by Patrick Gale
‘What? Why?’ she blurted, with a feeble gesture of blue towel number forty-eight, but he thrust open the door.
She snatched hold of his belt out of pure terror and was towed into the engulfing clouds of steam. The disco music was suddenly all around them; an aggressive woman wailing, ‘Eight hundred guys, and you bet I’m gonna gonna need ‘em now!’
The shelves and walls were lined with shining male flesh. Men milled everywhere, clad only in the miasma of steam and hot body. They made no attempt to make way for Thierry. She was glad she had a hold on his belt, the impulse to let herself fall into the crowd was akin to feeling one can fly off a cliff top. A brazier glowed to one side. Someone ladled water onto it as she passed, and the sudden hiss caused her to jump. When they emerged into the unexpected room on the other side, she found herself gleaming with sweat. Never had twenty paces taken so long.
The first thing she recognized was a bar. She walked straight over, sat on a stool and ordered two double gin and tonics.
‘Towels get you your first drink free,’ said the barman, taking her towel and serving her.
Grinning, understanding her predicament exactly, Thierry perched to her left, accepted his drink with nodded thanks, and waited for her to recover. She downed half hers in gulps, staring at the rows of bottles and postcards from Ibiza and San Diego, then pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to mop her brow before swivelling around to face Thierry and the subterranean bar.
‘Lion, the Witch and the bloody Wardrobe,’ she muttered.
‘Comment?’
‘Never mind. Is this place legal?’ she went on, trying not to stare too obviously.
‘Mais bien sûr, Minou.’
‘Sorry. Do I look so very new?’ Talking French was protective and she started to relax. ‘It’s just so unexpected.’
The room, which was cavernous, appeared to continue around the corner underneath the neighbouring house. The ceiling arched like a wine cellar. Shabbily grandiose blue and gold curtains dangled onto a stage at the other end from the bar. Around the walls were ranged niches, formed by pairs of what could have been seats from some 1918 railway carriage. The ‘period’ feel was continued in the heavy plush swathing of the lamps at each table. Even the jukebox had a neo-Edwardian casing. The place was filling fast. Men outnumbered women at a rate of fifty to one.
‘Apparently it used to be a somewhat disreputable restaurant,’ said Thierry, ‘but no one can remember that. It’s all perfectly legal. Kevin – that’s the monster who sold us the tickets – he runs it as a members-only club, but that’s a formality. The sauna keeps out the uninitiated.’
‘That I can well believe.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘It’s mad,’ she said, starting to distinguish a few fairly attractive individuals from the swelling crowd. ‘I think I like it. Is it always this busy?’
‘This is nothing. You wait till later.’
‘It’s quite late already.’
‘After the show the licence runs out and they go on to fruit juice and Perrier. That’s when it gets busy. All the ones who’ve had no luck come on here when the pubs close.’
‘What show?’ She had to raise her voice across the shoulders of a blond youth of thirty-five who had pushed through to the bar between them.
‘There’s always a show. It’s a cabaret club.’
‘But that’s marvellous! I had no idea. What kind? Singing?’
‘Not exactly.’ He grinned as he looked at his watch. ‘It should be starting soon. Hey, Flo!’ he lapsed into English and called to the barman, ‘Flo, what’s on the menu tonight, my darling?’
‘Three’s a Crowd, so help us God,’ he called back. ‘Who’s your lady friend, then?’
‘Just a girl from Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh, ha fucking ha.’
‘Are you sure I’m not cramping your style?’ Domina asked.
‘Pas du tout,’ Thierry reassured her. ‘In the land of the walking dead, a little novelty is all too welcome.’
‘But look, if you … I mean, well. If you …’
‘If I see anyone I like, I swear I’ll tell you to bugger off.’
‘Thanks,’ she laughed. The jukebox was playing a Dusty Springfield song to which she used to fornicate. She sang along in an undertone. Her voice was breathy and low, ‘I close my eyes and count to ten, and when I open them you’re still there …’
‘Don’t tell me this was your era?’ he jeered. ‘I had no idea you were so ancient.’
‘I used to snog to this.’
‘A woman of affairs?’
‘No. But …’
‘I want to know what your first real boyfriend looked like.’
‘Would it turn you on?’ She surmised that no one had told him about poor, late Paul.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can’t have you, so it’s the next best thing.’ Domina mentally undressed his wiry Breton body, and though he was short, couldn’t see why not. ‘You must tell me if you see someone you like, then I shall go say how do you do. As you say in English, other people’s people is my “thing”.’
‘What happened when you brought poor Quintus here?’ she asked, deciding that mischief deserved mischief.
‘Did he tell you about it?’
‘Not exactly, but I guessed.’
‘I was wild about him, darling – the vulnerable appeal of the startled colt. I thought he just needed leading out. I guess this wasn’t the place to lead him.’
‘Was it a complete disaster?’
‘A débâcle. Fiasco.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘How was I to know he was a religious maniac?’
‘What happened?’
‘Not much. He ran. Just ran off to pray for my salvation, I expect.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Him or moi?’
‘Him of course; you can obviously look after yourself.’
‘So very depressing.’
‘What? Being a survivor?’
‘Yes. I have my little crises but no one ever thinks to worry. Sometimes one misses a mother’s love.’
As he chattered on, ginfully analysing his psychosexual fate, Domina saw Randy. He was leaning up against the opposite wall, staring at her companion. He had the same thick black hair, the same nose, same jaw, same stance. Even the clothes could have been his. It struck her, gazing at his replica, that it had never crossed her mind that her lover might be bisexual, no more than it had ever occurred to her to look in other women for anything but competition. Another man as a rival in his affections would be impossible to bear; he would lack all the usual points of comfortable comparison.
‘Thierry?’ she asked.
‘What’s the matter? You’re staring like a madwoman.’
‘He looks just like an amazing ex of mine. No. Not yet. Turn round slowly in a moment. He’s over there by the wall. Behind you. In the old leather jacket. Curly, black hair. Jewish sort of nose.’
‘I can see him in the mirror,’ he said. ‘Saint Catherine keep you, my child.’ With practised disregard he slid from his stool. ‘As that Scottish hero of yours said, I may be taking some time.’
He walked over to the jukebox which had fallen silent a moment before and set it playing. Sinatra. Strangers in the Night. Then, with a waver of a smile to Domina, he turned and leant against the machine. She marvelled at the way he met ‘Randy’s’ following gaze so calmly.
They stared, boy and man, almost without breaking, for some three minutes. She spectated Wimbledon fashion. Then Thierry flashed him a radiant smile, and looked bashfully to the stage, where the curtains were showing signs of life. Her heart sprang to her mouth as ‘Randy’ drained his whisky glass and walked straight over to him. He touched Thierry on the shoulder, Thierry turned to face him, they exchanged a few words, Randy set the jukebox playing the disco song she had heard in the sauna, and they proceeded to kiss. The embrace lasted some minutes. All she could see of Thierry were his hands as they kneaded and scratched at the back of the lea
ther jacket.
‘Never seen that in the flicks, have you?’
She started, embarrassed. Flo was grinning at her. She had been staring.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Oh dear. Was I staring?’
‘Nothing odd about staring in a place like this. You’d be unpopular if you didn’t. You live near here, then?’
‘Not far. Actually, that reminds me. I ought to be getting home.’
‘Oh. Won’t you stay for the show?’
‘Well, I’m awfully tired.’
‘And you don’t want to be a gooseberry. Now you are a very tactful, sensible girl,’ he said. ‘So you won’t be walking young Tel home, then?’
‘I think,’ she said, ‘I think he can look after himself.’
‘I’ll say nightie-night for you, if you like.’
‘Would you?’
‘No hassle.’ He broke off to serve a couple. ‘You both staying in the same place, then?’ he resumed. ‘Over at Lady Tilly’s?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Tell you what, then.’ On reflection, Flo bore more than a passing resemblance to Aunt Juliana-Costanza – a seedier version, of course. ‘I’ll tell him to ring your bell as he comes in, if he needs rescuing.’
‘That would be sweet of you. He’s probably fine, but I can’t help …’
‘Just can’t help worrying. Don’t I know it. I have to watch this lot every night. I ask you, who’d be a mother, eh?’ Flo’s ample frame rocked at the thought.
‘Flo? It is Flo, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, love. Everybody’s favourite maiden aunt.’
‘There isn’t another way out, is there?’
‘Excitement of the sauna too much for you?’
‘Just a little.’
‘’Course there is, ducky.’ He lifted the flap in the bar. ‘Come on. Under here.’
Restored to the security of her attic, Domina flopped exhausted on to her bed and pulled off her shoes and tights. Her clothes reeked of cigarettes, which meant that her hair would, too. Her eyes were stinging. She bathed them in cold water. As she brushed her teeth she looked in the mirror and scowled. Introducing … the Bloodshot Fag Hag.
As she fell into bed and turned out the light, she remembered Thierry, pressed up against the jukebox by a man he’d never met. She suffered a twinge of jealous guilt. She should never have left him in that place, even if he did go there every night. The man looked awfully nice. Just like Randy. But appearances deceived. There was always the bell. The bell would wake her up. What if he turned nasty after they’d got upstairs? Thierry was young. He couldn’t be much more than twenty. Her thoughts twining now around Thierry and his new man, now around the real Randy, then around the work she had started in the library, Domina slid into unconsciousness.
She opened her eyes and stared into the dark.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Please, Domina. Please!’ Thierry whispered in strangled English.
Fogged with sleep, she thrust back the sheets and limped to open the door.
‘Dépêche-toi!’
No sooner was the door ajar than Thierry rushed in and slammed it behind him. He slipped the catch on the lock. He was naked, but appeared not to have noticed. Terror made his face still whiter than usual. He stood there panting, holding up a hand to keep her silent. Then he followed her drifting eyes and snatched up a petticoat.
‘Je m’excuse.’
‘Je vous en prie, but what the hell’s the matter?’
‘Ssh! Please, Domina.’
‘Why? What time is it?’ Her window was open and the night had made the room cool. She shivered.
‘He tried to kill me.’
‘Who? Oh my God!’ She stopped staring and passed him a dressing-gown. ‘Here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How … ?’
‘Ssh! He’s still here.’ He looked ludicrously tense; a whippet in Laura Ashley. Such a spectacle at such an hour made her want to laugh. Then she understood. ‘I had no idea,’ he went on, still in a stage whisper but back in French, ‘I brought him back here and we went up to my room and, er, kissed some more, and then suddenly he pulled … he pulled a knife on me. Ssh!’
She had been about to sit back on the bed, but something in his terrified expression froze her. There was someone on the stairs. Footsteps ran heavily up the last little flight from Thierry’s landing and stopped by the telephone. Domina didn’t dare catch Thierry’s eye for fear of giggling or letting out a yelp from sheer tension. She stared hard at the pillow and dug her nails into her palms. Whoever it was took a few paces more and stopped just outside her door.
She imagined Randy, not her Randy, but one that had stayed in the Bronx and grown wild and strange. She pictured him crouching there on the landing, flick-knife in hand, ear against the door. She began to feel as though the slightest movement of her body would be heard, and this set her trembling. She remembered the others. What if one of them, unwitting, opened the door and came out to use the bathroom? Presumably the man was a maniac, and once his blood was up, anyone … ? Perhaps Avril would come out, or Penny, or, oh my God, Quintus?
Slowly, Domina allowed her gaze to turn on Thierry. He had lowered himself into the armchair. Tears were coursing down his cheeks. One hand was twisting the dressing-gown cord round and back on his fingers. She tried to remember a prayer, if only to occupy her mind, but they were all about mothers, which made her want to cry.
Then, slowly at first, but breaking into a noisy run, the footsteps descended the stairs.
Thierry looked across at her. They stayed still as death until they heard shoes slapping across the hall tiles, and the front door clattering open and then back into place. He was the first to break the hush and he did so in the poised, language school English he sometimes produced.
‘Domina Tey. That is the last, indeed the only time you are going to help me choose a husband.’
As they rolled, racked with tight gasps of laughter, she could only raise a trembling hand to point at the floral dressing-gown.
17
Hotel Plaza Luchesi
Firenze
Italia
Thursday
Fascinating Creature,
One would seem to be at a desk in the third room from the left, piano secundo, gazing across filthy but necessarily beloved Arno to Piazalle Michaelangelo. Fenella would seem to be here too – not quite sure who followed or encouraged whom. Mean as hell, as one suspected. Never trust a mouth like that, be the paint never so thick. This by way of thanks for an enchanting evening. Trust saintly neighbour hasn’t had you evicted. You’re welcome to Chester Square if he has. Set of keys with Bernard next door.
Heaps of affec.
Gerald.
The Paragon
Clifton
Bristol 8
Avon
Friday breakfast
Minnie,
I trust Des has forwarded the last letter. I don’t expect a reply. That’s a lie. I do, but don’t feel you have to rush things. It’s only Friday, after all; you haven’t been gone a week yet. I wouldn’t want you to get any false ideas about my writing again so soon. I can guess how delicate a situation you must be in – looking for oneself is kinda wearing (look what happened to Anaïs Nin, love her). I just happened to be at a loose end with no one to talk to. Seamus, as you possibly remember, prefers a brunch of industrial thinner, so it’s just me, the toast and the New York Review. Sue Sontag can wait till elevenses, I wanna talk to Baby.
Hi there. Great news! Cowper’s done, as are all the other biggies. That leaves just the effortless final statement in which my poised prose structures will raise passing herms to the twentieth century (which as we both know is negligible when it comes to literary madness, hallucinogens being such a lousy cheat). Sorry. That was a regular breakfast sentence. I left it in the middle for coffee. I have no news of great moment. Our favourite theatrical lush tottered round last night and finished your Glenfiddich.
And t
hat reminds me why I had to write to you. There is some news. Remember a girl called Cary McNichol? You probably don’t since I don’t often force my students on you. Cary McNichol is the only promising third year I’ve got. She also wrote a really smart little thesis on Blake’s visionary prosody for the prize last year, and happened to go to my old high school, which is why I’ve always had, well, a kind of soft spot for her. Anyway, she’s been living with Lenny, who’s some drug-bitten, ass-hole guitarist friend of our Seamus, and has always seemed quite happy with the set-up. Wednesday night there’s a pitiful knock at the front door round about twelve-thirty and it’s Cary, along with a flood of tears and the biggest black eye I’ve ever seen. Turns out Lenny was busted by the pigs with some dope, thought it was all her fault, and beat her up. Anyroad, the poor chick’s scared shitless, having got it into her head that all his ‘gang’ are after her too, so I said I’d put her up in the spare room so she could get on with her work in peace.
I know this smacks of over-protestation. I wouldn’t have even bothered to tell you, but on Thursday morning Rick came round to drop off some crap he’d been reviewing for me, saw her flitting around in one of my dressing-gowns, and all too obviously ‘didn’t like to say anything’. He must have said something, though, because like I say, the Lush was round like a shot that evening and didn’t go until she’d finished your Glenfiddich (I had a bit too, to keep her company) and clapped eyes on Ms McNichol for herself. Now Cary isn’t my type – far too young – but I won’t lie, she is attractive. Probably very. And if I know Bingham like you know Bingham, she’ll have written to you by the very next post.
PAY NO HEED
I guess that’s all. Kinda hard writing to a brick wall, albeit a transcendental one. Write soon. Come home sooner – that weird phone call of yours awakened a dormant longing to feel your earlobes between my strong white teeth.
I remain, ever faithful,
Pluto, xxx
Royal York Crescent
Bristol 8
