Game Control. Lionel ShriverЧитать онлайн книгу.
her off the porch, but stopped at the door as she drifted towards the black hole at the far end, like everyone else. “You are in peril,” he cautioned her, “and allied with misanthropes. Have you ever had a baby?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should. You might change your profession.”
“According to your vows, you’re hardly volunteering to help.”
“That was not a proposition.”
“Well, Dr. Threadgill, no one else is volunteering either. Besides, I’d just have one more of those selfish little Americans who demand big plastic tricycles for Christmas and make wheedly noises on aeroplanes with hand-held hockey games.”
“You are terribly unhappy.”
“So everyone seems intent on telling me.”
“Stop by sometime. We’ll talk again.”
“The tented camp on Mukoma, right? I might at that.”
The poor woman was then sucked into orbit around the cold dark centre like the rest, another innocent particle lured by the inevitable gravity of super-dense nothingness. Wallace turned back to the healthy fresh air of the veranda because he couldn’t bear to watch.
As Eleanor left Wallace to his porch she wondered how a man of such unbounded elation could be so depressing. His eyes were ringed as if he had trouble sleeping. His cheeks sagged and his body was sunken. Worst of all was the smile, which curled up as if someone had to lift strings. It was a marionette smile, mechanical, macabre.
She might dismiss him as a kook, but in his time Threadgill had been widely published. Further, since he’d left the field revisionism had gained a respectable foothold. It was no longer considered laughable to debate the effects of population growth on the poor. As a result, the discipline was divided and disturbed. The hard-liners like Calvin were more rabid than ever, driven to a corner. The born-again optimists, being novelties, got spotlights on MacNeil-Leher. In the middle, the majority of the population profession was increasingly cautious. No one was quite sure whether demographers were brave pioneers who, diaphragms in hand, would change the face of history and shoulder the greatest challenge of our time, taking on the root cause of environmental decay and poverty, or were instead gnome-like recorders, accountants of births and deaths who, when they ventured beyond their role of registrar with bungling programmes of redress, were ridiculed by their own forecasts in ten years’ time. The population community was no longer confident of its calling, and the last thing Eleanor Merritt required was to feel less needed or more unsure.
Leaving Wallace Threadgill’s morbid euphoria for Calvin Piper’s genial despair reminded Eleanor of plane trips, Dar to DC, entering a tiny compartment and promptly changing hemispheres. In thirty feet she got jet lag. Seriously entertaining contrary positions felt dangerous. If she could accept every creed for a kind of truth and call any man a friend, then she could also be anyone; arbitrary, she disappeared. It was possible to be too understanding. Eleanor wondered if it was preferable to keep the same insufferable, obdurate opinions your whole life, piggishly, even if they were wrong, since they are bound to be, because once you opened the emergency exit to the wide white expanse of all it was plausible to believe you broke the seal on your neat pressurized world and got sucked into space. Lurching from Threadgill to Piper made her airsick.
Eleanor had come to the party on her own, having arranged to join Calvin’s coterie here once they were through with “a meeting”. The way he’d announced he was occupied for the early evening reminded Eleanor of the cryptic explanations for why her stepfather would not be home yet one more night. Ray would be at “a meeting”, no of-what or about-what for a twelve-year-old child. At thirty-eight, Eleanor resented don’t-worry-your-pretty-head-about-it from a superannuated layabout.
As soon as Calvin had established himself at the table, they closed in around their—leader, she was tempted to say, though what was there to lead? When all the chairs were scrabbled up, Eleanor had shrugged and drifted to the porch, where she had hung on through that interminable recitation on the off-chance she might get up the nerve to ask one truly interesting question. She never did. It was too potty. Why in heaven’s name would Wallace think Calvin Piper invented HIV?
She retrieved a straight-back from the kitchen and wedged between Calvin and the ageing shrew in pink. The woman pretended not to notice and refused to move the extra three inches that would have allowed Eleanor in. She was stuck, then, slightly behind the two, not quite in the circle and not quite out, which was destined to be Eleanor’s relation to this crowd for the indefinite future.
Malthus gargoyled on Calvin’s shoulder, daring Eleanor to tickle his chin. Nothing would make Malthus happier than to take off her middle finger to the second knuckle.
The woman’s name, incredibly, was Bunny.
“The whole race is lemming off the cliff,” she despaired, “while demographers fuddle over fertility in Popua in 1762.”
“Lemmings,” Eleanor intruded bravely, “did you know they throw themselves off a precipice in response to population pressure? They crowd off cliffs. When Walt Disney filmed the rodents, the crew trapped hundreds and then had to drive them over the edge, beating sticks.”
“It must be terribly frustrating if subjects won’t obligingly commit suicide when your camera is rolling.”
That was Wallace, passing comment on his way for more tea. Only Wallace heard Eleanor at all. It was a perfectly serviceable party anecdote, but when Eleanor told stories that worked for everyone else they dropped, lemming-like, to sea.
Eleanor took being ignored as an opportunity to study the round-table. Bunny showed all the signs of having once been quite an item, and would still qualify as well kept—thin and stylishly coiffed, with unpersuasive blonde hair tightly drawn from a face once striking, now sharp. But she had retained the mannerisms of beauty. Sitting at an angle with her cigarette coiling from an extended arm, she spread a calf on her other knee as if posed perpetually for a shutter she had failed to hear click twenty years ago. Such miracles of taxidermy might have cautioned Eleanor to age with more grace, but she herself had never felt dazzling, and perhaps this was the compensation: that in later years, at least she would not delude herself she had retained powers she never thought she wielded in the first place.
Eleanor conceived few dislikes, being more inclined to give strangers a break, and another after that, as if beginning a set of tennis with first serve in. When company repeatedly made remarks that were out of bounds, she would promptly provide them with incestuous childhoods, crippling racial discrimination or tragic falls down the stairs to explain the viper, the thief, the moron. But Eleanor’s distaste for Bunny was instantaneous. British, the woman only turned to Eleanor once, to translate that “nick” meant steal. Eleanor suggested, “Be sure to tell Calvin. He’s American, too, you know.”
“Only half,” said Bunny coolly.
Bunny was loud and over-animated, but Eleanor was convinced that as soon as Bunny strode out of earshot of Calvin Piper all that environmental indignation would fall by the wayside like paper wrapping.
The rigid man to Calvin’s right was the only guest in a suit and tie. Every once in a while his mouth would quirk with annoyance. He gave the impression that he disapproved of their contingent’s retirement to some petty Nairobi social fritter; he’d have preferred to continue meeting. His surface was metallic. His name was Grant. Tall, grave and grey, he was one of those people, she supposed, who had been told the fate of the world rested on his shoulders and actually believed it. He reminded her of the men you found in Washington shuttle lounges, furrowed over computers, using their oh-so-precious five minutes before take-off to write that crucial report on sales of soap. You would never catch them out with a mere magazine, though Eleanor was always convinced that behind their PCs they were secretly weaving sexual fantasies and the screen was blank.
On the other side of the table, a small, nervous Pakistani and a corpulent Kikuyu were exchanging stories about murderous eight-year-olds in Natal. The Pakistani, Basengi, could not sit back in his chair or keep his hands still.