Authors: Julian Barnes
‘Love.’
‘An old friend of ours – she’s a New Yorker – worked as a lawyer for years and years – decided to retrain by going to film school. She was in her fifties already. And she found herself surrounded by kids thirty years younger than her. And she used to listen to them, and sometimes they confided in her about their lives, and you know what she concluded? That they didn’t think twice about going to bed with someone, but they were really, really scared of getting close, or of anyone getting close to them.’
‘The point being?’
‘They were afraid of love. Afraid of … dependency. Or having someone dependent on them. Or both.’
‘Afraid of pain.’
‘Afraid of anything that would interfere with their careers, more like. You know, New York …’
‘Maybe. But I think Sue’s right. Afraid of pain.’
‘Last time – or the time before – someone was asking if there was cancer of the heart. Of course there is. And it’s called love.’
‘Do I hear distant drums and ape-calls?’
‘My condolences to your spouse.’
‘Come on. Stop being facetious. Stop thinking about who you’re married to or who you’re sitting next to. Think about what love’s been like in your life, and think about it in other people’s lives.’
‘And?’
‘Pain.’
‘No gain without pain, as they say.’
‘I’ve known pain where there’s no gain. In most cases, actually. “Suffering ennobles” – I’ve always known that was a moralistic lie. Suffering diminishes the individual. Pain degrades.’
‘Well, I’ve been hurt – I am in pain – because last time we were here I was telling you in a very discreet way about my home bum-cancer screening …’
‘Which you said you did on St Valentine’s Day.’
‘And no bugger or C-word here has actually had the courtesy to enquire if I got the result.’
‘Dick, did you get the result?’
‘Yes, a letter from someone whose job title beneath the illegible signature was, if you can credit it, Hub Director.’
‘We won’t go there.’
‘And he was writing to say that my result was normal.’
‘A-
ha
.’
‘That’s great, Dick.’
‘And then – new paragraph – the letter went on to say, and I quote from memory – though, what else might one quote from? – that,
quote
, no screening test is one hundred per cent accurate, so a normal result does not guarantee that you do not have, or will never develop, bowel cancer.’
‘Well, they couldn’t
guarantee
, could they?’
‘It’s all about getting sued.’
‘Everything’s about getting sued nowadays.’
‘Hence, for example, the prenup – to get us back on track a bit. Larry, would you say the prenup is a proof of love or of insecurity?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never signed one. I guess it’s usually lawyers protecting family money. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with how you feel, it’s just social protocol. Like pretending you believe all the words of the marriage service.’
‘
I
did. Every single one.’
‘“With my body I thee roger” – ah, now
that
takes me back. Oh dear, Joanna’s looking a little balefully at me again.’
‘Cancer of the heart, not the bum, is the topic.’
‘You’re maintaining Love is Pain, are you, Joanna?’
‘No. I’m just thinking of a few people – men, yes they are all men, actually – who’ve never been hurt by love. Who are, in fact, incapable of being hurt by love. Who set up a system of evasion and control that guarantees they’ll never get hurt.’
‘Is that so unreasonable? It sounds like the emotional equivalent of a prenup.’
‘It may be
reasonable
, but that confirms my point. Some men can do the whole thing – sex, marriage, fatherhood, companionship – and not feel any real pain. Frustration, embarrassment, boredom, anger … and that’s it. Their idea of pain is when a woman doesn’t repay dinner with sex.’
‘Who said men were more cynical than women?’
‘I’m not being cynical. We can all name a couple of people like that.’
‘You mean you’re not in love unless you’re in pain?’
‘Of course I don’t mean that. I just mean that, well, it’s like jealousy. Love can’t exist without the possibility of jealousy. If you’re lucky, you may never feel it, but if the possibility, the capacity to feel it, isn’t there, then you aren’t in love. And it’s the same with pain.’
‘So Dick wasn’t off the point after all?’
‘… ?’
‘Well, he doesn’t have bum cancer, except there’s a possibility he
might
, either now or in the future.’
‘Thank you. Vindicated. I knew I knew what I was really talking about.’
‘You and the Hub Director.’
‘You’re talking about Pete, aren’t you?’
‘Who’s Pete? The Hub Director?’
‘No, Pete’s the no-pain guy.’
‘Pete’s one of those counters. You know, how many women. He could name the day he hit double figures, name the day it was fifty.’
‘Well, we’re all counters.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes, I remember very well getting to two.’
‘There were quite a lot of halves with me, if you know what I mean.’
‘All too well. Now there’s pain for you.’
‘No, that’s what Pete would call pain. It’s just hurt pride. He does hurt pride and high anxiety. That’s as close as he gets to pain.’
‘Sensible guy. What’s not to like? Did he ever marry?’
‘Twice. Out of both of them now.’
‘And?’
‘Embarrassment, a certain self-pity, weariness. But nothing stronger.’
‘So according to you he’s never loved?’
‘Indeed.’
‘But he wouldn’t say that. He’d say he’d been in love. More than once.’
‘Yes, he’d probably say dozens of times.’
‘“It’s the hypocrisy I can’t stand.”’
‘I’ll never live down saying that, will I?’
‘Well, maybe it’s good enough.’
‘What is?’
‘To believe you’ve been in love, or are in love. Isn’t that just as good?’
‘Not if it isn’t true.’
‘Hang on. Isn’t there a bit of rank-pulling going on here? “Only we’ve been in love because only we’ve suffered.”’
‘I wasn’t saying that.’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘Do you think women love more than men?’
‘More – in the sense of more often or more intensely?’
‘Only a man could ask that question.’
‘Well, that’s what I am – a poor fucking man.’
‘Not after dinner at Phil and Joanna’s, you aren’t. As we noted.’
‘Did we?’
‘Oh God, I hope you’re not going to make us all go home and try to get it on to prove –’
‘I hate “get it on” as well.’
‘I remember one of those American TV shows – you know, we solve your emotional and sexual problems by putting you in front of a studio audience and making a spectacle out of you, and sending the audience home feeling very glad they aren’t you.’
‘That’s an extremely British denunciation.’
‘Well, I remain British. Anyway, there was this woman, talking about how her marriage or relationship wasn’t working, and of course they got on to sex right away, and one of the so-called experts, some glib TV counsellor, actually asked her, “Do you have big orgasms?”’
‘Ker-pow. Straight for the G-spot.’
‘And she looked at this therapist, and said, with actually rather a fetching modesty, “Well, they seem big to me.”’
‘Bravo. And so say all of us.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying we shouldn’t necessarily feel superior to Pete.’
‘Do we? I don’t. And if he’s passed the fifty mark, I doff my cap.’
‘Do you think Pete gets off with women because he can’t get on with them?’
‘No, I just think he has a low boredom threshold.’
‘If you’re in love, you don’t have a boredom threshold.’
‘I think you can be in love and bored.’
‘Do I fear another hands-under-the-table moment?’
‘Don’t be so defensive.’
‘Well, I am. I come here to gorge myself on your delicious food and wine, not to be water-boarded like this.’
‘Sing for your supper.’
‘“And you’ll get breakfast …”’
‘What I’m saying, in defence of this Pete whom I’ve never met, is merely, perhaps he’s loved, or been in love, as much as his constitution allows, and why feel superior to him just because of that?’
‘There are some people who wouldn’t fall in love if they hadn’t read about it first.’
‘Spare us your Froggy wisdom for one night.’
‘Is it safe to take our hands out from under the table now?’
‘It’s never safe. That’s the whole point.’
‘What
is
the point, by the way?’
‘Let me summarise. For those unable to keep up. This house is agreed that the British use the C-word far too liberally, that men talk about sex because they can’t talk about love, that women and the Frogs understand love better than Englishmen, that love is pain, and that any man who’s had more women than me, apart from being a lucky cunt, doesn’t really understand women.’
‘Brilliant, Dick. I second the motion.’
‘You second Dick’s motion? You must be the Hub Director.’
‘Oh, shut up, boys. I thought that was a very male summary.’
‘Would you like to give us a female summary?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Are you implying that summarising is a contemptible male trait?’
‘Not especially. Though my summary might mention how passive-aggressive men get when talking about subjects which make them feel unsure of themselves.’
‘“Passive-aggressive”. I hate that word, or phrase, or whatever it is. I would guess it has a ninety to ninety-five per cent female use. I don’t even know what it means. Or rather, what it’s meant to mean.’
‘What did we say before we said “passive-aggressive”?’
‘How about “well mannered”?’
‘“Passive-aggressive” indicates a psychological condition.’
‘So does “well mannered”. And a very healthy one too.’
‘Does anyone seriously think – if we were to pass the metaphorical port at this stage and the ladies were to retire – that they’d sit around talking about love and we’d sit around talking about sex?’
‘When I was a boy, before I knew anything about girls, I used to look forward to them equally.’
‘You mean, boys
and
girls?’
‘Cunt. No, love and sex.’
‘
Voices
. Keep them down.’
‘Is there anything to match that, do you think, in the field of human emotional endeavour? The force of longing for sex and love when you haven’t had either?’
‘I remember it all too well. Life just seemed … impossible. Now
that
was pain.’
‘And yet it didn’t turn out so badly. We’ve all had love and sex, sometimes even at the same time.’
‘And now we’re going to put on our coats and go home and have one or the other and next time there will be a show of hands.’
‘Or a hiding of hands.’
‘Boys never stop being boys, do they?’
‘Does that qualify as passive-aggressive?’
‘I can do active-aggressive if you’d prefer.’
‘Leave it, sweetie.’
‘You know, this is one evening when I don’t want to be the first to go.’
‘Let’s all go together, then Phil and Joanna can discuss us while they clear up.’
‘Actually, we don’t do that.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, we have a ritual. Phil clears, I stack the dishwasher. We put on some music. I wash up the stuff that won’t go in the dishwasher, Phil dries. We don’t discuss you.’
‘What charming hosts. A veritable Trimalchio and Mistress Quickly.’
‘What Jo means is, we’re all talked out. We discuss you tomorrow, over breakfast. And lunch. And, in this instance, probably dinner as well.’
‘Phil, you old bastard.’
‘I trust no one’s driving.’
‘I don’t trust anyone’s driving either. Only my own.’
‘You’re not really?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot. We’re all walking or cabbing it.’
‘Actually, we’re going to stand on the pavement discussing you two for a while.’
‘Was that really tongue, by the way?’
‘Sure.’
‘But I don’t
like
tongue.’
After he had closed the front door, Phil put on some Madeleine Peyroux, kissed his wife on the apron string round the back of her neck, went upstairs to a darkened bedroom, cautiously approached the window, saw the others standing on the pavement, and watched them until they dispersed.
Trespass
W
HEN HE AND
Cath broke up, he thought about joining the Ramblers, but it seemed too obviously sad a thing to do. He imagined the conversation:
‘Hi, Geoff. Sorry to hear about you and Cath. How’re you doing?’
‘Oh, fine, thanks. I’ve joined the Ramblers.’
‘Good move.’
He could see the rest of it too: getting the magazine, studying the open-to-all invitation – meet 10.30, Saturday 12th, in car park immed. SE of Methodist Chapel – cleaning his boots the night before, cutting an extra sandwich just in case, maybe taking an extra tangerine as well, and turning up at the car park with (despite all his warnings to himself) a hopeful heart. A hopeful heart waiting to be bruised. And then it would be a case of getting through the walk, saying cheery farewells, and going home to eat the leftover sandwich and tangerine for his supper. Now that would be sad.
Of course, he carried on walking. Most weekends, in most weathers, he’d be out with his boots and pack, his water bottle and his map. Nor was he going to keep away from all the walks he’d done with Cath. They weren’t ‘their’ walks, after all; and if they were, he’d be reclaiming them by doing them by himself. She didn’t own the circuit from Calver: along the Derwent, through Froggatt Woods to Grindleford, perhaps a diversion to the Grouse Inn for lunch, then along past the Bronze Age stone circle, lost in summer months amid the bracken, all leading to the grand surprise of Curbar Edge. She didn’t own that, nobody did.
Afterwards, he made a note in his walking log. 2 hrs 45 mns. With Cath it used to take 3 hrs 30 mns, and an extra 30 mns if they went to the Grouse for a sandwich. That was one of the things about being single again: you saved time. You walked quicker, you got home and drank a beer quicker, you ate your supper quicker. And then the sex you had with yourself, that was quicker too. You gained all this extra time, Geoff thought – extra time in which to be lonely. Stop that, he said to himself. You aren’t allowed to be a sad person; you’re only allowed to be sad.