Vicky, who’s summoned the nerve to face her mother twice during the two weeks, makes a supreme effort and takes the children
down to the pier to see the ship leave.
We discuss Vivienne later. We don’t say much because Vicky can’t discuss her mother rationally, but I think she should try
to talk about her to someone; I think that when a relationship between a parent and child goes very wrong the problem should
be gently aired now and then instead of being swept under the rug of the subconscious to
fester at leisure. I’m reminded of our disastrous Romeo and Juliet scene at Bar Harbor. The worst thing we could possibly
have done was to swear to Cornelius that we would never refer to the incident again.
Of course by this time I’m feeling totally baffled by the non-relationship between Vicky and her mother. Vivienne obviously
cares about her daughter. Equally obviously she was once a
femme fatale
, but that doesn’t automatically mean she was incapable of being a good mother. I can see she was probably dumb to have got
involved with a member of the Diaconi family who mass-produce gangsters out west, but it’s not as if she met the Diaconis
during the course of a life of crime; she met Danny through her cousin Greg Da Costa who used to work for Danny’s father in
a legitimate hotel business in California. So why does Vicky talk as if her mother’s a vice queen, the wicked villainess who
must always be kept at arm’s length? It makes no sense at all.
‘Your mother means well,’ I said vaguely, using a vacuous phrase to defuse the tension surrounding the subject.
‘Perhaps. But she still revolts me.’
‘Why? She’s no big deal, just a little old lady with a lot of oomph and pep. I think she’s cute!’
Vicky shudders but says nothing.
‘What really happened, Vicky, back when your father got custody of you? Did Danny make some kind of pass at you and your mother
got so mad she kicked you off to live with Cornelius?’
‘Sebastian!’ She’s genuinely appalled by my lurid imagination. Obviously I’m way off the mark here. ‘Of course not! What a
thing to say! Heavens, I was only ten years old!’
‘Some men like little girls. Read Nabokov.’
‘Well, Danny was no Humbert. And I was no Lolita.’
‘Then I don’t get it,’ I say frankly. ‘There’s a piece missing from this puzzle somewhere. Did you like Danny?’
‘Yes, at first, although not later when he started getting angry with Daddy. He was cute. He was years younger than Mother
and looked a bit like Elvis Presley. I kind of like Elvis,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘although I can’t think why.’
I can. Elvis is safe. He’s confined to a movie screen so that Vicky can enjoy his sexuality without feeling threatened by
it. I’m now one hundred per cent certain that her marriage with Sam ended in a sexual disaster, and I wish so much I could
unlock the door of Vicky’s psyche and let all those mixed-up feelings out. What did he do to make her scared of sex? No, wait
a moment, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I’ve now got the message that the thought of sex is repugnant to her,
but disliking sex and being scared of it aren’t necessarily the same thing. And the crazy part is that even though sex is
repugnant to her she’s still interested enough in it to feel a sneaking liking for Elvis. So she can’t quite be a hopeless
case. If she really thought sex was a hobby of the devil, she’d go around insisting that Elvis should be crucified on Capitol
Hill for his sex-appeal.
If I’m ever to get anywhere with Vicky, I’ve got to try and sort out this muddle and make sense of it. Think, think, think.
Obviously Vicky was originally scared to death of the thought of sex; our Romeo and Juliet scene at Bar Harbor proved that
and in the light of my new knowledge I’m now beginning to think that she spent her adolescence terrified that she might grow
up like her mother. That would explain why she married young, why she was a virgin when she married, why there’s never been
any kind of hint that she wasn’t one hundred per cent faithful to Sam. Girls as pretty as Vicky have lots of opportunities
but Vicky’s been too scared to take advantage of any of them. Maybe when she caught me with my pants down at Bar Harbor (roughly
speaking) she had hysterics not because she was horrified by the sight of my unattractive adolescent body but because, on
the contrary, she found the experience riveting and was terrified for fear this meant that she was evolving into a junior
version of her mother, the ogress.
Yes, this is an attractive theory for explaining the early Vicky, but it hardly explains the present-day Vicky who’s now far
away from Bar Harbor, virginity and teenage anxiety about sex. I think she got over this fear of her sexuality by channelling
her sex-drive towards marriage. For Vicky at this stage, marriage was the only answer. With her mother in the front of her
mind she must have thought: extramarital sex is horrific and condemns me to eternal damnation but marital sex is fine, marital
sex is okay, marital sex means I can relax and enjoy myself. Cornelius probably spelt that out to her once. I can just hear
him saying it. I’ll bet Vicky wasn’t the only one in that house on Fifth Avenue who was terrified she’d turn out like her
mother.
We still haven’t figured out why she’s determined to regard her mother as an ogress, but let’s forget that for now; let’s
put Vivienne aside for a moment and think of Cornelius. Of course it goes without saying that Vicky’s father-fixated, but
most girls are in one way or another and it needn’t necessarily spell disaster. Anyway, marrying a father-figure probably
helped her come to terms with the malign effects of that particular situation because she would have had the chance to act
out and neutralize all those theoretical (and maybe nonexistent) Oedipal fantasies. God, Oedipus has had a bad press! Freud
did a real hatchet job there. Poor Oedipus. For Christ’s sake, how the hell was he to know Jocasta was his mother when he
hadn’t seen her since he was a baby? What lousy luck some guys have …
‘Sebastian,’ says Vicky, ‘these silences of yours are so unnerving. What are you thinking about now? No, don’t tell me, let
me guess. You’re thinking I’m nuts.’
‘That’s right. I’m delighted you’re nuts. I don’t like normal people. Normal people are usually boring and dumb. If there
were more abnormal people like us around, the world would be a far better place.’
She laughs. ‘But I’m not abnormal, Sebastian!’
Oh yes, you are, Vicky, but you can’t admit it. You’re abnormal in the best possible sense, you’re original, you’re different,
you’re not dumb, boring and run-of-the-mill. That’s why I like you so much. That’s why I love you. And that’s why I’m going
to do my very best to extricate you from this prison of normality where you’ve been locked up so unjustly for so long.
Where had I got to before I started getting so worked up about Oedipus? I seem to have reached the horrible conclusion that
Vicky’s marriage to Sam Keller was probably for the best. It enabled her to come to terms with her sexuality and it allowed
her to work off her father complex. So everything in the garden should have been lovely. Except, of course, it wasn’t. I think
the first year was all right, though. Anyone could see she was in the seventh heaven of marital bliss then, so the sex must
have been fine at first. So what happened? What went so very, very wrong?
‘You’re not listening, Sebastian!’ Vicky’s saying crossly. ‘I said I’m
not
abnormal!’
‘All right. Maybe abnormal’s the wrong word. How about unconventional?’
‘What can be more conventional than being a wife and mother? Anyway I don’t want to be unconventional. We’ve all got to conform,
haven’t we, if we’re going to fit into society and do well in life? And I want to do well in life. I want to be a success,
not an embarrassing failure.’
‘The most successful thing you can do in life,’ I say, ‘is to figure out who you are and then be yourself. It’s a big mistake
to try to be someone you’re not. It’s the equivalent of murder – you’re murdering your true self. That’s no road to bliss.
That’s the road to depression and despair.’
Her eyes widen. I’ve reached her. Finally she blurts out: ‘But supposing you don’t like your true self? Supposing it’s socially
unacceptable?’
‘Well, if you go around breaking the law I agree you’ve got a problem, but assuming you’re a law-abiding citizen with a reasonable
level of intelligence and a tolerably humane outlook, why the hell shouldn’t you like yourself? If other people criticize
you and make you think you’re no good, why should you automatically assume they’re right? What gives them the right to lay
down the rules anyway? What gives them the right to judge you? And just who the hell do they think they are?’
She thinks. We’re silent for a time but at last she says: ‘I’m not even sure if I know my true self. Sometimes I think I don’t
know who I really am. But I know the way I ought to be, and that way’s the easy way, Sebastian, it’s all safe and clearly
marked out and I know the people I love will approve of me if I try to live up to their expectations.’
‘No, Vicky,’ I say gently. ‘That way’s not the easy way. That way’s the way that’s nearly killed you. Anyway, to coin one
of your father’s most well-worn maxims, I’m not interested in the way you ought to be. I’m interested in the way you really
are.’
7 September, 1958. Alfred is one. He crawls very fast with his head lowered like a miniature bull but he can’t walk yet. He
knows who I am. He smiles when he sees me and since I’m not demonstrative I guess no one can figure out why he should be so
pleased, but Alfred knows I always understand what he wants.
Alfred and I communicate.
Alfred is dark-haired and large like me. He sits gloating at the one candle on his birthday cake, his pale blue eyes misty
with dreams of future triumphs. Elsa cuddles him, all the Reischman relations coo nauseatingly, Mother looks as if she’s about
to burst with pride.
Leave him alone, all you stupid people. Can’t you see he wants to dream a little?
Vicky’s at the birthday party with all the kids. Eric and Paul are trying to murder each other as usual. Too bad they never
succeed. Little Postumus sleeps. Newborn babies are so smart.
‘Sebastian.’
It’s Vicky looking desperate. Kristin’s been sick on the carpet, Samantha’s throwing a tantrum and the boys are crashing around
in the nearest toilet. No sign of Nurse. She’s either passed out or walked out, and who can blame her?
‘Sebastian, I can’t cope!’ No tears, just a tense brittle gaiety, the lull before the storm.
‘Go to the bathroom beyond the master-bedroom and lock yourself
in.’ I hook Mother out of the crowd of Alfred-worshippers. ‘Mother, do you still love children?’
‘Darling, what an extraordinary question! Of course I do!’
‘Then take charge of your husband’s granddaughters.’
That fixes Kristin and Samantha. Taking a deep breath I locate the boys, seize them by the scruffs of their little necks and
threaten to beat the hide off them unless they shape up. Children like to be yelled at occasionally. It’s good for them. They
gaze at me open-mouthed and I realize nobody’s ever spoken to them like that before.
Vicky’s going to have trouble with those boys. Cornelius will probably pull himself together to perform his surrogate father
act when they’re past puberty, but right now he’s too much the doting grandfather to be any use.
I bang on the bathroom door. ‘Vicky! All clear!’
‘Oh God!’ She staggers out, no hysteria, just genuine laughter. Lightly touching her arm I draw her further into the master-bedroom.
‘Sit down for a moment and relax.’
‘And to think this is only Alfred’s first birthday!’ She sinks down on the edge of the bed. ‘How are we going to survive the
others? Is Elsa livid at all the damage?’
‘I don’t care about Elsa.’ I sit down with her on the edge of the bed. At once she shifts away.
‘It’s okay,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘Sebastian, I don’t want it to get like this—’
‘Okay.’
‘—I just don’t think I could ever bear to go to bed with anyone again—’
‘Sure.’
She sits there in a lilac dress, her lovely breasts full and lush. I wonder if she’s nursing Postumus.
‘Was it really bad with Sam?’ I say. I know I shouldn’t ask but I just can’t help myself. Although I want to have the patience
of a saint, I’m only a human being a long way from canonization.
‘It was terrible at the end,’ she says, fighting back her tears.
‘Okay at first?’ I say, taking no notice of her tears as usual. Vicky has enough people slobbering over her when she cries.
‘Yes, it was nice. I loved Sam. He was so sweet, so kind, so understanding …’
I grit my teeth but somehow manage not to grind them. Meanwhile she’s mastered her tears but I give her my handkerchief anyway
as a friendly gesture.
‘That was why it was all so awful,’ she says, staring down at the handkerchief. ‘I loved him yet at the end I couldn’t bear
him near me … oh, I feel so guilty, just thinking about it! Why couldn’t I love him properly any more? What went wrong?’
I have a revelation, but it’s not a mystical flash of intuitive brilliance. It’s the result of common-sense logic. I’m trying
to reconcile her picture of sweet, kind, understanding Sam with the tough self-centred machine I remember, but I’m having
trouble. Human beings are often complex but Jekyll-and-Hyde types, who keep two distinct personalities in watertight compartments,
are mercifully rare. Sam may well have kept the sweet, kind, understanding side of his nature under lock and key as soon as
he crossed the threshold of One Willow Street, but do I really believe he stopped being a tough self-centred machine as soon
as he crossed the threshold of his own home?
No.
‘How could you possibly go on loving someone who treated you so selfishly?’ I demand. My revelation expands. I can now grasp
the whole panorama of her marriage at a glance. I feel weak though whether from horror, relief or sheer mental effort I’m
not sure. ‘Just think, Vicky – think of all those years of exile you endured in order that he could pursue
his
ambitions, all those philosophy classes you never went to in order to attend to
his
needs, all those pregnancies you endured to boost
his
ego—’