,” Isabel was caught off guard before setting herself. “Is that all you have to say?”
“No,
it’s not all I have to say. It’s the first thing I said. The next thing I’m
going to say is, what do you mean ‘Why talk if there’s no action?’”
“Don’t
play dumb, and please don’t talk to me like I’m still twelve.”
“All
right,” he said softly. He was not sure why she thought he was playing dumb. He
was choosing, Marianne would say, not to hear what was being stated clearly to
him. What exactly did he teach to young people to help them go about saving
Europe? “I’m sorry.”
“It’s
not too late, daddy. And if you say, ‘Not too late for what?’ I will totally
hang up and turn my phone off.”
Novak
finally made a correct decision. He didn’t speak.
“If I
could make a suggestion,” she said. “I would recommend you get your head out of
your ass and go to Vermont with some flowers. What are you guys, like
forty-four, something like that? I know two professors here at school who were
single until they were about your age, met, got married, and they’ve been
together – that’s together – for,
like, thirty years. That’s longer, starting at middle age, than you two have
known each other. Is this making any sense to you?”
“Do
you understand what you’re suggesting?” Novak really could not believe his
ears.
“Daddy,
everyone who knows you and mom thinks you’re both fucking re-tarded. What shocks me, when it isn’t pissin’ me off, is how
easily you both gave up on each other and yourselves. Both of you have so much
determination in everything else you do. How could you have not been determined
enough to stay together, especially once you had a baby.”
“Now
wait a minute.”
“No,
I’m not gonna wait a minute. You don’t have to be right wing to think families
are important. I’m not complaining about my life. My life is great. I’ll never
know what my life could have been, though, what our lives could have been,
because the two of you wussed out.”
“I
hear what you’re saying, sweetie, but that’s no way to think. We could all say
that our lives could be different or better if such and such had or hadn’t
occurred, but that’s not really going to move the ball down the field, is it?
Or the shell down the river or the scene to the next act.”
“Do
you want to be with mom? Do you want to have a wife and a real partner?” Isabel
paused, but not long enough for a considered response. “I’ve accepted how
things are, and I’ve never cried about it; it’s the only way of life I know –
my parents, never married and separated even before I was born. Like I’m some
kinda ghetto bitch.”
“Ghetto
bitch?”
“What
are you going to do, dad?”
“You
want me to go to Vermont.” Novak said it like a declaration, not like a
question. “And do what exactly?”
Isabel
waited a beat or two before answering.
“Mom
was wrong about one thing,” her voice sounded cold. “She said you stopped being
passive aggressive a long time ago.”
Novak
knew he deserved that. Isabel was right, and it hurt him. He had made a
conscious effort to swear off ‘P.A.-ism’ for good.
“Would
it kill you if I took a little time to think about it?”
“Sure,
daddy. Take your time. Take twenty more years.”
“I
didn’t say I was going to wait twenty years. I meant after a little time, I’d
be able to understand what I needed to do.”
“The
blind have no notion of time,” Isabel spoke as if on a stage. “The things of
time are hidden from them.”
“Oh, I
forgot,” Novak said, monotonously. “You’re a college student. That sounded
vaguely familiar. What was it?”
“Waiting
for Godot.”
“You
don’t mess around, do you?” Novak smiled, realizing he had helped make this young
woman, this adult person who had just coolly smacked him back and forth with a
little Beckett. “Really pulling out the big guns.”
There
was a long pause.
“Daddy?”
“Sorry.
I was trying to think of a killer Milan Kundera quote.”
“Like,
‘Love is a desire for that lost half of ourselves’?” Isabel said.
“Um …
no, not that one. You really came prepared, didn’t you? That’s a good girl.”
“I
love you, daddy. I have to go. The Mount Holy-Dykes are ready to get ice
cream.”
“OK, I
love you, too. Thank you for everything … everything you’ve … uh … given me. I
mean it, thank you. And you’re very brave for going to school so far from home.
I admire you. I’m in genuine awe. I know it’s not easy. I don’t make things
easy.”
“It’s
your life. You’ve been a great dad. You deserve to be happy too.
LoveyouseeyouGotoVermontBye.”
And
she hung up.
Novak
stared out the window for several minutes toward the eclectic St. Pierre
Cathedral, the adopted home church of John Calvin. He didn’t talk to himself;
he just stared. Then he went to his laptop to see if his assistant had updated
his schedule through the end of the spring, looking for a gap of some kind. The
ex-footballer reached into his briefcase and pulled out a 5x7 photograph of
Marianne, looking as gorgeous and intelligent and seductive and penetrating and
impenetrable as ever, the most beautiful creature he had ever known. She was
posing in front of one of her sculptures at the 1999 Biennale in Venice. It was
signed, ‘Love Forever, Kiki.’
After
hanging up with her father, Isabel immediately called her grandmother in Derry
to report, “He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. I think he’ll come.”
Joanna
was preparing her studio for the next day’s work.
“Did
you get any literary quotes in? You know how that gets his attention.”
“I
zinged him with a Samuel Beckett,” Isabel said nonchalantly. “Then I buried him
with a Milan Kundera. I just pulled it out of my ass.”
“Milan Kundera,” Joanna was impressed and proud. “Oh, if only you’re mother had been that ruthless. Your great grandad was like that. Have you ever thought of Wall Street, bunny rabbit? We would like to keep the Paris apartments, you know.”
“Milan Kundera,” Joanna was impressed and proud. “Oh, if only you’re mother had been that ruthless. Your great grandad was like that. Have you ever thought of Wall Street, bunny rabbit? We would like to keep the Paris apartments, you know.”
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