German at home.”
I said, thinking of my own past: “Accents can be such a problem.”
“The trick is to convert them into an asset by making them all part of playing the system. That’s why in Germany I pass myself off as a German, in England I pass myself off as an American and in New York I pass myself off as an Anglicised Jew. That way I can make my background work for me wherever I happen to be.”
“Con man! Well, at least my Home Counties accent is better than yours is!”
“You think so?” he said laughing. “You should listen to yourself after a couple of vodka martinis!” And the conversation then concluded as I attempted to wallop him with a pillow and he wrestled the pillow from me in order to put it to a more imaginative use. It was such a luxury to have both the leisure and the stress-free environment to enjoy sex frequently.
Indeed, by the end of the honeymoon we had almost forgotten what stress was, and when we arrived back in London we smooched for some time in my moonlit living-room high above the City before bowling into bed in an ecstasy of happiness. I was such a hardened cynic that I still hardly dared believe such happiness could exist, but the evidence for such a blissful state now seemed incontrovertible. Perhaps I finally dared to ditch my cynicism when I realised Kim was just as stunned by our happiness as I was.
“I feel quite different,” he confided that night. “I don’t feel dislocated any more.”
“What do you mean?”
“I never felt at home anywhere. It was as if some part of me was missing and I was always searching for answers which I was never able to find.”
“What answers? What were the questions?”
“It doesn’t matter, not any more. This is home, isn’t it? You’re the missing part of me, and this is where I fit in, here with you.”
Pulling him on top of me I said: “I think you fit in here very well.”
A satisfying interval passed.
Some time later he said suddenly: “I want to show you the photograph now,” and began to scramble out of bed.
As he had told me all his old photographs had been lost during the move to Oakshott many years before, I assumed he was talking of a more recent picture, but the black-and-white snapshot which he pulled from its special place in his wallet was yellow at the edges inside the plastic folder which protected it. “I couldn’t show you this before,” he said, “because the past seemed so disconnected with the present that I felt there was no way of sharing it, but now that I’m more all of a piece . . .” Leaving the sentence unfinished he pulled aside the plastic folder and mutely handed me the photograph.
I saw a small boy of perhaps three or four, with dark hair, bright eyes and a radiant, trustful smile. He was wearing long trousers and a shortsleeved shirt. Standing beside him was a large dog, an Alsatian, tail in the middle of a wag, and in the background was a motherly woman with an indulgent expression. All three figures were standing on a lawn by a stone urn planted with flowers.
“That was my nurse who got sacked,” said Kim, “and that was my dog which got lost. I still think of them.”
After a pause I said: “When I was small I had a cat which got lost. I still think of him too.” There was a silence while I wondered whether this response was adequate, but Kim seemed satisfied by the implied message that I could understand his feelings of bereavement. I wanted to ask questions but was afraid of mishandling the subject when it was still clearly so painful. I merely noted the absence of any equally cherished photograph of his parents.
“I wish I had photos to show you of my own past,” I said at last, “but I’ve never made a hobby of photography.”
“Well, I don’t need to see pictures of your family, do I? I’ll soon be meeting them in person.”
“Right.” Not for the first time I tried to visualise taking Kim to meet my father, but yet again the scene proved
I said, thinking of my own past: “Accents can be such a problem.”
“The trick is to convert them into an asset by making them all part of playing the system. That’s why in Germany I pass myself off as a German, in England I pass myself off as an American and in New York I pass myself off as an Anglicised Jew. That way I can make my background work for me wherever I happen to be.”
“Con man! Well, at least my Home Counties accent is better than yours is!”
“You think so?” he said laughing. “You should listen to yourself after a couple of vodka martinis!” And the conversation then concluded as I attempted to wallop him with a pillow and he wrestled the pillow from me in order to put it to a more imaginative use. It was such a luxury to have both the leisure and the stress-free environment to enjoy sex frequently.
Indeed, by the end of the honeymoon we had almost forgotten what stress was, and when we arrived back in London we smooched for some time in my moonlit living-room high above the City before bowling into bed in an ecstasy of happiness. I was such a hardened cynic that I still hardly dared believe such happiness could exist, but the evidence for such a blissful state now seemed incontrovertible. Perhaps I finally dared to ditch my cynicism when I realised Kim was just as stunned by our happiness as I was.
“I feel quite different,” he confided that night. “I don’t feel dislocated any more.”
“What do you mean?”
“I never felt at home anywhere. It was as if some part of me was missing and I was always searching for answers which I was never able to find.”
“What answers? What were the questions?”
“It doesn’t matter, not any more. This is home, isn’t it? You’re the missing part of me, and this is where I fit in, here with you.”
Pulling him on top of me I said: “I think you fit in here very well.”
A satisfying interval passed.
Some time later he said suddenly: “I want to show you the photograph now,” and began to scramble out of bed.
As he had told me all his old photographs had been lost during the move to Oakshott many years before, I assumed he was talking of a more recent picture, but the black-and-white snapshot which he pulled from its special place in his wallet was yellow at the edges inside the plastic folder which protected it. “I couldn’t show you this before,” he said, “because the past seemed so disconnected with the present that I felt there was no way of sharing it, but now that I’m more all of a piece . . .” Leaving the sentence unfinished he pulled aside the plastic folder and mutely handed me the photograph.
I saw a small boy of perhaps three or four, with dark hair, bright eyes and a radiant, trustful smile. He was wearing long trousers and a shortsleeved shirt. Standing beside him was a large dog, an Alsatian, tail in the middle of a wag, and in the background was a motherly woman with an indulgent expression. All three figures were standing on a lawn by a stone urn planted with flowers.
“That was my nurse who got sacked,” said Kim, “and that was my dog which got lost. I still think of them.”
After a pause I said: “When I was small I had a cat which got lost. I still think of him too.” There was a silence while I wondered whether this response was adequate, but Kim seemed satisfied by the implied message that I could understand his feelings of bereavement. I wanted to ask questions but was afraid of mishandling the subject when it was still clearly so painful. I merely noted the absence of any equally cherished photograph of his parents.
“I wish I had photos to show you of my own past,” I said at last, “but I’ve never made a hobby of photography.”
“Well, I don’t need to see pictures of your family, do I? I’ll soon be meeting them in person.”
“Right.” Not for the first time I tried to visualise taking Kim to meet my father, but yet again the scene proved
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