Perhaps, though, we should first refresh readers'
memories of Barnes's three central characters. Oliver--certainly
the most colorful, memorable character in Talking It Over--is
a mellifluous-voiced, pompous raconteur in the Wilde tradition;
true to Wilde, he exhibits a gloriously, willfully unreliable
memory and is prone to giving speeches about the value of subjective
truth. Stuart, his former best friend, is a prematurely middle-aged,
pragmatic man who knows his limitations and yet can't seem to
keep from trying to overcome them (like telling good jokes or
coming up with a quick pun). "My key words," he tells
us, "are transparency, efficiency, virtue, convenience and
flexibility." While Oliver extols the virtues of creative
lying, Stuart prefers to read nonfiction because "I like
to know that what I'm being told is true." According to
Oliver, Stuart wore "a little three-piece suit and pinstripe
nappies" in his pram. Stuart in turn tells us that Oliver's
"egomaniacal" tendency to refer to himself in the third
person is peculiar: "You couldn't exactly call him famous,
could you? Yet he refers to himself as 'Oliver,' as if he was
an Olympic gold medallist. Or a schizophrenic, I suppose."
Rounding out the novel's uneven doubles match
is Gillian. She began Talking It Over as Stuart's wife,
and it ended with her trying to convince him that her having
left him to marry Oliver had rendered her appropriately miserable.
She is certainly the least combative of the three, if only because
she's the object of their contention (is she, in fact, the volleyed
tennis ball itself?). She occupies a mid-ground between Oliver's
artsy idealism and Stuart's pragmatism--as an art restorer, she
lives in a somewhat rarified world of art, yet she manages to
make a little money off of it too. She is also the one to whom
the reader turns for relatively objective analysis and for help
sorting out the contradictory versions of reality offered up
by Oliver and Stuart. "What you have to understand,"
she wisely tells us in the opening pages of Love, etc.,
"is that Stuart wants you to like him, needs you to like
him, whereas Oliver has a certain difficulty imagining that you
won't."
As Love, etc. begins, ten years have
passed since Gillian staged her scene of marital misery for Stuart's
benefit, and their circumstances have changed considerably. Stuart
is returning to London after a successful stint as an organic
grocery store chain owner in America. Oliver is involved in various
film projects that never seem to come to fruition (among them,
a prequel to The Seventh Seal), and Gillian is running
a busy, two-person art restoration studio. While Stuart is financially
comfortable, Oliver and Gillian now live in a London neighborhood
where, as Stuart tells us on his first visit for dinner, gentrification
hasn't worked. After that first reunion, Oliver is unwilling
to admit (for the obvious selfish reasons) that Stuart has changed,
but Gillian recognizes it right off:
Stuart's grown up a lot. He's thinner than
he was, and grey hair seems to suit him, but mainly he's just
more at ease, more relaxed. Which was surprising under the circumstances.
Or perhaps not. After all, he's gone out there, into the world,
made his own life, made some money, and here we are, still the
same as before except for the children, and being a bit worse
off. He could have afforded to be patronising, but he wasn't
at all. I got the impression he was slightly impatient with Oliver;
no, that's not quite right, it was more as if he was watching
Oliver like a cabaret act, waiting for the show to be over before
serious business started. I ought to have resented it on Oliver's
behalf, but somehow I didn't.
True to character, Stuart hasn't stepped back
into Oliver and Gillian's lives impulsively. He has a plan, as
it turns out--but the problem for us readers is figuring out
what, exactly, his plan is. Or which version we're supposed to
believe.
Barnes, like Oliver, is preoccupied with the
inherent subjectivity of his characters' stated truths (the epigraph
for Talking It Over is "He lies like an eye-witness!").
And while he may not agree with Oliver's notion that subjective
truth is "so much more real, and more reliable, than the
other sort," he doesn't seem willing to clarify, as an author
might, which of the subjective truths on display comes
closer to matching up to the objective world. Many of the contradictory
Rashomon-style testimonial 'truths' are harmlessly humorous.
At that first dinner together, for instance, Gillian tells us
she overcooked the lasagna ("I was cross with myself about
that"), and Oliver agrees ("Gillian was so tense that
she cremated the pasta"). Stuart, on the other hand, declares
it "delicious."
Far darker disagreements appear in the final
pages of the book, though, and we're finally forced to question
even the most settled traits of Barnes's characters. This, we
rather belatedly realize, is not at all the straightforwardly
amusing comedy Talking It Over offered. Alert readers
will have noted, though, that Barnes tells us up front, on page
thirteen, that Love, etc. isn't really going to be simply
an enjoyable, witty divertissement. "Mostly," Stuart
tells us,
you get what you pay for. Mostly, people do
what they say they will. Mostly, a deal's a deal. Mostly, you
can trust people. I don't mean you leave your wallet open on
the table. I don't mean you hand out blank cheques and turn your
back at the wrong moment. But you know where you are. Mostly.
No, real betrayal occurs among friends, among
those you love. Friendship and love are meant to make people
behave better, aren't they? But that's not been my experience.
Trust leads to betrayal.
Memory, it seems, may be subjective and even
downright faulty, but when it comes to betrayals and rejections,
it can be long-lived. Love, etc.'s darker developments
may disturb readers who enjoyed the light, witty comedy of Talking
It Over, but it's undeniably a work whose deeper themes merit
our attention, and Barnes's cunning (if not exactly playful)
presentation of them is, as always, refreshingly adept.
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