The Restoration of Otto Laird (8 page)

Angelo sensed that something was wrong, but Otto's seniority and the peculiar dynamics of their relationship – close in some ways, distant in others – meant that he couldn't possibly ask him outright. So he spent much of the cab journey trying to work it out for himself.

At first, he wondered whether Otto was unhappy about being in a taxi with him at all. Angelo had secretly promised Anika that he would see Otto safely back to his hotel. Perhaps Otto had guessed that some arrangement had been made. He certainly seemed a little put out when Angelo insisted on sharing a cab with him. Otto was fully aware that Angelo's house in Dulwich was in the opposite direction to his Marylebone hotel.

Or perhaps Otto still harboured secret doubts about the television programme.

Have I pushed him into this? thought Angelo. Just a little?

The problem with Otto was that he was such a powerful personality, so innately strong-willed, that it was easy to forget, sometimes, that he was now elderly. Anika was right in many ways. She didn't see Otto as Angelo did, as a gifted architect and a man of near-superhuman qualities. Because she was not part of the profession herself, and hadn't known Otto until his best days were behind him, she saw him for what he currently was: her weak and vulnerable husband, who had very nearly died on the operating table a few months before. Angelo had always thought of Anika as a bit of an obstacle; as someone who didn't quite appreciate or understand the man she had married. Yet he had been unfair to her.

I'm the one with the skewed perspective, he thought
.
She sees Otto as he is, not as he was. She sees the person and not the reputation. I really must make more effort to see it from her side.

Then Angelo thought of Daniel. Was it
he
who was bothering Otto? In all their discussions of recent weeks, Otto had never once mentioned Daniel; even here, in the city where his son was born, and where he still lived with his own young family.

Angelo glanced over at Otto, who remained staring out of the window. The rapidly passing street lights played across an inscrutable face, fluttering between light and darkness in a roll of moving stills.

They were entering the heart of the Square Mile. There was some interesting architecture in this part of town. Otto looked out for examples now to distract himself from other thoughts. St Paul's, the Old Bailey, the meat market at Smithfield. He glimpsed a fragment of Roman wall as they swung around a corner of the Barbican. Otto was consciously emptying London of all emotional content, regarding it in purely professional terms, with the detached eye of the connoisseur.

As they reached the busy West End, his attention broadened from individual structures to the scene as a whole. From the back of the cab it seemed to be a city of shape-shifters. Buildings, traffic, streets and people became hybrid, animate beings in perpetual flux. At night, he thought, new evolutionary orders seemed possible; all types of matter appeared equally alive. The brightly lit advertisements were clearly in rudest health, the species best adapted to this strange primordial world. The figures moving beneath them were at a lower stage of development: submerged beneath the neon's glare; drifting through the murky depths in states of flickering consciousness.

Otto suddenly spoke, his gaze not stirring from the window.

‘Where's Marchmont Street from here? I'm afraid I'm a little lost.'

Otto had moved into Cynthia's apartment there the day after they were married at a local registry office. The summer of 1956. He had almost no possessions. The books that filled his rented room were all loans from the college library. On the day of the move he condensed his life to the size of two small suitcases, which Cynthia helped him carry across from Russell Square tube station.

‘Marchmont Street? It's some way behind us. We passed it a while ago.'

Angelo was about to ask if they should turn around, but he sensed that this was not what Otto wanted. Instead he sought to draw him out of himself.

‘What was the apartment like?' he asked.

‘Small, functional, prone to draughts and cold. It was located above a small grocery shop. I would pop downstairs in my dressing gown and slippers whenever we needed milk or bread.'

Even now he could hear the heavy jangling of the bell; smell the fresh spices as he pushed open the door.

Angelo waited to see if Otto would expand any further, but he was gazing once more out of the window. A reflective silence returned to the cab. This time, Angelo allowed it to settle.

*   *   *

In his hotel bedroom, Otto lifted his suitcase onto a chair. He was feeling tired and not especially looking forward to the lengthy routine of preparing for bed. With a yawn, he removed the various items that were needed for his nightly ablutions. After taking off his clothing, he gathered up the materials and headed for the bathroom.

Back at home, the lighting was dim and discreet, allowing him to wash in a welcome soft focus. It was bright enough for him to see what he was doing, yet hazy enough to allow him to avoid the graphic detail. When he switched on the bathroom light now, however, and saw himself naked in its full-length mirror, Otto gasped in shock. The bathroom itself was luxuriously appointed: large sunken tub, marble tiles and a bidet. But its lighting was the stuff of nightmares. By creating a strong chiaroscuro effect, bathing parts of the room in a lurid brightness while hiding others in shadow, it threw his body into pitilessly stark relief. Not only did it emphasise every nook, cranny, scar, wrinkle, sag, vein, liver-spot and blemish on his grey and collapsing body, it elevated them all to some kind of hyper-reality.

‘Well,' said Otto, transfixed and repulsed by his own reflection, ‘there's nothing beautiful about
this
raw material.'

He was amazed at his own skin, which appeared to have acquired the shade and texture of beaten concrete. For one surreal moment, he saw himself metamorphose into one of his own buildings; one in urgent need of heavy maintenance.

When did this happen? he asked himself. I know my body is on the downward slide – it has been for the past forty years or so. But I didn't realise things had sunk quite this low.

Were the lights at home in the villa really that flattering? Or had the ones in the hotel bathroom been installed by a sadist? There was no sign now of the dashing silver gentleman in the blue blazer and cravat. What a cruel illusion
that
had turned out to be.

Fighting back squeamishness, Otto began to study the scars from his operations, then the other marks and blemishes recording a long, long lifetime of accidents, injuries and illnesses. He had taken quite a battering. The knots and weals remained etched upon his flesh, as deep and vivid as a Dürer woodcut. Each one represented a different memory – a different crisis or trauma in his life. Otto ran his fingers across these marks in fascination, recalling each incident, when he could, and wondering how on earth he had managed to get this far at all. He marvelled at the resilience of the human body, of the human beings who suffered these blows and still kept bouncing back. All was laid before him here, nothing now was hidden. In the unforgiving light of the hotel bathroom, Otto had become a living map of almost a century of pain.

Twenty minutes later, he re-emerged from the bathroom. It was too late to call Anika – he would do it in the morning. He put on his pyjamas – yes, hide it all away now, please – and climbed into one side of the large double bed. Stretching behind him, he rearranged the pillows to his satisfaction, then set and checked the alarm clock that would wake him far too soon.

Perhaps they should list
me,
he thought, reaching out to the bedside light to welcome darkness.

Eight

Otto telephoned Angelo the next morning, to tell him he wasn't feeling too good. In truth he felt fine; surprisingly so, given what he had witnessed in the bathroom mirror the previous evening. He felt oddly rejuvenated – mentally, at least – and decided to cancel their sightseeing in order to pursue an alternative itinerary.

‘Do you need a doctor?' asked Angelo, sounding concerned.

‘I need a conservator,' Otto replied. ‘But there's nothing especially wrong with me this morning, if that's what you mean. I'm feeling a little tired, that is all, and would like a quiet day reading in the hotel.'

After telephoning Anika, he repeated the previous night's procedure, but found that by opening the curtains and propping open the bathroom door he could avoid switching on any lights. While showering, he drew up a shortlist of possible locations, but it was a delicate matter that required him to second-guess his own psychological state.

Having faced up to, and faced down, his physical scars the night before – a difficult experience, but a strangely cathartic one – Otto resolved that it was time to approach the mental ones. He was back where it had all happened, for the next few days at least. So it was time to stop avoiding it; time to stop pretending that London was a city, for him, like any other. Some interesting buildings, a neatly packaged history, a passing glimpse of Abbey, Tower and Gherkin. Then perhaps a pint of bitter in a welcoming pub. Who was he trying to fool? The capital he knew couldn't be condensed to a postcard. The physical past mapped onto Otto's body had its echo and its counterpoint: a psychological past, mapped onto the fabric of London itself. As with his flesh the night before, it was time for him to explore that past as unflinchingly as possible.

Otto carried a detailed map of his personal geography, buried and ignored within his psyche. He knew the location of every mental blemish, each emotional welt and scar – places he had avoided thinking about, in some cases for decades. Joyous memories, too, but sometimes made painful by subsequent events. Now it was time to unearth this map of memories and go in search of them once more. He must be careful, though, he realised. He couldn't go just anywhere. Not yet. His giddiness in the restaurant the previous evening should act as a warning. There were some locations that remained off-limits, at least until he had properly broken himself in. The Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead, for instance – he would certainly not be going anywhere near there. Here be dragons, Otto thought. Kenwood House, up on the Heath, that would also have to wait for another day, perhaps indefinitely. Even their old house in Hampstead would be too much for him now. No, he would have to try something more straightforward. Somewhere quotidian; less emotive. A source of unequivocally happy memories, or at least relatively neutral ones.

Drawing back the curtain, Otto peered at the traffic rumbling along Marylebone Road. The autumn day was grey, but no rain appeared to threaten. Perhaps he should start with a short walk. Nothing too ambitious – nothing involving the crush or confusion of public transport. Angelo had mentioned something about an Oyster Card to him. What on earth could that be? No, he should go easy on himself. Start with a short stroll somewhere near by, indulge in a little light nostalgia, and then back again to the safety of his hotel.

Otto consulted the virtual
A to Z
that to his great surprise, and with the precision of a cab driver, he still retained inside his head. The discovery pleased him, like a forgotten keepsake, uncovered in storage. An idea then came to him. If he was going to face the music, he might as well do so literally. He put on his overcoat and homburg, and sought out his wooden cane.

The area had changed, he noted, but not to the stage of disorientation. Marylebone High Street felt a little more chic, a little more monied, but as an area that had always exuded an air of comfort, it had not undergone the wholesale transformation he had heard about in some areas of the city. Passing the boutiques and gourmet food stores, he dusted the fallen leaves with his cane, looking out for dog-mess and uneven paving (he had quickly relearned
those
lessons the previous day). He took pleasure in the damp and heavy London air, its slight chill sharpening his thoughts. He absorbed the noise of pedestrians and traffic, enjoyed the familiar rattle of the passing black cabs.

At the corner of St Vincent Street, he stopped off for a coffee at an American chain. Intimidated by the menu's scale, its complex variations, he settled for a glass of fruit juice; pondered a detour; browsed a favourite bookshop that had survived. Wigmore Hall, on arrival, was comforting. No tightening of the thorax or quickening of the pulse. He had chosen wisely. Its iron and glass canopy remained unchanged, as did the promise of a free lunchtime concert, which had drawn them there so often when they worked in Portland Place. Otto made his way cautiously inside, as though intruding upon his own past.

The recital was excellent. A young Russian pianist played a late Schubert sonata. She sat hunched in anguish over the keys, the awkwardness of her posture running counter to the serene beauty of her playing. Each note seemed wrenched from her, but betrayed no sign of its cost. How different an experience it would be for those listening at home, he thought (the recitals were broadcast live on Radio 3).

A memory struck him; the first of that day.

Didn't we see Alfred Brendel here, playing this same piece? Around the time we were expecting Daniel?

She had sat curled against him, he remembered. He had felt the small stirrings of her belly against his side.

Outside the concert hall, Otto paused on the pavement and found his bearings. This way. His faded leather brogues led him instinctively onward, bodily memory outpacing his mind. So many times he had trodden these streets, in so many weathers and states of mind. When returning to the office with Cynthia following their lunchtime trips to Wigmore Hall, the bustling district through which they passed had seemed as insubstantial as air. Elevated as they were by the music to another plane, deep in conversation or a yet more intimate silence, their feet barely seemed to brush the pavement as they floated through the dissolving streets.