Page 377 - A Little Life: A Novel

passed Willem’s duffel bag, which was unzipped and filled with enough
clothes that it was clear he was going to stay for a while.
He felt pathetic admitting it to himself, but having Willem there—not just

in his apartment, but in his room—helped. They didn’t speak much, but his
very presence steadied and refocused him. He thought less of Caleb; he
thought less of everything. It was as if the necessity of proving himself
normal to Willem really did make him more normal. Just being around
someone he knew would never harm him, not ever, was soothing, and he
was able to quiet his mind, and sleep. As grateful as he was, though, he was
also disgusted at himself, by how dependent he was, how weak. Was there

no end to his needs? How many people had helped him over the years, and
why had they? Why had he let them? A better friend would have told
Willem to go home, told him he would be fine on his own. But he didn’t do
this. He let Willem spend the few remaining weeks he had in New York
sleeping on his sofa like a dog.
At least he didn’t have to worry about upsetting Robin, as Willem and

Robin had broken up toward the end of the Odyssey shoot, when Robin
discovered that Willem had cheated on her with one of the costume
assistants. “And I didn’t even really like her,” Willem had told him in one
of their phone calls. “I did it for the worst reason of all—because I was
bored.”
He had considered this. “No,” he said, “the worst reason of all would’ve
been because you were trying to be cruel. Yours was just the stupidest

reason of all.”
There had been a pause, and then Willem had started laughing. “Thanks
for that, Jude,” he said. “Thanks for making me feel both better and worse.”
Willem stayed with him until the very day he had to leave for Colombo.
He was playing the eldest son of a faded Dutch merchant family in Sri
Lanka in the early nineteen-forties, and had grown a thick mustache that

curled up at its tips; when Willem hugged him, he felt it brushing against
his ear. For a moment, he wanted to break down and beg Willem not to
leave. Don’t go, he wanted to tell him. Stay here with me. I’m scared to be
alone. He knew that if he did say this, Willem would: or he would at least
try. But he would never say this. He knew it would be impossible for
Willem to delay the shoot, and he knew that Willem would feel guilty for
his inability to do so. Instead, he tightened his hold on Willem, which was

something he rarely did—he rarely showed Willem any physical affection