Читать книгу A Certain Age - Lynne Truss - Страница 6

TIM is quite posh; he is in the art business, a bit camp, and a natural loner. It will be for the listener to decide whether he is gay. Having inherited his father’s gallery on the death of his parents, he has built up the dealership and takes great pride in his achievement. His older brother Julian lives in Australia. They have not met for ten years.

Scene One: at home; classical music playing quietly. Tim is jetlagged but very pleased with himself

No matter how many times you experience this, it’s still horribly disorientating. Here I am, 9.30 in the evening, at home in Belsize Park, eighteenth-century mahogany desk piled high with post opened in my absence by the lovely Gideon, and this morning – well, this morning I was crossing Fifth Avenue in a yellow cab, on the way to Newark (because, of course, I never use JFK). [Yawn] It’s too brutal! After two and a half weeks in the Peabody apartment on East 75th, arriving home to London so abruptly is SUCH a jar to one’s sensibilities. Of course, Manhattan is infested nowadays with nasty little British people on shopping sprees, all gleefully waving their currency converters, and one finds it increasingly difficult to avoid them, alas, even in the smarter galleries on Madison. The woman in the adjacent seat on the flight home – and this was in UPPER, as they so unpleasantly denominate it these days – told me she had bought [he remembers the details precisely, but they don’t mean much to him] ten mini iPods in assorted colours and a suitcase full of Region 1 DVDs. I said, [very condescending] “How lovely. And did that take you long?” And she told me she had been in Manhattan only TWO DAYS; she’d just “popped over” while her husband was on the Algarve playing golf. I said, “Oh I bought very little for myself, I’m afraid. But then I do travel to New York several times a year.” And she said, [scoff; not an imitation] “So do I, dear! This day flight’s much better than the night one, innit? That night one does my head in.”

[He riffles through post] So. What have we here? [Shuffles and yawns as he talks] American Express, something tedious from Balliol; begging letter, begging letter [tears up the begging letters]; Art Quarterly; oh, cheque; ooh, NICE cheque; [less happy] mmm, small cheque, I sold that Ravanelli drawing much too cheaply; National Gallery invitation; cheque, ooh, VERY nice cheque; letter from [surprised, when he checks the signature] Julian, that’s odd, I’d better read that; small cheque, gallery invitation, gallery invitation; one, two, THREE copies of the Spectator (hurrah), and – ugh, well, a lot more that I’ll concern myself with tomorrow, with the help of the lovely Gideon. [Yawn] I can’t wait to show Gideon the Maffei sketch I bought from Fowlers and Wells. He’s got quite an EYE, I think. [Yawn] Oh well, what does Julian want? [He picks up Julian’s letter, which is three pages, and scans bits of it] It’s unlike him not to e-mail. Post from Australia takes such an age. The funny thing is, with Julian’s annual e-mails, I can always picture him in some internet café on Bondi, with palm umbrellas and towering surf, and a big cocktail standing by – probably one with an obscene name. I can just hear him ordering it: [impersonates Julian, who is very commanding as well as louche] “I want a Criminally Long Sweaty Screw, please, barman.”

[Yawn] I really must go to bed soon. Oh well. [Rustle] “Dear Timmy.” Well, [puts letter down] he does that to annoy me, of course, and also to be Big Brotherish. No one else even calls me Tim any more; I insist on T.J. – or even, with certain friends, “Teedge”. Typical of the parents to cook up such a perfect imperious name for Julian and then just lose interest when I come along. Imagine being called Tim. Ugh. Imagine it, in particular, during Wimbledon fortnight! “Come on, Tim!” they all shout. “Come on, Tim!” Every year, in the weeks preceding the championships, the newspapers ask, “Is this the year for . . . TIM?” And I say, “Look! No tournament besides tiddly-winks will ever be won by a person named Tim!” [Pause] They call him TimBO sometimes, you know. Now, that’s enough to make you WEEP.

[He has finished the rant; yawn] So. “Dear Timmy,” writes Julian. [Very big yawn] “I called last week and spoke to some bloke called Gideon.” Bloke? Gideon is hardly a bloke, Julian, honestly. [Peruses other pages] I have to say, though, this is suspiciously well spelled and punctuated for Julian. The miracle of spellcheck, no doubt. [Resumes reading] “He told me you were in New York but would be home on 17th. I am writing because I have been thinking about a few things.” [Mutter] Not before time, I’d say. “I realise I have never been a proper older brother to you.” [Tim is a bit disturbed by where this is going] What’s he talking about? A proper older brother? Julian was always a proper older brother to me. When we were at school he used to trip me going into assembly, steal my hymn book every Sunday, and punch me in the kidneys after nets; that’s almost a definition of being a proper older brother. “I wonder if I ought to come back to London. I wonder if I should be [Tim tightens with alarm, which increases as he continues] helping you with father’s art business. After all, I am technically head of the family.”

Good heavens. [Attempt at light-hearted laugh] He makes us sound like the Corleones. Head of the family! “I’m sorry to say that Janey and I have parted.” Oh no. Oh Julian, you idiot. Janey was so RICH. “She is using Arabella and Max as leverage, which has been quite unpleasant, not to say ruinously expensive. So I just thought, remember how father used to admire my EYE, Timmy?” No, I don’t, as it happens. He admired MY eye, Julian. It was your FINGERS that made the biggest impression on father. When they were found in someone else’s till. “Why don’t I help you out for a few months in London? I never complained when you took over the gallery without me, did I?” What? You were in PRISON, Julian. [Turns page] “I’ve shown father’s will to a few people and everyone thinks I’ve been quite negligent of my own interests. I mean, little Timmy’s gambles have paid off well so far, so well done! But I’m a divorced man now, with titanic alimony. And you do [ominous for Tim] OWE ME, don’t you?” Oh God. Oh no. [Turns page] “Arriving on 20th. Looking forward to working with you. Don’t worry! My embezzling days are behind me. Besides, if I had any designs on your readies, little brother, I wouldn’t need to travel halfway round the world, would I? I could clean you out without leaving my desk! Your loving older brother, Julian. PS If you managed to acquire any coloured iPods or Region 1 DVDs on your trip to New York, there are people in China who would be in the market.”

[A comical moan of fear and anxiety] Uuugh.

Scene Two: out of doors, birds singing; traffic. Tim is sitting in a London square

[Feverish] I have two days. Two days to decide whether to hire a hitman. Of all the options presenting themselves, swift, clean assassination is clearly the most satisfactory. I spent most of last night running through the possibilities, and that was the conclusion that finally, at 5 a.m., allowed me to go to sleep. I mean, here are the options:

One. Sell business, feign own death in elaborate boating accident; start again in Panama.

Two. Lure Julian into gallery basement and dispatch him with own two hands.

Three. Persuade the lovely Gideon to lure Julian into basement, to dispatch with HIS own two hands.

Four. Give Julian indecently large sum to go away.

Five. Contrive to foil Julian by doing something a bit more subtle that at present eludes me.

Six. Undergo emergency plastic surgery and adopt Danish accent.

Seven. Engage moral pariah in motorcycle helmet with gun.

Of course it does occur to me that I’m over-reacting. This is where a partner would be invaluable. A partner would say, “He’s your brother, T.J. You share a full genetic identity. What’s yours is already his in a way. And he can’t be as bad as all that. He’s just got a small history of appropriating other people’s money; plus, being your older brother he naturally has no respect for you; and of course he drew the long straw at the font. But don’t forget, you haven’t actually seen him for ten years, and people change.” [Pause] I’m quite glad I DON’T have a partner, actually, if that’s the sort of thundering drivel they would come up with. All I can think of, over and over, is the expression, “head of the family”! Head of the family? When there are only two of us? [He’s losing it] Julian is just so clever at knowing how to – well, how to seriously upset me! For example, that was a split infinitive, wasn’t it? “To seriously upset me” is a split infinitive. And I never split an infinitive unless I am very, very upset!

[Deep breath; slower] I’m seeing the solicitor at two. Douglas Devereaux at Collins, Bracknell in Queen Street; we were at Balliol together, I was his understudy on the cup-winning ping-pong team; he buys the odd French pastel from me for his highly acquisitive wife Marian and somehow always gets a discount whereas oddly I’ve NEVER had a discount from him. I called him first thing, of course, and he confirmed instantly what I already suspected: that Julian has no legal claim on the gallery, or on me. He said I was probably worrying about nothing. I said, [trying to be light about it] well, if I am, I’m doing it extremely efficiently, Dougie [pronounced “Doogie”]: I’ve already put all my personal bank accounts into the company name and shredded the evidence of the transfer, and sent Gideon to courier the more valuable items to Paris on the 11.58 Eurostar. It’s no wonder I didn’t get much sleep last night. Dougie said, [Edinburgh accent] “T.J., it’s as if you’re expecting a hurricane; have you taped up the windows as well?” [Pause] Well, he knows I loathe sarcasm. “Oh, come in at two,” he said.

He’s a good chap, Dougie, with an innocent passion for patisserie, and he’s got a beautiful King Charles spaniel who sleeps at his feet like something from a crusader’s tomb. One does quietly object, however, to paying a thousand pounds a minute for Dougie’s time when he allows himself personal asides and little flights of fancy on one’s bill, as it were. [Dougie] “I’d like to say embezzlement is an ugly word, T.J.,” he said. “But when you think about it – well, it’s quite a nice one, isn’t it? Quite musical. Em-bezzle-ment. Mm, interesting.” You see, if a friend were to say that, one could shrug and think, “What a peculiar mind that chap must have.” But when one’s solicitor says it, one can’t help thinking, “Good grief, that little piece of inconsequential word-play just cost me three hundred pounds.”

Scene Three: at the gallery, night. Sound of London traffic outside

[A sort of whisper] This is usually the place where I feel completely safe. In the gallery. After hours. Shutters down. A few letters to shuffle about on the desk in an important manner [paper]. Outside, just a few fearfully well-dressed people darting past the window under black umbrellas, calling for taxis. Me cocooned in this lovely elegant space full of lovely elegant things, all mine, all worth thousands and thousands of pounds – which are currently, of course, out of harm’s way in Montparnasse with the lovely Gideon, whose company I have sorely missed today, I must say, in my hour of need. The exquisite Honourable Araminta wafts ornamentally around the gallery on Tuesdays, of course, but since she’s in direct line to inherit all of Wiltshire south of Devizes, she’s hardly likely to be sympathetic to the fate of my little self-earned millions. [Worried sigh] I suppose it IS just the money Julian is after? Have I done enough to protect it? Why do I still feel as though I’m sitting on an unexploded bomb? That session with Dougie this afternoon was quite painful, but very interesting, because, of course, HE has an older brother who makes HIM feel insignificant, too! How could I have forgotten about Hamish? “But, Dougie,” I said, “you’re one of the best-paid lawyers in London.” Since I was writing a very large first-consultation cheque to him at the time, I happened to know what I was talking about. “What does Hamish do?” I said, handing it over. “Is he Lord Chancellor or something?” And he said, as he smoothed the cheque and smiled at it in a loving kind of way, “Oh no, he runs golfing holidays in the Algarve.” Astonishing. Of course, I nearly commented on the coincidence of the woman on the plane’s husband being currently in the Algarve playing golf, but reconsidered just in time, and thereby saved myself – by retrospective calculation – the price of a fairly good ticket to the entire Ring Cycle at the Met.

[Getting back to business; a sigh] What a letter, though. I hope Gideon didn’t look at it when he opened it. I’d hate him to know that anyone ever called me “Timmy”. I showed it to Dougie, of course. In fact, I left it with him. He said there was something puzzling about it, and asked if I could find the envelope it came in, and I said I’d try. Gideon is terribly efficient, I said. He’s probably shredded it. [Not to Dougie] I didn’t tell Dougie, but the interesting thing, actually, is that Gideon also has an older brother who belittles HIM; yes! I suppose it’s bound to be quite common, but it’s quite a comfort none the less. In fact, when we happened to talk about our shared plight – it must have been just before I went to New York – Gideon said he had a theory that men with big brothers are a very particular brutalised personality type, and that they often have an unconscious bond with each other as a result. “Really?” I said. “Oh yes,” he said. “Little brothers need to stick together,” he said. “We’re very easily taken advantage of.” That’s why he understood completely, you see, when I snapped into raise-the-drawbridge mode the moment I’d read that letter. I had only to call him and say, “Julian’s coming! And he’s calling himself head of the family!” for Gideon to say, “Mm, don’t panic. I’ll pack up the stock at the gallery and phone the bank! I can have everything in Paris by tomorrow afternoon!”

I’ll go home soon. There’s nothing more I can do here. I just keep thinking, if Julian’s arriving on Thursday, he must already have set off. He’s heading this way, and I’m rooted to the earth; it’s like having the wrath of God galloping towards you; or Birnam Wood supernaturally on the march; or a hundred thousand orcs swarming across Mordor with battering rams and unbelievably long ladders. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I’ll have to congratulate him when he gets here. How clever to give me just enough notice to turn me into a nervous wreck.

Dougie thinks it was a bit strange to do that, though. [Shrewd] “Why did Julian forewarn you?” he said.

“Oh, he’s a sadist,” I said. “Julian won the amateur sadism trophy four years running at Marlborough.”

Dougie looked unconvinced. He took a fork to a succulent Portuguese custard tart from Fortnum’s, and masticated slowly. “Well, I think it’s an odd thing to do. He’s given you and your young Gideon two whole days to organise yourselves. You have to ask yourself, T.J.: what’s the advantage to Julian of tipping you off?”

Scene Four: the Night Before the Big Day. Tim is at his desk at home; classical music in background; he has been drinking; he’s slowed down a bit

[A bit slurred already] So. [Drinks] Three days ago, I was in New York. And I was so, so happy! [Emotional] I was on top of the world – at least, in the international art dealership sense of the thing. I had a lovely gallery waiting for me at home, a peerless Maffei under my arm, and I was in a yellow cab to Newark, the old wide rubber tyres bouncing over the bumps and potholes on the Manhattan cross-streets, the steam rising from the manhole covers; I could hear the honk of the early rush-hour traffic and the whistles and sirens of the traffic cops. [Overcome; comically miserable] I was somebody!

I haven’t seen Gideon since Monday, because he’s been overseeing a few complications in Paris; indeed, I’ve hardly spoken to him. [Drinks] So thank you, Julian, for that! [Pours drink, with difficulty] I don’t know what plane Julian’s on. I should have called the airlines, but – ugh, I’d need a [looks round helplessly] well, a phone and, and, and a pencil and everything, and I’d have to GET UP, and [he can’t] oof. Anyway, whatever time he comes, I’m ready. I’ve done everything. [Drinks; he’s beginning to slip into unconsciousness] I’m as ready as I can be. This is a scorched-earth policy. Poor old Julian will be like Napoleon marching on Russia. Ha. There’s nothing for him to get. I shall say, “I’m sorry. Reports of my success have been greatly exaggerated.” [On edge of sleep] Just a load of scorched – scorched earth, nothing, nothing left for him to get …

[Asleep; heavy breathing] The bastard.

Scene Five: in the gallery; traffic noises outside. Tim is hung over and trying to be brave while suffering

When Dougie called at ten about his cheque, I was shocked of course; but I have to admit that at some deep level I was not surprised, and I was even, perversely, relieved. It was as if all my life I’d been dutifully carrying a priceless Lalique vase around and then, suddenly, “Whoops!” it had fallen and smashed. “That cheque you gave me was a bad ’un, T.J.,” he said. And I said, “Ah.” And then I said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Dougie?” And he said, “Well, I doubt it, because I’m thinking about a rather fine meringue I’ve just eaten. Whereas you, I suspect, are thinking, ‘Ah, I don’t know where Gideon is, and he’s got the entire stock of my business, plus access to all my cash.’”

Of course, I called the bank, and when they said I had no access to the accounts any more, so they couldn’t tell me why the cheque had bounced, I have to say, I laughed. Ha. Nervous laughter, I suppose. [Laugh] “Really?” I said. “Ha!” They said I’d signed over the company bank accounts to Gideon on Monday, by special arrangement, and I said, “I did do that, didn’t I?” And they said, “Surely you have records, sir?” And I said, [bluffing, worried] “Yes! Yes, surely I do” – as I remembered proudly shredding the original forms on Gideon’s brisk insistence, to prevent the rapacious Julian from discovering what I’d done. I said, “Er, oh, someone’s just entered the gallery, may I phone you back later?” And they said I could do what I liked, I wasn’t even a customer as far as they were officially aware.

[Pause] It was the wrong time of day to call Australia, but I did it anyway. I knew the number, even though I haven’t called it for five years at least. It rang just twice and then – [impersonates Julian; impatient] “Do you know what bloody time it is?” It was Julian. At home in Sydney. In bed, asleep. Not on a plane. No macademia nuts in his flight bag. No weird sheepskin artefacts. Just asleep, thousands, and thousands, and thousands of miles away. With his little brother a million miles from his thoughts. “It’s Timmy,” I said. [Julian is pleased to hear from his brother] “Timmy!” he said. “You in trouble? What’s up? Oh no, [laugh] who do you want me to beat up for you this time?” It was a bit hard not to weep at that moment, I’ll confess. It was a bit hard not to break down. “Julian,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Um, you didn’t write to me about a – er, an impending visit?” He said no, not at all. And sorry he hadn’t e-mailed recently; business was fan-bloody-tastic. Come to think of it, he had called while I was in New York, he said, to ask about iPod and Region 1 DVD prices in London, and a posh bloke called Gideon had been quite friendly. “He seemed to be amused by the idea of me calling you Timmy,” he said. “I got the feeling he was making a note. I hope you’re not in love with that little tick.” [Pause] Typical of Julian. Five years since I last spoke to him, and he hits the bull’s eye first time. [Faltering] “Why on earth do you say that?” I said. “Sounded like a taker to me, Tim. Chaps like him can spot sad loveless quasi-homosexual losers like you a mile off.” At which point Dougie appeared, at the door to the gallery, and I said I had to go. I’ll call you back, Julian, I said. I’ve had a bit of bad news. Sorry I won’t be seeing you. Bye.

Considering that I now had no immediate funds to pay him, Dougie was an absolute rock. “Do you actually know Gideon’s in Paris?” Dougie asked, and I had to confess [laugh] I didn’t know that, no. He could be anywhere. I cast my mind back to the scene in the gallery on Tuesday morning: to the boxes ready for shipping; the van outside; Gideon, in his blue suit, holding his passport in readiness; the peck on the cheek as he whispered, “It’ll be all right, Teedge; I’ll take care of everything.” Those boxes. How do I know there was anything in them? I don’t. My precious stock might have been sold already, or just hidden, at any time during my American sojourn – a trip, I now remembered, Gideon had quite vehemently encouraged me to take. On Tuesday morning, those forms from the bank were ready for me to sign, and the shredder hummed in anticipation. After that conversation about our unconscious bond, and how easily little brothers can be taken advantage of, Gideon knew that all he had to do was write that letter to me from Julian, and my automatic panic reaction would make me entrust my entire livelihood to my lovely assistant – an assistant I’d known only a few months, of course, and had never even kissed. [Dougie] “I knew it. This is your own writing paper, you idiot,” said Dougie. I looked at it; it was. When he forged the letter from my brother, it seems, Gideon banked on me being so agitated by its contents that I wouldn’t even spot that the stationery was from my own desk.

I kept thinking of Julian’s first response when he heard my voice. “Oh no, who do you want me to beat up for you this time?” [Emotional] He meant that, you see. [Laughs] He’s my big brother! Oh God. Now I come to think of it, he got one of his sadism awards for doing something to a chap who’d stolen my cricket bat. Imagine if he weren’t there. I’d be on my own. No one else will ever offer to beat someone up for me, will they? On the other hand, of course, no one else will ever refer to me like that as a sad loveless quasi-homosexual loser, either. So I suppose it evens out.

[To get his attention] “T.J.!” Dougie said. Dougie was thinking what to do. Or possibly he was picturing a recently devoured choux bun, it’s always a possibility. He asked me if I had any pictures of Gideon, and of course I didn’t, because Gideon always said he was self-conscious about photographs, and refused to pose. Dougie said ah-ha! this showed just how deeply Gideon had laid his plans, and I said – and I’m afraid I may have been a little bit snappy, by now – [impatient, voice rising] that I really didn’t see the point of anatomising all the cunning stages in Gideon’s cunning, cunning, cunning plan. Gideon had merely deduced that my fatal weakness was my abnormally strong feelings of guilt, fear and resentment towards my older brother; it hardly required psychoanalytical genius, actually, to WORK THAT OUT.

[Recovers from outburst] “So,” I said. “Why is everyone so keen on Region 1 DVDs all of a sudden, Dougie? What are they all talking about?”

Dougie said he didn’t know. The modern world was such a mystery to him, he was hoping soon to be appointed to the judiciary. “If it’s any consolation, T.J.,” he said. “I’d have done all the same things. Whenever Hamish calls up, I make the children tell him I’ve been kidnapped by Chechnyans. Marian says I’ve traumatised them, making up a story like that, because they’re only eight and six, but I say what’s the point in shielding them from the realities of life? By the way,” he said. “Heard the good news?”

“What?” I said.

“Your namesake’s doing very well at Wimbledon.”

[A sinking heart] “What?” I said. “Oh no.”

“Yes. Tim!” he said. “You know. Your namesake. They say he’ll make the final this year, no problem. I’ve got debenture tickets tomorrow, would you like to come?”

And for the very first time, I felt like crying.

“What’s wrong?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

[Tearful] “That’s all I needed to hear, Dougie,” I said. “Oh God, that’s all I needed to hear.”