The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  I can still pinpoint the exact moment when it all went wrong: when I fell over the amp. It was placed near the door, a landmine waiting to explode. Jazz tried to grab my arm, but it was too late. I pitched forward and landed on the ground, my limbs splayed. When I picked myself up, a man was standing there, staring at me. Jazz introduced him as the resident. I took several deep breaths, stood up, shook his hand. He told me in curt tones to go to the DJ box. I strode over to it with as much purpose as I could muster. A maze of faders and buttons stared up at me. With the resident’s eyes on me, I was unable to implement my trusted sound-and-feel method of navigating unfamiliar sound desks. A light shone into my face, robbing me of all signposts. I reached into my briefcase for my shades.

  “Make it snappy,” the resident said to me. “They’re lettin’ em in now.”

  At least my records were in order, arms at the ready. I took a deep breath, loaded the first record. Took a gamble on a fader. A nearby speaker let out a screech. From a distance, there came the sound of voices. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A cold teardrop of sweat trickled down my back. Civilisations rose and fell before I managed to produce recognisable sounds. Air hissed out of my mouth. No chance to take a breath. Had to line up the next record. The light bored into my eyes; impeded my search. A silence opened up as I loaded the record, but I was able to plug the gap. The crowd were invisible to me. Couldn’t even see Jazz, though I knew he was nearby.

  My second record was long, an extended DJ Shadow mix. I sat back, took a gulp of air. A finger prodded the space between my shoulder blades.

  “Wake up,” said the resident. “There’s people looking for requests.”

  I straightened up. My T-shirt was clinging to my back.

  “I have a set,” I told him, in the coolest tones I could muster.

  “Yeah, well we operate a loose format here. Punter’s choice. Deal with it.”

  A thin guy stood in front of the decks.

  “D’you have any Daft Punk?” he asked

  As I struggled to locate the whirl of electricity that graced the cover of Daft Punk’s Discovery album, the DJ Shadow record ground to a halt. The silence yawned. I found the Daft Punk and began a frantic search for the groove. The situation was not helped by the fact that my fingers were shaking. As I inserted the needle, my elbow sent one of the records flying. I picked it up. It was intact, but my pile was in complete disarray. What was I planning to play next? Oh yes, the Sigur Ros bootleg, a gem unearthed during one of my cybertrawls. That was bound to silence him. Show him I was no dilettante. But the glaring light rendered the letters on the record sleeve invisible. By the time I located it, the room was silent once more. On the rare occasions that Jazz made a mistake, he carried on, acted as if nothing were amiss. I took my cue from him, forced myself to continue loading the record. But then the silence was filled, by the sound of slow handclapping, hisses, whistles. Missiles which punctured my skin, rendered me immobile. Another man stood beside the resident. His finger jabbed the air, pointed at me.

  And then Jazz was in front of me, pulling me to my feet, putting his hands on my shoulders and moving me to the side. The noise was drowned out by beats. My beats. Jazz was at the decks, his fingers working the sound desk. He bent over and gathered the dropped records, straightened the pile. Then he touched my arm.

  “What? I don’t...”

  My lips were frozen.

  “He’s asked me to do the set. I’m sorry.”

  I collapsed onto a chair. The beats whirled and closed over my head. Though the music wasn’t Jazz’s usual style, the set was flawless, faithful to my original intentions. Some people even danced. As the beats died away, the resident came over and started talking to Jazz. I shoved the records into my briefcase, no longer caring about order or alignment. The clasps on the briefcase protested as I wedged it shut.

  “What are you playing at, wasting my time with some wannabe chick?” the resident was saying. “I’m not running a charity.”

  Jazz’s reply was inaudible.

  “Anyway, she looks a bit weird. Don’t want her frightening off the punters.”

  I got up and made for the exit, every muscle in my body straining in an effort to avoid the amp. Neither Jazz nor the resident noticed my exit.

  Outside, a light drizzle fell, soaking into my clothes. I gripped the handle of the briefcase until my fingers turned white and the leather made an imprint on my palm. The street was illuminated by pools of orange light. I heard footsteps behind me, but I quickened my pace and they grew fainter.

  I was within touching distance of a taxi rank when my hip crunched against one of the poles at the side of the footpath. Pain seared through me, stopped me short. The footsteps were louder now, but I couldn’t outrun them. I leaned against the pole, breathing in ragged gasps, waiting for what was going to happen. The pain became lodged in my chest. A butterfly touch landed on my arm.

  “Come on, we’ll go back to mine,” Jazz said.

  “For what? A post-mortem? Besides, aren’t you expected elsewhere? You’re already late. That won’t go down well.”

  “I told her something came up.”

  His hand was still on my shoulder; the warmth of his touch leaked through my skin. My legs turned against their will. I walked in front of him, my shoulders hunched, my grip on the briefcase still vice-like.

  When we reached his apartment, I sat on my chair, my head resting on my hands, listening to the soothing sounds of coffee being made. Jazz didn’t drink coffee, but he knew how to make mine just the way I liked it. I looked up as he set the cup down on the coffee table. He sat on the armrest of my chair. Mist filled my eyes, obscuring my view of the room.

  “Equipment’s pretty shoddy,” he said. “And that light didn’t help.”

  “There’s no need to make excuses. I blew it. Nothing more to be said.”

  “You’re too purist for that place anyway. Guy’s a jerk.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I know.”

  “You know I had everything tight.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He rubbed my back in circular motions, until the mist cleared.

  As I nailed down the last loose ends of my set, the door opened. Martin was back, this time accompanied by a burly man who I figured must be Franzi. I stood up and came out from behind the decks. He pumped my hand with even more vigour than Martin. His handlebar moustache dominated his face, bisecting his glowing pink cheeks. He said something guttural to Martin.

  “All that DJ work must be making you hungry,” Martin said. “Franzi’s asked us to dinner. He wants to thank you for stepping in.”

  I had no thought of food; the weight was back in my chest, restricting my digestive tract. But I figured it was best to play along. I wasn’t in the best position to negotiate.

  As it turned out, the dinner was restful. Since no one else could speak English, I wasn’t obliged to make any contribution to the conversation. Words ebbed and flowed around me. The food consisted of big sausages which were the same consistency as Franzi’s skin and potato salad laced with vinegar. It slid past the weight in my chest. I washed it down with an enormous mug of coffee, strong enough to last until closing.

  The Cabbage Patch Kids were spilling out of the bus when Martin and I arrived at the hall. I ducked inside, grateful that they were unable to see me. As I took up my post, other people began to arrive, big men in check shirts and girls with gleaming blonde hair arranged in plaits. The men were covered in hair, bearing the hallmarks of their marauding barbarian ancestors. My stomach somersaulted. A makeshift bar was now situated in a corner of the hall, the one nearest the decks.

  “Franzi’s nephew, real family operation,” whispered Martin. “Will I get him to slip you a voddy for courage?”

  I shook my head. My stomach was too raw for vodka.
<
br />   “By the way, Franzi heard you earlier. Said you’re better than the local Johnny.”

  I continued adjusting the amp.

  As the bells in the village chimed the hour of ten, I launched into my first record: No Limits by 2 Unlimited. A rather cheap ploy, to lure them onto the floor with cheese, but to my surprise, it worked. Shadows began to appear on the floor, reflected in the pools of light. The lights danced too; they bounced around the hall, turning it into a cave of wonders. My second record flowed from my first with such ease that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. A warm glow began to seep through me. Now I understood the pleasure Jazz took in being positioned high above the crowd at Prism. Behind the decks, I was liberated from the scrutiny of others, free to be an unobserved guest at the party.

  The vintage-rave medley gave way to 80s synth pop. The figures were becoming clearer now, a sea of check and flowers. The men were flinging the girls around the floor in an unending dervish whirl. The lights gave their bodies an orange-brown sheen. Their hands flailed; they danced with blithe unconcern for their appearance or for the actual rhythm of the music. No hip-grinding here. The heat of their bodies rose in a cloud and wafted towards me. My clothes were sticking to me.

  I couldn’t identify the Cabbage Patch Kids among the throng, but there was no time to dwell on that. My attention became absorbed by lights, the need to tweak buttons. The fierce thrum of the beats drove the other sounds away. I was grateful for it. It was only when Martin tapped me on the shoulder that I realised people were gathered around the decks.

  “Please to play DJ Otzi,” said a man with a handlebar moustache which rivalled Franzi’s.

  “Ja, und Scooter,” said a girl.

  Her voice rang a faint bell. It took a moment for me to identify her as a waitress from the hotel; she was unrecognisable without her traditional garb. Neither artist featured in my playlist. Darts of panic shot through me. I dove into the cardboard boxes and grabbed piles of records. In the dim light, the letters were almost invisible. The music ground to a halt. A bedlam of voices rushed to fill the vacuum. I held the records in my lap, frozen to the spot. Sweat dripped from my armpits, my back. This was Eclectica all over again. I waited for the boos, the hisses. But instead, people were clapping their hands. Not in slow, sardonic motion, but in applause.

  “All right, girlie?”

  Martin. I opened my mouth, prepared to tell him that I was fine, that I didn’t need his help, but couldn’t summon up the energy. Why do you always turn everything into a fight?

  “I’m searching for a record.”

  “What one?”

  “Scooter.”

  Martin gave the records a cursory inspection, selected the right one and handed it to me. Rise above it, whispered Jazz. Act like nothing’s happened.

  I managed to stop the record from slipping out of my damp hands and inserted it into the decks. Relief flooded through me; my body went limp. There were whoops from the waitress and handlebar man.

  “Nice recovery,” Martin said. “Need an assistant?”

  I shrugged my assent; this was no time for Viking heroics.

  “Want a voddy now?” said Martin.

  I shook my head.

  “Just water. Thanks,” I croaked.

  He reached over and kissed the top of my head.

  “You’re doing a bang-up job, girlie,’ he said, from far away.

  Time passed in a blur, as a stream of people approached the ‘DJ box.’ Martin took their requests and helped me unearth CDs from the cardboard boxes. Most of the requests were for Belgian hardcore and forgettable Eurodisco. My playlist was in tatters; beats piled on top of beats. But no one cared.

  Jazz appeared behind me. He placed his hands over mine, guiding their movements. His voice murmured in my ear, telling me when to fade in the next tune. I kept reminding myself that it was a hallucination, the product of a fuddled brain. Yet I made no attempt to shake it off.

  Martin tapped me on the shoulder, signalling that it was time to bring the set to a close. I returned to my playlist for the last two, my Depêche Mode/Kate Bush indulgence. As Enjoy the Silence faded away, the crowd began to cheer. Their voices travelled down a tunnel.

  “They’re cheering for you, girlie.”

  I slumped in the chair, the adrenalin of the last two hours leaching out of my body. Martin understood that I wasn’t capable of speech. He said something to the crowd and they began to disperse. As they moved away, I became aware of the Cabbage Patch Kids, sitting at one of the warped tables near the wall. Johno and Mia. Kim and Cliona. The Greek Chorus. Two, two and two. I remained behind my decks, letting them act as a buttress. Their voices were easy to distinguish through the high, happy babble.

  “Those people have no respect. After all these years, they should be more aware of our needs. We’ll have to talk about a brighter place next year.”

  Cliona.

  “Do you think they’ll be doing last orders at the hotel? I’m gasping.”

  “Yeah, the beer tastes like piss here.”

  The Greek Chorus.

  “Thank fuck we don’t have to listen to any more of that shite. That’s what you get for putting a poser from Prism on the decks. We’ll play some real music back in the hotel.”

  Johno. No longer a Roman god, just another random baller. I knew that somewhere in the darkness, he and Mia were touching. A stray beat pulsed through my head. I listened out for Jazz, for his quiet words of praise. But he was gone.

  Martin helped me to pack everything away before we went back to the hotel. He spewed out a stream of chatter about the gig, how well it went, the response of the crowd. I lacked the energy to respond. As we drove back to the hotel, my mind played the set in an infinite loop. Martin stopped the car, but neither of us made a move to get out.

  “I hope you know how well you did,” he said. “Franzi wants you to come back next week.”

  There was no surge of triumph. Just a cavernous space with nothing to fill it.

  “Thanks. For, you know, everything.”

  I looked at my shoes.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  A silence fell, leaving space for a hug, a handshake. But I wasn’t one for mawkish gestures.

  The hotel was silent. I guessed that the others were ensconced in their bedrooms. The spiral staircase was more difficult to climb that night. My limbs were weighed down; it was hard to lift my feet.

  In the bedroom, the air was cold. The wardrobe door was open; my rucksack waited to be filled. I knew I should lie down, try to sleep, ease the throbbing ache in my muscles, or shower to remove the layers of sweat from my skin. Instead, I retrieved my phone and iPod and lowered myself onto the windowseat, pressing my body against the cold glass. My legs were bent, wedged against the wall. The iPod and phone rested on the windowsill, under my legs. An icicle hung from the window; it was at least a foot long. The ice fortress was all around me, but it offered no protection.

  I reached for my phone, positioned it so that I was almost nose-to-nose with it. Jazz’s features were indistinct. I traced them with my index finger. Then I filled the screen with the letters of his name. Jazzjazzjazzjazzjazz. I tried to resurrect him, but there was nothing left. The fissure inside me kept widening.

  There was only one thing to do. I sucked my breath inwards. No point in putting it off. I typed,

  U wr rite. Abt trp. Abt evrtn. Go bk to J. B happy. Wont gt in ur way.

  This time I didn’t delete it. This time I pressed send. He will never touch me again. The thought pulsed through me. I wrote conjugations on the frosted glass. Amittô, amittere, amîsî, amissum. To let go. I was a defeated Viking warrior, willing to cast myself into exile.

  I threw down the phone and picked up the iPod, attempting to fill the cracks inside me with beats. I plumped for Massive Attack,
with its rollcall of memories featuring Jazz as central protagonist. Unfinished Sympathy, the music which altered the direction of my life. Safe From Harm. Protection. That was what Jazz did. With his steadying arm, his voice in my ear, the warmth of his body. And his touch, which reached into the depths of me and set my neural passages aflame. He helped me navigate a world full of obstacles I couldn’t outrun. When I was with him, I laid down my arms.

  When the Massive Attack finished, I started on The Well-Tempered Clavier. Matthew always said that Bach was a suitable replacement for a God. But that night, the stately notes failed to offer their usual solace. I switched off the iPod and heaved myself off the windowseat. My legs hurt from being bent into position. I shoved the clothes into my bag and looked at my watch. It was still inky-black outside. I closed the door and steeled myself to face the nuclear winter.

  Something always jerks us back to reality. A shaft of sunlight stealing through the curtains. Pins and needles. A pressing need to urinate. A ringing phone. Without saying a word, we get up, dress, make breakfast, convene in the studio. Revert to type.

  Finis

  It was sunny. We were standing in a circle. Break time was over, but the teacher was letting us stay outside for longer. A warm breeze blew across my face. They said we were going home for our holidays soon. I knew what holidays meant now. We were let out for a little while, but we always had to go back in again, behind the gates.

  The teacher rolled a large ball to each of us, with coloured stripes on it. The other girls squealed with laughter as they hit the ball. There was an itch on the back of my left leg, near my ankle. It was too far away for my hand to reach. I tried to scratch the itch with my foot. Doing little tests like this made the games more fun. As I edged my shoe towards my ankle, the teacher called my name. The ball was coming towards me, so fast that the stripes disappeared. Before I could right myself, the ball slammed into my stomach and I fell on top of it. It rolled away and I slid onto the ground. The teacher picked me up and brushed little stones from my clothes. I scuffed my shoes against the ground as I waited for her to finish, but I didn’t wriggle away. They left me alone faster if I stood still.