Passing Stranger
By Mihangel
11. Raw-onion sandwich
Does history repeat itself, the first time round as tragedy, the second time as farce? No, that's too grand, too considered a process. History just burps, and we taste again that raw-onion sandwich it swallowed centuries ago.
Julian Barnes, A History of the World in 10½ Chapters
Next morning I scooped up Hilary from the airport and we filled each other in on our doings. I told her about Jonathan, myself when young, returned to guide and support me. She understood, and welcomed him with warmth. He took to her, and became almost part of the family. The pattern was set. From this point on, only a few random episodes need reporting to add colour to the picture.
*
Late April . . . When Jonathan's new school term started, his GCSEs were looming and we saw less of him. But still something. He helped us stuff letterboxes with local election leaflets, and our small efforts seemed to help. The LibDems sent Labour packing, and won York city council.
*
Mid-May . . . Meanwhile my new story, the longest to date, had been taking shape and was now finally posted. Those Old Gods was set on a Roman site that I had helped excavate in my younger days. At J's suggestion, it was an allegory on being let down and regaining trust, and carefully incorporated his oh-so-relevant quotation from Fanny Kemble on "nothing venture nothing win." He gave me a huge amount of help. I drafted, he criticised, I amended, he criticised again. No doubt for that reason, many people have judged it my best. I wanted it to go out under our joint names, but he refused point-blank. He did give permission for a brief acknowledgement under his own name, but just before it was posted he withdrew even that, and he finally featured only as "someone who does not want to be named."
One bit of it had a previous history. The year before, my pretend friend had suggested we do a joint story. I wrote a dozen pages for him to develop as he thought fit. Then everything turned sour and it was mentioned no more. In April I saw that my contribution would fit in very neatly as the opening chapter of Gods. I emailed him out of courtesy, to ask if he was still interested because I had found another use for it. The ensuing silence I took to mean consent, or at least lack of interest.
Jonathan was aware of all this. Well into May he said, "M, I've been thinking. Ought he to read the new story? After all, he was behind it."
"Mmmm. See what you mean. But I'm not sure how to break the ice again -- he hasn't been in touch for six weeks or more. It would look like a put-up job."
Then chance stepped in. An old friend of mine had just died, and his non-religious funeral service included an interesting poem by Edward Carpenter about nature and death. This was just up my pretend friend's street, so I sent him a copy. When he caught me on AIM to thank me for it, he showed no curiosity at all about why I had disappeared from the message board and from his inbox. No doubt he had been as relieved as me, and I did not open the subject. But he did apologise for not replying to my email about that chapter.
"Too late," I said. "It's been re-used already. Want to read the rest?"
"Yes please."
I sent it, and he gave his verdict, back-handed but favourable -- "the stiffness I always feel when I read your work is gone."
"Did he get the message?" asked J.
"I don't think so."
"Ah well. Par for the course. I wonder if . . ." And he fell to brooding.
*
Late May . . . Jonathan was now deep in his GCSEs and I was careful not to distract him. But I did beg him to keep a slot free on the 29th. Hilary and I picked him up from school and marched him off to the Minster.
"What's this all about?" he asked.
"Today is the 550th anniversary of a pivotal event in history."
He did a quick sum in his head and gasped. "1453! The fall of Constantinople! So that's why we're going to the Minster!" He took the whole point with no further prompting.
The present Gothic cathedral had been built, with scant attention to foundations, over the footings of the previous Norman one, which in turn had been erected across the headquarters building of the Roman fortress. The medieval structure, with its colossal weight, had subsided massively and unevenly, and by the 1960s was close to collapse. A huge engineering operation underpinned it and saved it. The necessary excavations revealed much archaeology, all now visible in an undercroft, as fascinating as the Minster above. It includes the basilica or assembly hall of the Roman fortress. There we went that evening, and mused on history.
In 306 the emperor Constantius died in York, and in his stead, in this very assembly hall, his son was acclaimed emperor. Constantine I, later known as the Great, soon embraced Christianity and gave freedom to the church, an act which set history on a new path. In 330, realising that the Roman empire was too unwieldy to be run from a single capital, he inaugurated Constantinople, New Rome, in the east. A century later, old Rome and the western half of the empire were lost. But the eastern half, the Byzantine empire based on Constantinople, continued. It survived until 29 May 1453 when it fell to the Turks and when Constantine XI, the 88th and last emperor, died sword in hand. Over those thousand years, as the buffer which protected Europe by absorbing countless assaults from the east, Constantine's foundation had also changed the course of history.
But for that distant event in York in 306, the subsequent story of Christianity would have been very different. But for that event, Constantinople would not have happened and the whole story of Europe, and hence of the Americas, would have been utterly different too.
After our thoughtful pilgrimage to the basilica, we paid our respects to Constantine's statue above. J and I exchanged a look of silent understanding. There, much more recently and infinitely more quietly, history had repeated itself, and a pair of thoroughly insignificant lives had been changed.
*
Late June . . . Jonathan's exams were now behind him and the York Early Music Festival was looming ahead. Its theme this year was to be English music. One Saturday, by way of preparation, we were listening to some Handel oratorios. We kicked off with Israel in Egypt, for which I had a soft spot, having sung in it at Yarborough before my voice broke.
("M, what did the Egyptians do when it grew dark?"
"I don't know, J. What did they do when it grew dark?"
"They turned on the Israelites.")
But to me Israel now paled into insignificance beside Saul. Last winter Hilary and I had heard it sung by the Bach Choir, with an extraordinary seventeen-year-old countertenor as David. It had bowled me over, and I had lost count of the number of times I had listened to the CD Hilary gave me for Christmas. It had helped soothe the bruises that then blackened my soul, but I had not played it for a while, and now I put it on again. J was bowled over too, above all by David's lament for Jonathan which brings tears to any eyes.
For thee, my brother Jonathan, how great is my distress!
What language can my grief express?
Great was the pleasure I enjoyed in thee,
And more than women's love thy wondrous love to me!
Not a bad omen, surely? And I could not decently subscribe to that last line, could I?
Jonathan's mind, as usual, was on the same course as mine.
"M, you love me, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"With philia, yes, as a friend. Not sexually, with eros?"
"No," I said promptly.
This was tricky, and I had to work out how to put it.
"I can't. Look. If I'd met you when I was a boy, or for a long time afterwards, I'd have been head over heels. But not now. For a variety of reasons. First, I'm a happily married man. There's no way I could be unfaithful. Second, sex isn't what our relationship's about, with fifty years between us. Third, it needs to be a two-way thing, and there's no way you could love me like that."
He stirred.
"Anyway," I went on, "I'm long past the stage of needing eros from a boy. Our philia's plenty good enough. So if I do find eros for you raising its naughty little head, I firmly swat it. It did once, you know . . . that day you first came here."
"I know. I felt it. That's why I asked. But M, I do love you with eros, in a way. As well as with philia."
I was flabbergasted. "How can you possibly love a desiccated old fossil like me? In that way?"
He grinned. "There's a fascination frantic in a ruin that's romantic. No, seriously, M, you ought to know the answer to that. How I can love you. Remember what you said in the Scholar?" His eyes turned up. "'At first sight you can only see his face, his body. What matters is what's inside. And proper love can't come till you know the inside. Properly.' There you are, out of your own mouth. Your outside doesn't matter. But by now I know your inside, very well indeed. That's what I do love."
Jonathan had brought back a book of mine he had borrowed. He was borrowing quite a few these days, now that he had time to read them. This one was Fire from Heaven, one of Mary Renault's marvellous historical novels, about the boyhood of Alexander the Great. He picked it up and opened it at a page he had marked.
"And she says much the same, even if it's a bit more philosophical. Not surprisingly, because she puts it in Aristotle's mouth, when he became Alexander's tutor and set up that little school for him and his friends, remember?" And he read.
The school discussed friendship often. It is, they learned, one of the things man can least afford to lack; necessary to the good life, and beautiful in itself. Between friends is no need of justice, for neither wrong nor inequality can exist. He described the degrees of friendship, up from the self-seeking to the pure, when good is willed to the friend for the friend's own sake. Friendship is perfect when virtuous men love the good in one another; for virtue gives more delight than beauty, and is untouched by time. He went on to value friendship far above the shifting sands of Eros.
"I'm not sure about that last bit, though." He cogitated, frowning. "I suppose she means far above the shifting sands of casual sex, like we were talking about when we met that boy on the towpath. Surely you can feel philia and eros for someone at the same time. Isn't that what the fullest love involves? Partners, married couples, you and Hilary.
"Anyway, don't forget it was you who rescued me from my . . . mess. You hugged me. Hugged me, the first person ever. You were the first human being I could talk to. There's Hilary too now. But you're still the only male. The only one I've got. So it's hardly surprising I love you, with eros as well as philia."
"Well . . . I mean . . . you're not suggesting . . . ?"
"No. Oh no. I keep the eros tucked away. It's not right for all the reasons you said. And it's not right for me either. If I gave way to it, I'd feel trapped. I mean, I need to stay free for eros with someone my own age, more or less. So that when he turns up, when it turns up, I can give it free rein. Till then I'm content with philia. Look, M . . ."
He paused again, thinking.
"Look. Isn't that why our triangle with Hilary is so stable? Philia on all three sides. But eros only on the base line, between you and her. So there's no conflict. Does that make any sense?"
I felt very humble. "Yes, J, it makes every sense."
"But M. Why do you love me? With philia? I think I know, but tell me."
"Oh, that's easy. We're kindred spirits. Since we're on to Aristotle, have you heard his definition of a friend? 'Another self.' You're me. Myself when young -- you're young, you're intelligent, you're articulate, you're honest, you're gay, you're shy, you're lonely. Well, you were lonely. Exactly myself when young, except that you're better off -- you're giving and getting trust, which I didn't."
He pondered. "And are you myself when old?"
I hesitated. "Maybe. In a way. And yet no. I hope."
His brow crinkled. "What do you mean? That you're ninety percent fulfilled, but the rest still hankers? That you haven't had sex with a male?"
"No, not quite that. I mean that when you're my age, I hope you'll have lived a fuller life. Richer. More rewarding. All right, my fulfilment's complete now. Ninety per cent from Hilary, these last thirty years. The rest from you, these last few months." He caught his breath at that. "But I wish my fulfilment had come earlier. I hope you'll avoid all those years of emptiness. Of utter non-fulfilment. Wasted.
"So get it right early on, J. Don't let your virginity become ingrown. Don't dither like I did. Don't be rash, of course. Don't hurt yourself in the process, or others. But it can be done, if you're honest with yourself. Honest with others. You're already a better boy than I was. And if you're fulfilled earlier than I was, you'll be a damn sight better man too. Don't let history repeat itself."
"Mmmm." He smiled briefly. "But I like raw onions!" He turned serious again. "No, I do know what you mean. And it should be a lot easier for me than it was for you. Finding fulfilment. And I won't be nearly so lonely and frightened as you were. Because society's more accepting now. Because you've shown me what to look for . . . how to look for it . . . what to avoid. Because you'll be beside me, inside me, encouraging me, holding my hand. In finding you I've found myself."
I could not answer. I could not speak. I just put my hand on his.
"Anyway, aren't you too hard on yourself, M?" he went on after a pause. "Doesn't everything you've achieved by now, um, balance out the opportunities you missed?"
"No. Maybe we put different weightings on them. Remember what Dumbledore says?" We had also been reading the latest Harry Potter. "'Youth cannot know what age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young'."
"But that's the last thing you're guilty of! Your stories . . . you couldn't have written those if you'd forgotten what it was to be young."
"Yes, it is engraved on my soul. That's the point. That's why I'm so anxious that you don't miss your opportunities."
He searched the ceiling again. "'That's the duty of the old, to be anxious on behalf of the young. And the duty of the young is to scorn the anxiety of the old'." He laughed. "But don't worry. I'm not dutiful. I don't scorn it."
"Good." But I was fumbling for the source of his quotation. "Where's that from?"
"Philip Pullman. The Master of Jordan to the Librarian. Or was it tother way round?"
"Oh, right, yes. Out of this world. Literally."
Jonathan began talking about His Dark Materials, but was disappointed by my lack of response.
"What's up, M? You have read it, haven't you?"
"Oh yes, but not for a while. I've wondered about going back to it. But . . . "
"But what?"
"I . . . well . . . I'm not sure I dare. He read it, at my suggestion. My pretend friend. We discussed it, a lot. It's so closely associated with him. It would hurt, to re-read it."
"Try it again, M. Not thinking of him. Thinking of me."
Over the next week I tried. And it worked. That ghost had been truly exorcised. Not forgotten, but forgiven. My hurts hurt no more. Closure had come. I was at last at peace.
*
July, August, a long-delayed autumn . . . The news remained sad. The unfolding schism in the Anglican church over gay bishops. The government's hounding of David Kelly to suicide. The escalating deaths in Iraq, six months after the war was officially over, and never a trace of weapons of mass destruction. The obscenity of Guantanamo Bay. Bush's bellicose imperialism. Israel's vindictive treatment of Palestine . . . the list went on and on.
There were better moments too. In August Jonathan's GCSE results came in: ten Astars, heart-glowing if not unexpected. And I turned sixty-five, senior citizen, old age pensioner. If I have hitherto labelled myself as old, it is relative to Jonathan's youth. I do not feel old, not now. If my venerable white hairs claim special treatment, I do not get it. Great.
It was Jonathan who persuaded me to put finger to keyboard and record this history. I agreed because I felt a need to clear the baggage from my mind, to lay out the whole unvarnished truth for him and for Hilary and thereby to express my gratitude to them both, to satisfy the curiosity of a few net-friends who wanted to know what makes me tick. But it has not proved easy. My own past has had to be recalled and arranged in order. Our conversations have had to be reconstructed from our joint memories, and can be reported only approximately, not word for word.
J has helped enormously, encouraging, comforting, reminding, discerning, bashfully disclaiming, sternly criticising. In places he has put his foot down. He has insisted that I blow my own trumpet by including some things which in modesty I would rather omit. Once again, as with Those Old Gods, he has refused to let the result go out under our joint names.
"This is supposed to be about you, M, not me. Keep me to a minimum."
Yes, it is about me. But I staged a partial mutiny and only half-obeyed, for Jonathan is central to my history. Though she features less, Hilary is equally central to it, and she too has had her say.
At the same time I have been tied up with academic work, writing one book and editing another, both against deadlines. Compiling this history -- recalling and agonising and assembling and amending -- has therefore been a slow process. But at last, in the autumn of the year, after long gestation, I gave birth. I printed it out, up to this point, and showed it to Jonathan.
When he had finished reading, "Yes, that's fine, M. There's still much too much about me, but the rest's spot on. Except that all your other stories have a neat ending. All right, this isn't a story, but it ends in mid-air."
"Well, there is another chapter," I said hesitantly. "A very short one. I haven't shown it to you because I don't know how you'll take it. I'm thinking of heading it 'Deserts of vast eternity'. You know, Andrew Marvell.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before me lie
Deserts of vast eternity."
I handed it over, a single sheet. This is what it said:
Two years on . . .
Jonathan sailed through his A-levels and won his place at Cambridge. It left a huge gap in life at York, but he was punctilious at keeping in touch. One day he rang.
"M, I've met this boy at Peterhouse."
Something gripped my guts. The tone of his voice said it all.
"J, this is it, isn't it?"
"Yes. It is. I know it is. It may be a cliché, but we're made for each other."
"Then I'm glad for you, J. I really am. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. Need you ask? And it won't make any difference to us, will it? . . . M,what's up? . . . M? . . . M! . . . You're in tears!"
*
That episode, of course, lies in the future. It has not yet happened. But something like it has to happen, at some point unknown. It would be wrong if it did not happen.
I will be glad for him, glad from the depth of my heart.
But will I be glad for me? Will he still have room for me? Or will the gay side of my nature find itself back in the emptiness of its desert, this time for eternity?
Passing stranger . . . I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
If I do lose him, it will feel like losing a part of myself.
But that is being selfish. My feelings will not matter then. Or not so much.
When it comes to that, I will have done my bit.
Jonathan took an unexpectedly long time to read so short a piece, and when he looked up at me his face was stricken.
"No, M, no! That's wrong! You won't have done your bit, not till the day you die. There will be room for you. There'll be room for three of us -- you and me and him. Another stable triangle. Eros on the base line, yes. But philia all round. Still.
"You won't lose me, M, not if I have anything to do with it. After all, we're each other's self. If I made you feel you'd lost a part of yourself, I'd have betrayed you. And betrayed myself, because you're a part of me too.
"It won't be a desert for you. I promise."
He is right, of course. My trust had not been total.
It is now.
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