My Year Without Lying
The Complete Kant
Cathal Morrow
1
1. Truth comes in two forms. Good and bad, right and wrong, justi9ied and without cause. A new truth will appear, but not as before. Until then there’s only the asphyxiation of uncertainty. I stood. “Coffee anyone?” I asked.
“Yes, please,” mum replied. She didn’t deserve this. She’d done her best, she could do no more.
I moved into my brother’s kitchen. I pulled three cups from the sink. It was worse knowing he’d lived like this. With her. With him. Even by the heights of our collective madness, this was insane. “And this time,” my brother said, “don’t forget, two sugars for me.”
I found some Fairy and a sponge. I washed the sponge and then the cups. “No problem,” I replied. I went back in with the drinks. Mum studied her coffee. “Too much milk?” I asked.
“Yes,” mum said. She was tired, she’d lost her eldest child. “Thanks,” my brother said, “for being here. It’s just a shame it took Dianne’s death to get you to come.” “Sorry,” I replied. “You know how it is. Work. Kids.” Something unpleasant swept over me, and then disappeared. Every cloud. “But I’m here now,” I added. “And it’s really good to see you both.”
“And you,” mum and my brother said as one.
We were silent for a while, there was too much I couldn’t say. “Cigarette?” I suggested. “Although I won’t be a smoker for long,” I added. “I’m quitting next week.”
2
“Me too,”mum said. “Oh please,” my brother said, “you’ve been quitting for 40 years.”
“I reckon,” I said, “this time she’ll come through.” “I don’t,” my brother replied. He leant across and gave me a light “Can I ask you something?” “Of course,” I replied. “You believe me, don’t you?” No. Of course not. No. History is repeating itself. Again. Tracking us, teasing us, torturing us with its shame. “Of course I believe you,” I replied. “That’s great,” my brother said. “Because I really didn’t know Dianne was a man.”
3
2. Many might call me a sacked website salesman, a loser and the milk. And many did. I won’t be down for long, though, with me there’s always something afoot. My mobile rang. Jason and I have been mates for decades, so we have a special bond. “What the hell,” he shrieked, “have you been up to?”
“What do you mean?” I shrieked back. With Jason attack is the best form of defense. The only one, actually. “Talking to Simon at the G.,” he said, “behind my back.” Ah. The G. was the Guardian newspaper, and central to taking Jason’s online language learning course global. My wife, our mutual mates, even mum begged me not to go into business with him. It’ll come good, though. It has to. Because I love Jason, and he loves me.
“I didn’t phone Simon at the G.,” I said. “Ever.”
“Yes, you did,” he replied.
“Okay, I did. But I had no choice, he’s got the hump. You’ve been shouting at him again, haven’t you?”
“Of course I have. He’s trying to shaft me.”
“Oh please,” I said. “Don’t be so paranoid.” Jason’s convinced everyone is out to get him. Which of course they are, but only people who know him well. “What happened this time?”
“He said he loves the clowns.” “Perhaps he does. Clowns are nice.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” 4
“Well, the Little Man loves them too.” The Little Man is the techie co-­‐pilot in our language learning jihad. Despite netting £40 million from his last venture he’s remained quite small. Which makes Jason and me feel considerably better about both our relative and absolutely bone-­‐crushing poverty. “I rest my case,” Jason said.
“The Little man’s not so bad.”
“They’re clowns, Cathal. Clowns. And anyway, he’s trying to shaft me too.”
“Can’t we talk about something else?” “Like what?” Jason asked. “God, sorry. How’s it going?”
“Crap.”
“You okay?”
“I’m 9ine, just 9ine. Back to the G, let’s not just focus on the negatives. You’re always shouting at Simon. and he doesn’t like it.” Jason needs my help, and I’ll do whatever it takes. As will the Little Man. Which is why we’ve concocted a little plan. “In fact,” I continued, “he said if you don’t calm down he’s going to pull the plug on the whole project.”
“He…he….he…” Jason said. “He can’t do that. I remortgaged my 9lat for this.”
“He reckons he can. And will. But don’t worry, we’ll be 9ine.” “You think?”
“For sure. Let’s just do it my way for a while. Starting with no shouting, okay?”
“Okay.”
5
“Great. It’s just a game, mate. I told Simon at the G. we’re close to a really big deal. On the back of our association with them. He liked that a lot.”
“Nice,” Jason said. “What’s the deal?”
“Um,” I said. “Well….er….”
The line went dead.
6
3.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Great,” my brother replied.
“Then, let’s do it.” I led the way to the counter. “My brother,” I said, “has an appointment to see his GP.”
“Name?” the receptionist asked.
I told her. We settled down on the plastic bench. I picked up a Woman’s Weekly, then put it down again. “I’m not nervous,” my brother said. “Me neither,” I replied. My brother was nervous, though, he’s a nervy guy. My father saw to that. Which is why my brother 9led the nightmare of my father’s last few years. The madness, the garlic paste, the hate. For me it was good, because I saw my father’s pain, so I understand what’s real isn’t always reality. What’s true so often isn’t the truth. I’ve moved beyond mere form. You have to. “Mr Morrow,” the receptionist announced. “Room 2.”
We went in, and I eased my bother into the seat in front of the doctor’s desk. “You’ll be 9ine,” I whispered, before settling down at the back. “So,” the doctor said, “As you know I’m not your regular GP, I’m just 9illing in while he’s away.” The doctor scanned her notes, tutted, nodded and then tutted again. “I…I...” my brother said, “I didn’t know Dianne was a man. Honestly I didn’t.” “Are you sure?” the doctor asked. “You lived together for some years.”
“I really didn’t know,” my brother replied.
7
“But his genitalia were intact.”
“My god,” I said. “Sorry.” My brother turned to me. “I didn’t 9ind that out,” he said, “until Dianne died. I went into the loo and found Dianne....him....there.”
“And sex?” the doctor asked.
My brother turned back. “We never had it,” he said. “Not proper sex anyway.”
“I’m sure,” the doctor said. “I’m sure,” she said again.
“I....er....” my brother said. “I......” He turned to me again. “My brother,” I said, “has already told you he didn’t know Dianne was a man. I suggest we move on, don’t you?” My brother smiled. I smiled back. Is that love?
8
4.
“And then,” my wife continued, “my boss called me lazy.” Patti’s calls are a welcome release, a chance to let go, the stairway towards a higher truth. Or thereabouts. “Can you imagine that?” she added. “Someone thinking I was lazy?”
“I can’t,” I said with some force. Although in truth I can. Because Patti is lazy. Not about things she loves, these she gives the full might of her self. Doing art, seeing art, obsessing about art. Everything else, though, is un-­‐art. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” I added. “Just because,” she continued, “I didn’t have time to 9inish the report he wanted.” “‘She,’” I corrected. “It’s ‘she’.” Patti can’t get her head around the words ‘he’ and ‘she.’ It’s something to do with Spanish sentence construction I can’t get my head around. “I said ‘she,’” Patti said.
“I’m sure you did.” “I think,” she continued, “they’re going to sack me. Just imagine? The shame of it.”
Sadly enough, I do. And this is my wife, because while my recent sacking is essential to her 9inancially, it’s of no importance to her at all. “I can imagine it,” I said. “Really I can.”
“You’ll be okay,” she replied. “You always are.”
“You always say that. But sometimes I might actually need your help.” There was silence. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, “I’m really stressed at the moment. What with my brother and all.” “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ve got a class.” “Er, right,” I said. “And don’t worry, when this business with Jason comes good, you’ll be studying art full-­‐time. In fact we’ve had a couple of amazing days. I’m close to another deal.”
“I’m late.”
9
“Well, have fun.”
“It’s not about fun. It’s art.”
She hung up. I wrote her a text. “Te quiero,” I love you. And I do. Because underneath all the art and rage is another Patti just screaming to emerge. And emerge she shall. With an itsy bitsy easel in her hand.
10
5. “So mum,” I said, “how are you doing?” It was a ridiculous question, yet I could think of nothing sparkling to say.
“Okay,” she replied. “Crap, actually.”
We were perched together on a park bench. My brother had gone out for the day, so mum and I had decided on some mid afternoon R&R. We’d been to three charity shops, mum had bought two books, and we’d shared a bacon sandwich.
“Good bacon,” I said.
“Very good,” she replied. I passed her a cigarette. “He’ll be okay,” I said. “You think?”
Who knows. “Yes. He should go and see someone, though. A therapist. I’ll get him to go.”
“Would you?”
“For sure. It’ll be better coming from me. He’ll be 9ine about it. It’s about dad, you know.”
“Dianne?”
“Him. He’s about dad.” “You helped dad a lot, you know.”
“Sure.”
“And you?” mum asked. “How are you?” 11
“I’m okay. The kids keep me on the straight and narrow.”
“How are they? Tell me.”
“They’re great. I’m teaching Borja the names of all my favourite philosophers, and Elkin’s on top form too. They’re amazing, just amazing, mum.”
“I want to see them.”
“Mi casa es su casa,” I said. “That I know.” Mum’s learning Spanish, and is typically modest. She lacks the con9idence to be her. Which was why she hid behind my father, until he was just a shell. And there was nothing she could do but leave. “He doesn’t mean to pick on you,” I said. “He’s like dad in that way. He’s always been funny with women too. It’s not about you, though.”
“Perhaps,” mum said.
“Give me some time alone with him tonight. I want to get it sorted before I go back to Madrid.”
“Thanks. You know what?” “What? What?” I smiled. Mum smiled too. “There seem,” she said, “to be an awful lot of disabled people around here.” A track suited woman whizzed past on her wheelchair. “Heavens no,” mum said. “Heavens, yes,” I replied. And then I started to laugh. So mum laughed too. “You’re so bad,” I said.
“I know, I know,” she replied, still laughing. “Do you think she heard us?”
12
6.
The bus to the station was the 9irst chance we had to really talk. We’d been busy, doing things. I’d planned ahead, though, and bought a Twix to soften the blow. “No,” my brother said. “I don’t need therapy. The past is the past. I’m 9ine.”
“Look I’ve done some crazy things too. I married that goat herder, don’t forget.”
My brother laughed. “Yes, what was all that about?”
“Madness, sheer madness. It was a reaction to dad’s death. Albeit a pretty brief one. And after I got divorced I was almost an alcoholic for a while.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I was boozing three or four times a week. I tried to run even further away from dad, so I became him. Crazy, eh? I’m 9ine now, though, I hardly drink at all.”
“Nor me,” my brother said.
“That’s good. But look, you were with, well, a bloke for seven years.”
“I didn’t know.”
“But perhaps deep down you did. Subconsciously, or something. Like I really knew the goat herder was bad for me.”
“Was she?”
“God, yes. She only loved the goats. She hated everyone else, including me. It’s different with Patti of course. But that’s not the point. I had some therapy when I was with the goat herder, you know. And it did me a lot of good. It kind of started a journey to get me to where I am now.”
13
“You never said anything,” my brother said.
“You know me,” I said. “I don’t like to burden others with my problems. Just think about it, okay?” My brother munched on his Twix. He was thinking about it. “It would certainly be good for you,” I said.
“O-­‐kay,” he snapped.
“Sorry,” I said. I pursed my lips a little. Politeness isn’t a God-­‐given gift at all. It’s just a way of distancing ourselves from events. Inshallah. “Thanks,” I said, “for escorting me to train. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he replied. “Well, here we are,” he added, striding downstairs and onto the pavement. “Well,” I said, “I’d better go.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes,” I said. It’s not something we do. We use codes, signs. I do it with my friends of course, with my kids every day. But never with my brother. I put down my bag, learnt across and wrapped him in my arms. I squeezed him hard. “I love you,” I said softly. “And I love you too,” he whispered back . “You’ll be 9ine,” I said. “You think?”
“I know,” I said, easing myself away. “I’ve really got to go.”
“Sure.”
14
I picked up my bag and moved towards the train. I turned, my brother was rooted to the same spot, praying the miracle would continue. He of all people knows its only others who make us good.
“See ya,” he shouted.
“See ya,” I shouted back. “Soon.” He was crying too. 15
7.
“What are you going to do?” Jason asked, liberating another of my duty frees from the packet. We were outside the Cow in Notting Hill, pint of Guinness in hand. Our 9ifth in fact.
“I don’t know how much I can feasibly do,” I said. “I’ve got loads on my plate at the moment. Work, the kids, Patti.”
“How is she? “Spanish.”
Jason laughed. He lit his cigarette. Mine, really. “And your mum?” he asked.
“She hasn’t said much, but I know she’d livid.”
“Why?”
“The fantasy child.” Not only did my brother invent a girlfriend, but together they created a child. A pregnancy at least. Dianne carried full term, but the girl was stillborn. “It was when Patti was pregnant with Borja. Me and my brother were going to be 9irst-­‐time fathers together. It was fun.”
“So you’re angry too?”
“I don’t do angry.”
“With me you do.”
“You’re special. As is Patti. But it’s different, he’s not my son. And of course I was little sad about the child. But it’s just different.”
“Makes sense,” Jason said.
16
“Alright then, our relationship did change when Dianne was pregnant. We actually talked about something real. Or not, of course. And it’s a pretty shitty thing to do. Invent a child. And then let your mother grieve for months. And your brother. You know mum wanted to complain to the hospital. But my brother stopped her. And we all know why. Now. So I suppose I am a little angry with him too. But most of all I’m angry for mum, because she’s angry. But I’m not that angry, really. Hardly at all in fact. Because the problem with being angry, is that it doesn’t solve anything. You see, it’s not his fault, not really. He needs help, that’s the thing to focus on. Of course it was a shitty thing to do, but if we help him perhaps something good will come of this. Although to be honest I can’t think what that’ll be. It’s funny though. Peculiar, not ha-­‐ha.”
“You’re gibbering now, you know.”
“I’ve always been a crap drinker. Where was I?”
“Funny peculiar.”
“Ah, yes. Well it was all a lie wasn’t it. I spent seven years thinking he was living with Dianne. But he wasn’t, he was living with David.”
“Was that her...his....name?”
“Yes, he was Welsh.”
“Dai.”
“Precisely, Di. Dianne.”
“Clever.”
“Quite brilliant. It’s like so many things in life, really. You think one thing about someone, and they turn out to be entirely different. You think they’re this, but really they’re that. You love someone, then you don’t. You think you know them, but you’re entirely wrong. They’re not who you think they are at all. It’s all one big lie, isn’t it?”
17
“What?”
“Love, perhaps. Life. Apart from the kids of course. You know I don’t mean the kids. Don’t you, Jase. You know that, right?”
Jason took my hand. “Of course I do, mate. You okay?”
“Great. Do you remember when I used to sell websites?”
“How could I ever forget?”
“Well, I used to sell to these hedge fund guys. And I just told myself they’re liars, so it was okay to lie to them too. Why do the right thing when everyone else is cheating. But in the end I think you stop knowing what’s true and what’s not. You start to believe your own lies. You tell so many that you can’t remember what’s true and what’s not. Sometimes you tell a lie so many times it becomes real. Reality.”
“Do you think that’s what happened with your brother.”
“Perhaps, yes. I talked to him a lot after the baby died. And he was so cut up, it was horrible. And he’s a crap liar, we all are. It’s something of a family curse.”
“Perhaps he really thought Dianne was a woman?”
“In his mind perhaps. He just made the whole thing real. We all do that.” “Is Patti a bloke?”
“Almost certainly not. But there’s something there, you know. Perhaps we can never 9ind the truth of us, because of all the lies. To be honest, I’ve been feeling pretty low lately.”
“Depression again?”
“I don’t get depression. No, just work, money, Patti, the boys. The responsibility of it all.”
18
“You’ll be alright, mate.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Well, I am now. Because I’ve come up with an idea. And one of my better ones at that.”
“To get rid of the clowns?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m giving up lying for a year.”
“Nice. When did you think that one up?”
“On the train back from my brother’s.”
“And why?”
“The philosopher Immanuel Kant said it was always morally wrong to lie. Most people think he was insane. That it’s impossible to always tell the truth.”
“Again why?”
“I don’t know, mate. It’s to do with my brother for sure. But there’s more, I just don’t know what. Can I quote a little Socrates?” “It’s a special occasion, so why not.”
“He said ‘all I know is that I know nothing.’ And that’s the problem.”
“I’ve been saying that for years.”
“No, I think I know a lot, but perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps a lot of the things I believe are crap as well.”
“I’ve being saying that for years too.”
19
“Perhaps, I’m lying to myself like my brother, like us all. And I think this year is going to do something. It’s going to help me believe again.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know. Crazy eh?”
“It sounds strangely sane. So what about our business?” Jason asked.
“I’ll keep on doing it, so long as you don’t mind working with a Complete Kant.”
Jason smiled. “The train again?” I nodded. “It made me laugh all the way to Watford.”
“So when are you starting?” Jason asked.
“Right now,” I said, taking a cigarette, and slipping the packet in my pocket. “Can I have one?” Jason asked.
“No,” I said. “Buy your bloody own.”
20