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Chapter Five: The Cabbage in the Fridge
In the following weeks, Gerald did not think about Vivienne Ashworth. This was, he told himself, correct. The file was closed. The note was in the drawer. The roses were in the genus, and the genus was the point, and the point was closed. He went to work. He made his tea. He read his files. He answered his correspondence. He went home to Doreen, who made his supper (usually a casserole, which was, in her words, "a casserole, Gerald, it's not haute cuisine, it's a casserole, and it's good, and you're going to eat it, and you're going to like it, and if you don't like it, you're going to eat it anyway, because I made it, and the making is the point, and the point is the casserole, and the casserole is in front of you, and you're going to eat it").
He ate the casserole. He liked it. He went to bed. He slept. He woke up. He went to work. He made his tea. He read his files. He answered his correspondence. He went home. He ate the casserole. He went to bed. He slept.
And in the between, in the small spaces between the tea and the files and the correspondence and the casseroles and the beige—Gerald did not think about Vivienne Ashworth.
Or rather. He thought about her. But he thought about her in the way that one thinks about a filing system. Not with longing. Not with desire. With reference. With the quiet, persistent, structural awareness that the system is there, that it is functional, that it works, and that the working is, in a sense, the point. He thought about the way she had looked at him. The measuring. The way she had held the pencil between her fingers and not written anything. The way she had said, I don't fill in forms. I read them. And the way she had said, You have the air of a Gerald, which was, he had to admit, odd, and the oddness was, in a sense, the point, and the point was in the file, and the file was in the drawer, and the drawer was closed, and the closing was the point.
And yet.
And yet, on the Tuesday of the second week, Gerald was at the supermarket on Croydon High Street, in the vegetable section, and he was choosing a cabbage, and he was choosing it carefully, with the precision of a man selecting a load-bearing component for a structural renovation, and he was thinking about the cabbage, really thinking, not in the abstract way of the leather notebook but in the specific, concrete, irritatingly detailed way of a man who is holding the cabbage in his hand and feeling the weight of it and noticing the way the outer leaf curls at the edge and wondering, with a small, persistent, unshakeable curiosity, whether the curl is genetic or environmental, whether the leaf curls because it wants to curl, or because the cold makes it curl, or because the cold makes it want to curl, and the wanting is the curl, and the curl is the wanting, and the wanting is the point.
And in the middle of this cabbage-thought, in the middle of the curl, in the middle of the wanting, Gerald Firth, Senior Inspector, Personal Income Tax Division, Croydon, Inland Revenue, remembered the sound of the teacup on the green desk. The definite sound. The specific sound. The sound that was the point. And he remembered the sound of the telex machine, the metallic teeth, the chattering. And he remembered the purple of the skirt suit. And he remembered the wobble of the chair. And he remembered the Rosa canina in the front garden, the dog roses, the genus, the in the genus, and he remembered the way she had looked at him when he said in the genus, the way her face had changed, just slightly, just a fraction, the way a cabbage changes, in the dark, in the cold, in the becoming, and the change was not a lie, it was a correction, and the correction was the point.
He put the cabbage in the trolley. He went to the till. The woman at the till was young, and tired, and she had a name badge that said SANDRA, and Sandra said, "Would you like a bag for that?" and Gerald said, "No, thank you, Sandra, I have a bag," and Sandra said, "Right, love," and scanned the cabbage, and the beep was definite, and the beep was the point, and Gerald walked home with the cabbage in the bag, and the bag crinkled in his hand, and the crinkle was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point.
Doreen was at home. Doreen was always at home, in the sense that Doreen was structurally at home, the way that a column is structurally in the building, and the structural is the point. Doreen was making a casserole. The smell of the casserole was in the kitchen, and the smell was in the hallway, and the smell was in the living room, and the smell was, in a sense, the point.
"Cabbage," Doreen said, looking up from the casserole. "You've bought a cabbage."
"Yes, Doreen."
"A Savoy."
"Yes, Doreen. A Savoy."
Doreen looked at him. Doreen looked at the cabbage. Doreen looked at Gerald. Doreen said, "Gerald, are you all right?"
"I'm all right, Doreen. I've bought a cabbage. It's a Savoy. The outer leaves are a pale, almost angry green. The inner leaves are tight. The heart is white. It's a very good Savoy."
Doreen looked at him for a long time. The casserole bubbled in the pan. The bubble was definite. The bubble was the point.
"Put it in the fridge, Gerald," Doreen said. "And wash your hands. And eat the casserole."
Gerald put the cabbage in the fridge. He washed his hands. He ate the casserole. The casserole was good. The goodness was the point. He went to bed. He slept. He did not dream of cabbages. He dreamed of a green office, and in the green office there was a woman in a purple skirt suit, and the woman was holding a pencil, and the pencil was not writing, and the not writing was the point, and Gerald woke up at 4:17 a.m. with the taste of green on his tongue, and the taste was not real, and the not real was the point, and he lay in the dark, in the cold, in the becoming, and he became, in the dark, in the cold, a little bit less beige, and the little bit less beige was, in a sense, the point.