Authors: Margot Livesey
Banishing Verona (29 page)
Oh, why wasn't he there, she thought. She needed to talk to him.
So how had Zeke felt, demanded her reflection, when day after day she had left him in silence with no way to reach her?
Whatever scrim had obscured these facts had vanished during her illness. She was acutely, vividly aware of how her behavior must seem from Zeke's point of view. She had tricked him into letting her stay at the Barrows', disappeared with no explanation, invited him to Boston and disappeared again, promised to call and failed to do so. How could any of this make sense to someone who didn't know about Henry? Or how could it make any but the worst kind of sense? And now she and Henry were returning to London. As soon as she emerged from her room, he had taken her aside to ask if she was well enough to travel that evening.
None of this, though, would have stopped her from hurrying to Boston and begging Zeke's forgiveness. What gave her pause was the dream. It had come to her that first evening at Adrian's and several times since. She was at the airport, waiting to board a beautiful white plane. Her row of seats was called; she walked toward the door. But as she reached the threshold of the plane, her water broke and before she could cry out she was surrounded by AmericansâAdrian, Suzie, the therapist on the ferry, the men from the hotelâall holding her down, all insisting that she give birth in America. She had woken up, clutching her belly. It was just her subconscious, she thought, processing George's gibe about medical insurance. But every time the baby moved, she was afraid.
In the end she left a message so flat and faltering that as soon as she hung up she wanted to reach into the machine and retrieve it. And she'd forgotten to tell him she'd been ill. If he didn't know that, then she must seem like the most heartless person alive.
Before she could call him back, Henry came in to say that their
sandwiches had been delivered. He was in a boisterous mood. “The limousine will be here at three so you can pack after lunch. Come on,” he added. “Time to be charming. Let's make Adrian feel that lending me money is the best thing he's done in years.”
sandwiches had been delivered. He was in a boisterous mood. “The limousine will be here at three so you can pack after lunch. Come on,” he added. “Time to be charming. Let's make Adrian feel that lending me money is the best thing he's done in years.”
If she hadn't still been tired, still under the spell of her dream, still at the mercy of these unfamiliar surroundings, surely she would have stood firm and excused herself for five minutes to make the call. As it was she rose and followed Henry docilely out of the room. She would phone from the airport.
Two or three times an hour, once four, the girl in the seat beside him uttered a series of high-pitched coughs, sounding so much like a small animal that, on the first couple of occasions, Zeke bent down to search the aisle for a stowaway. Save for these periodic eruptions, she sat remarkably still. Perhaps, he thought, she was meditating. Meanwhile, he noticed with surprise that his dread of flying had lessened. Once they were airborne and he had examined each of his fearsâbeing sucked out of the window, landing in water, a turbine bursting into flames, a wing falling off, the pilot having a seizure or deciding, for his own obscure reasons, to head for the Saharaâhe was able to settle down to anticipating the nicely partitioned meals and choosing a film. First, though, he got out of his seat and went to the back of the plane to see if he could find the triangular rip in the upholstery he had noticed four days earlier above the toilet door. But the light was poor, and before he could complete his search a flight attendant pointed out that the toilet was free and he felt obliged to go inside.
Apart from the black miasma filling every corner of his skull, leaving America had turned out to be much easier than entering. No plump ventriloquist had questioned him as to why he wanted
to go to London, no dog drooled over his suitcase, no man wearing obscene rubber gloves fumbled through his possessions. Zeke almost wished they had; a little aggravation might have dispelled the dreamlike quality of his departure. As it was, only the flecks of magnolia paint rimming his nails testified to the bizarre events of the last few days. He had got on a plane, he had stayed in a hotel, he had explored Boston, and now he was sitting on another plane, all without seeing Verona.
to go to London, no dog drooled over his suitcase, no man wearing obscene rubber gloves fumbled through his possessions. Zeke almost wished they had; a little aggravation might have dispelled the dreamlike quality of his departure. As it was, only the flecks of magnolia paint rimming his nails testified to the bizarre events of the last few days. He had got on a plane, he had stayed in a hotel, he had explored Boston, and now he was sitting on another plane, all without seeing Verona.
The day after the conversation with his mother, he had finished painting Jill's living room and returned to the hotel to find the message light on the phone once again blinking. Cautiously he followed the steps Jill had shown him and was rewarded, at last, with Verona's voice, but not her voice as he remembered it, warm and inviting. She sounded hoarse and hesitant; she was in New York, she sent her love, she hoped he was out doing something nice. Then came a noise like his own
hmm
sound.
hmm
sound.
“I don't know how to tell you this, but Henry's finally got things organized and we're flying back to London tonight. I'm so sorry, but every time I sneeze I'm afraid the baby will come early. I need to get on a plane while they'll still let me.”
He had played the message eight times, each time thinking that he might hear something different, might hear her saying
I'm in the lobby, meet me at the Fogg Museum
, and feeling more incredulous than the time before when the message ended, “See you in London; I can't wait.” He had always understood the expression
uprooted
as a metaphor. Now he avoided looking down for fear that he would be able to discern the forking white roots that he had torn so painfully, at such inconvenience and expense, out of the shallow soil of his life. As he listened, he understood that every minute since he landed, even those when he claimed to be full of doubt, he had believed that Verona was about to appear; he would round a corner, turn over in bed, step into a restaurant, and there she would be, her lovely, large, specific self.
I'm in the lobby, meet me at the Fogg Museum
, and feeling more incredulous than the time before when the message ended, “See you in London; I can't wait.” He had always understood the expression
uprooted
as a metaphor. Now he avoided looking down for fear that he would be able to discern the forking white roots that he had torn so painfully, at such inconvenience and expense, out of the shallow soil of his life. As he listened, he understood that every minute since he landed, even those when he claimed to be full of doubt, he had believed that Verona was about to appear; he would round a corner, turn over in bed, step into a restaurant, and there she would be, her lovely, large, specific self.
He had taken refuge in the cupboard with the ironing board, leaving the door ajar so that he could count the coat hangers lining
the rail and the nails in the molding. Why, he had wondered, for perhaps the four-thousandth time, did he want to be with this woman? She was not beautiful, like Mavis, nor did she seem to need him, like Cecily. But Mavis was taken several times over. As for Cecily, who had been nominally his girlfriend for the last two years of university, he had had the uneasy feeling that compassion played a larger part in their relations than affection; she had shown him the scars on her wrists on their second date, described what a stomach pump felt like on the third. Her vague angst was initially compelling, then terrifying, and finally dull. When he told her that no, he didn't want to meet her parents, no, he didn't want to stay the night, she had wailed like a siren, tried to jump in front of a bus. Sometimes he thought his own breakdown had been partly a way to avoid her, in which case it had been entirely successful. Since his recovery, a series of other women had rung his doorbell or his phone, but an acute sense of his own limitations, and of how quickly both misunderstandings and agreements arose, made him wary. And then, with Verona, something about the way she listened, the stories she told, her dead friend, her sweeping belly, her personal electricity, had made him forget all his sensible doubts and reservations.
the rail and the nails in the molding. Why, he had wondered, for perhaps the four-thousandth time, did he want to be with this woman? She was not beautiful, like Mavis, nor did she seem to need him, like Cecily. But Mavis was taken several times over. As for Cecily, who had been nominally his girlfriend for the last two years of university, he had had the uneasy feeling that compassion played a larger part in their relations than affection; she had shown him the scars on her wrists on their second date, described what a stomach pump felt like on the third. Her vague angst was initially compelling, then terrifying, and finally dull. When he told her that no, he didn't want to meet her parents, no, he didn't want to stay the night, she had wailed like a siren, tried to jump in front of a bus. Sometimes he thought his own breakdown had been partly a way to avoid her, in which case it had been entirely successful. Since his recovery, a series of other women had rung his doorbell or his phone, but an acute sense of his own limitations, and of how quickly both misunderstandings and agreements arose, made him wary. And then, with Verona, something about the way she listened, the stories she told, her dead friend, her sweeping belly, her personal electricity, had made him forget all his sensible doubts and reservations.
When he had counted every hanger and nail hole, he had emerged from the cupboard and phoned Jill to tell her he was leaving as soon as possible. Christ, she had said, you're like a toy on a string. Whatever Verona says, youâ
I only came to America, he interrupted, because of her. Why would I stay when she's gone? Apart from anything else, I can't afford it.
Oh, she said, I thought ⦠. Then he heard a little gulp, as if she were taking a deep breath, several deep breaths. When she continued her voice had that rusty quality it had had when she was upset about her flat. Forget it. I can't thank you enough for helping me these last few days.
You know my mother isn't well, he had said, and was both pleased and ashamed when, sounding more like her old self, Jill
said of course and that if he ever wanted to consult her about medical matters he shouldn't hesitate to pick up the phone. He thanked her and urged her to get in touch when she came back to London. They exchanged addresses.
said of course and that if he ever wanted to consult her about medical matters he shouldn't hesitate to pick up the phone. He thanked her and urged her to get in touch when she came back to London. They exchanged addresses.
Only after he hung up did Zeke realize he had forgotten to say anything about her, how he hoped she found true love or whatever she was searching for, but she was on duty at 7 A.M. and he didn't want to disturb her again. Later, in the middle of the night, the phone had rung. Still half asleep, he had picked up the receiver. Hello, he had said. Verona? No one spoke, but as he lay with the phone pressed to his ear, looking up at the tiny light of the smoke detector, he was almost sure he heard another of those gulps.
Now, as he began to eat the omelet the flight attendant had set before him, he calculated that his late-night caller couldn't have been Verona; she was already flying. While the sky outside the oval window lightened and darkened, he watched a romantic comedy and tried not to look at his watch too often. He couldn't wait to be home with his clocks and his neatly organized drawers and well-known street. They were over Ireland, the pilot announced, then the Bristol Channel. Soon he saw a spreading mass of orange lights on the ground below and recognized the city where he lived.
Inside, the terminal was different from America but not immediately like London. He and his fellow passengers walked along endless corridors lined with advertisements to passport control. The woman at the desk barely glanced at his passport, and a few minutes later he retrieved his suitcase. Without Emmanuel, he ignored the sleek expensive train and headed for the underground. As soon as he got on the train and saw the rows of upholstered seats, the abandoned newspapers, the grotty wooden floor, he had the reassuring sense of being close to home.
The plane had landed at five past eight. Soon after ten he turned the corner into his street. The wind ruffled his hair. It was a cold night for London, but still much warmer than Boston. A magnificent stand of white clouds rose up to the south; at the far
end of the street, the church steeple stood out like a witch's hat. For a few seconds, looking at his dark house, Zeke entertained the notion that his keys would no longer work. Or that if they did, the flat they admitted him to would be utterly different from the one he had left a few days ago. A flowery three-piece suite would dominate the living room; his bedroom would be lined with huge televisions like the one in his hotel room. Nonsense, he thought, everything will be just where I left it.
end of the street, the church steeple stood out like a witch's hat. For a few seconds, looking at his dark house, Zeke entertained the notion that his keys would no longer work. Or that if they did, the flat they admitted him to would be utterly different from the one he had left a few days ago. A flowery three-piece suite would dominate the living room; his bedroom would be lined with huge televisions like the one in his hotel room. Nonsense, he thought, everything will be just where I left it.
But before he went inside, he must check the street. He set his suitcase down in the doorway. In the gloom he made out the two dustbins to the right of his front door. Next door his neighbors' three bins were tucked neatly against the privet hedge. He moved down the street, making an inventory of every house until he reached the corner. He crossed over and did the same on the far side until he was again facing his own unlit house. Suddenly he saw that his imaginings of catastrophic change had been correct, though not their details. The ash tree, two doors down, was gone.
He raced across the road. Perhaps he was misremembering; the tree was farther away than he recalled, four houses down, say, instead of two. But no, here was a stump, calf high, the diameter of a large dinner plate. He bent down to feel the rough grain of the wood beneath his palm. It had been one of the few trees he genuinely liked. Once, during a dodgy period, he had counted the number of larger branches every day: forty-six. Now in a matter of days, a matter of hours, all those years of patient growth had been annihilated. Surely this wouldn't have happened if he had remained at his post. He added it to the list of all he had neglected in his life because of Verona: his father, his mother, his customers, his clocks.
He woke, bewildered, to discover it was nearly noon. How had he slept so late? Picturing his hotel room in America, he knew the answer. Some part of him had failed to board the plane, was still loitering in the cupboard with the ironing board or staring at the gloomy thrice-painted St. Dominic. He went through his refrain, begun in boyhood, later adapted: My name is Zeke Antony Cafarelli. I have two arms and two legs. I am a member of
Homo sapiens
, a species of placental mammal that lives on the planet Earth. I live in the metropolis of London at 35b Chester Street, and there are twenty-two white tiles above my kitchen sink.
Homo sapiens
, a species of placental mammal that lives on the planet Earth. I live in the metropolis of London at 35b Chester Street, and there are twenty-two white tiles above my kitchen sink.
He bathed, dressed, and, finding that the milk in the fridge was still good, had a cup of tea and a bowl of cereal. Then he forced himself to go into the living room and approach his answering machine. Eleven messages. As he fetched a notebook and pen, he suddenly noticed the silence. For the first time in several years no clock was ticking. Verona, without even touching them, had brought them to a standstill. Four prospective customers had called; Gwen twice; Emmanuel said he'd finished the chef's house; Phil said Mavis was home. His credit card company wanted to
confirm his new vigorous usage. The first and last calls were from Verona.
confirm his new vigorous usage. The first and last calls were from Verona.
He listened to all the messages once, then a second time, writing down the customers' phone numbers. How often, in the days before his departure, he had hurried home, praying that hers might be among the voices trapped inside the machine. Now it was, and he listened closely as she said she was back in London. “I don't expect you to understand, but could we talk? Please. My numberâ”
He wrote down the number after those of his would-be customers. His hand moved toward the phone. Then it stopped and moved away. He couldn't have said exactly what his feelings were, but he knew he was not yet ready for more turmoil. Or at least not this kind of turmoil. What mattered now were his parents. He decided to walk to the shop, a journey of half an hour, forty-five minutes at most, that would allow him to become reacquainted with the fire hydrantless streets of his native city.
Â
Â
Even from a distance he could see that the display outside the shop was sparse, but when he stepped inside, the bins of produce were once again full and appetizing. There was no one around; his mother must be in the bathroom or getting something from the cooler. As he stood waiting, he began to pile the bananas into a neat pyramid.
“Can I help you?”
Startled he turned and caught sight of a fair-haired woman, kneeling beside a crate of lemons. The next thing he knew, she had her arms around him and was hugging him so hard his ribs clicked. “You're back,” she said.
“Yes,” he said obviously, and was glad to hear the shop bell ring.
For the remainder of the afternoon, he left Gwen to charm the customers and worked in the storage rooms, taking out the rubbish,
breaking up empty boxes, unpacking full ones, filing delivery notes. Here at last were tasks he knew how to perform, and many of them. By closing time he had the rooms more or less tidy. He pulled down the grill, locked the door, and while Gwen sorted the money went to work on the floor.
breaking up empty boxes, unpacking full ones, filing delivery notes. Here at last were tasks he knew how to perform, and many of them. By closing time he had the rooms more or less tidy. He pulled down the grill, locked the door, and while Gwen sorted the money went to work on the floor.
As the black and white tiles emerged, gleaming, he sensed something else, less harmonious, also emerging. Once at university, one of the women he shared a house with had come home from a Chinese herbal shop with a piece of mushroom in a jam jar. It's alive, she had told Zeke. All I have to do is keep it in the fridge with fresh water, and it will grow. But why would you want it to? he had said. It's a medicine, Astrid explained. Just a small piece will cure rheumatism or conjunctivitis. He had refrained from pointing out that she was not, as far as he knew, suffering from either. For the first few days she had changed the water regularly, but soon he was the one watching over the mushroom, checking on it daily, sometimes hourly, aware even while he sat in lectures and tutorials of this presence growing larger and blacker and slimier in the fridge. Now, as he scrubbed the entrance to the shop, he thought his mother was like that mushroom; her feelings grew in secret ways he didn't understand. At Christmas, Astrid, still oblivious, had gone home for the holidays. After several days alone in the empty house, Zeke had finally wrapped the dark mass in paper towels and carried it home in the largest plastic container he could muster. The next day he came down to find his parents' fridge empty. His father had thrown it away.
He finished the floor and set the brush and mop to dry beside the cooler. Gwen was at her desk, pressing buttons on the calculator, and for the first time he was able to study her freely. As far as he could judge, she did not look ill, though her nail polish was ragged and her hair separated into little clumps. Maybe he had merely imagined some new feeling pervading the shop.
“Almost done,” she said, tapping away. “Do you have time for supper?”
“Yes. Where's Kevin?”
“It's his day off. I got Emmanuel to come and help unload stuff this morning. Have you seen him since his makeover? He's a real fashion plate.”
He stared at her, perplexed. Where were the insults and the shouting? As she tapped out a few more numbers, he had a sudden hopeful thought: perhaps her illness had brought about a reconciliation with his father.
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The walls of the restaurant, even the ceiling, were a shade of red so close to that of fresh meat that it was like stepping inside a large animal. Not surprisingly, Zeke thought, only one table was occupied. Two bearded men in white shirts were seated in a corner near the kitchen, reading newspapers and drinking out of small tumblers. The waiter, after Gwen had refused a table by the window, seated them beside a wall hung with many small dark pictures, which at least obscured some of the red. “Would you like something to drink?” he said.
Gwen asked for a glass of merlot. “Just water,” said Zeke. He rested his eyes on the nearest picture, a church with several spires, conscious that across the table his mother was examining him, her expression not dissimilar from that with which she scrutinized the beetroot or the cress. Only when the wine came did she break her silence. “Well,” she said, tilting the glass in his direction, “you've certainly surprised me this time. I'll never complain again about your being stuck in a rut.”
“How are you? How's Dad?”
“Don is like I told you on the phone. Butter, if he were allowed it, wouldn't melt in his mouth.” She began to speak in an oddly deep voice. “Ooh, you look lovely today. That blouse is so becoming. What a good idea it was to start selling fennel again.” She drank some more wine. “He's driving me mad. First he makes it hard to stay with him and now he's making it hard to leave.”
“He loves you,” Zeke said. Before he could elaborate, the waiter was back, pen poised. Turning to the menu, Zeke discovered
that it was handwritten with many impenetrable flourishes and words beginning ts. Why had his mother insisted on coming to this lurid restaurant that served something called Georgian food? “Do you have a suggestion?” he asked.
that it was handwritten with many impenetrable flourishes and words beginning ts. Why had his mother insisted on coming to this lurid restaurant that served something called Georgian food? “Do you have a suggestion?” he asked.
The waiter did. The lamb was very nice, the smoked fish moist, the tripe delicious, the liver tasty, the mutton stew hearty.
“I'll have the lamb,” said Zeke, “with vegetables.” Gwen said they would each have a bowl of borscht and asked for the special. The waiter scribbled and departed. During the next five minutes he brought bread, water, and bowls of fragrant deep-pink soup at intervals that made conversation difficult. At last they were alone again.
Gwen released her wineglass and reached for a spoon. “I want you to meet Maurice,” she said.
So much for his hope that her health scare might yield one good outcome. He blinked several times, trying to hold back his disappointment. “You know I'm bad at meeting people. As you've pointed out four hundred times, I lack the social graces. And what about Dad?” Tentatively he tasted the soup; it was delicious. He took another spoonful and another. He tore off a piece of the dark bread.
The porcelain of the bowl was shining through the last of his soup when Gwen finally answered. “Actually,” she said, “in a funny way, because you miss most of the games people play, you're quite a good judge of character. I know”âshe must have guessed his amazementâ“I've said other things, but at the shop I could see why you put up with Emmanuel. Once he stops messing around, he's a good worker. This soup is nice, isn't it? While you were washing the floor, I phoned Maurice. He'll be here any minute.”
So that was what he had sensed in the shop and why she hadn't wanted to sit in the window, normally her preferred location in any restaurant. He turned toward the door, dreading even as he did so that it would open to reveal the notorious Maurice. “I wish you hadn't done that. I'll feel weird with Dad.”
“I'm sorry,” she said andâanother surpriseâsounded as if she meant it. “Tell me what's happening with Veronica?”
“Verona,” he corrected. He gave the shortest possible version: he liked her; he thought she liked him; it didn't work out.
“But you went to America together?” The corners of her mouth rose. “It seemed so romantic, the two of you flying across the ocean. Especially you, with your phobias.”
Why did nothing stay still these days? Even his mother's disapproval was unreliable. “On the phone you said you'd never forgive me. That you and Dad would be in the poorhouse because I'd deserted you.”
Gwen ran her fingers through her hair. “Do I look okay? I didn't have time to take a shower this morning. You couldn't have chosen a worse week to bugger off, but of course I'm glad you like someone. You're nearly thirty. You should be settling down.”
“Your hair needs combing. And your nose is shiny.”
“Thanks.” She pushed back her chair. “Now remember, not a word about my little scare.”
He watched as she zigzagged between the other tables, several of which, he now saw, were occupied, and then turned to counting the pictures.
“Excuse me, are you Zeke?”
A man wearing a bulky jacket was standing beside the table. Nothing about him looked familiar, but Zeke felt even less trustworthy than usual. “Yes,” he said cautiously.
The man held out his right hand. “How do you do? I'm Maurice Shaeffer.”
Zeke stood up. The feeling inside his head reminded him of those wretched few minutes when the plane had thudded up and down. Keeping his eyes fixed on the table, he offered his own hand, and as they stood there, palm to palm, a thought alighted amid the chaos: This man has a perfect handshake. He let go, stepped over to the nearest empty table, retrieved a chair, and set it on the third side of their table.
“Thank you,” said Maurice. “Are you sure I'm not intruding?”
And then he didn't do what people normally did when they asked such a question, which was to presume the answer they wanted, but stood there, waiting for Zeke to speak.
And then he didn't do what people normally did when they asked such a question, which was to presume the answer they wanted, but stood there, waiting for Zeke to speak.
“We were expecting you. My mother is in the bathroom.”
Maurice unzipped his jacket and slipped it over the back of the chair. Beneath he wore a navy blue fisherman's sweater. “I already ate,” he said, “but I might have a glass of wine.” He glanced around the restaurant, searching for a waiter, Zeke thought, but the men in white shirts had disappeared. His father would have grumbled, perhaps pounded the table, but Maurice simply twitched a shoulder and asked how Zeke's travels had gone.
“Not great. It was very cold and I found America”âhe paused, searching for a word that summed up, even partially, his experiencesâ“confusing.”
“I know what you mean. I went to Miami a few years ago, just for a week, but there were two drive-by shootings and the couple in the next room were mugged going to the beach. Gwen's glad you're back.”
“Yes. I was at the shop,” he said, inanely. From the next table came the clink of cutlery; a stout woman and two small boys were spooning up borscht.
“I tried to help a couple of times,” Maurice said, “but I can barely tell a carrot from a cucumber.”
How could that be, Zeke wondered. Unlike people, vegetables were easy to identify. “What do you do?”
“I work in a carpet shopâwools, berbers, vinyl, some nice Indian rugs, the so-called Persians. I stumbled into it, a part-time job after school, but I enjoy it. There's a lot to learn about rugs, a lot of history. That's how your mother and I met. She came in to look at carpets, and we started talking about her dream room.”
“Her dream room?” He imagined a space like the walk-in cooler where Gwen's dreams were inventoried floor to ceiling, nightmare to pastoral, gothic to romantic.
“Her perfect room, the room where she felt she'd be most herself.”
“Which is not a restaurant toilet. I'm glad you found each other.” Gwen bent to kiss Maurice.
In a matter of minutes she had transformed herself as surely as Daphne into a laurel. Her face seemed lit from within, her hair gleamed, even her clothes looked newly pressed. Was it really possible that she was in any way ill? As she took her seat, the waiter appeared with their food. He set down the plates and greeted Maurice with a clap on the back. “How are you? We haven't seen you in weeks.”
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