‘Hissing at him as he sits next to you: “You’re a
damn
fool Hargreaves!”’
‘Ah, I feel better.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Me neither.’
Alex got up and looked out of the window. It was still raining.
‘I can’t make her out,’ he said.
‘More to the point,’ said Luke, ‘you can’t make out with her. Ho ho.’ He had his feet on the coffee table. No lights were on in the room. It was growing dark. The streetlights were on. Neon squirmed in the street.
‘Maybe we
should
go to a film,’ said Luke, picking up
Pariscope
again.
‘Maybe we should dig a tunnel.’
‘You’re right. We’re wire happy.’
‘Are you seeing Nicole tonight?’ said Alex.
‘Yes. Do you have plans to see Sahra?’
‘I guess I’ll call her.’
The music started, drowning out the rain.
It was still pouring when Luke set out for Nicole’s. Just outside his building he bumped into Miles.
‘How lovely to see you, Luke!’ he said, unperturbed by the rain. He was taking his Labrador for a walk.
‘Shit, Miles, you look like you’ve been tramping round in the rain ever since we said goodbye.’
‘Not at all. I was tramping round
at home
until half an hour ago. How was the dancing?’ They stood talking in the rain. Miles asked Luke where he was going, said he’d walk with him part of the way, show him a shortcut.
‘I’ve often wondered where this led,’ said Luke as they came to an alley.
‘That was your mistake,’ admonished Miles. ‘In this world there is one unique path which no one but you may walk. Where does it lead? Don’t ask: take it.’
‘You always sound like you’re quoting, Miles.’
‘Nonsense! Anyway, I must be getting on,’ he said, holding out his hand to say goodbye.
‘You don’t want to come to Nicole’s for a drink?’
‘Must go. Phone me. Turn right at the end of the alley and you’re there.’
‘OK. Bye Miles.’
‘Ha!’
Nicole had washed her hair, was wearing her toothpaste-striped robe, sitting cross-legged on the floor, pulling apart a book of sepia-tinted photographs of the New Mexico desert. She had salvaged the book from a skip full of water-damaged books. One by one she held up the pictures and tried them in a frame with a circular picture window.
‘What about that one?’ The circular mount made all the photos look as if they were of the same brownish planet.
‘It’s OK.’
Luke saw Nicole and himself in the Belgrade mirror. She sipped from a mug of tea, yellow, and tried some more pictures. Eventually she chose a photo of the wind-filled sierra, clouds in the distance. She taped the frame together and held it up. She was in a dreamy state.
‘Lovely isn’t it?’
‘Not really.’
‘It is. You see, I love things that are disappointing.’
‘Is that why you like me?’
‘Probably.’ She kissed him. Luke moved behind her and kissed her neck.
‘I bumped into Miles as I was walking here. He had his dog with him, a lovely Labrador.’
She turned her head and kissed him. ‘And?’
Luke kissed her neck again and pushed the robe up her back, to her shoulders. ‘I stroked its head. I looked in its eyes. And I remember thinking: if I concentrate hard now I will learn the difference between a dog and a human being. Imagine that. All I had to do was concentrate. But of course I didn’t bother, because of the rain. But something came out of it: a kind of residue of ungrasped illumination.’
‘What a stupid story.’ Luke knelt behind her and licked down her back. She lay still, looked at the mirror, waited. He bit her buttocks lightly, licked up her back again, almost as far as her shoulders, and then down again. She lay still, waited. He traced the valley between her buttocks with his tongue, not pressing. She moved, almost imperceptibly. He licked more deeply between her buttocks, almost touching her. She pushed up at him. His tongue brushed her anus. She opened her legs more, pushed herself at his face. He touched her again with his tongue, wetting her. He stiffened his tongue, waiting, until she eased back on to it. His hands were on her buttocks, pulling them apart. He pushed his tongue into her and then, when she was wet, circled her arsehole with his finger, slid it into her.
‘Wait,’ she said. She stood up and walked into the bedroom. Luke undressed. She came back and passed him a pot of moisturising cream. She felt the cream on her, cool; in the mirror she saw him dip his fingers into the pot, watched them disappear between her buttocks.
‘Is that too cold?’ he said.
‘Even here,’ she said, ‘he has to regulate the temperature. It’s cool. It’s nice. Look at the mirror.’ Everything they saw lagged fractionally behind what they felt. He slid his finger into her more easily, began masturbating her arsehole. He felt her tense, relax, tighten, relax. She reached back, pushed her own fingers into the pot and smeared cream on to him.
He moved towards her, began pressing gently. In the mirror she was still rubbing lotion on to him. His penis slid up between her buttocks. She reached back and guided him. He pressed. She gasped.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry. Shall I stop?’
‘No, try again.’ She pulled her buttocks apart. He could see her arsehole, dark, smudged with white cream. He leaned forward, pressed.
‘Yes, there . . . No, there. Yes.’ She felt him enter her. ‘Ah, gently. Wait, wait.’ His prick was in her now. ‘OK.’ He pushed a little more, could feel the head of his prick inside her, gripped tight. In the mirror she saw him pressing, not yet inside her.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that nice?’
‘Yes, yes. Do it harder, deeper,’ she said, touching herself.
‘I’m going to come soon.’
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait.’
‘Come, come soon.’
‘Yes, now, yes.’
Luke collapsed on top of her. In the mirror they were still locked together, tensed on the brink of coming. They lay as they were, not speaking, then Luke moved on to his side.
‘Is it . . . is it clean?’ said Nicole. Luke looked down at his penis.
‘Yes.’
‘What a relief.’
‘It wouldn’t have mattered if it wasn’t,’ said Luke. ‘But I’ll go to the bathroom anyway.’
Luke pissed and then washed his penis in the basin while Nicole sat on the toilet. He touched her head and left the bathroom. It was raining harder. He opened the door to the balcony, startled by the noise of the rain. They lay in bed, listening to the rain, watching it pour past, angling in and bouncing off the floor of the balcony. Lights across the road were blurs and streaks.
‘Did you like that?’
‘What?’
‘Me in your arse.’
‘Yes. You’re so tender, Lukey. You were in my core. Is that the word?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was, I don’t know, primitive.’
‘Had you done it before?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes. Have you? No, don’t tell me. If you have I don’t want to know.’ She turned away. Then she faced him again and said, ‘I ask you something else instead.’
‘Anything.’
‘What is it you want to do, Luke?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With your life.’
‘I’m doing it.’
‘Ultimately.’
‘Ultimately I want to keep on doing it. Keep on living it. My life, I mean. You just said I was in your core, yes? Well, I feel the same. That I’m close to the centre, the core, of my life.’
‘What about work?’
‘As in a career?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think I want to spend the rest of my life working five days a week at the warehouse.’
‘What would you like to do instead?’
‘I’d like to go part-time.’
‘Then?’
‘I’d like to retire.’
‘You’re strange, Luke. When I first saw you, at passage Thiéré. I thought . . . There was such yearning in you.’
‘I was yearning for you.’
‘No, it was more. I see it in you still. It’s part of you. It
is
you. And then in other ways you seem almost not to want anything, not to care.’
‘I care about you. And I really want a beer. I’m yearning for one.’ Luke walked over to the fridge and opened the door. ‘Actually,’ he said, rummaging around for a beer, ‘I yearn to be exactly where I am now.’ Nicole said nothing. Luke turned and found she was gone. The room was full of the hiss of rain. He walked by the bed and peeked round the door of the balcony. She was leaning with her back against the balcony rail, the rain flooding over her. Her hair was soaking black over her shoulders. Her eyes were closed. The rain was falling so hard that it must have been on the brink of hurting. Luke watched the ricochets and darts of rain like electrical charges leaping around her.
She opened her eyes and looked at him.
Ahmed turned up for work on Monday with a broken nose and a black eye. He looked like he’d been in a fight. He
had
been in a fight – or at least he’d been on the receiving end of one. He and Sally had left the club together. She had to get up early the next day and had taken a taxi home. Ahmed had begun walking. There was never any trouble in clubs and Ahmed had carried that safe, friendly atmosphere out into the street with him. It was late, there was hardly anyone around. A guy asked him the time. Ahmed said he didn’t have a watch. The guy punched him in the face. The blow knocked Ahmed to the floor. He felt a couple of kicks in the ribs and the side of the head but was able to scramble to his feet and run. The guy who’d hit him didn’t bother giving chase. Ahmed walked straight to the hospital and stayed there till nine in the morning, getting his cuts stitched, having X-rays.
‘Why didn’t you telephone?’ said Luke.
‘It was too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘And I was sort of embarrassed. Sunday I slept almost all day. I called Sally and she came over.’
Lazare said Ahmed could go home, he’d pay him for the day anyway. Ahmed preferred to work. He didn’t want to sit at home moping about what had happened. Lazare was in excellent spirits: a consignment sent to Marseille had gone missing so he was able to spend the whole morning calling people up and abusing them. When I went into the office I heard him use the word ‘cocksucker’, a sure sign that he was enjoying himself.
In the afternoon Luke went out for ten minutes and returned with a box of Arab cakes.
‘For everyone,’ he said, ‘but make sure you leave some for Ahmed since he’s not capable of fending for himself . . .’
Sahra called Alex before he had a chance to phone her, on Monday night. His heart leaped when he heard her voice.
‘How’ve you been?’ he said. ‘What did you do yesterday?’
‘Sunday? Oh, I didn’t leave the apartment. The Day That Wasn’t Even A Day. What about you?’
‘I can’t remember. Maybe the same.’
‘There’s a party,’ said Sahra. ‘On Friday. Would you like to go?
‘Sure. Yes.’
‘It’s quite a smart party. We’ll have to dress up –
you’ll
have to dress up.’
‘Great. I love to dress up.’
‘And Nicole and Luke. Do you want to ask them as well?’
‘Yes, sure.’
‘Is that your idea of a conversation: “Yes, sure?”’
‘Yes, sure,’ said Alex, glad at the chance to sound laconic.
‘See you Friday then,’ she said – and hung up.
Nicole was still getting ready when Luke called for her. He was wearing his suit.
‘I’ve never seen you look so smart,’ said Nicole, kissing him. ‘You look so . . .’
‘So what?’
‘So
manly
.’
‘What do I normally look like?’ he said, watching her leave the room.
‘I’m not quite ready,’ Nicole called back. ‘Put a record on.’
She tried on various outfits but was happy with none of them (Luke liked them all). Eventually she tried on a sleeveless dress, pale yellow, short.
‘What do you think?’
‘You could make a dead man come,’ said Luke.
‘Always charming,’ said Nicole, and disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out she had made up her eyes and put on lipstick.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Why are you looking like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’ve lost a pound and found a flyover or whatever that stupid English expression is.’
‘Lost a fiver and found a pound,’ said Luke, grinning.
‘Something must be wrong if you correct my English. What is it?’
‘It’s just that I’ve never seen you wear make-up before.’
‘So?’
‘I think you look nicer without it.’
‘What if I want to wear it?’
‘Fine.’
‘So, are we ready?’ She picked up her bag, her keys, a tube of mints.
‘Sure.’
‘Why don’t you want me to wear make-up?’
‘Because you look so much nicer without it.’
‘You just don’t want other men to fancy me.’
‘Actually, like most men, I like it when other men fancy the woman I am with. As it happens, nobody could fancy you with all that shit on your face.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You look like a doll. I hardly recognize you.’
‘I don’t tell you how to dress, or how to look.’
‘If you did I wouldn’t mind.’
‘
I
mind you telling me.’
‘I just hate make-up. Lipstick makes me want to throw up. I’ve never seen you wearing make-up before so I was shocked. The only people who need to wear make-up are people with something wrong with them.’
‘You should wear it then, you bloody fucker!’
Luke laughed: Nicole rarely swore and never sounded convincing when she did. She threw her bag at his face. He ducked. The bag hit the wall behind him. Nicole strode into the bathroom. Luke picked up the bag and its scattered contents, waited. A few minutes later she came out of the bathroom with no trace of make-up to be seen.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Luke. He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her.
‘I hate lipstick too,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t like it.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I don’t know. I just did.’
‘Does that count as our first quarrel?’
‘I suppose. Even though we were quarrelling about something we agreed on.’
‘So, you’re a temper-loser rather than a sulker.’
‘What is sulking?’
‘You know, after you’ve quarrelled you refuse to speak for ages.’