in my own description of the antecedents of this good fortune —
but my bank statement included transactions six months in advance, and I duly made the generous donation that the records implied. In fact, I’d been a little shocked when I’d first seen the print-out, but I’d had time to accustom myself to the idea, and the de facto bribe no longer seemed so grossly out of character.
The evening was dull beyond redemption (I’d later describe it as ‘tolerable’), but as the guests dispersed into the night, Lisa appeared beside me and said matter-of-factly, ‘I believe you and I are going to share a taxi.’
I sat beside her in silence, while the robot vehicle carried us smoothly towards her apartment. Alison was spending the weekend with an old schoolfriend, whose mother would die that night. I knew I wouldn’t be unfaithful. I loved my wife, I always would. Or at least, I’d always claim to. But if that wasn’t proof enough, I couldn’t believe I’d keep such a secret from myself for the rest of my life.
When the taxi stopped, I said, ‘What now? You ask me in for coffee? And I politely decline?’
She said, ‘I have no idea. The whole weekend’s a mystery to me.’
The elevator was broken; a sticker from Building Maintenance read: OUT OF ORDER UNTIL 11:06
A.M., 3/2/78. I followed Lisa up twelve flights of stairs, inventing excuses all the way: I was proving my freedom, my spontaneity —proving that my life was more than a fossilised pattern of events in time. But the truth was, I’d never felt trapped by my knowledge of the future, never felt any need to delude myself that I had the power to live any life but one. The whole idea of an unknown liaison filled me with panic and vertigo. The bland white lies that I’d already written were unsettling enough — but if anything at all could happen in the spaces between the words, then I no longer knew who I was, or who I might become. My whole life would dissolve into quicksand.
I was shaking as we undressed each other.
‘Why are we doing this?’
‘Because we can.’
‘Do you know me? Will you write about me? About us?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘But . . . how long will this last? I have to know. One night? A month? A year? How will it end?’ I was losing my mind: how could I start something like this, when I didn’t even know how it would end?
She laughed. ‘Don’t ask me. Look it up in your own diary, if it’s so important to you.’
I couldn’t leave it alone, I couldn’t shut up. ‘You must have written something. You knew we’d share that taxi.’
‘No. I just said that.’
‘You—’ I stared at her.
‘It came true, though, didn’t it? How about that?’ She sighed, slid her hands down my spine, pulled me on to the bed. Down into the quicksand.
‘Will we—’
She clamped her hand over my mouth.
‘No more questions. I don’t keep a diary. I don’t know anything at all.’
* * * *
Lying to Alison was easy; I was almost certain that I’d get away with it. Lying to myself was easier still. Filling out my diary became a formality, a meaningless ritual; I scarcely glanced at the words I wrote. When I did pay attention, I could barely keep a straight face: amidst the merely lazy and deceitful elision and euphemism were passages of deliberate irony which had been invisible to me for years, but which I could finally appreciate for what they were. Some of my paeans to marital bliss seemed ‘dangerously’
heavy-handed; I could scarcely believe that I’d never picked up the subtext before. But I hadn’t. There was no ‘risk’ of tipping myself off — I was ‘free’ to be every bit as sarcastic as I ‘chose’ to be.
No more, no less.
The ignorance cults say that knowing the future robs us of our souls; by losing the power to choose between right and wrong, we cease to be human. To them, ordinary people are literally the walking dead: meat puppets, zombies. The somnambulists
but my bank statement included transactions six months in advance, and I duly made the generous donation that the records implied. In fact, I’d been a little shocked when I’d first seen the print-out, but I’d had time to accustom myself to the idea, and the de facto bribe no longer seemed so grossly out of character.
The evening was dull beyond redemption (I’d later describe it as ‘tolerable’), but as the guests dispersed into the night, Lisa appeared beside me and said matter-of-factly, ‘I believe you and I are going to share a taxi.’
I sat beside her in silence, while the robot vehicle carried us smoothly towards her apartment. Alison was spending the weekend with an old schoolfriend, whose mother would die that night. I knew I wouldn’t be unfaithful. I loved my wife, I always would. Or at least, I’d always claim to. But if that wasn’t proof enough, I couldn’t believe I’d keep such a secret from myself for the rest of my life.
When the taxi stopped, I said, ‘What now? You ask me in for coffee? And I politely decline?’
She said, ‘I have no idea. The whole weekend’s a mystery to me.’
The elevator was broken; a sticker from Building Maintenance read: OUT OF ORDER UNTIL 11:06
A.M., 3/2/78. I followed Lisa up twelve flights of stairs, inventing excuses all the way: I was proving my freedom, my spontaneity —proving that my life was more than a fossilised pattern of events in time. But the truth was, I’d never felt trapped by my knowledge of the future, never felt any need to delude myself that I had the power to live any life but one. The whole idea of an unknown liaison filled me with panic and vertigo. The bland white lies that I’d already written were unsettling enough — but if anything at all could happen in the spaces between the words, then I no longer knew who I was, or who I might become. My whole life would dissolve into quicksand.
I was shaking as we undressed each other.
‘Why are we doing this?’
‘Because we can.’
‘Do you know me? Will you write about me? About us?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘But . . . how long will this last? I have to know. One night? A month? A year? How will it end?’ I was losing my mind: how could I start something like this, when I didn’t even know how it would end?
She laughed. ‘Don’t ask me. Look it up in your own diary, if it’s so important to you.’
I couldn’t leave it alone, I couldn’t shut up. ‘You must have written something. You knew we’d share that taxi.’
‘No. I just said that.’
‘You—’ I stared at her.
‘It came true, though, didn’t it? How about that?’ She sighed, slid her hands down my spine, pulled me on to the bed. Down into the quicksand.
‘Will we—’
She clamped her hand over my mouth.
‘No more questions. I don’t keep a diary. I don’t know anything at all.’
* * * *
Lying to Alison was easy; I was almost certain that I’d get away with it. Lying to myself was easier still. Filling out my diary became a formality, a meaningless ritual; I scarcely glanced at the words I wrote. When I did pay attention, I could barely keep a straight face: amidst the merely lazy and deceitful elision and euphemism were passages of deliberate irony which had been invisible to me for years, but which I could finally appreciate for what they were. Some of my paeans to marital bliss seemed ‘dangerously’
heavy-handed; I could scarcely believe that I’d never picked up the subtext before. But I hadn’t. There was no ‘risk’ of tipping myself off — I was ‘free’ to be every bit as sarcastic as I ‘chose’ to be.
No more, no less.
The ignorance cults say that knowing the future robs us of our souls; by losing the power to choose between right and wrong, we cease to be human. To them, ordinary people are literally the walking dead: meat puppets, zombies. The somnambulists
Similar Books
Before The Scandal
Suzanne Enoch
High Price
Carl Hart
Spare Brides
Adele Parks
A Coven of Vampires
Brian Lumley
His Holiday Heart
Jillian Hart
Raw, A Dark Romance
Tawny Taylor
Air Time
Hank Phillippi Ryan
The Secret Life of Uri Geller
Jonathan Margolis
Spheria
Cody Leet
Animals in Translation
Temple Grandin