Free Will back to index
I reckon there’s no such thing as free will. We’re all being manipulated… constantly! Just about everyone’s ideas and opinions, even their actions are drawn from films, TV, newspapers, magazines and books. When we were kids, my best friend and I were always pretending we were heroes from the movies or comics. Everyone does – and it doesn’t stop when they grow up – they're all adopting the latest fads, buying whatever advertisements tell them to, holidaying where the rich and famous hang out, hoping they’ll be taken for a celebrity. Pathetic. It wasn’t until this year that my eyes were opened to the sad consequences of this; and that’s thanks to Robert. He’s twenty-three; twelve years younger than Mum, eight years older than me. Although he’s my uncle, we only got to know each other properly last summer, and now we’re best mates.
Robert left school at fifteen to be general dogsbody cum secretary to Mr Bavistok. I was seven, and the old man’s bald head and dark, deep-set eyes made him look like a skull. But I liked him because he always treated me as if I was important – listening to me and asking my opinion on all sorts of things. When the old man died suddenly last year, Robert got totally depressed. Mum told him to snap out of it because he was only twenty-two, bloody rich now he’d inherited everything, and could have any girl he wanted. Robert told her to shut the fuck up because she didn’t know what she was talking about. Then Mum cried, so he had to apologise. She’s good at that, crying to get her own way.
After the funeral, Robert flew to
"Huh!" he’d snort, "Pete’s not like your precious Robert!"
I kept my mouth shut. Although Robert had always ignored me and hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to me in my entire life, he’d always been my idol. Tall, dark and handsome. He’d be looking for a friend when he got home, and I was going to be it! All I had to do was get him to notice me... My plans were well in hand when the letter came with his return flight details.
Robert had left his Mercedes for Mum, so we used it to pick him up. It was hot enough to put the hood down and Mum got her usual wolf whistles along with envious stares from a few guys. Even though she’s thirty-five, she’s still a looker. She reckoned Robert was getting thin; I envied his tan. At home, Dad grunted a minimum welcome before shutting himself in his shed. When Mum finally stopped talking, I dragged Robert to my room. I had exactly fifteen minutes to make him notice me before he left.
While he was away, I’d grown twenty centimetres and lifted weights. My plan was brilliant. I’d pose for Robert as an Ancient Greek statue. That’d make sure he at least noticed me, and he’d realise we had an interest in common – classical art.
Robert unbuttoned his shirt and lay on my bed, hands behind his head, grey eyes sleepy. A tiny gold medallion glinted against his smooth brown chest, triggering a crisis of confidence – his body was much better than mine! I passed him a photo of Praxiteles’ Apollo Sauroktonos, then, while he was distracted, whipped off all my clothes.
Robert frowned, then heaved himself upright as if to leave. I’d blown it! I quickly pulled the curtains and turned on the reading lamp to enhance my muscular definition, and took up the well-practised pose. Robert got off the bed, walked slowly around me, sprawled back on the bed, then gave a sort of barking laugh.
"Where’s the scrawny kid who used to live in this room?"
I felt an utter idiot. What was he thinking?
"How old are you?" he asked casually. "Sixteen? Seventeen?"
"Fifteen."
"The cusp of manhood," he said softly. "You look older."
As the silence lengthened, my secretarial dreams faded.
"Should I try to become really muscled like Hermes?" I asked to break the silence.
"No. Athletic youth is enchanting; virile manhood merely admirable."
Suddenly, he stood up to go. I’d failed. At the door he turned, frowned, then asked as if he had no interest in my reply, "Wanna spend the summer at my place?"
I choked.
"Well?
Mum was thrilled, chattering about how good it was of Robert to have me, telling me to behave, to…
Dad was called to hear the good news, but said nothing, and didn’t wave as we purred away — hood down, spirits up.
"You must read The Vatican Cellars by André Gide," Robert announced when we stopped beside a river to eat Mum’s sandwiches.
"What’s it about?"
"The adventures of Lafcadio
– a handsome Romanian, who, when he was fifteen, stayed with his mother and her
wealthy lover in a villa near Duino on the
"But…"
"No buts!"
We raced each other to the car and powered away.
The low stone house glowed in the late afternoon sunlight. Flanked by eucalypts and fronted by lawns, it flickered into view between the ancient trees lining the drive. We pulled up in front and switched off the engine. Bird calls, leaf-rustles, insect hums. With a shout of relief that nothing had changed since my last visit I threw off my clothes, raced for the lake, paddled the kayak till my arms ached, swam till I chilled, then raced back to the house where Robert had locked away my clothes, thrown the windows wide, and placed a substantial meal on the sun-warmed end of the verandah. While I ate, he issued instructions. Five hours of physical exercise every day, and three of intellectual exercise in the evening.
"Intellectual?"
"We always have friends to stay during the summer. You'll find them interesting."
"With me… naked… like Lafcadio?"
"Naturally."
"But…"
"Be yourself "
"But…"
"You're a young god, remember?"
"But…"
"Anyone who is shocked may go."
It was very informal. Guests arrived throughout the summer. Some stayed days, others weeks. They brought their own food and prepared it and there was always music, laughter and conversation.
At sunrise, Robert would drag me from our bed and we’d race to the lake for a dip, followed by a long, hard jog, then breakfast, then swimming, tramping, canoeing and talking. The guests did as they liked. Sometimes they joined us for a swim or walk. When alone, I was Achilles, Odysseus, Poseidon.
I found time to read The
Evenings were talkfests on topics from morality to monetary policy; ethics to environment; lithographs to literature. I argued with professors, danced for musicians, and posed for artists. I was Young Bacchus revelling with the mortals...
No one told me about hubris.
Robert insisted I finish school.
ghghgh
Wrapped in a cocoon of summer memories too precious to share, I withdrew from my fellow students. They were mere mortals. Superficial. Boring!
Two weeks into the term, miserable at the monotony of existence, I trudged up to the library after a desperately depressing day. Angry at everything. Heart aching for Robert’s barking laughter.
Mr Egas, the ancient Librarian, was standing before an open window gazing down at the ant-like comings and goings two stories below. I peered over his shoulder. Sunlight reflected dully off the crinkled parchment of his cancer- spotted cranium quivering on a neck seemingly too scrawny to support it. He glanced at me. A death's-head. An insult to the living. A cough shook his scrawny frame. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his lips, and smiled an apology.
Revulsion welled, overflowing into arms and hands. Avoiding his eyes I shoved him through the open window. He made a great sweep with his arm to save himself; his left hand clutched at the smooth framework of the window, while, as he half turned round, he flung out his right. A horrible claw scratched the back of my neck. I gave another push, more impatient than the first. His nails scraped through my flesh. After that, nothing was left for the old man to catch hold of but the air and he fell without uttering a sound. Just like Fleurissoire.
I left the school by the back gate — unseen — or at least unnoticed, confident that what I'd done was no different from a man stepping on a bug. A natural instinct. I stood to gain nothing from my action, so strictly speaking it wasn't morally wrong.
By the time I reached home my buoyant mood had dissipated, dissolving into an incomprehensible paralysis. I gave up thinking and lay on my bed.
ghghghgh
I wasn't intending to go, but Robert insisted I accompany him to the funeral. Mr. Egas was the only teacher who'd shown an interest in him at school, so he was determined to pay his respects. There were hundreds of mourners and I endured the service in a state of expectancy — of vague fear.
Afterwards, Robert shouted me to a meal, but I couldn't eat. The need to confide my dreadful secret had become desperate.
"Robert…"
"Yes?"
" I… I re-read The
My voice betrayed me. Robert put down his fork, wiped his lips carefully, then said quietly, "So, it wasn't an accident."
I couldn't speak.
"But… Pete, surely you realise the book is a satire, deriding people who modify their morals to suit their desires?"
Cold dread gripped my guts. I began to shake — uncontrollably.
We left the restaurant; my food untouched, and sat in Robert's car. There was no condemnation. No recrimination; only an intolerable silence. Finally, he sighed and told me to do and say nothing to anyone. What was done was done and he saw no point in self-sacrifice. Obviously, I had done wrong, but clearly I was repentant. My punishment would be to think about it for the rest of my life.
The sentence was too harsh. The rest of my life, I determined, would be very, very short.
He drove me home and parked at the gate. We sat in lengthening silence. Several times Robert started to speak, but the words seemed to choke in his throat. Eventually, unable to bear it any longer I opened my door, tears streaming, willing him to look at me but he continued to stare straight ahead. I got out and turned to close the door. Suddenly, he swung round in his seat and stared, an odd expression in his eyes.
"You can’t go back to school!"
"No."
"Anyway, school sucks and I need a secretary."