(no subject)
His mother always called him Stevie, and his lovers called him Richard, Harold, John, Percy and Lee.
He had something of the good looks of old and young in his face. He used them in front of different people, and at different times of the day, seeming older in front of a roaring fire, younger when debating things. The way he talked, you might have thought he was an idealist. But I knew him well, and he was one of those revolutionaries without a battle to fight: there is nothing more pathetic, believe me.
He dressed down all the time, and with an air of condescension. Turning up for parties in a cardigan, the arrogant turn of his lip hidden by a handsome grin. If he was self-deprecating, it was because he was backed up by oilwells of confidence, that his mother left him like a trust fund.
He played the part of a spy, who sold secrets to both sides. Sometimes you'd torture him for answers for ages, and when you were exhausted, he'd give you the information anyway. I realise now, of course, that for him torture was to be ignored. If he was ever quiet, it was because he was thinking of what to say.
You have an image of him, haven't you? You think that you know someone like him: you imagine him as being full of charm. But I knew him well, and he had none. He once punched me in the face, in the middle of my office. It was one of those things that are so extraordinary that you don't mention them afterwards - he carried on talking, and so did I.
Did we see the end coming? You always look for signs, afterwards. There is the initial egocentricity of "was it my fault?", as if the world revolved around you, and then you think "but could I have known?". Looking through older photographs, you analyse the distance between them and other people. You stare really hard into their smiling eyes, willing some pain to come to the surface. We make our own ghosts.
No-one tells you this, but death touches everything. After someone dies, it feels like a mark, or a curse. You notice death more - you think about your own death, and this allows you to weep a few hypocritical tears for the dearly departed. Shadows in photographs become pronounced, and memories change as you realise that you are now the only one to have experienced them.
You "meet" the dead person several times again. Old answering machine messages, letters, and the things you borrowed from them. I met Steven one last time standing on the balcony of his office, from where he jumped. There were several potted plants by my foot, and as I reached down I noticed that their petals were plastic. That's when I remembered: Steven was afraid of heights.
Our mother always called him Stevie, and his lovers called him Richard, Harold, John, Percy and Lee. But I knew him well, and from the time we played with crab-apples in the park to the time he was diagnosed with alcoholism three days after Christmas, his days were nothing but a waste of breath, believe me.