‘What do I really think, Albie?’
‘That I am an embarrassment.’
‘How can you say that, Albie? I care about you very, very much. I’m sorry if that’s not always been clear, but surely you can see—’
‘Everything you do, Dad, everything you say to me, there’s this … contempt, this constant stream of dislike and irritation—’
‘Is there? I don’t think there is—’
‘Belittling me and criticising me—’
‘Oh, Albie, that’s not true. You’re my boy, my dear boy—’
‘Christ, it’s like I’m not even your favourite child!’
‘What do you mean, Albie?’
He inhaled sharply through his nose, his features bunching up, the face he used to make as a small boy when trying not to cry. ‘I’ve seen the photos you’ve got stashed away. I’ve seen you and Mum look at them longingly.’
‘They’re not stashed away, Albie. We’ve shown them to you.’
‘And don’t you think that’s weird?’
‘Not at all! Not in the least. We’ve always been honest about your sister. She isn’t some secret — that would be awful. We loved Jane when she was born, and then we loved you too, just as much.’
‘Except she never fucked up, did she? She never embarrassed you in public or fucked up at school. She got to be perfect, whereas me, your stupid fucked-up son—’
And here I must admit I laughed. Not maliciously, but at the melodrama of it all, the adolescent self-pity. ‘Albie, come on, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself—’
‘Don’t laugh at me! Don’t! Can’t you see, everything you do shows how stupid you think I am!’
‘I don’t think you’re stupid—’
‘You’ve told me I am! You’ve told me! To my face.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yeah, you have, Dad! You have!’
And I suppose I might have told him that, maybe once or twice.
I closed my eyes. I suddenly felt very tired and very sad and very far away from home. The futility of this whole expedition seemed suddenly overwhelming. I had told myself that it was not too late, that there was still time to make amends for the raised voices and bared teeth, the indifference and thoughtless remarks. I had regrets, certainly, about things I’d said, things I’d done, but behind it all there had always been … wasn’t it obvious that there had always been …
I sat heavily on a stone bench. An old man on a bench.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Albie.
‘I am. I’m fine. I’m just … very, very tired. It’s been a very long journey.’
He came to stand in front of me. ‘What are you wearing on your feet?’
I stuck a foot out, turned it from side to side. ‘You like them?’
‘You look ridiculous.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that. Albie, Egg, will you sit a minute? Just a minute, then you can go.’ He looked left, then right, already planning his escape. ‘I won’t follow you this time. I swear.’
He sat down.
‘I don’t know what I can say to you, Albie. I had hoped the words would just come, but I don’t seem to have made a very good job of expressing myself. I hope you know I have regrets, things I shouldn’t have said. Or things I should have said but didn’t, which is often worse. I hope you have some regrets too. You haven’t always made it easy for us, Albie.’
He hunched his shoulders. ‘No. I know.’
‘The state of your room, it’s as if you do it deliberately to annoy me.’
‘I do,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Still. You can have it back now.’
‘You’re still going to college then? In October?’
‘Are you going to talk me out of it?’
‘Of course not. If that’s what you want to do with your life—’
‘Well I am.’
‘Good. Good. I’m pleased you’re going. I mean not pleased you’re leaving home, but pleased—’
‘I get it.’
‘Your mother’s terrified of what it will be like without you.’
‘I know.’
‘So much so that she’s thinking about leaving too. Leaving me. But you’ve always been close, so I expect you knew that.’
‘I did.’
‘She told you?’
He shrugged. ‘I sort of guessed.’
‘Do you mind?’
He shrugged again. ‘She doesn’t seem very happy.’
‘No, she doesn’t, does she? She doesn’t. Well, I’ve been trying to address that. I had hoped that we’d have fun together this summer, our last summer, all of us together. I’d hoped to change her mind. Perhaps I tried too hard. I’ll find out soon enough. Anyway. I’m sorry for what I said to you. It’s not what I believe. Whatever I might have said, I’m very proud of you, though I might not show it, and I know that you’ll do great things in the future. You’re my boy, and I’d hate for you to go off into the world without knowing that we will miss you and will want you to be safe and happy and that we love you. Not just your mum, you know how much your mother loves you. But me too. I love you too, Albie. There. I think that’s really what I came to say. So now you can go. Do whatever you want, as long as it’s safe. I won’t follow you any more. I’ll just sit here for a while. Sit here and rest.’
Later that afternoon, we went to see Guernica. We had both calmed down by then and while still not quite at ease — would we ever be at ease? — we were at least more comfortable in our silence. As we walked around the Museo Reina Sofia, I stole little sideways glances. He was, as far as I could tell, wearing the same clothes that he’d worn in Amsterdam: the stained T-shirt that showed his bony chest, jeans that cried out for a belt, sandals on his blackened feet. His vestigial beard was scraggy and unhygienic, hair lank and unwashed and he seemed very thin. In other words, nothing much had changed, and I was pleased.
We found ourselves in front of Guernica. I found the picture very striking, much larger than I expected and moving in a way that I had not associated with more abstract works (goodness, Connie, listen to me!). I would have liked to take in the picture quietly, but I allowed Albie to talk me through the historical context and significance of the work, insights he had clearly garnered from the same Wikipedia entry that I had read at breakfast. I watched him as he spoke. He talked a great deal, pointing out things that were obvious to anyone with even a passing knowledge of art. Wanting to educate me, I suppose. In fact he was rather boring on the subject, but I kept quiet and took comfort in that old saying about fallen apples and their distance from trees.
In a commuter café opposite the Atocha station we had churros con chocolate. The overhead lights blazed off the zinc tabletops, greasy discarded napkins littered the floor. It seemed entirely the wrong time of day and year to be eating deep-fried extruded batter dipped in thick hot chocolate, but it was pleasant to be out of the midday sun’s atomic heat. Albie assured me that this was what everyone did here and, despite the café being empty, I chose not to contradict him.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I’m in this hostel.’
‘What’s it like?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a hostel.’
‘I’ve never stayed in a hostel.’
‘What, a seasoned inter-railer like you?’
‘What’s it like?’
He laughed. ‘It’s grim. Hostile. It’s a hostile hostel.’
‘I have a suite in a hotel on the Gran Vía.’
‘A suite? What are you, some oligarch?’