Home? He used that word before – an hour or so ago –“scorching home at a hundred miles an hour”, he said. I didn’t even know he had a home. Everyone in Vegas is a tourist, staying in hotels, and Victor seems more rootless than the rest. He’s never married – I asked him that, and he said “no” rather sadly. He grew up in Kentucky as a country boy, moved to New York where he lived ten years or so, then moved again when the firm he was working for merged with a competitor and poor Victor was bought out. I never quite discovered exactly what he does, or where he does it. He was always a bit cagey, as if he didn’t like me probing, or there was something he was hiding; encouraged me to talk instead. I knew he’d trained as a construction engineer, working chiefly on state highways, but he doesn’t seem to do that now, and he can’t have retired yet, surely, at the age of forty-two. Perhaps he works for some big armaments firm, and is scared I’ll disapprove. Nevada’s full of bombs and things. They test them in the desert. Is that where home is? Some godforsaken rocket-launching site?
“Where do you live?” I ask.
“You won’t have heard of it. It’s tiny. Just a store, a gas station and a few small houses tucked beneath the mountains and sitting in a lot of empty space. I chose it for the peace and quiet, the solitude. I’ve always been attracted by the desert. I don’t know why. I guess it’s just so … basic. No facades. I’m never all that happy in big towns. Okay, Vegas isn’t big, but it’s twenty-four-hour neon and a real suspicious city where no one trusts their own best friend and all the women are hookers and …” He stops, embarrassed, realises what he’s said. I remember our first meeting, how he took me for an escort girl. I still suspect he’s something of a hypocrite, pitching into hookers when he buys their time and bodies; running down Las Vegas where he wins all his spare cash.
“You can’t play poker in a stretch of empty space.”
“No.” He grins, accepts my veiled rebuke. “I like to be near Vegas for the cards, of course, even for the restaurants or a show or two – but not that near. My home’s about sixty miles north-west. We’re closer to it here, just twenty miles or so. The only problem is I can’t lay on finger-bowls or frogs’ legs. But if you don’t mind scrambled eggs …”
“Sounds fine,” I say. I’m nervous. In a restaurant, there’d be lots of other people; bustle and distraction. In his home, just silence and the two of us.
He starts the engine, pulls away. “At least it’s early yet.”
“Yes.” It seems like the middle of the night. Time is rushing by like the frightened stretch of road bolting out of darkness just ahead of us. The sky is dark as well – bruised clouds swelling round the moon’s already half-closed eye. I ought to be making conversation. Out-date means just that. I’m his date, his companion for the evening, a charming sympathetic ear, who’ll relax and flatter him, listen to his problems. Always before, it was him who did the listening, me who got the sympathy, attention.
“Er … do you have a house or just a flat?” I ask. It sounds lame and over-formal. Out-dates can be tricky, last too long.
He laughs.
“What’s funny?”
“Flat. Your English words crack me up. No, it’s not a flat. It’s a clapboard house with three bedrooms and a garden.”
“All for you?”
“All for me. Are you a gardener, Jan?”
“No. I’ve never grown a thing. Except mustard and cress on Aertex vests at school.”
Victor’s looking puzzled. Language again. They probably don’t have Aertex over here, and vest means waistcoat in American. I’m too tired to do translations. “Is your garden big?” I ask instead.
“No. Though even a small one needs a lot of work. The soil’s real dry and sandy here, and the guy who owns the store said all he’d ever harvested were stones and tumbleweed. But I was kind of keen to be a country boy again, grow my own vegetables and fruits. So I really worked at it – bought bags of mulch and peat-moss and loads of fertiliser, made my own compost, fixed up a sprinkler system and invested in some hoses, then planted a row of athel trees, for shade. Now I grow zucchini, peppers, egg plant, maize, tomatoes …”
A sports car flashes past, pulps the other vegetables. A police car follows, sirens wailing. We’re on the highway now, have joined the busy world again.
“What?” I shout. “I missed that last bit, Victor.”
“I said, ‘Do you like fish?’”
“To eat, you mean? Not specially. I’d rather have the scrambled eggs.”
He laughs again. “I couldn’t let you eat my fish. They’re buddies. I built myself this salt-water aquarium. We’re three hundred miles from the ocean here, at least, but I’ve got my own bit of brine, right inside my living room.”
I can hear the excitement in his voice as he describes his surgeonfish, his clown fish, his saffron-blue damsels, his ozonisers, corals, zebra morays. I feel just a trifle peeved. He’s paid to spend the night with me, and what’s he doing? Giving me an inventory of sea-snails, pointing out the dangers of pathogens in South Pacific seawater. I’d rather hear (again) how much he missed me, how beautiful I look in blue.
I let my hand stray over to his knee, feel him tense. He was always very wary about anything too intimate. I felt hurt before, rejected, because he never seemed to want me as more than just a friend. A special friend, admittedly. I haven’t forgotten the cuddles and the stroking. But that’s always where it stopped. I suppose I should be grateful that he’s sensitive, respects me, appreciates my company instead of just my cunt. And yet …
“You need real patience, Jan, when you’re building up a tank. It’s best to start with hardy breeds, tough guys like my damsels. I started with just saffron blues – waited for a while before I bought my batfish and my angels. Then I got a second tank, just had to have some lionfish. They’re a real majestic breed, with huge fins like lions’ manes. Have you ever seen one, Carole?”
“No,” I say. “I haven’t.”
“Mine are beauts. We’ll have a guided tour when we get in – first the garden, then the tanks, and then the cacti and the orchids. Or maybe supper first. You hungry?”
“No,” I say again, remove my hand.
I stare into the eyes of a sharp-spined Hawaiian lionfish. It seems to look right through me, disregard me. Its own body is transparent, striped brown and cream, with the most amazing showy fins like sword-edged lace – delicate and frilly, yet with these huge great lethal needles sticking up on top. Strange how Victor dotes on such a bully-boy. He said it stung him once and his arm swelled up to twice its normal size. He announced it with real pride as if he were boasting of the ferocious creature’s genius. Apparently, they gobble up all smaller fish – snap, gulp and they’re gone. That’s why he keeps two separate tanks: one for the peaceniks, one for the Huns.
Both tanks are colossal, seem to dominate the room. There’s not a lot else in it – one armchair, a tiny portable TV, small bookshelf, smaller table. Victor’s house is not a home, not really. No photographs, no clutter, nothing personal at all, unless you count the fish. The house itself is nondescript – just one storey, and rather flimsy-looking as if it might blow away in the first bad storm. English homes have roots, deep and clutching roots which go down for miles and on for years. This place seems sort of instant and disposable, something from a supermarket which came with ten cents off.
It’s his garden that’s the showpiece. We saw that first, before we went inside. Victor switched the lights on, so everything looked sheeny and quite magical, a shimmering silver trellis on the green. We stood there breathing in the smells – musky hothouse scents from exotic flowers I’d never heard of and which were only blooming on account of Victor’s skills. And then he showed me all his fruits and vegetables – which were like his brood of children, proudly introduced, their biographies fleshed out, their weights and heights and progress lovingly compared, their personal idiosyncracies explained. I was really quite impressed. He’d created an oasis in a stretch of stony wasteland – turqu
oise water, green and leafy plants. Beyond us rose the brown and jagged mountains, above us soared the coldly distant clouds; everything dark and vast and barren save his own enchanted tiny patch. He saw me shiver, took my arm, seemed nervous as he fumbled for his key. I wasn’t that relaxed myself, especially when the front door closed behind us and I felt a sudden twinge of fear.
It was the fish which saved us, actually, broke the tension. They were so dazzling, so dramatic; such brilliant neon colours – zingy yellow, violent orange, a really startling blue. It was as if they’d been enamelled for the latest Show Spectacular in Vegas. I left Victor at the door, rushed straight up to the tank, stared in fascination. I’ve never seen breeds like this before, such amazing shapes and colours, never even realised they existed. If I say “fish”, the word conjures up dead grey hunks of flesh stinking out the market stall in Bristol; men in dirty aprons sharpening up their sales-talk as they slice off heads and tails. These heads and tails are real collectors’ items – bewhiskered tawny mouths, striped or tigered snouts; rainbow-coloured tail-fins sweeping behind streamlined silver bodies; tails like muslin skirts.
I lean forward in my chair, tap my fingers on the glass as some swinger cruises past, zigzagged blue and beige with a gleaming turquoise underbelly; brushes bodies with a smaller spiky punk-fish. I can’t remember all the names. Victor went too fast. Even the orchids and the cacti are all jumbled up together in my mind. But I was touched by his enthusiasm, the way he seemed to want to share it with me, share everything with me. He kept pressing me with coffee, cocktails, titbits, English tea; kept fretting that I was cold or tired or hungry; settled me in this chair with cushions at my head and a footstool at my feet while he went to fix our supper in the kitchen. He’s still there.
“Can’t I help?” I call, though I’m rather enjoying my role of pampered princess.
“You can come and keep me company.”
I dislodge the cushions, stroll into the narrow passage of the kitchen, stop in shock. Pots are bubbling on all four gases on the stove, every surface piled with food – fruits and salads, breads and cheeses, a luscious-looking gâteau – everything but scrambled eggs, in fact. Victor stopped en route to buy what he described as a few basics, must have bought the shop.
“Good God!” I say. “Expecting company? I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t. Try this. Think it needs more salt?”
“No, it’s great. What is it?”
“Victor’s Standby Beef. There’s chicken too, if you prefer. Oh, and I tried to make a soup, but it’s gone kind of weird. Sit down, Jan. Want another drink?”
He sounds flurried, yet elated. He’s no longer pale; cheeks flushed from the gases, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tie askew. It’s a feast he’s preparing in my honour, the tiny table laid with plates and dishes, royal blue serviettes, enticing smells of sizzling butter, garlic.
“Oh, Victor …”
“What?”
“Finger-bowls!”
He shrugs. “Just a joke.”
Not a joke. They’re beautiful, a slice of lemon floating in each one and sprinkled with real flowerheads. “You’re quite an artist.”
“Well, you’re my inspiration.”
Silence. We’re both embarrassed by the compliments. Victor turns his back again, starts stirring vigorously.
“Is there nothing I can do?” I ask.
“Not a thing.”
Even after the meal, I’m not allowed to lift a finger, not wash a dish nor scrape a plate. We’re both feeling floaty from the wine, so it seems entirely natural to move from kitchen chairs to sitting-room rug. Victor pillows my head with his arm as we stretch out on the floor. Still another treat – Godiva chocolates, which I know from the advertisements cost thirty bucks for just a tiny box. Victor feeds me strawberry creams and nougats. I’ve never seen him so relaxed. Shoes off, tie off, shirt flecked with butter where he sautéed onions too enthusiastically. The room is dim, just the subtle coloured lighting of the fish tank glowing in our faces. The only noise is tank noise, the bubbling of the aerators, a sudden tiny plop as a batfish breaks the surface of the water.
I suck chocolate off my fingers, realise I’m happy. The last time I felt happy was early New Year’s Eve, so the feeling’s quite a shock, like swallowing food again after days and days of fasting.
The meal itself was great. Okay, so the soup sort of curdled and I’ve tasted better beef, but Victor took such trouble. Every course was homage to me, every dish precious because he lavished so much care on it. Jon would have sloshed baked beans in two chipped cereal bowls, burnt the toast. I’ve never met a man before who’s so obviously devoted. I lapped up the devotion; lapped up cream and coffee, felt like a fat cat. I’m purring still. All my fears and conflicts seem to have been left behind with Carl. It may be just the wine, acting as a tranquilliser. I doubt it. Victor always had the gift of making me feel peaceful. He’s like a happy-drug, with no dangerous side effects.
I close my eyes. His arms are wrapped around me. He holds me very carefully, as if I’m made of glass. He smells innocent; no swanky aftershave, no strong French cigarettes. I pull away a moment, touch his face. “Alvin,” I tease.
“Adorée,” he counters.
We’re giggling, both of us. “It doesn’t suit you, Victor.”
“No. Adorée does, though.”
“What, suits you?”
“No, you.”
“I’ve got something to confess.”
“What?”
“My real name’s Carole.”
“Carole?”
“Mm.”
“Carole Jan?”
“No, Carole Margaret. Do you mind?”
“No. I’m just surprised. Any more names?”
“Only Joseph.”
“That’s a guy’s name.”
“No, a surname. Carole Margaret Joseph. Is your name really Victor?”
“Yeah. Victor Brown.”
“Brown?”
“Boring, isn’t it?”
“No, I like it.” Brown’s real and sort of solid, much safer than Ben Schmuel. I feel incredible relief that I’m Carole now at last. It may be stupid, but that Jan kept getting in the way. I was even jealous of her because she wasn’t me. Now Victor knows the real me, or some of her at least. I daren’t risk the rest yet – Reuben, the swiss roll. I could admit my age, though. It hardly matters any more whether I’m twenty-one or not. We’re not in Vegas, not buying drinks, or gambling. And it would be one less lie between us.
“Hey, Victor …” I try to make a joke of it. “Carole’s a bit younger than Jan was.”
“What d’ you mean?”
“Well, I’m … eighteen, not twenty-one.”
He looks a bit bewildered. I can hardly blame the guy. All these sudden changes. “I’m sorry, Victor, it’s just that I thought they … you …” I fumble with the pronouns – “wouldn’t let me try the games or buy a drink or anything, if I admitted I was underage.”
He says nothing. Have I shocked him with my fabrications? They’re only fibs, footling little fibs. “I’m nineteen fairly soon. Well, not that long. My birthday’s June – June 19th. I’m Gemini. What sign are you?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s staring at me, seems really quite upset. It can’t be that important, surely – two and a half years?
“Victor, don’t be cross. Please. It was stupid to pretend, I know. I was just scared I’d miss out on things, that’s all.”
“It’s okay.” He still sounds a bit uptight, but he offers me a praline, tries to force a smile. “I’m Libra. Gandhi was a Libran, and Alexander the Great. Oh, and Brigitte Bardot. So I guess we can’t be that bad. Are Gemini and Libra meant to get along okay?”
I’ve no idea. I’ve never met a Libra guy before. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Terrific. They’re made for one another.” I snuggle close, let myself relax again, lie back against his arm. He brushes one soft finger across my closed lids.
“Tired, darl
ing?” he asks.
Darling? Perhaps it’s just the easiest solution after Jan and Carole Margaret, but all the same I treasure it. I nod. I am tired. We’ve spun the evening out as far as it will go and it’s now the wee small hours. “Shall we go to bed?” I whisper.
He doesn’t speak – I think he’s nervous still – just helps me to my feet, removes our cups and glasses, then takes me down the passage to a simple whitewashed room with toothpaste curtains striped white and minty green.
“I’m afraid it’s rather small, but that bed’s real comfortable and you’ll get a great view of the mountains in the morning.”
I stare at him. Surely he’s not suggesting that we should sleep apart – when we’ve got so close, just weeded out the lies; eaten our supper holding hands so we couldn’t cut our meat up; shared our piece of gâteau – which meant I got all the cherries and the cream, and Victor just the stodgy bits. He ate nothing much himself, in fact, just consumed me with his eyes, hoarded all my words as if they were precious truffles or rum-soaked petits fours. So what’s changed now? Oh, I understand he may not feel like sex. He probably had the works with Suzie and older men need longer to recover. That’s okay by me. In fact, it’s quite a treat these days to go to bed to sleep. But why not his bed? Wouldn’t that be cosier, more friendly?
He’s still cossetting me, lending me pyjamas, leaving cookies by my bed, offering me hot chocolate. But those are all child things. Is that the problem? He’s still upset I lied about my age, thinks eighteen is too young. That’s ridiculous. Most men like me young, choose me for that reason. Maybe he’s annoyed and wants to pay me back for lying – bed on my own as a penance for deceiving him? No, Victor’s not like that, and anyway, he’s always played the suitor rather than the stud; the chaste and bashful suitor who wouldn’t go too far. It’s beginning to annoy me. It’s great to be adored, but how can I be real with him if he keeps idealising me, making me a nun? All through the evening he’s avoided certain topics. If I ever mentioned Carl or Angelique, or any aspect of the Silver Palm, he’d tense and change the subject.
Sin City Page 49
