"The Red Tie" - 7
Weekly serialisation of my short dystopian thriller.
Frank spreads the newspaper out on the kitchen table.
“Dear Sirs,” he reads, “I feel compelled to offer my congratulations and thanks to the Government in relation to their recent homelessness initiative. The people who have been littering our streets with their filthy boxes and bags can only be detrimental to the overall well-being of our society, not to mention doing themselves no good at all. I understand that a few will be true hard luck cases, but I suspect the majority are addicts, criminals, or simply too lazy to work. We have been pandering to the few at a cost to the many for far too long, and the new programme you have introduced in terms of Community Work Places seems to me the perfect antidote for all concerned.”
He takes off his glasses and lays them on the paper, then looks up to where Deirdre is cleaning dishes at the sink.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“About what?”
“My letter.” He is frustrated that she hasn’t stopped what she is doing in order to listen to his reading. “In the paper.”
At this Deirdre drops her hands to her side and turns. “What do you want me to say?”
“What you think, of course. About the letter.”
“I can see why they published it,” she says, then turns her back on him again.
“Which means?”
“That you’ve written what they wanted someone to write, that’s all. You’ve articulated what most people are thinking; justified the Government’s actions.”
Frank is unsure what to do with her comment so puts a positive spin on it. “Well then; that’s exactly what I was trying to do.”
“And you believe it?” Again from over her shoulder.
“Believe what?”
“What you’ve written.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Vincent glanced up from the book to where Marcus was sitting at the other end of the park bench.
“What do you think?” Marcus asked.
“About this?” Vincent looked back at the highlighted passage unsure what kind of critique the older man was expecting. He had asked to meet Marcus again because there were some elements of the controller’s job about which he wanted clarification, yet seemed to have found himself in an impromptu exam.
Marcus nodded.
“It’s well-written, I suppose; a simple domestic scene. Nothing remarkable in that. Entirely believable, as I’m sure such things happen. I doubt the relationship between husband and wife is entirely harmonious.”
“All true, but largely superficial.” Marcus was smiling. “But from a controller’s perspective; would there be anything there about which to be concerned?”
Vincent skimmed the passage again. “I don’t think so. It all seems perfectly banal.”
At this Marcus laughed loudly, and the younger man was forced to glance across the park to see if there was anyone nearby who might have been attracted by the sound. Apart from a few people near the fountain at the far gates, the two men had this particular corner to themselves.
“It’s a superb piece of writing,” Marcus slipped into mentor-mode, “and an absolute minefield for a controller.” He paused long enough to slide closer, then took the book from him, pointing to the text as he spoke. “You’re right in that it’s a normal domestic scene; perfectly believable, as you say. But it tells us so much; not only that there was an issue with homelessness, but also the general public’s view on it — i.e. Frank’s view — as well as an indication as to the Government’s theoretical actions. ‘Theoretical’, mind. The homeless are shirkers; that’s what Frank is saying and what the novel tells us most people believed. But the Government’s policy — in this work of fiction remember — although couched in benevolence, is essentially forced labour.”
“But it doesn’t say that,” Vincent protested.
“Of course it doesn’t; not explicitly. And if it did, we might have to cut it out.” He pointed at the exchange with Deidre. “This is where we find out. You’re right that there’s tension there, and we not unnaturally assume it’s merely domestic: she doesn’t stop what she’s doing so that she can listen to him; she’s somewhat dismissive about his letter; and she doesn’t agree with him. Oh, she may not say as much, but it’s all there. ‘And you believe it?’ she says — because she doesn’t. That’s where the writing is clever; it shows us Frank as a puppet who can’t think for himself and, through Deidre, suggests there might be an alternative view — and one the reader might want to consider for themselves.”
Vincent took the book back and examined the words again. “But it didn’t get edited out.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a good piece of writing; not just technically, but because it has layers of meaning — layers that most people wouldn’t get. And that’s partly because people tend not to read thoroughly. Their reaction, their normal reaction, would be like yours: Deidre hates her husband, end of story.”
Getting a clue from the way Marcus had spoken, Vincent’s next question was one he might have posed earlier. “Did you work on this?”
“I did.”
“But you saw those other things. Shouldn’t you have done something about them?”
“Cut them out, you mean?”
Vincent nodded.
“And ruin a perfectly accurate domestic scene?” Marcus laughed again.
“But the controller’s job…”
“Indeed, the controller’s job. But there is also the role of the citizen too, don’t you think? And there is always a different take on things, an alternative viewpoint. Who am I to stifle that — especially in a work of fiction?” Marcus paused, taking the book back and closing it. “One of the greatest skills a controller has to have isn’t to know what needs to be cut out, but to understand what needs to be left in. You may discover that for yourself one day.”
*
On edge for most of the afternoon, when Marina arrives a little after five Vincent is unsure whether her finally being there eases or heightens the apprehension he has been feeling. He had spent the morning doing his laundry, then walked to the local shop in order to buy another over-priced bottle of wine, concerned that she might prefer red to the white he had already procured. He knows little about wine, and in the end made his choice based on a grape variety of which he had heard, and on the wine’s strength, just under ten percent. A few years previously he had worked on a book about the history of western Europe, a potted version of events in France, Germany, Spain and elsewhere from the eighteenth to the end of the last century. All were wine-producing countries, and the book had contained a small addendum contrasting their viniculture. Vincent knows, therefore, that good wines used to boast strengths around thirteen percent, and that the best were from a single variety of grape. Such wines are still available he believes, but they are only within reach of the very few — the rich and the powerful. The red wine he eventually took home was of dubious vintage and obscure origin.
Marina had breezed into the house, accepted the very quick tour of the downstairs rooms (essentially just a lounge, a toilet, a walk-in cupboard, and the kitchen), and then set to work. Placing the two bags she brought with her onto the work-surface (and some of their contents into Vincent’s small fridge), she seeks out a frying pan and two saucepans, and — as she puts it — “your best knife”. She is cooking a pasta dish with chicken, and has assumed he would be fine with that. He tells her has a white wine as an accompaniment. Both proposals are acceptable; it is as if they have negotiated some kind of trade deal.
For the best part of an hour Vincent sits at the small kitchen table ostensibly reading, yet all the while watches Marina as she works. Evidently using the smaller of the two saucepans to prepare the sauce, he finds himself mesmerised by the way in which she tackles its components: the onion chopped into small precise pieces, the garlic expertly diced until it appears more like a paste than anything else. She is exact with her measurements of ingredients too, particularly spices. On the whole, it is an operation unlike anything he had ever seen. And all the while she has been happy to maintain a low-key dialogue with him. She asks about where he was born, his childhood, his education; and he furnishes her with suitably detailed answers, almost as if that is the price he has agreed to pay for her cooking their meal. When he tries a similar tack to establish something about her, she is subtly evasive, and while seeming to answer his questions manages to leave him with the sense that he hasn’t uncovered very much at all. Perhaps discovering that she lives on the other side of town, somewhere near the zoo, is his most concrete find — but even then that is little more than a guess based on the number of a tram line.
“Sorry about your friend,” she says, filling a slightly longer silence a little after six-twenty, stirring the sauce as she does so. Vincent looks up from his book. It is the second time she has made such a comment. “From your department.”
“Noah? I didn’t think it was public knowledge outside of our team.”
“You’re right, it isn’t.” She pauses to put some heat under the water-filled large saucepan. “It’s just that I know someone in the communications department and occasionally he tells me what’s coming up in the next staff briefing. He knew I was coming to see you — I told him where you worked and that you’d mentioned ‘Noah’ the last time we spoke — and he put two and two together, as they say.”
“Isn’t that, I don’t know, dangerous?”
Marina laughs as if that is the most ridiculous thing she has ever heard. “Of course not! He knows he can trust me. And anyway, if I betrayed his confidence then I would be in just as much trouble wouldn’t I?”
“And now you’ve told me.”
She laughs again. “Don’t be silly! Now set the table, I’m going to heat the pasta soon.”
Vincent does as he’s told, putting out plates and coasters, cutlery and glasses, as if it is the most natural thing in the world for him to do — and not at all as if he had practiced earlier that afternoon.
A little before seven Marina serves the pasta and chicken sauce, and they sit down to eat. Vincent offers a toast in thanks; she laughs again. Every time she does so she appears younger, and he struggles again — as he has struggled ever since he met her — to assign her an age.
The food is delicious.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asks.
“At home, when I was younger.” She puts down her fork and picks up her glass. “We lived on a small farm out in the country. Most of the time it was just my mother, my two sisters, and me. My father was away quite a lot of the time; he worked for the Ministry. We had chickens mainly; a few pigs; very small crops of vegetables. Just what the four of us girls could practically manage. It was a limited palette, so we had to be inventive with our cooking in order to avoid boredom. And then my mother introduced a competitive element to proceedings.”
“‘Competitive element’? What do you mean?”
“As soon as we were all old enough, she had my sisters and I each cook once a week. It was, she said, good practice for the future. And it spurred us on to try things out, for our meal to be better than the others’.” Marina takes a sip of wine then puts her glass back on the table.
“Were you the best?”
Another laugh. “I like to think so!” She looks at her plate as she spears a piece of chicken. “This was always one of my favourites.”
“I’ve never had anything like it,” Vincent confesses. “And I mean that in a good way!”
The food and the laughter having relaxed them, he feels himself on more solid ground.
“And then you left the farm and came to the city?”
She scoops up some more pasta. “Yes. My father got me a job in the Ministry.” She stops briefly. “No, that sounds like something it isn’t. He got me an introduction, an interview. I got the job. Very low-level, of course; menial admin work. I’ve moved on a little since then.”
“Does he still work there, your father?”
She shakes her head. “Semi-retired; I think that’s how you’d describe him.”
“What did he do?” As soon as the words are out, Vincent knows he has crossed a line. It is not the sort of question you asked, prying into the roles of Ministry employees. He backtracks. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. I’m an idiot. And you probably can’t tell me anyway.”
Having taken the last of the chicken from her plate, Marina smiles. “Shall we go and sit in the other room? We can wash-up later.”
They spend the next half an hour sitting side-by-side on the sofa, their conversation meandering through innocuous topics: favourite parts of the city; favourite tram line; most inspiring books they have read; the best book Vincent has worked on — and then the most difficult. She seems intrigued as to the process he goes through when tackling a text, what he has to look for; and in fiction, how he makes his choices as to what he edits out or leaves in. These are, he assumes, questions of an avid reader, and so he is happy that she seems interested, that the focus is on him. As he downs the last of the wine, he wonders what he had been so nervous about.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asks, making to get up.
Her hand on his arm stays him.
“Am I forgiven?” she asks.
“For what?”
“If you remember, I’m here as a kind of penance, payment for intruding into your life so suddenly and so clumsily.”
He smiles. “Nothing to forgive. I’m glad you’re here.”
There is a moment where neither of them move. The house is eerily silent as if all sound has been sucked from it. Had you been in the lounge and stood by the window, you might have heard a tram rattling two streets away, or the quiet conversation of two people walking the pavement outside. In a nearby tree an owl hoots.
But Vincent hears none of that, transfixed as he watches Marina’s hand move from his arm up to his chest. Once there, her fingers undo one of his shirt buttons. Returning his gaze to her face, he finds her intent on his eyes, her hand moving by feel alone. As he searches for a clue, he feels a frown begin to build — only for it to be chased away by the beginning of a smile on her lips. Raising his own hands, he places them on her shoulders, watching all the time for instruction, permission. And then he moves them to her blouse, begins to undo the buttons there, and when they are all loosed, peels back her shirt to reveal her white bra, her slightly freckled chest.
She leans back on to sofa and pulls him towards her. They kiss. Hesitant at first, he is intoxicated by her confidence as her tongue explores his, and for a few minutes is completely lost. Then she eases him away, arches her back, allows his hands to find the clasp of her bra. Once undone, he slips the straps from her shoulders and drops the bra to the floor. Her breasts are shapely rather than large, her nipples — only slightly darker than her skin — small but proud. He bends his head to them; gathers them, each in turn, into his mouth; licks them with his tongue; caresses the mounds of her breasts with his hands. And all the while she lays back, her head now bent slightly away from him, her hands on the back of his head, in his hair.
After a minute or so he pushes himself away from her.
“Wow,” he says. She is still smiling.
“Forgiven then,” she jokes, and pulls him into another kiss.
They remain locked like that for a little longer until, lifting himself up again, he watches his own hands as they run down from her breasts onto her belly and from there to the button in the waistband of her trousers. As he begins to release it, Marina’s hand lands on his, envelops his fingers, stills them.
“I don’t think so, do you?”
And with those words the spell is broken.
Sitting a little more upright, the Marina reclining before him suddenly seems like a different person, as if the one who had been there just moments previously was banished with those words. He feels a frown forming again — one she does nothing to chase away.
“I need to be getting back,” she says, a tone of apology in her voice. “My last tram is in less than an hour and we need to wash up; and I need to get my things together.”
“You could…” he begins, but is immediately unsure what she could or could not do. Indeed, he has no idea about himself either. “I…” But it is another unfinished, inadequate sentence.
“I know,” she says, smiling again as she retrieves her bra from the floor and, with a dexterity that surprises him, puts it on in what seems like an instant.
Vincent cannot help but stare at the soft material of the bra cups as if the flesh they cradle is nothing more than something mythological he once read about in a book.
She pecks him on the cheek as she stands — “I’ll wash, you dry” — and is suddenly gone from the room.
If you can’t wait for the rest of the serialisation, you can buy a discounted copy of the book.