Telegram Books: From 'Water' by Jasper Joffe

Foreword

All first novels are autobiographical is perhaps the most boring thing you could ever say in the world. And I hate this jocular first-person style. Repetition is tragedy, repeated as farce, repeated as boredom, repeated as pomposity etc, etc.

I was telling a friend about this book, that the theme was that even though you love someone you can still mess it all up. And she started crying. So I think it must be a good story, or maybe she was just thinking about something else.

My name is Nathaniel Water and I want this to be the best novel you have ever read because it is about me and I am the most interesting person I have ever met. I am introduced to people with so-called first-class minds all the time and they are most often stupid and not amusing to talk to. In contrast, I am always thinking about what would entertain the people I am with, and worrying about what they are thinking. That's part of why I am so interesting (as well as, of course, because I am preternaturally talented).

An autobiographical novel? Well, yes and no. This is really not what happened. But I refuse not to enjoy and exalt my life, and I will not renounce one thing I have done, so I have put it all into this book. My second wife used to get enraged when I told her I loved life (she would have preferred I told her I loved her, but she and I wore those words out), but it is true, I do love life; I read in an Isaac Bashevis Singer story that of all lies the greatest falsehood is melancholy. Life must be got on with because death is relatively imminent, and as far as I know that will mean non-existence. Even when I am totally miserable and nihilistic, I usually see some tiny thing on the tube or on TV which makes me laugh - confirming the greatness of life.

I married two women. Imagine one beautiful, Slovakian and difficult; the other, pretty, successful, German and normal. I wasn't a bigamist, or bigmatic if that is the adjective, but the two marriages were in close enough proximity to raise questions about my judgement. Both wives became pregnant because they wanted children and I think sex is better without a safety net. Only one gave birth. I left each of my wives at least once, and I deserted them both when they were weak and in hospital. I hate repetition, as I have said before, but I am always doing the same things over and over again. I pursued and married these women because I had to do something with my life when I wasn't painting, and marriage was the most daring (stupidest) option for someone who gets bored easily.

Don't read this next bit too carefully. When you try and say anything general about art it always comes out dumb and easy to contradict. Perhaps you should even skip to Chapter One.

I will tell this story in the third person. 'Nathaniel Water was an artist. He painted pictures, etcetera.' I hope this makes it clear that this is not my, Nathaniel Water's, story, but something more than that. I have wracked my brain to dredge up memories, and forced myself to listen to my friends so I can steal their stories. I have even gone so far as to attend long and boring parties in order to glimpse a little bit of actuality. It is with great effort that I have augmented the splendid facts of my life to create the richer tapestry of fiction. I believe all art stems from its variation from reality. Take a painting of an apple: its most important quality is that it is flat whilst the apple is not. This illusion, or gap between one thing and another, is in the first instance what makes the painting interesting. Of course all painting is abstract and figurative at the same time. And that is its eternal, internal variation.
I hope I'm not losing you. Don't worry; although this is the story of an artist, there aren't too many boring bits about art.

I love the word boring. Boring people say that only boring people say things are boring.

There's much more about passionate, tragic love, and my rise to the heady heights of the art world - that beautiful journey towards great success, which is always pretty much the same in any business and therefore relevant to everyone who hankers after it.

Don't get confused if the story jumps around sometimes. There are only a few main characters. The rest are just walk-ons who don't matter much.

The principals are:
Nathaniel Water the painter that is I.
Harriet the German curator whom I marry after I have been engaged to Jelena.
Jelena the Slovak writer whom I marry after I divorce Harriet.
And my family, who created much of what I am.
I have started the story with an interesting bit where I am arguing with Jelena. After that I am thinking about marrying her. Go figure!

A painting by Jasper Joffe

1

I think of arguing and it seems like it's what I like to do because I am always disagreeing with everyone, then I remember that it's why it was so awful with Jelena. Then I know that I fell in love with her because she was so difficult, and I always want what I can't have. And I remember the shouting, and it doesn't seem so bad. But then I think shouting is violence. I saw a newspaper article about abused husbands and I thought of myself, which seems a little melodramatic. It's hard to recreate the horror and hatred of screaming and shouting. And I have some friends who say they never argue and can't imagine what we find to argue about. And I say, 'Nothing really.'

He spoke in an even, low voice. 'You are a fucking anorexic bitch with no talent, and I hate you, you cunt, I hate your family, your mother and your father, and your stupid dog. You're so boring, you just say the same thing over and over again. You talk about yourself all the time and you moan. You love rich people and the only reason you're with me is because I'm famous. Otherwise you'd be with some rich businessman Italian fucking idiot, who'd take you out to dinner and listen to your crap. But you're too scared to do what you want.'

'You want to destroy me, psychopath!' she screamed. 'You stingy Jewish. Schizophrenic lady. You're jealous of my friends, also my dog. You pezzo di stronzo. I prefer my other boyfriends because they're not sadists. You want me locked up in a mental hospital. You want to kill me. You want to kill me. You want to kill me. You're weak.'

He held the phone away from his ear; his head had no more room for her anger.

Water thought it an interesting idea for he and Jelena to be as nasty to each other as possible. They had tried tolerance and promising not to argue. Self-control didn't work, so now they, he more than she, said the worst things they could think of. Charles had sent them an American self-help book called Communication Miracles for Couples. A gift which Jelena had found funny, and Water insulting. They had arrived instead at a communication holocaust.

'We've given up being nice to each other. I just say what I want to her. I'm sick of pretending. It seems to be working.' When Water told this to one of his friends, there was a patronising silence of superior knowledge indicating that Water was so deluded that a look of pity was the only appropriate response.

'You are a prostitute. A fucking whore, and a liar. All you want is men telling you that you look pretty and buying you dinner. So you had a few boyfriends in your life. Big deal. I've had more relationships in one year than you've had in your whole life.'

'Homosexual. Feminine lady. I only lied to you because you are not a man. Leave me alone. You destroyed my friends in Rome, my family, my carriera, just because you're jealous, and have no balls! You lady!' She was screaming again so he put the phone down and called her back. She picked it up, answered in a normal voice, heard it was him, put it down. He rang her again; she picked it up, and asked him to call her back on her mobile.

'Listen,' he said.
'I can't hear you.'
'Can you hear me now?'
'Yes.'
'You know why I am doing this?' How ugly these expressions were, but he had decided not to care about that anymore.
'No.'
'Because I got sick of always being positive, while you moaned - sick of convincing you that you should believe in me, of arguing with your doubts. If I'm an optimist, you are a pessimist in response.'
' I can't hear you.'
'You never can hear me when I say anything important!' He spluttered with anger. In calmer moments Water wondered whether by 'hear' she actually meant 'listen to'. He hung up and phoned her back on her home line.

'Can you hear me now?' He had forgotten what he was angry about. She sounded worn out.
'Yes,' she said. 'So?'
'Oh, nothing. Listen. I love you, that's all. I just want you to decide you love me too. Can you hear me?'
She laughed in a pretty way. 'I decided a long time ago. But you insult me every time. I cannot forgive you, I don't forget very easy like you.'
'What did you decide?' he said.
'That we are together.'
'But in what way? I live here. You live there. You spend all your time with other people, me too. We are not together.' She had said the same thing to him once.
'OK, we're not together. You could have stayed and lived here.'
'For fuck's sake, you know why I didn't. Let's not go through history again. I want you to decide to be with me. Now. Or leave me alone,' he said.
'I can't hear you.'
'Can you hear me now?'
'Yes.'
'Let's go. I've had enough. You don't get it. It's enough. I'll phone you sometime,' he said.

He felt quite good, being nasty and angry all the time. Perhaps it was his real personality, the one you grew into as you got older. When he was good, Jelena was bad. So why not be bad? Jelena was happy for other reasons at that time, selling stories to magazines and with firm hopes for the future. She didn't seem to notice Water had lost - or given up - control. It was, to her, just the progression of his previous character.

'Hello. How are you? This is Water.'
'I got it. I'm very busy. Yesterday I had to interview three different people. I was all round Rome. Everybody was making me crazy. Tomorrow I am going to Milan to talk to a man who is starting a new magazine. It's terrible; I don't know if he wants me to write regularly or just one feature. I don't care. He is an idiot. I haven't had any sleep. Tonight I am going to Rosa's for dinner. She's making homemade fettuccini. Like you hated.'

'I didn't hate it. I quite liked it. So when will we meet?' he said.
'I can't think about it now. Too busy with this circus. Once I know about Milan. Then you can come here, or I'll go home to my parents. I don't know. I am crazy here, nowhere to stay.'
'OK. OK. So let me know when you know more. How come you didn't sleep? What did you do last night?' He had phoned the night before and she had been out. Her mobile had been switched off.
'I just went for a pizza and drank one beer.'
'With whom?'
'The German.'
'I thought you said he was creepy.'
No reply.
'Was it just the two of you? Why did you go out with him?'
'What does it matter? You interrogate me like my mother. I have to feel guilty because I want to eat dinner? I was back by 9.45.'
'But why with him? You said he was creepy. Then you go on another date with him.'
'He phoned. I told him I was leaving Rome and was busy. Then he phoned later, so we ate one pizza near my house. I paid for it. Eighteen euros. You want me to sit crying in my room.'
'I can't believe you. You just don't give a shit. This guy wants to fuck you. And you are eating dinner with him. You betray me. After we argue you rush out to meet some fucking creepy idiot. Maybe you're not unfaithful to me physically, but it's ugly what you do, vulgar, laughing at me. Dancing on our grave. I've had enough. Really. We're finished. OK. I am finished with you.'

Water's jealousy strangled his reason and wrenched his stomach. No matter how much information he forced from her, he could never know why it all happened.

I hate this silly jealousy. It seems like a joke from this distance. Now when I am no longer with her, I cannot imagine why I should have been so jealous. Perhaps she provoked it, or it could have just been because we were apart. I know that I will be jealous again with or without reason.

Posted by Nancy on September 28, 2005 08:48 PM to Telegram Books