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Authors: Jonathan Coe
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asked, ‘did I say anything?’
‘Not much, no. I thought you were rather unfriendly. But then I don’t tend to give up very easily: so I’ve kept trying.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and sat down in an armchair. ‘Thank you.’
Fiona was left standing by the door. ‘I’ll go then, shall I?’
‘No – please – if you could just bear with me a little longer. We might get somewhere. Please, sit down.’
Fiona hesitated, and before coming to sit down on the sofa opposite me, she opened the door to the landing outside and left it ajar. I pretended not to have noticed this. She perched on the edge of the sofa, her back arched and her hands folded unhappily in her lap.
‘What were you saying just now?’ I asked.
‘You want me to go through all that again?’
‘Just briefly. In a couple of words.’
‘I was asking you to sponsor me. I’m doing a sponsored bike ride, for the hospital.’ She passed me the sheet of A4 paper, roughly half of which was covered with signatures.
A few lines at the top of the paper explained the nature of the event, and what the money was being raised for. I read them quickly and said, ‘Forty miles sounds an awful long way. You must be very fit.’
‘Well, I’ve never done anything quite like this before. I thought it would get me out and about.’
I folded the paper in two, laid it aside and thought for a moment. I could feel a new energy rising in me and the temptation to laugh, odd though it would have seemed, was quite powerful. ‘Do you know what the funny thing is?’ I said. ‘Shall I tell you the really funny thing?’
‘Please do.’
‘This is the longest conversation I’ve had – the most I’ve talked to someone – for something like two years. More than two years, I think. The longest.’
Fiona laughed in disbelief. ‘But we’ve barely spoken.’
‘None the less.’
She laughed again. ‘But that’s ridiculous. Have you been on a desert island or something?’
‘No. I’ve been right here.’
A confused shake of the head. ‘Well how come?’
‘I don’t know: I just didn’t want to. It hasn’t been a conscious decision or anything, it’s just that the occasion’s never arisen. It’s easy, you’d be surprised. I suppose in the old days you’d have to have talked to someone: going into shops and things. But now you can do all your shopping in the supermarket, and you can do all your banking by machine, and that’s about it.’
A thought occurred to me, and I got up to lift the receiver on the telephone. It was still connected.
‘Does my voice sound strange to you? How does it sound?’
‘It sounds fine. Quite normal.’
‘What about this flat? Does it smell?’
‘It’s a bit … close, yes.’
I picked up the remote control for the television and was about to switch off. The young boy with the locked, expressionless eyes, his back as tense and rigid as Fiona’s when she had sat down on my sofa, was no longer on the screen: but the avuncular man with the big grin and the heavy black moustache was still stomping around, this time in full military uniform and surrounded by men of the same age and nationality and bearing. I watched him for a few seconds and felt another memory beginning to recover its shape.
‘I know who that is,’ I said, pointing and clicking my finger. ‘It’s – whatsisname – President of Iraq …’
‘Michael, everyone knows who that is. It’s Saddam Hussein.’
‘That’s right. Saddam.’ Then, before turning the television off, I asked: ‘Who was that boy with him? The one he was trying to put his arms around?’
‘Haven’t you been watching the news? That was one of the hostages. He’s been parading them on television, as if they were cattle or something.’
This made little sense to me, but I could tell it was not the moment for elaborate explanations. I switched the television off and said – listening with interest to my own voice – ‘I’m sorry, you must think I’m being
‘Not much, no. I thought you were rather unfriendly. But then I don’t tend to give up very easily: so I’ve kept trying.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and sat down in an armchair. ‘Thank you.’
Fiona was left standing by the door. ‘I’ll go then, shall I?’
‘No – please – if you could just bear with me a little longer. We might get somewhere. Please, sit down.’
Fiona hesitated, and before coming to sit down on the sofa opposite me, she opened the door to the landing outside and left it ajar. I pretended not to have noticed this. She perched on the edge of the sofa, her back arched and her hands folded unhappily in her lap.
‘What were you saying just now?’ I asked.
‘You want me to go through all that again?’
‘Just briefly. In a couple of words.’
‘I was asking you to sponsor me. I’m doing a sponsored bike ride, for the hospital.’ She passed me the sheet of A4 paper, roughly half of which was covered with signatures.
A few lines at the top of the paper explained the nature of the event, and what the money was being raised for. I read them quickly and said, ‘Forty miles sounds an awful long way. You must be very fit.’
‘Well, I’ve never done anything quite like this before. I thought it would get me out and about.’
I folded the paper in two, laid it aside and thought for a moment. I could feel a new energy rising in me and the temptation to laugh, odd though it would have seemed, was quite powerful. ‘Do you know what the funny thing is?’ I said. ‘Shall I tell you the really funny thing?’
‘Please do.’
‘This is the longest conversation I’ve had – the most I’ve talked to someone – for something like two years. More than two years, I think. The longest.’
Fiona laughed in disbelief. ‘But we’ve barely spoken.’
‘None the less.’
She laughed again. ‘But that’s ridiculous. Have you been on a desert island or something?’
‘No. I’ve been right here.’
A confused shake of the head. ‘Well how come?’
‘I don’t know: I just didn’t want to. It hasn’t been a conscious decision or anything, it’s just that the occasion’s never arisen. It’s easy, you’d be surprised. I suppose in the old days you’d have to have talked to someone: going into shops and things. But now you can do all your shopping in the supermarket, and you can do all your banking by machine, and that’s about it.’
A thought occurred to me, and I got up to lift the receiver on the telephone. It was still connected.
‘Does my voice sound strange to you? How does it sound?’
‘It sounds fine. Quite normal.’
‘What about this flat? Does it smell?’
‘It’s a bit … close, yes.’
I picked up the remote control for the television and was about to switch off. The young boy with the locked, expressionless eyes, his back as tense and rigid as Fiona’s when she had sat down on my sofa, was no longer on the screen: but the avuncular man with the big grin and the heavy black moustache was still stomping around, this time in full military uniform and surrounded by men of the same age and nationality and bearing. I watched him for a few seconds and felt another memory beginning to recover its shape.
‘I know who that is,’ I said, pointing and clicking my finger. ‘It’s – whatsisname – President of Iraq …’
‘Michael, everyone knows who that is. It’s Saddam Hussein.’
‘That’s right. Saddam.’ Then, before turning the television off, I asked: ‘Who was that boy with him? The one he was trying to put his arms around?’
‘Haven’t you been watching the news? That was one of the hostages. He’s been parading them on television, as if they were cattle or something.’
This made little sense to me, but I could tell it was not the moment for elaborate explanations. I switched the television off and said – listening with interest to my own voice – ‘I’m sorry, you must think I’m being
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