Kissing Through a Pane of Glass (13 page)

‘What happened, Jo. What did Richard do?’

‘I didn’t say he’d done anything.’

‘Come on Jo, don’t do this to me. Just tell me what he did.’

Jo’s eyes started to fill with tears. ‘It wasn’t what he did, it’s what he tried to do. He’s a right bastard, Michael. He’s not to be trusted.’

I must have suspected right then what had happened, but for those few faltering moments before Jo related the story I tried to banish from my mind such thoughts. It all seems terribly trivial now, but by the time Jo had finished telling me about what had happened, I was beside myself with fury.

Basically, Richard had taken advantage of my absence one weekend (I had gone home to visit my folks) to pay a friendly call on Jo, to make sure she wasn’t lonely or anything like that. Jo had no reason to suspect that this was anything other than a casual visit - her boyfriend’s best mate coming over out of the goodness of his heart et cetera. He had even brought a bottle of wine. She hadn’t realised that he was fairly well oiled on arrival, so by the time they’d polished off the Soave, Richard was pretty pissed.

And it was then that he tried to persuade Jo to go to bed with him. Jo thought he was just joking around, so for a while she played along with it. Richard had interpreted this reaction as serious intent, and so when Jo explained that she was very flattered but no thanks, Richard thought this was just a come-on, and made a lunge for her. That’s when Jo realised it wasn’t just a game and asked Richard to leave. He refused at first and then started to get aggressive, at which point Jo threatened to scream the place down. He left.

That I was shocked by this tale will be of no surprise. What was unexpected was the extent of my anger. It was one thing for a complete stranger to start chatting up your girlfriend at a party, but when your closest friend plans a deliberate, premeditated assault...

Of course, it was Jo who became the focus of my anger. Such was my reluctance to believe that Richard would do such a thing that I even accused Jo of having led him on. It was a foul accusation and not surprisingly it reduced her to tears. It was only then that my anger dissipated and I saw how cruel and selfish I had been. Jo had tried to protect me from knowing about the incident because she knew how much I respected and cared about Richard, how I effectively idolised him, and she had not wanted to burst my bubble. She had no wish to come between two friends, and if I hadn’t mentioned Richard’s name that night - and assuming there was no repetition of the incident - perhaps it would never have come to light. But it had come to light and, for me, things would never be the same.

From that moment on, every male under sixty was a potential rapist, trying to get inside my girlfriend’s knickers (note the possessive form). If I came across Jo so much as talking to another man I became obsessed with the idea that Jo was being propositioned. I even turned on some poor unsuspecting bloke who had simply stopped Jo in the street one day to ask directions.

Jo initially thought that this was just a passing phase, a reaction to the news of Richard’s behaviour, so at first she said nothing. But as the months passed she become more concerned over my increasingly jealous behaviour and eventually, after a particularly violent argument, issued me with an ultimatum. Either I started behaving reasonably and rationally, or else she would leave me. It was the only time she ever issued a threat to me. I treated it with the gravity it deserved.

Externally, I managed to curb the more extravagant manifestations of the curse. I no longer interrupted conversations Jo had with other men; I did not make a show of proprietorial dancing every time a man walked by, and I stopped giving Jo the third degree at the end of every day. Instead, I kept my jealousy to myself, locked away in some dark, damp recess of the mind where it festered like a septic wound. And it is with me still.

I was not due to return to England for three weeks; Liana, in theory, had another month, but with her disenchantment so advanced there seemed no question of continuing the trip. I could see no point in carrying on alone Travel had taken second place to love; I had met the woman of my dreams, and I was not about to let her go, not for a moment. Wherever Liana wanted to go, whatever she wanted to do, that would be fine with me. There was nothing I would not do for her.

Once the decision had been taken to return home Liana’s mood brightened considerably. She tried, rather half-heartedly, to persuade me to stay and finish the trip, but I was adamant that I wanted to go back with her. She did not put up much in the way of resistance.

We organised train tickets back to Delhi for the following day. I was not sure what would happen when we arrived; we both had open returns, albeit on different airlines, and I knew nothing about the procedure for changing flights, but I figured we’d sort that out in Delhi.

That evening we had a little celebration, although what we were celebrating was never made completely clear; I think it had something to do with returning to normality, although I wouldn’t want to say for sure.

We were staying in the old quarter of Benares, a fascinating maze of narrow alleyways crammed with stalls and shops which never seemed to close. We decided to try and find a recommended restaurant that was, supposedly, hidden somewhere amid this bristling labyrinth, and so armed only with a scrap of paper on which someone had written indecipherable hieroglyphics that claimed to show the way, we headed out into the night.

It was only after the sun had set that the old city really came to life; lights were strung up along the streets, and the entire place buzzed with a noisy excitement. Shopkeepers beckoned us to examine their wares, young women giggled as we passed by, hand in hand, and the occasional beggar held up a scrawny hand for alms. Spicy odours wafted from darkened doorways, and little children chased each other in and out of the shops. It was such a vibrant, colourful display that I could not understand why Liana should want to leave it so suddenly. However, I knew better than to question her further on this point, and instead tried to soak up as much of the atmosphere as I could.

It took us about twenty minutes to find the restaurant, a rather dingy-looking place located behind one of the thousands of temples that seemed to exist at every intersection. There were a couple of locals chatting excitedly in one corner, and two travellers who looked up and smiled at us as we entered. There was no menu as such, just a set
thali
meal, consisting of several dishes of well-cooked spicy vegetables, a stack of chapatis, the ubiquitous lentil dahl and the inevitable boiled rice. It was as traditional a meal as you could get in India, the sort of thing you could find at any roadside stall or shack, and at first I couldn’t understand why this place had been especially recommended.

However, once we began to eat it soon became clear that the food was indeed more flavoursome and of a higher quality than any we had tried previously. Whereas curried vegetables all tended to taste the same after a while, these dishes were delicately spiced, each with its own very distinctive aroma. The chapatis were light, freshly made and did not taste of chewy cardboard, and even the dahl was more substantial than usual. The meal was also plentiful and extremely cheap; as soon as a dish became empty it was refilled with more of the same.

We ate with great gusto, perhaps aware that it would be one of our last genuine Indian meals. I was especially pleased to see Liana in such high spirits. We talked about all manner of things over dinner, but at some point in the evening Liana suddenly became terribly apologetic about her decision to leave India. She tried to explain that she had always been very moody, prone to wild swings in temperament, which she jokingly put down to “the artist” in her. So changeable was she that friends at school had nicknamed her “Weather”, a neat double pun, as no one was ever sure whether her mood would be good or bad.

I told Liana that she wasn’t to worry, that I understood, that none of that mattered, that India wasn’t about to disappear, that I could revisit it another time. All I cared about was her happiness.

We didn’t say much to each other as we wandered back slowly to our guest house. Liana seemed lost in thoughts of home, and I, whilst pleased at some level to be returning, was also a little concerned about the decision. Until that moment I had not thought about what we would do on our return to England, without jobs or money, and the only accommodation available to us our respective parents’ homes. As on so many subsequent occasions, I had given little thought to the consequences of my actions and decisions, but carried on like a blind, trusting fool, treading where the angels feared, waltzing with the dragons. I had always been impulsive, prepared to try anything, do anything, to climb trees, walk out on to fragile branches, jump up and down; but with Liana beside me, I had gone one step further and become fearless.

Or perhaps just plain stupid.

If you’re prepared to forgive a twenty-one-year-old for his ambition, his egocentricity, his self-assurance, then surely you can stretch your forgiveness to take in his lack of experience, his wide-eyed wonder, his naive fearless- ness. What did I know back then? I was in love. It’s not much of a defence, but then again, I hadn’t actually committed any crime - other than being too hopeful, too optimistic, too trusting.

***

Delhi was as insane as when I had seen it for the first time just a few weeks previously. It had none of the charm of the Rajasthan cities and I was worried that if we had to spend more than a day or two here Liana might go to pieces. She seemed so terribly vulnerable; I so wanted to take care of her, keep her from harm.

As it was, her mood was still very positive, and she seemed unperturbed by the very sights that had begun to aggravate her in Benares. Like a prisoner who has been told she will be out on parole in a matter of days, Liana was full of energy and excitement. She couldn’t stop talking about all the things we could do together once we were back home. She would get a job in advertising or graphics, something like that, just for a short while so that we could afford to rent a place of our own. She would illustrate my travel articles and we’d sell them to all the major newspapers and magazines and make enough money to go on another trip next year. Her parents would help out financially if we were stuck. I could start work on a novel - I did want to write a novel, didn’t I? - and she would spend her spare time painting and drawing; perhaps she could interest a gallery in selling her works. Everything would work out fine, she was sure; after all, we were happy and in love. What more could we ask for?

The airline offices were amazingly accommodating and managed to book Liana on to a flight for the following day. I would have to wait a further twenty-four hours, which did not seem too great a hardship. We spent the rest of our time together in a supercharged state of excitement, and by the time I saw Liana on to her flight, with tears streaming down her face, I knew that nothing could stop us from being together, from having the best of all possible lives.

As you know, I only got it half right.

Yesterday was another bad day for Liana. She’s been counting and realised that there are just ten days left before I have to leave before she must return to The Sanctuary. She broke down at breakfast time and started sobbing pleading with me not to go not to leave her. There was nothing I could do or say; she was inconsolable. There is always the danger when she gets like this that she will do damage to herself, and I have to watch her like a hawk at these times. It does no good to hide the knives and the aspirin - she may not necessarily make a suicide attempt. Often it is something much more banal, like trying to slam her hand in the door, or burning her wrists with lighted cigarettes (a favourite of hers; she claims she doesn t feel the pain until afterwards, until long after the hairs have been singed and the flesh seared).

I won’t keep alcohol in the house any more, though. It’s far and away the worst depressant for Liana. Last year she managed to find half a bottle of Scotch that I d completely forgotten about - it was hidden behind some books - and she polished off the lot in less than an hour. I found her, smashed out of her head, trying to set fire to the mattress.

The doctors at The Sanctuary say there’s no possible hope for Liana, that recovery is out of the question, and that containment is the best that can be hoped for. They have tried to persuade me on numerous occasions that she should become a full-time resident, but apart from the prohibitive expense, I cannot see how this will benefit her at all. Despite the horrendous problems of coping with a madwoman for six months of the year, at least when she’s with me she gets to live a little.

In The Sanctuary she just vegetates; watches television, reads the occasional magazine, does endless crossword puzzles. She will paint just two or three pictures in all that time. Here in London she gets to see our friends, go out to dinner, the movies, the occasional play. She goes shopping, takes in an art or photography exhibition now and then and leads - at least for a short while - the nearest she will ever come to a normal life. If that were to be taken away from her she’d have nothing. She’d just decay.