Читать книгу Searching For Sophia - Andrew Saw - Страница 12
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Gradually the Frankens became my second family. Among them I was catapulted into a tempest of noisy debate. Love, sex, music, politics, science, business, medicine and the twists of the daily news cycle were fallen upon with a voracious appetite. During the louder arguments I often thought of the advice from my mother: “If you’ve got nothing nice to say, Tim, say nothing at all,” clearly a rare precept among the descendants of the ancient Israelites.
At first Jarrah was a prickly presence. She was always ready to peel away the layers of what she assumed was my supreme Aryan confidence; but, because she was so close to Joe, she gradually accepted me and in time we became friends, although her good looks were always unnerving. Sometimes she caught me watching her with too much fascination and would screw up her face. She still does it today, when I forget myself. Now it’s done with affection privately shared, but she’s always aware of the impact of her physical presence.
About a year after we met she and I were walking alone back up to the house after a sweaty game of tennis when she said, with no provocation, “I feel like some cock.”
I actually stumbled.
“What’s the matter, Tim, not ladylike enough for you?”
“No, not at all. You just caught me by surprise.”
“You thought I should say I feel like some cunt?”
“No, it’s just that …”
“Women are allowed to express themselves sexually, you know.”
“I get that; but if I said the same thing, I’d be torn to pieces by the hounds of feminist hell.”
“That’s the difference between us, Tim, women say things men can’t. It’s fantastic.”
When I reported this back to Joe, he just smiled. “She’s not gay, you know.”
“What?”
“She’s not gay.”
“But I’ve seen her with her girlfriends.”
“I didn’t say she doesn’t like girls – we all do – but that doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian.”
“You mean she’s bisexual?”
“No, I don’t mean that at all, the term is meaningless. Sexuality is a kaleidoscope, you know that. What I mean is she’s straight and has affairs with girls.”
“Why? Is it emotional or physical, or what?”
“Both, probably, just like we are with women. There’s really no difference.”
“She’s told you this?”
“She doesn’t have to. It’s obvious.”
Jarrah did have affairs with men but, as twenty years of friendship went by, the three of us developed a similar trajectory in our emotional lives. As hard as we tried, none of us ever seemed to be able to hang onto a long-term relationship. Three months, six, sometimes a year seemed to be the average among us. Some years it was total celibacy; other years it was one disappointing glancing blow after the other. In the meantime Jarrah became a successful psychiatrist counselling troubled couples.
“What’s the most important thing in the world?” she asked Joe suddenly about a year ago.
“I don’t know. Peace of mind? Love, the end of all wars, happiness, protecting animals. A lot of things, there can’t be just one.”
“Tim?”
“Love maybe?”
“You sure about that?”
“Well, no. But seeing you asked, love is universal, or at least it should be.”
“Do you love your work?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason you do, I guess – it’s about making a difference, sometimes saving life.”
“So what’s more important, love or work?”
“God, I don’t know, they’re the same thing.”
“You’re sure?”
Joe was leaning back in a wicker armchair watching with a knowing half-smile.
“Joe, what’s she up to?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, pal. Why don’t you answer the question?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Love and work? Well, they balance each other, don’t they?” he offered.
Jarrah was clearly sceptical about her twin’s easy confidence. Her dark eyes settled on him for several seconds then focused on me. “Tim?”
“I agree with Joe.”
“And would you give up your work for love?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Would you give up psychiatry?”
“Never.”
“So what’s your point?”
“The point is that, for you and me, and Joe too, work is more important than love. If you had to choose one or the other, you’d choose your work.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“It’s not terrible at all, but every day I see people who think the opposite. For a lot of people, or most of my patients anyway, work is secondary and their relationship always comes first. It’s what they think is unconditional love.”
“So, if you’re incredibly passionate about your work, you can never have a balanced emotional relationship.”
“That’s what I’m positing.”
“But it doesn’t make sense. That’s saying that most of the brilliant people in the world never succeed at love – it’s not logical.”
“Succeed for who?”
“What do you mean?”
“One person will always be dominant, the other will be submissive. Partners of driven personalities who don’t want to be minions don’t survive.”
Thinking it through, I realised how often I’d heard variations on the theme: I love you, Tim, but there’s just not enough room for me in your life. Each time I heard it, I dismissed it as a lover’s selfishness. No matter which way I look at it, caring for animals is the most important thing I know.
Joe was staring out at the harbour and I could practically see the melancholia floating behind his eyes.
“So is your sister right?”
He seemed to struggle to pull himself away from wherever he’d travelled. “God, I hope not.”
“So you don’t think we’re doomed to lifelong romances with goldfish?”
“That depends,” he said with a rueful smile, “on how you feel about fish.”
He didn’t like Jarrah’s hypothesis, and nor did I. Joe’s passion for animals and my own is what bonds us above all things, or at least that’s what I believed. Such a vocational friendship would never be compromised by desire.
Assumption is the mother of most disasters, and my presumption that Joe’s world was a mirror of my own was about to be shattered.
