Ned (9)

Long after the cabaret has finished and the stewardess has pulled the curtains, Ned is still talking. Now, though, he isn’t quite as excitable. The rapid flow has abated – the words and subject matter more carefully chosen. It’s as if the alcohol, the furore with the girls, and the dreamy passage into early morning, have conspired against the whacky grandfather and he’s beginning to shed his outer shell. Firmly planted in his seat, the fingers of his left hand dovetailed in his right, he sits like some yogi and tenderly recalls his own grandfather, a Cossack from the Ukraine, who rode a white stallion to the surrounding villages delivering mail, summoning the inhabitants with a handbell.

   ‘My father fled sometime early this this century. Headed for New York. Had barely twenty bucks in his pocket. Couldn’t speak a word of English. Nearly starved to death on the streets. That’s how desperate it was…..how desperate he was. Then salvation! He found a pram. An old rusty pram. Used what little money he had left to buy up groceries wholesale. Then he’d put the groceries in the pram, go round the neighbourhood and sell at a profit. And you know how he announced himself ? With a handbell. Just like his father.’

   By the time Ned was born the pram had been transformed into a string of shops.

   ‘I started working for the old man but it didn’t last. He was a tough task-master and anyhow I had itchy feet. Wanted to see places – know that feeling ? So I got into advertising. Cigarettes. Can you believe that ? I’d go from place to place with a midget – yeah, a goddamned midget! – advertising Lucky Strikes. The midget’d do a song and dance routine while I gave away free samples to the crowd. That’s how I got to know so much about the tobacco companies. After that I got into insurance. That was a fine industry for a young man to go into in those days. And boy did I travel. London, Paris, Rome – first great love of my life I met in Bond Street. She was a diamond cutter. We used to meet up in Leicester Square. You familiar with the beautician, Eleanor Rubenstein ? We went to a party of hers at some swish country house. My girl knew her, see. Used to shape her diamonds. Started out with nothing, Eleanor Rubenstein. Made a goddamned fortune on the back of her grandmother’s face cream. That’s the dream for ya, boy. The great American dream.’

   Robert feels a need to intervene. In the enthusiasm of his recollections – and Robert is certain it is an action motivated by nothing other than enthusiasm – Ned has placed one of his hands on Robert’s knee. The situation is enough to make Robert feel uncomfortable so he asks him, rather unimaginatively, what he does for a living. The question has the desired effect and Ned leans back in his chair.’

   ‘Now ? I’m just a playboy. I’ve been retired some twenty years. I travel. Everywhere and anywhere. I was in Bucharest when they shot that dog Caucescu. Hey, here’s a funny story. Once I ended up in bed with a high ranking UN official. It was at a conference in the Far East. I’d had too much liquor. In the dark I go into the wrong room…..get into the wrong bed! It was like somethin’ out of one of those French plays. He just rolls over and says: “Don’t worry about it pal. But I warn you – I’ve ordered a 5 am early morning call.” Then he just turns over and goes back to sleep. Can you believe that ?’

   Ned laughs and as he does so rocks forward. He rocks forward to such an extent that Robert is worried the old man is about to lose his balance and tip straight over. But he manages to redistribute his weight just in time and sits back in his chair.

   And then, tears.

   Ned stands and extends his hand and thanks Robert for a swell evening. Not once during their conversation has there been any mention of a mother, a wife, or children.

   King Ned the Enigmatic Robert christens him as he makes his way, somewhat unsteadily, to his cabin. Despite the lengthy four hour amble through the whacky grandfather’s life Robert still feels he knows nothing. Then again, why should the old guy tell Robert anything ? The past is all we’ve got and Robert suspects that Ned’s past is a bit like the trolley he pulls around – fragile, hastily thrown together, with a few choice memories so painful that they’ve been locked away in an old buff case.

   Lying in his bunk Robert reads how Monsier Lherus comforted Emma Bovary over her lost greyhound by giving her examples of wayward dogs returning to their owners after many years absence. The greyhound image stays with him. In that strange land between the world of consciousness and the world of sleep, Robert finds himself on a boat filled with greyhounds. Sitting opposite him is Helen and the children. They’re laughing. Robert is laughing. All the greyhounds on the boat are howling. The corridors echo with the sound of laughter and howling. It’s like a mass act of defiance – a kind of protest against the injustices of an old man’s forgotten past.

   At breakfast Robert looks out for Ned but he’s nowhere to be seen. Even as the boat docks and he’s standing in the reception area waiting to alight with all the other foot passengers, there’s still no sign on the American. Instead Robert falls into conversation with a young backpacker – a Dane who speaks such impeccable English that at first Robert mistakes him for a fellow countryman. ‘Been here before ?’ the young man asks. ‘No’ Robert says. ‘just visiting a friend I know – a student named Kirsten.’ The young backpacker smiles a knowing smile, winks and wishes Robert good luck.

   As the bow doors open and the ferry passengers prepare to surge toward the gangplank, Robert wants to correct the young man, wants to say No, it’s not like that, it’s not what you think, I’m just taking some time out, taking a break, I’ll be returning home after a few days, returning home to put things back on track…because Robert’s seen the future, his future without Helen and the girls, and it’s a future filled with sadness and loneliness, a future he doesn’t much care for. But it’s too late for him to tell the backpacker. The crowd sweep him forward and he loses sight of his fleeting friend, loses sight, too, of all his selfish dreams, as if suddenly they’re fleeting and inconsequential things, barbarians packed in a buff case, floating to the bottom of the sea.