Rilke

My flat.

Bed

Look at my cheeks – I’m blushing, Priya says.

That’s a post-orgasmic glow, I say. Do you think your husband will notice?

I think my husband might be out with a lover of his own, Priya says.

Do you think? I ask.

It would make things easier, wouldn’t it? Priya says.

Priya, in my dressing gown.

All the things we talk about. All the questions we ask … No one’s going to answer, are they? No one’s interested.

Maybe they aren’t questions, but prayers, I say. Maybe they’re ways of praying.

To who? Priya asks. To what?

God, maybe, I say. The sky, maybe. The light, maybe.

I’ll miss our talks, Priya says. I’ll miss talking like this.

It isn’t over yet, I say. We’ve only just begun, as the Carpenters sang …

It is though, really, Priya says. It was always and already over. It’s like we’ve outlived ourselves. We’re already dead. It’s like we’ve been dead for the longest time. We’re just waiting for death to catch up with us.

Death has other things to do, I think, I say. Death’s fucking busy …

What do we add up to, we two? Priya says. What do we add to the universe? Sharing our nothings. Our… insignificances. Contemplating the nothingness of the day and our nothingness and our obscurity and … and … what … what, philosopher?

These are the skylight dialogues, I say. A erotic merger between organisational management and philosophy.

It feels like philosophy’s winning, Priya says.

Priya, examining my bookshelves. All your books are written in revenge, philosopher, she says. They’re written by people who didn’t know how to live. So they wrote books instead.

Is that the secret? I ask.

Our tastes diverge, philosopher. I ever read a Stephen King book. On holiday. That’s right: I took a Stephen King book on holiday. Under the Dome. Have you ever read Under the Dome?

I read every Stephen King up until Tommyknockers, which was shit.

I don’t believe you.

And I’ve read shit-tons of science-fiction.

Read in the past tense. In your misspent youth. Before you got all serious and high European. Last night, do you know what, I watched an episode of Morse. I watched Morse. An old episode of Morse. Even Alan was disgusted by Morse. Even Alan got up to do something else. But I was perfectly happy with Morse. Does that disturb you? It does, doesn’t it?

You think we should all be improving ourselves. You think it should always be a matter of edification. I watched Morse, philosopher! That’s the kind of person you’re with: someone who watches Morse.

Morse is about people, philosopher. And it’s very melancholy. And there are murders. And there’s a plot. Plots are for stupid people – I’ll bet that’s what you think. You probably like talky arthouse. No – slow cinema. Where nothing happens, solemnly. And no one laughs. I like to laugh, philosopher.

And you actually read the London Review of Books, philosopher. People like you really exist. You’re not just made up. People actually read the London Review of Books – imagine that.

… And classical music, philosopher. You actually listen to classical music. Or rather, you only buy classical music CDs. You only put your classical music on display, on your bookshelves. Alongside your arthouse Blu-rays.  Your Angelopolous collection. Who the fuck is Angelopolous? God. You’re a dinosaur. Listen to me: the voice of the common person, philosopher!

You should stick with others of your kind. You should stick, loves high culture, in your dating profile. How many are of there of your kind, up here in the northeast?

Priya, opening a book. Rainer Maria Rilke: I’ve heard of him, I know the name; don’t think I’m totally ignorant. The Dunio Elegies. Is the kind of thing you read – really? … It’s like intruding on something, opening these pages. On some old European dream … What’s wrong with us? Why can’t we be reached by this stuff? Why aren’t we touched by this?

Speak for yourself, I say.

This just zooms over your head, too, Priya says. Don’t pretend. This doesn’t mean anything to you either. Except as some talisman. As something to worship from afar. When Rilke wants to open us … to God, or whatever. To the sky, or whatever. To death, or whatever. All those things. All those things our grandparents might have understood, back in India …

Once upon a time … once people would have set themselves to learn it by heart, Priya says. To be able to quote this. To remember it all, line by line …

All your books, philosopher … These old books, Priya says. They’re from a different time and about a different time, only you haven’t understood that yet … They’re outdated … they’ve been left behind. Haven’t you realised that yet?

You know what I think about your book-filled bedroom? Priya asks. About your life up here? You’re playing at being a philosopher and I’m playing at having an affair with a philosopher. You’re following your blind alley, as I’m no doubt following mine.

What’s your blind alley? I ask.

Romance, maybe, Priya says. This romance … Which will only last for a while – that’s what I tell myself. It will last for a while and burn itself out, and then you’ll forget me, and I’ll forget you, and that’s how it should be.

And you’ll still be with hubbie? I ask.

That is my fate, I’m sure, Priya says. I’ll be with him forever … It’ll just go on and on …

One day, a long time from now,  you’ll tell your husband all about our affair, I say. One day, when you’re feeling particularly close. On your fiftieth wedding anniversary, or something. On his birthday, or yours … You’ll tell him about your love affair – that’s what you’ll call it. About reading Rilke with your philosopher lover. Reading Rilke in bed, the pair of us! The Dunio Elegies! 

But we’re not even reading Rilke, she says. We’re talking about reading Rilke.

That’ll teach him not to take you for granted, I say. To show him that you could have lead an entirely different life had you chosen to. That would add an unexpected twist to your anniversary dinner, wouldn’t it? That would make him sit up and listen …

You know, if you met someone else, I’d be terribly jealous, Priya says. Which makes me think you should be more jealous of my husband than you are. Unbearably so. Tormentedly so.

I am jealous, I say.

Don’t feign, Priya says. I know when you’re lying. See, I’d like to matter. Like everyone wants to matter. I want to be someone for whom someone else would live or die.

Your husband, I say.

Maybe him, though probably not, Priya says. Okay – I want you to want me. Desperately. Seriously.

I do want you, anyway, I say.

I want you to want me more, Priya says. Not to be able to go on without me.

You’re actually married, I say. Which makes you very greedy.

Maybe I don’t want to be married to him, Priya says. Maybe I’d leave him for you. Which I might do, if it wasn’t for … your work. Your life or death work which comes between you and me.

See, you think you’re exceptional …, Priya says. That you’re better than the rest of us … to stay up here in your eerie and write your stuff … You and your philosophical muse.

Maybe you’re my muse, I say. My new muse.

Maybe you’ll have to court me – properly, Priya. You have to make some effort. Everything just comes to you. I just drive out here.

I’ll write you a love letter, I say. I’ll send it right to your door. Rilke wrote a lot of love letters, you know. He wandered round Europe writing to various women. Who he never actually wanted to see.

It’s easy to love people when they’re absent, right? Priya says. You can imagine me exactly as you like. A philosophical me. A profound me. Who could join you in revering these old books. Rainer Maria Rilke, or whoever …

Priya, getting dressed.

What if I left Alan?

Idle thoughts.

Not so idle. What if?

We’d get a dog, have children. Get a house.

In that order? And then what?

Live, like everybody else.

Is that the life you want?

Is that the life you want?

See you soon, philosopher.