Sleight of Hand (36 page)

Whether it is Jenny remembering that Ricardo likes his eggs fried on both sides, or the choice of who sits next to who at the dinner table, the constant stream of knowing looks and mid-sentence pauses inevitably leaves everyone's nerves frazzled.

In fact this contributes to making sure that Ricardo's plan works perfectly. By Wednesday lunchtime when Florent phones, Jenny jumps at the idea that his visit might enable Ricardo and me to vanish for a few days.

“That was Florent,” she declares when the call is over.

“Florent?” I ask, trying to modulate my voice to express exactly the right amount of surprise.

“Yeah. We've become quite chummy. Anyway, he wants to come and visit for a few days.”

“What,
here?”

“Yeah, he's on holiday, the poor dear, and he can't afford to go away. I suggested a few days at the seaside.”

“Do you think there's room?” I ask, wondering if this isn't pushing my theatrical envelope a little too far.

“Well exactly,” Jenny says. “You two could do that trip to Nice you mentioned. And don't tell me you don't fancy a couple of nights away somewhere.”

“But you don't know him, do you?” I ask.

Jenny shrugs. “I will by Sunday.”

I pull a face. My last, convincing stand before I cave in.

“Oh go on,” Jenny says. “When else will you two get the chance to get away?”

“I suppose …” I say, looking at Ricardo. “What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “When does he come?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Jenny says.

“Tomorrow!” I say.

“Can you look at flights?” Ricardo asks. “With, you know, the orange one.”

“Easyjet,” I say. “Yeah, but they'll be expensive for
tomorrow.”

But of course, I have already looked and though they
are
a bit more expensive than I'm used to paying, mid December isn't high season either. They aren't beyond our reach.

On Thursday lunchtime, I pick Florent up from Eastbourne station and drive him back to the house.

During the short drive he tells me that his aunt died of cancer and that's how he realised he wanted to go into nursing. He still strikes me as incredibly cute, but beyond that I realise that he really is a rather lovely guy too. He's polite and funny and has a sort of scrubbed-clean perfection that's hard to nail down. He tells me that he's thirty-five, which is actually a good seven years older than I would have guessed and I ask him only half jokingly, what kind of skin cream he uses.

Though I know it makes me guilty of the worst kind of stereotyping, his dismissive reply – that he doesn't use
any
kind of cream – makes me wonder for the first time if he perhaps isn't gay after all.

On the drive to the airport, I ask Ricardo about this. “Maybe he's like me,” Ricardo says.

“You mean bisexual?” I ask, wondering if Ricardo is going to accept the label for the first time ever.

“No. I mean, maybe he doesn't use skin cream,” Ricardo says without irony.

It's raining when we arrive in Nice, which, though predicted by the weather forecast, is a huge disappointment.

“Yuck,” I say, staring from the window of the shuttle bus at a couple of bedraggled joggers on the Prom.

“Tomorrow Chups,” Ricardo says. “They said the sunshine is for tomorrow.”

We alight in front of the magnificent hotel Negresco and walk through the drizzle to our own far less ostentatious choice,
La Petite Sirene
.

The Swedish woman at check-in looks momentarily concerned. “This is a double room,” she says.

“Yes, I know,” I say with a forced smile.

“With one big bed.”

“That's fine.”

“We have a twin if you'd prefer.”

“Maybe,” Ricardo says, clearly uncomfortable at the confusion.

“We're together,” I explain. “We're a couple. We always sleep together.”

“Oh,” she says, breaking into a huge grin of relief. “I'm sorry, I didn't realise. You don't … anyway … here are your keys. Third floor. Three-O-Two.”

Once in our modest room, Ricardo says, “Pourquoi tu lui as dit ça ? Ce ne sont pas ses oignons.” -
Why did you say that? It's none of her business
.

“Why did
you
say that a twin was OK?” I retort.

“I think maybe she is embarrassed by us,” he says.

“She's Swedish. Of course she wasn't. You could see that she wasn't.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway,” I say, steering us away from potential conflict. “What do you want to do first? Visit your old flat? Go have a drink? Shag?”

“The flat,” Ricardo says.

“Really?” I ask, somewhat taken aback.

Ricardo nods seriously. “I'm not in mood now.”

I understand exactly why Ricardo isn't in the mood. It's the direct consequence of his brief flush of embarrassment at being in a gay couple. But there's no point going there … no point at all.

“OK”, I say with a sigh of disappointment. “Let's do that then.”

The rain has stopped when we get outside so we walk down to the seafront. The sky is still dark and loaded with rain to come – this is clearly just a temporary pause.

“Look at the sea,” Ricardo says as we cross the road.

“Yeah,” I say. “It's because of the rain.”

“The rain?”

“Yeah, it washes white silt from the mountains into the sea. That's what makes the sea go that milky turquoise colour.”

“I didn't know,” he says, so I point out how the sea is whitest at the point where the river Paillon floods out into the bay. “It's what makes the Côte d'Azur azure,” I explain.

We continue along the wet seafront. As we reach Castel Plage, Ricardo says, “It's a nice place too. Nice.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you come back to live here?”

“Yep,” I say. “Sure. No problem.”

“Me too.”

“But you'd rather live in Colombia.”

“I don't know babe. I'm not sure now.”

“Oh,”
I say, shocked. “Right.”

We continue around Rauba Capeu and past the war memorial, then cross to the entrance to Ricardo's building. He repeatedly rings the intercom, but when there is no answer, he looks at me slyly and says, “Maybe we have a look?”

“I don't think you should,” I say. “It's not your flat now.”

“Just quick,” he says, unlocking the street door. “You can watch the stairs.”

Which is exactly what we do. I stand at the top of the stairwell and peer down whilst Ricardo lets himself in behind me.

As he opens the door, thunder cracks outside, and rain starts to plop onto the glass roof of the stairwell.

“Chupy, come see,” he says.

I cross the landing and peer in through the door. “I thought you wanted me on lookout,” I say. “Jesus! What a mess.”

The sofa-bed is still in “bed” configuration. Every inch of the remaining floor is covered in a mixture of newspapers, discarded clothes and books. The ashtray is full to overflowing.

Ricardo looks at me and nods wide eyed from the other side of the room. “And I thought
you
were the messy boy.”

“I'm not messy,” I protest.

He takes in the room and shakes his head. “Well no,” he says turning to look out of the window. “Great view still.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is.”

“You remember what happened here?” he asks, just as I am remembering exactly that.

“Of course,” I say.

“And Jenny came.”

“And I hid on the balcony.”

“In the rain, like today.”

“It was the same time of year,” I say. “Anyway, come on. Let's get a move on before they come back.” I
am
nervous about their return, but more embarrassingly, these memories are giving me a stiffy.

“Maybe we can live here again one day,” Ricardo says.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?” I don't mention that if we end up looking after Sarah, this flat would be too small.

As we descend, Ricardo says, “They're very messy people.”

“They are,” I say. “Are you worried?”

He pouts and shakes his head. “No. As long as they don't burn the place. As long as they pay the rent.”

“Have you met them?”

“No. The agency did it all so …”

Down in the hall, I open the frosted glass door onto the street and am startled by the presence of two guys on the other side. One of them is fiddling with his keys.

We step aside and they smile and pass us. We step out into the rain and just as the door closes, I glance back and see them both peering back at us.

“Happy boys,” Ricardo says.

“Yes. Gay boys,” I say quietly. “Cute boys too. Maybe your renters.”

“Maybe,” he laughs. “I hope.”

“So what now?”

“Nice in the rain?”

“Yeah …”

“I think it's time to go back to the hotel for a siesta.”

“You're
tired?”

“No Chupy. You know what I mean when I say siesta.”

“Ah!” I say, slipping into a grin.
“That
kind of siesta.”

The sex back at the hotel is of the
wham bam
variety, but to be honest I have always rather liked it when Ricardo is in one of his
short- sharp-shock
moods. Afterwards we have a long, reassuring cuddle and then despite agreeing that we aren't tired, drift off to sleep.

By the time we head out for dinner the sky is clearing, so we have a couple of beers beneath the gas heaters of the open-air brasserie
La Civette
before eating in a favourite restaurant of mine in the old town,
La Ville De Sienne
.

Once we have finished our identical plates of
gnocchi Sorrentina
, Ricardo slides one leg between mine and beams at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Happy,” he says, simply.

“You think you could live here again then?”

“Yes,” he says.

“So when did you change your mind about Colombia?”

“I did not.”

“Well, you said you were less sure about going back.”

Ricardo nods and sighs. He stares from the side window for a moment then looks back at me and shrugs. “I think it was when those guys shoot the dog,” he says.

“Right. Well, that freaked me out too.”

“I don't mind so much for me, but it makes me feel guilty for you.”

“Guilty?”

“Responsible maybe,” he says.

“Sure. Well. I'm, you know, a big boy,” I say. “You don't need to feel responsible for anything.”

“I love Colombia,” he says. “But I think maybe it's still a bit … hairy? Is that what you say?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Hairy works. Why did you leave in the first place? I don't think you ever told me why you moved to France.”

“I wanted a change,” he says. “And I had a cousin in Nice, so it was easy. It was bad in Bogotá too then. It was good to get away.”

After dinner, Ricardo wants to go to a gay bar, but when we reach my first choice –
L'Ascenseur
– it has been re-branded
The Eagle
and is no longer a bar but a sex club. You now have to pay just to get in. I have a feeling of deja vu as if I already knew this but had simply forgotten.

“Let's go anyway,” Ricardo says, already pulling banknotes from his wallet.

“You won't like it,” I say.

“Let's go,” he says, handing the money over. “I want to see.”

The last time I was in l'Ascenseur, it had been packed red-wall to red-wall. The ever smiling Gilles who had been behind the bar for almost twenty years would introduce me to anyone I hadn't already met around the pool table.

This time when we are buzzed in, it is into a near-empty room with black walls, sticky floor and a camouflage-netting ceiling. The music is industrial and ugly, and five unhealthy looking chaps are the only clients. Each of them is propped, unsmiling, against a separate section of wall.

I peer through to where the pool table used to be and see that it is now a pitch-black back-room.

Ricardo looks around slowly and then says, “You're right Chupy. I don't like it,” and so I nod towards the door, and laughing we push straight back out onto the street.

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” I say outside.

“You used to come here?” Ricardo asks.

“It was totally different. There was good music and a friendly barman and a pool table,” I say.

“Hum,” Ricardo says, sounding unconvinced.

“Let's try Smarties. That'll be better.”

We walk along for a minute in silence then Ricardo says, “You know, when I see a place like this one …”

“Yes?”

“I don't understand.”

“Well no.”

“That's when I say I'm not gay, you understand?”

I shrug. “Well in that case, neither am I. It's horrible in there.”

“You wouldn't go there then? Even if you were single?”

“No,” I say, shuddering at the thought that the differences between the Eagle and Schwarz maybe aren't as great as all that.

“There's no fun. Those guys, they wait for what?”

“Well, for someone to go into the back room I suppose.”

“Yes. That's what I think too.”

“And then they follow them in.”

“They should try talking to each other,” Ricardo says. “Less boring.”

“Yes,” I agree. “They should.”

And then Ricardo, ever unpredictable, takes my hand.

We walk hand in hand for thirty seconds before I give his hand a squeeze and release myself. I never have been very at ease with holding hands in public, and I'm amazed that Ricardo – who can't even ask for a double bed – suddenly feels comfortable with it.