a while ago.”
“Oh? What for?”
“Nothing much. Just mild depression after losing his job.” I paused. “I only saw him two or three times, but he seemed fairly normal, as far as I could tell.”
Bob frowned. “Is he trustworthy, do you think?”
I thought for a moment. I pictured Emyr standing in the car park burbling on about youngsters and Safe Trax.
“Well, he’s a bit of a twit. But pretty harmless on the whole, I’d say.”
“Good. Better keep an eye, though.”
There was another silence, this time a long one. Then Bob spoke.
“When do you want to go off, then?”
“I thought toward the end of next week maybe, and over the weekend. If you could look after the girls.”
“Of course.” He thought for a minute. “Although, hang on, I’ve got a meeting on Saturday morning . . .”
“Tough,” I said. “Cancel it. Or take Rose along with you.”
He nodded silently.
“It’ll be a good opportunity for you to spend time with Nella,” I went on. “I think she needs a bit of input from her father right now. Maybe you can talk to her about this man Emyr. I don’t want to be the one who’s always breathing down her neck.”
He nodded again. Then he glanced at his watch.
“I’d better go up and change. I promised I’d take Rose out for a game of tennis this morning.”
He got up from the table, looking miserable.
“Make sure she puts her sun cream on, won’t you. And her hat.”
“Of course.” He paused. “I thought we might go out for lunch somewhere afterward. The three of us.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to get through this. Take her on your own, she’ll like that.” I went back to reading the paper.
He came over and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Go off on your trip, Jess,” he said. “Don’t worry about the girls, I’ll take good care of them. It’ll be fun.” He paused. “Just come back and try to forgive me, OK?”
In my mind’s eye I saw him lean toward the translator, take off her headset, and whisper something in her ear.
“OK.”
He waited for a moment, hoping perhaps that I would reach up and take his hand, but I stayed motionless.
“See you later, then.”
“Later.”
I didn’t look up as he left.
I spent the next couple of hours sitting at the kitchen table on my own, drinking tea and reading an essay by the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan snappily entitled “Of Structure as the Inmixing of an Otherness —Prerequisite to Any Subject Whatsoever.” I was trying to put Bob and the translator out of my mind and, after a while, I managed to do so.
I have to admit, reading Lacan is a bit of a secret vice, as far as I’m concerned. I’m well aware, of course, that in many ways the man’s a pretentious bore; he takes the idea of the Freudian slip a little too literally, going in for a lot of heavy-handed Gallic wordplay, but even so, there’s a lot I like about the guy: his insistence, like Freud, on paying attention to the precise words we use, the language we speak, as a way of penetrating the barrier between what we know about ourselves and what we don’t; and that strange French concept of jouissance , of pleasure that is also suffering, the pursuit of which dominates our lives, disrupts them, makes us want to live more rather than less, whatever difficulty, misery, or disaster, that may bring.
Probably we would all be quiet as oysters if it were not for this curious organization which forces us to disrupt the barrier of pleasure or perhaps only makes us dream of forcing and disrupting this barrier.
I was just about to tear myself away from jouissance and galvanize myself into action when the phone rang. I picked it up.
“Hiya, cariad . Mari here. How’s it going?”
“Not too bad. You?”
“Oh, bearing up . . . Can you talk?”
“Yes. Bob’s out playing tennis with Rose.”
“Any developments?”
“Well, I’ve decided to go away for a short break. Without the family.”
“Good thinking.” She paused.
“Oh? What for?”
“Nothing much. Just mild depression after losing his job.” I paused. “I only saw him two or three times, but he seemed fairly normal, as far as I could tell.”
Bob frowned. “Is he trustworthy, do you think?”
I thought for a moment. I pictured Emyr standing in the car park burbling on about youngsters and Safe Trax.
“Well, he’s a bit of a twit. But pretty harmless on the whole, I’d say.”
“Good. Better keep an eye, though.”
There was another silence, this time a long one. Then Bob spoke.
“When do you want to go off, then?”
“I thought toward the end of next week maybe, and over the weekend. If you could look after the girls.”
“Of course.” He thought for a minute. “Although, hang on, I’ve got a meeting on Saturday morning . . .”
“Tough,” I said. “Cancel it. Or take Rose along with you.”
He nodded silently.
“It’ll be a good opportunity for you to spend time with Nella,” I went on. “I think she needs a bit of input from her father right now. Maybe you can talk to her about this man Emyr. I don’t want to be the one who’s always breathing down her neck.”
He nodded again. Then he glanced at his watch.
“I’d better go up and change. I promised I’d take Rose out for a game of tennis this morning.”
He got up from the table, looking miserable.
“Make sure she puts her sun cream on, won’t you. And her hat.”
“Of course.” He paused. “I thought we might go out for lunch somewhere afterward. The three of us.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to get through this. Take her on your own, she’ll like that.” I went back to reading the paper.
He came over and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Go off on your trip, Jess,” he said. “Don’t worry about the girls, I’ll take good care of them. It’ll be fun.” He paused. “Just come back and try to forgive me, OK?”
In my mind’s eye I saw him lean toward the translator, take off her headset, and whisper something in her ear.
“OK.”
He waited for a moment, hoping perhaps that I would reach up and take his hand, but I stayed motionless.
“See you later, then.”
“Later.”
I didn’t look up as he left.
I spent the next couple of hours sitting at the kitchen table on my own, drinking tea and reading an essay by the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan snappily entitled “Of Structure as the Inmixing of an Otherness —Prerequisite to Any Subject Whatsoever.” I was trying to put Bob and the translator out of my mind and, after a while, I managed to do so.
I have to admit, reading Lacan is a bit of a secret vice, as far as I’m concerned. I’m well aware, of course, that in many ways the man’s a pretentious bore; he takes the idea of the Freudian slip a little too literally, going in for a lot of heavy-handed Gallic wordplay, but even so, there’s a lot I like about the guy: his insistence, like Freud, on paying attention to the precise words we use, the language we speak, as a way of penetrating the barrier between what we know about ourselves and what we don’t; and that strange French concept of jouissance , of pleasure that is also suffering, the pursuit of which dominates our lives, disrupts them, makes us want to live more rather than less, whatever difficulty, misery, or disaster, that may bring.
Probably we would all be quiet as oysters if it were not for this curious organization which forces us to disrupt the barrier of pleasure or perhaps only makes us dream of forcing and disrupting this barrier.
I was just about to tear myself away from jouissance and galvanize myself into action when the phone rang. I picked it up.
“Hiya, cariad . Mari here. How’s it going?”
“Not too bad. You?”
“Oh, bearing up . . . Can you talk?”
“Yes. Bob’s out playing tennis with Rose.”
“Any developments?”
“Well, I’ve decided to go away for a short break. Without the family.”
“Good thinking.” She paused.
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