Uncomfortable

by Simon von Wolkenstein

I love you.

I love you too.

There is something I have to tell you.

Anything.

No it’s not a simple thing. It’s a big thing and it may change your feelings for me.

I love you and I trust you. You can tell me anything.

I am a cruel man. I enjoy causing suffering in others.

And that’s as far as I ever get. They always leave then. They say their apologies and look past me. They fuss with their bag and leave. And after this I am left alone as always, as I’ve always been. Alone with the image of their last tearful turnback out the door. And in their shock and sadness I feel it come like a Christmas high tide; the subtle joy of hurting another. It is the fuel that burns the candle of my life.

But this time Elizabeth-Jane stood her ground and looked me square and said:

I know David, I’ve known since we first met. I want you to know this. I love you. I will always love you. Will you marry me?

And in that godawful moment when my expectant joy was turned on its head and I knew she was serious I caught in her eye a flash that made me realise that she knew she had robbed me of my moment. She was taking comfort in my discomfort. She was enjoying my suffering. And in that moment of understanding I said ’ Yes'.

We were married within the month. We had an extravagant service, coralled our friends together and made them spend more on gifts for us than they would ever spend on themselves. We thanked them profusely for their kindness and congratulated them on their exquisite taste. We made them feel like gods. Then in the week that followed we contacted them one by one and explained carefully why their gifts had been so inappropriate. We were dreadfully kind. Elizabeth-Jane hadn’t stopped crying over an etching by the artist implicated in the mental breakdown of her younger sister. While I could barely speak at the insensitivity of twelve bottles of this year’s finest vintage because of my recent alcoholic episode and so on. In all cases the gifts were replaced with cash offerings higher than the cost of the original. At times like this I have to remind myself that it is never the money that is important. It is that particular look in their eyes and the shorter than normal visit that really repays the due.

People are confused by cruelty. It confounds them. They equate it with the physical when in fact it is far more spiritual. In Imperial China when criminals are shot the family is sent the bill for the bullet. Amidst all the grief and despair comes an invoice for less than twenty pence. And although you can barely function and you forget to eat and time has lost all meaning you are given ninety days to pay it. Generous terms of payment in anyone’s language. So generous, in fact, that you put it aside to get on with your life, to recover and rebuild. And just as you start to move beyond the anguish, just as your life begins to take on a semblance of order you receive a reminder notice.

For my wedding present Elizabeth-Jane had gone all out. The night before our wedding I found her in bed with another man. She was neither apologetic or fearful but merely finished the business with a passion and intensity that she never showed to me. I accepted the gift in the spirit in which it was given.

Thank you. I said.

My pleasure.

So I see. Who is this then?

David meet Jack. Jack is a celebrated poet and will be reading a poem at tomorrow’s service.

And so he did. A beautiful piece about the scared bond of marriage. He used words like ‘eternal’ and ‘notwithstanding’ and I turned to see tears in the audience at its great beauty. You can imagine how honoured I felt when this man of letters purchased the estate next door to ours soon after the honeymoon. As winter set in it wasn’t long before he discovered that we had one of the few heated pools in the country and he began to visit us for a healthy nightly swim.

What happened next remains a bit of a blur. I remember thinking that the newly laid electrical cables weren’t frost resistant when a mid winter chill drained all power to the property. After it was repaired I made the decision to turn off the heated pool to conserve power but rather than worry Elizabeth-Jane over the inadequate electrical supply I kept it to myself.

In my report at the police station after the thaw I commented on the iced up ramp leading to both the pool and the change room. How under the nightmarish conditions of that particular January night one fully clothed slip would have lead to a very slippery situation indeed. In fact over a warming cup of tea and scones the young constable wondered aloud about the lengths some people will go to maintain their physical fitness. I could only agree.

With the roads closed and the young maid who found him sedated I had asked the gardeners to cut the poet out of the pool and preserve him in an ice block for the forensic scientists. We stored him in an unheated hallway connecting two wings. When the blizzard was over I had planned to send a boy for the police. Sadly for Elizabeth-Jane and I the weather didn’t lift for seven weeks. Snowed in, we were forced to walk past Jack each morning on our way to breakfast. A most distressing sight, notwithstanding.

That Spring we had news of a different sort. We were to be parents. Elizabeth-Jane made the annoucement after a visit from our local physician.

That’s a bit of a surprise. I said.

That makes two of us.

Are you ready for such responsibilty?

It should heal the wounds at least.

That’s a little unfair.

David I’m still smarting from the coldest winter I’ve been through in some time.

Well that’s all behind us now. I suggest we look to the future and our child.

Do you really want this child David?

I’ve always wanted to own a child Elizabeth-Jane.

And in truth I had. For nothing would give me greater pleasure than having such control over the life of another. As the months went by my excitement grew. I wallpapered the nursery and furnished it with the latest pressed-metal toys. We found my grandmother’s cot in the attic and polished it up. Elizabeth-Jane’s manner grew warm again and the house took on a festive air. And as Spring turned to summer turned to Autumn even I began to change. With all this thought of the new baby I had begun to soften and, godforbid, was even beginning to hope the best for it.

I’m going to be a father. I said.

Yes you are, yes you are.

It was during one of Elizabeth-Jane’s final medical check-ups that it happened. I had been painting the nursery ceiling with my singlet on when the doctor, saying his farewells, had noticed a lump under my arm. It was painful to touch and a visit to the hospital proved the worst. I had a lymph cancer that had spread throughout my chest. The doctor doubted that I would live to see my child.

I don’t want to die, Elizabeth-Jane. I said.

No one does my love.

Don’t let me die alone.

I will be there.

Within two weeks I was bedridden and three days after that I was being nursed round the clock. I had lost my voice and had no more energy. I knew the end was near and so did my dear Elizabeth-Jane. Now so pregnant she could barely lean over to wipe my forehead. She checked on me every hour. My breathing became more laboured. Finally there came a time when she entered my room and bid the nurse to wait outside. I could feel the end was very close. She leant over the bed and whispered in my ear.

David, she said. I will forget you.

And before my breath caught she had left the room. Behind the closed door I heard her tell the nurse,

He’s gone. Leave him be.

And they walked up the hallway away.