The Course of Love (10 page)

When our minds are involved in transference, we lose the ability to give people and things the benefit of the doubt; we swiftly and anxiously move towards the worst conclusions that the past once mandated.

Unfortunately, to admit that we may be drawing on the confusions of the past to force an interpretation onto what's happening now seems humbling and not a little humiliating: Surely we know the difference between
our partner and a disappointing parent, between a husband's short delay and a father's permanent abandonment; between some dirty laundry and a civil war?

The business of repatriating emotions emerges as one of the most delicate and necessary tasks of love. To accept the risks of transference is to prioritize sympathy and understanding over irritation and judgment. Two people can come to see that sudden bursts of anxiety or hostility may not always be directly caused by them, and so should not always be met with fury or wounded pride. Bristling and condemnation can give way to compassion.

By the time Rabih gets back from his trip to England, Kirsten has reverted to some of the habits she indulged in when she lived on her own. She's drunk a beer while having a bath and eaten cereal from a mug in bed. But soon enough their mutual desire and capacity for closeness reasserts itself. The reconciliation starts, as it often does, with a little joke which puts its finger on the underlying anxiety.

“Sorry to have interrupted you, Mrs. Khan. But I think I used to live here,” says Rabih.

“Definitely not. You must be looking for 34A, and this is 34B, you see. . . .”

“I think we once got married. Do you remember? That's our child, Dobbie, over there in the corner. He's very silent. Kind of like his mum.”

“I'm sorry, Rabih,” says Kirsten, turning serious. “I'm a bit of a bitch when you go away. I seem to be trying to punish you for leaving me, which is ridiculous, because you're only trying to pay off our mortgage. Forgive me. I'm a bit of a nut job sometimes.”

Kirsten's words act like an immediate balm. Rabih is flooded with love for his slightly inarticulate and very unself-righteous wife. Her insight is the best welcome-home present she could
have given him, and the greatest guarantee of the solidity of their love. Neither he nor she have to be perfect, he reflects; they only need to give each other the odd sign they know they can sometimes be quite hard to live with.

We don't need to be constantly reasonable in order to have good relationships; all we need to have mastered is the occasional capacity to acknowledge with good grace that we may, in one or two areas, be somewhat insane.

For their third wedding anniversary Rabih surprises Kirsten with a weekend trip to Prague. They stay in a little hotel near the Cathedral of Saints Cyril and Methodius, take photos of themselves on the Charles Bridge, talk of life back at home, reflect on how quickly the years are passing, and visit the Sternberg Palace to have a look at the early European art. There, Kirsten pauses before a small early-sixteenth-century Virgin and Child.

“It's so awful what happened to her adorable baby in the end. How could anyone get over that?” she asks pensively. She has an endearing way, Rabih muses, of thinking even the most basic things through afresh for herself. The painting isn't, for her, an object for dutiful academic analysis; instead it's a prefiguring of a parent's most grievous tragedy, and as such, it earns from her a sympathy no less lively or immediate than that she might offer to someone whose son had just died in a motorcycle accident on the road to Fort William.

Kirsten is keen to visit Prague Zoo. It's been a long time since either of them has spent any time around animals, save perhaps for
the occasional cat or dog. Their first thought is how very strange all of the inmates look: the camel, for one, with its U-shaped neck, its two furry dorsal pyramids, its eyelashes that might be coated in mascara, and its set of yellow buckteeth. A free brochure gives them some facts: camels can go ten days in the desert without drinking; their humps are filled not with water, as common wisdom holds, but with fat; their eyelashes are designed to shield their eyeballs during sandstorms; and their liver and kidneys extract every drop of moisture possible from the food they eat, causing their dung to be dry and compact.

All animals are distinctive, because they have evolved to thrive in very particular environments, the leaflet goes on. That's why the Malagasy giant jumping rat has such big ears and strong hindlegs and the redtail catfish of the Amazon sports a camouflaging sandy band across its midriff.

“Of course,” Kirsten interjects, “but these adaptations aren't much use when your new habitat is actually the Prague Zoo, where you're living in a concrete hotel room with a meal delivered to you three times through a hatch and there's no entertainment except for the tourists. You just grow fat and tetchy, like the poor sweet melancholic orangutan, designed for a life in the forests of Borneo—and not holding up too well here.”

“But perhaps humans are no different,” adds Rabih, a little put out that a hominid should be receiving so much of his wife's sympathy. “We're also saddled with impulses which were probably sensible when they evolved in the plains of Africa, yet which give us nothing but trouble now.”

“What sort of things?”

“Being super alert to noises in the night, which now just stops us sleeping when a car alarm goes off. Or being primed to eat
anything sweet, which only makes us fat, given how many temptations there are. Or feeling almost compelled to look at the legs of strangers in the streets of Prague, which annoys and hurts our partners. . . .”

“Mr. Khan! Using Darwin to get me to feel sorry for you for not having seven wives and yet another ice cream . . .”

It's late on Sunday evening by the time they finally land, exhausted, at Edinburgh Airport. Kirsten's bag is second off the carousel. Rabih has no such luck, so while they wait, they sit on a bench next to a shuttered sandwich shop. It's unusually warm for the time of year, and Kirsten idly wonders what the weather will be like tomorrow. Rabih gets out his phone and checks. A high of 19 degrees Celsius and sunny the entire day: remarkable. Just then he spots his bag on the carousel, goes over to collect it, and adds it to their trolley. They board the bus back into the center of town just before midnight. All around them, similarly worn-out passengers are lost in thought or dozing. Suddenly remembering that he has to send a text to a colleague, Rabih reaches into the right pocket of his jacket for his phone, then looks in the left pocket, then stands up a little in his seat to check the pockets of his trousers.

“Have you got my phone?” he asks Kirsten in an agitated voice. She's sleeping and wakes up with a start.

“Of course not, darling. Why would I take your phone?”

He squeezes past her and reaches up into the overhead rack, takes down his bag, and fumbles in the outer compartment. An unfortunate reality gradually becomes clear: the phone has gone missing, and with it his communications system with the world.

“It must have been stolen somewhere in the baggage reclaim,” observes Kirsten. “Or perhaps you left it behind somehow. Poor
you! We can call up the airport first thing tomorrow and find out if anyone has handed it in. But the insurance will cover it anyway. It's sort of amazing this hasn't happened to one of us before.”

But Rabih fails to see the wonder of it.

“You can use my phone if there's anything you want to look at,” adds Kirsten brightly.

Rabih is furious. This is the beginning of an administrative nightmare. He'll be made to wait for hours by a series of operators, then have to dig up paperwork and fill out forms. Oddly enough, though, his fury isn't directed only at his loss; some of it also appears to have found its way to his wife. After all, she was the one who first mentioned the weather, which in turn prompted him to check the forecast, without which the phone might still be safely in his possession. Furthermore, Kirsten's calm and sympathetic manner merely serves to underscore how carefree and lucky she is in comparison. As the bus makes its way towards Waverley Bridge, an important piece of logic falls into place for Rabih: somehow all the pain and bother and hassle, every bit of it, is her fault. She is to blame for the lot, including the headache that is right now clasping itself like a vise around his temples. He turns away from her and mutters, “I knew all along we shouldn't have gone on this crazy, unnecessary trip”—which seems a sad and rather unfair way to précis the celebration of an important anniversary.

Not everyone would follow or sympathize with the connection Rabih has just made. Kirsten never signed up to the job of guardian of her husband's mobile phone and is far from responsible for every aspect of this grown primate's life. But to Rabih it makes a curious sort of sense. Not for the first time, everything is, somehow, his
wife's doing.

The most superficially irrational, immature, lamentable, but nonetheless common of all the presumptions of love is that the person to whom we have pledged ourselves is not just the center of our emotional existence but is also, as a result—and yet in a very strange, objectively insane and profoundly unjust way—responsible for everything that happens to us, for good or ill. Therein lies the peculiar and sick privilege of love.

It has also, over the years, been her “fault” that he slipped in the snow, that he lost his keys, that the Glasgow train broke down, that he got a speeding fine, that there is an itchy label in his new shirt, that the washing machine isn't draining properly, that he isn't practicing architecture to the standard he'd dreamt of, that the new neighbors play their music loudly late in the evening, and that they hardly ever have much fun anymore. And, it should be emphasized, Kirsten's own list is, in this same category, neither any shorter nor more reasonable: it's all down to Rabih that she doesn't see her mother enough, that her tights constantly ladder, that her friend Gina never gets in touch with her, that she's tired all the time, that the nail clippers have gone missing, and that they hardly ever have much fun anymore. . . .

The world upsets, disappoints, frustrates, and hurts us in countless ways at every turn. It delays us, rejects our creative endeavors, overlooks us for promotions, rewards idiots, and smashes our ambitions on its bleak, relentless shoals. And almost invariably we can't complain about any of it. It's too difficult to tease out who may really be to blame—and too dangerous to complain even when we know for certain (lest we be fired or laughed at).

There is only one person to whom we can expose our catalogue of grievances, one person who can be the recipient of all our accumulated rage at the
injustices and imperfections of our lives. It is of course the height of absurdity to blame them. But this is to misunderstand the rules under which love operates. It is because we cannot scream at the forces who are really responsible that we get angry with those we are sure will best tolerate us for blaming them. We take it out on the very nicest, most sympathetic, most loyal people in the vicinity, the ones least likely to have harmed us, but the ones most likely to stick around while we pitilessly rant at them.

The accusations we make of our lovers make no particular sense. We would utter such unfair things to no one else on earth. But our wild charges are a peculiar proof of intimacy and trust, a symptom of love itself—and in their own way a perverted manifestation of commitment. Whereas we can say something sensible and polite to any stranger, it is only in the presence of the lover we wholeheartedly believe in that can we dare to be extravagantly and boundlessly unreasonable.

A few weeks after their return from Prague, a new and far larger problem arises. Rabih's boss, Ewen, calls a team meeting. After a decent last eight months, the work pipeline is again looking barren, he confides. Not everyone currently employed by the firm will be able to stay on board unless an amazing project turns up soon. In the corridor afterwards, Ewen takes Rabih aside.

“You'll understand, of course,” he says. “It won't be anything personal. You're a good man, Rabih!” People who are planning to sack you should really have the decency and courage not also to want you to like them, reflects Rabih.

The threat of unemployment plunges him into gloom and anxiety. It would be hell to try to find another job in this city, he knows. He'd probably have to move, and then what would Kirsten do? He is threatening to fail in his most basic responsibilities as a husband. What madness it was, all those years ago, to think he could have a
career that would combine financial stability with creative fulfillment. It was a mix of childishness and petulance, as his father always hinted.

Today his walk home takes him past St. Mary's Roman Catholic Cathedral. He's never been inside before—the façade has always seemed gothically gloomy and uninviting—but, in his perturbed and panic-stricken mood, he decides to have a look around and ends up in a niche off the nave, in front of a large painting of the Virgin Mary, who gazes down at him with sorrowful and kindly eyes. Something in her sympathetic expression touches him, as if she knew a little about Ewen Frank and the shortfall of work and wanted to reassure him of her own ongoing faith in him. He can feel tears coming to his eyes at the contrast between the challenging facts of his adult life and the kindness and tenderness in this woman's expression. She seems to understand and yet not condemn. He is surprised when he looks at his watch and realizes that it's been a quarter of an hour. It's a sort of madness, he concedes, for an atheist of Muslim descent to find himself in a candlelit hall at the foot of a portrait of a foreign deity to whom he wants to offer his tears and confusion. Still, he has few alternatives, there not being many people left who still believe in him. The main burden of responsibility has fallen on his wife, and that means asking rather a lot of an ordinary, non-canonized mortal.