my
rightful destiny and so I did it. But that no longer worked. I
was nearly sixty, my colleagues were thinking about retirement
villages and all-day golf but I felt as if my life had just
started. I sat in my office and stared out of the window. I
delayed calls and cancelled conferences. I couldn’t reconcile
who I now knew I was with the person I had grown up as.
There was a gap between the two that threatened everything.
I sat and stared at my office walls. Counted the lines on the
wallpaper. It was as if the things that had mattered before I
read the letter meant nothing now, as if it had all been levelled
by some massive explosion which killed Jake Mk 1, leaving
only the scattered pieces of Jakob in its wake.
‘I went to Amsterdam. To the Jewish Museum there, the
JHM. Almost lived in that place. I spent four months in
those rooms trying to find out if it was true and when I knew
it was, I came back here. I spent days walking this city that
I’d grown up in, finding it totally unfamiliar now, as if I was
a tourist, here for the first time, untethered and afloat. I
couldn’t go back to the world, Jon. I don’t know if you
understand … but that was no longer possible. The streets
were a different world. An easier place to hide, to not care,
to give up on things. I felt as if my whole life had been a
practice run for this moment, a long-winded dress rehearsal
with no real purpose or end.’
‘How long had you been on the streets?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Why did you agree to come here?’ Jon asked. It confused
him. He wanted to know what had driven him to this, though
he understood how easy it was to let go, to disappear, how
seductive its promise was.
‘Because I’m weak.‘Jake rubbed his hand on his forehead,
his wrists poking through the thick ring of shirt. ‘Because
there’s a story that needs to be told. That only I can tell.’
‘What story?‘Jon asked.
‘You’re not ready yet.’ Jake shook his head, smiled. ‘Not
yet.’
That was the last time he had seen him.
No, it wasn’t.
He just didn’t want to think about the other.
Later that evening, after they’d both gone to bed, Jon had
awoken with a tight pain in his stomach, as if it was shrinking,
clenching in on itself like a fist. He’d pulled himself out of
bed and stumbled to the toilet. He opened the door. Jake
stood with his back to him, head down, shirt off. His back
was covered in scars. White breaks in the pink folds of skin,
zigzagged and broken. Jon took a deep breath. Saw the dark
stained tissues on the floor.
‘Jake,’ he cried out. ‘What’s wrong?’
But the old man ignored him or hadn’t heard. He stood
immobile. Jon could hear a low droning sound coming from
his mouth and his head was swaying slightly from side to
side. He stared at the scars. The separate lines touching and
interlocking like fingers. He turned and closed the door. His
heart pumping hard. The pain in his stomach gone. And
when he went back to his room he made sure to lock the
door.
By the time Jon awoke the next morning Jake was gone,
his bedding neatly tidied in the corner and the CDs and books
that he’d used back in their proper places. The computer on,
the day’s news glaring at the empty room. There was no note
but Jon knew that Jake had gone for good. The arrangement
of the linen had a finality to it that made him catch his breath.
He feared that the previous night’s intrusion had caused the
old man’s flight, cursed himself for not having knocked.
He turned the computer off. Picked up the pillowcases
and sheets and put them in the washing machine. He didn’t
want to look at them, but couldn’t help himself and when
dark, cracked patches confirmed his fears he shoved them
into the machine and slammed the door shut. He rushed to
the toilet. Washed his hands. Used soap, shampoo and body
lotion until the smell was totally gone, only pine fresh and
morning azure now.
That
rightful destiny and so I did it. But that no longer worked. I
was nearly sixty, my colleagues were thinking about retirement
villages and all-day golf but I felt as if my life had just
started. I sat in my office and stared out of the window. I
delayed calls and cancelled conferences. I couldn’t reconcile
who I now knew I was with the person I had grown up as.
There was a gap between the two that threatened everything.
I sat and stared at my office walls. Counted the lines on the
wallpaper. It was as if the things that had mattered before I
read the letter meant nothing now, as if it had all been levelled
by some massive explosion which killed Jake Mk 1, leaving
only the scattered pieces of Jakob in its wake.
‘I went to Amsterdam. To the Jewish Museum there, the
JHM. Almost lived in that place. I spent four months in
those rooms trying to find out if it was true and when I knew
it was, I came back here. I spent days walking this city that
I’d grown up in, finding it totally unfamiliar now, as if I was
a tourist, here for the first time, untethered and afloat. I
couldn’t go back to the world, Jon. I don’t know if you
understand … but that was no longer possible. The streets
were a different world. An easier place to hide, to not care,
to give up on things. I felt as if my whole life had been a
practice run for this moment, a long-winded dress rehearsal
with no real purpose or end.’
‘How long had you been on the streets?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Why did you agree to come here?’ Jon asked. It confused
him. He wanted to know what had driven him to this, though
he understood how easy it was to let go, to disappear, how
seductive its promise was.
‘Because I’m weak.‘Jake rubbed his hand on his forehead,
his wrists poking through the thick ring of shirt. ‘Because
there’s a story that needs to be told. That only I can tell.’
‘What story?‘Jon asked.
‘You’re not ready yet.’ Jake shook his head, smiled. ‘Not
yet.’
That was the last time he had seen him.
No, it wasn’t.
He just didn’t want to think about the other.
Later that evening, after they’d both gone to bed, Jon had
awoken with a tight pain in his stomach, as if it was shrinking,
clenching in on itself like a fist. He’d pulled himself out of
bed and stumbled to the toilet. He opened the door. Jake
stood with his back to him, head down, shirt off. His back
was covered in scars. White breaks in the pink folds of skin,
zigzagged and broken. Jon took a deep breath. Saw the dark
stained tissues on the floor.
‘Jake,’ he cried out. ‘What’s wrong?’
But the old man ignored him or hadn’t heard. He stood
immobile. Jon could hear a low droning sound coming from
his mouth and his head was swaying slightly from side to
side. He stared at the scars. The separate lines touching and
interlocking like fingers. He turned and closed the door. His
heart pumping hard. The pain in his stomach gone. And
when he went back to his room he made sure to lock the
door.
By the time Jon awoke the next morning Jake was gone,
his bedding neatly tidied in the corner and the CDs and books
that he’d used back in their proper places. The computer on,
the day’s news glaring at the empty room. There was no note
but Jon knew that Jake had gone for good. The arrangement
of the linen had a finality to it that made him catch his breath.
He feared that the previous night’s intrusion had caused the
old man’s flight, cursed himself for not having knocked.
He turned the computer off. Picked up the pillowcases
and sheets and put them in the washing machine. He didn’t
want to look at them, but couldn’t help himself and when
dark, cracked patches confirmed his fears he shoved them
into the machine and slammed the door shut. He rushed to
the toilet. Washed his hands. Used soap, shampoo and body
lotion until the smell was totally gone, only pine fresh and
morning azure now.
That
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