by Lucy Wadham
Astrid?
Régis’s voice was always too quiet. Astrid turned round. He had his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, his narrow shoulders raised. This posture made it difficult to give him a hug. Astrid gripped his arm, just at the place where she had bandaged Karl, and smiled at him.
Régis.
A transactional smile was quite beyond Régis. His beady eyes flicked in their sockets.
Have you eaten? he asked her.
No.
Shall we go to the cafeteria?
As they left, Astrid gave a sober nod to the receptionist in an attempt to set the tone for their next meeting.
They walked back across the lawn to the main building. The students had deserted the tree. In the lift down to the basement Astrid felt compelled to tell Régis what she was doing there.
I was on my way south and I thought I’d drop in and find out how you were getting on.
Régis shrugged.
Oh you know. It’s pretty slow.
Astrid nodded. Régis, she remembered, had no curiosity about anything relating to human behaviour. The lift doors opened.
We’re seeing some nice occlusive endotheliolitis in the untreated mice, he was saying.
Nice was a strange choice of word for this slow death, Astrid thought. She followed him out of the lift. He kept talking as they walked along the white tiled corridor.
The molecule does its business. There’s no doubt about that. It’s just not clear what else it does, he told her as he pushed through the swing doors into the brightly lit cafeteria. Hot or cold? he asked, half turning as he made his way towards the trays. Do you want the salad bar or the dish of the day? It’s hot.
Salad bar, I think.
They each took a tray and split up. Astrid made her way to the unit in the centre, a kind of mock manger, decorated with sheaves of wheat and filled with different salads. By the time she had paid, Régis was already seated and salting his veal Marengo. She sat down opposite him.
I don’t know what you’re expecting, he said between mouthfuls. The knockout effect works every time, though.
Astrid could tell from his tone that he had not carried out the research according to her recommendations. When she questioned him about the protocol she discovered she had guessed right. She was careful to hide her disappointment.
I was hoping you might take on board the Cambridge research and leave a window after the first rejection crisis, so we can focus on tolerance rather than rejection.
She regretted having used the word ‘we’.
No one takes that very seriously round here. I personally haven’t seen much evidence of what you call operational tolerance.
He was sulking now. Astrid always forgot how susceptible he was. She did not feel like arguing. Her mind wandered to the Arab boy at the truck stop.
So tell me how it works, she said.
And he was off. Astrid knew more or less how the new molecule worked. It had a beautiful simplicity, which she did not want marred with details, so she watched Régis’s pious mouth for a while and began to eat her lentil salad, nodding at appropriate intervals. The canteen was emptying and she glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. It was only two-thirty. She began to experience an uncomfortable dragging sensation in her legs, which she recognised from childhood, a feeling that accompanied the longing to be somewhere else.
*
Kader took off his tracksuit top and tied it around his hips. He was overjoyed at the bandage she had made. He liked its cleanness, its whiteness against his skin and the fact that she had done it. As he walked along the road, he glanced at it from time to time, to make sure that it was not getting dirty. Ahead of him stretched the hot, straight road, sweeping down into a wooded gully and then steeply up again. At the top of that hill was her university. He had taken a risk leaving his things in her car but it was worth it. The only objects of value to him in the Adidas bag were the bag itself and Amadou’s Discman. Kader regretted only one thing, that he had not kissed her. He was sure that if he had kissed her he would have got under her skin, but then an opportunity had not really presented itself: during the bandaging would have been ugly.
Kader looked at the heat waves dancing on the road, at the fields on either side of him brimming with yellow grass, at the cool woods below him, and he decided to sprint. He felt triumphant. It had been so simple to slip the noose from around his neck; so simple just to leave, leave the estate, his weeping mother, his weak and rigid father, his stubborn sister; leave the social workers, the pally karate master, the cops on foot, dragging all their stuff around – their cuffs, their gloves, their guns, their whistles, their batons – all on one belt, and the cops in cars (whom he disliked more than the underlings in blue because they had it easy, playing cowboys and Indians all night and drinking Chivas from plastic cups, but they were always moaning that their cars were too slow and their weapons were too old and they didn’t have enough bulletproof vests). He hated them, with their buffoon moustaches and their leather jackets that went out some time in the last century and those terrible ankle boots they all wore because they all thought they were Alain Delon and their fucking blue lights that they loved slapping on the roof and the chase – you on a scooter and them in a ropy Peugeot, straining the engine (they didn’t care; they might get a decent car if this one died on them) – and the interception as they called it with their stupid copspeak, when they slammed you against the car if they were feeling chipper or face down on the ground if they hadn’t got their leg over that morning, and then insulted you – badly, because they had about as much repartee as a pit bull … And Kader remembered El Niño and slowed his pace. Truly, without his dog he was a poor man. To be honest, he was a nineteen-year-old Arab with no qualifications and a criminal record. But he gave thanks to his dog because he saw that it had been the loss of his dog that had enabled him to leave. It was fate and this surgeon woman was an angel.
Kader walked into the little hut at the entrance to the campus. He held out his bandaged arm to the uniformed guard:
I have an appointment with Dr Arnaga. Molecular biology. She’s expecting me.
The guard looked puzzled. Before he had time to open his mouth Kader had walked out.
He found Astrid’s car parked in a bay with five others next to a big lawn. Kader tried the boot. It was unlocked; anyone could have nicked his stuff. Kader looked about for signs to the Molecular Biology department but there were none. He considered climbing into the boot but decided against it. Instead he set off across the lawn.
*
When Astrid stood up to leave, the cafeteria was empty except for the staff. It was ten past three. Régis had explained the action of the new molecule with the help of a sprawling diagram of the kind that immunologists loved. It was drawn in black ink on a red paper napkin. Politely, Astrid folded the napkin and put it in her bag. In the lift they did not talk. Astrid looked at the ceiling and stifled a yawn and Régis looked at his feet.
As they approached the laboratory building, they heard cries. Astrid recognised the shrill tones of the receptionist. The glass door was flung open and out came Karl between two security guards; one looked like a child and the other like somebody’s grandfather. Behind them came the receptionist who stood on the threshold of her domain, smoothing back her hair and trying to regain composure.
Don’t touch the arm! Karl shouted. Astrid! What is this place? These people are morons. I said don’t touch the arm! The young security guard who was holding him lightly by the elbow let him go. And you, Grandad.
The old man looked at Astrid who nodded and smiled. He too let go. Régis had been staring at Karl; he now stared at her. She did not explain.
Thank you, Régis, she said, holding out her hand. It sounds very exciting. Keep in touch.
Régis gave his hand and let her shake it. She pointed her thumb in the direction of the reception. I’ll just pick up my I.D. See you soon.
As she walked away, he called out,
Oh Astrid
, I’ll look into that window of opportunity thing and let you know.
Jerk, Astrid thought. She did not turn but raised her arm. She passed Karl without a look. The receptionist had resumed her position behind the desk. Astrid handed over her visitor’s pass and took her carte de séjour. She spoke quietly, forcing the woman to lean forward.
A little advice. Don’t judge on appearances. Aubry is a laboratory technician. I am a surgeon and that Arab you treated like a delinquent is a technical optometrist on a research grant from the University of Rabat.
There was a pause, then the woman gave her pleasant smile and answered simply,
I don’t believe you.
When Astrid came out Karl was chatting with the old security guard while the young one hovered, drawing circles in the gravel path with his foot. The old man nodded at Karl and took discreet drags on what remained of the Gauloise he had managed to conceal throughout the whole scene in the cup of his right hand.
I could open the suckers fast, Karl was saying. But never as fast as old Yann.
At the sight of Astrid, Karl slapped the old man on the arm and backed away with a cheery wave.
They walked back across the lawn.
What are you doing here?
I forgot my stuff in your car. Just as well I found you. It’s all my worldly goods.
Astrid walked so quickly he had to jog to keep up.
Slow down. What’s the rush? When she did not answer: Do you work out? I bet you do. I bet you work out in one of those places where they have a fake beach and palm trees and real fruit juices made from real fruit.
They had reached the car. Astrid opened the boot and took out his bag. But he had climbed into the passenger seat. Astrid walked round to his door, dropped his bag at her feet and looked down at him.
Get out please.
Oh man.
Please.
Oh come on Astrid. My arm aches. I’m fucking exhausted from walking all that way in the heat. Just give me a lift some of the way.
A lift where?
Wherever you’re going.
That’s stupid.
Listen. It’s simple. I’d like to go to Spain if that’s where you’re going. If you’re not, I’m not interested in going there. I’d rather go to Marseille. So if you’re going back to Paris that’ll be fine too and I’ll pick up the right motorway from there. He held out his hands. Wherever you’re going is the right direction for me.
Astrid stared at him. Looking up at her made him wrinkle his brow. He reminded her of the young forward from the French football team who wept easily.
You look a bit like David Trézéguet, she told him.
He pointed at her.
It’s true. You’re not the first person’s told me that. Do you watch football?
A little.
Do you support a team?
Reál.
He nodded at her and she saw kindness.
A good team, he said. Figo, Raúl …
And Hierro.
She felt tears well up inside her.
I’m supposed to support Atlético Bilbao. No Basque supports Reál Madrid. Initially I think it was just to irritate my father. But I love Reál She rubbed her forehead and looked away. Especially Hierro.
Are you alright?
She was not. She did not know where to go. She did not want this boy in her car but she did not want him to leave. She knew she could not go south but she did not want to go back to Paris to her lonely flat, to the lab, to Chastel. Her conversation with Régis had brought home to her the fatuousness of her research. No one listened to her and no one cared about what she might have to say.
Lola, she thought. Lola where are you?
Do you want to go for a coffee or something? Kader was saying.
She nodded.
Do you want me to drive?
She must have acquiesced because he climbed out and picked up his bag and leant in front of her to throw it on the back seat. She watched him walk round to the driver’s door and climb in. Lola should have called her by now, should have called her in. Chastel was right; without Lola’s need, she was lost.
She watched a couple of oriental students, a boy and a girl, walking across the car park. The girl wore her hair in a high pony tail that swung as she walked. Astrid felt the tears rise again. She climbed into the passenger seat.
FOURTEEN
He was dressed in a black suit. At first glance Lola mistook him for a priest. When she saw it was Txema she thought someone must have died. But no, he was smiling broadly, hailing the barman, then cutting through the room. Still at fifty he had the poise of a young man who has just come into possession of a grand body. Lola watched him greet the three men at the bar, shaking their hands warmly, turning his probing gaze on each one of them in turn. All the while they watched his every move with a kind of grudging fascination. He ordered a round of red for them all and raised his glass to them. Lola was partially shielded from him by the pinball machine but if he were to turn his head slightly to the left he would catch her in the mirror behind the bar. He downed his wine. There, he had seen her. She could tell from his reaction that he already knew of her presence in the village. He said something to the four men that she did not catch. The barman laughed. Then the other three followed suit.
He was sitting down opposite her, stretching across the table, taking both of her hands in his and squeezing hard. This was, she realised, a much stronger gesture than a kiss. He took her in, as though he was mapping every contour of her face.
You’re still lovely, Lola.
This was not the language she was accustomed to hearing from him.
Txema. How are you?
He nodded slowly.
You look a little tired, he said.
It’s the journey.
He took away his hands and she found to her dismay that she missed his grip. She sat back in her chair as though to protect herself from him.
You came from Paris. How is it there?
It’s, you know. She felt herself blush. She could not find her words. She was seventeen again. She looked down at her lap.
I don’t, he said. I’ve never been there. You know me. I leave this place as little as possible.
She looked up.
I saw your assistant. Lorea Molina.
She’s not my assistant. She deals with cultural affairs. She answers to the government, not me. It’s better that way. You know the extent of my interest in culture.
Lola was baffled. Why was he speaking to her like this? He laid healing hands on the table.
Will you have something to drink?
They were not beautiful hands like Mikel’s, but broad-palmed and short-fingered.
I’ll have a beer, thank you.
He called out the order in a clear, expert voice. Until he moved back to the village and began his life as a public figure, Txema had been a waiter in Donostia.
He turned to Lola and looked at her. The expression in his eyes had always been one of enquiry, born not of self-doubt but of deep mistrust. He was an inquisitor.
I’m looking for Mikel, she said.
Txema looked at her, observing a cruel silence.
He leaned back to let the barman serve their beers. The evening sun shone through the plate glass, catching the golden liquid and making it glow. He took a sip. He was taking pleasure in making her wait for his answer. She saw then that he drank too much. The whites of his eyes were yellow and his cheeks were spattered with broken veins. From the indigo in his hair, she saw he dyed it. The shoulders of his suit were speckled with dandruff.
I remember teaching him to shoot, he went on. I’ve never seen hands so steady, he said, wiping froth from his lip. He put down his beer and looked at her. It made her feel unclean to hear him refer to the steadiness of Mikel’s hands. She prayed that he did not know where Mikel was.
Do you have any idea where he might have gone?
Txema looked at his beer.
He called me this morning, from a phone box.
He wanted a job …
He called you? What did he say?
He sounded tired, Lola. Very tired. You have to understand.
She could feel her face flush again. Her ears were burning.
Understand what?
He believes he has nothing to offer you.
I’m sorry?
He has nothing, Lola. He’s been locked up for twenty years and he feels he has nothing to give anyone. He has to heal.
She could feel tears of rage rising in her.
I can heal him.
No one can heal him but himself, Lola.
Lola felt trapped. She picked up her beer and gulped. When she looked at Txema again, he was blurred by her tears.
You have to be strong for him, Lola. It is a woman’s destiny to wait.
What bullshit you talk, Txema. And then she regretted it. She wanted to take back her words because she could see the inner shuffling, the mechanisms of calculation and revenge working inside him. With her hostility she had lost him for he knew now that she could give him nothing.
She rested her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. She hoped that he would get up and leave but he watched and waited. At last she felt his hand on her head.
Lola. Don’t cry. He’ll come to you.
She looked up.
Please, Txema. Tell me where he is.
He removed his hand.
I don’t know where he is, Lola.
Oh Txema, please. I’m afraid he might kill himself or something.
He won’t kill himself, Lola. Mikel does not have it in him.
How do you know? How could you possibly know?
Mikel is like a brother to me. I know him. We spent six weeks alone on a mountain together. There is nothing in a relationship between a man and a woman that comes close to that kind of intimacy. You don’t know a man’s soul until you have been close to death with him, Lola.
He picked up his beer and took a sip. Such cruelty was a rare thing. In a few minutes he had unravelled all her illusions and spread them out before her like her own guts. There was indeed something fascinating in the precision of such cruelty. Strange, though, how so many people mistook this gift for compassion.
