. . . He paused
again for a long time. He was peering at his own face, leaning in, tweezers at his
nostril, poised for the kill. Here is one answer which occurs to me, just now, he
said. Whether it be true or false is hardly for me to say. My mother is in the coffin.
That’s what I think.
Now you’ve surprised me, she said. The first time you’ve ever done that, I believe.
Suddenly she felt herself scrambling, flailing for a sure hold. You’ve never so much
as mentioned the lady before.
Enjoy it while you can, he said, with lashings of charm. You might never hear her
mentioned again.
The tweezers gave a little jolt and he waited for the pain to come; it came, did
its worst, then quickly moved away. Carefully, he emptied his lungs, his eyes filled
with water, and he breathed again. Only then did he turn to face her. He stared her
straight in the eye, unblinking. For the moment, she knew, she wasn’t meant to look
anywhere else.
But do you really think that’s true? she said, determined to get him talking again,
not let him fritter the moment away with his little act. Do you really think it’s
her face you’ll see, if you remove the lid?
He thought again, and she refused to interrupt him.
Here’s what I think is the right answer, he said finally. He had laid the tweezers
down, and sat round to face her full square. I myself am in the coffin, alive. That’s
who it is I’m dragging through the world. Perhaps that’s it. She could hear, now,
the first note of retreat in his voice. Or perhaps that’s merely a nice fantasy,
he said, that has just this minute occurred to me.
I’m surprised you are so ready to talk about this, she said. Any other man I’d take
for drunk.
Drink tends to have the opposite effect, I’m afraid. It shuts me up.
I’ve noticed. Perhaps you’re drunk in the dream, she said, offering a smile. Perhaps
that’s why you insist on leaving the lid on. Perhaps you’re not curious at all. She
was half joking, and half wise. She wanted somehow to be careful and carefree, all
at once.
Another possibility is that the coffin is empty, he said, as though he’d not heard.
Would that be good reason not to want to open it? To be afraid?
Perhaps it is not a person. Or not only. Perhaps it is not a specific thing.
What could that be? You’ve mentioned your mother. You’ve mentioned me. Who or what
remains?
Maybe you’re all in there together, he smiled. Having a ball.
Perhaps you’re in there with us, she said. Perhaps you’re in there with her, alone.
An interesting proposition, he said.
Perhaps what is inside the coffin is a moment. A moment in time.
For half an hour that afternoon there had been progress. Then the wind had died again.
That gave them time to dismount and grease the capstan, to be ready for the next
ebb. That was the banging that came again now.
You must have many happy moments from your boyhood, she said. Every child does.
He seemed physically to recoil at that, if only an inch. But he was suddenly quiet
and still, and stayed quiet for some time. As usual, she supposed, he was making
all his concessions in advance. Agreeing to whatever judgment he thought she would
reach for. He seemed to take a particular pleasure, always, in imagining the worst.
Confirming every slight he’d ever felt. How often she’d imagined him doing what he’d
done today – coming down to talk to her. How hard that seemed to be. She saw the
scene unfold. Morgan walking down the corridor to her door, everything narrowing.
Savouring the indignity he was about to undergo in there – in here, as he seemed
to be undergoing now. Her every misplaced word less like a wound than a surgical
incision. Specific and precise. The effect not pain but relief.
It feels like two different people, he said finally. That woman, and that boy.
Your mother, you mean?
I can remember her cutting my hair, when I was very small. That wasn’t something
she usually did. I can remember long days at the beach.
again for a long time. He was peering at his own face, leaning in, tweezers at his
nostril, poised for the kill. Here is one answer which occurs to me, just now, he
said. Whether it be true or false is hardly for me to say. My mother is in the coffin.
That’s what I think.
Now you’ve surprised me, she said. The first time you’ve ever done that, I believe.
Suddenly she felt herself scrambling, flailing for a sure hold. You’ve never so much
as mentioned the lady before.
Enjoy it while you can, he said, with lashings of charm. You might never hear her
mentioned again.
The tweezers gave a little jolt and he waited for the pain to come; it came, did
its worst, then quickly moved away. Carefully, he emptied his lungs, his eyes filled
with water, and he breathed again. Only then did he turn to face her. He stared her
straight in the eye, unblinking. For the moment, she knew, she wasn’t meant to look
anywhere else.
But do you really think that’s true? she said, determined to get him talking again,
not let him fritter the moment away with his little act. Do you really think it’s
her face you’ll see, if you remove the lid?
He thought again, and she refused to interrupt him.
Here’s what I think is the right answer, he said finally. He had laid the tweezers
down, and sat round to face her full square. I myself am in the coffin, alive. That’s
who it is I’m dragging through the world. Perhaps that’s it. She could hear, now,
the first note of retreat in his voice. Or perhaps that’s merely a nice fantasy,
he said, that has just this minute occurred to me.
I’m surprised you are so ready to talk about this, she said. Any other man I’d take
for drunk.
Drink tends to have the opposite effect, I’m afraid. It shuts me up.
I’ve noticed. Perhaps you’re drunk in the dream, she said, offering a smile. Perhaps
that’s why you insist on leaving the lid on. Perhaps you’re not curious at all. She
was half joking, and half wise. She wanted somehow to be careful and carefree, all
at once.
Another possibility is that the coffin is empty, he said, as though he’d not heard.
Would that be good reason not to want to open it? To be afraid?
Perhaps it is not a person. Or not only. Perhaps it is not a specific thing.
What could that be? You’ve mentioned your mother. You’ve mentioned me. Who or what
remains?
Maybe you’re all in there together, he smiled. Having a ball.
Perhaps you’re in there with us, she said. Perhaps you’re in there with her, alone.
An interesting proposition, he said.
Perhaps what is inside the coffin is a moment. A moment in time.
For half an hour that afternoon there had been progress. Then the wind had died again.
That gave them time to dismount and grease the capstan, to be ready for the next
ebb. That was the banging that came again now.
You must have many happy moments from your boyhood, she said. Every child does.
He seemed physically to recoil at that, if only an inch. But he was suddenly quiet
and still, and stayed quiet for some time. As usual, she supposed, he was making
all his concessions in advance. Agreeing to whatever judgment he thought she would
reach for. He seemed to take a particular pleasure, always, in imagining the worst.
Confirming every slight he’d ever felt. How often she’d imagined him doing what he’d
done today – coming down to talk to her. How hard that seemed to be. She saw the
scene unfold. Morgan walking down the corridor to her door, everything narrowing.
Savouring the indignity he was about to undergo in there – in here, as he seemed
to be undergoing now. Her every misplaced word less like a wound than a surgical
incision. Specific and precise. The effect not pain but relief.
It feels like two different people, he said finally. That woman, and that boy.
Your mother, you mean?
I can remember her cutting my hair, when I was very small. That wasn’t something
she usually did. I can remember long days at the beach.
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