I was
standing in the rain outside Watford. The bus stop looked abandoned, its flimsy roof a pathetic fig leaf to my nakedness. There was a parcel in
my bag, but I tried not to think about it too much. Every ten seconds I checked
the phone, which flash-lit the muddy surroundings in abrupt, two-second flickers.
The cab driver had looked bored, his sleep-angry silence defying my possible
questions. It took me one wretched hour to dig the bus stop out of the dark and
the pouring rain. I checked the time. It was half past midnight, which meant
that they were late. Which meant that there was still a chance they wouldn’t show
up at all.
At some
point three or four hours ago, at the party, the big man with the big breath started
to get closer. At first he was only a ghost, a bleak apparition, though his
transparent body was already clad in a spotless black suit awe-striking every
woman on his way, and his invisible fingers were already stroking an obese Havana
cigar. As of 9pm, I had no idea who the big man was and that he even existed. But
why not state the obvious. The inevitable. The bound to happen.
As for
myself, I couldn’t even awe-strike Nicole. At the moment and much to my
painless headache (the expensive red wine was making me feel drowsy), she was
conversing – because that’s the word – with the latest newcomers, Serge and
Denise. Denise, the bloody nuisance. Serge, not so much. The guy had an
interesting sense of humour and a peculiar way of dressing. I liked that. So
far, his only defect was his name. I mean, could you believe these people? It
was not enough that a well-off Midland family gave their children French names,
one of their daughters also chose to put special demands on the guys she was
dating. Which is where we come to Serge. Serge was in fact Sergey, a
20-year-old Google wizard from St. Petersburg who had declined six or seven
grants to study at Princeton. And now Sergey became Serge, handily, and now
Serge was conversing – because that’s the word – with two girlfriends. His and
mine.
In the
meantime, I could hear the out-of-tune choir of random conversations backed by
distant, uneven rolls of classical music. The room was a huge bright whale that
threatened to swallow you or at least lick you to death. It all resembled that infernal
restaurant scene from Master and
Margarita. And on top of that, somebody’s friend, son or brother was
talking to me about the Breaking Bad
finale. Socially alert, I agreed and I disagreed, I nodded and I shook my head –
but I wasn’t following. I must have been the only person in the world who
wasn’t crazy about the show. Evidently somebody’s friend, son or brother
couldn’t see that possibility. Jesse, Todd, Walt – who cared. I thought the
whole thing was murky and unfunny. Presently, I had far too many real problems
to care about abstract ones, but dumb politeness grounded me to the floor.
Floor that was covered with a red Persian carpet that was dry soaking my feet
and making me feel like a slug. I wanted to cut through that circle of
three the way a sharp knife would, close in on Nicole, lead her out of their pointless
conversation and ask: “Were you or were you not?” But I had to wonder just how
sharp I was after standing for so long drinking free wine and listening to
other people’s bullshit.
Still, I
needed the answer. I needed Nicole. Because soon after the party had begun I
suddenly realised that earlier that day, in her sister’s bedroom, we might have
made a terrible mistake. This thought was unbearable.
When I couldn’t
take it any longer and told the hapless fan “I’m sorry, but I prefer Walking Dead” (not true, but I rather liked
the rhyme), Nicole was no longer there. Serge and Denise were alone now, Denise
striving to balance her glass of champagne and Serge red with excitement. I
wondered if all Russian people were this good at telling ridiculously long
anecdotes. The way Serge articulated them, the way he used gestures and rolled
out the punchlines like very special presents he knew you would like – it was
priceless. You wouldn’t think an impromptu rendering of a variation on a dull
Russian-Englishman-American joke could work, but it did. And the more
preposterous it sounded, the more obscene and inappropriate – the bigger laughs
it got. As I approached the two of them, Denise was actually bended over, her
long red hair almost touching the floor, and I thought that in the end it may
not have been the brain or the looks. It might have been the way this guy made
her laugh. The self-styled French girl fell for bawdy Russian humour passed
over through the rather funny sounding English. You couldn’t make that up. So,
so unlike Denise.
“Oh hey, I thought I saw Nicole here a minute
ago”, I said.
“Hello, Kevin”,
said Serge.
We shook
hands.
“Ke-vin”,
said Denise, shakily, trying to recover from laughter. For all her mannerisms,
even Denise had enough sense not to stress the last syllable. “She went to
ladies’ room”.
Ladies’
room. It was so Denise. That said,
I’d been in the house since morning, helping Nicole with the flowers and with
the alcohol, and this time Denise could actually have a point.
“Ah okay”,
I said. I didn’t want to mention the fact that I had to talk to Nicole. There
could be questions, and Denise would surely overpower me. Like she always did,
even that one time when she went to see the quarter-final game we went on to
lose in a spectacular fashion. “By the way, how was that launching thing?”
“She was
bored”, said Serge.
“A little”,
admitted Denise. She smirked into the glass and then chuckled. A joke belch. Against
Nicole’s modest smiles, Denise was all provocative scream. She was pretty, too.
The kind of girl a guy like Serge had to hang on to, but equally you had wonder
if he could survive the job.
“Personally,
I don’t like tablets”, I said. “I’m old-fashioned. I use the keyboard”.
Denise was
examining her glass.
“Well”,
said Serge. “My sister is like that. Rada. She isn’t on Facebook”. Rada. Well, that ‘r’ was ruthless, but his
grammar was good. And Serge was nice, maybe too nice. Not least because of his overwhelming accent as well as the elegant green tie (arguably
the only thing that matched Denise’s dress) and the oversized checkered suit
that made him look a little buffoonish.
Side note:
the big man with the big breath must have gotten a little closer by this point,
but what did I know. Did I know he was looking for me? Did I know his only clue
was a photo provided by Nicole’s parents? Did I know he had something to offer
me? No, I didn’t know that. As a matter of fact I knew very little – and
remembered even less.
I wondered
who started it. This might become relevant when the fingers are pointed, best
doctors are contacted and Denise says she always knew it would end like this.
So how did it start? Well, at some point I mentioned the house had so many
rooms that a couple of them must have been empty for years. Nicole said yes, do
you wanna look? I did, but imagining beat reality, and it turned out to be
rather disappointing. The rooms smelled cold and dusty, horror story background
with no edge or imagination, something even a homeless ghost would snub. “Nobody
needs them”, said Nicole, “so they’ve been like this for as long as I can
remember”. I told her my mother would make them livable in no time and
immediately regretted saying that. It could send a wrong message. But Nicole
was fine. Sometimes it seemed like she was carrying a bucket of sweetness in
her hands and was afraid to spill one tiny drop. In my most naïve mood I entertained
the idea that she was Cinderella to her evil sister. “Well, Denise’s bedroom is
around here, and it’s livable. Let’s have a look?” said Nicole. To which I
again replied yes, let’s do that.
Then she closed
the door and began undressing.
So the
question was: who started it?
“Kevin?”
It was Serge.
Denise was gone now, and Serge and I were two unlikely strangers thrown into a
small corner by a big party.
“Excuse
me?” I said.
“I thought
you said something”, said Serge.
I wished to
God I hadn’t, but in a way I needed a listener. Besides, our few interactions
with Serge had been awkward at best, and it seemed unfair. Yes, geographical
backgrounds were quite different. Yes, he knew even less about cricket than I
did about programming. Yes, my clothes were tight and his were loose-fitting. But
beneath all that – there seemed to be much in common. After all, we dated two
sisters and it rarely gets more brotherly than that.
“No, I was
just thinking aloud…” I wanted to push a little, make it sound like an ordinary
guy talk: “Serge, I’m going to be direct with you. Can I?”
“Sure”, he
said.
“Is it
serious? I mean you and Denise?”
“Well, I
don’t know”, he said, still jovial but already on guard. “Is it serious between
you and Nicole?”
“I don’t know”, I said. “Hard to say. But
imagine this: having kids with Denise”.
That was
extremely forward, but I was desperate. Suddenly all the wine was gone from my
head, and it was back to normal red blood cells coursing through my brain, my
veins and, quite possibly, my tongue.
“No”, said
Serge. “I don’t want no kids with Denise”.
Ha, I
thought. Was that perfect grammar?
But I knew the rules of a guy talk, so I said:
“Same
here”. And then asked: “But imagine if something like this did happen?”
“Pardon
me?” said Serge.
I closed my
eyes and shook the empty wine glass as a way of saying “forget about it, move on”.
Pardon me. When you hear ’pardon me’
said with a strong accent, with such exaggerated force, with such fake
confidence, you know you must be somewhere in London. Which we were.
“Do you hear how loud it is?” I asked, bored
by the talk, by the big lights and willing to get away. “I mean here, at the
party? If you stop and listen for a second – it’s like all hell broke loose”.
Then I left
Serge behind and went looking for Nicole. Nicole who began to undress the
moment the door was shut and I saw the raw, pink-coloured bed flattened across the
whole room. I began to undress as well. All was done in silence, the kind I
wouldn’t even dream of breaking off with a dull question. A
strange thought entered my mind the moment we crashed onto the small girlish
things, like lipstick-smelling notebooks and fluffy teddy bears, scattered all
over the bed. That was all rather adorable, but weren’t we supposed to get rid
of those things beforehand? Really, we were like neighbours in that Raymond
Carver story, and all through those brief five minutes, by turns passionate and
beastly, I wasn’t doing it with Nicole. I kept my eyes closed and I couldn’t
imagine her face. I couldn’t even imagine her voice as she moaned (for the
first time ever). But by the end of it, I of course knew we would never come close
to that experience again.
And now I
had to ask her: “Were you or were you not?” Only she wasn’t there to answer.
“Nicole!
Finally. Can you please stop for a second?”
“Oh Kevin –
sorry, I can’t talk right now. Parents really need me at the moment”.
And so she
escaped, again. I began to wonder whether she was doing that on purpose –
running around, avoiding me? Maybe all that sweetness was gone now that she
realised the mistake? Because I was responsible, because I dragged her to that bedroom (well, unless she
had it all planned, which I doubted) and never even bothered with the dull
question that had to be asked.
There are
parties where you cannot be alone, and at long last – the big man with the big
breath was upon me. You could actually say, the big man was all over me. His
breath was as intrusive as the smell of a lumbago-stricken and rarely-seen grandmother who so wants to kiss you. It blinded you and left
little chance to see anything else that was going on around. I couldn’t even
see the big man’s head, so the voice, that thick Italian English from an old
Scorsese film, floated out of a cloud of smoke. First thing I saw was the fat
Havana cigar pointed directly at me in a non-aggressive, very old-fashioned way.
“Kevin?” He asked. “Am I right? I knew your
father”.
Everybody
seemed so forward that night. He went on:
“I’m Mr. Levene.
A friend of the family”.
I saw his
burly hand, which I shook, then I saw his face. The big man had the
ever-comfortable face of a fulfilled businessman. It was a big,
disproportionately big face on a stiff neck. The face smiled, clearly it had no
idea what it was like – to feel ill at ease in somebody else’s company. I did
though, now better than ever.
“I never
really knew my father”, I said.
It’s a
party, so I thought I might as well talk and not question anything. I pricked
my ears: it was not Mozart, they now switched to pop music. This was that
moment from the old radio when the DJ goes home and they put it all on random.
“I know”,
said Mr. Levene, and then exhaled the dense Cuban smoke all over my face. Cuban
cigar, Italian accent, it was so fascinating I almost didn’t mind. “He was a
great man, believe me. I mean, don’t let them tell you otherwise”.
“Okay”, I
said, a little confused.
“Kevin,
aren’t you a sportsman?”
“No”, I
said. “I mean, not really. I’m into other things. I’m into art. Literary
research. I do play cricket though, semi-professionally”.
“Into art,
huh? Well”, he said, “you look like a sportsman. You have a great build. What
are you, a batsman?”
We talked
about the latest Twenty20 for a while, but I could see there was something behind
that complacency that was bothering him and would soon start bothering me. I
only hoped he wasn’t a wealthy queer looking for a hot batsman for the night.
Mention of my father was a fluke, and it was all about me being a sportsman, me
having a great build?..
But then I
knew.
“Kevin, do
you need money?”
When
someone wearing an impeccable black suit like that asks you this question, there
is always some lingering hope that he will now open his wallet and empty it for
you. But I
was thinking about Nicole, what happened today in the pink bedroom and how
Nicole’s parents would react if they learned about my father or that my mother
was currently doing two jobs. That I wasn’t even planning to have a car just
yet, never mind begin a new life. That I simply wasn’t the son-in-law they had
envisioned. Particularly if my fears came true, Nicole was not and we really fucked it up on Denise’s bed today in the
morning.
And so I
said:
“Well, who
doesn’t?”
So this is
how it happened that a few hours later I changed Kew Gardens for the murky
outskirts of Watford (Mr. Levene had paid the cab fare) and was standing at a
desolate bus stop waiting for two mysterious, dark-haired guys my age. They
would be riding one black motorcycle, they wouldn’t talk a lot. Movie stuff. I
would have to get a parcel from them: money. Mr. Levene hadn’t mentioned the
sum, only that some of it would soon be mine. “Two of them?” I asked. He said
he could normally trust the people he was dealing with, but in case I had anyone
in mind… I said I did. As for the parcel in my bag, I would of course have to
give it to them the moment I got hold of theirs. Well, again – movie stuff,
which is why it seemed so unreal: Mr. Levene, my father, this bus stop, the
black motorcycle. Back at the party Mr.
Levene didn’t tell me what was in the other parcel, one that was presently
inside my bag. But I could guess. My mother never really said why or how my
father died, but I thought I could guess that one too.
Later that
night I asked Serge if he could come with me. He said he couldn’t, because of
Denise. Then I mentioned the money and Serge began
asking questions. Fuck it, I thought.
As for
Nicole, I managed to get a few glimpses of her throughout the party, but that
was as far as it got.
Presently, I couldn’t even reach her on the phone. I
called Denise and she said Nicole was about to go to bed. Denise sounded
aggressive, even more than ever. She did mention, though, that Nicole would
probably call some time later. So now I kept checking my phone every ten
seconds.
Nicole did
call in the end, catching that sickening moment when the motorcycle’s engine began to die
down 20 feet away from where I was standing.
“Sorry,
Kevin, you wanted to talk with me?”
“Yeah,
Nicole. It’s… nothing. Actually, it’s about the bedroom. Denise’s bedroom,
today. Were you… I mean, I know it’s a terrible question, but were you on the
pill?”
Nicole
laughed, unfunnily. “Yes, Kevin, of course I was”.
Was it
because she said that or did she really sound so adorable? Almost as adorable
as she looked the day I first saw her, listening to that lunatic in Hyde Park,
smiling timidly and trying to protest? With her neat short hair and her red
sneakers?.. “My God, Kevin, you must be six feet ten” were her words later that
day.
There were
indeed two of them, guys my age, and they were approaching. Their pace was
menacing, excessive. Despite the rain and the dark, I could already size them
up. Mr. Levene would have called them ‘sportsmen’.
“Kevin?”
said Nicole, the phone dropped onto the wet, muddy pavement, her voice fading
away. “Kevin? Are you there?..”
But I
probably wasn’t.