by Unknown
Paul had never liked Xavier. Charles had given him the full-grown Siamese cat so he wouldn’t be lonely in his flat after he finally moved out of his mother’s house, but the building didn’t allow pets. Paul was always afraid his landlord would find Xavier during a routine inspection, so he closed Xavier in his bedroom whenever he was away. Subsequently, the room bore a slightly pissy smell Paul could never find the source of, a constant cause of irritation. Paul also resented being forced to break building rules in exchange for nothing except Xavier’s listlessness and neutral blue-eyed stares. Paul had never kept a cat, so he had been surprised that they did not jump up and run to you when you came home; nor did Xavier seem to like him all that much, except at feeding time.
At three in the morning, Paul felt a clarity that had eluded him before.
“All right, then,” he said.
Xavier mewed again as Paul grabbed the handful of fur at the scruff of his neck and swung the cat off of his chest. He walked the three steps to his window, pulled it open with a squeal, and tossed the scrabbling Xavier down six stories into the dark. Xavier didn’t make a sound on his way down, and the moist faint cracking a second later might only have been his imagination. The whole thing was over before Paul could blink, and for a moment he stood leaning out of his window into the icy night air, wondering if he had only dreamed what he had done. A deep scratch across his forearm was the only evidence of his waking state. His hands trembling slightly, Paul went back to bed, where he slept much more soundly than before.
Xavier had fallen to the car park, so the next morning his neighbors thought he was a stray who had been run over. The sight of his cat’s broken, wide-eyed carcass forced Paul back inside his flat. He cried into his pillow like a schoolgirl.
With no one else to confess to, he called Nicola and told her the story.
“Jesus, what time is it?” she said.
It was only eight-thirty, and Nicola rarely rose before ten.
“Did you hear what I said? I threw Xavier out of my window.”
“Is he dead?”
“Of course he is.”
Nicola yawned. “I’d have never thought you had it in you, Paul,” she said, her voice thick with the Yorkshire accent she did not soften when they were alone. But even mired in the thick yoke of an upbringing in Leeds, he could not mistake the sound of admiration.
“Well, it’s not something I’m proud of,” he said, but he realized that was a lie—suddenly he was quite proud of it. His earlier tears seemed puerile and silly. He imagined Nicola pleasuring herself with the telephone receiver, slowly rubbing the mouthpiece between her thighs. “Come over today,” he said.
“When will I meet that mate of yours?” she said. “Malcolm?”
“Soon,” he promised.
Nicola sighed. “I’ll be there at half-two. You’d better have food this time.” Suddenly, her voice lost its razor-edge of irritation. “Did you really do that to your cat?”
He assured her that he had.
“Tell me what else you’ve done, Paul. Maybe I don’t know you as well as I think.”
Paul’s momentary elation faded as he realized that he had just told her his only secret, and there was nothing more to him. He was quite easy to know in only a glance.
Paul winced under the too-hot stream of water in his shower as he waited for Nicola. The trembling that had begun with his fingers last night had moved to his knees, in uneven tremors. But he didn’t think Xavier was troubling him; his thoughts were only of Malcolm. How could he have encouraged Nicola’s interest in him? What kind of man would offer a friend, and a good person, as a sideshow freak? He was mad if he thought Nicola would ever love him, even after a parade of dead cats and eunuchs.
No, Paul decided as he dried his slightly pudgy and soft body, he would not, could not, introduce Nicola to Malcolm. Settling the matter made his trembling cease.
Then Nicola was in his flat with her pale ampleness, dressed in a snug minidress intended to entice him, touching his face as if she was savoring the smooth contours of marble. “Paul? When can I meet Malcolm?” she said, licking his neck with an electrified dart of her tongue.
“Soon,” he said, assuring himself it was only a convenient lie.
“How soon, Paul?” Her pelvis cleaved to his, massaging his erection.
Paul swallowed the eager spittle in his mouth. “He might be at the wrap party on Friday. I’ll introduce you then.”
Paul felt awkward as they made love in the very bed where Xavier had awakened him only a few hours ago. Xavier’s white hairs covered his bedspread, clinging to the perspiration on their skin. Nicola was not wet when he plied himself between her legs, so she inhaled in a soft hiss between her front teeth. “I’m sorry,” Paul said. His hip bone dug into her fleshy thigh. She shifted slightly and said, “There,” sounding relieved. Paul thrust. Their machinations felt like an exercise.
“I have a secret, too, almost like his,” Nicola said, as if they were sitting at the breakfast table instead of pressed against each other’s nakedness.
“Sorry?”
“That hole you’re in, it isn’t real,” Nicola said, and Paul paused. His spine turned to ice. Here, he thought, was when Nicola would tell him she had been born a man and had an operation. He might never trust a woman again.
“I’m not a tranny,” Nicola assured him, running her fingernails across his shoulder blades. “I still didn’t have my period when I was fifteen, but I did have God-awful cramps and pains. So my mum took me to a doctor. Know what he found?”
“Not a clue,” Paul gasped. He felt his erection fading.
“I didn’t have a hole where I should. All the blood was trying to come out, but it was blocked. So the doctor had to cut the hole himself. That’s probably why I’m so small.” Paul came, which felt like a minor miracle although it was far too soon, dissatisfying. Nicola smiled at him as he hurried to cover himself beneath the sheets. “Paul, is this Malcolm bloke really a eunuch?”
“Exactly like in Twelfth Night,” he said.
“We’re kindred, then, you see? You’ll really let me meet him at the party. All right, Paul?”
He heard himself saying Yes, yes, Nicola. Of course, Nicola. Anything you wish.
At first, Paul thought that by some divine mercy Malcolm might not turn up after all. After a contentious shoot, the party was only moderately attended, its guests segregated by cliques within several rooms of the posh Persian restaurant rented for the occasion. Nicola fidgeted at Paul’s side. She had long since lost her fascination with watching actors eat and drink, especially since she had seen most of them without their makeup and in ill humor by now. The high-pitched whir of Persian pop music goaded Paul’s nerves.
“You said he’d be here,” Nicola said, her voice accusing.
“I said he might.”
Nicola sighed. “If he’s not here in fifteen minutes, we should leave. I wish you had told me this was casual.” Nicola was conspicuously overdressed in black lace stockings and a strapless satin cocktail dress. Served her right, Paul thought.
He was about to suggest they should go when Nicola took his hand and pressed hard, her palms warm and wet. “Look, Paul. That’s him, isn’t it? He’s like you said, absolutely beautiful. And a giant, no less.”
Malcolm was approaching, drink in hand, with the same grin that had endeared Paul to him. “Well, shit on me,” Malcolm said. “Look who’s here, after you said you wouldn’t be caught dead at another party.”
“This wrap was worth celebrating,” Paul said, trying to sound bright instead of miserable. “Malcolm, meet Nicola.” Paul’s legs threatened to collapse as Nicola and Malcolm stood opposite each other. “Shall we sit?” Paul asked weakly, indicating the rose-colored wingchairs behind them.
Paul watched Nicola’s eyes, which were directed at Malcolm’s lap as he bent his long legs to take his seat, as though she could see through his loose-fitting linen trousers. Paul nearly nudged her, but stopped himself. He put his arm
around her instead.
“I’m afraid Nicola has finally seen the truth about the world of cinema,” Paul said loudly, hoping to jolt her from her mesmerized state.
Malcolm grinned. “And she’s never even been to California.”
Nicola raised her eyes to Malcolm’s, much to Paul’s relief. “An American girl from New York works in my office,” she said. “But she doesn’t care much for California.” Her Yorkshire accent slipped in; much sounded like mooch.
“No one likes California except Californians,” Malcolm said.
“Is there an east-west divide in the States?” Nicola said, and Paul felt himself breathe. He took Nicola’s hand and squeezed like a proud father.
“East-west, north-south, black-white, you name it,” Malcolm said. “America is one big divide.”
“Is it true the Ku Klux Klan is still active?” she said.
Malcolm said, “In some places in the South, sure.”
Nicola shook her head. “That’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Why?” Paul said, and neither answered. His question, meant to be philosophical, had the mortifying effect of stopping the conversation cold.
In the silence, Nicola cast her eyes again toward Malcolm’s lap, so indelicately that she did not notice whether or not Malcolm was watching her. He was. In a quick glance, Malcolm saw Paul’s anxious start. Realization soured Malcolm’s expression. The men’s eyes locked. Paul’s lips parted slightly, but he could not make a sound.
Malcolm gazed back at Nicola. “Excuse me a moment, will you?” He left abruptly, his walk rigid.
Paul’s heart thundered, making him feel both dizzy and sick to his stomach. He could not remember feeling so badly about anything. “Congratulations. Now you’ve done it,” he told Nicola.
“Done what?”
“He knows you know.”
“Don’t be daft,” she said. “He’ll come back.”
Nicola was right. Malcolm soon returned with a plate of chicken kebabs. He pulled the meat free and popped the cubes into his mouth in quick succession, his jaw chomping constantly, like a tic. He didn’t meet Paul’s eyes as he sat beside Nicola.
“You have a very hot girlfriend, Paul,” Malcolm said, and slipped his arm around her waist. Paul felt awkward with his arm so close to Malcolm’s, so he moved his away. Malcolm scooted closer to Nicola, his thigh touching hers.
Paul thanked him for the compliment, finding his voice. Nicola smiled at Malcolm with the admiration Paul lived for. She leaned toward Malcolm to give him a closer glimpse at her bosom. She was flirting with a goddamn eunuch.
Malcolm chewed thoughtfully, his face impossible to read. Had Paul been mistaken to believe he was angry earlier? Perhaps Malcolm had no idea his confidence had been broken. God, if only that were true!
“I think your girlfriend is bored, Paul,” Malcolm said.
“Not at all,” Nicola said with a coquettish giggle.
“What do you propose we do about that?” Paul said.
“Let’s go to my apartment and smoke a couple of bowls.”
“Very sixties,” Paul said, foolishly. He had not smoked since he was a teenager.
“Ooh, I’d like that,” Nicola said.
And so it was decided.
Malcolm’s was an attic flat, its ceiling carved from the angles of the building’s roof. Posters from Apocalypse Now, Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, Taxi Driver, and The Cotton Club formed a checkerboard across the slanted ceiling behind his sofa. Malcolm’s lust for Tarantino, Scorsese, and Coppola had dominated many of his pub conversations with Malcolm, and the posters filled Paul with nostalgia. The rest of the room was alive with potted trees and baby palms. “To remind me of home,” Malcolm explained.
“Had a good look yet?” Malcolm said, not moving from the doorway behind them. Paul didn’t know how to respond—was he referring to Nicola’s shameless gazes at his trousers? Suddenly, Malcolm flipped the lights off. “At home I have black lights, but we can sit in the dark. The streetlamp outside makes the room orange.”
“It’s brilliant,” Nicola said, as if Malcolm had invented Light itself. “Do you like it, Paul?”
Paul reached for her hand, but he misjudged the distance between them, so his fingertips only brushed her dress. “It’s all right, actually,” Paul said.
“Well, have a seat. I’ll get the bud. Paul, you want me to grab you a beer out of my fridge? I think I’ve got bitter, if that’ll make you happy.” His voice was as soft as the patter of spring rain.
“An American with a real drink?” Paul called as Malcolm vanished into darkness.
“Couple of footballers brought it by last weekend,” Malcolm called back.
Nicola remained standing, but Paul sat on the futon beneath the posters. They did not speak, as if they were actors waiting for cameras to roll. Paul was relieved when Malcolm returned with a can of bitter in one hand and a bong in the other.
“This shit’s strong,” Malcolm told Paul. “Don’t cough.”
“Piss off,” Paul said.
Nicola giggled before she took her turn, then she coughed. All three of them laughed. The sound of joviality made Paul realize that everything might work out fine. He was spending a rare evening with Malcolm, like the old days, and simultaneously making Nicola happy. What was the harm in it? It was so like him to be living a perfect evening and fail to realize it until it had passed, he thought. Maybe he was learning how to enjoy life, just like Mum said he should.
“I love to watch The Sopranos,” Nicola said. She puffed, inhaling and exhaling in quick bursts. “But that accent! You know, when I watch that, I have to put on the subtitles. I’m not joking.”
“Hold it in, Nicola, or you won’t feel anything,” Malcolm said gently from where he sat beside her.
Paul chuckled. Nicola’s comment struck him as genuinely funny. “Do you really?”
“I never told you?” In the darkness, he felt her squeeze his knee affectionately. “But I do fancy it. You should watch it, Paul.”
“Paul thinks American television is ‘rubbish,’ ” Malcolm said.
“He likes to watch those documentaries about the African bush,” Nicola said. “He’s going to write another movie about Africa and pretend he was there.”
“I will go sometime,” Paul said defensively. He felt the marijuana suddenly, an anchor lifting in his skull, allowing him to float free, and he wasn’t angry at Nicola for her teasing. He really should have spent some time in Rwanda, after all. He started to say this, but forgot the relevance before he could speak.
After two more hits and the can of bitter, Paul had lost track of himself entirely. He stared glassy-eyed at the palm shadows on the wall; oddly waving fingers moving in the breeze from the fan on the floor. Nicola and Malcolm chattered like old friends about subjects Paul could not follow. He was proud that he didn’t mind seeing Nicola’s head resting on Malcolm’s shoulder.
“Why don’t any of Paul’s other friends have any personality?” he heard Nicola ask Malcolm. She could be speaking from the other end of a long tunnel.
“Because Paul has enough for all of them. Right, Paul?”
“I have no friends,” Paul said. Watching the plants’ shadows, he thought about Africa, feeling excitement and resolve. What was to stop him from looking into it? The shoot was finished, rewrites were behind him, so why not book a flight to Kenya for the two of them? He was about to ask Nicola what she thought when he heard her say: “Did he tell you he threw his cat out his window?”
It was such a non sequitur, Paul heard himself laugh.
The futon shook with Malcolm’s startled motion. “No way,” he said.
“That’s a secret, Nicola,” he said, pretending to scold her.
“See? It’s the truth,” Nicola said. “Six stories down. The poor thing’s dead.”
Malcolm leaned over Nicola to try to see Paul’s face in the dim light. His mouth hung open like a large fish, and Paul looked away from him so he wouldn’t laugh again.
“Is she serious? That’s crazy, man,” Malcolm said. Paul didn’t answer, lifting the can of bitter to his mouth even though he had emptied it long before. Malcolm leaned back, shaking his head. “Damn. Don’t ever have kids.”
Paul tried to smother his chuckle with the can, but it only sounded amplified.
“I’m serious,” Malcolm said.
“Isn’t it awful when you get to know people,” Nicola said, “and you learn all their secrets?” Her voice faded, dripping into a whirlpool. Paul closed his eyes, and the wooden floor beneath him shifted like the deck of a ship at sea. He secured himself in place by curling his toes tightly. He could sleep for a month, he thought.
“I know your secret,” Nicola said to Malcolm.
Malcolm laughed. “Then I guess it ain’t no secret, huh?”
Paul must have slept briefly. He snapped awake when he felt a tugging at his arm. Malcolm was gone, and Paul’s subconscious reminded him that he had heard Malcolm excuse himself to use the toilet.
“Could you make me a vodka and orange, Paul? Please?” Nicola said.
Paul doubted he could make a glass of ice water in his current state, but he didn’t have the energy to refuse. He brought himself to his feet and stumbled in the direction he thought the kitchen might lay. It took a lifetime to fix the drink because each phase had its difficulties: finding a glass in unfamiliar cupboards, finding the vodka, opening the can of juice. The streetlamp outside the kitchen window stretched odd shadows around him, making him pause each time they caught his eye. He stood a moment gazing at his own profile caricatured against the striped wallpaper.
The futon was empty when he returned. He wondered how much time had passed. With a sigh, he set the drink on the table in a sloppy motion that spilled liquid in a ring. He felt disoriented, realizing that he was alone in another man’s flat. His eyes were drawn to a stream of light from the hall.
