“Have you been married?” I asked. There was no great intent to my question, merely curiosity as I threw down my cards, a polite discussion of friendly history.
“Once or twice,” he admitted, “when there seemed to be a suitable candidate available. Once, in my very first life, there was a woman who I thought… But retrospect is a marvellous thing, and upon my death I discovered I could live perfectly well without her. Occasionally I acquire someone for companionship. Old age can be tedious without a little loyalty. What about yourself?”
“Something similar,” I admitted. “Like you, I find that being alone… Its drawbacks outweigh its benefits, particularly in later life. It seems that, even when aware of the futility of the lie, the hollowness of the relationship, if hollow is what it indeed is, the urge to be together, with someone… is ingrained deeper than I had possibly imagined.”
And, without knowing why, I had told him about Jenny.
Jenny.
Na?ve to say love of my life.
Love of a life, perhaps.
Foolish to suppose affection could last so long.
A delusion, formed from so many years of lying, of deceit, of being apart from all things because there is no choice. Apart from the Cronus Club for fear of being exposed, apart from Vincent for fear he would deduce my truths, apart from those who lived and those who died and remembered nothing of the same, apart from my family, adopted and true, apart from a world whose passage I could already describe, apart from…
Everything.
This racing of my heart.
This stopping of my breath.
This flushing in my cheek.
It is not love.
It is delusion.
Jenny.
Holding Vincent’s hand.
With her other she reaches out and slips the glass from between his fingers, placing it on the black surface of the grand piano. This done, her fingers return again to the back of his neck, run through the thin hairs above his collar. She is almost the same height as him, but stands a little on tiptoe anyway, her weight pushing him back. She kisses him, and he kisses back, deep and long and passionate, and the room applauds and as they part his eyes flicker to me.
A second.
Just a second.
What did he see?
I applaud too.
Only later–much, much later–do I permit myself to crawl into the furthest reaches of the garden, sink on to my hands and knees in the damp soil, and weep.
Chapter 72
Vincent.
My enemy.
My friend.
Of us two I am the better liar.
But you–you have always been a better judge of men.
Was it the final test? The ultimate proof? Could I look into the eyes of my wife as she kissed another man, and shake her hand, and smile, and say how happy I was for you both, receive her kiss on my cheek and hear her voice and know that she was yours, my enemy, my friend, without revealing all? Could I smile as she was led down the aisle, sing my way through the hymns in the church, take the photos as she cut the cake? For Harry, Harry is a journalist, Harry must be good at taking photos, no? Could I watch you whisper words into her ears, and see her laugh, and smell you on her skin, and not rise up in fury, because you took her, not for love, not for passion or companionship or even that therapeutic half-hour in the eight-hour shift. You took her because she was mine. Could I smile at this?
It would appear that I could.
I know now that there is something dead inside me though I cannot remember exactly when it died.
Chapter 73
We near the end, you and I.
It occurs to me that in all this I have not told you much of my adopted father, Patrick August, or, more specifically, of how he dies. Harriet, kindly Harriet, dies between my sixth and eighth birthdays; Rory Hulne, as you know, dies poor, although not always in the same place. Patrick, silent Patrick, who sat across the fire from me in his grief at his wife’s departure, dies in the 1960s, dissatisfied with his lot. He has never remarried in all the lives I’ve known him, and often the slow decline of the Hulnes nets him in their web, and he finds himself poor, pension-less, alone. I send him money, and each time I do I receive a stiff letter in reply, almost the same word for word in every life.
Dear Harry,
I have received your money. I hope you do not inconvenience yourself by sending it. I need little for I have what I require, and the efforts of the old must turn towards the future of the young. I walk a lot and keep myself in good health. I trust you do the same. My best wishes to you,
Yours,
Patrick