Paradise and Elsewhere by Kathy Page Page B

and, as the end came, numbed himself with narcotics so that he could go on. This was his story, which he had thrust upon her and in which she, Paula Jacobs, had played a part.
    Joshua Pearson had passed his work on to her. She must find Alex, Angela, and Jen and join with his network of friends and supporters; she must tease out the connections, unearth the rest of the story and then tell it, not just once but repeatedly: to the police, to the Dean, to Josh’s heartbroken parents, to the court, to an endless series of interviewers on news and discussion programmes, at conferences, demonstrations—and then, when more and more young people went to the woods to die, she must continue to speak out in person, on screen, in print, online—she must and would use every possible medium to spread the story of their sacrifice.
    Paula’s hand shook as she reached in her pocket for her phone: there was, of course, no signal, and she left Josh there and began to run back through the trees.
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    I t’s a ritual: we shower, dress, turn off all devices, prise the lids from dips and spoon them into bowls, open rustling packets of vegetable sticks, hold wine glasses to the light. We enjoy the preparations and know Martin will arrive punctually at seven. We go together to the door and welcome him in.
    A pale linen suit and faded terracotta shirt—undone as ever at the neck—set off the gleam of his rich brown skin. A tall man, he moves in a loose, underwater way.
    Martin’s first hour costs three times the subsequent hours, so we feel obliged to ourselves to take it in full. The higher rate, he’s explained, enables him to be open-ended: to take just one booking per evening and then stay for as long as is required. Otherwise, he’d have to draw a line and depart for another appointment, which would loom over the whole evening, spoiling the feel of the occasion.
    Folded elegantly onto the sofa opposite our two chairs, Martin tastes the wine, a very fine Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, and cocks his head. “Delicious!” he says. “Now, fill me in. What’s new?” he asks, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on Anna’s face as if she mattered to him more than anything in the world. And I find myself feeling that way, too. It’s as if I had asked the question, and didn’t already know the answer. It’s as if her face comes into sharper focus as she prepares to speak.
    â€œWork, well, so-so… ” She tells him of difficulties with her team, how she had to repeat tasks, of a colleague who is trying to undermine her. Martin’s face picks up each fleeting expression that appears on hers, and does to it something between amplifying and refining: something which lends it the same kind of dignity and grace which print can give to the written word. As one expression dies so another begins to grow, softly replacing it. His face is a perfect instrument and on it, we are expressed. What he says is quite ordinary. It’s all in the way he listens.
    â€œI know I shouldn’t worry,” she says, with a smile, a shrug.
    â€œDon’t you think anxiety is a substitute for action? The only things I worry about most are those I can do nothing about. Yet so much is within our control,” he says. “And that is very liberating. It means we have more time—”
    â€œBut Martin,” Anna interrupts, and his forehead puckers with her perplexity; he pauses mid-sip, “I never feel that I have enough time.”
    â€œLikewise!” I say, deadpan, the irony being that my job is, basically, to organize other people’s time. Martin shoots me a brief, acknowledging smile and I feel myself relax.
    â€œWell, look at it this way: centuries ago, all people did was work, eat, and go to church. That’s history! Now I fret because I can’t fit in scuba