The Chemistry of Tears (6 page)

He dealt one card, face down. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded. Was he smiling in the shadow of that large moustache?

Clearly I had fallen into company with a card sharp, but I would not be the easy victim my friends all feared. “If you expect me to turn it over, you are quite mistaken.”

“No.” He tapped the verso. “It is this I show you. This is the dream you are living in the middle of.”

For the first time I looked into his eyes. They were a very dark brown and one could almost call them black. I was not afraid of him, but he was certainly a beast both fierce and strange. “This is a picture of Karlsruhe,” I said.

“In English that would mean Karl’s Rest. You see that of course. But what you cannot see is the Karl who dreamed Karlsruhe. That is, Karl III Wilhelm, Markgraf von Baden-Durlach. He fell asleep and had a dream, and what he dreamed is what you see on the back of this card. So what do you observe?”

“Clearly it is in the form of a circle.”

“Clearly, Mr. Brandling. A wheel in fact.”

I thought again, how in the devil does he know my name? From
the awful jumble of his leather book he plucked an ill-used sheet, a kind of catalogue, of clockwork wheels and gears.

“You are not a clockmaker,” I said—the hands upon the table were too large to decently tie boot laces.

“Why on earth did you speak to that idiot Hartmann? You come to the home of the wheel, and you talk to that dull bourgeois little shopkeeper. Do you not know where on earth you are?”

I thought, perhaps they all address each other in this tone.

“You want a cuckoo clock.” He almost sneered.

“No,” I said but he was insisting I consider an engraving of clock wheels, all the time staring with that senseless excitement you see in the eyes of people who have lost their wits. He had a theory, I understood. If you were from Karlsruhe you had spokes and metal rims.

“Have you ever seen a running machine?”

“A machine that runs?” (My goodness, I thought, that would be really something.)

“For God’s sake, drink, no of course not. If such a machine were to be invented, where would the most propitious place be?”

“You will say that it is Karlsruhe.”

“Here,” he cried, plucking one more item from his collection, and offering it with his enormous hand—a card like the ones manufacturers sometimes slip inside their tins of pipe tobacco. “Study it,” he commanded. “You spend too much money on your tailor and not enough on books.”

It was a coloured engraving of a fellow with a two-wheeled contraption.

“This is Herr Drais of Karlsruhe.” He tapped the fellow’s head with fingernails as square and dirty as a gardener’s.

I said, “Why are you showing me this?”

“It is named after him. It is a Drais.”

“Why are you showing me this damned Drais?”

“So you will not die of duck,” he said, and threw back his head
and roared with laughter. I shoved his papers back at him, but he had one more to give.

“And what is this?” I demanded.

“How should I know everything?”

“Then why should you give it to me?”

“In trust.”

“In trust for what?”

“If I have your plans,” he said, “it is only fair that you have mine.”

“You do not have my plans,” I said. “And do not call me Brandling.”

In return he folded his arms across his broad chest and revealed the white clean line of his teeth beneath his big moustache.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I have an appointment.”

“Then you must go.”

He made no attempt to say farewell, but sat there very placidly poking his great big nose into his strong drink. A few moments later, having found my way along the dark and twisting corridor to my room, I discovered my plans were missing.

I beheld the likeness of my poor dear boy, the sloe eyes, the residual sadness, and knew it was a crime to have left him. I rushed back
down the stairs. I had a mind to take the butter knife and stab the scoundrel in his staring eyes. But of course you can see already what had happened. As usual I was the last one to understand. Yes, I found the parlour now deserted, no sign of what had happened, nothing but two empty cognac glasses and, beneath the table, a single playing card.

I was never an adventurer. I was not suited to adventures. If I were really a True Friend I would have stayed at home.

I
WAS VERY FRIGHTENED OF
visiting the cemetery. But I would not abandon my beloved. I made the bed and threw my clothes in the wash. I swept the cornflakes off the floor and washed out the whisky glass. I cleared away the bottles and made myself a cup of tea. I sat back at my table. I found my Lorazepam and chewed one up. It was only eight o’clock so I thought, just for a little, I might spend some time with Henry Brandling. I turned the next page of the notebook and discovered a postcard of Karlsruhe held there by a rusty pin. There were also, between the next two pages, a few other bits of floating scrap, but the following sheets were all blank, each and every one. Only then, as my throat closed on itself, did I understand I had been relying on Henry to continue. Now I saw that he might not. For all I knew, the books inside the tea chest would be empty too.

I was finding clothes for work when I realized it was Saturday and there was no telephone call I could make, or story I could invent to get access to the studio.

“Weekend work in studios is not undertaken without an exceptional reason.”

So I ran a bath. I lay in the tepid water and looked at my poor scrawny unloved body with its seaweed hair. I cried. I shampooed and conditioned and cried again. Even inside the bathroom you could
feel the heat wave, all the car engines and motorways to the horizon and beyond. I dried my hair. I had good hair, I had been told. I used Preparation H to reduce the inflammation of my puffy eyes.

I didn’t know where they had hidden Matthew, but then I called the cemetery and was almost brought undone by kindness. I had been so armoured. I had thought they would ask me was I “the wife” and prove it. But this young man was not like that at all. He had a lovely West Country way of talking, and he was patient while I found a pencil to write down the lot number and the directions. He said it was a very pretty part of the cemetery. He had walked there yesterday. It was really rather wooded, “a real refuge” in the heat.

I would still have put it off, but just after ten I realized that “upstairs” had returned and the former Speaker of the House had decided he would cut his lawn. The noise was awful. So I went.

I could get to Kensal Rise on the Bakerloo line. I have never liked the tube, but today seemed particularly unpleasant. Later I discovered it had been the hottest April day in forty years. It had been 117 degrees on the platform, but I did not know that and when I began to panic I felt the claustrophobia was my own fault. I thought, I must not give in to this.

At Marble Arch I fled, running up the escalators. I told myself I was getting flowers, but there were flowers at Kensal Rise and none at Marble Arch. Then I decided I would go by bus. Being too agitated to read the map, I got the bus to Westbourne Grove, because I knew that it passed the Harrow Road and the cemetery was up the Harrow Road.

I missed the stop at the Harrow Road and got off further up. I thought, I can take a break, and calm myself. Matthew was trapped beneath the earth, bloating cruelly, all his beauty turned into a factory, producing methane, carbon dioxide, rotten egg gas, ammonia. I was afraid of what I knew.

I could have walked to visit him in forty minutes, but I did not want to see the broken earth. I decided I would return when the grass had grown. So I turned my back on him and headed towards Notting
Hill Gate. Matthew, I thought. Forgive me. You would never have left me alone like that. But of course that’s exactly what you did.

Englishmen with white skin and stout legs were parading in their shorts. Matthew was tall and slender. He had the most gorgeous legs. It was horribly humid and the sky was low and feathery and very very sad.

I was frightened to go home to my nothing. I was scared of the afternoon and the night ahead. So I decided I would make an attempt to talk myself into the Annexe. I finally got myself to Earl’s Court, but the Olympia shuttle had committed suicide. I walked north from there towards Olympia, not noticing how dark the sky was getting behind my back. In this way I stumbled into what estate agents call Brook Green.

And my man in the pleasant wooded shade of Kensal Rise was the finest of the fine, and I thought how he would have liked this—the little wine bar most of all. The shops looked very pretty in the golden light and I came into a very quiet street of grey and pastel houses and there was one shop, on the corner, and I thought, that looks nice, and as I got closer it was clear it was a very particular shop, and it had some very, very simple bags for which I now had a pressing need. It was closed. But then I saw there was a woman inside, and she turned on the lights as she walked towards me. She was a strange and honed-down thing, perhaps fifty, but terribly thin, and petite, with the sort of severe and interesting character one normally thinks of as French. Her hair was strong, grey, cut short, but quite expensively. She opened the door, frowning, as if she knew my darling was dead and I was a disgrace to even think of shopping.

“You must be hurried,” she said. I did not know she was talking about the storm.

She turned back into the shop where, looped casually over a locker-room hook, was the simplest bag I ever saw. The leather was black, and very soft and light. I put it over my shoulder and it disappeared beneath my arm as if it might dissolve. Inside there were two perfect pouches, one zippered, one not. Best of all, it was lined with a
peacock sort of silk. This was the bag whose sole function was to steal Henry Brandling from the Annexe.

She was Italian, not French. She said it was a hundred pounds.

She said she was sorry, but would I mind paying cash? I had just enough.

She gave me the bag without wrapping it and then, firmly but politely, pushed me out the door.

There was an awful crack of thunder and a sizzling sort of noise. It was not yet raining, but the sky was black and bleeding like a Rothko. And then, from around the corner, there appeared a taxi, with a lovely yellow light. I was no sooner inside than the rain began, great fat splats like glycerin against the windscreen. I saw lightning hit the Natural History Museum, or that is what it looked like.

At Kennington Road, I should have run straight inside, but I had the cab drop me at the off-licence, what Matthew called the offy, where I put a bottle of cognac on my MasterCard. As I came outside everything was dark except for a weird yellow sheen across the houses. I thought the rain had let up—maybe it really had—but when I was half way across the road the hail arrived, lumps like hotel ice blocks, river stones, cruel, unforgiving pelting against my naked head and unprotected shoulders. I arrived in my kitchen, stinging sore, drenching wet. I watched the monstrous hail pile up across the garden. Why hast thou forsaken me?