The December sky has the grey that won’t sadden you. Though the frivolity of Christmas is hushed, there is a kindness, an imposing thankfulness and satisfaction in the air, you can almost hear it, as though it was hummed by children in a chorus. In these last few days of the year, the daily grind is crushed to a temporary halt. We go out for lunch and the restaurant tables are packed with families but no one’s rushing – the Christmas frenzy has quelled and there’s barely anyone here on business.
I was able to dance little I to sleep just before our orders arrived. D. lays him closely on side. The silence was restful and we cherished that as we look forward to his awakening. This was a Vietnamese-inspired place and we got him the glass chicken noodles, D. had spicy shrimps and I had a plateful of curry noodles.
We ate quietly, except for the occasional resonance of “mmm” as we savoured and chewed, accompanied by a nod of approval. As there was barely any space between the tables in this packed place and we overheard the two families from the other table, boasting about their latest Singapore, Boracay and Subic trip to each other. They glowed in enthusiasm during that exchange, and yes we’ve been there too, but I truly hoped that we didn’t sound like that if we ever talked about those places. Our eyes met and there’s an invisible laugh.
I buy D. a chocolate mint gelato from a nearby shop and I begin my new read, On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan. The jacket reads, “In 1962, Florence and Edward celebrate their wedding in a hotel on the Dorset Coast. Yet as they dine, the expectation of their martial duties weighs over them...” It’s their honeymoon, and even at page 40 of a short 203, Florence and Edward barely made it to second base. It’s a gripping, non-complex storyline that’s masterfully written, as though every world was so thoughtfully packaged and reading every sentence was like opening a Christmas present. “She was no lamb to be uncomplainingly knifed. Or penetrated.” You have to pause and respond, “wow.”
The other Ian McEwan novels were embellished with thicker plots and surprising twists but in its simplicity On Chesil Beach takes an edge.
“How’s your novel?” she goes. I remember another Ian McEwan we both read from a while back. We weren’t married then, but we’ve been together a few years. It also was New Year’s Eve and you went all the way to Malate to meet with me. You wore a red shirt, we held hands and had a hot drink while we read in an empty, glass-ceilinged coffee shop and no one else was around. The year was also about to end and the world was ours.
Here we are, a few years later.
“Turns you on.” I say.
The little one wakes up and we start him with some soup. He doesn’t like it hot, but he eats noodles like he was born to eat noodles. In delight, we feed him and watch him eat.
I close On Chesil Beach and go back to this other one, --- this novel of ours that’s happening now. This may not have been masterfully written by McEwan, but this is the one that I will read again and again and again as I long to repeat it.
