"Feel that," he said indignantly.
I clutched it, it was cold and felt chapped; held it for a queer moment longer, only now seeing the point, and he squeezed my fingers back. He let out a sigh and pulled himself towards me in a kind of dance-step, and then we were hugging—he smelt nice, some ordinary girl's fragrance. We kissed sulkily, with a minor clash of spectacles.
I decided I was into this, and fumbled around his waist; his intake of breath as my own wintry hands touched his skin. The bubbled waistcoat made him look bigger than he was, but he had a round, hairyish backside and when I groped through the tangle of undone shirt-front and lolling belt-buckle I felt the start of something beautiful in his rough crotch-hair and had to tug it out, thickening and obstructing itself, from its prison down a tight jean-leg. I could barely make it out in the night between us, while he pressed against me, rubbing at my fly, kissing me with surprising fervour all over my face, his tongue slipping over my glasses and smearing the lenses. He was all stoked up, in a way I couldn't quite match but marvelled at, and at the chance that brought me here on this November night, which was otherwise a cold prospect for both of us.
3
A Merry Goose Hunt
Chapter 15
Cherif had grown a moustache. It was thick, not quite as broad as his mouth, and gave him a pugnacious expression; the appealing curl of his upper lip was disguised. I hesitated before taking a seat by him at the bar. "You probably don't recognise me," he said.
I rested a hand for a second on his cool leather shoulder. "I recognise all the rest of you."
"That's good." In fact there was shyness behind the bristles. "I thought you must be dead or something. I've been in here the last three nights."
"Not me, someone else: I've been home for a funeral."
He turned his glass around on its mat. "I thought you might be at that men's sauna, I went there."
I knew about the place, I pictured it in a deeper shadowy circle of the city's sex-life. "No, I never go there. Any good?"
A shrug. "One or two guys . . . I didn't really do anything."
I noticed I was pleased he hadn't. "I don't have the figure for sauna sprawling any more."
He kept frowning at his drink and said, "You look really thin"— with a hint of criticism, an implied allusion to the wasting of unappeased love? I ordered a beer for myself, and added one on for him.
"So where have You been?" I said.
He leaned towards me and pushed his hand through my hair and stayed stroking the smooth little knoll behind my ear with a gentle thumb. I thought he'd probably had a few—it was the mid-evening lull already. I'd come in straight from the airport, a bit queasy from turbulence and a string of miniature malts and the mad cabaret of the Kentair stewards.
"Nowhere," he said. And I thought maybe that was enough curiosity shown.
He called something to the barman, who was slow to respond, and gave the impression Cherif was not his favourite customer as he handed over a newspaper that had been stowed behind the till. It was the Flemish Post, a few days old, folded, slightly browned already, with the brittle texture of newsprint that has got damp and been dried out. Cherif set it in front ofme, pointed to a short article, and then watched me as I read it. I knew his grasp of the language was poor and he seemed to take the piece in again by following my reactions to it.
"Hm," I said, pushing the paper back towards him.
"We had the police in here talking to everybody."
"Oh." I looked towards the article again. It said how the body of a young man had been found in the sea-canal; Pieter who-was-it . . .
"It's Rose," said Cherif, "the one you called Rose." A moment of uncomfortable recall—his big twitching fist with the girl's name pricked in blue across the knuckles, his pin-point pupils and nervy patter and crude attempt to hustle that older man. The barman came past and took the paper away again.
"I threw him out," he said. "Dangerous sort. Drugs. A week or two back. Not queer of course," he explained. "Either a waste of time or it means trouble." He turned with a single firm shake of the head.
"So what have they found out?" I asked Cherif.
"I don't know." Well of course he wouldn't, but I'd hoped for a little more. "He was mad, perhaps."
"He talked a lot of sense to me." But Cherif was melancholy about it. "You didn't know him, did you?"
"I met him in here, that's all. You sound like a policeman."
"Sorry, darling." I drank, and looked down the half-empty room. It was a doldrums hour, the juke-box silent, the TV hectic but noiseless, one or two bores in uncontested command. I stroked the back of his hand.
"No, it is a horrible thing, someone just being taken out, so to speak." I had my own grief and was alternately resentful and full of sympathetic intuitions.
"It doesn't matter," he said.
But he came back to it later, as we lay in the dark: the jingling of bed-springs was over, I was just asleep, looking for my bunk in the workers' hostel Cherif was staying in, such a confusion of doors and unlit stairways. . . Something about "Rose," out in the cold canal, I think he only called up the image and let it palely float, nothing more to say about it—a kind of dread, though, underneath.
Then I lay awake in my turn, as his breathing slowed, his mouth squashed open against me, the tiny stirring of his moustache hairs on my shoulder. It seemed to have been dumbly agreed that we were back together again. I even believed it myself when we got to my room and we were at each other, just like the first day we met. He said he hadn't come for a fortnight, he'd never gone so long, his cock stood up like a soldier, he wanted me to wank him off so he could admire the sight of such plumes of sperm. "I was saving it for you," he said, and my heart sank, though I pretended to be flattered. Then afterwards each of us took the other and I was utterly enclosed in his unguarded fucker's tenderness—I mean lover's tenderness, I knew he loved me in each strong inward push, his face bobbed down to mine in a cross-eyed blur of passion; he couldn't sense the little clench of denial amid my own shudders and grunts.
It was cold by the morning, at least outside the gathered fug of the duvet. I jumped straight into jeans, two vests and my thickest sweater, and he was shivering as he wiped a hole in the window and peered across the misty garden to the dark mass of the school. I felt rather guilty and hugged him from behind and looked out over his shoulder; but there were no ancient rites today, just steam blowing from the kitchen vents and a dull glow of stained glass. It fed a fantasy of power, being fully clothed and holding a naked man in my arms.
"What are your plans?" he said mock-formally when he was dressing. It was a notion of his that I always had plans, and that making them constituted one of my main satisfactions; and I was starting to realise that any plans I announced to him were a defence against his own vagueness and that he knew this, and knew that my days in reality were as plotless and inevitable as his own.
"My first plan," I said, "is to take you out for some breakfast. You worked hard last night, young man, you deserve it."
"And your second plan?" he said, hopping towards me as he tugged on stiffish old socks, contriving to stumble and pull us both back on to the bed.
"My second plan is to pack you on to a tram, bus or other public conveyance and get you off to your place of work."
He was putting a line of kisses up the side of my neck, pushing me gently backwards, till he lay half-covering me. "And your third plan, Mr Manners?" There was a hint of aggression in this game, which seemed like a distant parody of "witty" sex-talk in an old film-comedy.
"Well, after that I've got to, er, I've got to do some teaching." He lay very still, and I could feel his heart beating indignantly.
"Are you teaching Luc?"
I pushed myself free of him and sat up. "For god's sake don't go on about that," I said. "That's all over long ago. I can't think what I ever saw in the little shit." I walked out into the main room, improvising as I went; I didn't want to watch his reactions. "He's so . . . so ar
rogant, and lazy, he's impossible to teach. He's got a girlfriend. I mean . . . He's not attractive, his mouth is horrible, as everyone says, it's virtually deformed ... ." My flesh was prickling and I had tears in my eyes from the confusion of play-acting and heresy. I kept myself hunched away when Cherif padded after me and hugged me from behind in his turn.
When I swung into Long Street I nearly tripped on a busy little terrier that yapped in alarm and scampered aside. I looked up and there was the bearded figure of Old Gus. He came on with his glaring swagger, his stick slicing as if at grass-stalks. I stepped aside myself, and as I was just by him he halted and said amiably, "Could you spare me a few francs?"
I pretended for a moment not to have heard, but then in an old muddle of principle and superstition dug my hand into my pocket and brought out all my change, quite a bit, a couple of quid, started to pick among it and then just gave it all to him. I felt an immediate certainty of worth, of providence's palm being greased and of a prompt reward, an hour of new sweetness with Luc.
Old Gus pocketed the money, and stared at me with his withering eye. "Bastard!" he barked, with hatred and ferocity, smacked his stick against the pavement, turned on his heel and stamped off.
I stood there grinning out of sheer alarm and an odd sense of shame, and then went slowly on towards the house. I peered about defiantly, but I felt my surroundings had instinctively sided with Old Gus. The austere facades were clouded for me by this brief injustice; their vigilant high windows looked on an offender, someone who brought no credit to them. I answered them back, but for a moment I hated the street and the long perspective of failure to which it had condemned me. I stopped to collect myself and spurred myself on with the beautiful new idea of an outing. I would borrow Matt's jeep for a day, pick up Luc quite early, showered, talced, full of curiosity and a sense of privilege, and drive out to some historic town for lunch, a walk, both of us admitting boredom in the brown old museum, conversation freed of the inhibitions of the Altidores' dining-room and their starchy ancestors. To be out in the storm-crossed countryside together, both rising to the occasion with new charm and candour! And then—best leave it there. I sprang up the steps and pressed the bell with a zing that felt slightly manic.
His mother opened the door, clasping a knitted orange shawl round her throat and almost over her mouth. "Quick, quick," she said. "We've all got colds."
"What, all two of you?"
"I got it from going out in the rain, and now he seems to have got it from me."
You stupid old nit, I thought, just don't go out in the rain. I thought of him almost like Dawn in his latter days, he must be kept from the least infection. "I'm so sorry."
"You may prefer to cancel your lesson."
"No, no," I said with a hasty cough, a covert self-inspection as to whether I didn't myself have a slight sniffle.
She shooed me into the dining-room, still with the shawl swept across her face. She was very pathetic in it, like an elderly actress playing a veiled houri. Then she flitted off, leaving me with my darling's forebears. There were those I saw each time, who hung facing me and behind Luc, and whose features I tried absently to map on to his in a kind of genetic photofit; and the others, behind where I sat, whom I looked at for a moment now. There was the interesting Guillaume, with a thin grey book in his hands, but a dull picture. Why didn't he get our mutual friend Orst to paint him rather than this conventional journeyman, whose muddy signature was already obscured by candle-smoke? And balancing him, his wife Anona, the Princess Cirieno, no less, a fine-featured woman with sexy eyes but equally subdued to the sobriety of her new family. And after them, nobody; it was as though they had hidden their faces.
"Are you going to be painted?" I asked as I heard Luc come in.
"Not like that," he said. "And not like this." I turned and saw what he meant.
"Oh," I mildly protested. And really his invalidish look touched me in a new way. He was pale, sore-eyed, bothered by his cold but perhaps finding something luxurious in his achy passivity, in the enormous woolly, chequered neckscarf and baggy old corduroys he was slumming in; he was more glamorous for looking shitty, like Garbo playing a tramp. His hair was dark and greasy and stood in thick furrows when he ran his hand through it.
"Don't come near me," he said humourlessly as he pulled out a chair at the far end of the table from where I had left my music-case.
"All right," I agreed with a pained laugh.
"So what does your L stand for?" he said, with a nod at the gilt-stamped initials on the black leather.
"It's not my L," I said. "It was my father's bag for his music, I think I told you he was a singer. I've just brought it back with me from England." My mother had suggested, with some emotion, that I might like to use it. "Edward Lewis Manners. ELM, a kind of tree we don't have any more in England, thanks to some beetles from Holland."
"So you don't have a middle name?"
"Yes, I do actually."
There was a pause. "Is it a secret?"
"Yes. No, don't be silly. It's, it's Tarquin, in fact. I always think it sounds like a horse," I added hysterically.
"I'm quite pleased I don't have a middle name," said Luc.
Mrs Altidore tumbled in with my coffee and a lemony drink for her son. He hunched over it sniffing, cross and negative.
"LA stands for Los Angeles," he said.
"It also stands for Library Association." I knew everything it stood for, not all of it repeatable to LA himself.
"I'd like to go to Los Angeles."
"I don't think you'd like it when you got there," I warned him, "it's extremely violent and the air's poisonous."
"It's also a long way away."
"I'm not sure that's necessarily in its favour."
"Oh, I think it is," he said, nodding and staring past me out of the window. I undid my case in the chilly silence that followed. He'd exposed me to his anger before, and it scared me, mortified me, even though I knew I was not its object, merely the listener who was there when it chanced to be expressed. There was something mad and unsocialised in it. "Let's not talk about the William Wordsworth today," he said, as I opened the book.
"Okay."
"I'm not ready to talk about it yet." So he hadn't looked at it, I thought. "I'm not quite well, you know, we can just talk."
"Okay." Sure, whatever you like. I started looking for an uncontentious subject, as he sniffed the vapour from his mug; but I was clueless with unhappiness.
"So you have had to go back to England?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Then you prefer it here?"
"I suppose I must do," I said, thinking how I had been sick to return, and how odd these personal questions were from him, who had never shown so much curiosity before. But he turned aside again to a bleak comment of his own.
"I would prefer to be there. I am looking forward to going to the University of Dorset, if I can get permission."
"I'm sure you will do very well. I'll be able to come and visit you and take you for drives to Maiden Castle and Cerne Abbas," I said, recouping something of my earlier exeat fantasy, and only then seeing the Freudian gaffe of my choice.
"Cerne Abbas is the man with the giant prick?"
"That's right," I said briskly, through a broiling blush, "it's a late Roman chalk figure, probably of Hercules . . ."
"I'd like to see that," he said firmly, though the implication was that he could do so under his own steam. The sad ghost of the couple of Dorset visits I'd made when Dawn was there drifted like rain across my image of vast grassy hillsides. It was obscurely moving, like a dream sighting of a lost friend, that Luc was set on going there too. Then I remembered the wind-swept walkways of the campus and the lethal loose cladding and the sticky carpet of the students' bar.
"The friend whose funeral I've just been to was at Dorset, that's why I know about it." For once I regretted the invitation to intimacy; he looked at me levelly, in a way that slightly frightened me—boys don't want death around, spoil
ing everything, they haven't felt it if they're lucky, like Luc. Or perhaps his stare was one of capable sympathy, narrowed and hooded by his cold.
"I'm sorry," he said flatly. "Why did he die? Or she . . ."
"He. He was killed in a car-crash. It was very sad. He was very ill anyway, he had AIDS; but he probably had a few more months to live." A snatch of the funeral's heightened sorrow made me turn my head aside.
When I glanced up again Luc seemed shaken himself. He had the hunch of new responsibility that team-mates have when the ambulance trundles from the pitch and they jog back to their positions, one man down, amid instinctive brief applause. Something had touched him. He started talking about car-accidents. He said you never had accidents if you thought you might have one, because it was the essence of the accident to be a surprise. I said you could drive down the wrong side of a motorway and be pretty sure of causing an accident, but he maintained that it wouldn't be an accident for you, because you did it on purpose—though of course it would be for the totally unsuspecting persons that you drove straight into. He seemed to feel fairly confident that this sophistical state of readiness would protect him on the roads, and I couldn't quite get him to see through it. And in a way I agreed—rather as one imagines terrible losses, as I sometimes, with prickling scalp and hot tears, imagined his death or disappearance, as a charm against its happening. I said, "I hope you're right", and even so was filled with a superstitious fear of one or other of us being squashed by a lorry the next time we ventured out.
One of us will go first, I thought later, as I sat in the Cassette waiting for Cherif to turn up, drinking keenly to heal over the morning and the gape of the quickly darkening afternoon. A year from now I won't be here and nor will he. I was by the window for a change, looking out through its brown wrinkled glass at the wonky street—it was hard to tell who figures were as they loomed and flowed under the stained street-lamps. A raw air from the sea filled the squares and alleys this evening, as it did the phantasmal nightscape of the coast and Channel and boats wrecked on the Dorset rock-stacks that was all I could see of the future. Well, let him go. I'd backed out of the house after twenty minutes, with minimal politeness, pleading his ill health as if it were mine. I didn't even go to the bathroom.
The Folding Star Page 29
