Eighty Days Blue

by Vina Jackson

  ‘You’ll have to tell me the rules,’ I said. ‘I really don’t know anything about bull-riding.’

  ‘Forget the rules, just watch. Each ride won’t take more than eight seconds, and that’s if the rider is good, so there’s not much time to explain.’

  Simón was right: some of the riders were only on the backs of the bulls for three or four seconds. I imagined, though, that on the back of an animal like that, a few seconds would last a lifetime. The bull never had all four feet on the ground at once, and one bull jumped about four feet into the air, carrying his rider with him, before hitting the ground again and not even pausing for a moment before continuing to buck. They behaved as though the ground were electric, snorting and leaping and heaving like 1,800 pounds of beef on Ritalin.

  The riders weren’t what I expected. Most of them were short, with bodies like gymnasts. They responded to each move of the bull with an equal and opposite reaction, moving back or forward, left or right with perfect speed and precision, more like a wind-up toy than a man. Several times the rider was thrown and pulled out of reach of the bull’s stomping hooves in the nick of time, a hair’s breadth from being trampled to death.

  Simón watched with shining eyes, hollering and jumping to his feet when a rider managed to hold his ground for more than a few seconds.

  ‘Imagine having an animal like that between your legs,’ he sighed.

  ‘Mmm,’ I replied, sucking up the last of my Coke through a straw.

  ‘In Venezuela, the riders chase the bulls on horseback and race to be the first to take the animal down by pulling its tail. We call it coleo.’

  ‘That sounds easier than this.’

  ‘That’s a very dangerous thing to say to a Venezuelan!’

  ‘I don’t mind a little danger, else I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I guessed that about you. It’s not every girl that you can invite to a bull-riding show.’ He bent his head towards me as he spoke.

  I put my mouth back to the straw.

  ‘Mind if I have a drink?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry . . . I’ve finished it.’

  ‘Never mind. The show is almost over. We can get another drink somewhere else.’

  We went to Caracas Arepa Bar on 7th Street in the East Village. It was still fairly early, but the queue to get in snaked out through the door.

  ‘It’s worth it, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can be very patient when the need calls for it.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. You know, I’ve been thinking . . .’

  ‘A dangerous habit.’

  ‘I know I’ve been a bit of a slave driver lately, but I think you should go for that solo gig. You’re good enough. I can speak to some promoters. I think we can fill a house.’

  ‘I thought you said that I was playing with my mind.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. There’s always room for improvement. What do you say? I know the rehearsal space you’re using is a bit of a hole. You can use my basement. It’s sound-proofed. I had the place renovated when I moved in, so it’s very comfortable. I can give you some extra lessons.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, but . . .’

  ‘No buts. You’re talented. Trust yourself. This could be your big break, you know. I’ll make sure a few agents get on the guest list.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yeah. OK.’

  He threw his arms round me and lifted me straight off my feet, planting a wet kiss on each of my cheeks. His stetson fell to the ground.

  ‘Probably best I take that off now, anyway,’ he said, smiling as he bent down to fetch it.

  We squeezed onto the end of a table with four others. They were halfway through their meals, and if the expressions on their faces was anything to go by, then the food must be divine.

  ‘Guacamole and chips to start,’ said Simón, ‘and margaritas – we’re celebrating.’

  ‘Please feel free to order the rest,’ I said. ‘I haven’t a clue what any of these things are, and I trust you.’

  ‘You might regret that.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  We ate until I felt as though I would need to be rolled home.

  ‘Did you order everything that was on the menu?’ I asked, eyeing the last of the tajadas, fried sweet plantains with salty cheese, and patting my stomach regretfully. No doubt about it, dating is not good for the waistline.

  ‘Not quite,’ he laughed.

  He walked me back to my apartment. We’d both downed four or five margaritas and were unmistakeably tipsy. I was, truthfully, closer to drunk. It made a nice change not being the only one drinking.

  I fumbled in my handbag for the keys to the apartment, leaning against the wall for support.

  ‘I can’t be locked out,’ I said. ‘The front door locks from the outside.’

  ‘May I?’ he said. ‘I think I’m more sober than you.’

  I held the bag open as he tentatively snaked a hand inside.

  ‘Do you actually need to carry around this much stuff?’ he asked.

  ‘You never know when you might need a spare pair of shoes.’

  He pulled out the length of rope that Cherry had given me after her show. It had been buried at the bottom of my bag ever since.

  ‘Were you planning to kidnap me?’ he said, dangling the rope in front of my face.

  ‘I’m a girl scout,’ I replied blithely.

  ‘You’re certainly full of surprises.’ He slung the rope loosely round my waist and, holding each end, pulled me against him. ‘Now I’ve got you trapped,’ he said.

  Then he kissed me.

  His kiss was warm, rougher than Dominik’s kisses, probably because he was drunk. He tasted of tequila, and when I breathed in, all I could smell was the lingering spice of the perfume that he wore, like the smell of a kitchen after baking a batch of gingerbread biscuits.

  He dropped the rope and buried his hands in my hair, holding my head tightly.

  I held my breath, hoping that he would pull my hair the way that Dominik did and kiss me again. I was beginning to feel a familiar warmth running through my body and was tempted for a moment to invite him inside.

  Instead he broke away, holding his hands against his sides stiffly.

  ‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It’s OK. We have to work together.’

  ‘I know. It’s a bad idea.’

  ‘Definitely a bad idea.’

  I picked up the rope and returned it to my bag. My keys were gleaming in the side pocket, exactly where I always left them.

  ‘I’m sure I saw you put your hand in that bit,’ I said accusatorily.

  ‘I did. I was just trying to stall you.’

  ‘Thank you for dinner and the bull-riding.’

  ‘Thank you for joining me.’

  He was back to his usual persona, friendly, professional, flirting but as if he didn’t really mean it. Though, if his kiss was anything to go by, he really had meant it after all.

  ‘I’m going inside now.’

  ‘And I should be getting my beauty sleep. Rehearsals tomorrow. And we can start planning your solo show.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I left him standing on the doorstep and shut the door.

  I still hadn’t heard from Dominik, but I could feel the weight of his disapproval from across the ocean.

  6

  An Island on Spring Street

  The formal offer of the fellowship arrived through Dominik’s letterbox a fortnight after his return from New York. Having been given the initial impression the answer would reach him earlier, he had spent an awkward week moving between anticipation and a curious form of mild depression, waiting for the trustees’ decision.

  It was, as he had fervently hoped, a positive response and he had been granted the fellowship and attendant stipend, and was expected to begin his period in Manhattan after the Easter break. He was being supplied with a small office within t
he New York Public Library precinct and electronic and physical access to all its materials, against which he would be required to give a monthly talk of no more than an hour on a subject of his choice. How long he spent on actual research in the imposing building on Fifth and 42nd with the stone lions was up to his discretion.

  Dominik now had under three months to make all the necessary arrangements: organise for his sabbatical from the London job, assist in finding someone to stand in for him in his absence and, most importantly, find accommodation in New York, as the library was unable to assist in the matter.

  He rang Summer.

  ‘It’s finally come through. I have the fellowship.’

  ‘That’s great. Really wonderful.’

  ‘I will arrive straight after Easter.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ll be in full rehearsals for the solo gig.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll find somewhere, a place, where you can play the Bailly at all hours of day and night, without fear of disturbing neighbours.’

  ‘That would be so nice,’ Summer remarked. ‘Until then, I’m mostly restricted to a small room in the bowels of the Symphonia’s locale. Not a very inspirational bolthole. Plus it has to be booked days in advance, as so many of the other musicians require extra rehearsal time. Simón has offered me the use of his apartment on the Upper West Side, but I’d feel uncomfortable taking advantage of him.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Anyway, I like to be alone when I’m preparing,’ Summer added.

  ‘What about me? No more private recitals?’

  ‘Ah, that’s another matter altogether,’ she said.

  Finding rentals in Manhattan, even with the most generous of budgets, is always an uphill task, particularly at a distance. Online searches were an initial waste of time, so Dominik finally went through a local property broker and found a loft space in SoHo on the fifth floor of a building on Spring Street near the corner of West Broadway.

  Summer surveyed the place for him and declared it absolutely perfect. It was vast, she reported, fabulously lit, and the acoustics were incredible. Although it was furnished in a particularly minimalistic style, she was confident that Dominik’s books, and the way he so quickly accumulated them, would soon provide the loft with some extra warmth and personality.

  The rental contract was for a whole twelve-month period and it was arranged for Summer to move in a full month ahead of Dominik’s arrival in New York, to take advantage of the place. She was initially reluctant to abandon her Croatian friends, but soon began to look forward to escaping their joyful rutting sounds and its insistent distraction at night.

  She would describe their exploits to Dominik when she spoke to him on the phone; hearing about the adventures of the lusty Croatians always made him laugh heartily. Later, a pensive Summer invariably reflected that she had seldom seen Dominik laugh in the flesh. She wondered why.

  Dominik had only seen photos of the loft, so Summer, once she had moved in, described the space to him.

  ‘Apart from the bedroom, which has been partitioned off on one side, it’s all one large area, with shiny wooden floors. It feels like a ballroom.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The kitchen is so hi-tech. I’ve never had a kitchen like that, with granite worktops and all the latest gizmos. Space-age stuff! Not sure if I’ll manage omelettes and beans on toast there, though – it would feel like an insult to cooking technology.’

  ‘We can eat out,’ Dominik said.

  ‘No,’ Summer said. ‘I want to cook for you. I’ve so seldom done that for a man, a lover.’

  ‘Good. So no more corsets or vintage violins now, I see. I’ll have to get you cookery books full of abstruse recipes, no?’

  Summer chortled. ‘There are huge bay windows. So much light. But no view: it just looks out on the vast grey façade of the building opposite. No windows there whatsoever, pipes and metal grilles. A bit ugly. As a result, though, it’s deathly silent at night, even though there are so many restaurants on the street outside open late. Eerily peaceful.’

  ‘And private?’

  ‘Totally,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Wonderful. I’ll want you to rehearse naked, of course, when I’m around.’

  ‘I was beginning to think that was the only reason you chose the place.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Dominik confirmed.

  Unbidden and without his knowledge, Summer had already quickly grown into the habit of wandering the loft in the nude, whether playing the Bailly or just hanging out. It felt right, on the edge of arousal, natural, the loft a new garden of paradise, a playground of innocence.

  She liked the space’s bare atmosphere, its minimal lines and white walls, and the naked brickwork peering out artistically between the steel ceiling beams and at regular intervals like splashes of dark paint in the landscape of the immense walls.

  Summer bought a few orchids, which she scattered around to bring a shy touch of colour to the loft. She hesitated about whether she should bring one of the tropical plants into the bedroom. She was unsure how Dominik felt about flowers. She still had so much to learn about him.

  What would living together be like?

  By arranging to come to New York, Dominik had confronted her with a brand-new situation altogether. It had been a major decision to live with him, although Summer couldn’t quite remember actually consenting. It had sort of happened, out of sheer inertia, as if her body had made the decision without consulting her brain.

  It had been ages since she had lived with a lover. She had for years shared apartments on her travels: Australia, London, New York . . .

  Would it work?

  Could it work?

  ‘It’ll be nice to have you here,’ she said.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Dominik responded.

  A thought occurred to her. ‘Are you shipping some of your books out, for your research?’ she said. ‘Maybe I should get some shelves, at Ikea or somewhere. I’m happy to look for some.’

  ‘No need,’ Dominik said. ‘There will be everything I need at the Public Library. More than I require.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just a month to go,’ Dominik said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One thing, though . . . You know our understanding. If you feel you have to go with someone during these coming weeks . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ She skipped a heartbeat.

  ‘Go to theirs or elsewhere, not the loft.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She was unsure whether it was an instruction or encouragement.

  The best intentions are often confounded by coincidence. The woman in the window seat on his left on the flight from London to New York was reading The Great Gatsby, which gave Dominik the perfect opening for a conversation. It was a book he could almost recite unaided from memory end to end, having pored over it for so long on many occasions. Her name was Miranda.

  Would the conversation have quickly become so flirtatious had it been another book, or had Summer’s amusing tale about her one-night stand in Manhattan not lingered in his brain, festering quietly for a few weeks now?

  Dominik knew he was not a jealous man. He was a realist.

  This was the reason he had made the terms of their current relationship perfectly clear to Summer and agreed to this form of non-exclusivity, but the heart sometimes denies reason.

  Unlike Summer, it seemed, he did not go out of his way to initiate matters (and the fact that she had, to a large extent, provoked the meeting with – what was his name, Gary or Greg?) and preferred to let the ebb and flow of life and human interaction intervene instead. Many years ago, when he was still in his early twenties and funds were so limited he couldn’t afford the full-price plane fare between London and Paris, he had used a cheap coach service operating between the two cities, from Waterloo Coach Station to the Place de la République, and had found himself sitting next to Danielle, a young French girl with dark hair. Maybe
she had also been reading a book he was familiar with; he couldn’t recall. The conversation had been easy.

  She was returning from London, where she was in the process of conducting a long-distance affair with an Indian medical student that was now seemingly on its last legs. Dominik was between relationships. They had both enjoyed their chat and exchanged phone numbers and addresses before going their own way on arrival. It was obvious she was somewhat promiscuous and carefree. Within a week, he had called her up and they had ended up in bed and became regular lovers over an eighteen-month period. Or, at any rate, Dominik had joined the list of her numerous lovers, as Danielle granted her favours with uncommon generosity and was quick to admit he was not the only man she was bedding on a regular basis. There was even one night when another man came knocking at her door as they lay exhausted in bed, in her small flat near La Santé Prison, and she’d gladly invited him in and they had ended up all three between the covers, both men taking turns to mount her as she moved from one to the other.

  After he’d returned to live in London, he’d lost touch with Danielle until she’d called him in a panic one afternoon while he was still working, having somehow been thrown out on the street by another man she was sleeping with because she’d stolen his wallet. She was now penniless and badly needed Dominik’s help. In dire straits, alone in London and with not even spare clothes, as the man had held on to her suitcase, she’d been desperate and had even attempted to whore herself in Soho backstreets, with no success. He’d found her a small hotel room in Bloomsbury at two in the morning and loaned her the money for the fare back to Paris the following day. It had been too late for him to get home that night, as he no longer had enough cash on him for a taxi, so he’d joined her in the narrow hotel room and they’d fucked until the early hours, Danielle in tears for most of the time. One thing had led to another, as they both knew this would be the last occasion they would see each other, and they had had anal sex. His first time. He’d left early in the morning as he had to be at work, Danielle soundly asleep in the bed, her make-up smudged, the dark areola of a breast peering above the messed-up sheets. She’d always been an intense lover and sometimes her recklessness scared him. He didn’t even say goodbye, a fact he would regret for years.