“Likewise,” responds Rabih.
Though both equally are aware that it would be
a genuine waste of time to
stand in the aisles at Ikea and argue at length about something as petty as which
glasses they should buy (when life is so brief and its real imperatives so huge),
with increasing ill-temper, to the mounting interest of other shoppers, they
nonetheless stand in an aisle at Ikea and argue at length about which sort of
glasses they should buy. After twenty minutes, each
one accusing the other of
being a little stupid, they abandon hopes of making a purchase and head back to
the car park, Kirsten remarking on the way that she intends to spend the rest of
her days drinking out of her cupped hand. For the whole drive home they stare
out of the windscreen without speaking, the silence in the car interrupted only by
the occasional clicking of the indicator lights. Dobbie, who has taken to traveling
with them, sits daunted in the backseat.
They are serious people. Kirsten is currently at work on a presentation titled
“Procurement Methods in District Services” which she will be traveling to
Dundee next month to deliver in front of an audience of local government
officials. Rabih meanwhile is the author of a thesis called “The Tectonics of
Space in the Work of Christopher Alexander.” Nevertheless, an odd number of
“silly things” are constantly cropping up between them. What, for example, is
the ideal temperature for a bedroom? Kirsten is convinced that she needs a lot of
fresh air at night to keep her head clear and energy levels up the next day. She’d
rather the room be a bit cold (and if necessary that she put on an extra jumper or
thermal pajamas) than stuffy and contaminated. The window must stay open.
But winters were bitter during Rabih’s childhood in Beirut, and combating gusts
of wind was always taken very seriously. (Even in a war, his family continued to
feel strongly about drafts.) He feels safe somehow, snug and luxurious, when the
blinds are down,
the curtains are tightly drawn, and there’s some condensation
on the inside of the windowpanes.
Or, to consider another point of contention, at what time should they leave the
house to go for dinner—a special treat—together on a weeknight? Kirsten
thinks: The reservation is for eight. Origano is approximately 3.2 miles away,
the journey is normally a short one, but what if there were a hold up at the main
roundabout, she reminds Rabih, like there was last time (when they went to see
James and Mairi)? In any event, it wouldn’t be a problem to get there a bit early.
They could have drinks at the bar next door or even take a stroll in the park; they
have a lot to catch up on. It would be best to have the cab come by for them at
seven. And Rabih thinks: An eight o’clock booking means we can arrive at the
restaurant at eight fifteen or eight twenty. There are five long e-mails to deal
with before leaving the office and I can’t be intimate if there are practical things
on my mind. The roads will be clear by then anyway.
And taxis always come
early. We should book the cab for eight.
Or, again: What’s the best strategy for telling a story at, let’s say, a rather
swanky party at the Museum of Scotland, to which they’ve been invited by a
client whom Rabih needs to impress? He believes there are clear rules in force:
First establish
where the action takes place, then introduce the key participants
and sketch out their dilemmas before moving in a quick and direct narrative line
to a conclusion (after which it’s polite to give a turn to someone else—ideally
the CEO, who has been waiting patiently). Kirsten, on the contrary, maintains
that it’s more engaging to start a story midway through and then track back to
the beginning. That way,
she feels, the audience gets a more solid sense of
what’s at stake for the characters. Details add local color. Not everyone wants to
cut right to the chase. And then if the first anecdote seems to go down well, why
not throw in a second?
Were their listeners (standing next to a display of a giant stegosaurus whose
bones were found in a quarry near Glasgow in the late nineteenth century) to be
polled for their opinions, they probably wouldn’t express any great objections to
either approach; both could be fine, they would affirm. Yet, for Kirsten and
Rabih themselves—testily recapping the performance
as they make their way
down to the cloakroom—the divergence feels a great deal more critical and more
personal: How, each wonders, can the other understand anything—the world,
themselves, their partner—if they are always so random or, at the opposite
extreme, always so regimented? But what really adds to the intensity is a new
thought that arises whenever a tension comes to light: How can this be endured
over a lifetime?
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