Shadow Play (18 page)

‘I remember once telling a gathering that fluent communication requires a very simple instinct: the ability to talk less than someone who is naturally inclined to be more voluble than yourself, and to speak more than someone who is inclined to be quiet.'

She was recording everything, so she sat through this with crossed legs and pursed lips, fingers curled around the handle of the coffee mug, all of which for some reason irked me immensely. She didn't have the same rights my son had, to be sarcastic or familiar. Besides, you had to earn the right to be provocative by, for instance, having thoroughly boned up on your subject's works as preparation. Did this woman seem that diligent?

‘So you're telling me that what I, and many others, have long considered a simple hunger for publicity is actually something deeper than that, that it is a symptom of this “suppleness” you're talking about? Is that why you let yourself be photographed indiscriminately at nightclub openings and London parties, as well as at demonstrations and refugee camps, or alongside known criminals, some of whom assume the right to call you their friend?'

‘W-o-o-o-h, hold on a minute and first put down that weapon. You're among friends here; you might hurt somebody. Is this the way you interview all your subjects?'

‘No, only the ones who seem to get away with murder, the ones who never get asked the questions we all want them to
answer. So tell me, is it another way of remaining in the news, since you haven't published a serious novel in what, five years, nor have you begun any of those movies you announced you were planning in collaboration with your ex-wife?'

You can say what you like about me, but you can't deny I love a challenge. I've given you a taste of what I was up against so that you appreciate my sense of achievement when four hours later Sharon and I were lying together, pillows propped up so we could gaze out through the French windows at the garden below. It was five o'clock, and the glass of Lagavulin in my hand only enhanced the self-satisfaction I felt within. Under the sheets our legs were entwined, and from where I lay with my face near her hair I inhaled her scent frequently. Sometimes I would kiss her softly on her cheeks and next to her eyes. What can I say: I actually liked her. I liked her style. I liked her smell, her voice, her length inside her one-piece dark blue dress. I liked the way she made me work to please her. I liked her legs, her knees, her jaw-line and her cheekbones, and the way her lipstick filled out her mouth. When I undressed her I liked the way her tits pointed sideways as if they were well-experienced, as if they were used to being handled and providing pleasure. I liked the thought of her teeth, and the lines of her back. In fact, most things I could have liked about a woman, I liked about Sharon.

The detail that seems most comical to me now is when I first went down on her, and she said it wasn't worth the effort since no one had ever made her come that way; as a matter of fact, she never could see what all the fuss was about. So of course even at my age I strove, and how idiotically pleased I was by her responses. The other odd thing, odd given the context of
everything else, was that I liked her because she reminded me of my son. Seb acted tough with me in the same way as Sharon: ever since he'd grown into his teens he considered it part of his filial duty to hit me with the really difficult questions, to be merciless with my bullshit and unsparingly critical of any flab I might have gathered (of course, needless to add, he inherited some of this instinct from his mother). And I enjoyed the challenge, almost as if I was taking on a much younger opponent to prove I was still a worthy champion, that my relevance and commitment still rang true, that I remained as cool as ever.

‘There was this line I came across in one of your interviews, that I wanted you to clarify. You were asked what your overall body of work added up to, and replied that in the final analysis, beauty was always your “only argument”. What did you mean by that – the beauty of your work, or the beauty of the way you lead your life? You think it's beautiful to embody contradictions and reach out to everyone – which to you means being friends with gang-lords and warmongers and the occasional dictator? Speaking of which, since you were there just a few weeks ago, have you ever glanced at the beautiful CVs of some of your Davos drinking buddies?'

Getting up to refill my glass, I had to laugh. This was from someone who'd been yelping for pleasure less than twenty minutes ago with my hands cupping her ass, her legs tightly around my centre, and her tongue almost down my throat. But I liked her for her spirit.

‘You make me sound like Walt Whitman. You know, my son hurls the same accusations, and in the same tone of disgust. He says, Baba, doesn't it ever disturb you that you are friends with everyone, people who hate each other, people hated by
everyone else? I tell him I am simply a curious guy, curious about investigating everything human beings are capable of, everything they've done and are doing on this planet. And when you make that your objective, it must necessarily imply associating with people many would deem unpalatable. Because the world is what it is, right, and yet we all have to make a go of it together. We're past the whole business of sending our opponents off to Siberia.'

‘Yes, now we like to meet our close chums over skiing in Davos. I'm sorry, that was snide, but you and I do have very different ideas of “investigation”.'

‘You know, those air-quotes would work a lot better if you weren't still naked under the sheets of the guy you're supposed to be grilling.' Those were my words, but my smile never dropped.

In response she gave me the finger. I got back into bed beside her and started up a chat about Lord Krishna.

‘Look, I don't think even those who've hated my work from the first day for its lack of a consistent “morality”, would dare argue the proposition that I spend time near the rich, the powerful and the notorious in order to launder their actions. Yes, I am interested in their humanity, I wonder what qualities it requires to be successful in those spheres of remote-control power. I want to learn how it is they view the show and how they run it, those people whom Rushdie calls “the never encountered but ever present kings of the world”.

‘You know, I have often spoken about Lord Krishna and his importance in my thinking. Look at Vishnu, of whom Krishna was an incarnation. Vishnu is meant to be the preserver of Creation. Yet, each time the earth was threatened by a different
crisis, with remarkable flexibility this most important of deities assumed exactly the form best suited to deal with that particular threat. It's not like he descended only as a Brahmin or a Kshatriya, or even as a human being for that matter. It wasn't beneath his dignity to show up as a fish when he had to, or a turtle, a boar, a dwarf, or even a half-man half-lion because that was what the situation demanded! When the mission was the perpetuation of existence itself, no form could be too lowly.

‘And even when he appeared as Krishna, he never allowed himself the luxury of being entirely divine. There are numerous instances of Krishna's possible fallibility, where we can question his judgement as if he was almost human. That is one of the two things I love most about him. He even allowed himself to be cursed with the destruction of his own clan, and the most anonymous of deaths. That is what I have always taken my inspiration from: that is what I mean by openness to the fullness of life.'

Far from elevating the level of exchange, I seemed to be giving Sharon's mischief more fuel. ‘Ah, so now you're an avatar of Vishnu. This must be a world-exclusive. Can that go on the record?'

‘It can if this can,' I said, pointing to her still lazing under my sheets, and barely restrained myself from launching a major pillow fight. Oral sex was one thing, but pillow war would be too much on a first date. Instead, I cleared my throat and retained the high tenor of my musings.

‘All I meant was, I've aimed to create as plastic and as flexible a soul as I can. A soul as slithery as an eel, a thoroughly amphibious soul. But you know something else I learnt, souls are made slithery only through exercise. You've got to exercise
those joints if you want them supple. That is where the writing comes from; that is what it's always been about.'

‘How would you rate our soul-exercise this afternoon, on a scale of slug to Nirvana?'

What I did was, I turned the irresistible urge to launch a surprise pillow strike into an admirably tender post-coital kiss.

‘What is the second thing?' Sharon rejoined after a while, sitting up under the covers.

‘What second thing?'

‘You said there were two things you love about Krishna.'

‘Oh, the second thing isn't moral. It's his unashamed capacity for pleasure, of kinda doing what we just did. But definitely don't quote me on that.'

We didn't even get to discussing my new book until dinner, although she'd informed me it was the focus of the interview. I set out risotto cooked in red wine, with cream, peppers and aubergines, whatever was in the fridge: she did all the chopping. It was incongruous, and for me, quite unprecedented. No critic had ever chopped for me before.

‘I hoped I would befriend you,' she said. ‘It would add so much to the piece.'

‘Come on,' I laughed, ‘there's no way any of this is going into your article, though you can mention I went to the trouble of preparing you a snack. For the rest, you'd be fired and someone would probably contrive some grounds to nail me. It would just about finish me off. How long will it be anyway?'

‘There will be two versions, one for the weekend review and one online that will include the entire conversation. But it won't be a transcript. It'll be in first person, impressionistic.'

‘I just want to remind you that we're going to share a meal together. You've come, showered and broken bread in my flat. Be merciful, even if you can't be a friend!'

‘Hey, you backed up your big talk. You
are
open. You are trusting. So you've got nothing to worry about.'

She took care of the salad dressing – again with anything at hand, which today was olive oil, soya sauce and honey – and told me something about herself. Her father was from Goa, but she'd been raised in London by her mum, who was a well-known newsreader on the BBC. I knew the lady from numerous parties, but hadn't made the connection myself. We also had acquaintances in common in India.

‘So how did you manage,' she continued, returning from the kitchen, ‘to piss everyone off within a month? You even lost the friends you made through the pro-capitalism book with the post-7/7 article. I mean, they're creeps, let's not pretend any false objectivity here, but at least for that brief interlude they courted you, since you went to the trouble of making them appear respectable. Think of it: your first well-reviewed work in the
Wall Street Journal
. They were willing to forgive you a lot, and then you went and spoilt it all by saying something stupid like I love you, to the 7/7 boys! Huh! Go figure?'

‘Don't talk with your mouth full. The risotto will taste better with a little more salt. Is your recorder on?'

‘No to all three. Don't change the subject. This is the business end of the interview. This is your chance to share your soul-shattering insights with us. Remember, we lefties don't do fatwas, but there's always the risk of the lone loony. Have you Googled yourself lately?'

‘No. Is it heart-breaking?'

‘Let me tell you, on this one matter we've all gleefully joined forces – the moral police, the eco-warriors, the World Social Forum people. Just before I left the office this morning, someone compared your private life to Meursault's, you know,
The Outside
r, for your neglect of your mother and son. Then he admitted he's never met you, but went on to conclude that he wasn't certain whether you should be committed or plain imprisoned. Still, he's sure you're a pest, sane or not.'

‘And in Delhi, they tell me a recent review of my political about-turns turned into a sexual charge-sheet, hinting at many who would only be too happy to recall their experiences of loving, being used, and discarded by me.'

‘Ah, so you have Googled yourself,' she grinned. I refilled her wine.

‘Yeah, this was hilarious. The woman mentions interviewing an unnamed someone I once dismissed within a couple of nights after cruelly listing her physical shortcomings – because she'd dared to utter the word love. My memory isn't so great, forgive me if I can't recall
every
cruel thing I've said, but I'm thinking if anyone comes close to filling that someone's description, it's most likely the writer herself.'

‘But of course. None of this is new. I've done my research. Your biography makes clear that you were an ambitious climber lacking all scruples, and ruthlessly ditching those who provided you succour during your penniless years.'

‘Shall we get through the interview before I start to get cruel with you?'

‘Oh, yeah, you want to get started on physical shortcomings? Don't forget, it's been twenty years since you shot those birds down. I'd be generous with my compliments if I were you.'

‘This was the unkindest cut of all. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes… blah blah blah, I tax you not with unkindness, I never gave you head, made you come, you owe me no subscription.'

It was the sort of silliness Seb loved. Again, impermissible and peculiar thoughts, but I regretted this lovely creature's age, inconveniently equidistant between me and my son. He was too young to be of interest to her yet; I was too busy to seek more beyond this afternoon. I realized then how much I looked forward to his growing up for all sorts of reasons. Still, New York abounded in spirits like hers, and I had no doubt Seb would be introducing me presently to a selection of them. Perhaps female, perhaps not always. When I look at certain details – the kathak (?) lessons he briefly took while staying with my mother in Calcutta three summers ago, the intense awareness of women's fashion – I honestly am not sure. Maybe I could ask Ana what she thought, if I raised the subject at the right moment.