On the following Monday when I came home from school my mother met me in the hall in a state of high agitation. One look at her stark face and her under-lip trembling with anger told me that I was in trouble. Father Priest had called, in person! On a weekday, in the middle of the afternoon, while she was doing the household accounts, there he was, without warning, stooping in the front doorway with his hat in his hand, and there had been no choice but to put him in the back parlour, that even the lodgers were not permitted to enter, and to make tea for him. I knew of course that he had come to talk about me in light of the things I had told him. I was as much scandalised as frightened—what about the much vaunted seal of the confessional?—and tears of outraged injury sprang to my eyes. What, my mother demanded, had I been up to? I shook my head and showed her my innocent palms, while in my mind I saw Mrs Gray, shoeless and her feet bleeding and her hair all shorn, being driven through the streets of the town by a posse of outraged, cudgel-wielding mothers shrieking vengeful abuse.
I was marched into the kitchen, the place where all domestic crises were tackled, and where now it quickly became clear that my mother did not care what it was I had done, and was only angry at me for being the cause of Father Priest’s breaking in upon the tranquillity of a lodgerless afternoon while she was at her sums. My mother had no time for the clergy, and not much, I suspect, for the God they represented either. She was if anything a pagan, without realising it, and all her devotions were directed towards the lesser figures of the pantheon, St Anthony, for instance, restorer of lost objects, and the gentle St Francis, and, most favoured of all, St Catherine of Siena, virgin, diplomatist and exultant stigmatic whose wounds, unaccountably, were invisible to mortal eyes. ‘I couldn’t get rid of him,’ she said indignantly, ‘sitting there at the table slurping his tea and talking about the Christian Brothers.’ At first she had been at a loss and could not grasp his import. He had spoken of the wonderful facilities on offer at the Christian Brothers’ seminaries, the verdant playing fields and Olympic-standard swimming pools, the hearty and nutritious meals that would build strong bones and bulging muscles, not to mention, of course, the matchless wealth of learning that would be dinned into a lad as quick and receptive as he had no doubt a son of hers was bound to be. At last she had understood, and was outraged.
‘A vocation, to the Christian Brothers!’ she said with bitter scorn. ‘—Not even the priesthood!’
So I was safe, my sin undisclosed, and never again would I go for confession to Father Priest, or to anyone else, for that day marked the onset of my apostasy.
___
The material, as Marcy Meriwether called it—making it for some reason sound, to my ear, like the leftovers from a post-mortem—arrived today, by special delivery, all the way from the far sunny side of America. Such a fuss attached to its coming! A clatter of hoofs and a fanfare on the post-horn would not have been out of place. The courier, who bore himself like a Balkan war criminal, with a shaved head and dressed all in shiny black and wearing what looked like commando boots laced halfway up his shins, was not content to ring the bell but immediately set to pounding on the door with his fist. He refused to hand over the big padded envelope to Lydia, insisting that it could only be received by the named recipient, in person. Even when I ventured down from my attic roost, summoned exasperatedly by Lydia, he demanded that I produce photographic identification of myself. I thought this supererogatory at the least, but he was not to be moved—obviously his notion of himself and his duties is crazily deluded—and in the end I fetched my passport, which he pored over for fully half a minute, breathing hard down his nostrils, then for the other half scanned my face with a doubting eye. So cowed was I by his unwarranted truculence that I think my hand shook as I signed my name to the form on his clipboard. I suppose I shall have to get used to this kind of thing, I mean special deliveries and dealing with thugs, if I am going to be a film star.
I tried to open the envelope by tearing at it with my nails but it was sealed into an impenetrable plastic sheath, and I had to take it into the kitchen and put it on the table and go at it with the breadknife, while Lydia looked on in amusement. When I got it open at last a sheaf of papers gushed out of it and spilled across the tabletop. There were newspaper cuttings and offprints of magazine essays and lengthy book reviews in small print by people I have vaguely heard of, with striking and often difficult names—Deleuze, Baudrillard, Irigaray and, for some reason my favourite, Paul de Man—all of them considering and for the most part taking violent issue with the work and opinions of Axel Vander.
So he was a literary figure, this Vander, a critic and a teacher and, it is clear, a gleeful stirrer-up of controversies. Hardly an obvious subject for a major motion picture, I would have thought. I have spent the morning at my desk wading through what his opponents and detractors had to say of him—he seems to have had few friends—but I did not succeed in making much headway. Vander’s is the kind of arcane and coded specialism—the word deconstruction crops up frequently—that my daughter Cass would have known all about. Along with the loose leaves there came not a film script but, instead, a thick volume, The Invention of the Past—so that is where they got their title—which with commendable cheek proclaims itself to be the unauthorised biography of Axel Vander. I put it aside for later consideration. I shall have to take a very deep breath before plunging into that muddied well of facts and, I have no doubt, fictions, since all biographies are necessarily if unintentionally mendacious. He seems a slippery specimen, this Vander—whose name, by the way, looks very like an anagram, to me. Also, it is faintly familiar, and I wonder if Cass might indeed have spoken to me of him.
In the evening Marcy Meriwether called yet again—I imagine the telephone, from years of usage, grafted into her hand, like Orpheus’s lyre—to make sure that the material had arrived. She tells me she is also sending a person to see me, one of her scouts, as she describes him. He is called Billy Striker. An odd name, but at least it breaks the tiresomely alliterative series of Marcy Meriwether and Toby Taggart and Dawn Devonport—yes, Dawn Devonport: did I mention that I am to play opposite her in The Invention of the Past? You are impressed. I confess the prospect of working with such a lustrous star is alarming. I shall surely shrivel up in the glare of her celebrity.
To take my mind off these unsettlingly exciting matters I have been doodling in the margin here, making a small calculation. That first tryst with Mrs Gray, under the aegis of the ironing board, took place one week before her birthday, which fell, and still falls, if she is living still, on the last day of April. That means that our whatever-to-call-it—affair? infatuation? reckless frolic?—endured in all for just short of five months, or one hundred and fifty-four days and nights, to be exact. Or, no, there were only one hundred and fifty-three nights, since by the night of the last day she was gone from me for ever. Not, for that matter, that we had any nights together, not a single one or even part of one, for where would we, could we, have spent it? It is true I daydreamed of the Grays all going away together to stay somewhere overnight and of Mrs Gray sneaking back and letting me into the house and leading me upstairs to her bedroom and keeping me passionately engaged there until rosy-fingered dawn came creeping under the window-blind to rouse us. It was the kind of fantasy with which I beguiled many a vacant interval away from my darling. A fantasy, of course, for aside from the nice difficulty Mrs Gray would have had in getting free of her family there was the question of what my mother would have said when she discovered my bed unslept in, not to mention Mr Gray and what he would have done should he have got suspicious and hurried home and walked in on his wife and her under-age lover energetically defiling the marriage bed. Or what if they all came back together, Mr Gray and Billy and Billy’s sister, and found us at it? I pictured them standing in the bedroom doorway in a lurid wedge of light from the landing, Mr Gray in the middle with Billy on one side and Kitty on the other, all three clutching tightly to each other’s hands and gazing in slack-jawed stupefaction at the guilty lovers, surprised in their stew of shame, untangling themselves hastily from what would be their last lubricious embrace.