Almost forty and with nothing to show for it, Hannah Luckraft is starting to notice that her lifestyle is not entirely sustainable: her subconscious is turning against her, her soul is a little unwell. Her family is wounded, her friends are odd, her body is not as reliable as it once was and her drinking is frankly out of hand. Robert, a dissolute dentist, appears to offer a love she can understand, but he may only be one more symptom of the problem she must cure. From the north-east of Scotland to Dublin, from London to Montreal, to Budapest and onwards, Hannah travels in search of the ultimate altered state: the one where she can be happy - her paradise. Paradise is a compelling examination of failure that is also a comic triumph, a novel of dark extremes that is full of the most ravishing lyrical beauty.
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A. L. Kennedy is the author of five previous novels - including 2007 Costa Book of the Year, Day, and her latest work, The Blue Book - two books of non-fiction, and five collections of short stories. She has twice been selected as one of Granta's Best of Young British Novelists and has won a host of other awards. She lives in Glasgow and is a part-time lecturer in creative writing at Warwick University.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
How it happens is a long story, always.
And I apparently begin with being here: a boxy room that’s too wide to be cosy, its dirty ceiling hung just low enough to press down a broad, unmistakable haze of claustrophobia. To my right is an over-large clock of the kind favoured by playschools and homes for the elderly, the kind with bold, black numbers and cartoon-thick hands that effectively shout what time it is whether you’re curious or not. It shows 8:42 and counting. Above, is a generalised sting of yellow light.
But I don’t know which one—night or morning. Either way, from what I can already see, I would rather not be involved in all this too far beyond 8:43.
In one fist, I notice, I’m holding a key. Its fob is made of viciously green plastic, translucent and moulded to a shape which illustrates what would happen if a long-dead ear were inflated until morbidly obese. I only know that it’s actually meant to be a leaf, because it is marked with an effort towards the stem, the ribs and veins that a leaf might have. I presume I’m supposed to like this key and give it the benefit of the doubt because people are fond of trees and, by extension, leaves. But I don’t like leaves, not even real ones.
I’ll tell you what I do like, though: what I adore—I’m looking right at it, right now and it is gorgeous, quite the prettiest thing I’ve seen since 8:41. It concerns my other hand—the one that is leaf-free.
It is a liquid.
I do love liquids.
Rising from the beaker to the jug in that continually renewing, barley sugared twist: falling from the jug into the beaker like a muscle perpetually flexed and reflexed, the honey-coloured heart of some irreversibly specialised animal. It’s glimmering and, of course, pouring—a drink pouring, hurrying in to ease a thirst, just as it should. I put down the jug and I lift up the glass, just as I should.
I presume it’s filled with some kind of apple juice and, on closer acquaintance, I find this to be so—not very pleasant, but certainly wet and necessary. The air, and therefore my mouth, currently tastes of cheap cleaning products, unhappy people, a hundred years of stubborn cigarette smoke and the urine of young children, left to lie. Which means I need my drink. Besides, I really do have, now I think about it, a terrible thirst.
I’m swallowing ersatz fruit, not even from concentrate; so I can’t have said a word—it wasn’t me who spoke.
Terrible thirst: terrible weather—but the echo is accidental, I would have to be feeling quite paranoid to think it was anything else. Nevertheless, the remark feels intrusive—as if it had access to my skull—and so I turn without even preparing a smile and discover the party responsible tucked behind me: a straggly, gingery man, loitering. He has longish, yellowish, curly hair, which was, perhaps, cute at some time in his youth, but has thinned now into a wispy embarrassment. I can almost picture him, each evening, praying to be struck bald overnight. God has not, so far, been merciful.
Mr. Wispy’s expression attempts to remain enquiring although he says nothing more and I do not meet his eyes or in any way encourage him. He is the type to have hobbies: sad ones that he’ll want to talk about.
Checking swiftly, I can see there are no windows, which may explain his lack of meteorological certainty. There’s no way that either of us can know what the weather is doing outside. Then again, Straggly has the look of a person habitually unsure of things: it may be he’s stolen a peek beyond the room and already has prior knowledge of whatever conditions prevail—monsoon, dust storm, sleet—he may simply hope I’ll confirm his observations.
Of course, I have no prior knowledge, not a trace.
There is a fake cart rigged up, beyond us both—it’s clearly made of stainless steel, but is burdened with a feminine canopy and fat, little flounces of chintz. Inside, I can make out a seethe of heat lamps and trays of orange, brown or grey things which ought to be food, I suppose. The whole assembly smells of nothing beyond boredom and possibly old grease.
“Really dreadful . . . Yes?” He tries again: maybe harping on about the weather, maybe just depressive, I can’t say I care.
“Appalling.” I nod and angle myself away.
But Straggly has to chip in again. “Tchsss. . . .” He seems to be taking the whole thing very personally, whatever it is. And I notice there’s something slightly expectant in the scampery little glances he keeps launching across at me. It could be that he will give me a headache soon.
“Ffffmmm . . .” He nods, as if his repertoire of noises has any meaning beyond his own mind.
But I can’t deny that he is also speaking English, just about—which is a clue. It means that I can probably assume I’m in a hotel somewhere English-speaking. Either that, or I’ve been ambushed by Mr. Wispy who is himself English-speaking and has guessed that I am, too, and I could, in fact, be anywhere at all.
Meanwhile, he’s continuing to linger inconclusively and I do hope this won’t blossom into some weird expression of long-term, national solidarity. To help him move on, I try to sound forbidding, although I will never discover what I’m trying to forbid: “Ghastly. Almost frightening.”
That seemed to go well, though. He edges back a step, and another, then bolts into a crestfallen retreat. I feel I am safe to believe our exchange is exhausted.
Around me, various groups and solitaries are hunched over bowls of cereal, plates of glistening stuff, collapsing rolls. The carpet is liberally scattered with a sort of bread-related dandruff: each table has its dust- ing, too, along with a thread or so of unconvincing foliage in a throttled vase. At uneasy intervals the walls display reproductions of old European advertisements: a British hotel, then. This particular level of grisliness could only be fully achieved in the British Isles. And this surely must be breakfast. So: 8:44, no 8:45, in the morning and breakfast in a cheap, British hotel.
I’m home. Perhaps.
Their backs to a wall, a shouting wife and inaudible husband are picking at mushrooms and sausages. “We have to get a gas grill. That was the loveliest meal I had when we were there, the loveliest. That was the loveliest meal.” Her partner chews and chews while I try not to imagine the finer and finer paste he is producing. “And that Continental . . . Continental . . . Continental . . .”
Continental what? Quilt? Breakfast? Lover? Self-improving language course?
She is never going to finish and I’m never going to know and he is never going to swallow—I can tell. I do not wish to think of them trav- elling freely across the globe, dementing people, everywhere they go—driving them into gas grills for relief. I refill my glass and concentrate.
Then I remember, with aching clarity, an air steward blocking the ragged perspective of an aisle and dancing his arms through the usual safety drill: the oxygen mask for yourself before your gasping children, the floor-level guides to coax you through darkness and smoke. He was enjoying himself, sweating only a little with all of those swooping indications in time to the comforting script. Then he tried to put on his For Demonstration Only life jacket and failed comprehensively.
I watched, couldn’t stop myself watching, while his previously smooth hands stuttered and the rubberised yellow crumpled and began to look unhelpful—like a grubby bib. By the time he was meant to be tying a firm double bow at his waist (and then moving on to display his inflation tubes, his convenient whistle and nice light) his drawstrings were only tangling perversely and the more he jerked them and smiled to reassure, the more everything twisted and snagged. His head dropped then and he fought at the jacket outright, a neck blush rising to his hair. Full-blown knots had developed now, his fingers scrabbling round them, wetly impotent. He blinked up for a breath and I grinned at him—what other expression was possible, but a firmly encouraging grin?—and something about the moment made it plain that we both knew he was now demonstrating a true emergency. This was precisely the way that we really would panic and fluster and take too long as the plane went down. This was how we’d be trapped in the dark, inanely struggling. This was how we would stare, while horrors struck against our wills. This was how we’d be plunged into water and feel every trace of protection ripped easily adrift. He was showing us how we would die.
The demonstration ended, but he stayed where he was, puzzled by himself, almost tearful, the jacket still round him, lopsided, improperly tied.
This is a recent memory, it tastes close at hand.
And I am, once again, grinning firmly and thinking that I must have been somewhere and must now be coming back, which is new and important information and a cause for joy.
One of the many pleasures of forgetting is, as we all of us know, remembering. You trot from room to room and can’t imagine where you left your keys the night before: without them, you’re locked in your house. Under the bed, in the knife drawer, behind the Scotch, behind your shoes, in the pockets of every garment that has pockets, the pedal bin, the compost bin, the bread bin: you have panicked into every likely nook. You sit on your bed, despairing, unsure of who has your spares and if they still like you and then—your hand gently brushes that lovely clump of metal, that heavy, little spider of keys to everything. They’ve been lounging on the duvet the whole morning, j...
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Buchbeschreibung Vintage, 2005. Taschenbuch. Buchzustand: Sehr gut. 352 Seiten kleine Lagerspuren am Buch, Inhalt einwandfrei und ungelesen 412363 Sprache: Englisch Gewicht in Gramm: 255. Artikel-Nr. 119315