Some Great Thing (25 page)

Where did Mummy and Daddy go? What does Daddy think of his babysitter, this dark-haired answer to every conceivable yearning?

There’s our Kwyet. Who’s the lucky little boy? I suppose he is handsome enough, but not enough for her. None of the requisite age and experience. Unhand her.

Oh, look, an airplane! Where did she get that from? She consorts with a pilot. Does he give her model airplanes?

Good heavens, the boy likes the airplane more than he likes Kwyei. Look at
her
, son,
her
.

Neeeeeyoooww, vvvvvvvv—no, no, give the plane back to Kwyet, there we are, they can’t fly backward—vvvvvvvv. Look at her hand, little boy, look at the grace and force of it: an argument with five elegant conclusions. Ask her if you can touch her hand. But you do, don’t you? You can. There you are now, touching whatever you like. Ask her if he can come in and join you. Please?

Oh, look, there he goes. Yes. He is off to the bathroom. That’s right. Leave her alone for a minute. What do you look like alone, Kwyet? The smile slowly dwindles. How long? Still a trace of a smile. He is long gone, Kwyet. Why are you still smiling? He can’t be that charming. Perhaps you can hear him in the bathroom. Is he singing? Maybe you hear an adorable tinkle. No, you are above that. Why are you still smiling?

Now here he is, back. With a banana? Why do they keep bananas in the bathroom? He must have gone to the kitchen, not the bathroom. Get Kwyet to peel that for you—yes, clever boy. She does that very well. Perhaps you would like her to have a bite? No?

What are they talking about? What is he saying that’s so engaging? There is room on that couch for Simon. Perhaps he should ring the doorbell. What would his excuse be? “I heard you were
flying planes. Can I join you?” They would both like that, a fellow enthusiast.

Is that a book now? How many props do they need? A picture book? Surely he is too old for that. Maybe it will make him sleepy.

Oh, she is coming over. Wait. Careful. She is coming over. Can she see him? No … don’t … no … no!

There must be more windows somewhere. Who designed such a fortress of a house?

H
E EVEN WATCHED
L
EONARD
on occasion—followed him in his car when he left the office. He had his reasons. Not an interesting man, Leonard, mind you, but the information gained became useful. Simon’s secretary had suggested that Leonard had arrangements with builders. Simon followed him, saw him affording indulgences that even those in ministerial ranks seldom enjoyed (meals at Madame Berger’s twice a week; a new car for Matty). Matty herself may have known that Leonard was doing something suspect. She often pretended that keeping Kwyet at McGill was difficult, as though Leonard had coached her to plead financial hardship when they were obviously well-off. A bit of disingenuousness from Matty made her all the more attractive.

Of course, Simon was careful not to find himself cornered into conversation with Leonard, but it happened sometimes.

“Struthers.”

“Schutz.”

“I’ve noticed that you have been visiting my house a lot.”

“I have been in that area lately.”

“In the precise area of my house.”

“As part of a general exploration, yes.”

“I have smelled your cologne in my house.”

(Simon wears a beautiful cologne, repellent to all men.)

“Certainly I have visited your house, yes.”

“All of our colleagues know that you have visited my house.”

“And now you will have to invite them over as well?”

“That is not my point. I am perfectly happy to have my colleagues over.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. A house like that. Very new.
Very
grand. The cupboards are oak, aren’t they?”

“That’s not my point.”

“But I’m sure it’s nicer than my house. Not inside, but structurally.”

“I’m sure it is, Struthers. But that is not my point.”

“Before you come to your point … will you come to your point?”

“Yes.”

“Before you do, I should say a few things about my visits to your house. An official report, in effect. I have been remiss in informing our colleagues of my activities. Shall we sit down?”

“No.”

“First of all, of course, I have visited your house socially. I called on you one evening, you will remember.”

“That was not social. You came for professional reasons.”

“It became social.”

“Yes, but you came for professional reasons and I am not sure you really came for them. I find it hard to believe that you came just to see me.”

“Touché, Leonard. And subsequent visits, aside from being sweetened by the presence of your wife …”

“Watch your tongue …”

“Were professional. I have been gaining a sense of the area, following your lead really. Those initial field reports you conducted were invaluable, inestimable. I thought a similar sort of investigation of the area as it has developed …”

“Get to the point, Struthers.”

“As it has slowly developed, would be useful. Glossing over my observations of several crucial areas of undeveloped land, I will
concentrate on your house—our mutual ‘point,’ I think. You see, your house, on the edge of this developing territory, is indicative, I think, of the sort of development, dwelling, we might expect. Am I boring you?”

“…”

“The sort of dwelling we might expect in the future. Affluence. Wealth. What do you think, eh, Leonard?”

“What?”

“Wealth. I can scarcely believe the sort of wealth your house represents. I could scarcely afford a house like yours. I’m sure you are one of those solid, not-quite-noble people who despise inheritances, so you may not take this point. But without my inheritance I could scarcely afford a house as sound and grand as yours.”

“It was not that expensive.”

“You are too modest, Leonard. I have long recognized that fault in you. It represents remarkable affluence …”

“A mortgage can get one anything.”

“It is remarkable, and, maintaining my professional observations, I think we should take you, and your family, as indicative of the sort of person generally who will be interested in that area.”

“That sort of development is not indicative of everything going up in the south of the city.”

“In the Greenbelt.”

“I think it should be less green.”

“So do I, Leonard. Less of your remarkable
green
, eh, Leonard? Have a laugh with me. What was your point?”

“What was your point, Struthers? Are you threatening me somehow?”

“I was only giving you an idea of what I might report to our colleagues. What was your point?”

“Never mind.”

“I have a meeting.”

“So do I.”

And so good day to you, you oozing bag of faux foie gras, may God forgive your excesses. Is it really possible that you are the planet around which those moons who are his eyes revolve? He won’t pretend to understand what isn’t superficial, Leonard, and he cannot understand your charms. What drew those women to you? I realize that Kwyet had no choice, but what an impossible issue of pestiferous loins.

And what if he really upsets you? What if, one day, he is relaxing on the toilet in C Wing and you are shuddering in the cubicle next to him, shaking with grief over something (what, your wife’s betrayal of you?), will you realize he is next to you? Will it all be so revolting, empty, and cruel?

You are on to him. I know that. He is in love with your wife and your daughter. Maybe he feels the same as you did when you first fell in love with Matty. I doubt it. Oh, your Kwyet, Leonard! He had no idea who she was.

S
IMON
’
S SECRETARY HAD LET
it be known that Simon was interested in Matty.

His colleagues shunned him all the more. He made decisions entirely on his own, when in the past he would have had some sort of discussion. His silence at work had once been a voluntary ploy. His mystery was being exposed.

He began to feel that his juniors in brown trousers were scornful of him. Did even they know that Matty was only the beginning, the mother of desire?

E
VEN BACHELORS
—
THE ONES
he knows who never talk about sex, the ones who do great things—even they are more precious than the philosopher’s stone. That land they occupy by the shores of celibacy in the tropic of self-love, what do you know of that, my wise men of science? Perhaps some of you occupy it yourselves, or look through one of their windows. Publish what you see. He wants to
know. I watch them often. Not as much fun as others, but fascinating. I am one myself, but I am not the sort I mean. The clean ones, the kind ones. They read books at night, some of them. Imagine reading a book on your own, at this youngish age, no pleasant distractions to look forward to, no fooling, no wife to grope or child to scold, no dalliance with pornography. Are they celibate, truly celibate and content with solitude? Tell me. I can’t see them in their bedrooms.

And what is in the mind of a nine-year-old boy who toys with an airplane in the lap of impossible Kwyet?

What about a nine-year-old girl? I’m sure there are wonderfully bizarre, kaleidoscopic fantasies that can barely be embodied by teddy bears and favorite dolls. I am not talking about sex, my stout captains of industry, nor, necessarily, about your own dull daughters. I just want to know their heights of madness and apolunes of reason. Where have we arrived if we can thrust impregnable buildings into space but have no idea why a girl would hit another? Where do we arrive if, as we drive along macadamized roads to new places, we roll up our windows when we feel the breeze of psyche?

Where have I arrived?

At the verge of this park with two Cokes, one for Simon and one for Matty (who will be along shortly).

Here she comes.

“I
NEVER THOUGHT THAT
an affair would be acknowledged, more or less calmly by a husband and a daughter—you know, not quite accepted, definitely not approved of, but at least recognized, and without fights and tears and all that. By both of them. In totally different ways, mind you. Leonard hasn’t said anything, really, but he told me he approached you at work. He said he ‘confronted’ you about why you were spending so much time at our house. So I asked him why he would do that, and he didn’t say anything.
I think he has decided not to say anything in case I feel embarrassed.”

“Your straw fell out of your Coke.”

“And Kwyet … she knows all about you. I think she might be ashamed of me.”

“Surely not.”

“She hasn’t been upset. She just says barbed things. I feel ugly, Simon. I think she
is
upset. I’m alienating my family. For what? I always thought there would be more obvious drama. Leonard shouting, Kwyet crying. All the drama is in my head and it’s very small. Ugly. It’s my family watching me. I am the silly drama. Do you want to hear any of this?”

“Of course. I’m just fascinated by what your straw looks like on the grass.”

“I wouldn’t feel so small if we all had a fight—a huge confrontation.”

“I wouldn’t enjoy that.”

“I’m not talking about you. My family.”

“Right. Wouldn’t it be preferable to carry on deceiving?”

“Why?”

“Well, you say you feel small now. Doesn’t the truth make everything smaller?”

“No.”

“It takes away possibilities. It would take us away—this moment in the park.”

“What is this moment in the park, Simon? I’m telling you, about how miserable I feel.”

“Exactly. Anyway, it’s more than that. It can all be more. I think you would find your drama larger if you didn’t actually fight. It can be so much larger in your head. Every look of Leonard’s could mean so much more.”

“You’re speaking quite dispassionately, aren’t you?”

“I just don’t want you to say what you met me to say.”

“What … Let me put it this way. Being with you …”

“That straw, for example. That can be much more than a bit of litter in the middle of the park. Let’s say we are giants, Matty. What could that straw be?”

“It would be smaller if we were giants.”

“It would be bigger. Bigger to normal people. Let’s say we are giants.”

“I don’t
want
to say we are giants, Simon. I think I would prefer to tell you what’s bothering me. You are a total stranger to me. You may as well be a giant.”

“Really?”

W
HEN YOU PEOPLE FINALLY
build your buildings, or feel the wind on Jupiter, do you feel a bit disappointed?

I suspect that when Atalanta and Hippomenes were changed into lions they were pleased to be able to run again.

“I
T
’
S OVER, SIMON
.”

“Let’s say it isn’t.”

“It is. I want it to be.”

“Let’s say it isn’t. Let’s say we are giants, Matty. And that straw is gigantic. It’s a wind tunnel. It’s a glorious great wind tunnel and we are giants.”

“I’m betraying my husband.”

“I have nothing, Matty.”

N
OW I
’
M DANCING
. W
E
’
RE
all dancing. Kathleen’s there, Jerry’s having a dance, Edgar’s there, in the corner. You will notice that the four of us can’t dance for shit and that Edgar’s hair is looking ridiculously big.

Jerry’s nine or so (ten?)—old enough to know what music is and that dancing is supposed to match it somehow. I’m dancing like there’s something I’ve got to nod yes to all the time. The music’s fine, good enough to make me want to nod, I guess, and, sure, we’re having a good time. But it isn’t Johnny Cash.

And look at Edgar’s fuckin garden of a hairdo. Hilarious. Kathleen’s doing her arms-raised-above-her-head dance, like she’s cheering for herself. Looking down at her hips and cheering for them. And she’s turned toward Edgar, maybe cheering for his hair as well.

No, it’s a celebration, definitely. It is a fun little party. The last in that house, you see—that’s why I’m encouraging everyone to spill drinks on the carpet. We just finished eating our last meal there, which Edgar, of all people, cooked. I didn’t tease him too much about that, but, come on; a man frying a steak is one thing, but a man trying to make little
things
, little eaty
things
, that I don’t like the names of—that’s a man who needs to take life more seriously. It was a good enough dinner, not as good as one of Kathleen’s, but Kathleen was carrying on, you know, “Edgar, sure, that’s truly feckin delish,” and all that. Good old Jerry didn’t eat much of his dinner, and he threw it up later because, whether he tries to or not, he will always make me proud.