“We could always go and see the mayor,” he said.
“Oh, that mayor. Claude, you don’t know anything about what goes on in this town.”
7.
“Are you really serious about these amphetamines?” he asked her.
“It’s a very heavy scene.”
“Do you really know where they are?”
“Do you think everything I tell you is a lie?”
“No, but you do exaggerate.”
She smiled.
“Are they really worth a million dollars?”
“That’s retail,” she grinned.
“How would you sell them?”
“You’d never come with me, would you? We could go to South America together. It’s a really amazing place.”
“No,” he said. “I’m an architect with responsibilities to my clients. And I won’t come with you because I’m a coward.” They were curled up on the couch in front of the fire listening to Mozart. “Why don’t you go and get them yourself? I’ll wait for you here.”
“People there know me. I was there with Carlos. They know the stuff is hidden somewhere but they don’t know where. It’s very heavy. They kill people for money like that.”
“But not respectable middle-class architects,” he said thoughtfully.
For one fleeting, terrible moment she thought his interest might be serious. The thought chilled her. “Oh baby, don’t you ever get mixed up with these people. They don’t care about anyone.” She cradled his head in her lap. “Let’s get stoned and watch TV.”
8.
One day he returned home and found that she had swept the house. A stew was cooking on the stove. There was a bottle of wine open on the table.
“Why did you do that?” he asked her. He was astonished. It seemed out of character.
“I cut the grass, too, some of it.”
“What with?”
“The scythe,” she said simply, “only the postman came and saw my boobs because I got hot and took my shirt off. Do you mind?”
“No, I don’t mind. Did he mind?”
“He’s a really nice man,” she said, “he came in for a drink.”
“He came in for a fuck,” Claude said more sharply than he had expected to.
“You really don’t understand twenty-two-year-old ladies, do you?” she said, frowning at him. “All you understand is cheating on wives and getting divorced.”
As usual in matters of sexual morality, he felt she was right. “Was there any mail?”
“Evelyn’s left Surabaya,” she said. “How’s your shitty building?”
“Shitty. Did you fuck the postman?”
“No, baby. I didn’t fuck the postman.”
The house smelt clean and good and the stew made a slow comforting noise. He filled a glass of wine and looked at Evelyn’s letter without reading it.
Julie stood over the stove, thoughtfully stirring the stew with a wooden spoon.
He was going to ask, what happens when the band arrives?
But he didn’t. Instead he said, “Do you want a joint?”
9.
Julie with her T-shirt off cutting grass with a scythe.
Julie planting five small trees and watering them with a plastic bucket.
Claude buying records by the rock’n’roll band and staring at photographs.
“Is that like Evelyn?”
“Is that a good photograph of Eric?”
“Does Evelyn screw Paul? It looks like it from the photo.”
Julie reading Social Banditry by the river.
Julie in blinding sun on the roof of the house, removing leaves from guttering.
Julie trying to draw pictures of parrots and Claude and hiding them afterwards.
Claude buying detailed maps of a northern city where a million dollars’ worth of amphetamines are hidden.
Julie with sunburn.
Claude with maps.
In the late spring many things were changing and Julie went into town and bought a long white cheesecloth dress with small blue flowers embroidered on it.
“Feel my hands,” she said.
“Yes,” he wondered.
“Dry.”
They lay on clean sheets nowadays but Claude didn’t sleep well, his dreams were twisted in the tangled roads of his threat and his salvation: the rock’n’roll band and a million dollars’ worth of amphetamines.
10.
She saw him as soft and slow and sleepy as a lizard. She would have dressed him in pale mohair sweaters and soft leather slip-ons. She saw him playing svelte snooker at 3.00 a.m., his dark eyes smiling in concentration. She saw him by firelight. By deep dusk light on warm evenings. She was wrapped in blankets with him and by him. She would have done nothing to unwrap the cocoon they had built. He had asked nothing of her, ever, and she would have given him anything.
Yet he seemed somehow restless and untouchable. His movements, normally so fluid, had become less certain.
They played the amphetamine game now only because he wanted to.
She talked to him about the amphetamines because she had come to love him. She considered, by brown rivers on hot days, saying I love you in the evening but never did. She came to fear that he wanted her to leave, that his restlessness was an indication of this.
“Do you want me to go away, honey?” she asked him.
“Do you want to go away?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you bored?”
“No,” she smiled, “I’m not bored.”
“You keep saying I’m a boring old man.”
“Ah,” she said, “I only say that to flatter you.”
“I have often thought,” he said, not unkindly, “that you perhaps say it to flatter yourself.”
“How do you mean?”
“That it makes you feel dangerous.”
She reacted by making pistols of her fingers and with wrinkled nose, swivelling hips, shooting him with imaginary Magnums. “Zap. Zap.”
“Do you want to rob banks?” he said.
“Only if I can do it with you,” she said. “Come and look at the trees. I think they might need watering.”
11.
She had begun to guess about the rock’n’roll band and its effect on him. She had tried to tell him that it affected nothing, would affect nothing. But because he hadn’t really declared his fears there was no way she could successfully allay them.
He thought she was a Bedouin princess who would return to her own people.
She was an orphan with damp hands and bad dreams that she had postponed with wine and Valium and electric fears.
Sometimes she felt she had been invented by Leonard Cohen, whom she hated.
She regretted her letters to Evelyn.
She regretted the answers. She took the letters as they arrived and hid them where he wouldn’t find them.
But he found them and misinterpreted her reasons for hiding them.
She began to fear losing him.
She had made him hate his job. She had made him ashamed of his life. She had never told him that she loved him, that her eyes filled with tears watching him sleep, without her knowing why.
And she knew that he was plotting something. His dark face was as secretive as shuttered windows on winter mornings. When she kissed him he returned her kisses distractedly. When he got stoned he looked miserable. And when he asked her about the amphetamines she knew it was because he thought she was a liar so she told him plainly, in detail, exactly where they were and she drew a plan that could not have been invented and explained that in the city in question there was an old quarter in which all the houses had disused interconnecting passages, a protection against seventeenth-century winters.
“Now do you believe me?” she said when she had finished.
“Yes, I believe you,” he said, without apparent conviction.
And although she should have guessed what was on his mind she didn’t, because he wasn’t interested in money, because drugs had no fasc
ination for him, because he was unlike Carlos and had no need to prove himself in acts of machismo and because it was unthinkable that a gentle-faced amateur should attempt anything so patently foolish.
He said he was going to an architects’ convention in another city.
She knew he was lying and didn’t ask to come.
She knew he was going to fuck some lady who was more beautiful and more interesting than she was.
She bought him a mohair sweater in a very pale blue.
12.
He had become more than slightly mad. His actions were dictated by a logic so strict that it allowed no variation. He was a sleepwalker strolling on the ledges of sixty-storey buildings. He was a beachcomber removing seashells from a minefield. He flew into a northern city, took a taxi to an address he had copied down, asked the taxi to wait and emerged in five minutes with a large crate.
In his hotel room he packed the contents of the crate into sixty small cardboard boxes and posted them to himself, to his home, to his office and to seven different suburban post offices in the town where he lived.
Not one of them was intercepted by customs. It had never occurred to him that they might be.
13.
He had always wanted to take Polaroid photographs of her face to show her its incredible variety, most beautiful in laughter, most childlike when solemn, ugly in tears, as mischievous as a gargoyle, as decadent as Bacchus.
But when finally, two weeks after he returned, he presented her with a million dollars’ worth of amphetamines, he was in no way prepared for the undiluted horror that widened her eyes and dropped her jaw and made her literally gasp for breath.
For she knew, as she looked at the peculiarly beautiful capsules with their pink and yellow stripes, that her haven had been ripped apart and laid waste.
She stared at him, shaking her head, not even trying to wonder how he had succeeded in doing what he had done.
She shivered in anger and despair.
He had understood nothing.
He had thought it was a game.
He had finally believed her story but he had never believed how serious it was.
He was standing in front of her now, smiling proudly, like a dog with a hand grenade in its mouth, wagging its tail.
Carlos had an ugly mouth. Carlos had treated her like shit. Carlos was stupid and vindictive and in jail. But he was also a businessman who had just been relieved of the biggest deal he had ever conceived. Carlos would kill a hundred men to get those little pills. He would do it tomorrow, or the next day, or next year, but he would do it.
There was nothing she could say to him. There was no advice she could offer him for his own safety. She could think only of her own survival. She felt ill. She could not even kiss him goodbye.
14.
Clay dust falls from adobe walls and settles on slate floors, chairs, tables and filters through the cracks of a crate containing a million dollars’ worth of amphetamines which have never been discovered.
He tried one once, but it made him feel unpleasant.
In nights of Valium and wine he remembers times when he held her in his arms and pressed his body full of dreams.
Peeling
She moves around the house on soft slow feet, her footsteps padding softly above me as I lie, on my unmade bed of unwashed sheets, listening. She knows, as she always knows, that I am listening to her and it is early morning. The fog has not risen. The traffic crawls outside. There is a red bus, I can see the top of it, outside the window. If I cared to look more closely I could see the faces of the people in the bus, and, with luck, my own reflection, or at least the reflection of my white hair, my one distinction. The mail has not yet arrived. There will be nothing for me, but I wait for it. Life is nothing without expectation. I am always first to pick up the letters when they drop through the door. The milk bottles, two days old, are in the kitchen unwashed and she knows this too, because she has not yet come.
Our relationship is beyond analysis. It was Bernard, although I prefer to name no names, who suggested that the relationship had a Boy Scout flavour about it. So much he knows. Bernard, who travels halfway across London to find the one priest who will forgive his incessant masturbation, cannot be regarded as an authority in this matter.
Outside the fog is thick, the way it is always meant to be in London, but seldom is, unless you live by the river, which I don’t. Today will not disappoint the American tourists.
And she walks above my head, probably arranging the little white dolls which she will not explain and which I never ask about, knowing she will not explain, and not for the moment wishing an explanation. She buys the dolls from the Portobello Road, the north end, on Friday morning, and at another market on Thursdays, she has not revealed where, but leaves early, at about 5 a.m. I know it is a market she goes to, but I don’t know which one. The dolls arrive in all conditions, crammed into a large cardboard suitcase which she takes out on her expeditions. Those which still have hair she plucks bald, and those with eyes lose them, and those with teeth have them removed and she paints them, slowly, white. She uses a flat plastic paint. I have seen the tins.
She arranges the dolls in unexpected places. So that, walking up the stairs a little drunk, one might be confronted with a collection of bald white dolls huddled together in a swarm. Her room, which was once my room, she has painted white; the babies merge into its walls and melt into the bedspread which is also white. White, which has become a fashionable colour of late, has no appeal to her, it is simply that it says nothing, being less melodramatic than black.
I must admit that I loathe white. I would prefer a nice blue, a pretty blue, like a blue sky. A powder blue, I think it is called. Or an eggshell blue. Something a little more feminine. Something with — what do you call it? — more character about it. When I finally take her to bed (and I am in no hurry, no hurry at all) I will get some better idea of her true colour, get under her skin as it were.
Did you get the pun?
I have found her, on numerous occasions, playing Monopoly in the middle of her room, drinking Guinness, surrounded by white dolls.
Several times a week she comes to wash my dishes and to be persuaded to share a meal with me. The consumption of food is, for the moment, our most rewarding mutual occupation. We discuss, sometimes, the experience of the flavours. We talk about the fish fingers or the steak and kidney pies from Marks & Sparks. She is still shy, and needs to be coaxed. She has revealed to me a love for oysters which I find exciting. Each week I put a little of my pension aside. When I have enough I will buy oysters and we will discuss them in detail. I often think of this meal.
At an earlier stage I did not understand myself so well, and achieved, on one or two occasions, a quiet drunken kiss. But I have not pursued the matter, being content, for the moment, with the meals and the company on these quiet nights now that the television has been taken away and now that I, unemployed, have so little money to spend with the ladies in Bayswater, the cinema, or even a pint of best bitter in the Bricklayers Arms which, to tell the truth, I always found dull.
I am in no hurry. There is no urgency in the matter. Sooner or later we shall discuss the oysters. Then it will be time to move on to other more intimate things, moving layer after layer, until I discover her true colours, her flavours, her smells. The prospect of so slow an exploration excites me and I am in no hurry, no hurry at all. May it last for ever.
Let me describe my darling. Shall I call her that? An adventure I had planned to keep, but now it is said. Let me describe her to you. My darling has a long pale face with long golden hair, slightly frizzy, the kind with odd waving pieces that catch the light and look pretty. Her nose is long, downwards, not outwards, making her appear more sorrowful than she might be. Her breasts, I would guess, are large and heavy, but she wears so many sweaters (for want of a better term) that it is hard to tell; likewise the subtleties of her figure. But she moves, my darling, with the grace of a cat, pacing about her room surrounded b
y her white dolls and her Monopoly money.
She seems to have no job and I have never asked her about her occupation. That is still to come, many episodes later. I shall record it if and when it is revealed. For the moment: she keeps no regular hours, none that I can equate with anything. But I, for that matter, keep no regular hours either and, never having owned a clock, have been timeless since the battery in the transistor radio gave out. Normally it seems to be late afternoon.
She is making up her mind. I can hear her at the top of the stairs. Twice, in the last few minutes, she has come out onto the landing and then retreated back into her room. She has walked around her room. She has stood by the window. Now she moves towards the landing once more. She is there. There is a silence. Perhaps she is arranging dolls on the landing.
No. She is, I think, I am almost positive, descending the stairs, on tiptoe. She plans to surprise me.
A tap at the door. My stomach rumbles.
I move quickly to the door and open it. She says hello, and smiles in a tired way.
She says, phew. (She is referring to the smell of the bad milk in the unwashed bottles.)
I apologize, smooth down my bed, pull up the cover, and offer her a place to sit. She accepts, throwing my pyjama pants under the bed for the sake of tidiness.
She says, how is your situation?
I relate the state of the employment market. But she, I notice, is a little fidgety. She plays with the corner of the sheet. She is distracted, appears to be impatient. I continue with my report but know she is not fully listening.
She leaves the bed and begins to wash up, heating the water on the small gas heater. I ask her of her situation but she remains silent.
The water is not yet hot enough but she pours it into the tub and begins to wash up, moving slowly and quickly at the same time. I dry. I ask her of her situation.
She discusses George, who I am unsure of. He was possibly her husband. It appears there was a child. The child she visits every third Sunday. For the hundredth time I remark on how unreasonable this is. The conversation tells neither of us anything, but then that is not its purpose. The dishes she dispenses with quickly, an untidy washer, I could do better myself — she leaves large portions of food behind on plates, bottles, and cutlery, but I do not complain — I keep the dishes to attract her, like honey.