The Calligrapher Read online

  I had only just returned to the fifth floor and had taken no more than three steps into the gallery proper. But now I doubled back and stood to one side by the wide emergency exit doors at the top of the escalators, waiting for Cécile. Along with everyone else, she was sure to leave this way. There was no longer any need to seek her. And I was rather enjoying all the panic.

  Parents issued taut-voiced instructions to their charges. Scandinavians strode calmly towards the emergency stairs. Italian men put their arms around Italian women. A litter of art-college day-outers roused themselves reluctantly from their beanbags. Two children came careering out of ‘Staging Discord’ opposite. And an American woman began to scream ‘oh my God, oh my God’.

  Given that Irony and Futility still seemed to be filling in for God and Beauty on the art circuit – the thought occurred to me that had I been filming the whole thing, I could perhaps have submitted the results for exhibition myself; perhaps a showing in ‘History Memory Society’: ‘People from All Over the World Leaving in Uncertainty’ (Jasper Jackson, calligrapher and video artist).

  Of course I didn’t actually know that Cécile’s name was Cécile as I fell into place three or four people behind her. (Jostle, jockey, joke and jostle all the way down six flights of unapologetically functional fire stairs.) I didn’t know anything about her at all, except that she had short, choppy, boyish, black hair, a cute denim skirt cut above the knee, thin brown bare legs and unseasonable flip-flops, which flapped on every step as she went. And that she had (quite definitely) winked at me as we circled Rodin’s Kiss.

  Outside, safely asquare the paving slabs of the South Bank, I looked hastily around. The light was thickening. St Paul’s across the Thames – a fat bishop boxed in and stranded flat on his back – and two bloated seagulls, making heavy weather of the homeward journey upstream. Crowds continued to eddy from the building but there was as yet no sign of William or Nathalie or Lucy’s adorable light-brown bob. Still, I had to act quickly.

  Cécile was standing with her back to me, looking across the river.

  ‘Hi.’ I said.

  She turned and then smiled, an elbow jutting out over the railings. ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘That was quite exciting.’ I returned her smile.

  ‘You think there is a fire?’

  I looked doubtful. ‘Probably terrorists or art protestors or rogue vegetarians.’

  ‘I wonder what they save from the flames?’ She bent an idle knee in my direction and swivelled her toe on the sole of her flip-flops. ‘The paintings or the objets?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘Maybe in an emergency they have an order for what to keep – and they begin at the top and then descend until everything is burning too much.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ I said, ‘they just let the bastard go until it’s finished so that they can open up afterwards as a new sort of gallery: Burnt Modern. A new kind of art.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what the protesters want – a new kind of art.’ She was a born flirt.

  I met her eye and moved us on. ‘They evacuated the building very quickly.’

  ‘Yes. But there are some people still coming out, I think.’ She gestured. ‘I like how in an emergency everybody starts to talk. As if because there is a disaster, now we can all be friends happy together.’ She looked past me for a second. ‘Will they let us back in, do you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I am supposed to be going to a restaurant at eight so I don’t think I will be able to wait. This might take a couple of hours.’ I paused. ‘I should find my friends and see if they are OK.’

  ‘Me too. I have already lost them once today – when we were on the London Eye.’

  ‘How long are you in London for?’

  ‘I live here.’ She frowned slightly – amused disparagement.

  I pretended to be embarrassed.

  She relented. ‘I am teaching here.’

  ‘French?’

  ‘Yes.’ A pout masquerading as a smile.

  ‘You have an e-mail address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I write to you, do you think that you’ll reply?’

  ‘Maybe. It depends what you say.’

  I found William sitting on a bench with a diesel-coated pigeon and the man who had earlier been selling the Big Issue outside the main entrance.

  ‘Jasper – Ryan. Ryan – Jasper. We haven’t thought of a name for this little chap yet.’ He indicated the creature now pecking at a chocolate wrapper.

  ‘Where’s Lucy?’ I asked, acknowledging Ryan.

  ‘She’s fetching her bag with Nat. Did you meet anyone nice’ William winked exaggeratedly ‘– in the toilets?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  William did an American accent: ‘I hope you were real gentle with him.’

  Ryan snorted and got up. ‘See you Thursday, Will mate,’ he said, ‘and let’s hope this new bloke knows how to deal with those fucking tambourine bastards.’

  ‘See you later.’ William raised an arm as Ryan left.

  I sat down and was about to speak but William motioned me to be quiet.

  ‘Here they come,’ he said, ‘they’ve seen us.’

  Lucy and Nathalie were making their way towards the bench. William addressed the pigeon: ‘You’ll have to piss off now, old chap, but we’ll catch up again soon, I hope. Let me know how the diet works out.’

  Before we go much further, I should explain that William is one of my firmest friends from the freezing Fenland days of my tertiary education. (Philosophy, I’m afraid, man’s most defiant folly.) I can still remember the pale afternoon, a week or so after we had all arrived for our first year, when we were walking back from a betting shop together and he came out to me. It was going to be very awkward, he confided, and he was at a bit of a dead end with the whole idea because – apart from his sister, who didn’t count – he hadn’t really met any women before now, but – how could he put this?– he was rather worried that he might not be homosexual and – as I seemed to be rather, well, in the know on the subject, as it were – had I any suggestions as to next steps vis-à-vis the ladies?

  Unfortunately, several centuries in the highest ranks of government, church and army had left the men in his family quite unable to imagine women, let alone talk to them. Indeed, William suspected that he was the first male child in sixteen generations not to turn out gay. As I could imagine, this was a severe blow both to him and his lineage but he had tried it with other boys at school on several occasions and there was absolutely nothing doing. The truth of the matter was that he liked girls; and that was that. And as he was now nearing twenty, he rather felt that he should be getting on with it. Could I offer any pointers?

  Naturally, things have moved on a good deal since then and these days Will is regularly trumpeted by various tedious publications as one of the most eligible men in London. He is an invaluable ally and well known on the doors of all good venues – early evening, private and exclusive as well as late night, public and squalid. I regret to say, however, that his approach remains erratic and hopelessly undisciplined. Though many women find him attractive, the execution of his actual seductions is not always the most appropriate. It is as if a strain of latent homosexuality bedevils his genes – like an over-attentive waiter at a business lunch.

  All else aside, William is the most effortlessly charming man that anybody who meets him has ever met. He is also genuinely kind. And though he claims to feel terribly let down by the astonishing triviality of modern life, this is merely an intellectual arras behind which he chooses to conceal a rare species of idealism. He does not believe in God or mankind but he visits churches whenever he is abroad and runs a music charity for tramps.

  On the subject of William’s relationship with Nathalie … Back in March, he claimed that it was purely platonic and I have to say that I think he was telling the truth. Under light questioning, he explained that it was only in this way that he could maintain the exclusivity of their intimacy since –
of the few women who shared his bed from time to time – Nathalie was the only one with whom he was not having sex. They were therefore bound together by uncompromised affection and happily unable to cheat on one another. (She, too, I understood, was at complete liberty.) This approach, he confided, was an ingenious variation on the arrangement his forefathers had shared with their various wives since they had first come to prominence (under Edward II); dynastic obligations aside, they had kept sex resolutely outside of marriage, thereby removing all serious woes, threats and resentment from their lives.

  A little before midnight, the birthday evening’s rightful enchaînement having been long re-established, Lucy and I were alone at last, intimately ensconced at the corner of the largest table in La Belle Epoque, my favourite French restaurant. We were considering the last of our dessert with a certain languid desire, and feeling about as happy as two young lovers can reasonably expect to feel in a London so beleaguered by medieval licensing laws. A little drunk perhaps, a little reckless with the cross-table kissing, a little laissez-faire with the last of the Latour; but undeniably at ease with one another and, well, having a good time. The bill was paid and my friends had all left – William and Nathalie among the last to go, along with Don, another university friend, over from New York, with his wife, Cal, and Pete, Don’s fashion-photographer brother, who had arrived with a beautiful Senegalese woman called Angel.

  If pressed, the casual observer would probably have informed you that he was watching a boyfriend and girlfriend quietly canoodling while they awaited a final pair of espressos. If he was any good at description, this observer might have gone on to say that the woman was around twenty-eight, five-foot six or seven, slim, with dead straight, bobbed, light-brown hair, which – he might have further noticed – she had a habit of hooking behind her ears. Had he dashed over and stolen my chair while I visited the gents’, he would also have been able to tell you that her face was very slightly freckled, principally across the bridge of her nose, that she had thin lips (but a nice smile), that her eyes were a beseeching shade of green and that she liked to sit straight in her chair, cross her legs and loosen her right shoe so she could balance it, swinging a little, on her extended big toe. He might have rounded the whole thing off with some remarks about how – even now – England can still turn out these roses every once in a while. But at this stage we would surely have to dispute his claims to being casual and tell him to fuck off.

  It is more or less true to say that back then, Lucy and I were more or less a year into it – our relationship, that is. I’m not sure why – these things happen …

  Actually, I am sure why: because I liked Lucy very much. That is to say, I still like Lucy very much. Which is to say I have always liked Lucy very much. Lucy is the sort of woman who makes the human race worth the running. She’s not stupid or simpering, and she only laughs when something is funny. She’s intelligent and she knows her history. Yes, she can be cautious, but she’s quick-witted (a lawyer by profession) and she will smile when she sees she has won a point. Then she’ll pass on because she’s as sensitive to other people’s embarrassment as quicksilver to the temperature of a room. She keeps lists of things to do. She remembers what people have said, but doesn’t hold it against them. She seldom talks about her family. And she has no time for magazines or horoscopes. If you were sitting with us in some newly opened London eatery, privately wishing you had an ashtray for your cigarette, you might well find that she had discreetly nudged one to a place just by your elbow. Which is how we met.

  Even so, it is with regret that I must add that Lucy is a nutcase. But I didn’t know that then. That all came later.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she said, putting her finger to my lips for good measure.

  I did as I was told and lowered my voice. ‘You haven’t organized a –’

  ‘Too late. It’s tough. I’ve got you a big cake with candles and all the waiters are going to join in with “Happy Birthday to You”, so you’ll just have to sit still and act appreciative.’

  I heard the rustle of a bag and the stocky chink of espresso cups.

  ‘OK, open your eyes.’

  A young waiter with a napkin over his shoulder hovered nearby – curious. A neatly wrapped present lay on the table.

  Lucy smiled, infectiously. ‘Go ahead: guess.’

  I leant across and kissed her.

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Earrings?’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘A gold locket with a picture of Princess Diana?’

  ‘Oh, go on, for God’s sake … open it.’

  I undid her neat wrapping and unclasped the dark velvet case: a gentleman’s watch with a leather strap, three hands and Roman numerals. I held it carefully in my palm.

  ‘So now you have no excuses.’ Her eyes were full of delight. ‘You can never be late again.’

  I felt that tug of gladness that you get when someone you care about is happy. ‘I won’t be late again, I promise,’ I said.

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘Not for as long as the watch keeps time.’

  ‘It has a twenty-five-year guarantee.’

  ‘Well, that’s at least twenty-five years of me being on time then.’

  On the face of it ‘Confined Love’ is one of John Donne’s more transparent poems: a man railing against the confinement of fidelity. Neither birds nor beasts are faithful, says his narrator, nor do they risk reprimand or sanctions when they lie abroad. Sun, moon and stars cast their light where they like, ships are not rigged to lie in harbours, nor houses built to be locked up … The metaphors are soon backed up nose to tail, honking their horns, like off-road vehicles in a downtown jam.

  On the face of it, Donne, the young man about town, Master of the Revels at Lincoln’s Inn, seems to be striding robustly through his lines, booting the sanctimonious aside with a ribald rhythm and easy rhyme, on his way to wherever the next assignation happens to be. But actually, that’s not the point of the poem. That’s not what ‘Confined Love’ is about at all.

  2. The Prohibition

  Take heed of loving me,

  At least remember, I forbade it thee;

  Some introductions. My name, as you may have gathered, is Jasper Jackson. I am twenty-nine years old. And I am a calligrapher.

  My birthday, 9th March, falls exactly midway between Valentine’s Day and April Fool’s – except when there’s a leap year, when it comes closer to the latter.

  What else? I am an orphan. I have no recollection of the day itself but it would appear that my father, the young and dashing George Jackson, wrapped both himself and my mother, Elizabeth, around a Devon tree while trying to defeat his friends in their start-of-the-holiday motor race from Paddington to Penzance. My mother did not die straightaway but I was never taken to visit her in hospital.

  From the age of four onwards (and very luckily for me), my upbringing and education was placed in the hands of Grace Jackson, my father’s mother, at whose Oxford home I was staying when news of the accident arrived. In a way, therefore, my entire life can be viewed as one long, extended holiday at my grandmother’s. And I am pleased to report that I can recall nothing but happiness from my early years. Even the reprimands I remember only with affection.

  It is a hot summer afternoon. The whole town is wearing shorts or less. My grandmother and I stand contentedly in the grocer’s queue. We are buying black cherries – a special treat – as a prelude to our usual Saturday afternoon tea. (Grandmother has a fondness for scones on Saturdays.) I am holding the fruit in a brown paper bag, waiting to hand them up to be weighed. My movements go unnoticed because I am living at waist height (oh, happy days). I glance around. I see a red-haired girl about my age passing by the vegetable stands outside. One hand is holding her mother’s and the other is clutching the sticky stick of an orange iced-lollipop, which is cocked at a dangerous angle and visibly melting as she half-skips along.

  I move without thinking. Still carrying the cherries, in a second I am out
of the shop and on to the street. I turn one corner, then another. For the first time in my life – with exaggerated care – I cross a main road alone. There is a cry behind me – my grandmother. Then comes a shout – a man from the shop running along the pavement after me. The girl turns, wrist pivoting on her mother’s arm; the ice slides clean off and drops to the pavement. My sweetheart registers the disaster for a long moment, then her grey eyes come slowly up and look directly into mine. I too am visibly melting. I am five or maybe six.

  But scolding was never my grandmother’s strong suit. Rather, she believed in punishment by improvement. (Perhaps this was because we had, between us, lost too many relatives to waste time being cross with each other: my grandfather had died suddenly, while in Cairo on business just after the Suez crisis.) So once we had returned the cherries, there were a few serious words – ‘Jasper, you cannot go anywhere by yourself until you are twelve, do you understand?’ – and then it was off to the library with me for a miserable afternoon indoors. Which was a blow because I had been planning to play on, my bike with Douglas Wilson from down the road.

  I say miserable, but actually the library in question was beautiful, the most beautiful in Britain. Although, due to the war. Grandmother never finished her post-graduate work (something to do with medieval French), Somerville College felt that she was far too clever a scholar to lose. And when she returned from Egypt with my father still a boy and a pitiful widow’s pension, they quickly made her deputy librarian. By the time I arrived on the scene, two decades later, she had become an authority on late medieval manuscripts at the glorious Bodleian, a building in which, I maintain, it is impossible to be anything but enthralled – even when, ostensibly, one is being punished.