41 No Answer
July 1997. Max turns on Fujitsu/Siemens, says, ‘Take me to Moe Levy’s place.’ Fujitsu/Siemens shrugs, hums a little, and sets him down in a desolation where the policemen walk in fours when they (rarely) go there. Sodden mattresses, rusty bedsprings, and broken prams litter the concrete yard. The lift doesn’t work, which is just as well since it seems to be used as a toilet. Max walks slowly up five flights, pausing to rest from time to time. A long balcony overlooks the yard and he goes from door to door (all of them covered with graffiti) until he finds one with the name Levy under the bell. He rings but the bell doesn’t work. He knocks but there’s no answer. He knocks again and keeps it up until he hears footsteps. ‘Whaddaya want?’ says a voice. Male? Female? Max is unsure.
‘I want to talk to Moe,’ he says.
‘Not here,’ says the voice. The footsteps recede.
‘Where is he then?’ says Max.
No answer.
‘When’s he coming back?’ says Max.
No answer.
‘I don’t understand it,’ says Max to himself. ‘What’s he doing in a dump like this?’
No answer.
42 Every Hour
November 1997. Max has not attempted any communication with Moe Levy since July. He wishes he’d never gone to that dreadful council flat, he’ll certainly never go there again. He doesn’t feel too comfortable with Fujitsu/Siemens any more. He doesn’t check his e-mail or turn on the modem. Once in a while he scribbles something in longhand and he keeps a clipboard handy with yellow sheets of A4 but the top page says nothing except:
3 BOTTLES OF RED CRISPS, OLIVES
There is a poem by Walter de la Mare, ‘Goodnight’. It begins:
Look thy last on all things lovely every hour
This line has got into Max’s head as:
Look thy last on Lola lovely every hour
It’s in his brain like one of those pop tunes that won’t go away and Max is sick and tired of it.
Lula Mae is also in his thoughts. He’s had short notes from her in her rounded and loopy handwriting. No Everest Technology printouts, the notes call up Lula Mae’s roundnesses, the generosity with which she gave herself. Photos of her, full-length frontal and profile. The pregnancy’s been coming along nicely, no problems. She’s had ultrasounds but she’s asked not to be told the baby’s sex. ‘I know it’s going to be a boy,’ she says, ‘and I don’t want to hear it from anyone else. Victor feels comfortable inside me and I love him dearly. He’s got a kick like a mule. I’ve been reading Edward Lear to him, I want to start him off right. I’m staying with my parents for the time being and I’m still with Everest. I’ll take my maternity leave when I’m closer to my time. They have a good medical plan so Victor and I will have the best of care. Thanks for the check. Give my regards to Clowed. Love XXX, Lula Mae.’
Max imagines Victor reclining comfortably in Lula Mae’s womb, listening to her pleasant voice with his feet up, shaking his head thoughtfully from time to time as he takes in the tragicomic histories of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bo, the Jumblies, and the Dong with a luminous Nose. ‘Lucky kid,’ he says. He wipes his eyes and blows his nose.
‘He’d be luckier with two parents,’ says his mind.
‘Lula Mae could have stayed here,’ says Max. ‘But Austin is her homeplace and that’s where she wants to be. And London has become my homeplace. So there we are with an ocean between us.’
‘Is there something in you that doesn’t want life to be simple?’ says his mind.
‘I’d like it to be simple,’ says Max. ‘I just don’t know how to manage it.’
43 After the Flood
28 November 1997. ‘Shalom,’ says Lord Bessington as the nurse shows him his grandchild, born at 03:15 this morning.
‘Really,’ says his wife, ‘he doesn’t look all that Jewish.’
‘That’s only because he’s not circumcised,’ says the Lord of Appeal in Ordinary. ‘When he’s decently covered there’ll be no mistaking that the stork who dropped him off was wearing a yarmulka.’
The new boy, who is large (nine pounds, two ounces), well made, and with an abundance of black hair, squints at Lord Bessington, screws up his face, and lets out a yell.
‘You know you love him,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘He’s beautiful. Look at the intelligence in his eyes.’
‘I don’t doubt that he’s clever,’ says Lord Bessington. ‘He’s already demonstrated a talent for self-advancement.’
‘Come on,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘His father is a well-established writer. His Charlotte Prickles books are classics. I’m sure his genes are nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘In my experience,’ says Lord Bessington, ‘writers can be relied on for just the sort of moral unreliability demonstrated by this chap’s father. Our grandchild was born at quarter past three in the morning, so he’s already keeping late hours.’
‘For better or worse, the father’s name on the birth certificate is Max Lesser,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘But don’t forget that our Lola’s his mum. We’ve got to be genetically open-minded. I have to say I’m optimistic.’
Lola takes the baby for a feed. He applies himself to her breast like a connoisseur. A hungry one. Lola’s looking wonderful. She had an easy birth (natural) and she’s enjoying her son’s pleasure.
‘What are you going to call him?’ says Lady Bessington.
‘Noah,’ says Lola. ‘Noah Bessington.’
‘May he see rainbows,’ says her father before he can stop himself.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell Max?’ says Lady Bessington.
‘I begrudge Max Lesser even the memory of what we had,’ says Lola. ‘I’d like him to forget he ever knew me.’
‘His name is on the birth certificate because I play by the rules,’ says Lord Bessington. ‘So he does have certain legal rights if he chooses to claim them.’
‘I’ll deal with that when the time comes,’ says Lola. ‘But for the present he’s not to be told anything at all.’
‘Tsuck, tsuck,’ says little Noah. He knows a rainbow when he tastes one.
44 Synchronicity
December 1997. WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL. BLOODY BATTLE IN AFGHANISTAN. Synchronicity! Nobody owns the passing moment. It isn’t exclusively yours or anyone else’s. This very moment (already past) as you read these words is shared by every creature living and dead, by every stone and leaf and door, by the trackless seas, the deeps of space, and whatever vast and trunkless legs of stone may be standing out in the desert.
The naked baby in the photograph, though quite new, is well developed and beautifully finished in every detail. Genetically a good job. Blue eyes and blond hair. ‘My son,’ says Max. ‘My son the gentile.’ He wipes his eyes, blows his nose.
‘Victor Maxim Flowers was born at 03:15 on November 28th,’ says Lula Mae’s letter, ‘William Blake’s birthday (I looked up the date in the almanac). He weighed nine pounds, two ounces. We did natural childbirth all the way and he came out like a real pro, looking good. I had an easy time, as I’d expected, and you and I, Max dear, have a beautiful son. A Sagittarius. May his arrows always hit their mark.’ More eye-wiping, nose-blowing. ‘Your name is on the birth certificate and Victor will always know who his daddy is. All babies start out with blue eyes so we don’t know yet what color his will be. As you can see, he’s built like a fullback, and his grandad, who was one himself, has already given him a small Texas Longhorn T-shirt to grow into. If I can get him away from my mother now and then I’ll make sure that his Maxness is encouraged and given room to grow. I have known one or two fullbacks in my time (not counting Daddy), and although Vic seems to have my looks I hope he has your brains. Kind of. Now that he’s outside me I can see him when I read to him and that makes it more interesting. Today when we did the “Yonghy-BonghyBo” he said, “Ah!” sympathetically when we got to the turtle ride with its “sad primeval motion/ Towards the sunset Isles of Boshen”. Maybe it was gas but nobody can tell me he hasn’t absorbed the mood of that poem from all those prenatal readings. I’m breastfeeding, and from the way he takes to it I may not wean him (or myself) for quite a long time. Maybe Everest will let me work from home so I can fit my client visits into my own schedule. I hope you’re closer to Page One. Our next reading here will be Charlotte Prickles, Lollipop Lady. Love XXX, Lula Mae.’