There but for The_ A Novel - Ali Smith [30]
I had planned a menu including
a seared scallops with chorizo
starter, a main course of lamb
tagine and a dessert of crème
brûlée with home-made
chilli-vanilla ice cream. One of
our guests brought his own
guest, a man who seemed perfectly
genial and normal and didn’t in
any way arouse our suspicions
or give any clue as to what was
about to happen. He wasn’t
poor, didn’t seem in distress,
and the fact that he was a
vegetarian, though it was a
surprise, was absolutely no
problem.
In the middle of the party this man,
we’ll call him “Milo,” left the
room and went upstairs. While
we merrily continued with our
dinner party downstairs he was
actually barricading himself into
one of the rooms in our house.
The next morning we woke up to
a fact that we have lived with
since that day. A stranger is
living in our house against
our will.
It has now been three months,
and it is simply an experience
unlike any I have hitherto
had. The man has made himself
incommunicado for an
unfathomable reason
in our spare room with my
rowing machine and my husband’s
wine-making kits and DVD
collections of sci-fi classics
of the fifties and sixties,
a room which we were about to
turn into a badly needed study
for our daughter who has
important school exams this
coming year. He never speaks
and only once in the whole time
has sent us a written message,
about the food we provide free for
him; it is one of the little ironies
of the situation that for “Milo”
the dinner party he came
to as our guest has never
ended. Looking back now it is
also ironic to remember
myself hearing the creak of his
footsteps on our stairs as I
prepared the dessert that first
night not knowing what was really
afoot.
It is strange having a stranger
in the house with you all the
time. It makes you strangely
self-aware, strange to yourself.
It is literally like living with
a mystery. Sometimes I stand
in the hall and listen to the
silence. It sounds uncanny
and feels like I imagine
being haunted must feel like.
Sometimes the water flushing
or “Milo” moving about
in the middle of the night
wakes me or Eric and we
have the realization, all over
again, that we are not alone.
Sometimes I sit outside the door
behind which “Milo” is sitting
and just say over and over to myself
the word: Why? Perhaps in
some ways metaphorically we
are all like this man “Milo”—all of
us locked in a room in a house
belonging to strangers.
Except that this is our house
which makes it all seem
unfair and unnecessary.
A friend asked if we aren’t
tempted just to go ahead and
use brute force and break down our
beautiful and authenticated c17th
door and send in the police or
someone who would simply
remove “Milo.” I am a peaceable
person who abhors violence of
any sort so I am uneasy when
I consider we may have to resort
to force. But we do not know
when our home will feel
like home again. Even
though we knew our family
unit to be strong we never
expected it to be so thoroughly
tested. Who knows what the
future holds? Every new day
I wake full of the possibilities of
change. I am determined to
remain philosophical about it,
and keep urging my family
likewise. But all the same,
I for one know that I will
never see dinner parties
in quite the same light again.
Mark folded it up again and put both pieces of paper back in his inside pocket. “Milo.” Miles gloriosus. Sweet mild-mannered Miles in a room five steps wide and seven steps long, and in there now for months.
(Three or four months back, one Saturday in June, Mark goes to a matinee of The