talking about a man, or a piece of meat. Otherwise, well, I’m sorry, but we’ll really have no alternative.’
Yes, perhaps this was the truth. He didn’t think it was, however; he hoped it wasn’t, for if it was, it meant Dorothy might still be in danger, and Matilda too; and even if it was he didn’t see that it entirely invalidated his other theory as to what was going on. In fact, he told himself as he sat in the garden of the tiny house he had rented in the Tuscan countryside, twenty minute’s walk from the nearest shop and forty from the nearest village, he refused to allow it entirely to invalidate his other theory. For if there was no ostensible link between his persecution and his being dropped, at a deeper level there was a connection; and if he chose to see this affair as a clash between the rich and powerful and the forces of—well, whatever it was he represented—then that, until he was proved wrong, was what it was.
All the same, he had to confess that the thought of just exactly what he did represent did give a moment’s pause. Because if he saw himself as ‘the Truth’, wasn’t he maybe making a little too large a claim on his own behalf? Committing what Catholics might have called the sin of pride? Yes, he told himself, he was.
But if he didn’t see himself as such, then what, in God’s name, was he? Just a middle-aged, disturbed and lonely man biting the hand that had always fed him, out of pique at always having been fed, and never feeder?
No, he wanted to shout out to the pine tree under which he sat, to the grass, the rose trellis, the olive trees, the green valley and the wooded hills over which he was looking. No, no, no!
*
Possibly because he had always been vaguely conscious of the fact that throughout much of their history Jews had been forbidden to own land in Europe, possibly because he felt (the evidence of the past not withstanding) that there was safety in numbers, and possibly just because he did enjoy frequenting literary salons and the drawing rooms of the mighty, Alfred had not only never thought of living in the country, or buying any property in the country, but he had, so far as he could remember, never spent more than two consecutive days in the country in the whole of his adult life. Even weekends in country houses with his friends had made him feel uncomfortable, and he had returned to Paris or New York or London with something like the relief of a small, hunted animal returning safely to its burrow. And the first few days after he had arrived at this pink, one-storey house amidst the Tuscan hills had been among the worst he had ever experienced. He was worried about Dorothy, safe though he had tried to convince himself she was now. He was worried about money, for having quickly spent the cash his wife had settled on him at the time of their divorce, he had always only just been able to make ends meet by turning out a constantstream of articles, essays and reviews, and now he had been forced to tell his various editors and publishers that he was going off to the country for a while, and until he had finished what he was working on, was uncontactable. And he was depressed about his situation in general, about his motives for doing what he was doing and, given that he had nothing else to think of, about the difficulty of the task he had set himself.
What if I am wrong in my let’s say cosmic interpretation of events, he asked himself as he sat under his pine tree, and this is simply a rather crude attempt by some doubting son to protect his father’s memory? What if my friends, or whatever they are, or were, really were right to drop me? Maybe I really am boring and tiresome. And maybe my task is not only questionable as far as my motives are concerned, but utterly irrelevant and without interest.
‘I’m so fed up,’ he told Dorothy on the ’phone, having been soaked by a shower on his way into the village, and then having had to wait fifteen minutes while it
Yes, perhaps this was the truth. He didn’t think it was, however; he hoped it wasn’t, for if it was, it meant Dorothy might still be in danger, and Matilda too; and even if it was he didn’t see that it entirely invalidated his other theory as to what was going on. In fact, he told himself as he sat in the garden of the tiny house he had rented in the Tuscan countryside, twenty minute’s walk from the nearest shop and forty from the nearest village, he refused to allow it entirely to invalidate his other theory. For if there was no ostensible link between his persecution and his being dropped, at a deeper level there was a connection; and if he chose to see this affair as a clash between the rich and powerful and the forces of—well, whatever it was he represented—then that, until he was proved wrong, was what it was.
All the same, he had to confess that the thought of just exactly what he did represent did give a moment’s pause. Because if he saw himself as ‘the Truth’, wasn’t he maybe making a little too large a claim on his own behalf? Committing what Catholics might have called the sin of pride? Yes, he told himself, he was.
But if he didn’t see himself as such, then what, in God’s name, was he? Just a middle-aged, disturbed and lonely man biting the hand that had always fed him, out of pique at always having been fed, and never feeder?
No, he wanted to shout out to the pine tree under which he sat, to the grass, the rose trellis, the olive trees, the green valley and the wooded hills over which he was looking. No, no, no!
*
Possibly because he had always been vaguely conscious of the fact that throughout much of their history Jews had been forbidden to own land in Europe, possibly because he felt (the evidence of the past not withstanding) that there was safety in numbers, and possibly just because he did enjoy frequenting literary salons and the drawing rooms of the mighty, Alfred had not only never thought of living in the country, or buying any property in the country, but he had, so far as he could remember, never spent more than two consecutive days in the country in the whole of his adult life. Even weekends in country houses with his friends had made him feel uncomfortable, and he had returned to Paris or New York or London with something like the relief of a small, hunted animal returning safely to its burrow. And the first few days after he had arrived at this pink, one-storey house amidst the Tuscan hills had been among the worst he had ever experienced. He was worried about Dorothy, safe though he had tried to convince himself she was now. He was worried about money, for having quickly spent the cash his wife had settled on him at the time of their divorce, he had always only just been able to make ends meet by turning out a constantstream of articles, essays and reviews, and now he had been forced to tell his various editors and publishers that he was going off to the country for a while, and until he had finished what he was working on, was uncontactable. And he was depressed about his situation in general, about his motives for doing what he was doing and, given that he had nothing else to think of, about the difficulty of the task he had set himself.
What if I am wrong in my let’s say cosmic interpretation of events, he asked himself as he sat under his pine tree, and this is simply a rather crude attempt by some doubting son to protect his father’s memory? What if my friends, or whatever they are, or were, really were right to drop me? Maybe I really am boring and tiresome. And maybe my task is not only questionable as far as my motives are concerned, but utterly irrelevant and without interest.
‘I’m so fed up,’ he told Dorothy on the ’phone, having been soaked by a shower on his way into the village, and then having had to wait fifteen minutes while it
Similar Books
