This is For You  An autobiography of sorts
The new novel by Pedro Silmon, serialised, exclusively for you on The Blog

As previously explained, the characters within this book are fictitious and any similarities to persons living, or dead, are coincidental but, like many first novels, This is for you, is an autobiography of sorts. At 26,000 words, it is relatively short, however, it was written, re-written, edited and refined over a five year period, spanning 2001-2007, in Germany and the UK. I am endebted to David Miller at the prestigious UK literary agency, Rogers, Coleridge & White, to whom I was kindly introduced by Sarah Spankie, Deputy Editor of the Condé Nast Traveller; having read a draft of the text, David suggested a few changes which improved it enormously.

Part 1 continued…
He was in love only once. At the time, he tried incredibly hard to change himself into the kind of person who could be loved – the sensitive kind he had previously read about with scorn and bewilderment, but of whom he now felt something resembling envy. It took him by surprise to find that he could spend so much time and energy thinking about someone else, and in making such an effort to make that someone else like him and want to spend time with him and listen to what he had to say.

She was twelve years older than Bede, and he was at once fascinated by her unusual attitude to life, which somehow combined both youthful mischief and deep maturity. One day, for instance, after giving a lecture at a prominent university, she arrived at a restaurant to have lunch with him on a huge, old-fashioned, black bicycle, which she rode right up to the table on the sunlit terrace, at which he was waiting. Having propped the bike against the back of the wooden bench, she sat down beside him and offered up her cheek as usual, for him to kiss. He noticed she was chewing and, although he said nothing, she spat the contents of her mouth into her hand, raised her arm and hurled the balled-up gum away. Unfortunately, she was a rotten shot, and the gum hit and clung to the front of the facing bench. The restaurant was popular and, as the terrace was quite small and provided limited seating, it was customary to share tables. Shortly after they had ordered, two well-dressed businessmen came up and politely asked if the seats opposite them were free. She smiled charmingly up at them and nodded, gesturing towards the empty bench, inviting them to sit down. As she turned back towards Bede, he caught the irresistibly sinful glint in her eyes. She mutely begged for and simultaneously expected his complicity. As usual, she paid and they left first, his lover cheerily saying goodbye to the two men, as she lifted her bicycle and wheeled it jauntily alongside him towards the exit.

Having spent her formative years at school abroad, she had come back to study philosophy at university. Now, after applying herself successfully to several different careers, she lectured in foreign literature at various, prestigious, educational establishments in the city and in the provinces. Complete sets of beautifully-printed volumes of philosophical writings and poetry, which she had inherited from her father, lined the shelves of her spacious apartment. They were filled with foreign texts, which were totally incomprehensible to Bede, who had thought it unnecessary to waste time learning any language other than his mother tongue. He could not even attempt to read them, but he loved to take the books down, to feel the weight of them in his hands, to run his fingers gently over their deeply-embossed covers and along the uneven edges of each hand-made page. He was also impressed with her collection of erotic photography, which she made no attempt to conceal. On the contrary, framed prints lined the walls of the apartment, and large, lavishly-illustrated books, deliberately placed for the maximum provocative effect, littered every flat surface.

With good reason, Bede thought she was beautiful. Although her face was now lined, and her hair must have lost some of its earlier vigour, she managed to look young still, and her sharp, bright eyes were as playful as a young girl’s. She was naturally slim, her stomach was flat, and her small breasts had never been stretched and inflated with a mother’s milk, so they remained firm and showed no signs of sagging. She did a little exercise every day, but was no fanatic. She smoked, and to demonstrate the seriousness of his feelings for her, Bede later gritted his teeth and took up smoking too.

They had, in fact, met in another restaurant. At this stage in his life, he was in the habit of often eating alone, and the type of food that was served there was his favourite. It was also cheap and the portions were generous. Though he would never have admitted it, Bede was a bit of a pig as far as food was concerned, and liked the way that here it was possible to eat mountains of rice and meat and noodles, without anyone noticing just how much you were actually consuming. At most, at any one time, only a tiny, heaped rice bowl sat on the table in front each customer, and no one was counting how many times it was filled up, which, in Bede’s case, was many.

She had been sitting alone near the window, and caught his eye as he was ushered toward the only empty table, in the middle of the room. Feeling exposed, he sat down quickly, immediately opened his book and began reading. There was no need for him to look at the menu. He had been there lots of times before. The lunchtime specials never changed, and he knew exactly what he wanted, but he always had to remind the waiters, who never appeared to recognise him, that he wanted to eat with chopsticks. It peeved him that, even after they eventually brought the chopsticks, they still left the redundant spoon and fork cluttering up the table, as if they thought that, halfway through his meal, he might give up on the wooden sticks and revert to using the metal utensils like everyone else. Also, they always seemed not to have heard what he said, so he was forced to repeat his order. Then, invariably they brought the wrong things, so he had to send them back. He could tell that they found it odd when he ordered jasmine tea instead of the white wine that most of the other people asked for. He was sure that they considered him affected, and their obsequiousness, so obviously feigned to the point of insolence, caused him to fantasise about what it would be like to punch one hard in the face and smash his teeth in.

Glancing up to get a better look at her, he had found her smiling directly at him, as if they knew one another. He quickly looked away and began to rack his brain in an effort to work out where, or indeed if, he had ever seen her before. Perhaps they had met at a book launch, or maybe at one of the big publishing fairs. He thought not, but she did seem familiar. He felt that he knew her face. Someone he had seen on TV? An actress? No, she was actually the double of his junior schoolteacher, with whom he had been infatuated as a child, twenty-five years before.

After his third bowl of food, he had had to crane his neck to get the waiter’s attention and to ask him to top up the tiny teapot with more hot water. Met with a look somewhere between confusion and disbelief, he asked for it again, deliberately exaggerating his mouthing of the words, to make sure that he would be understood. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was watching this little performance with an amused expression, and he felt his cheeks begin to flush. Settling back into his seat, he attempted to pick up where he had left off in his book, but it was hopeless. He had now been here for about forty minutes, and had read the same few pages, over and over, but not a single sentence had registered in his head. Now, he could not even decipher the words themselves. The letters on the pages had become transformed into little, black, abstract shapes, and he seemed incapable of forming them into anything recognisable.

Without Bede being conscious of it, the restaurant had begun to empty. Normally, he looked forward to this quiet time. He liked to eat late, so that he could linger a little and read, far away from the uproar of the office. By now, he and the woman were the only remaining customers. Most of the staff had slid away, and he watched with chagrin as the last waiter on duty lifted the half-full serving dishes from his table: it was rare for him to leave a single grain of rice, but, on this occasion, his usual effortless technique with the chopsticks had deserted him, and he had found it difficult to lift the food to his mouth without fumbling or dropping it on the tablecloth. He called for his bill, paid, reluctantly left a small tip, stood up and turned towards the door. He looked directly at her, smiled, nodded, mouthing goodbye and left.

The restaurant was on the first floor, and there was an entrance area with a cigarette machine at the foot of the stairs below it, where, by now feeling frantic, Bede paused to wait for her. Her eyes had seemed to sparkle as her smiling mouth had said goodbye back to him from below the two jets of cigarette smoke, which she was exhaling. His heart boomed in his chest, and his ears burned. Fighting in vain against the muscle spasms that caused his shoulders to jiggle, he feigned interest in what the machine had to offer. It could have been a condom dispenser for all he cared, as he had never had any interest in contraception either. A random thought struck him: perhaps a new, nicotine-flavoured condom should be launched especially for couples that enjoyed smoking.

She was descending the stairs. He turned to face her, looking up before she reached the bottom, and asked her whether or not they knew each other; he felt that he had known her all his life. Although he was certain that she had been expecting him to be there waiting, she hesitated before speaking. After glancing at his face, then letting her eyes travel down the length of his body and back up again, she said that she did not think so, but asked him what he did for a living. He did not know. His mind had gone completely blank, but his hand somehow found its way into his pocket, drew out a card and handed it to her. Seemingly impressed that he worked for what she said was her favourite newspaper, she continued down the stairs. They were now standing very close to one another. He could have stepped back to allow her to pass, but he did not. He sensed that she preferred him to stay exactly where he was. He could not stop smiling. She smiled back, telling him that she wrote a little, herself. Gesturing towards the card, he asked her to send him some samples of her work. She replied that, knowing herself as she did, she would probably never get around to having anything copied and put in the post, but that he was welcome to pop in for a drink one evening, to glance over a few of her pieces. She had had no cards herself, so she borrowed his pen, scribbled down her address and telephone number on his, and handed the card and pen back to him.

**********

She took pains to make it clear to Bede from the beginning that they had no future, that she liked him, but that she had already had a series of long relationships, and was not interested in getting seriously involved with anyone else. She told him that she had been deeply hurt by one of her former boyfriends, that she still was very much in love with him, and that, in her heart, he could never, ever be replaced. Then, of course, there was her father, who, though dead for many years, still loomed large in her life, and provided the model of her perfect partner. In a particular light and at certain angles, she told Bede, his looks reminded her of him, but that that was where the similarity ended.

She was surprised that, although Bede worked for a newspaper, he seemed particularly ill-informed about more or less everything, including the violent anti-government demonstrations and riots that were raging in every major city. Realising that he was not even aware that the country was in an advanced state of turmoil, and that, at any moment, the anarchists might throw them all into chaos, she tried to get him to discuss the situation. He listened attentively, nodding and saying little; as if he understood everything she was talking about. She asked him if the increasingly regular power cuts, rationed water and the shortage of fresh food in the shops did not worry him, or give him reason to question what was happening. Bede avoided answering. Admittedly, he took very little notice of anything in the general news, and his eyes glazed over if anyone tried to start a conversation with him about anything he was unfamiliar with, but, in any case, currently, everything else paled into insignificance beside his love for her. He refused to even contemplate that she could not be experiencing the same all-consuming feelings as he was.

**********

The distant glimmer of a few streetlights that were still working, looked very far away as he edged the car slowly forward over the potholed ground. The car’s headlights sliced through the darkness, which enveloped the graffiti-daubed garages, disturbing a couple of cats, who turned lambent eyes on the lone driver, before sauntering contemptuously out of the way. He had checked his original lock-up only periodically since it became full up. However, once in a while he needed to reassure himself that the books stored there were safe.

**********

One evening, about a month after their first meeting, his girlfriend cooked him a delicious dinner, and afterwards, out of the blue, when they were still sitting at the table, she rather formally invited him to her bed. Taken unawares, Bede discreetly slipped his hand inside his shirt, and drilled his forefinger into his navel to hook out the ball of fluff that invariably collected there. In the winter months this was an aggregate of the fibres shed by the various pullovers he wore; in warmer weather, the lighter, greyish deposit was of a less certain provenance. He deftly flicked it away before they undressed completely.

The sex was straightforward and quite quickly over. Bede was, in fact, so nervous that he had to fake an orgasm. Afterwards, he spoke of love, but she said that it had been only sex. He became frustrated and angry. She, flustered at first, then getting to grips with the confrontation, announced bluntly that she did not love him, and that she had already made it plain that she never would. She said that, during the short time that they had known each other, she had come to the conclusion that he was selfish, domineering, manipulative, vain and untrustworthy. And that, through her studies in philosophy, she had developed strong moral standards, which she was not prepared to compromise on his behalf. She went on to explain that, although she was physically attracted to him and wanted him as a very special friend, she nevertheless regarded him as immoral and frankly rather ignorant.

Though he was taken aback by this sudden attack, her description of his characteristics came as no particular surprise to Bede. The point was that he was in love with her, and, although he would have preferred her to have a good opinion of him, all that really mattered was the thought that she might one day love him. Unwilling to take the risk of scaring her away, he remained quiet and chose not to react. He bided his time and behaved himself, in the hope that she would eventually come around.

She never acted coldly towards him; indeed, his kisses were returned with equal passion. Having realised what had happened only after he left, she had been kind when she gently asked him about his faked orgasm. He said that he had known that, however long he had gone on, he would never have ejaculated, and that he had been nervous and afraid that she might think he found her body unattractive. Soon after, although he remained frightened to touch her without invitation, his potency returned. They continued to see each other, and even had a lot of fun. She seemed happy and contented in his company, so long as he did not attempt to cross the line that she had drawn, and allowed her the space she needed for herself and her work.

If it had been up to Bede, he would have seen his lover every day. When he was not with her, he would spend most of his time wishing that he were, and wondering what she might be doing. She had told him that she had other male friends, whom she saw often, and invited, occasionally to her apartment. The thought that they might be other lovers nagged at him constantly. When he attempted to interrogate her about her relationships with them, she said flatly that, no, they were not her lovers, he was. She told him in soothing tones that some of them were, indeed, ex-lovers, who remained important in her life, and without whom she could not do. He was not reassured. She went on to say that she hoped one day he would become like them, but that she feared he would be unable to be her friend after their relationship had run its course.

It suited Bede, at least, that she wanted their seeing one another to be kept private, something just between the two of them. She never attempted to introduce him to her family, or to any of her acquaintances or colleagues. She did not show any interest at all in going to his place, and when they were not going to hers, they arranged to meet in hotel lobbies and on street corners, from there to drive out to obscure suburbs, to find a place to eat, or to see a film. One of her fascinations was to watch other people, and Bede enjoyed watching her watching, in cafés, on the street and as they drove along in her car, so long as her attention eventually returned to him.

**********

Since he had taken the second lock-up on some ten years before, Bede had been an erratic visitor. It was perhaps six months since he had last been there, and because these days he read fewer books – there being somehow fewer available – it would have been some time before another trip would have been necessary. The whereabouts of his collection had always been secret. Indeed, only his parents had had any inkling that it even existed, and then only because they had watched as he carefully loaded his pre-university boxes of books into the van he had hired to transport them away. He had sensed that they were somewhat ashamed of their son’s preoccupation, so he was pretty certain that they had not said anything about it to anyone.

Tonight, though, he had mentioned it to her. It was some months into their troubled relationship and they had found themselves sitting in a kitsch, ethnic restaurant, surrounded by gaudy, though fairly realistic-looking, silk flowers. Leafy vines made from similar materials trailed overhead, and the tables were separated by tall, slim fish- tanks, in which the neon-striped fish swam, jerking backwards and forwards from one end to the other, as if hypnotised, in a seemingly-endless dance.

They usually took it in turns to choose a restaurant, and that evening, it had been her go. They smiled and took great pleasure in the fact that the deep red colour of the real tulips in the slender vase on the table between them, almost perfectly matched the wine that they ordered. By chance, they had ended up in a place no more than three hundred metres from one of his lock-ups. It excited him to see a glint in her eye at the first hint he gave her of his treasure: perhaps handing his beloved this revelation of his most intimate self might persuade her to give him her love at last. Fascinated, she could not, she said, wait to see it. She had been amazed at the prospect of a deeper, more enigmatic side to her handsome and well-dressed escort, whom she previously regarded as rather superficial. Still, he had prevaricated, had second thoughts, and eventually refused to take her. The evening ended with another of the blazing rows that had punctuated their relationship since soon after they had begun their affair.

Some weeks later, they were driving back into the centre of town, after a long and particularly good lunch in a smart country restaurant, when they came across the shocking sight of the still-smouldering, burnt-out shell of a huge, once-famous, department store. It had been raining, but all at once the sun burst through the dark clouds and illuminated the strings of mostly-intact light bulbs on a network of trailing wires, which still clung to the outline of the ruined building. Bede had been at university just along the road, and although, in those days, he had had no money to buy anything in the store, he was a frequent visitor, shuffling from floor to floor with the hordes of tourists from all over the world. Rich people had shopped for groceries in the food hall, which was filled with only the very best of the best available produce. The less well off had gone there simply on an excursion, to wonder at the displays, as if they were prize exhibits in a museum. On the first floor, there had once been a zoo, where exotic animals and birds could be bought: big cats, snakes, penguins and even spiders had all been on offer, and what they did not have, so long as it was legally available, could be ordered without fuss, at a price. An orchestra had played to the diners in the main restaurant, and green-liveried commissionaires were on hand to open the store’s doors to all visitors. Massively-expensive jewellery and watches were laid out in glass cases fitted with security alarms, and there was an enormous, marbled perfume department, which Bede had always avoided.

They had sex often and, though this was conventional enough when they were in bed together, he discovered that at other times her tastes were peculiar. For instance, she once asked him – and he, without argument, and with only the faintest hint of hesitation, complied – to shave off all of his body hair, apart from that which was on his head, then to perch naked and motionless on a barstool in the middle of her apartment. She wandered around, fully clothed, completely ignoring him, getting on with her usual business. Meanwhile, afraid to upset her, he tried not to let her know just how stupid and bored he felt. Leaving him there without a word, she went out to the shops and bought dark bread and a huge bunch of slender, green asparagus. He watched her cut a slice of bread and spread it with butter that was almost white. She picked it up and took a bite, then walked behind him. Her hand snaked around the side of his head and pushed a chunk into his mouth. Then she came and stood in front of him wearing a wide grin that showed her pink gums. Later, they prepared the asparagus and fed it to one another: the buttery juices running down there fingers and chins.

On another occasion, they had arranged to meet at her apartment for a quick lunch between their various, respective appointments. They ate and were just about to leave, when she suddenly pulled him towards her and slid her hand down to unfasten her trousers, which fell to her ankles. Hooking off one shoe and a trouser leg, she raised the bare foot on to a chair and thrust herself against him. She was a fraction taller than he, and, having released his cock, he had to bow his back to get inside her. He enjoyed her excitement, but for him the experience was uncomfortable, almost painful, and for the next few days, his back was sore and he was almost unable to walk.

Once, she had got an urgent telephone call from a friend with some life-or-death problem, and had very reluctantly rushed off, leaving him alone in her apartment. Bede seized the opportunity, and by the time she returned about an hour later, he had been through every drawer and cupboard, lifted every rug and raked around under her bed and mattress. He had found nothing, and was not even sure what he had been looking for. By the time she returned, everything was back in place, but he was sure that she knew what he had done.

**********

After much devious thought, he resolved to try to make her believe that he accepted her rejection of his love, and that he was now utterly ashamed of himself for ever having expected her to love him. But he gave up on that idea when he realised that she was too clever to be fooled into believing him. In his heart, he knew that she had been totally honest in expressing how she felt about their relationship, and that nothing he could do would ever gain him her love. In consequence, he persuaded himself that he could see no significant reason for the existence of love, if all it did was to make him feel weak and stupid and useless, because he was unable to live without it. Anyway, how could a person look after his own interests and, at the same time, be concerned for someone else’s? To him, the whole notion appeared contradictory.

Stealing himself, he stopped calling her, and left his answering machine on all of the time, so that he could screen his calls. Though it pained him greatly, he never picked up the phone when she rang, or ever called her back when her plaintive recorded voice begged him to do so. He had accepted without question, and even encouraged, her wishes that their relationship be kept discreet. Consequently, she had never been near his office, and he felt confident that she would not try to contact him there now. She wrote, concerned: was he ill? He didn’t reply. He knew she would eventually come to his house, so he dismissed his cleaner, got rid of the odd-job man and went away. She left a note pinned to his front door, written in a tone fraught with doubt and uncertainty as to whether or not it would ever be answered. She had signed it Your friend, which angered him so much when he found and read it on his return, that he tore it into tiny pieces, which he threw into a fire.

Many times, he grew weak in his resolve. He had often rung her number from a call box when he was certain she would be out, just to hear the sound of her recorded voice message, afterwards cursing himself for his feebleness. He experienced excruciating chest pains, and once thought he had had a minor heart attack, perhaps brought on by his tremendous efforts to maintain the separation. Never having been in the habit of visiting doctors, and although the pain was at times almost unbearable and continued unabated for many months, he did nothing about it.

Very early one Sunday morning, just to be on the safe side, he went out and stole from another part of town, an estate agent’s board with a sold sign pasted over it, which he erected in his front garden. He had the telephone disconnected. Her letters, which he immediately burned, arrived less frequently, and then stopped altogether. They had been together for little over a year. He never saw her or heard from her again.7

At around this time the books stored in the first lock-up were lost.

Shortly before their break-up his lover had told him about a massive air disaster that had occurred over the densely-populated eastern part of the city. Bede heard the explosion but had thought nothing of it. Two airliners had collided in mid-air. As was to be expected, none of the passengers or crew survived and there was widespread devastation on the ground. The debris had fallen over a huge area and caused serious fires; hundreds were dead or maimed, their homes destroyed. Totally unequipped to deal with the scale of the calamity, the anarchists – who he was given to understand were now in power – reluctantly accepted offers of help from abroad then promptly arrested two of the aid workers as spies.

As soon as the situation settled down, concerned about his books, Bede attempted to drive into the ravaged zone. However, as he made his approach it became obvious to him that there was little point in proceeding with his journey. Not a single building was left standing. Had he been paranoid, he could easily have formed the opinion that the crash was planned with the sole purpose of wiping out this part of his collection.

In the aftermath, struggling to overcome his grief, he tried to continue writing the book that his ex-lover had encouraged him to begin. Her early efforts at writing stories had seemed to him over-sentimental, superficial, and rather commercial and he had felt that his idea of good writing was a long way from hers. Yet, as time went on, he came to realise that she had an uncompromising agenda, and set herself progressively higher standards. She was driven, and worked obsessively. As a result, her writing developed quickly and gained substance almost overnight, while they both knew that, for a long time, he had been resting on his laurels. However, before long, her influence had insinuated itself inside him, and he felt an overwhelming new surge of inspiration.

Bede, who had written nothing since their break-up, was not to know that his renewed efforts, despite the crazy excitement they might generate in the publishing world, were pointless. It would shortly become impossible for anyone to publish anything at all.

The dream came more often now.

Bede liked the illusion of anonymity created by the sign in the garden, so much so that he stopped using the rooms at the front of the tall, three-storey house, allowed the patch of garden to become overgrown, and began to use only the rear entrance. Most of his time was spent an upstairs room at the back, where he wrote, read, ate and slept. To begin with, it was sparsely furnished, and the only books that were around were those that he scrabbled together and happened to be currently reading.

He had abhorred the clutter crowding every available surface in his parents’ home. Since leaving, he had inhabited spare, clean spaces. As a student, he had been unable to afford decent furniture, so he had preferred to have nothing. Throughout his stay, his room in the hall of residence at the university had contained no more than the table, a single upright chair and a low, armchair that he found there. The room was tall and very narrow, with white-painted walls. His bed, actually a bunk above the door, had spanned the width and was reached by a wooden ladder. The curtained-off cupboard below had served as a wardrobe and contained all his worldly goods – except, needless to say, his book collection. While his contemporaries had covered every inch of their walls with wild assemblages of garish posters and pages ripped out of magazines, Bede put nothing at all on his, though he attached a few small pictures – mostly postcards showing the city’s famous sights, plus a few portraits of authors and artists – that he liked, inside the cupboard, behind the curtain, which was always kept closed. In this way, they never disturbed the peace in the room or distracted him. Since he caught only glimpses of them when he drew the curtain aside, he never grew bored with them. As soon as he was earning enough money to afford to live as he wanted, he had furnished his flats, then later the houses he lived in, with a minimum of simple, often expensive, functional items. He had invested in, and allowed himself the luxury of, just a few large, abstract paintings in muted colours. His rare visitors thought his style of living severe. Now, as he slowly retreated from the rest of the house, he found himself dragging an assortment of furniture, equipment and books along with him. The room took on a nest-like quality as it filled up until there was barely enough space left to move around in it.

When the publishing houses were all suddenly closed down, and the newspapers were taken over by the new government, who replaced all of the senior staff, including Bede, with their stooges, he found it no longer necessary to leave his home, except to collect his ration coupons and to root around for fresh provisions, which became increasingly difficult to find. He had been used to eating well, and the pitiful supply of basic foodstuffs now available outside, did little for his appetite. However, in a fit of uncharacteristic foresight, when luxury items had begun to become scarce, Bede, paying a little over the odds, though everything would have been far more expensive now, stockpiled vast quantities of his favourite items. His kitchen cupboards were jam-packed with tinned sardines, corned beef, haricot beans, petits pois, jars of peanut butter, preserved mushrooms, peppers and artichokes in olive oil, bottles of olive oil, packets of spaghetti and rice. The cellar, meanwhile, was full to overflowing with his stock of wine, whisky and champagne.

**********

The curtains were not drawn. Having long since run out of red wine, Bede sipped the last of the champagne from the bottle he had opened to drink with his meagre dinner. A strange, warm glow seeped into the newly-darkened sky, like a sunset but somehow too low down. He has been sitting quietly for a long time, by himself. The muted sounds of shouting began to filter in from outside. Bede stood up, glanced briefly into the mirror and without reassurance, walked towards the French windows, undid the catch and opened them wide. Cool, fine drizzle stroked his face as heavy smoke wafted past him into the room. Down below his balcony, the public library was engulfed in fire. Huge flames billowed up through the roof, which was about to cave in. Not long now. Bede returned to his chair to wait. Soon after, the clock struck midnight.
©Pedro Silmon, 2011

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Friday, 26th August

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This is For You  An autobiography of sorts
The new novel by Pedro Silmon, serialised, exclusively for you on The Blog

As previously explained, the characters within this book are fictitious and any similarities to persons living, or dead, are coincidental but, like many first novels, This is for you, is an autobiography of sorts. At 26,000 words, it is relatively short, however, it was written, re-written, edited and refined over a five year period, spanning 2001-2007, in Germany and the UK. I am endebted to David Miller at the prestigious UK literary agency, Rogers, Coleridge & White, to whom I was kindly introduced by Sarah Spankie, Deputy Editor of the Condé Nast Traveller; having read a draft of the text, David suggested a few changes which improved it enormously.

Part 1 continued…
Bede’s new boss died suddenly of a massive heart attack only six weeks later. It was the busiest time of the year, and no replacement was immediately available. In the hiatus that followed, he found himself thrown into the deep end, expected to take on many of his late boss’s responsibilities.

He took the job very seriously, seized the opportunity and quickly became adept at choosing the right outside contributors to produce reviews for the literary pages. Previously, he had been obliged to write a few of his own, and had based them on the style of the review snippets he had read on the backs of the paperback book-jackets in his collection. Most of what he wrote was positive and dynamic, although not profound or critical. It was popular with the publishers and the newspaper’s readership, but gained him little respect from his colleagues. Determined to change their opinion of him, and in order to strengthen his position, in his commissioning he looked for people who had the ability to put things in their correct context, who could understand what an author was doing, and write about it in an intelligent way, without personal prejudice. He deftly avoided those whose need to sound clever or whose approach might jar with the newspaper’s imperatives of integrity and truth. He looked for people who could do the job responsibly, and had their own point of view, firmly convinced that he had many of these values himself, and that this helped him to identify them in others.

It did not often happen, but once in a while, on the grounds that, for one reason or another, he believed he was not the right person to comment on a particular book, a prospective contributor might decline Bede’s offer to review it. However, Bede refused to be put off, and it was on these occasions, as he proceeded to cajole, coax and persuade until he got his way, that he excelled in his new role.

The editor-in-chief was impressed with his efforts, and appointed him as the new literary editor. Immediately adopting Bede as his protégé, he began inviting him along to functions and lunches. At these events, the editor-in-chief did most of the talking, so Bede was not required to do much more than laugh at his superior’s very often rather patronising jokes.

Not long after taking on his new role, Bede was called into the managing editor’s office. They were on friendly terms, and Bede greatly liked and respected him. As he sauntered in, he was surprised, therefore, by the stern look on the other man’s face. Bede was asked to sit down and was told in grave tones that he had been letting the side down. The reason, he gathered, was that it had come to the managing editor’s attention that Bede had been submitting expenses that were far below the level commensurate with his position. With a sense of relief, he sat back in his chair, but the managing editor’s face did not relax. The matter was serious, and Bede was instructed to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

Having been handed this licence, he found that the world was his oyster. His new salary was startlingly good, and he was quick to learn that it was easily supplemented by selling the vast numbers of unwanted review copies that were sent in to him, to a dealer down the road. Virgin, unsullied editions, he liked; signed copies, in his opinion, were somewhat degraded; he could not wait to get rid of them. He had a few hardbacks in his collection, but he was more comfortable with paperbacks, which were easier to store.

As his newspaper’s literary editor, Bede was obliged to make an appearance at some of the big events in the book world. He would put his head round the door at book launch parties, take a few sips of whatever drink was offered to him, nod to a few people, avoiding getting involved in any deep conversation, then quickly make his escape, giving the impression that he had to dash off to another event, which was very often not the case. Getting stuck next to a famous author at one of the literary award dinners, or, worse still, being seated between two famous authors, especially two who knew each other, was his nightmare. His panic always made him drink more quickly, which loosened his tongue, but, he was aware, did nothing for the quality of what he was saying. After a very short time, he would sense the others’ boredom, and see them begin to glance away, smiling fixedly, to shout a comment across the table, taking any opportunity to get involved in another conversation. Invariably, Bede would end up with backs turned toward him on either side, at which point he would get up and go to the lavatory. Whenever possible, he would find a cubicle and remain inside it for as long as he decently could, but sometimes, if all the stalls were occupied, staring into the basin, he just washed his hands and left. If this happened and the venue was big enough to allow it, without him drawing attention to himself, Bede would take the very longest possible route back to the table, hoping that by the time he returned, there might have been some movement, and he should find someone new sitting beside him.

Again, the dream… There was no telling when it might occur.

The long, steeply-inclined arm of a white crane poked up into the dense, blue, morning sky, crossed with a slowly-disintegrating vapour trail, left behind by a jet that was probably, by now, a few hundred kilometres away, dwindling toward the western horizon, out of Bede’s line of vision. Paradoxically, the two opposing elements at which he had been looking created a calm composition in the frame of the dormer window above his head. Bede liked the arrangement: it moved him. Just looking at it gave him a twinge of pleasure. He knew enough about art to be aware that this was not it, but what he saw appealed to him a lot more than much of the stuff that was currently on show in the city’s art galleries, purporting to be art but, in his view, not making a very convincing job of it. The majority of those who claimed to understand art had always irritated him. He believed that many of them were charlatans. Most, he was certain, had no real opinions of their own, but were happy to repeat the latest cliquey rhetoric, knowing that people who read the same magazines as they did, would be likely to agree, in general terms, with what they were saying. Bede’s opinion was that, if a work evoked some instinctive emotional response, be it love, hate, fascination, or sometimes even deep or relentless ennui, it was good art; if it did not, it simply was not, and as far as he was concerned, that was that. He had been called a philistine, but he really did not care. True, he had never studied art or its history, but he trusted his gut reactions to whatever was presented to him, and that was good enough for him. For the most part, although it flattered his ego to receive them, Bede ignored the steady trickle of private-view invitations that landed on his desk. The simple fact of their having been sent to him, he reasoned, meant that he was regarded by gallery-owners as important and influential.

**********

Today’s edition of the broadsheet newspaper for which he worked, completely obscured the face and almost the entire upper body of the woman sitting diagonally opposite Bede. The compartment was otherwise empty. He had had an early appointment with his doctor, and by now most people were already at work. If he had been travelling at his usual time, an hour or so earlier, it would have been difficult for him to find an empty seat.

The climbing sun cast the indistinct shadow of her profile through the yellowy-grey pages, but offered little clue to her features. Only a few light-brown, soft curls on the top of her head were visible. Her green, calf-length, sheepskin-lined coat had fallen open, revealing a pair of well-shaped legs, and Bede could see that she was wearing a very short denim skirt. So short, in fact, that when she adjusted her position, swinging around slightly, away from the window, and re-crossing her legs, he was certain he caught a flash of pale silk under sheer black tights. He looked quickly out of the window, in case she might suddenly lower the paper, but it remained held high.

Irresistibly, then, his eyes wandered in her direction, to find that her skirt appeared to be sliding slowly further upward, revealing, centimetre by tantalising centimetre, ever more of her thighs, as she gradually slumped further down in her seat. The slightly-opaque, stronger section at the top of her tights had come into view, and he could clearly see the wiggly seam that ran up the middle. He shifted his gaze, as the top left corner of the newspaper keeled limply forward, and a hand snaked out below, to adjust the skirt. She pushed down on her feet, arched her body and lifted her bottom, pulling the rumpled fabric out from under it. After an ineffectual attempt to straighten and drag down the front part too, the hand gave up and was retracted. The knickers vanished momentarily, only to reappear a few seconds later as she once more re-crossed her legs.

Bede realised that there was no reason to observe her directly. The sun shone so strongly on her side of the train that it produced a mirror-like reflection on the window beside him, which was almost as clear as the real thing. Raising up and unfolding his own forsaken newspaper, upon which he had so far not even bothered to focus, he ran his fingers along and under his belt. His enlarged penis protruded just above the waistband of his underwear, the elastic stretched tightly over it. His fingertips emerged a little sticky, and when he held them to his nostrils, the pungent odour, with its hint of ammonia, caused them to flare.

Throughout the entire journey into the city, which lasted a little less than an hour, no one else entered their end of the carriage, and her newspaper, although it twitched and lurched as the pages were turned, came down only as the train slowed for the first main station. The woman stood up swiftly, straightened her skirt and pulled her coat around her, tossed her hair and, turning towards Bede with a knowing smile, stepped off the train, leaving the abandoned newspaper on the empty seat.

**********

Bede had wandered all morning around the cool, narrow streets of the ancient seaside town, and sat now in a quiet, sunny courtyard café, enjoying his second frothy cup of coffee. He flicked warily through the pages of the local tabloid newspaper, pondering vaguely the possible meanings of the screaming headlines, grappling with one another like boisterous children, each demanding his attention. The huge, tightly-cropped photographs both frightened and excited him: it was all very different at the newspaper on which he worked, where solid, conservative tradition dictated the use of discreet headlines, small pictures and well-ordered columns of text.

It was common practice at the time, for major newspaper companies to allow journalists a six-week-long sabbatical after ten years’ continuous service. This state of affairs had not come about via some generous, philanthropic gesture on the part of the proprietors. On the contrary, it was a component of the many agreements, successfully negotiated by the powerful journalists’ union, at one point or another, with the various company managements. As such, it was not supposed to be seen as simply an excuse for a long holiday: these agreements stipulated that eligible journalists must put forward a proposal to their editor, describing how they would use this break from their everyday work, to broaden their knowledge and experience in such a way as to make them a greater asset to the company. In reality, the proposals were never given more than a cursory glance, and when the journalists returned to work, none of them was ever asked to present any sort of report on what they had accomplished. It was true that some people went off and wrote books, but this was done more with a view to lining their own pockets than with bringing any benefits to their employers. Others either loafed about doing more-or-less nothing, or did clandestine and often very lucrative work for other newspapers or media, their identities obscured behind noms de plume.

Like almost everyone else, when the opportunity came along for him to take his sabbatical, Bede had no qualms about abusing the system. Without giving it a second thought, although he had no particular idea of what he might do, he dictated a short, rather vague proposal to his secretary, saying that he was going to write a travel book. Within minutes, it was neatly typed out, signed, and put into the internal post. Later the same day, he got a one-line, initialled memo from the editor, granting his approval.

Although the travel book idea had just come off the top of his head, as the sabbatical loomed, Bede began to think it might do him good to get away alone somewhere for an extended period. It was something he had never done. Everyone at the newspaper already had six weeks’ annual holiday, and Bede, though he was grateful for it, always found it difficult to use the whole allowance. On his rather infrequent solo fortnights abroad, he had chosen his destinations pretty much at random. However, his preference was for coastal destinations with a warm climate that were neither too hot nor too humid. Because of his hatred of crowds, he tended to go off-season. Usually, for the first week, he did little more than swim and go snorkelling, in between long bouts of lying around on a beach, reading books, for long enough to acquire a passable tan. Then, although he had scarcely made an attempt at research beforehand, in order to be able to understand something of what he might discover, he liked to spend time wandering around mediaeval towns, or stumbling over ancient ruins. Using his own intuition as a compass, he followed his nose wherever it led him. He visited a few of the many museums he came across, but never stayed long. Without the ability to place anything he saw into historical context, he very soon became irritated, looking at the artefacts on display. Inevitably, he picked up bits and pieces of knowledge along the way, but was never quite sure how any of them fitted together.

**********

It was the hottest part of the day, and Bede was sitting, replete, the remains of his lunch in front of him, on the cool, canopied terrace of a small hotel; one of many whose tables lined the fringes of the busy, bustling flower market. It was his favourite place for people-watching. A slim and very good-looking woman of around his age, sat down at the opposite end of the long refectory table. She was a redhead and, judging by the way she dressed and her pale freckled face, half-hidden in the shadow beneath her baseball cap, he was sure she was a tourist. A smaller, more elderly woman, whom he took for a local, sat down with her. After a while, he decided his initial instincts about the striking redhead had been wrong, as he picked up from her conversation, snatches of patois.

Two youths sitting between Bede and the two women, soon got up and left, leaving a free expanse of table. As the waiter arrived to take the women’s order, the redhead sent a glance down the table in Bede’s direction. Grappling with his reticence, he looked directly at her and gestured towards his half-carafe of house white wine, squeezing his lips and nodding to signal that it was very good. She smiled, thanking him in his own language, and ordered the same. The companion, evidently resenting his intrusion, nodded back with a barely-discernible movement in his general direction, then immediately drew the younger woman into some discussion of the menu. Bede, feeling a little light-headed from the wine, and having long ago finished eating, returned to his book.

**********

Bede admired and envied passion in others, because, no matter how hard he searched; he failed to find true passion in little other than his book-collecting and his obsession with himself. As far as heroes are concerned, all of his came out of books. Though he could easily recall aspects of their characters, he found it difficult to remember any of their names, which made distinguishing one from another almost impossible. It was therefore, hard for him to discuss them with anyone else. Mostly, they were what can be described as romantic anti-heroes. For instance, there was the arrogant one who was always ill because he never seemed to get enough to eat; who robbed and killed an old woman as a kind of intellectual experiment, then turned crazy – if he had, indeed, not been already that way inclined. Then, there was an ancient and very powerful emperor, who was remembered for playing beautiful music on his lyre while the great city at the heart of the empire he ruled burned around him. Another was an eighteenth-century dandy, who was irresistible to women and spent his entire adult life skipping from one lady’s welcoming bed to another, fearlessly risking their husbands’ wrath. But Bede was also fond of the teenager, high on his boiling hormones, who suddenly decided to leave his cosseted life at the family home in a provincial town, to go to the big city to discover his true self and become a grown-up. He was a fan of the author who invented this particular character, too. He admired him for his decision to become a recluse who, in his sixties, with complete disregard for public odium, set up home with a girl a lot less than half his age. Another of his heroes was the multi-talented painter, draughtsman and ceramicist, who spent most of his time away from his own country, but who nevertheless remained very much a part of it, and whom he had heard described as possibly the most important artist of the twentieth century. Bede had gone out of his way to see the art, which, as with most other art, failed to move him. What excited him much more was the man’s reputation as a voracious predator, who would stop at nothing to get any woman he wanted, only to cast her aside as soon as he got bored with her, while moving swiftly on to the next.

**********

Engrossed as he had been in his reading, Bede was returned with a start to the hotel restaurant, by a question from the other end of the table. The redhead, who now appeared to be alone, wanted to know if he could direct her to a nearby garden, which she had heard was very beautiful. The terrace was right by the noisy marketplace and, gesturing that she could not hear his reply, she grinned widely and summoned him with a wave.

They shook hands and introduced themselves, smiling together at their formality. She quickly explained that she was there on holiday and staying with her cousin, who had just gone to the ladies’. She repeated her question about the garden, but, although he told her he could remember having seen a sign for it somewhere, he was unable to give her clear directions. Declining her offer of wine, he explained that he had already drunk more than his lunchtime quota. The cousin now returned, throwing them both disapproving looks, as she reoccupied her seat. The redhead introduced Bede, who at the same moment attracted the attention of a passing waiter and invited the two women to join him for coffee. Normally, he never touched coffee after midday, because it prevented him from sleeping at night, but on this occasion he was happy to take the risk. Pooh-poohing the older woman’s predictable refusal, he insisted on ordering something for her regardless.

This was unusual behaviour for Bede, who was not known for throwing his money around. It was not that he was naturally miserly, but, having come from a relatively-poor background, where money was scarce and luxuries almost unknown, he had developed, or perhaps inherited, a strong instinct for self-preservation, which manifested itself in his hoarding. Whenever there was any abundance of anything he valued, he would carefully squirrel it away as insurance against possible future shortages. This may go some way to explaining the existence of his collection, which would probably be seen as virtually worthless to anyone else, but was of enormous value to him due to its sheer bulk.

He had quickly calculated that, as his bill was already settled, the good-mannered redhead would almost certainly, despite any protestations he might make, insist on the cost of the coffee being added to theirs – a gamble that paid off.

She was still asleep, her long, red hair streaming out in kinks and curls across the twisted pillow, a freckled knee and foot sticking out from below the creased sheet. Her face was invisible, but he knew her eyes were shut, and the constant drone of her light snoring told him that it might be some time before she would wake. His hotel room was tiny and, very claustrophobic. He had been up and about for almost an hour, moving around, at first quietly, and then, when this had no effect, with increasing din and clatter. He shaved and showered in the adjoining, cupboard-sized bathroom, while on she slept. Eventually, unable to endure the ennui any longer, Bede leapt up and went out, slamming the door behind him. On returning half an hour later, he was relieved to find her up and dressed with a lightly made-up face, and hair swept back into a loose ponytail.

It was while her cousin made a second visit to the toilet, over coffees, that Bede and the redhead had arranged their assignation, to meet for cocktails that evening in the bar of a very smart, exceedingly famous old hotel on the seafront. There, she cleverly asked the barman to recommend a good fish restaurant, and he, instantly picking up a telephone to make their reservation, had earned his generous tip by adding confidentially that it was for very special guests of the hotel, who should be treated accordingly. Bede was impressed.

It turned out that she was an architect. During an earlier study trip to the area, she had contracted typhoid fever, and, although she had been greatly taken with the climate and the people who had nursed her, including the cousin who had been so hostile to him that lunchtime, she had gone home to recover. Feeling totally fit again, she had come back, ostensibly for a holiday, but with the idea of looking into the possibility of settling there.

By being cautious with his money, Bede had become comfortably well off. He was on a good salary, and the mortgage payments for his home were well within his means. He did not own a car and when it became necessary for him to ferry more boxes of books to his lock-up, hired one for the day. Otherwise, travelling everywhere in one of the newspaper’s pool chauffeured cars, or taking taxis that he charged to expenses, he avoided any transport costs. Similarly, when not being entertained by a publisher, an agent or a writer, he took one or other of these out himself, and put that cost on his expenses, too. Because it was recognised that he had to be almost continuously on call, the newspaper paid two-thirds of his home telephone bill, as well as the full cost of the line rental and the equipment. They also paid for any newspapers or magazines he bought. Spending so little time at home, he needed very few provisions, and he received so many bottles of champagne and whisky from publishing companies, especially at the end of the year, that his cupboards were full to overflowing. He paid a minimal amount for a cleaner, who came in twice a week, and who also ironed his shirts. Then there was the local odd-job man, who looked after the bits and pieces of maintenance that the house required, and kept the garden tidy. Of course, Bede liked wearing nice clothes, and was prepared to pay what was necessary to have them. But, because they were always of good quality, they lasted well. In making his wardrobe selections, he steered clear of extreme fashion trends, so he could continue wearing whatever he bought from one year to the next. All in all, his outgoings amounted to very little. Consequently, Bede had for some time been building up surplus capital, gradually and to no particular end, and was wondering what to do with it.

Excited by his new architect friend’s design ideas, Bede suggested writing her a brief for a house that she might build for him.  She leapt at the proposition, and immediately began searching the coast for a suitable site. She had been introduced to a famous architect who took regular holidays in the area, and her choice of the site was via a recommendation from this man’s wife, another local. Within a week, she had persuaded Bede to buy the small plot, which was protected by a headland and set close to a small beach, among geometric rock formations.

To Bede, the plot’s isolated position was part of its appeal, but building there was not going to be easy. A very rough footpath, formerly used only by fishermen, skirted the site, along which the lighter building materials could certainly be brought by wheelbarrow from the nearby rail station. Anything heavy or large would have to come by boat, though first a jetty would first have to be constructed.

Her father had designed and built ships all over the world. The peripatetic lifestyle he wished upon the family, dragging them in his wake around the globe, had taken its toll, and her parents’ marriage had eventually fallen apart. But her visits to the shipyards and the awesome experience of looking skywards from the floors of vast canyon-like dry docks, below the massive, towering hulks in various stages of completion, had had a profound effect upon her aesthetic sensibilities. In her own designs, naval architecture became a constant reference point, especially with regard to her clever use of often limited inside space, and the relationship between the interior and the outer shell of her buildings. In fact, the modest house she sketched out for Bede somewhat resembled a large, white boat marooned upon a rocky shore. From the landward side of the sloping site, two floors with very few windows would be visible, as well as the rail that would encircle the roof terrace. There would be a kind of turret on the top, which would protect the entrance to the spiral staircase that linked every floor of the house. She even recommended having a flagpole. The seaward elevation, arranged on three floors, was to be much more open. The main living area on the middle floor – the ground floor on the landward side – was designed as a large flexible space, which could be divided off and adapted by a series of screens that folded into the walls. Huge, plate-glass doors, which could be slid open, so that the division between the outside and the inside of the house all but disappeared, would provide panoramic views across the bay. To avoid clutter and to make economical use of all available space, floor-to-ceiling cupboards would be inbuilt wherever it was convenient. She produced sketches for beautiful, modern furniture and rugs, which she suggested Bede might like to have custom-made for the house.

This dream would never materialise.

Very soon the architect and he began to bicker. Bede, not wishing to let her in on his secret, had nevertheless stipulated at the outset of their discussions, that he would require massive amounts of book shelving, yet only a very limited provision had been made. She re-examined her drawings and made a few adjustments here and there, but Bede was far from satisfied. The idea that had formulated in his mind when he had first got interested in this woman’s skills, was that she could build a house that would be a safe repository, not only for the books currently in his collection, which he would spare no expense to ship there, but also for all the many volumes that he planned to buy in the future. What had attracted him in her initial drawings was the amount of free wall space, protected from the strong sunlight by a broad, overhanging section of the flat roof. He wanted to build in bookshelves to cover every inch of it. Her advice, which, when it fell on deaf ears, turned into loud protestation, was that the entire feeling of space she had visualised would be lost if she complied with his wishes. She told him that this was going to be a great house; the most prominent, international architectural magazines were bound to want to run features about it; it would become an architectural shrine. None of this interested Bede – in fact, the mere mention of media-attention frightened him to death. Cancelling the work that had already begun on the jetty, he decided to cut his losses by instructing one of the solicitors in the town to get the best price he could for the land, then packed his bags and went home.
©Pedro Silmon, 2011

Don’t miss the seventh instalment of This is for you, which follows next
Friday, 19th August

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