“Come on, Joseph—don’t be coy. There must be another thing in there. One autograph can’t make a folder, can it?”
“BORING YOU, IS HE?”
Li-Jin stands up to get out of Klein’s way, and ends up having to stand on the seats with the boys to allow Klein and his belly to get past.
“No, not at all, actually. We were just talking about Joseph’s collection—about the Judaica. It’s very interesting for me. You see, my son is Jewish.”
Klein licks his ice cream and smiles. Without the slightest trace of pleasantness or good humor. Li-Jin realizes that he has inadvertently given the man some material—of what kind he has no idea—from which he means to fashion a missile to throw at this child.
“Oh, his Judaica. Is that correct? Is that what you’re working on all night, in the dark, Joseph, ruining your eyes? . . . And there was I thinking he was scribbling some nauseating adolescent nonsense in there, dirty stuff, as boys will—but no. How interesting, Joseph. He can’t finish his homework, but he has time to assemble his Judaica. Well. What is the phrase? Yes: you learn something new every day. Well, well.”
Joseph has entirely folded back into his seat and is invisible beside his father, but there is too much noise for the silence between the six of them to be painful. Dramatic music is playing. The precommentary one hears on TV is on loud throughout the hall. In fact, there are the two pundits, sitting on a little shelf of their own talking into their mikes, both bald with a few hairs scraped over, down there, down at the very front.
Alex takes a biro from his jeans pocket, lifts his left foot onto his right knee and proceeds to dig at some dark matter that is trapped in the ridges of his trainer sole. But he doesn’t take his mind off Joseph. Li-Jin leans forward, casually, his fingers not resting on the cold iron rail but clutching it, and also with Joseph on his mind. He feels very sad. Joseph threw a precious thing to Alex and Alex threw it to Li-Jin and then Li-Jin, instead of protecting it, let this great ape shatter it right there on the floor in front of them. Is that what happened? The fight is about to begin. It shouldn’t matter. But these days a boy can’t pass by without Li-Jin wondering whether that might be the boy who phones Alex up after it has happened, makes him go out, takes his mind off things, races him round some corner, splashes him on a future holiday in a strange sea.
SO THE TWO WRESTLERS come out and instantly it’s pandemonium. The hero stands to the right, accepting his huge cheer. The bad guy stands to the left, hissing whoever hisses at him. There are TV monitors hung high above the audience. Occasionally a sweeping shot of the crowd passes over their screens, and people point and whoop and watch with delight as their pointing and whooping is sent back to them instantaneously, like light bouncing off a mirror. To the best of his knowledge, never in his life has Li-Jin been caught by moving film. He would very much like to be. In terms of permanence, photos will not do for him.
The bell rings!
“Well,” says Li-Jin, shifting around in his seat, folding his arms across his stomach, trying to recapture a sense of occasion, “here we go!”
YHWH
Here we go. Last November, when Li-Jin’s suspicions are confirmed, when he is diagnosed, he is forced to learn the fact that he is ill like a human being rather than like a doctor. At first he takes it as a doctor, studying the scans with another doctor, calmly observing the obstruction of cerebrospinal fluid flow and the resulting pressure on the brain; pointing his finger at the dark mass; tutting with all the impatience of familiarity as the treatment options are outlined. But a few days later it enters him as a terrible human fact and leaves by way of a tiny, strained yelp in the night which Sarah mistakes for the cat. He clutches the duvet and presses his knees into the back of hers as if she could keep him here, just by proximity, by means of her own enviable health. In response to the obvious question he tells her heartburn and then turns his eyes to the wall and watches the cornered arcs of light from passing traffic climb from the window over the ceiling and then draw in towards them both like a series of embraces. Sarah goes back to sleep. He watches the arcs for about twenty minutes. After that, still agitated, he gets up and pads down the corridor to Alex’s room, looks in briefly and then progresses to the kitchen, where he puts two processed chicken slices on a single piece of unbuttered bread, calls it a sandwich and switches on the TV. He stands in the middle of the kitchen half naked (bottom half) and manages three minutes of the BBC test card. The girl. The rag doll. Then he weeps, the sandwich over his mouth to suppress the noise, gulping from his throat like an animal. The death punch, the infinity slap, strikes him so hard that he falls onto a stool and has to grip the edge of the breakfast bar just to stay upright. He is thirty-six years old.
THE NEXT MORNING, he begins to consider his options. As the poor patient he recalls the words of the good doctor, identical to those that he himself, also a good doctor, has given to other poor patients in his time. But his own insider information means that the words come now with the ugly twist of footnotes, each appendix framed with a but. He could submit to six months of radiotherapy, but. He could undergo an operation to remove the tumor, but. Li-Jin has read the case histories. He knows that in the wrestling match between possibly and probably that takes place inside every pineoblastoma, the probably wins nine times out of ten. It is possible, after sitting dormant for so long, that the tumor will not develop any further. But Li-Jin is good enough a doctor to know that it will most probably kill him. Time bomb. Ticking clock. Russian roulette. All the phrases he discourages his own patients from using come back to him with the full force of a vengeful cliché. But still he finds it almost impossible to believe. On one occasion he finds himself rooted to the pavement on a bustling street, awed and dumbstruck, in the old-fashioned sense. He is going to die, and it is not going to make any sense but it is still going to happen. He is so young! How can this be?
Years ago, Sarah had referred to her only pregnancy as an unstoppable train, a feeling in one’s body that only women can know. But here it comes, his death, persistent in its forward motion, chugging on despite the human beings standing on the tracks. Arriving. Inevitable, inconceivable, so near, so far—is this what they mean when they talk about its dominion? Li-Jin finds that his death has a dual character: it seems to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He is going to die, and yet when Alex asks him to lift the wardrobe to recapture a fugitive marble, he does it easily, without strain. He is going to die, yet when the chairmanship of the local Neighborhood Watch comes up for grabs, he wants the job desperately and campaigns vigorously to get it. Though his death is always there, waiting for him, he can only feel it sometimes, and then incongruously. Not detecting it during the movies Love Story or The Champ, for example. But in the middle of a tea commercial. He has to push Alex off his lap and rush to the laundry room, where he sobs and breathes in and out of a brown paper bag until he is calm. His death is like the soft down on the back of your hand, passing unnoticed in the firmest of handshakes, though the slightest breeze makes every damn one of the tiny hairs stand on end.
YHWH
The bell rings! Here we go! And the first thing that happens is that everyone in attendance realizes that the betting has been pointless. As a wise guy once said, wrestling isn’t a sport, it’s a spectacle, and you can’t bet on it any more than you can bet on the outcome of a performance of Oedipus Rex. Of course Big Daddy will win! How could it be otherwise? Look at him! He wears a red onesie, he is ruddy-faced, he is white-haired, he is more famous. Not that Giant Haystacks will lose—he will win, too, just by playing his part to its fullest. The more of a bastard he is, the more the audience loves it. When he pursues Big Daddy to the ropes in illegal revenge for a successful hold, when he delivers a forearm smash after the whistle and behind the referee’s back (though in full view of half the audience), they will jeer him with glee. When he lifts up his arms, roars and throws back his head like a beast—the International Gesture for You stupid fools, did you expect me to play fair?—th
e whole of the Albert Hall rocks and shakes. In every way that he is vicious and sneaky and underhand, Big Daddy is honest and firm and suffering unduly. When Big Daddy is helped to his feet by the referee and shakes his head and puts his arms out towards the front row, imploring them to take note of the outrageous injustice of having one’s head stamped on, Giant Haystacks stalks up to this same front row and shakes his fist at them: Justice! You talk of Justice? I am simply the mirror of the world and the fact is, the world is mean! People are cruel and death comes to all! You do not like to look at me because I am ugly, but I am the awful TRUTH! All this in a shaken fist. Every movement is excessive. Big Daddy does not just thump, he thwacks; Giant Haystacks does not simply fall to his knees, he collapses. This is not boxing and there is no heroism in hiding your suffering. Look at me! Look how I suffer! says Giant Haystacks with his upper body. Can it be that Good will win out despite my Evil power? Big Daddy trips him and holds him, and the tiny ref in the dapper white suit skips to the scene to begin the count . . . but it is not quite time for the triumph of Good over Evil, not yet. Everybody’s paid their four pounds ninety-nine and a half pence, after all.
So they waddle back to their corners, slap their bellies, and then slowly begin to circle each other. This is an excursus to the main event, giving the opportunity for the audience to consider them once more as separate lumps of flesh rather than as the one mountain. You notice immediately that though both are obscenely fat, they are fat in different ways. Big Daddy is fat like an inflated ball, with no body hair and no sagging or visible genitals. He is fat like a bouncing, jovial Zeus, skimming the clouds, a circular god. But Giant Haystacks is fat like your average really fat man, covered in raw meat that undulates and shakes and no doubt smells, and he has dark hair and a shaggy beard and is dressed ignobly, in blue dungarees and a red checked shirt, like the madman who lives in the woods at the end of your town. By contrast, B.D.’s onesie–romper suit–underwear combo is somehow elemental, like he is so pure and unadorned a man that if he could, he would fight naked, but in the interests of decency he threw this little number together. Oh, also, it says BIG DADDY on the back in big letters. Giant Haystacks got none of that.
ALL OF A SUDDEN they run at each other once more and if you have a better phrase than like thundering elephants insert it here [ ]. Giant Haystacks wallops Big Daddy across his flank, trips him, and then stamps on his face with his feet, both of them (“See!” say Rubinfine and Alex to each other at exactly the same time), in response to which Big Daddy waits for the count to reach two, and then picks himself up off the floor (and it’s these fundamental clichés that wrestling is made for), stands up and shakes his head around like he’s just drunk something that made him a bit woozy. As if to say: Cor, that was a heavy one.
And of course it’s ridiculous, but the thing is, they are not here to express genuine feelings, or to fake them and dress them up natural like on TV; they are here to demonstrate actions. And all the kids know that. Any fool can tell a story—can’t they?—but how many can demonstrate one, e.g., This is what a story is, mate, when it’s stripped of all its sentiment. This afternoon, these two hulking men are here to demonstrate Justice. The kind Mr. Gerry Bowen (Block M, Seat 117) can’t get from the courts in compensation for his son’s accident; the kind Jake (Block T, Seat 59) won’t get from school whether he chooses to squeal on those bastards or not; the kind Finn (Block B, Seat 10) can’t seem to get from girls no matter what changes he makes to his wardrobe or record collection or personal hygiene; the kind Li-Jin (Block K, Seat 75) can’t get from God.
AND THEN, WHEN sufficient time has elapsed, Justice is served and Big Daddy wins, and it was inevitable, but no one begrudges him this small victory over life’s unfairness, least of all Li-Jin as he hands out those three pound notes and writes on an extra one for Joseph, just to be fair.
Herman Klein’s brother is Big Daddy’s sister’s husband’s accountant. On this premise he intends to go backstage and secure an introduction. Mr. Tandem and his three children may accompany him, if they like. Joseph has an envelope of Big Daddy twelve-by-sixteen-inch glossy color photographs in his bag which he means to get signed, but he has more than he needs, really, and he thinks the other three can have one each, if they like.
“Honest?” asks Alex-Li. “Seriously?”
Li-Jin, a little embarrassed by Alex’s enthusiasm given his own cool relations with Klein thus far, voices the mandatory parental admonishments about imposing and presuming, but he hopes very much that Klein will ignore them. Backstage! Autographs! And Klein does ignore them, not with an Oh don’t be absurd or a It’s really no trouble but by way of a loud grunt and a gesture indicating that all of them should follow him through this scrum. Like an officer signaling his troops that it’s time to go over the top. The boys jump to it right away, and Li-Jin is the one who has to muddle under the seats retrieving scarves and gloves and Rubinfine’s camera and calling at them all to wait for him.
IT’S CHAOS. TO STAY together they have to make a snake behind Klein. Alex and Joseph are at the front, chatting away like old friends; then Adam, clutching to his chest the photograph Joseph gave him; then Rubinfine stepping on the backs of Adam’s shoes; and then Li-Jin. They are pressed in on all sides by hundreds of people at whom Klein is bellowing to get out of his way, and Li-Jin is apologizing as he collides with fathers and sons. Why don’t we move a bit slower? he shouts towards the front of their snake, but Klein doesn’t hear him and probably wouldn’t give up the pace if he did. For a big man he’s agile, strong and pushy like a boar and with the same tiny little feet. Hurry up, slow coach, says Alex, and Li-Jin realizes that his headache is so bad he can hardly hear, or that he is hearing in a delayed way, because Alex’s voice is sadly out of sync with the movement of his lips, as in the artificially slowed piece of action in a movie when something tragic is about to occur. Hurry up, Dad! He’s coming, he’s coming, Dad’s coming as best he can and with a sore head but also an opening out of his chest, a kind of release like a body blush, because he’s a young dad and he’s only got one kid and it has just struck him again for the forty millionth time how beautiful that boy is. I’m coming! But will they be there soon? How far can it possibly be from Block K to the stage and then behind it? And then, just as they seem about to approach, there is a huge crowd swell pushing backwards as if someone has just shot a gun on the stage. Actually it is the effect of fame: Big Daddy has become visible, appearing at the mouth of one of the stage doors, kingly in his cape, signing autographs. Klein is shouting something ridiculous that Li-Jin cannot work out—probably something like Personal Friends! Let us through, Personal Friends!—but whatever it is, it appears to be working, because the six parts of their snake are wriggling towards the star with a little more ease than before. But every time they inch three feet forwards, the gap is filled up again behind Li-Jin, people pressing him, holding on to him to steady themselves, cross-hall traffic barging by.
KLEIN IS THE first to get to Him, then Rubinfine by pushing, and then Joseph and Alex—Li-Jin can’t see where Adam is—and then the route closes up like the Red Sea in front of him and Li-Jin can get no further. He tells himself not to panic about Adam and concentrates instead on reaching up on tiptoe; he is in time to see Him ruffle Alex-Li’s hair, punch him playfully on the shoulder, and take his picture for signing. As soon as the name’s across it, Alex whips round, delighted, and jumps up looking for Li-Jin so he can show it to him, and Li-Jin jumps up too and tries to wave, but he is too small to get above a crowd like this and Alex’s creased forehead is the last thing Li-Jin sees before his knees crumple beneath him and his head hits the floor. Once on his back, though, his eyes open for a few seconds. He sees the hall squidge, and then squadge. Sounds gloop. The light shrinks. He sees people. Many, many people. Nobody famous, though. No one familiar or friendly. No one to help. No one he knows.
BOOK ONE
Mountjoy
THE KABBALAH OF
ALEX-LI TANDEM
&n
bsp; Take me to the center of everything.
—the popular singer Madonna Ciccone
to a taxi driver upon her arrival in New York City
The unique phenomenon of distance,
however close [an object] may be.
—a definition of aura,
offered by the popular wise guy Walter Benjamin
CHAPTER ONE
Shechinah
PRESENCE • Alex-Li Tandem was Jewish • A rainbow over Mountjoy • Handprint • Superstar • Princess Grace • Marvin is a milk operative • Alex’s feminine goy side • Not talking about the car #1 • Communion with a snail
1.
You’re either for me or against me, thought Alex-Li Tandem, referring to the daylight and, more generally, to the day. He stretched flat and made two fists. He was fully determined to lie right here until he was given something to work with, something noble, something fine. He saw no purpose in leaving his bed for a day that was against him from the get-go. He had tried it before; no good could come from it.
A moment later he was surprised to feel a flush of warm light dappled over him, filtered through a blind. Nonviolent light. This was encouraging. Compare and contrast with yesterday morning’s light, pettily fascist, cruel as the strip lighting in a hospital corridor. Or the morning before yesterday morning, when he had kept his eyes closed for the duration, afraid of whatever was causing that ominous red throb beneath the eyelids. Or the morning before that, the Morning of Doom, which no one could have supposed would continue for seventy-two hours.
NOW OPTIMISTIC, ALEX grabbed the bauble that must be twisted to open blinds. His fingers were too sweaty. He shuttled up the bed, dried his left hand on the wall, gripped and pulled. The rain had come in the night. It looked as if the Flood had passed through Mountjoy, scrubbed it clean. The whole place seemed to have undergone an act of accidental restoration. He could see brickwork, newly red-faced and streaky as after a good weep, balconies with their clean crop of wet white socks, shirts and sheets. Shiny black aerials. Oh, it was fine. Collected water had transformed every gutter, every depression in the pavement, into prism puddles. There were rainbows everywhere.