Davina! That's my name! Davina!’
I'm quite taken aback by my own sang-froid. I straighten up, adopt a conciliatory but vaguely imposing demeanour. Davina is still sobbing, but subsiding. ‘When you say your name is Davina now, do you mean that you've changed it by deed-poll?’
‘I've applied, yes.’ She's composing herself.
‘How long will it take?’
‘About six weeks.’
‘And until then?’
‘Well, you encourage the people who know you to address you as you would prefer to be addressed.’ She's regained her composure altogether. ‘In a sense that's what it is to have a name at all. A name is, after all, simply a certain common ascription.’
‘Which in your case is –?’
‘Dave.’
‘Dave?’
‘That's right.’
Dr Klagfarten stands with his back to me, looking out over the rooftops. The yellow-tinted glass imparts a slight, bilious whine to his voice, as he says, ‘You are finding this business of the ubiquity of the name Dave unsettling, hmm?’
‘Not exactly, no.’ I am, for the first time since I left Dr Klagfarten's office two hours ago, at ease. He turns from
the window and retreats behind his desk. He smiles at me and gives the endearing, lip-twisting moue.
‘How would you feel if I told you that the blackbird which flew down your chimney last week was called Dave?’
‘Both incredulous – and curious.’
‘So, this Dave thing isn't entirely awful –’
‘I just don't see why it has to be Dave.’
‘Well, Colin Klagfarten would be patently risible, like Ronald MacDonald. Dave Klagfarten has both resonance and assonance.’
I take some time out to consider this proposition. Dave goes on smiling benignly. He likes silences, he thinks that you find yourself in the context of silence, that whether or not silence is experienced as an absence or a presence gives you a litmus test for your own identity.
‘You aren't telling me,’ I say eventually, ‘that it all begins with you?’
‘No, no, of course not. This is a non-causal singularity – of that much I'm certain, although it jibes unpleasantly with your particular brand of alienation, of depersonalisation.
‘Still, the fact that the biblical David was the individual who most completely realised the theocratic ideal of the Israelites, and that the yearning for his return became a matter of almost messianic fervour . . .’ A shrug, another moue. ‘. . . Well, it doesn't seem to stretch the analogy that far to suggest that this new pattern of emergent Daves represents something similar, a secular ultramontanism perhaps?’
‘But it is Daves, not David.’ I know I'm nit-picking, but I can't help it.
‘Oh come on, what's in an id. Look, I think you'd feel a lot better, I think we could consider easing off on the Parstelin, I think it might be a breakthrough. You know, we could even collaborate on a paper –’
‘If I was –’
‘If you were –’ He's nodding, smiling, every fibre of his body exhorting me to say it, which I do:
‘Dave too.’
CARING, SHARING
W hen Travis came out of the side door of the Gramercy Park Hotel – avoiding the guy who ran the concession stall, because earlier on he'd been embarrassed by his failure deftly to marshal the correct change – he felt pretty hollow. Brion was right behind him, and although Travis thought he really shouldn't need to, he couldn't help reaching back and clutching the emoto's forty-inch thigh.
Brion's response was immediate; he stooped down and grasping Travis by the generous scruff of his tweed suit, lifted him right up, drew him into his arms, and planted a series of wet kisses on Travis's face, while all the time patting his back and muttering soothing endearments.
Travis felt all the knotted tension in his neck and shoulders begin to ebb away. It was a palpable sensation, just as if the emoto had been rubbing some balm into his exposed skin. Travis sighed deeply and snuggled further into the warm-smelling gap between the brushed cotton collar
I'm quite taken aback by my own sang-froid. I straighten up, adopt a conciliatory but vaguely imposing demeanour. Davina is still sobbing, but subsiding. ‘When you say your name is Davina now, do you mean that you've changed it by deed-poll?’
‘I've applied, yes.’ She's composing herself.
‘How long will it take?’
‘About six weeks.’
‘And until then?’
‘Well, you encourage the people who know you to address you as you would prefer to be addressed.’ She's regained her composure altogether. ‘In a sense that's what it is to have a name at all. A name is, after all, simply a certain common ascription.’
‘Which in your case is –?’
‘Dave.’
‘Dave?’
‘That's right.’
Dr Klagfarten stands with his back to me, looking out over the rooftops. The yellow-tinted glass imparts a slight, bilious whine to his voice, as he says, ‘You are finding this business of the ubiquity of the name Dave unsettling, hmm?’
‘Not exactly, no.’ I am, for the first time since I left Dr Klagfarten's office two hours ago, at ease. He turns from
the window and retreats behind his desk. He smiles at me and gives the endearing, lip-twisting moue.
‘How would you feel if I told you that the blackbird which flew down your chimney last week was called Dave?’
‘Both incredulous – and curious.’
‘So, this Dave thing isn't entirely awful –’
‘I just don't see why it has to be Dave.’
‘Well, Colin Klagfarten would be patently risible, like Ronald MacDonald. Dave Klagfarten has both resonance and assonance.’
I take some time out to consider this proposition. Dave goes on smiling benignly. He likes silences, he thinks that you find yourself in the context of silence, that whether or not silence is experienced as an absence or a presence gives you a litmus test for your own identity.
‘You aren't telling me,’ I say eventually, ‘that it all begins with you?’
‘No, no, of course not. This is a non-causal singularity – of that much I'm certain, although it jibes unpleasantly with your particular brand of alienation, of depersonalisation.
‘Still, the fact that the biblical David was the individual who most completely realised the theocratic ideal of the Israelites, and that the yearning for his return became a matter of almost messianic fervour . . .’ A shrug, another moue. ‘. . . Well, it doesn't seem to stretch the analogy that far to suggest that this new pattern of emergent Daves represents something similar, a secular ultramontanism perhaps?’
‘But it is Daves, not David.’ I know I'm nit-picking, but I can't help it.
‘Oh come on, what's in an id. Look, I think you'd feel a lot better, I think we could consider easing off on the Parstelin, I think it might be a breakthrough. You know, we could even collaborate on a paper –’
‘If I was –’
‘If you were –’ He's nodding, smiling, every fibre of his body exhorting me to say it, which I do:
‘Dave too.’
CARING, SHARING
W hen Travis came out of the side door of the Gramercy Park Hotel – avoiding the guy who ran the concession stall, because earlier on he'd been embarrassed by his failure deftly to marshal the correct change – he felt pretty hollow. Brion was right behind him, and although Travis thought he really shouldn't need to, he couldn't help reaching back and clutching the emoto's forty-inch thigh.
Brion's response was immediate; he stooped down and grasping Travis by the generous scruff of his tweed suit, lifted him right up, drew him into his arms, and planted a series of wet kisses on Travis's face, while all the time patting his back and muttering soothing endearments.
Travis felt all the knotted tension in his neck and shoulders begin to ebb away. It was a palpable sensation, just as if the emoto had been rubbing some balm into his exposed skin. Travis sighed deeply and snuggled further into the warm-smelling gap between the brushed cotton collar
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