Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  “I think it’s the other way around.” Her girlfriends call for her, waving. She glances in their direction, looks impatiently at Thomas. He holds her gaze.

  “What do you mean ‘the other way around’?”

  She smiles. “Exactly what I said. Say hello to Patricia for me, okay? I’ll call you when I hear about the job, okay? Thanks for coming.” She squeezes his shoulder and hurries back to the group, while Thomas sneaks away without saying goodbye to the others. The air is thick with the smell of body odor and heat; it’s like a blessing to step out into the cool evening. His ears are ringing, and in the sky the stars shine like small silver tacks. For a moment he enjoys a cigarette, and then he sees it. Mingo was right. The middle section of the street really is in fact lined with high-rises, and it narrows and curves only to open once more on the other side, where it sort of widens. And in this last stretch it’s almost got this small-town feel: smaller, older houses, tiny front yards. But after that, the street runs into a broad, high-traffic boulevard. He ambles through the gorge between the houses (and it really feels like a gorge) and thinks about what Alice said. That it was the other way around. That the girl had filled Mingo with drugs? Does she sell them? And what about Alice? He decides to show up unannounced at her new apartment. Then again, maybe he should just keep away. Should I watch over her now like I’ve watched over Jenny? But I’m not tired anymore, he thinks, surprised, walking under tall trees, up the boulevard opening wider and wider with its broad green median. I’m not the least bit tired anymore, it’s passed. And he who is awake can keep watch. But what good is it to keep watch when it feels like a duty? Does it do any good? At home, Patricia sleeps peacefully under the blanket on the sofa. The TV is on, and the cat meows, lovingly rubbing itself against his leg. Thomas sits in the armchair and closes his eyes. An image pounds through his brain and clutches onto his retina: He sees the fat girl at the restaurant staring at her knees with this strange, hard glare, a look he remembers vividly, physically, in his own eyes: that’s exactly how he stared, at his shoes, at the floorboards, at dirty floor-mats and linoleum, filled with shame, whenever his father yanked on his arm in front of others. And suddenly he smiles to himself, putting his arm around the cat, because he’s not the zombie anymore. He’s still haunted, as always, but by neither zombies nor his father. This time it’s a girl with black eyes and long, shiny hair who’s staring at her knees. Now it’s himself. And here in the armchair Thomas O’Mally Lindström falls asleep with a sigh, completely at ease, content. A cloud floats across the sky, exposing a sliver of new moon. The cat curls itself, purring, onto his lap.

  The following day he rises early. Dressed in a bathrobe and rubber boots, he finds the basement keys in the drawer in the entryway and takes the stairs down. This time it doesn’t take him long to find the right unit. He snaps on the light switch to the bulb hanging over the boxes and the microwave, and there he finds the money. Exactly where he put it. Two packets of bills. Even this—entering the basement without fear or anxiety—feels like a fountainhead in his body. It’s bubbling in there, running, gushing. There’s the money, and here he stands. It’s not a nightmare, it’s real, and it’s just a man and a stack of bills. He closes the microwave and turns off the light, locks the door, and heads back to the apartment. Patricia’s still asleep on the sofa, fully clothed, one arm dangling over the side; she’s kicked the blanket onto the floor, and her T-shirt has slid up. Each time she takes a breath, her belly moves gently up and down. He brews coffee and feeds the cat, he makes toast and fries an egg and tomatoes in chili and oil. He grinds peppercorns over the food and puts out cheese and jam. He wakes Patricia with a kiss. Still drowsy, surprised at his morning caress, she follows him into the kitchen. The sun’s already above the rooftops, and the river flows jade-green through the city.

  Patricia takes his hand and smiles, her mouth full of food. “What’s got into you?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not so sleepy anymore,” he says, winking at her. This too is a caress, this wink, which makes her blush. She laughs. “Good. I was getting sick of you,” she says. “But maybe that’s all behind us now?”

  “Is anything ever behind us?”

  “I don’t know. Isn’t there? Like when people get divorced. Or when someone dies.” She looks directly at him.

  “Maybe,” he says. “In any case, I’m feeling better.” He stands and adds: “Today. I’m better today. For now . . .”

  She drags the newspaper to her side of the table. “By the way,” she says, “I asked at the museum. But there aren’t any openings at the moment.”

  “No openings for what?”

  “Alice,” she says, distracted, her eyes focused on the paper. “A job for Alice. I promised to ask, remember.” She’s already begun to read.

  Thomas takes a shower. He considers masturbating, but there’s not enough time. His cock is half-stiff, but he brings it down again by thinking about the business. Aren’t they doing the spring cleaning this afternoon? Did they decide to close early? He doesn’t remember much about the last few weeks. It’s as though a steamy, wet fog enshrouds those days, as though he were standing in a bog. Patricia enters the bathroom and embraces him. “Can we get drunk soon or something? Get away. Or swim in the sea? Out at the little beach?”

  “It’s too cold.”

  “Not for me.”

  “We have to go to Kristin and Helena’s this weekend. There’s no way out of it.”

  “I know. But I’m actually looking forward to it. As long as we’re not forced to make textile prints like last time.”

  “Textile prints for egg warmers, to be exact.” They eye each other in the mirror and laugh.

  She frees herself and squeezes a dollop of toothpaste onto her toothbrush. “Who even uses those things nowadays,” she says vaguely, toothbrush in hand. “Egg warmers . . .”

  He kisses her goodbye. She turns on the shower and steps out of her pants. He gets dressed and chugs the rest of his coffee. Down on the street he puffs on a smoke, and with a new-found confidence in his body, he strolls calmly in the flickering spring light. The trees are light-green clusters of leaves. Birdsong and the hard clicking of women’s high heels against the flagstones. A skirt pulled taut over a shapely ass. The spice of men’s cologne like an extra, invisible garment rustling against passersby, so intimately that, once again, Thomas’s cock presses against his left thigh. When he arrives at the store, the others stare at him for what feels like several minutes. “What?” Thomas says, throwing out his arms. Maloney barks a laugh. “You’re radiating!” he says and clutches Thomas. “It’s time to waltz,” Maloney says. “Jesus,” he groans after a little while, “let go of me, you fiend, are you trying to kill me?” Watching their bosses, Peter and Annie stand as though paralyzed.

  Close to lunch time, Thomas manages to close a deal for a new coffee automat with another company. Maloney grumbles. “Why is it so easy for you?” Thomas shrugs and rocks backward in the boss’s seat. “It’s a question of style,” he smiles. Maloney says that if he smiles like that one more time he’ll throttle him. Annie takes care of the customers. Peter flattens cardboard boxes. Some sales rep wearing a light blue suit and large, horn-rimmed glasses tries to sell them plastic sleeves. “What the fuck kind of costume was that?” Maloney grunts, sinking his teeth into a slice of cherry pie. At 4:00 P.M. Eva and her pretty niece arrive with the floor polisher and a slew of buckets and bottles of cleaning agents. Then Alice calls. “I didn’t get the job,” she says softly, “they said I didn’t have enough experience.”

  “Experience with what?”

  “Serving vodka at a Russian bar.”

  Thomas can’t help but laugh. “I’m really glad you won’t be serving vodka at a Russian bar!”

  Alice says nothing. Then, sadly: “Well. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  She hangs up.

  Thomas stands there a moment. Then he turns to Maloney. “Can we give Alice a trial hire for a few weeks?”

  �
��Alice?”

  “She’s desperate and doesn’t have a job.”

  “We don’t have the money for that. You know that.”

  “Let’s go have a beer,” Thomas says, collecting their jackets.

  Eva and her niece (whom Maloney pines for) have begun removing products off the shelves. It smells of disinfectant and soap. Thomas reminds Eva to set the alarm. The niece pushes her black bangs to the side and looks at them with a pair of sparkling blue eyes.

  Thomas hands Maloney a draft beer. “I think we should expand.”

  Maloney sets his glass down with a thump. “What?!”

  “Listen, things have been going pretty well, and I think we should open a branch. A small, exclusive place. I’d like to train Alice, so that one day she can manage the new place.”

  “‘The new place?’ Have you lost your mind? We don’t even have money for a down payment. What’s the matter with you?”

  Thomas lowers his voice. “I’ve got a little savings that I could offer.” And now, as he sits there lying, he slugs half of the tall pint down his gullet.

  “Savings?!”

  “It’s always been our dream, right? A chain.”

  “Yeah, when we were twenty and high on pot! It’s ridiculous, Thomas. Even if you have enough to make a down payment, there’s still the overhead costs. Not to mention unforeseen costs. And Alice’s salary. And . . .”

  “I think I can handle all that.” Thomas drinks the rest of his beer. Maloney stares at him.

  “What the fuck’s this all about? You couldn’t have put aside that kind of money, I know exactly what you make. There must be something else. What is it?”

  Thomas shrugs.

  “C’mon, Thomas. Spit it out.”

  “Can’t we just say that it’s possible to do this. Let’s just leave it at that. I want to give Alice a chance. I’d like to spend my money on it. I want to lead Lindström & Maloney toward the future.”

  “Toward the future?! Give me a break! Tell me what this is all about. Did you inherit money? Does this have anything to do with your father? Have you lost your marbles?”

  But Thomas says nothing more, except that if Maloney won’t join him, he’ll do it himself. He goes to the bar and orders more beer. They sit for a long time in silence. Maloney stares out the window, as if fixated on the clouds and the rooftops. He sighs. Beer froth forms on his upper lip. Then slowly he shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’ve been acting strange lately. And now this. I don’t get it. Talk to me, man, tell me what’s going on. Why has Alice suddenly become so important to you?”

  “She’s my niece.”

  Maloney sighs again. “It’s impossible to get a straight answer out of you.”

  After three beers, however, Maloney seems to accept that Thomas really has considered expanding their business. “We’ll split fifty-fifty, even if I’m the one fronting the money,” Thomas says, clutching Maloney’s forearm.

  “You are crazy,” Maloney mumbles, shoving a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

  “Come with me to look at some potential locations,” Thomas says.

  Maloney shakes his head. “Not on these terms. This is your project. If you get it up and running, and if it doesn’t cost me anything, I’ll gladly go along with it. But not till then. In other words: I want to see it before I’ll believe it. And you will give me half of the new store.” Glancing gloomily at Thomas, a wounded expression on his face, he stands with difficulty and walks out into the twilight. Back in the bar Thomas suddenly grows desperately horny. He wants to fuck someone hard from behind. A tight pussy, a deep and timid asshole. A woman, a man. His cock swells fat and pulsing, a stab of heat spreading to his groin and climbing to his head. He tumbles out onto the street and lights a cigarette. His body astonishes him. It’s not even 6:00; he can still pick up Patricia from the museum. Behind the store’s tall window panes he sees Eva’s niece absentmindedly pushing the floor polisher across the floor. He can just make out a glimpse of her panties underneath her smock.

  He barrels through the city with a hard-on. Cherry trees sway over the streets, soft pink and white. They’ve already begun to shed their petals. Imagining a new store isn’t difficult. A simple, modern design, a smiling Alice behind the counter. Thomas pictures the light cascading through an open door, warm and golden. A large glass partition to the street. Alice looks older, poised, her head’s no longer shaved. Her shiny hair spills thickly over her shoulders. The image is sharp as a blade to him. Maybe one day Alice can even become a partner. Lindström, Maloney, & Farrokhzad—it doesn’t sound that insane. And when he and Maloney no longer have the energy to run the business, she can take over. By that point, maybe, they really will have a chain of stores. He will have to pay in cash. First thing tomorrow he’ll start searching for a property. Turning the corner, he sees the museum with its streamlined architecture towering before him. A chalk-white rock in the midst of all the bustle. Two women in summer dresses sweep past him. A couple of mothers with small children sit clustered on a bench, boisterously sharing the contents of a large bag of candy. A man his own age with an apathetic expression on his face pushes an old woman in a wheelchair. A few street vendors shout from their fruit stands. Music streams from a restaurant. Vivid scents: musk, flowers, sun.

  Thomas walks into Patricia’s office and locks the door behind him. She’s on the telephone watching him, surprised. She waves cheerfully. He closes the blinds. She ends her conversation, smiles, and is just about to say something when he grabs her, picks her up, spins her around, and presses her down across her desk. She wants to protest, turning halfway around, but he shushes her, covering her mouth with his hand and lifting her dress up over her back. Patricia kicks at him, she almost seems afraid. Thomas holds the backs of her legs firmly in place with his knees and quickly unzips his fly with his free hand. She gags, biting his thumb. He lets go of her mouth. “Stop it,” she says hoarsely. “What the hell are you doing? Stop it. This hurts.” She wriggles and flails, shouting, “Let go of me!” He catches a glimpse of her eyes. Again he covers her mouth with his hand, and now she growls, gurgling, and his hand grows wet with her spit. He yanks her stockings and panties down and forces his way into her dry, warm pussy. She fights harder, lashing out with her head, punching her arms backward trying to reach him. But then she grows quiet and passive. He removes his hand from her mouth, she says nothing. She puts her left cheek against her desk. And he fucks her, roughly, yanking her ponytail, he can feel the veins popping out on his forehead. She’s limp and heavy as a sack of potatoes, he’s thirsty, he pounds his thighs against hers, and it climbs in him, he comes, a white flash, millions of minute stars, heat, he falls across her back. He lets her go, and she begins to cry.

  At home later—she’d taken a cab, shocked and raging, while he’d walked through the city, empty, but full of an odd sort of happiness—he steps toward her. They stood looking at each other in the living room, ten feet of space and a cat between them. He steps toward her raising one hand defensively, and says, “Honey. I needed you so badly.” Why he says this is a mystery to him. How could he step forward like that, a gesture, after what had happened? Because it’s not something you can talk about. It’s not something there are words for. When they go to bed after a silent dinner in the kitchen, where she simply sat poking at her chicken filet, she snarls at him suddenly. “You violated me.” He doesn’t respond. He glides swiftly into a dream. It starts with Alice in a well-lit room, he’s bending over her shoulder, showing her something. A finger runs across a sheet of paper, the paper’s fibers rising against his skin. Then there’s a plateau, desiccated red earth. A boy’s naked feet running and whirling up clouds of dust. And the plateau becomes a completely barren lunar landscape under a blue-gray sky. Huge clouds clump together with supernatural speed. “You assaulted me, you bastard,” Patricia says angrily, off in the distance. She shoves his shoulder, hard. But he can’t wake up.

  When he wakes up with a start
the next morning, he doesn’t know whether this was part of the dream or not. Patricia’s making tiny peeping sounds in her sleep each time she exhales. She’s slept on the floor at the foot of the bed, her back to him, the duvet wrapped snugly around her. He gathers his clothes and shuts the door behind him. It’s quarter past 6:00. He sits on the living room floor and begins to research the commercial properties that are for sale. By 7:30 he’s got a good little list. He makes coffee and leans across the kitchen table with his cup. It’s drizzling outside. A tugboat lurches slowly up the river, followed by a few kayaks. From below, a flock of sparrows fly up and settle in an orderly row on the rooftop across the street. The rain sheets the glass with a fine film. Thomas puts his cup in the dishwasher and writes “I love you” in capital letters across the front page of the newspaper. He locks the door on his way out.

  It’s not until he’s walking down the stairs toward the train that he understands what he’s done. He can feel a hard knot directly under his breastbone, something unyielding that won’t go away, and of course the soft sense of shame. Patricia’s wide, frightened eyes when she turned to look at him. Her flailing body on the desk. It’s so insurmountable, so incomprehensible and unbearable that he grows sluggish, sleepy. Sitting at the window with his cheek resting against the cold glass, he falls asleep. He rides two stops too far. He walks back along the rain-sopped streets. The asphalt is gleaming and dark. He thinks: The asphalt gleams, dark. The rain picks up as a thunderclap booms off in the distance. The light from the sky is mottled. Looking up, and through a window in a café, he sees someone he recognizes and he stops in his tracks: It’s Jenny, her back to him, talking to Maloney, who raises his mug and blows into it. Thomas lurches to the side, squeezes between the streaked panes of glass. Maloney says something and smiles. He bites into his bun. Jenny turns and regards the rain. Maloney puts his hand on her arm. She’s wearing a green shirt, and a scarf around her neck. The furrows around her mouth are clearly visible. Thomas swallows, holds his breath. Then he hurries past the café and sprints the last stretch to the store. The thunder’s right above him now, the street suddenly illuminated with a violent crack of white light, followed by another boom, very close, the sound exploding in his ears. He jumps, startled, and paws in his jacket for his keys.