II. Atonement
The best way to smooth out the lines on one's forehead, to let thoughts fly and breath slow, was to lose oneself in a view. To gaze out of a window. No matter how ugly a view your particular window offers you, it will serve well to distract, for after a short while, after one contemplates the ugliness of the smouldering chimneys or smoking factory pipes, rivers of dirt on the streets and the red stain that one so desperately wishes was tomato sauce on the opposite wall, one will lose oneself in the details. Something ugly might be made of beautiful things, only these things are so wrongly put together that they make a displeasing overall picture. Like clashing colours, that, if viewed alone, are vibrant, beautiful and pleasing, but if put together, hurt the eye. Like a pink hat on ginger hair.
So the old man focused on the tealy grey of the sky, its sfumato clouds and smudges of prussian blue, the hint of yolk yellow at the horizon and the deepening of colour to the west until the sky looked like the wet asphalt down below, beneath the black smoke, billowing out like clouds of chiffon from the pipes. He focused on the architecture, the perfectly planned out façades and balconies, imagined them sketched in pencil, adorned by those impressive, beautifully exact pencilled lines that architects used for guidance.
Footsteps distracted him from his reverie, and he turned his head to behold his son, freshly arrived from Cambridge. His boy. The boy he had not seen for all these months, the boy he thought his elderly mind had dreamed up on its own in his months of absence. The boy who was too perfect to be his son, to be anybody's son in the world he lived in; the clever boy who was to become a historian. To become successful; to amount to something, to pass on something useful to the next generation. To be remembered when he died. Selfish though it seemed, this boy was the man's final opportunity to achieve something in what he saw as a failed life. His final opportunity to give the world something to atone for his past. That unburiable past.
He scolded himself, internally, for not shedding a tear when holding his son, his dear boy, for the first time in so many months. Had he not missed him? Why did the tears not come, as the boy placed his chestnut head on his shoulder and whispered, «papa», with reverence and love in his voice? And did he even deserve such reverence?
All he managed, to his self-disgust, was, «I'm so happy to see you again, so happy.» The words, if put on paper, the man thought, as the boy smiled and replaced his beautiful head on his shoulder, would seem bland and uninteresting. If a writer used them in a book, he would be scorned as inferior. But did words matter? Could tears not be faked? If something was loaded with genuine emotion, is it not enough, or does one have to have something to show for it?
«There are some things proffessors do not know, papa, although they pretend they do. When they talk of certain things, they hide behind beautiful words, but what they say has no meaning.» The boy's eyes were large, and hazel. Like his mother's. There were flecks of yellow around his pupils. He averted his eyes from his son's. He didn't wish to spoil the reunion with poignant memories.
«What things, son? Tell me, although I'm not sure if I'll have an answer for you.» That he said with a chuckle, a genuine one; he was actually rather surprised at it when it came out of him; for the last few months alone, when he made small talk with people he new, or pretended that he knew, he would chuckle from the mouth. This one had come from the heart.
«I understand the motivation Mary Tudor – Queen Mary – Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon's daughter - had when she condemned all those people to die at the stake. She wanted to save her faith. She wanted to restore England's ties with Rome. But does that justify what she did? All the people she burned alive? Many of them innocent?» again, those eyes, always those large, clever, hazel eyes. Her eyes. And as he thought of her, this time not bothering to avert his eyes, her image, comingling with thoughts about Bloody Mary and her war on heresy, changed into that of another woman he had loved, albeit in a very different way. The woman that, for a brief, happy time, was his mother, although she bore no natural relation to him. The woman who was not an angel, who was not perfect, who had been, in fact, a criminal, a criminal of the worst sort, but who was his mother, and whom he always cherished as such.
He sighed deeply, and looked his son square in the eyes, in those hazel eyes.
«I don't know if what I tell you now will answer your question directly; I am an old fool who knows nothing of history, and old fool you have no reason to be proud of,» he said, motioning to his son to not interrupt him with his protests at this statement, «but I can tell you something, something I hope you will learn from. It is something I told no-one, not even your mother.» A protracted silence followed this statement. The old man was swallowed by shame. His wife had been married to a murderer and had not known it. I was young, he told himself. Young and stupid. But another voice spoke to him, from the part of his mind that must be his conscience: «some boys as young as you were then are older and wiser in mind than you are even now, and you are quite wise.» He brushed the voice off.
«I never knew my parents, as you know. I was left at an orphanage by my birth mother right after I was born. She got rid of me. Why, I don't know. I don't want to know. These memories are blurry, and my mind is slow, so forgive me, son, if the detail is not as rich as you wish it to be, as you are used to it being in your Cambridge lectures, but I wish you to hear me out, with no interruption.» At this, his son nodded solemnly, still kneeling before his father. «I will understand if, when I have finished telling you this, you will stand up and leave, and shun me, and no longer consider me your father. I will understand, and I will deserve it.» Though the grief will kill you. Don't tell him, said that voice.
Hush, satan, mentally replied the old man, brushing that voice off once again.
«I was sent to a workhouse very early in my life, and I grew up there. It was a hard time; they're cruel, the folks in the workhouse; they'd work us to death, beat us to death and then drank us to death to make us fall asleep when we were too exhausted to. I pray God with gratitude every day of my life that you did not share my childhood.» His eyes studied the boy's young face, and he smiled a genuine smile. «Then, a rather extravagant man came to the workhouse, and said he needed an apprentice. He was a foreigner, an Italian barber who had a penchant for shows and fame, and blew his modest proffession out of proportion with his spectacular weekly performances. Looking back, I realise it was a ruse; he was neither an Italian, nor was he a skilled barber, and nor did he do half of what he claimed he had done. If I were younger, son, I would have told you he wasn't a good man; however, life has taught me not to compare men by good and bad. It's a bad measure, son, a guarantee for failure in life.
Now, I was a hard-working chap, ever wanting to prove myself, and I was one of those who had the luxury of being beaten every other day rather than every hour. I was recommended to him, and he took me. I can't describe just how excited I was. Now, son, a detailed description of my life with him is pointless in my opinion, but all I'll say about it is, it wasn't what I expected. I expected shows, entertainment, good treatment and conditions. A beautiful life, like that circusmen and actors lived. Or I thought they lived.
In reality it was no better than the workhouse. Perhaps even worse since we were always on the move. That man was a terrible fraud, sold revolting potions under the guise of miraculous panaceas; he treated me awfully, beat me and fed me little .
Anyhow, one day, it so happened that another barber arrived in town. He was a strange-looking chap, not very talkative, very withdrawn, very mysterious; I never understood him myself, and I think that was part of the problem. I only understood him when others told me about him. He was in the company of a woman, the woman I still consider my mother.» A dreamy look came over his face. «A while after she took me in, I started calling her 'mum', you know, only she thought it was my accent, and that really I was saying 'ma'am'.» He laughed, the sincerity of the laugh taking him by surprise once again. He remained silent for a long while, forming a visual portrait of his 'mum'. The messy hair, the open gaze, the floured hands. Always, those floured hands that had left blotches of white on his dark hair when she hugged him.
«Papa?» his father's distant expression was not an unfamiliar sight to the son. The old man shook his head, chuckled once again, and sighed.
«Ah...off on a tangent again, am I, son?» he patted his hair, young, thick, shiny hair of a beautiful chestnut. His wife had often said he got his hair from her own mother, whose chestnut hair had come down to her waist in her youth. The old man shook his head again. «Well, as I was saying...that new, strange barber challenged my master. Challenged him – and rightly, oh rightly – he was a clever man, saw right through him – and won. Won a sort of public shaving contest. I still laugh at the allegations my master made – that he had shaved the Pope...well, my master then decided to pay this new barber a visit. Mum – who owned a pie shop just under this new barber's shop - fed me her pies, and spoke to me while I waited...you know, they were probably the worst pies in London, but then, for me, they were fit for the King. For once someone, a woman, was caring for me in a way I had never known – the woman that had left me on the doorstep of an orphanage had come back, loving and warm, in the form of this sweet pie maker.
Anyhow, I don't know what exactly happened between my master and that barber up there- all that matters is that I ran upstairs, remembering about an appointment my master had with his tailor, and found only the barber – my master was nowhere to be seen. The barber then bade me to go back downstairs – offered me gin – something no workhouse boy would refuse – all this he did politely, but he was threatening. He seemed an actor. A much worse actor, to my eyes, than my master. Now I know he killed my master.» His son gasped. «No, son, don't worry – just listen on. I didn't know he killed him then. But I had lost my trust for the barber, because his politeness had seemed forced, and because there was a menace around him, a hostility that had hit me like a wave. A child does not look for reasons, son. A child is a sincere being, a child is what remains from the perfect man, before he ate the fruit of knowledge. A child sees what it sees and does not try to interpret it differently. And that's what I did. This story is about the barber, but also about that woman. That woman that I loved, and still love with all my heart. That woman that is my mother. Was my mother. She loved me, though her other infatuation – with that barber - took her over at the end. And in it was her end. I think I loved her more than I loved God, if I even believed in God then. You talk of heresy – what is heresy? What was heresy? People expressing themselves. Do you think that those who survived did so because they were true Catholics? As little as I know of history, son, this I know – they survived because they kept their mouths shut.
I watched this woman waste away in her love for this barber. Her unrequited love. As I said, he was introverted, misanthropic. But I was a child, and I didn't ask why. If I had, things might have turned out differently. But if I had, I wouldn't have been a child, would I? He killed her. He killed my mother. I watched, helpless and frozen, as he swept her up in a frenzied waltz and threw her into an oven. Just like those people Bloody Mary burnt, son. I heard her scream and I couldn't save her, I couldn't help her. Now, listen. From the way you looked at me when you spoke of these witch hunts, you seem to think that this wasn't justified?»
«No, father, I don't think murder is justified. But...» his son broke off, and stared out of the window with a pensive expression.
«You have a lot to learn, son. The 'but' is the most important word in that sentence,» said the old man, and smiled at the look of surprise on his son's youthful face. So clever, and yet so naive; so mature and yet so childlike; so wise and yet so inexperienced; so sure, and yet so uncertain. «That's what I thought, too. So I killed him. I killed the barber.»
This proclamation was followed by one of the longest silences of all, one of the longest silences of his life. It was so quiet, that he could hear the slight rattle of the windowpane, the ticking of the clock downstairs. He had never noticed that ticking before. He waited, with baited breath, for his son to stand up and leave. To say he never knew him and doesn't wish to know him. He waited to die inside. But when he chanced to glance at the boy's face, his look of shock changed to a raising of the eyebrows, a look of pity, of – dare he think – forgiveness? Trying to shift the lump in his throat, rising, rising, he continued.
«I slit his throat with the very razor he had been killing people with. Killing the people mum then made into pies.» Slow down, you're scaring your boy, that voice told him. Satan? Conscience? He couldn't tell which was which any more. He brushed it off, as he did. He didn't even look at his son. For all he knew, he might have gotten up and walked away from his murderer of a father. Yet, he said the most unexpected thing.
«I'm glad you finally got it out, father. I've known something's been fighting to get out.» His son's eyes were now creased at the corners, with grief, and yet not hate. Not hate. Not all was lost. Perhaps everything could still be gained. The old man sighed with relief.
«Do you think I was justified?»
His son opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Then, he said, very quietly, «he killed someone you loved. He killed...your...your mother.»
«The most important words are the shortest, son. If, and but. But –have you heard all of the story? Both sides did bad things. Mum did. I did. The barber did. Now listen. I killed the barber because he killed mum. Mum did what she did because she was blinded by her love for that barber...»
«And the barber?»
«You're learning, son. They told me later. The barber was a man who had run away from Botany Bay in Australia, where he had been sent for life on a false charge by the local judge who coveted his wife. Once the barber was sent away, the judge raped his wife, took her daughter away from her; and after that, she poisoned herself. When he returned, mum lied to him and said she had died, when in reality she had gone mad and sent to Bedlam. She lied because she was in love with him, she wanted him for herself. A selfish desire. We're all governed by selfishness, no matter how much we deny it. And, ironically, the more we deny it, the more selfish we get.
The barber went mad with grief and went on to vengefully slaughter random customers with his razors. Then, he accidentally killed his wife – the poor beggar woman whom no-one recognized, and whom he wouldn't have recognized, blinded by revenge as he was, in the darkness of his shop. But he wouldn't have killed her, if mum hadn't lied to him. Now, can you tell me that I was justified in doing what I did?»
Silence.
«And then, I realised, suddenly, and the realisation was overwhelming – that the dark hatred I thought I saw in his black eyes was in fact misery, torment and despair. I learned that his rejection of mum was because he truly loved only one woman in his life, as man should. His actions were borne of a mind clouded by revenge and loss, loss of everything he once had, everything that makes life worth living. I realised that in his hours of solitude up in his shop, the tragedy ate him alive from inside. He couldn't live as a human being without his wife and daughter.
You know, there was once a composer, a true poet of the piano, who was separated from his homeland, and lived his life in Paris, where he died of consumption. The disease had eaten his lungs out. But was it just the disease? It was also the longing, the longing for his homeland. His homesickness. It ate him out.»
«Frederic Chopin.»
«That's right. This barber, his grief ate him out. Some people become better through suffering, others become wasps. And not of their own willing. You know, when I slit his throat, he put up no fight. He bared his throat for me. He wanted to die, sitting there, tears and blood streaming down his face, cradling his dead wife in his hands. So when you think of atonement, of justification, think of me. Think of my story. Who is at fault? Who is innocent? These questions have no answers.»
And now, those tears that he had wanted to come when he held his son, they came. And now, it was he who placed his gray head on his son's shoulder, and as the boy held him, the boy that was his atonement, he cried for the woman he loved as a mother, he cried for her mistakes and for his own, and he cried for the barber. The barber and his wife.