Temporada 2
BOOK TWO Tom Prepares to Go to Germany It is odd, thought Tom, that I have so few people to tell that I am going away for two months. He had to tell his family, of course, because he was going to be away from the end of November to the end of January, and so would miss the holidays. The truth was that Tom was actually quite relieved to be out of England for Christmas. There was something terribly complicated and messy about his relations with his family. He had to avoid even thinking about them, since it generally made him either cry, get angry, or give up and be depressed. There was a great hole in his heart where his family portrait should have hung. The primary problem was his mother. This was one of the great disappointments of Tom’s adult life. He had felt depressingly special with his mother. She had always called on him to ease her pain. She got very skittish on the rare occasions when Reginald came sidling into her room, and usually had to take a nap after he had left. But she grew florid and torrential when she was alone with Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom was the constant salve to her wounded heart. Tom hated this, but he also loved it. Well, not quite ‘loved.’ It was more – more as if… His choices had always been twofold. First, he could have a mother who shied away from him as if he were carrying a bomb, or about to burst into acid, or was a wolf in child’s clothing. He could have a mother who fought with him without words, without quarter, without end. He could have a mother who recoiled from his very presence. He could be Reginald...
Tom in Germany Tom arrived in Germany on November 30, 1932. Klaus met him at the airport in Berlin, and they drove to a small hotel right in the heart of the city. They were going to see the sights in Berlin before taking a bus out to the small town where his family lived. Berlin was magnificent. Tom knew all about big cities, having lived in London. But London had been muted since 1929, since the crash. The soft ash of depression had fallen over its mythic energy. But Berlin was nothing like that. Berlin was insane. Far underneath the madness, a dim bourgeois body could still be seen. Berlin was like a senile grandfather who occasionally tells stories of a lost and dynamic history. Tom arrived at three o’clock in the afternoon, with a pack of other scratchy, yawning, vibration-dazed travelers. Klaus was waiting in the concourse; Tom found him after spending an endless time in a customs lineup. “Destination!” the short, squat official had barked in English, after glancing at Tom’s passport. “Berlin,” replied Tom. “Anywhere else?” Tom had switched to German. “I will be visiting a priest in the country. A friend of mine’s father.” “Your accent is bad,” said the German man, glancing up. But he closed Tom’s passport and handed it back. “Welcome to Germany, Mr. Spencer.” Klaus had hugged him extravagantly. He had graduated from Oxford in May of that year. He was taking a year off before deciding whether or not to go back for his Ph.D. He was very emotional. He had always been emotional, but now it seemed beyond all civilized bounds. He was in tears as he hugged Tom. “Sweet Tom,” he cried, “it is so good to see you!” “Steady on!” laughed Tom, attempting to extricate himself. Klaus only held him tighter. Tom shrugged mentally and grappled him back. An odd sensation possessed him. It suddenly felt as if some sort of energy were flowing from his own body into Klaus’s lean form, something warm and stable and reasonable and friendly. He’s in a panic, thought Tom.
Uxbridge Returns One evening, an unexpected visitor came to Quentin’s office. He was a thin, stoop-shouldered man, who looked as if he had stolen his suit from a rather random set of clotheslines. “I’m sorry,” said Quentin, rising, “but I am no longer taking appointments today. If you speak to my secretary, she will tell you when…” The man sat down and smiled in a manner which awakened all of Quentin’s newly-developing political instincts. “Hullo, Quentin,” said the man, and Quentin suddenly had a deep, spinal memory of blood. Someone from the War… “I’m sure we’ve met,” he said, “but you really must telephone for an appointment…” The man’s smile widened, and he leaned forward. “Grenades.” Quentin’s heart seemed to widen in his chest. “Pardon me?” “Grenades,” repeated the man, sitting back. “That were the last time we met. Over boxes. Overnight.” Quentin sat down, making sure not to collapse into his chair. Damn me, why did I make myself so prominent? “I’m not sure I remember,” he said, touching the knot of his tie, wanting to loosen it, but afraid of showing any nervousness. “One night, you and me, we put grenades into sausages and sausages into grenades. And d’you know what became of it?” Quentin’s eyes were frozen, slightly wide. His mind flashed here and there. I have to get him out of here! What if he blabs? It’s just a story. Why is he here? Can I give him something without compromising myself? What does the man know about politics? I could just make anything up! “It was a bad night, that night,” said Uxbridge. “Not the night of the boxes, but the next night. The Krauts were dug in, and since we had no grenades to blow ’em out, nor not sausages to lure ’em out, it were a bloody night.” “We met – while I was a supply sergeant?” The man nodded. “Ah yeah. And to save you time and words, I have a sheet of paper which says that you signed for them grenades and knew that they were grenades. And another which says that you signed for them sausages and knew that they were sausages.” Quentin stood up, almost shooting to his feet. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is all about, but I have no time today. Put it in writing, come back another time.” “I’ll be quick then. We both have our businesses. I want a job, Quentin.”
Reginald And Wendy Talk About Being Pregnant Reginald and Wendy drove in silence. Reginald felt a strange calm, overlying a deep terror. “I think that…” started Wendy, then stopped. She bit her lip and felt a rising bubble of tears. Her brain was repeating the inevitable mantra of all addicted to self-pity: this is not how it is supposed to be. She felt that a special moment had been torn from her by her brute of a husband, that he was denying her something that was her just due. She turned and stared huffily out of the window, watching the rolling granite, the turning buildings, the families walking hand in hand. They always get what they want. I never get what I want. Wendy settled into her seat. A depressingly pleasant shiver ran through her body. So, this is how the afternoon is going to be spent. I shall be offended, and then he shall be offended… It was horrible, to think of how sad it would be – and terrifying, to think that it could not be stopped. Wendy and Reginald had reached a phase in their marriage – an inevitable phase, probably, called ‘armed blame.’ They needed the same things from each other, at the same time, but these things could not be two-way. She needed comfort, he needed comfort. He needed sex, she needed tenderness. She needed to be listened to, he needed to be listened to. They both needed unconditional love, but they were neither each others’ parents, so it was impossible. They both needed, but never received enough to satisfy, to assuage, to comfort and bring to heel all the discontents of daily living. They both needed, but never received. Neither could imagine that this was because their demands were irrational. It could only be because the other was withholding, punishing, manipulating. They were maddened by thirst, and could not stir from an oasis whose imaginary water forever turned to sand in their mouths. Reginald parked the car, and they went inside. They went inside, and suddenly saw their flat, and stopped in the hallway. Books were everywhere (‘Don’t touch them!’ Reginald always shouted. ‘They’re in order!’). Clothes from the sudden lovemaking of a fortnight past were still at the foot of the sofa. Cups of old coffee and plates with the detritus of toast sat on the side-tables, half-covered with half-finished crosswords. The carpet was vaguely mottled, vaguely crunchy. The cushions on the sofa were uneven. Three and a half pairs of shoes were scattered across the floor. The glass on a picture hanging on the wall had been cracked two months ago, but had not been repaired. The angle had been corrected, but badly. A wave of depression swept over the couple. They stood, half a foot apart, feeling like they were children who had been playing at ‘house’ for far too long, and it was high time some adult came in and took charge...
Breakfast with Martin: Klaus Fights Back It was bread and sausages the next morning. Martin had come back from a long, brisk walk, glowing with irritating, ruddy health. His voice boomed around the house, commanding and cajoling. He had a list of chores Tom could hear him assigning to the children as Tom dressed. Even Tom, who had never had many chores to do, could tell that many of them were pure make-work. Something about this house sort of clamoured around Tom’s head, like some insistent, possibly-dangerous insect. He felt as if everything Martin did was somehow for his, Tom’s, benefit. To make some sort of impression. The heartiness, the oaken strength, the effortless family rule. Look, this is what a German man is capable of – what has bloodless English rationalism to offer in comparison? It is, Tom thought, fixing his collar, an entirely one-sided combat. He did not really care what sort of life Martin had carved out for himself, here in this little rural backwater. Sure, he had the respect and deference of a small community of uneducated peasants. He had swarms of children, each unique while he was out of sight, who melted into dead compliance when he entered the room. His wife… Tom made a face, tucking in his shirt. It was the oldest story of marriage. One spouse sucked the other dry. One became an annoying, over-vital ball of false energy. The other withdrew to the shadows, smiling and planning an overthrow of emptiness. Tom opened his door. Klaus was waiting in the hallway. “Father has you down for something,” he said, without preamble. “Leave it up to me. There’s something else I want to show you.” Tom nodded, and they went downstairs. “Tom!” cried Martin, throwing his arms wide and speaking through some black shards of bread. “How glad we are you should join us! We’re almost done, but we’ve saved you something.” Martin’s children all turned and beamed at him. Tom almost took a step back. “Thank you, Father Heppner,” said Tom. “Tea?” asked Renata, appearing at his right elbow. “Thanks,” said Tom. A cup came past his head and was set down on the table. “We’re just going over our ‘Idle Hands’ list,” said Martin. “We are very socialistic. We expect all who eat to work!” “Amen!” cried the children. Tom stared at them – at Kris and Soren in particular – but could discern no falseness. He had to tear his gaze away from them with an effort. “Sausage?” asked a soft voice in his left ear. Tom nodded, unwilling to turn around. “Thanks,” he whispered. A plate of sausages floated down. Tom’s stomach turned, just once, quite slowly. “So, Tom, I have you and Egbert on the roof of the coal-shed. It has to be painted, but it has to be sanded first. And…” Klaus said: “Father.”...
Reginald Decides to Join the Foreign Office It was almost as if Reginald had been conscripted into childbirth. He had lived a fairly irresponsible life throughout his early twenties. His sudden marriage had been more about infatuation, lust and impulsiveness than any kind of considered choice. Reginald would say, though, that he was very responsible. He got his papers in on time. He was always available for his students. He was diligent in his studies. He sometimes claimed and spoke of things he knew not, but that was, after all, the academic disease, and he could scarcely be singled out. Reginald did not think very much about his future; in this, he and Tom had much in common. (In fact, this is probably why Tom’s obvious lassitude provoked Reginald so much, and why he had been unable to visit Tom in his room.) Reginald wanted an impressive future; he dreamed of nodding graciously in the face of endless applause; he loved the idea of entering a room and provoking ripples of “isn’t that..?” He liked the idea of climbing a stage in a tuxedo, and accepting a Nobel or Pulitzer. He liked the idea that, when society faced intractable problems, he would be almost ordered to do a series of radio lectures to address them. So when it turned out that Wendy was pregnant, his initial shock (and horror, given the circumstances of the discovery, and the ghastly argument which happened right afterwards) quickly gave way to visions of a wise and vaguely ‘American Indian Chief’ kind of fatherhood. He pictured his children – sons, usually – climbing on his lap, wide-eyed and questioning, or sitting cross-legged on the floor as he sat in a leather armchair, delicately tracing the rise and fall of the Roman Empire with his flowing hands. My sons, he thought, will see everything in its obvious first instance – that the world is flat, our football team is the best, and capitalism is good – and I will set them straight, and there will be much confusion, and it will take many moons for them to see the wisdom of my words, but they shall come to me when they are older, perhaps when they get to university, and say that they finally understand my thoughts, and apologize for questioning me at any time… It can be said with great certainty that, throughout the history of man, dreamy reveries about munificent patriarchy have found precious little weight with women vomiting at dawn and weeping over swollen feet that threaten to burst favourite shoes. As a woman watches her youthful figure sail into the foggy realms of pure history, into photos, to be commented on by her children in twenty years (‘is that really mum?’), and grapples with strange eating preferences, and food combinations that would give a starving man pause, she might not have a lot of patience with a man’s dreams about obedience and worship from the coming offspring. Wendy desperately hoped that she would fall back in love with Reginald. His seed was growing within her; surely that would re-open her heart. And it was touch and go, for a while. But emotional reality always reasserts itself, and it wasn’t long before they began to lean dangerously over the cliff...
Reginald’s Interview with Cuthbert When Reginald first entered Cuthbert’s office, at eight-thirty a.m. sharp, he blinked. At first almost inconspicuously, and then far more violently. It seemed, to him, that either his own eyes had melted somewhat, or that the office was made of a kind of wax that could not sustain its own weight when exposed to oxygen. Not that there seems to be much in here, he thought, taking a gulp of breath. His eyes traveled to the ceiling fan, which did not move, but hung in a wilting fashion. Then, he noticed a potted plant, something like a fern, which hung its leaves over a dark pot with the arc of barrels thrown overboard by desperate sailors on a sinking ship. The furniture seemed to sag as well, as if underwater, and affected by rot. The man behind the desk – Mr. Rathbone, he reminded himself – also seemed to be seeking some kind of lazy consummation with the earth’s core. The bald head had a fringe of longish, lank hair hanging over the ears, like oil slowly threading its way off a pink dome. The chin – chins, rather – must have presented various difficulties to the knotting of ties, and Reginald suddenly imagined several servants holding up the jowls with some sort of device – possibly the same kind as builders used to carry bricks up ladders – while another servant knotted the tie, reaching into the flesh for the delicate operation, like a veterinarian groping for a breached calf. The shoulders were almost at one with the upper arms. The chest was similarly intimate with the belly. Reginald could not see Cuthbert’s legs, but had an idea that they sort of meandered under the desk, trailing off like tentacles. Standing before this slow, arrested waterfall of vision, Reginald straightened his own back slightly, then bowed. “Good morning, Mr. Rathbone,” he said. “Mr. Spencer,” said Cuthbert slowly. Once, as a child, Reginald had watched a football game going on a great distance away, and had been fascinated by the span of time between a ball being kicked and the faint thwup hitting his ears. Similarly, Mr. Rathbone’s mouth worked for at least a second before it produced sound. Reginald was fascinated. Cuthbert’s eyes seemed like two black holes. They did not blink – there seemed no need to. The eyelids were so low that Reginald thought of a window with the shutters almost down. The man inside would never awaken; the colours on his walls would never fade. There would never be any shadows. It would be like the inside of a cloud… Reginald shivered. The man sitting before him was perfect – perfect in a way which was almost impossible to define, it hit the senses so completely. Almost everyone I meet, thought Reginald in a flash, is only part of a certain principle, or is a little land of warring principles, or speaks of principles they would break in a flash, for a handshake or a half-penny. But this man is a principle. He is perfect...
Tom’s Last Night at the Heppners It was going to be impossible to sleep. There could be no doubt of that. Tom lay in his little room. It was neither hot nor cold. One thought seemed unalterable, inescapable, and depressing beyond words. I can never return to England. Oh, he could go back. He would go back. As soon as possible. But his England, the England before Germany, before Hitler, the England of a little room and a lot of books, of napping and thinking and watching the slow sway of sunlight against his window – why that England was dead and gone. Worse than that – it was a fairy tale, or Santa Claus, which had never been real except in his imagination. His fantasy, more like. But – and he had to be honest with himself about this – there was a certain measure of relief. The foreboding he had felt – from when exactly? – well, for a long time, certainly – had broken at last. News anticipated is always worse than news delivered. He could not act in the face of uncertainty, of ambivalence, of fears without clear or traceable causes. But now the world is acting upon me, and my choices are no longer what they were. They are, perhaps, what I always thought they would be. Some part of him said: but perhaps there will not be war. And of course, there might not be. Nothing was inevitable in a world without God, the world he had inherited from his mother. Nothing was inevitable to British rationalism, not in the same way as German mysticism. He thought that Renata was really railing against God, the God who had allowed Hitler into power. She was railing against an inevitability, against something foreordained. She railed against it, but could never fight it. One does not pit oneself against the infinite. All she could do was rail against her son, imagining that God might not have punished them with Hitler if he had fought against Nazism more. But now that Hitler was here, they had to accept God’s will… Tom reached around, plumped up his tough little pillow, propped it up against the headboard, and sat up, turning to look out the narrow window. The countryside was dark; there only a tiny sliver of a moon. Tom imagined, for a moment, that the moon was finally showing its dark side, and that silver would never return to its face. But then he almost snarled at himself. The time for bad poetry is past. Fuck metaphors. Their day is done, for the foreseeable future at least. The moon is just the moon. We must not sing its praises, but arm and hunt under its simple light. It is not the face of a lover, but a rock which reflects the sun. It does not illuminate our hopes, but our prey…
Tom’s Rage It was some months before Tom and Reginald saw each other again. Both were tempted to write letters to each other, to luxuriate in the bitter monomania of delivered and unanswerable absolutes. Reginald started one such letter many times, hoping to achieve a regal tone of magnanimous injury. No matter how many times he tried, a raging tone of public humiliation kept cropping up. But he kept at it, and his last draft – which he finally sent – went thus: February 2, 1935 Dear Tom: I am writing in the hopes that something might be salvaged from our relationship. For reasons I do not pretend to understand, we have always had a strained intimacy. I have done what I could to ease this tension. I always did my best to help you in school. I introduced you to a good social set. I helped you swot. I always advanced your cause – even when, as so often happened, others criticized you heavily. Tom, it was not my fault that you had to leave Oxford. This seems a point so obvious that it should scarcely need restating, but it seems to have escaped your attention. I have always had your best interests at heart. I have no idea how to convince you of this. You seem so obsessed with thinking the worst of me – and anyone like me – that anything I could say on this point would be pointless. You have your own fixed ideas; I will not dignify them by pretending that they have anything to do with me. It is also probably not worth re-stating that the entire family is very anxious about you. Mother in particular worries herself sick about your future. Father seems to have given up on you. I try to plead your case, but he refuses to discuss it, and as yet I have been unable to make any headway. Tom, please try to understand this much at least. We are worried about you because we love you. We are not trying to control you, corner you, force you to do anything or ‘inhibit’ your personality. We just believe that sitting in a room and stewing in endless resentment at the vicissitudes of life is a very poor way to conduct one’s affairs. All is not lost. It is entirely possible that your talents – which are not inconsiderable – might not go entirely to waste. Through my influence at the Foreign Office, I would be more than happy to arrange for a clerking position of some kind. Though the starting salary and position would be poor, it is my belief that, as long as you keep your tendency to self-pity and physical aggression in check, you could rise in time. We are not all built for world affairs. Just as I accepted my limitations in your spheres – athletics, womanizing – I invite you to accept your own limitations. We cannot ever be everything we think we can be – or fantasize that we have the ability to become. You are human. You are mortal. You have limitations. You cannot excel everywhere. Life is not an endless rowing race. As for our recent political debacle, I would be remiss in my duty to truth and honour if I did not tell you, honestly and openly, that I consider your behaviour utterly despicable. To hijack a public debate of mine – one which was important for my career – for the sake of exposing your own ill-informed apocalyptic ramblings – is something that, upon reflection, I can never forget, or forgive. The only chance that we have for any kind of relationship in the future is for this to become a completely closed subject. I shall never speak to you of it. I do not hope that you are capable of respecting my wishes – all I will say is that if you attempt to speak to me of it, I shall leave the room, leave your life, and never return. With all hopes for the future – and looking forward to some kind of reasonable response – I remain Your brother Reginald...
Tom’s Flying School Within six months, Tom had to hire a secretary. He did not have a natural head for figures or schedules, but had found an activity he loved so much that his natural charisma – already strong – flowed even faster and deeper. He loved to fly. He had graduated from gliders quite quickly. He received his pilot’s license within two months of returning from Germany; three months after that, he was a certified instructor. He was self-financed. In January of 1934, he bought a new Beechcraft Staggerwing biplane. He advertised around town on lampposts, and flew a sign behind his aeroplane over horse-races, upper-class picnics and garden parties, hoping to snag young men with bravado and trust funds. The sign read: “First Flight Free! Fly the wild skies! Hendon 4576.” And they came. They came, at first, out of curiosity, to say that they had been up in an aeroplane. But Tom knew, from his days as an athlete, how important the element of dash was in presentation. So he let his hair grow longer, bought a number of white silk scarves, two creaky leather bomber jackets, and let his stubble grow artfully. He allowed a little more ‘Oxford’ into his accent, and cultivated a fairly dashing demeanour of ‘what was swotting at school compared to buzzing around above the clouds?’ Envy and charisma are two crucial ingredients in early entrepreneurial sales; Tom had natural charm, and could evoke great envy. One other ingredient also helped to bring great early success his way, and that was his sense of doom. Death is the ultimate liberator; that is one of life’s deepest secrets. Tom genuinely believed that he had – and the civilized world had – only about five more years to live. He had come to this conclusion – or, rather, his instincts gave him this timeframe – but he found that he was not alone in this. He read in ‘The Times’ that the Defense Requirements Committee felt the same way; they said that Germany was England’s eventual enemy, and that Germany would probably be ready for war in about five years...