If it is your life

A Sour Mystery

The security entrance buzzer sounded. It was somebody who used to be a friend, a firm friend; what they call an ‘intimate’ friend. Obviously I invited her in. Otherwise things would have gone from bad to worse. She was there to give me her troubles. Why else would she come! It was funny, but not amusing; funny peculiar. Her troubles had nothing to do with me. I was no brother-confessor, if that was what she wanted. I was not in that category. The category included ‘objective bystander’. It was annoying she could think such a thing.

If she would only not visit me!

Why did she? I felt like screaming. Maybe she mistook me for a monk. That was her habit, not mine.

I was looking about for money. No damn money. My God. But the kitchen sink. Yes, there by the draining board. Where else. I was going mad. Oh well.

She was smiling. Good. But it was nice to see.

I was not apologizing for a damn thing. That includes the draining board. Why! It was mine. Whose life was it!

Okay one can have less than positive habits. One of mine was emptying my pockets where ere I happened to be. When one empties one’s damn pockets there are sundry other objects, pieces of wool, old tissue with cracked snotters and God knows what else. Dirty greasy coins. Where had that money been! Look at it! Dirty greasy coins! Do not let it near food, oh keep it away from the food. Especially fresh meat. My God the case for vegetarianism was strong.

But that was was not her. She never said that. Who the hell did say that?

My mother!

Interesting to have mixed Jennifer up with my mother, dear old mum.

But anyway, I would keep my money where I wanted. It was my bloody money. As also my apartment. Or studio. Nowadays it was a studio. Oh I am buying a studio, I am renting a studio. Everybody said it. Pretentious crap, as if everybody was an artist. I have a loft studio. A studio up in the loft. I need it for the light. That was these middle-class television programmes shot in New York City and featuring all these beautiful young people. A load of shit. In the old days a loft was the attic. Nowadays it was a penthouse suite. Old Mike Gilroy referred to it as a bedsit. We shared a first name. I was young Mike and he was old Mike. He was from Wales and worked in the storeroom. I worked in the office. He called me snooty but he was only kidding.

A bedsit was a bed-sitting-room. A room with a bed to sit in, a room you sit in that also has a bed. That was the studio, one single room where you had a bed and a sink and a chair, all crammed in together with a single wardrobe, a ward for your robes. If ever we wear robes we store them in this ward.

Ward!

One of these days it was the lock-up wing for me, I knew it, nothing more certain. How else to cope? How else!

The world was going crazy. Did dictionaries even exist any longer? That was old Mike’s position. A typical old-timer. The world has gone to the dogs. Dogs. Was I a dog? I felt like a damn dog, especially with her around. No sex for ten years. What was that about, that was me, slight exaggerations here and there, thank God otherwise I would be out the window, I would have jumped out the window.

She was waiting for me by the outside door. She knew my habits. Mike, she said.

What?

We dont have to go out.

Yes we do, unless you dont want to.

I dont mind, I dont mind if we dont.

I shrugged, not looking at her. Because of course we had to go out. Because I was going mad and could not have coped with her presence, never! Not in isolation. I required the additional anxiety of other people, the life-saving force of other people.

How’s Marianne? I said.

Oh, good, she’s doing good.

School and all that?

Yeh, thanks for asking.

But the idea of not asking after her daughter! What did she think of me? That spoke volumes, it really did. Why had she even come!

Seriously, she might have phoned first. Why not? Did she think I never left the place! Like I had nowhere to go. Work and sleep. That was not the case, not at all. Why would she think it? Was I such a a — what? a wreck? she thought I was a wreck? Probably. Probably she did.

I followed her downstairs. There was a sense of — a definite sense of — of relief, yes sir, a sense of relief coming from her. It was like a draught of air! I felt it!

People take you by surprise. It is intentional. Then that is them, they have the advantage and will retain it until you retrieve it.

Society is a jousting match

But at least she agreed to come to a bar. A coffee house would have been a nightmare. A café or one of these damn what-do-you-call-thems central damn perks. I had forgotten what you even called the bloody places, people sat in them, and there was no beer and no damn spirits. Maybe you got wine. People went to them and were served cheesecake, lattés and liqueurs. You expected it to be full of these white horrors, chins all shaking, the plumply rich and fat wealthy, all eating their Stilton cheese, imported from the French Alps.

Then we were walking, and how we walked! Our elbows, wrists and coats touched, frequently they touched. My coat touched hers on the hem, mine touched hers. Could my coat be described simply as ‘me’? ‘I touched her’ instead of ‘my coat touched her.’

There were a couple of ordinary bars in the vicinity thank God, where your ears could relax and they knew how to deep-fry a sausage. The nearest was an ugly place and I disliked drinking there but no point walking miles when a return journey is all that lies ahead. I used to like walking but that was the problem, one had to come home. Sunday was my favourite day. The one day a body could drop money into a beggar’s cup and remain sane. What could be better than the city on a Sunday? The evil horrors have returned to their country mansions and one can walk around at one’s leisure.

At all other times I barely walked anywhere. How come? It was nothing to do with laziness, I was not a lazy man. Not in my own estimation. But I was honest. She could not have accused me of dishonesty. Never! Never never never!!!

Surely not. If so then things had changed; things had certainly changed. But people do change in this world. If one seeks certainty, if one were to seek one fixed truth, one by which we might construct a universe, then here is that one certainty, that one fixed truth: people change. Ha bloody ha.

I heard her shivering. My God. And the traffic was busy. How come it was so busy at lunchtime? She used to worry about a car losing control and crashing into the passersby. If I was late home from work! Yes! She used to worry about me. Oh hell, hell hell.

Or should one laugh; an hysterical outburst.

In the old days she would have walked closely by me. But would her arm have been in mine? Lovers entwine arms. Had she ever entwined mine? Or what about me? Had I ever done it to her, entwined? Was this a deficiency and if so who was to blame, if anyone, perhaps no one; why do we always have to blame people, especially those closest to us, and she was, had been so, and was looking older. God almighty! She really was. And walking with her shoulders hunched, and head raised. Head raised. This would cause physical problems in later years. For the spine. Women develop spinal problems; bone conditions for heaven sake surely walking properly was a help! Surely to God! Hey Jennifer, I said.

What?

Oh nothing. Only watch the way you walk. You know.

What?

You dont want a weakened spine.

What do you mean?

How you walk. I shrugged. That spondulitis thing or whatever you call it, women get weak spines

Oh thanks, she said, thank you, thank you. She paused in walking and smiled at me, and shook her head, shook her head at me, and traffic passing everywhere, and people, all people, all sorts passing, the whole damn world, all passing, and in front of me, with her there and saying it to me. If I had been in my teens I would have blushed.

She had to move sideways to avoid a boy on a skateboard, I also stepped to the side. If I had been that age I would never have owned a skateboard. But why not? You only have to be careful, I muttered.

She looked at me and we continued on. But it was not a mean look or a chiding look, there was a sympathy there. She thought I had been an overly protected boy, that my mother was a tyrant. My mother was not a tyrant. My plight had nothing to do with maternal so-to-speak mismanagement.

We hardly spoke another word on the walk but she did smile now and then, when she saw me watch her. And I did watch her. Okay. There were these large store-windows. It was quite embarrassing. You were both walking towards one and then looking into the reflection at the same moment. I pretended not to be doing it. I did not even care about my appearance. I had no ego. No ego! What in heaven’s name did that mean? Ego me mihi meum: everybody has an ego. Well not me, not in that sense. I was a damn weed! A nine-stone weakling, thirty-six years of age and I only bloody hell my body, an embarrassment.

Who cares. Bodies are bodies. Then again

No.

But there was a demeaning side to what was happening. I could not take all the blame. Once upon a time ours was a proper relationship.

I have to describe myself in the third person.

At least they slept together, once upon a time. Once upon a time she enjoyed his company. Yes, for its own sake. When males and females sleep together it is a very fine thing indeed when they are also friends. Maybe not with bisexual males who are noted for their one-night stands and general promiscuity. Promiscuity. The word itself, the herald of untold mystery. He knew one fellow who drank in the same local bar as himself and acted in a coy manner. Mike was not unfriendly but distant; typically he was drunk by the end of the evening [a damnable lie!] and joked loudly with the barstaff. Two other fellows drank in this bar and might have been lovers in that non-physical masculine manner, they were forever kissing and canoodling. Bidding one another hail or farewell was an excuse to get physical.

Forget the third person: On one occasion I was in the bar for a quick beer on my way home from the office and I heard one of them saying, Dont give me a kiss.

This was in reference to a drink the one had bought for the other, so I assume the kiss would have been an expression of thanks.

Nobody can be friends with everybody, ‘not even in California’. That was the title of a movie I saw recently. ‘Not even in California’. Characters kept saying it all the time, it was one of these in-joke expressions the beautiful people have. But was it true or simply one more prejudice?

Life is full of prejudice. I didnt have many friends, bisexual or otherwise. Was that the result of prejudice? But you cannot be prejudiced against everybody. Or can you? Perhaps. There was a name for that? And was that name not ‘misanthrope’? Was I a pathetic misanthrope? Well if I was I was. No damn wonder.

I could be honest about myself, to myself. Why conceal matters from one’s inner psyche? That would have been foolish. Those of us lucky enough to have a psyche. Even an outer one. Do people have outer ones?

Jennifer knew I was better than that. If we cannot be honest with our own selves what chance has the world? I am talking survival. Less than none in my estimation. In bygone days she would have assumed that about me. Now I meant so little to her that — well, I was no longer treated as a male human being, a masculine human being, only an ordinary kind of — what? A man? Yes, an ordinary man, and an ordinary man can be anything if we are talking women. Women see a man as a man, and some more than that, as males. I was not too ambitious. This latter would have sufficed for me. But it was not to be. Not only was I an ex-boyfriend, I was an ex-male. Not only was I neutral, I was neutered. A neutered neutral, as far as she was concerned. Not only her, the entire world, or that part of society I was forced to find myself within. Within.

Within is an extraordinary concept. People would never understand how extraordinary a concept it is.

Jees, life was so horrible. It was high time I returned home. I was sick of this city. Even the geography or topography, whatever you call it, the layout. You never knew where you were; your bearings kept disappearing. Where the hell am I?

Seriously, where were the mountains? You never knew where you were because you could not see the mountains. There werent any mountains. No horizon. The horizon did not exist. A man could not be himself in this damn city. I should have gone home years ago. Instead I remained, I remained. And then I met her, the great misfortune. People have misfortunes and maladventures. Malodorous maladventures. Mal is a fine word, if you are Spanish. Even if you are not, even for English-speaking men of colour. Men of colour! A person said this on television recently. I was what they appeared to be calling white so did that make me invisible? I too was a man of colour. Why did people not speak correctly, speak correctly.

Jennifer had stopped talking to me in an honest and true fashion. We had walked five blocks to reach the bar and she had yet to utter one single and solitary true and honest, honestly open word. Perhaps she was thinking of her wee girl. If she had been my daughter I would have worried constantly. Jennifer was a strong parent, stronger than I would have been. She might have been thinking of her daughter but not panicking, not in that anxious way.

She was simply not talking, not talking to me. Perhaps she had made a vow.

Not literally, obviously. Because she had spoken, she had replied to occasional comments. These boring details on the layout of the area we were walking. I am one of those boring bastards who point out local landmarks to people. They were not so boring, not in my estimation. The local politicos had outdone themselves in the past few months. One entire street had been sold to a huge supermarket chain and there were rumours that the sale of an adjoining street was pending. How could the politicians sell off a street? Yet they did. A few locals kicked up a fuss. The cops came in and removed the residents, whether at gunpoint or not, who knows. Hey! How can they do that?

They just did buster.

But that street belongs to the people of this community!

Oh yeh? Up against the wall anarchist mother-fucker!

The banks owned it. The banks owned the street. Oh well, that is capitalism. Now they were selling the adjoining street and no one batted an eyelid. That is the Earth for you. But who gave us the information? The local newspaper, radio and television stations. But who gave them the information?

Dont you want a supermarket?

Sure we do. This was a huge one. The adjoining street was for its satellites, two lesser supermarkets, one a giant liquor store and the other a pharmacy that specialized in hardware — some combination!

Jennifer always walked quickly. I had to touch her elbow to slow her down. We moved out of the way to avoid a schoolbus; wee children of about five years of age disembarked and near to them a troop of guys in hardhats. Look, I said, what a comparison! If I had a camera, that juxtaposition.

She smiled. You still like kids.

Pardon?

Jennifer smiled again, and shook her head.

But what a strange thing to say. I dont feel guilty about liking kids, I said, why should I?

They dont threaten.

No they dont threaten.

She smiled.

Why are you smiling?

Because if you had a kid of your own …

I’m thirty-six years of age Jenny, know what I mean, I should be a father. My sister is two years younger than me and she has four of them; four of them.

Mm.

I miss yours never mind nonexistent ones of my own.

She looked at me but said nothing. She didnt want to talk about this. Neither did I. She knew I was fond of her daughter. And likewise she was fond of my young sister for God sake if mine and Jennifer’s relationship had depended on the existence of other relations we would have been married long since and I would indeed have been a father and not only a step-one and sure I missed all of that, but it was also to miss something I never had and therein lies madness. The child one never had. To hell with that.

And another schoolbus, we continued walking, and along a farther block before we turned off and along, and along again, to the bar, the bar.

We expect things to harmonize, I said, even in super-stores, but how the hell do they fit pharmaceuticals and hardware together? I mean it calls itself a pharmacy but the hardware is the main thing about it: I’ll take a pair of scissors, three wood chisels, a pair of pliers, and a packet of headache powder thank you very much!

Jennifer grinned.

At least you arent patronizing me.

Yes.

Now you are.

You are always so critical.

It has nothing to do with critical. Streets, buildings and supermarkets, you forgot how boring I was.

She chuckled.

You sarcastic woman.

We arrived in the back alley where the bar was located. Oh I remember this one, she said, it hasnt changed much at all.

The outside entrance to the bar had a marble appearance but other than that was completely nondescript. Yet here she was examining it like it was a something or other a painting damn thing, a sculptured object from medieval Spain, which it was not, but then inside, inside the lobby! That was what she remembered. Of course! It was me that forgot. Oh, she cried, look at that, look!

I smiled.

My God!

I knew you would remember, I said although I was lying. She was pointing at the ceiling which had singularly shaped bricks and tiles that reminded strangers of a famous religious painting. Da Vinci’s Last Supper! is what most of them cried. Us locals had to explain that it wasnt Da Vinci’s Last Supper! but that of our Lord! The odd thing is that these strangers used to allow us the benefit of the doubt, as though we were authorities on religious art because we drank in that bar — and one has to choose one’s words carefully; in other circumstances I would have said ‘drank in that damn bar’.

Jennifer stood with her head craned, enjoying it. In fact I had forgotten the name of the painting, had actually forgotten its name, this most famous work of the Christian epoch.

Oh well, it was not my fault, how can we be blamed for our memory. For our lack of a memory. We do not blame a child for being born with one leg shorter than the other. Although this was slightly different; ageing bodily parts. I said, I’m thirty-six; the big three zero is history for me. The four zero next.

I held the door open for her, waiting; when she finished looking up and walked through I whispered to her: Jenny can I ask you something? What am I to you nowadays? What do I mean to you? Am I a sexless object? In all sincerity, is that how you see me?

She didnt reply. Yet I had spoken honestly. My only motivation was to discover the truth. That was it. Truth is what it was about. My only goal. What was its nature! A man might ask these things. It is an aid to self-discovery. Maybe we have been making mistakes. If so and someone informs us — e.g. erstwhile partners — then we can change, we can change and become better people, better citizens, better lovers, better patriots. People want to be better, I said, even me, I want to be better, not only a better patriot but a better human being.

Ssh.

Ssh?

She shook her head and was quiet.

What is it? I said.

Just be careful Mike.

Am I talking out of turn?

Yes.

Was I being sarcastic?

When? she said, and shook her head again; this time she closed her eyes! Dont let us talk about it now, she said but smiled. Get yourself a beer.

Yeh, I shall get myself a beer, and I shall drink myself a beer.

And I ordered an orange juice for her. The bartender was big. He was one of those guys with seventeen chins and seventeen bellies, each of which took it in turn to quiver. He was wary of me and didnt like my accent. So what? He poured the pint and I waited. He ducked below the counter for the orange juice. I wanted to ask if I could choose the oranges but he would have tossed me out the bar for insubordination. Instead I whistled a wee tune to myself.

I had been drinking in this bar for seven years! He made me feel like it was five minutes.

Never mind and relax, relax.

Whh whh whh, whh whh whh

[me whistling under my breath]

Jennifer had gone to a table at the side of the bar where I usually went. She didnt like standing at bars with me. I got the equivalent of road-rage.

At last I received the booze. She had taken off her coat when I arrived with the glasses. I noticed the yellow cardigan she was wearing. It was good quality. I nearly said classy. Or ‘classic’. Jennifer was both classy and classic, a classy lassie. Some dame altogether. At one time she wore only grey and dark colours, navy blues and blacks. I like your cardigan, I said, it is nice.

Cardigan? She shook her head.

Is that not what it is? a cardigan?

She said nothing to that but for some reason appeared suspicious. Of me? How come! Now she looked away.

What the heck was wrong with ‘cardigan’? My mum’s description. And I think my sister used it too. Or was that the same thing!

I lifted my beer but didnt sip it, too predictable. She appeared not to be watching me but everything I did she noticed, I knew she noticed. Life was so damn complicated.

She was away looking at something else. I followed her gaze and who should it be but Mr and Mrs Duponzer, an older couple who lived farther down my street and, like myself, preferred to walk the miles to here rather than find somewhere more local.

Occasionally they trapped me into conversation. I got the feeling they were ‘saving me from myself’. No doubt they mulled over my situation within the safety of their own fireside, whatever that might mean. People had long since stopped having firesides. City ordinances decreed otherwise.

City ordinances decreed. What kind of mumbo jumbo is that? My brains were sozzled. Not as an effect of alcohol but my years. In this culture thirty-six was Methuselah’s nephew.

I could remember when I was nineteen. In those far-off days it was summer fifty-two weeks of the year. People did not speak of boyfriends and girlfriends, not back then, it was fiancés and marriage partners. People spent their life together. It was taken for granted. Working-class people, blue-collar communities. None of these invisible bourgeois bloodsuckers. Real people. That was Mr and Mrs Duponzer. They could not be separated. Even to imagine them separate, I could not do it. This was the kind of couple they were, this was their relationship.

So they still come in? she said.

I beg your pardon?

She smiled and shook her head like this was the real reason I had brought her here: to see an old married couple who still loved one another. My life amused her. I was glad. Yes well there they are, I said, there they are.

Bar meal?

That is correct, I said, what is wrong with a bar meal? I thought you would have approved. They do it a lot, the Duponzers. Other couples do it too. They come out together and do enjoyable togetherly things.

Oh Mike you are so defensive.

Am I?

Really.

Sorry about that.

Jennifer stared at me a moment, then smiled. You are.

Okay.

But you are. She chuckled. So defensive!

I’m not saying a word. I’m only glad I make you smile.

You do make me smile.

Yeh well I am pleased about that. I’m pleased.

I see that.

Look what does it matter whether I’m defensive or not? What does it matter? Mr and Mrs Duponzer enjoy their bar meals together. They do not do it everyday. Not as far as I know. Maybe if they’ve been out shopping together or taking in an early movie.

Do you mean an early morning screening?

Pardon? Do you want me to ask them?

If you like … Jennifer was smiling again. Sarcasm is contagious

They go out together, I said, and they do things together. Then they come in here on their way home. Together. It is a natural thing.

Is it?

Sure. They do it a lot.

Excuse me? Jennifer was looking at me in that curious way, but it was me that was curious, a sort of ‘curiosity’. That was how she saw me: a curiosity.

And where was the dignity in that? But probably I was a curiosity. Curiosity. The word wasnt even in my vocabulary. I would never have described a person as ‘curious’. Especially not an ex-partner with whom one had been intimate. Only strangers are curious. Unless a behaviour had become so.

So that was it. My behaviour had become curious.

The behaviour of long-time intimates might change, might become ‘curious’. I was an eccentric as far as she was concerned. Why not call a spade a spade, you think I’m an eccentric?

She smiled again. Her hand was to her mouth. There was a word for this. What the goddam hell was the word!

She reminded me of a salesman who thinks he has you cornered. What will he have you buy! You will buy something. But what? It is his choice. You have no escape. Not until he has finished enjoying himself at your expense.

This is the mistake salesmen make. They dangle you on their fishing rod and wont reel you in, like a cat with a mouse and to hell with metaphors. Once he toys with you your chance arrives.

They always become arrogant. Salesmen amuse me. They really do. I had been dealing with them for years. Their major psychological error is the search for applause, whether from you as customer-victim or one of their colleague-perpetrators. You see them grinning; cats at the cream jug.

We have all been salesmen at one time but generally we are not, generally we are the fish trapped in the net, preparing to be served on a plate. Now here was Jennifer. My God but it surprised me that she too, she too …

What is it? she said.

I didnt think you would remember the old Duponzers.

Are you serious! I’m not likely to forget them. She shook her head. She blinked at me. Why did she blink at me? Now she frowned. Frowned! They provided half our conversation, she said.

Oh well that’s not fair, I said, that really is not fair.

She shrugged.

It isnt. I stared at her. I found her incredible. Each gesture she made, no matter how minuscule, was a question. Excluding words her language contained the widest vocabulary of anyone I ever met, including my father who was a scholar if not a gentleman. He was too, mean old bastard. But he never tired of learning; even on his deathbed. Bring me my Thesaurus! His favourite book. He had three of them. That was my legacy. Two were different editions of the same thing but the third was a wee old edition of Roget’s Everyman, volume 1, 2 or 3.

Jennifer had a wider vocabulary than my father and it all stemmed from the body. Words had nothing to do with it. Every last move was a comment, each part of her body, everything, from fingers to toes, every indice a sentence, a statement. If she wiggled an ear I was obliged to answer: What am I to do? What do you ask of me? What is it you want!

Which is what I had never discovered.

But what did I want of her? She said I was the most suspicious man she ever had known. She meant ‘slept with’. She always slept with her boyfriends. From girl-hood upwards. She experimented. She told me herself. I hated it. I wish she hadnt but she had. Oral sex too. I hated it, hated it. Not the act but just, my God, why did she tell me? I did not want to hear about it, none of that stuff, I didnt want to know about those guys. I imagined them laughing. Macho shits, drooling over their beer.

Jennifer went her own way. She always did. That was that. That was indeed that. If she had been male she would have been into science; something I was never into myself.

I pointed at the Duponzers and then to the big sign at the corner of the bar. See that, I said, they go shopping together and they eat bar meals together. They do meal-deals if you havent noticed, they give you membership cards, you buy three beers and they give you a bowl of chips and a slice of pizza; another beer and you get these onion things in batter. There is nothing wrong in that. I dont think so anyway. Maybe other people do. If other people think so, well then, they are entitled to their opinion, whatever it is. Even sex, why do we think things about older people?

Ssh.

But it is true.

Yeh but be quieter.

Okay but if they perform sex acts together. Why not? If they are older, so what?

Ssh.

Okay, I whispered, but surely you would not deny it to the elderly?

Dont be ridiculous.

It isnt to do with ridiculous, it is natural, human nature. It is a normal need, an everyday part of our life. Even homely, if we think of it in this sense, sex is homely.

Jennifer grinned.

This caught me off guard. What I said was stupid. At the same time, you find it funny, I said, but it’s true. Sex is an ordinary everyday experience, every bit as natural as eating or drinking so this is why I said what I did because to me it is homely. Sorry but that is what I think and I am not going to retract it. You are two years younger than me, ergo thirty-four.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-three? Yeh …

She smiled.

It’s your birthday next month.

Dont remind me.

Imagine forgetting your birthday!

Oh Mike.

I’m being serious.

Dont be silly. Anyway, you didnt, you just said it.

Right … But I had forgotten. I lifted my beer and sipped at it — for only the second time since our arrival. She put me on guard, praise the Lord.

There was something in her smile that complemented the yellow cardigan. Since the split she had transformed into another being. I thought it unfair. There was a lack of justice in the world that rendered major questions meaningless. ‘Transform’ was not the word, and not ‘transmogrified’ either.

Blossom! She had blossomed! She had blossomed into a sort of

What! A flower? What a total and absolute half-baker of a cliché. I felt like roaring in laughter. A flower! Oh pretty little petal. Imagine I said it to her, pretty little petal! My leetle chickadee! I was a wreck. Maybe I was having a breakdown. Not emotional but mental. Intellectual. I had failed to recognize it. Because it was happening to me and not someone else. She would recognize it. She knew me. She was the very person that could tell if I was really me, rather than a mad variation! Am I a mad variation of myself?

What are you smiling about? she said.

Pardon?

You were smiling.

Was I?

You were.

Only being with you I suppose, it is so damn difficult.

Huh?

It is. You dont think of that.

Yes I do.

You dont.

Oh of course I do.

If you did you would have stopped visiting me. You would have stopped visiting me months ago.

She was smiling. I smiled back at her. I had to. Because what else.

And why was she smiling. Because I was predictable. Because she did not believe me. She did not believe I thought what I thought. Now she shook her head. But at the table; not at me, she did not shake her head at me. That would have been playful and she was not being playful. The playful days had gone. Now she avoided looking at me. I was going mad. I had this sensation I had spoken aloud. Did I speak aloud? I must have spoken aloud. Otherwise

From the moment we sat down at this table. I saw it now. She was avoiding eye-contact.

Because eye-contact was the very breath, the very breath. She took pleasure in such contact, even in exaggerated forms such as staring people down. It was a game she and her daughter played, and mummy always won.

So she would not look at me. After what we had endured. Which was sad, that surely was sad. Oh but I wished, I wished …

She was smiling.

Why are you smiling?

I thought you were going to ask if I wanted a drink.

Pardon?

The way you looked at me, I thought you were about to ask if I wanted a drink.

But I bought you a drink.

Yes I know.

I pointed to her orange juice which was untouched. Would you like a gin or something?

No.

Are you sure? A Cointreau?

It is two o’clock in the afternoon. Anyway, I dont drink much alcohol, only the odd occasion.

Could there be a more odd occasion than this, I wondered, but not aloud.

I was close to abstinent myself nowadays so it was a surprise she should refer to alcohol in that manner, as though I were an habitual drinker. I was never one. I knew habitual drinkers and knew their habits; enough to know about myself. We see ourselves in others and I did not see myself when I looked at them. Maybe she mixed me up with someone else, one of her other menfriends.

‘Menfriends’ was the word, they certainly werent boyfriends. Jennifer had men. So many I confused identities. Like she had confused me. It beat everything. Finally I knew where I came on the scale of things. So then she talked to me like she now was doing, as though I was a brother-confessor or some damn asexual jackass.

She spoke about them to me. She actually did that. I let her do it. I even expected it. I knew why she saw me and here it was again afuckinggain, seeing this married guy who lived apart from his wife and family. This is who she was seeing. God almighty. But it sounded complicated. She denied it was complicated. She attempted an explanation of why it was not complicated, why it was so uncomplicated, all of its uncomplicatedness. She was telling me! Why are you telling me, I said, I dont want to know, I’m not a brother-confessor for God sake a what-do-you-call-it, an objective bystander, some kind of monk.

Ssh. You are talking too loud.

I shook my head.

You always talk too loud. You do. I wish you would be less … If you would speak more quietly. You are too loud. Honestly Mike, you are. Really. I wish you would be more calm.

I looked at her.

Can you be? Please.

Okay, I said, but no wonder, hearing about your life, when you start telling me stuff it is so damn complicated it drives one absolutely bloody bananas. It is a complete hotchpotch.

If you dont speak more quietly I am leaving.

What?

Honestly now dont do it Mike, people can hear.

She was looking across to the bar. But the people there waited to be served. They were not eavesdropping. Only interested in their own order, what they were getting to drink and if somebody was going to be served before them, if they came first into the bar and someone coming behind them was served first before them. That could happen in this bar with mister seventeen bellies, it drove you insane. The bartenders here were not the worst but occasionally they ignored individuals out of spite. Nothing more nothing less. If you were the ignored individual it was tough luck. Except if you were new to the culture and neglected to tip. Oh my God what a criminal way to behave, the asshole dont tip. So people do not serve them! That was the mentality in this bar. I could get nauseated by the place. Why did I continue coming? There are perennial questions; that was one.

Some of the faces were familiar. I noticed them nod to the Duponzers and one of them even gave me a wave. He was in here most days of the week. An unhappily married guy. One time we spoke together and all he did was gossip and bitch, that was all he did. People squabbled. Over the pettiest of matters. If too many strangers were present they pretended things were friendly but they were not. As soon as a stranger became a regular he got drawn in too. Not just hes, they were shes. This was a bar where women could drink alone.

It was all meaningless crap. I hated it. Even when Jennifer and I were together. We treated it as a joke. Mr and Mrs Duponzer. One of those old European names now Anglicized. It sounded French and looked Dutch, maybe Belgian. I once asked them in a fit of boredom. They did not know. Mr Duponzer did not care. He only laughed. His wife did the talking. She thought it was an English name but maybe not, what did it matter.

People here didnt care about such stuff. If there were positive aspects to this bar then that was one. Issues around race and ethnicity were irrelevant. Generational gaps were different. I was one of the youngest regulars and was patronized accordingly. Which was interesting in reference to Jennifer. This married guy she was seeing, he was still married. Him and his wife lived in separate abodes during the week but under the same roof every weekend! For the sake of the kids.

Oh yeah. I cleared my throat when she said that, reached for the beer. Why did she fall for such crap? For the sake of the family, the collective unit. Whatever that was supposed to mean. In my experience families were not collective units, more like disparate noumena. Collective units is a joke.

Only for some, she said. Perhaps for you.

Mm, I said, and nothing further. This asshole went round and stayed with his wife and family every single weekend. He never returned to his own place until Monday evening, after work. Every Sunday morning they went bowling together, on Saturday evenings they had trips to the movies, they went to the park. All of it. They even went swimming to a members-only swimming club.

Her as well, I said, his wife?

His wife what?

She goes on these bowling and swimming trips?

I suppose.

Do you share his weekday home?

No. Although I could: if I wanted.

Has he asked you?

The option is there.

So he has asked you?

The option is there.

Mm. I nodded.

What?

Nothing.

So why are you saying mm and nodding your head in that manner?

What manner?

I said to you that the option is there and it is there.

Fine.

The two of us prefer it that way. It might sound incredible to you, sorry. But it’s common in other social circles.

That people have two homes?

Sometimes.

Jennifer that isnt social circles it’s economic circles. If what you’re saying is true then I wouldnt trust this guy as far as I could throw him.

Nobody is asking you to trust him.

It is garbage.

To you maybe. Other people dont see it that way.

If he is seeing his wife every weekend and then seeing you through the week, at his convenience, because at other times he is completely free, because you have your own place as well, so he can do whatever he likes, so I mean I dont know, he only just I dont know — except

What …?

I dont trust him, and would never trust him, not in a month of Sundays. You know what I’m talking about.

No Mike sorry, I dont.

Come on.

Come on what?

It’s obvious.

What’s obvious?

How do you know he doesnt have another girlfriend? I shrugged. Another two girlfriends? Three. Know what I mean, you’re talking transmitted diseases here.

Dont be revolting.

She gazed around to see if anybody was listening. Mr and Mrs Duponzer were staring into space. She shook her head. I cannot believe you, you are so horrible.

Well I’m not trying to be horrible I mean for God sake, does he wear condoms?

I beg your pardon!

I whispered, You are too trusting. That’s you all over just trusting people all the time, you always trust them.

I’m not discussing this with you.

Yes you are Jenny that’s exactly what you are doing. That’s why you came and dragged me out the house.

She stared at the untouched orange crap.

At least be honest about it. You are too trusting. Apart from where I’m concerned. You trust everybody except me, you believe everybody except me. And I’m the one, I’m the one …

I stopped. Because there was no point. And my head, my head was just — enough. Was there ever such a being as a weak woman? It was a figment of the collective male imagination.

She grinned.

How come? Because I was smiling, because I was remembering something, stupid goddam cat.

What is it? she said.

That old fucking stupid saucer!

The cat’s?

Yeah. I gave you it for an ashtray and the cat licked it poor bastard.

If you prefer me not to smoke then I wont.

I’m not saying that.

Jennifer nodded, she was holding a pack of cigarettes. Do they still have the non-smoking section?

Every bar has a non-smoking section. Outside the door.

Thanks.

Sorry.

Nowadays they dont want you smoking at the door.

I dont want you smoking at all, but so what, it’s personal. If you’ve got to do it you’ve got to do it. I’m not going to make it hard for you. If you want to step outside the door I shall accompany you, be it hailing or raining or whatever the hell.

She had a cigarette halfway out the packet.

You are a member of the public, I said, so you do have certain entitlements, certain prerogatives. It’s obviously a surprise seeing you smoke again because you did so well beating the habit in the first place.

Obviously?

Obviously?

You said obviously.

Because it is a surprise. I admired you so much for stopping. I’m talking in the first place, you showed fine determination

It wasnt in the first place, I smoked in the first place.

Nobody smokes in the first place.

My mother and father both smoked. So it was in me from birth, pre-birth. My mother and father were nicotine addicts. Why are you frowning?

I’m not frowning I just, I dont believe you.

But it is true, whether you believe me or not. They gave my mother an ashtray in the delivery room.

That is nonsense.

Jennifer smiled.

Honestly?

Yeh.

What was it a private hospital?

Of course.

I knew your parents were stinking rich. You only pretended they werent.

She chuckled — a laugh more, a quiet laugh, a beautiful laugh. I was expecting her to say something more but she was not, she was not being trapped into it. Never. Never never never.

How come I ever had her as a girlfriend in the first place! She was way way beyond me! Way way beyond! She was just

something. Something else. She was watching me. Sorry.

What?

I do apologize.

For what?

I looked at her when she asked that. Really, it was some question. For what! For smiling, I said, it is just so goddam fucking ironic.

I know.

You know? Yeh, of course you do. Let me tell you something; I felt good this morning. When I woke up, I felt good. Now a massive great shadow is hovering above me. It is you that’s brought it. You’ve created it. I’m talking about you, your presence.

She held the unlit cigarette between the fore and middle fingers of her right hand. Then she winked.

Yes I tried to smile, I did, I failed. I sniffed slightly and drank a little beer. I realized about the wink, why she had winked at me. She had caught me in the act of staring at her. I was staring at her. That was why she winked.

Lines from old movies. Damn you woman! I should have been wearing a Noël Coward smoking-jacket. Damn you woman! James Mason. Damn you woman! She would be in the long black dress, those black silk gloves that come up to the elbow and all wrinkles but intentional wrinkles: silk. And her elbows, her shoulders, and her neck.

Former intimacies. Her body.

I could have thought more things. These were pressing my mind. Memories so solid they were physical. Yes I had been staring. I carried on staring. Simply the fall of her breasts. Once upon a time I would have blushed, the blood coursing, tugging the bra below, my tongue to the nipple. Had she forgotten!

All of it.

How familiar I was with her body. She must have forgotten. I had no sympathy for her and that is the God’s truth. None at all. I wished it were untrue because I did feel for her, something for her. It was undeniable. If I could have been more sympathetic I would have been, but I could not.

Nothing could be done about that.

How had we ever managed to be intimate! Seriously intimate. Yet we had. Not only sex. Sure we had sex, of course we had. Her beautiful body, and mine — my whatever one calls it, body, mess of a body, my body, the inexpressible. Men’s bodies are not so good.

One of life’s sour mysteries.

Women and bodies. Sometimes I gazed at myself in the mirror when I was naked. A gaze is a vacant look. One sees nothing in particular, general traits and appearances. I was all misshapen. My testicles were the strangest-looking objects. My knees and thighs were so thin. Too thin. No woman could fall for me.

Nor had she fallen for me. It was me, I had fallen for her. I won her. I went after her, I broke her down. Everywhere she looked I was there till finally she caved in. Oh if I say yes maybe he’ll go away! That was what she thought. She said yes to get rid of me.

Then I lost her.

Yet she wouldnt have been here unless she needed me. Surely not? Why else? I have to ask, I have to ask, why you’re here and telling me all this? You knew I wouldnt be sympathetic. How could I be? These married men bastards, they’re out-and-out — well, that is what they are, bastards, not to put too fine a point on it. Cant they just leave people alone?

She smiled.

It is not me that is naive, I said, it is you. That is the trouble. You think you are smart but you arent, not really.

She shook her head.

Face the fact, it wasnt you made the first move with this guy. You might think it but you did not. You are kidding yourself about that. It was him. Guaranteed.

She sighed, glanced towards the door.

I’m telling you how it was Jenny. He put himself in your way. He made sure you were aware of him. You would not have made the move if he hadnt set it up. I’m not saying he forced you against your will; what I’m saying is it would not have happened unless he allowed it, it was him made the running. There is a word for that, and I cant think of it. But it has to do with psychological, it is psychological.

A word for psychological?

Excuse me?

Sorry, she said, but is it a word for psychological you’re looking for?

I’m not looking for anything.

Oh, I thought you were.

Well I’m not.

Sorry.

Was she being sarcastic? How could she have said that? Not to me! Surely not. Now she was smiling. I might have predicted it. Such a strange phenomenon. She had that ability to smile her way out of trouble. Women do. Not only women. Mainly women. And politicians. Smile smile smile. It was a sickening spectacle.

You asked me for another word for psychological, said Jenny.

Oh I did?

Dont be angry with me.

I’m not.

You are.

Never.

She sighed.

But dont act like I havent got an interest, that’s all. You hurt me when you broke it off between us. Because you did not find me sexually attractive dont assume it was mutual.

I did find you sexually attractive. I did. I did find you sexually attractive.

There’s no point saying that.

I did.

Dont say it if it’s not true.

Oh Mike, you have such a low opinion of yourself. You do. Eventually it rubs off on people.

Oh does it?

You dont want me to say it because you dont want to know it. You dont want to believe it. You dont want to hear the truth. Sorry, but you dont. I wish you would stop doing it to yourself; there are too many martyrs in this world.

I smiled. She ignored it, she continued: It’s all right being a martyr if people know. But why do it in secrecy, it’ll only make you bitter; you are bitter anyway, you dont need other factors to help it along.

Mm.

Yes. She nodded.

I finished my beer. Her orange juice lay untouched. I pointed at it. I asked if you wanted a different drink earlier on, I said, I was talking about tea or coffee, not alcohol.

I beg your pardon?

I was not talking about alcohol.

Yes you were.

I wasnt

You said gin.

I didnt at all say gin.

You did.

I didnt.

Sorry but you did.

I didnt.

You did.

Well I dont remember saying it.

Well sorry but you did.

Do you want a cup of tea?

Tea? Will they do that for you?

They’ll do it for anybody.

They’ll do it for you because you’re a good customer. What kind of tea do they have?

Any kind. Ordinary tea. What is it you’re looking for, lemon green tea with a peppermint twist or something, frogs’ legs and mint julep and burdock dandelions or some damn thing, vanilla with fudge flavouring, or one brought from the heights of the Andes mountains! Will I run round to the deli and get you a pack of special-flavoured tea-bags?

She smiled. I also smiled. I saw her hand now on the table and imagined it reaching to mine in that measured way she had.

I thought you might have changed, she said,

Jees, you really know how to hurt people!

That is what I am talking about. You are so sarcastic.

I nodded.

So sarcastic. You are.

What can I say? Do you not think the very act of coming to tell me your troubles is sarcastic? I mean if that is not sarcastic I dont know what is, coming to my place like that, my home, and knowing what I’ll do is anything, anything, I’ll do anything, just whatever. Whatever. God, life is so fucking horrible fucking crap Jenny, so crap.

She could never have believed how much crap, never never, only just the worst, how life takes charge, takes a grip, and Jenny had a napkin in her hand. She was twisting it, looking at me. It was like a wetness about her eyes, dabbing the napkin there. Did I make her feel that way? No, it was mister married bastard.

Is that guy really hurting you? I said. Eh? Jees oh Jenny dont let him get you like that, a guy like him, it’s not like you to let that happen. It really is not like you, know what I mean, a fucking shit like that, goddam rat.

She shook her head. I reached to touch her on the shoulder. She moved her shoulder slightly. He isnt a rat, she said.

Of course he is. Otherwise you wouldnt be here at all, never mind

Are you crying? You’re not crying are you? Are you crying?

She shook her head. She didnt knock my hand from her shoulder. I left it there. Then she got up to go for a smoke. I went to the bar. Thirty-eight bellies waited. I saw your empty glass, he said, I wondered how long!

I smiled. He also smiled. I asked for two teas.

Teas?

Okay?

Sure.

One with milk and sugar and the other without, un solo.

I got some cookies, you want some cookies? English digestives.

Great, that’s exactly it. Could I have a brandy as well please, and a glass of water on the side.

With ice?

I shrugged. Brandy was a good afternoon drink in my opinion. Neither one thing nor the other. It would go down well today. When I got the brandy I returned to the table. He would bring across the teas. Mr and Mrs Duponzer were looking across. I exchanged waves with them. They were a good old couple. So what if they were nosy? People were entitled to be nosy.

Anyway, they werent all that nosy. I have known nosier.

And what else is life? Life is nosy, nosiness. Everybody is nosy. I sat down. I felt very relaxed although she could have gone for good. If she had, okay, if not, still okay. Life was like that, okay, an okay life. Soon enough the big guy brought us the teas and the English digestives. It was a time for English digestives. They lay on a small plate next to the jug of milk and bowl of sugar. Better than okay. Thanks man, I said, that is it.

Later Jenny returned. I could smell the smoke. When she was seated she smiled at the tea and so forth. I proffered the small plate: Have an English digestive.

She grinned.

Go ahead, I said and could not stop smiling. That was big fucking thirty-nine bellies. What a wonderful goddam bartender!

Jenny lifted one and bit into it, nudged a crumb from the corner of her mouth. She saw me watching. Tasty, she said and chuckled.

English digestives are no laughing matter. And tell me this, I said, while we’re on the subject, how come you are now the sort of woman who dons a yellow cardigan to visit her ex-lover, sharer of your bed and all the passions, and so on and so forth?

Jenny smiled.

Do you realize I get erections just taking part in this sort of what-do-you-call-it, conversation?

Ssh.

I do.

Dont say that.

But I do. Jenny …

Dont say it.

I stopped, I had been smiling but no longer. I saw the wetness round her eyes again and wanted to kiss them, only on her eyelids, where the fragility

Oh no, I said, you’re going to make me cry.

Her head was bowed.

You are. Because here am I but it is him your tears are for. You’re crying over him and here you are with me.

When I said this last she was blowing her nose into the napkin. I dreaded looking at her.

No I didnt.