Read by Greg Page
I watch them walking up the hill. They are only starting on their journey. They sound happy. They are singing and swinging their arms cheerfully in time. I can't see from where I am, but I’m sure their skin is golden in the summer sun and their muscles bulge ever so slightly with every step they take.
By a habit I didn’t know I had, I raise my hand to give them a wave. I catch myself half-way and put it down. They can't see me from where I am – from where they are – and they don't know me anyway. It's me watching life from my kitchen window; it's them living it.
The worst thing about age is not the aches, not the persistent chills, not the sagging skin and not even the liver spots. The worst part is living in the past tense. I used to. Used to be, used to do. In the present, I'm nothing. An old man in his small retirement flat still able to take care of himself, but this is as exciting as it gets. It is only the past that gives me the meaning, that justifies my existence. In my present state, I am of no interest to the world … or to those lads walking up the hills.
I go into the sitting room. It's called a "room" but in reality it shares the space with the kitchen. When I was looking at flats, before I bought this one, they told me it was in fashion, it was contemporary – "open plan living" they called it. It doesn't make much sense to me: a room has four walls and a door; my sitting room shares walls with the kitchen and I can see the sink from my settee. But I don't mind. In fact, it's quite convenient. I can make cups of tea while watching TV. And I can see the mountains from the window. That's why I bought the flat.
I sit down and I think back to the past – the only thing that justifies my existence. Or does it? As I grew older, it got tired of having to justify myself. I finally stopped looking for faults in me, stopped feeling guilty for no reason.
It was when I was younger that I felt I had to make excuses. I had grown so used to saying "sorry" that it stopped having a meaning. I never doubted that something was wrong with me – with me and not with the world. So I played along, I took up a role, I was what I was expected to be.
There were longings of course, and at times they were hard to fight. Like that time when I was in London for work. 1971. I saw them and they were not like me. They were defiant, daring, staring the world in its face, proclaiming their existence at no matter what cost. I wished I was like them. I wished I didn’t care what others thought but I couldn't. There was a price to pay for not caring. Not in the world where you were called a "paedo" if you were caught holding hands with another man.
What's wrong with people? Is it that difficult to know the difference between a paedophile and a homosexual? A gay man as they call it now. Now, they understand. Now, it’s all right to be proud. In the 1970s, it didn't make a difference whether you murdered, touched kids or kissed another man – they punched you in the face, in the ribs, anywhere they could. You couldn't go to the police – you were lucky if the police didn’t come for you. You were lucky to stay alive. So, there was nothing for me to be proud of in the 1970s.
I look at the window. From where I am, I can see them making steady progress, their energy still high, their arms still swinging to the tune that has become too faint for me to hear. I wish I could join them. What would they think of me today? Would they be more accepting?
I don't think they would care. To them, I would be just an old man defined by his lack of muscle-mass and by the drag of his feet. A man who would be too much of a liability to take along. A man who would bore them to death with the stories they don’t want to hear.
I look at the time. 9.27. How much longer?
The problem of being old is the one of not being needed. They call it "companionship" but it's deeper than that. Beryl was lucky to die before me, while she was still needed. And she still is. By me.
She was my wife but really she was my friend, my best and only, the only person who knew and understood. She didn't approve: in tune with the time, she believed that my homosexual tendencies weren’t healthy. But she didn’t judge and she accepted. She treated me like I was ill and I needed care. And I did.
I was lucky she never liked sex. Or maybe it was my fault that she never got to like it. But in a way, it was a perfect marriage – us being together and giving each other the comfort we needed. Back then, I never wondered if I loved her. I know now that I did; I still do.
It's terrible not to have anyone needing you. It's not the same as getting a few visits a year from the son or bi-weekly phone calls from the grandchildren. When Beryl died, my son said I should get a dog "for companionship". I laughed – companionship all right, but the dog won't hold you through the night, won't kiss it better.
You can't explain it to the council. Not when they offer you weekly visits from a "befriender”. I asked "A who?” They said, "Mr Roberts. This person will visit you once a week. You can watch TV, do crosswords, chat, go for walks." I thought Thank you very much. I can do crosswords on my own. You can't explain to those people that what you really need is someone to stroke your hair, to hold you when you’re feeling blue, to squeeze your hand, like Beryl did. So, thank you but no thank you. I’ll find my own befriender if I want one.
10.16. How much longer to go?
I stand up and look at the mountain. The walkers have completely disappeared from view, devoured by the curve of the path and by the overgrowth.
I wonder if they are happy. Behind their youth and their singing and their rippling muscles, I wonder what happiness is to them? Can they be the people they want to be? The people they are? Can they live their dreams? Give in to their longings?
I gave in once. A random man at a conference I knew I would not see again. The safe space of a foreign country, of a hotel never to return to, of an encounter never to repeat. Already nearly in my forties, for one night only the real me was set free. The one night of true passion I have ever known. I want to believe that I still remember his hands, the slant of his shoulders, the bristles on the back of his neck. Over the years, my imagination has filled in the gaps – coloured in the green of his eyes, added some red to his lips, drew a line at the corner of his mouth which would twist every time he smiles. I even gave him a past … and a future. A partner he would grow old with, a happy ever-after. This is one thing you learn about the past – you can't rely on it. Our minds end up telling us the stories we want to hear; blending the lines between the true and the make-believe. I know the truth though; I cannot escape it. It was the happiest night of my life and he wanted to see me again. But I ran away. I didn’t take his number and I didn’t give mine. Was it self-preservation or fear? Does the past justify that I was a coward?
I look at the clock. Time crawls.
I walk around the flat and readjust the cushions. I look in the mirror and wonder if I should change my shirt? Should I? Why? Does it really matter? I change it anyway and I comb my hair, what’s left of it. My heart is beating fast. Did I remember to take my medicine today?
The doorbell rings.
"Just a minute!" I shout while I take my time. I can easily reach the door but I want to come across like I'm busy, so I clink some plates and turn the tap on. I laugh and shout “I’ll call you later!” into the emptiness which I pretend is my phone. I count to ten. Finally, he walks in.
"How are you, Alberto? You are looking well."
I like it how he says my name in a foreign manner. Albert. Alberto.
I offer a cup of tea. He declines, "Maybe later." He knows how I like things, so instead he moves to the window.
"I like the view from here," he says, turning his back to me, offering the privacy I need.
I go into the bedroom. I don't like being watched.
When he walks in, I'm already in bed. I watch him undress. He has a beautiful body. I asked him once how old he was. He said 26. 26 – he may as well be a baby. At my age, it's hard to believe there are 26 years-olds in the world. 26, 40, 31, 22 – it's all the same to me. He’s only a boy with a man’s body – a strong, beautiful, desirable body.
He climbs into the bed behind me, his hand slides over me under the covers; I feel his legs scooping mine. He feels warm, he smells of something sweet. I like the smell, I like the feel of him.
He holds me tight for a while, the way he knows I like it, the way I need it. He hums something softly in a language I don't understand, like a lullaby a mother might sing to a child. He knows exactly when I have indulged in the stillness.
"How are you, Alberto?" he asks and he strokes my hair the way Beryl used to. He moves onto my neck and says, "I’ve missed you since last week." It doesn't occur to me to question whether it may be true. There is only the sound of his voice and his body – warm, real, living body – pressed to mine.
His hands – so gentle they could be a woman's – gradually wake something in me a woman never could. I turn and I press my lips on his.
... Afterwards, our exchange always happens very subtly. I put the money by his teacup, he takes it without counting, without "thank you", "ok" or any other words. He makes it seem as if it’s not a simple business transaction for him. This boy – so young – he understands the things I only learnt with age.
"Alberto," he says moving the teacup away from his face, and I watch his tongue pick up a drop of liquid from his bottom lip. "Alberto, I'm not in a rush today. Would you like to do anything? Would you like to do crosswords with me?"
(c) Irina Zahl, 2020
Irina Zahl, in another life, was a journalist. It was too long ago to remember. She started writing short fiction last summer as part-hobby, part-therapy; can't stop and still going.
A critic once compared Greg Page to the late Sir Alec Guinness. He said Guinness was a much better actor. Undaunted, Greg recently appeared at The National Theatre directed by Sam Mendes. No, really. He'll never forget what Mendes said to him. He said, "Stand there."
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