Lovers and Liars Trilogy (101 page)

“A weekend in the country,” Lindsay had said. “Do you good, Gini. You like Charlotte. You like Max. You like their kids. You’re turning into a bloody hermit, a recluse. You’re coming. I’m driving you. No argument. That’s it.”

Gini
had
argued. She said a country weekend was just another kind of Valium. She said she wasn’t turning into a hermit, or some dotty recluse, she just liked to be alone, and she needed time to think.

“Bullshit,” Lindsay said. “You think too damn much. You always did. Pascal will be home soon…”

“It might be soon. It might not.”

“…And when he gets back, what’s he going to find? A wreck. You’ve lost too much weight, you look ill and sad. You’re not working, not writing, not going out. You’re getting peculiar. So stop.”

“All right,” Gini said obligingly, anything to make Lindsay stop nagging. “I’ll come. I won’t shame you. I’ll talk. I’ll eat. I won’t twitch.”

“You don’t twitch,” Lindsay replied fondly. “Not yet anyway. But you have to reform. Twitching’s next.”

She had arrived, Gini saw now, at Lindsay’s house, although she had no recollection of aiming for it, or turning into the right street. She mounted the steps and rang the bell, and after a long delay it was answered by Tom.

“Oh, hi,” Tom said, leaving the door wide, and sprinting for the stairs. “Come on up. I’m alone. Gran’s out. Mum phoned. She said to make you a sandwich, she’s going to be late. I said I would make a sandwich, but there wasn’t any bread. She said there was a shop on the corner, and she hung up. She sounded mildly premenstrual, but then, she often does. I had a temperature of 102 two days ago, did Mum tell you? Extreme, huh? I mean, four more degrees and your brains boil. Did you know that?”

“Not consciously,” said Gini, reaching the top floor and the kitchen. “But it makes sense.”

She looked at Tom, whom she had not seen since leaving for Sarajevo. He had grown a ponytail since she last saw him, and he seemed to have acquired new powers of speech. He was wearing a torn sweater, torn jeans, and he had nothing on his feet. He was about to be a man, and about to be handsome, Gini thought, but he had not yet acquired a man’s social duplicity. He was staring at her; then he blushed and his eyes slid away from her face.

“I know,” she said. “Didn’t Lindsay tell you? I’ve lost weight.”

“I’ll make some coffee…”

He was already turning away in embarrassment, trying to fill the kettle at a sink overflowing with unwashed dishes. “Shit,” he muttered. “Maybe I’d better clear up a bit, before Mum gets back. It’s Gran’s turn—we have assignments now, Mum’s latest ploy to keep chaos at bay. Gran skives off though. She doesn’t like washing dishes. She says the detergent gives her a rash.”

“Convenient,” said Gini, who knew Louise of old.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“I’ll help. If I wash and you dry, it won’t take long. What time is Lindsay getting here?”

“She said one-thirty. Maybe two. She’s in a flap because she’s off to Paris Monday. Away this weekend with you. The social whirl.” He grinned. “That makes her guilty. When she’s guilty she gets, like
seriously
premenstrual. Plus there’s some creep at her office and they’re at war, about to go nuclear, and this creep held her up.”

“Concise,” Gini said, running hot water. “Perhaps a little crude on the female psychology, but I get the picture. You didn’t want to join us at Max’s, then?”

“Not my scene.”

“It was once.”

“Not anymore. Too many babies. Charlotte’s pregnant again, and—What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I just scalded myself, that’s all. This water’s a bit hot.”

“Anyway, there’s a Bergman retrospective at the NFT this weekend. Twelve hours’ solid viewing. Immaculate art.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Bergman. Antonioni. Fellini. Godard. Not your American directors. Not anymore.”

“You used to like my American directors.
Mean Streets. Taxi Driver. The Godfather.
We saw
The Godfather
three times at least, Tom.”

“Yeah. Well,
early
Coppola’s okay. And Scorsese is great. Did you see
Goodfellas
? Oh, and Tarantino, of course. I mean, Tarantino is seriously amazing. You’ve seen
Reservoir Dogs
?
Pulp Fiction
?”

“No.”

“The two greatest American films ever made. Bar none. Postmodern cinema. They’re violent, of course.”

“So I hear. I’m not in the mood for violence right now. I’ll catch up with them eventually, I guess…”

“You must. There’s this scene in
Pulp Fiction
—I don’t want to spoil it for you, because he plays these narrative games, of course, but there’s these college kids, and you know they’re about to get shot, and Travolta gets out his gun, but he doesn’t point it at them or anything. He’s just standing behind them, and then—” Tom stopped.

“Hey, look. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started in on that. Mum warned me. She said—”

“It’s fine, Tom. Really. Don’t worry about it. I’m okay. Just pass me that saucepan, would you?”

Tom passed it across. He stood beside her, wielding his dish towel ineffectively, occasionally glancing in her direction.

“I would like to know—” He hesitated. “I mean, what happened to you in Sarajevo? Do you talk about it? Mum says you don’t talk about it. Not to her, not to anyone. Why?”

“You used not to talk,” Gini countered. “Tom, for three years, four years, you scarcely spoke at all. It drove Lindsay wild with anxiety and guilt. I’m sure you had thoughts, ideas, feelings, that you could have chosen to communicate. You decided, for reasons of your own, not to do so. And I don’t think I badgered you, Tom, at the time…”

“No. You didn’t You were cool.” He paused. “That’s okay. I can read that. People talk too much anyway. In this family they talk all the time. Mum never draws breath. Gran never draws breath. I just needed a bit of space. A bit of silence for a while.”

“Yes, well, sometimes that can help.” Gini looked away.

“Sure. No sweat. You used to talk, that’s all. I liked talking to you—you remember that? We’d go out, you’d treat me to a movie, grab a hamburger. It was fun.”

“Yes. I remember. I enjoyed it too.”

“So I can’t help wondering… what brought this on.” He hesitated again. “Mum says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder—did she tell you?”

“No, she didn’t. And it’s nothing so grand.”

“Too many dead bodies, Mum says. I said—Pascal can handle all that, he’s covered hundreds of wars, so why can’t Gini? Mum says it’s different for women, because they feel things more, but I don’t buy that. I think…” He weighed his words. “I think you’ll get
inured
to it in time. And it had to be hard for you, because it was your first war, and it meant a whole lot to you because that was always your ambition, right? To cover wars?”

“Yes, it was. Once. Why don’t we change the subject?”

“Sure.”

There was a brief silence. Tom dried a saucepan and some plates while Gini grimly scrubbed and rinsed. She would be fine, she told herself, if she could just concentrate on this small, menial task. Then Tom did the one thing she would never have expected, the one thing she could not deal with at all.

Blushing again, and with a gauche clumsiness that reminded her of him as a much younger boy, he put his arm around her shoulders and apologized. He said he knew it was crass, and he shouldn’t have raised the subject, and he was sorry he had, but someone—well, his girlfriend, actually—had told him he had to get in touch with other people’s feelings, so he had been making an effort, and it seemed to be working, kind of, and he hadn’t meant to be intrusive, but Gini did look so different that he felt he had to say something…

She began to cry. She could see that her tears distressed Tom, but she was powerless to stop them. Tom drew her to the table. He brought her a handful of Kleenex. When she saw how agitated he had become, she battled the tears, and finally controlled them. Seeing her grow calmer, Tom grew kinder still. He made her some coffee, then he sat down beside her and took her hand.

“Tell me,” he said. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone else, I promise. I understand. What made you cry?”

“It wasn’t you, Tom.” Gini squeezed his hand, then released it. “Please don’t blame yourself. You were very kind. It’s just—in Bosnia I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t let myself. So it’s as if the tears stored themselves up. They waited till I got home—and now I suddenly remember something, and they begin, and I can’t stop them. That’s all.”

“What do you remember?” He looked at her gravely, and Gini was touched. She could see that, half-boy, half-adult, he was trying to act as he considered proper for a man.

“Ugly things I saw. People dying. Wounds. You watch the news on TV, Tom. You can imagine. I’d seen those programs too, before I went, obviously. I’d seen Pascal’s photographs. I knew what I’d find. I thought I was prepared. Only when you see it, stand by it, for months at a time—when you know that nothing you do, and nothing you write, is going to alter it…” She bent her head.

He frowned. “Why did you want to go there, Gini? Why cover wars? Was it because your father did? Because he won that Pulitzer Prize thing? Or Pascal, maybe? So you could work with him, be together?”

“All of those things, I guess, Tom.” She sighed. “I don’t
know
anymore. All I know is—I couldn’t go back to Bosnia. I’ll never write about another war.”

“I expect you will,” Tom said in an encouraging tone. “I read those pieces you wrote. They were really moving. When Mum read that one from Mostar, she cried, and—”

“Don’t, Tom. Let’s not talk about it anymore. Okay?”

“You miss Pascal.” Tom rose. “Mum says that’s half the problem, and I agree. She says you’ll be okay when he gets back. In fact, she’s pretty mad at him for staying away so long. She said the other night, if she had his number, she’d call him, give him a piece of her mind.”

“What?” Gini also rose. She looked at him in consternation. “Tom—she didn’t mean that, did she? She mustn’t do that. She has no right to interfere.”

“It’s okay. She won’t. She just gets these ideas.” He paused, his face changing. “Oh, I see. I understand. You haven’t told him, have you? He doesn’t know you’re ill—”

“I’m not ill. Can we stop this?”

“Because if he knew, Mum’s right, he’d be on the next plane.”

“Tom, will you just stop this?”

“No. I won’t!” Tom, she realized suddenly, was also angry. His face had paled. He shot her a glance fierce with adolescent purity. “You’re
lying
to Pascal. You shouldn’t lie, not to someone who loves you—”

“I am
not
lying.” Gini rounded on him furiously. “There may be certain things I prefer not to tell him, but there are reasons for that. He has to
work,
Tom.”

“It’s still a lie. It’s a lie by omission, that’s all.
I
don’t lie. I wouldn’t lie to my girlfriend. I haven’t told one lie, not since November ninth last year. Not even a single white lie—”

“So I see. Well, you should learn, Tom. Sometimes the truth causes pain. Sometimes lies can be helpful. Or merciful. When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

The final remark was fatal, she knew instantly. Blood rushed up into his neck and face.

“Couples shouldn’t lie
especially
,” he burst out. “That really makes me sick. Wives lying to their husbands. Husbands lying to their wives. My dad does that. When he’s here, which is once every century, he just fucking lies all the time.”

Gini could now hear the mounting distress, could feel his sudden rage. The turn in the conversation, and the speed of his unforeseen reaction, took her by surprise.

“Tom,
don’t
,” she began, holding out her hand. “I’m sorry I said that. And you mustn’t think that way. Lindsay doesn’t lie. Lindsay is one of the most truthful people I know. And your parents aren’t together. They haven’t been for years. You mustn’t make judgments about them like that.”

“Why not? It’s true. I know the facts. They were married. For ten minutes. They had a wedding. They made all those vows. I was born. Then they split. They made a promise, and they never kept it. And you—you’re just as bad…”

“Tom, I don’t think you mean that. You don’t understand.”

“I thought you were different, you and Pascal.” His voice rose: “I should have known—”

He broke off. From below, a door slammed. They both listened to his mother’s footsteps climbing the stairs. Tom’s face worked. Gini stared at him helplessly. She had little experience of children, no knowledge of how you spoke to someone who was half-adult, half-child. She was only twelve years older than he was, not yet thirty, but she watched him now from across a huge divide. Her own inadequacy silenced her. Her hand was still extended toward him, and Tom was still ignoring it. His mother had reached the first landing below. He gave a sudden angry gesture, began to speak, stopped, then stalked from the room and slammed the door.

The door of his own room thundered shut a few seconds later; almost immediately, a blast of rock music rent the air. Lindsay entered, looking ebullient, and secretly pleased with herself. As if on cue, the second she entered, the telephone began to ring. Lindsay picked it up and listened in silence.

“Markov,” she said eventually. “I don’t want to hear this now. I don’t
need
to hear this. It’s the
weekend,
okay? Now, piss off, Markov, and leave me alone.” She replaced the receiver, turned to the door, and raised her voice. “Tom,” she shouted, “down a few decibels,
please…
”

The boom of drums reduced.

“What happened?” She turned to Gini. “A row?”

“Sort of. I’m not sure. Tom was being very good to me. We were talking. Then the conversation took this sudden swerve. Then…”

“Fission?”

“Yes. Oh, Lindsay—I think I failed him in some way.”

“Don’t worry. That’s what adults are there for. I fail Tom around five times a day. Teenagers!” She flashed a smile. “Let’s get going. I’ll call Charlotte, then we’re on our way. I have a million things to tell you…”

Heading west toward Oxford, Lindsay drove at top speed, and without sign of skill. Gini, who had forgotten just how appalling a driver she was, eventually closed her eyes while Lindsay steered and talked. She talked all the way to Oxford; she talked
in
Oxford, where having missed the turnoff, she lost the way. She talked on the country roads beyond Oxford, and she did not, it seemed to Gini, have a million topics to discuss, despite her claim.