The Intervention of a Good Man

7

The beautiful Glen Carron Park.

Sheep, droppings, and swans.

A brief discussion.

Opposite the Glen Carron Park Hotel, for all to admire, lies Glen Carron Park, which leads to Eilan Castle and to the smaller of the two lochs, Loch Fannich. The more inquisitive reader can refer to the lush green images languishing on the Internet. A northern sun shines down, it is very hot. Our hero is carrying his jacket, a so-called middle-season garment and completely pointless. They have to cross the road to reach a trail that is asphalted but meant only as a footpath. He looks the wrong way, she holds him back by his sleeve before he launches himself under the wheels of a truck. A sign reads: Eilan Castle, 2.1 miles.

Two point one miles is a half-hour walk, at a good pace, the very pace adopted by our heroine. Our hero conforms to her speed, even though it is hardly fitting for a lovers’ stroll. In any event, she will not let him hold her by the waist or, from now on, by the hand. He does not insist. Our hero’s shoes squeak and our heroine makes fun of him, not unkindly. They are walking shoes, sturdy old ones, but with every step they give a little sound like a timorous mouse. He has never noticed it in all the bustle of the capital. This discreet squeaking escorts them on their way.

She talks, haphazardly, about Scottish sheep, Scottish moors, Scottish thistles, Scottish seagulls. Whether he likes it or not, he agrees to discuss these rustic and nationalist topics with her. He thinks that “Thistle Song to a Seagull” would be a good song title for Joni Mitchell, but does not mention this.

He listens to her and watches her, distressed. He finds everything about her spellbinding, and our hero hates himself for this spell she casts on him so effortlessly, just by being dazzling, without even trying, and — worse — without even wanting to. So many have fallen, and will still fall for her charms. He does not hold this injustice against her, but it pains him. He can also tell that, whatever lengths he goes to, he will not cast a spell on her. Be careful what you wish for. Can our hero settle for being one of those plain people that others get used to rather than one of the beautiful ones they tire of?

He scrutinizes her, tries in vain to grasp what it is about this young woman he likes so much. She’s not all that pretty, he tells himself several times, before fuming, because, in spite of everything, she is so very pretty. He also suspects that she could easily be even more so: she would simply have to want to be, for his sake.

He finds himself wondering whether it is this denial of love that he is drawn to, captivated by, luring him to the abyss. Isn’t the word “attraction” a synonym for gravitation, he muses, and isn’t a black hole which gives out no light at all far more attractive than all the stars? Rather taken with his cosmological musings, he tries every now and then — though always in vain — to kiss her, injecting as much humor as possible into his advances.

The castle has come into view, with its drawbridge, its moat, and its crenellations. They have come across plenty of carts trundling tourists — some of them in kilts — toward the site, and drawn by horses that expel droppings with impressive regularity. They exchange a considerable number of comments about these droppings, their smell, and the magpies and crows that come and peck at them, and eventually reach the edge of the loch. A dead tree, smothered in moss and ivy, enjoys a second, parasitic life. Our heroine is talking about a swallow that has nested near her window, and asks him whether he thinks there are any eggs in the nest, and how long they will take to hatch. She asks him if swallows build nests as late as July. Hell, he doesn’t have a clue. Out of courtesy, he gives some vague reply about global warming, the greenhouse effect, and the shifts that have been noticed in bird migrations. She gives the impression of being satisfied with that. She points to the swans, so white, on the far bank of Loch Fannich, and wants to sit on a rock by the water’s edge. There is plenty of green grass, neatly mown, but she opts for the hard contours of this rock, and he takes this to mean they will not be here forever. He sits down beside her.

At their feet the water makes a listless lapping sound. In the distance swans move the way swans do, tiny dots of white on the loch’s emerald surface. Nature does nothing for him. What he likes best about swans, if he really had to choose something, is the mimetic elegance of the word itself.

Our hero now wants to leave. His desire for her remains intact, as does his affection, he wants to go home before feeling dirty. He does not want a struggle. He has neither the will to be tyrannical nor the energy to be angry. If he has learned one thing, just one, it is that feelings, affection, and desire have to make or break themselves. And also that love — let’s call it that for convention’s sake — that love, then, is not a stone by the side of the road that never moves, that came from nowhere and appeared out of nothing. Love disappears and comes back, it changes, it shifts, it falls, and picks itself back up even when we think it has died.

But for now, he needs to go.

He wants to help her get rid of him. And he wants to do it fast.

He presses her. A few questions and he gets her to say she no longer cares for him. And, more important, that she no longer wants him. He doubts this is altogether true, but it is still what he wants to hear at the moment, to give him the strength to leave. He pushes the point so much that she pronounces the fateful words. He can tell she is relieved, and immediately knows he is at least freeing her from feelings of guilt toward the Other, who will be joining her in three days’ time. He smiles. Says, It doesn’t matter. Adds, I’m going to go home to Paris, this afternoon if I can. If not, tomorrow.

She says, Scotland’s beautiful, stay, you could explore. He replies, No, it’s you I came to see, not Scotland. He adds, I’d have gone to Jackson if you’d been in Jackson. Not that he actually has anything against Jackson.

And he stands up.

I’ll take you back if you like, our hero concludes. Hero is the very word at this point.