Success

by Martin Amis

  I had a soul-session between eight-thirty and nine — a fairly grateful one, which left my cheeks with a post-sneeze tingle — and then slipped out (all was quiet up there), to walk, perhaps to eat, perhaps to find someone else to fall in love with for when things went wrong. The sodium-illumined arcades of Queensway buzzed with the random, yapping faces of aliens enjoying their stay or actually living here now in the dirty and fire-prone tenements whose sparsely lit top storeys form a queasy mezzanine above the shop fronts (this was a street once, with houses). A coloured woman in a green-ribbed T-shirt with the biggest breasts I’ve ever seriously seen on anybody walks alongside her waiflike but massively pregnant girlfriend. Across the road a couple dance indolently to the weak strumming of a pavement guitarist. As I go by my nearest pornographer’s — run by a greedy Greek who keeps the shop open practically round the clock — I see a very old woman stand becalmed between the pavement displays: for a moment she is weirdly framed by a montage of whopping breasts and proffered backsides. Busy busy busy. I don’t know why I make all this fuss, I’m sure.

  Deciding, after mature consideration, against the hamburger, ditto the pasty, the pasta, the pizza or the pastry — against any take-home variant of these — I found myself entering The Intrepid Fox, the semi-sinister pub in Moscow Road which sells everyone Particular Brews. Particular Brew, a potent domestic beer much favoured by my ubiquitously near-alcoholic contemporaries, tastes of soap and makes you totally pissed and tonto the instant it touches your lips (I’m sure that when the truth about these Brews breaks, when we all find out what they’ve really been doing to us, such things as the Thalidomide tragedy are going to look pretty trifling in comparison). By ten o’clock, everyone is either fighting or dancing or crying or all three in The Intrepid Fox, such is the pathetic paradigm of drunkenness that this beer sets in train. ‘Never any trouble in my pub,’ I’ve overheard the ketchup-cheeked landlord saying, and then adding, with a smug downward glissade, ‘ — except of course-with-the-Particular-Brews.’

  I thought I’d have one, just to keep the cold out. I did, and most refreshing it was too.

  As the landlord cheerfully poured out my second, I thought: success. It will be a success. My cock may not be in colossal form these days, but — Christ — we like each other, Jan and I. We have feelings to share, thank you. Excuse us, but we don’t happen to be that interested in brisk, press-up, Seventies sex. Not us, my friend, oh no. Even if I goof, even if my cock retracts beyond recall into my loins, the evening will one way or another be a success.

  As the landlord solicitously poured out my third, I thought: … I thought about the extraordinary amounts of tenderness contained within the world, about all the scruffy pockets of everyday goodwill and desire to be nice, about the nobility and pain of growing up and never being young again. I thought of the frightening beauty of clouds, the fluffiness of kittens, little girls with big eyes.

  As the landlord facelessly poured out my fourth (and the first tear of the evening plopped fatly on to the bar beside my drink), I thought: oh God, why is it this hard. Why does it have to be this hard. That poor fucked-up hippie never had a chance to become anything else. It can happen when you’re young, or it can happen now, or it can happen at any point in the future. Who fucks us up? Who is it who makes our bottles crack?

  As the landlord, using his old and violent hands with deliberation, uncapped my fifth, I thought: shiteaters like you, mack, with your horrible unsmiling ways. Look at these cocksuckers, I thought, swinging round from the bar and disgustedly surveying the people grouped about me in circles and rows, drinking, smoking, talking. What have you ever felt, what do you do, what has your life ever been but some sort of appetite. Look at that mindless asshole over there with the two girls — yes, you, you scumbag — what the hell are … who the … what do …

  As the landlord, after an interlude of noisy argument, finally agreed to sell me my sixth, I thought: I’m going to be sick. Very sick, very soon. Slumped over my high-octane washing-up liquid, I became the theme of derogatory remarks from both sides of the bar. Dirty boy. I couldn’t finish my drink. Off with you, said someone, and good riddance, as I stumbled out into the eventful night, Terry the Tramp once more.

  It must have been, oh, 11.30 by the time I came lurching and burping back to the flat. I shut the door brashly and executed a menacing wheel in the direction of the stairs. I’ll go beat him up, I’ll go cry on his shoulder, I’ll go fuck him (the faggot), that’d be good, all that would be good.

  I lurched and burped along the corridor to my room, swigged candidly from the whisky bottle, undressed, and, with a bale of nude-magazines stacked in front of my arched form — the fist of lav-paper beside me, the two pillows in the tell-tale L (one as prop, one as lectern) — had a bitter catfight with my cock, which hadn’t the slightest intention of tumescing in the first place and was very bored and imperturbable about the whole thing. Well fuck you, I thought as the ceiling swung down on me, unwashed, whisky souring my teeth, drunk, battered, unloved, all fucked up.

  Delightful behaviour, I think you’ll agree? Tremendously sexy stuff, and the perfect prelude to the epiphany of the next day.

  So this is what a hangover is, I said out loud when I woke up. All the others — they weren’t hangovers. This is, though.

  I overslept (or, rather, was unable to climb from the cot) until 9.45, and had to run, coffeeless and with someone else’s head, an old monster’s head, on my shoulders, to the dry cleaners’, in whose canned heat I gaggingly queued for fifteen minutes before the information reached me that my suit had been mislaid in the van. Thence to the launderette (I’ve been a joke-figure there ever since I asked them to launder my rubbish — Pakkis look up and smile), thence home and into clean creased shirt, fresh pants and socks, and second-best clothes, thence the streets. Pausing for a spectacular hawk in the gutter (strata of ancient poisons lay in wait in my lungs), I dashed into the fumy hole of the Underground. For twenty surreal, nauseous minutes, no train arrived. When one did, it was naturally very crowded — I had to ooze my way into the wall of limbs and was practically frenching an elderly Chinaman all the way to Chancery Lane (I don’t know how he bore it). Stopping for a panicky coffee-no at Dino’s, I found I had only a £10 note, which, on top of winning me the unanimous venom of staff and clientele alike, delayed me a further eight minutes. It was 11.30 when I crept, more or less on all fours, into the office — undetected, I thought (except by Jan, who seemed to smile my way) — and found a note on my desk from the Controller saying, ‘See me, when you get in.’ Hated that comma.

  ‘God, I’m incredibly sorry,’ I said. ‘It just happened.’

  ‘It could happen to anybody,’ said John Hain. ‘Go and apologize to Wark. He’s been taking your calls. And get on with it.’

  I apologized to Wark, who looked up with abstracted scorn, as if my presence would only multiply his remaining tasks. Then I got on with it. Two sales-sheets lay by my telephone. Wark had self-righteously failed to indicate which calls had already been made. I didn’t dare re-approach him. I started at the top and worked down. Was I buying or selling or neither or both? It seemed I was playing simultaneous chess blindfolded in a space-capsule. I felt like an animal, I felt like a god, I felt like the ghost of summer thunder.

  Not until 12.15 did I make my first serious mistake. I ran out of the office and entered the pub in the side-street beneath my window, where for some reason I demanded a boilermaker (whisky and beer), having been told that this was especially good for hangovers. Fifteen seconds later I was vomiting convulsively in the alley, my forehead pressed on a length of rusted scaffolding. People were peering down the side-street at me, to check on how fucked up I was. Being sick did not have the effect it is often reputed to have: it did not make me feel better. It made me feel worse. I lit a cigarette, whose first inhalation caused me to cough up items so entirely revolting in their own right that I was sick again — independently, disinterestedly, in sober tribute to the goings-on insi
de my body. I bought an apple (noting, after the first bite, a squirt of blood on the pulp, from my lungs perhaps, or from some gum-bogey, for which many thanks), and regained my office, where I found (a) another sales-sheet, (b) a message confirming an order I hadn’t ordered, and (c) a message cancelling a sale I hadn’t sold. I dialled until two. I hiked to Holborn (couldn’t face Dino’s) and bought a takeaway pie and tomato soup, both of which were inedibly tepid by the time I got back to my desk. I dialled until four. I took my empty coffee carton to the nasty lavatories and filled it with warm soapy water; one of the cubicles was free, though sultry and aromatic; next door someone very ill (who no doubt set aside his tea-break for just this dreadful task) was parting company with substances that sounded like a sack of melons being poured down a well; I washed bits of myself as best I could; I looked terrible, and felt it; I cried some and ran back to my desk. I dialled until five. I spoke to Veale, who still wants me to do things for him. I dialled until six. I yelled for Damon (the boys from downstairs have started beating him up: he asks for it) and offered him the three completed sales-sheets. I leaned back, giving gangway to a neurotically smelly blast of vintage, hoofy wind.

  ‘Well hi,’ said Jan, who was standing at the door.

  Ah but from that highpoint, let me tell you, from that proud peak, things definitely took a turn for the worse, things ceased to gel in the way they had been doing, things started to go wrong.

  Not that I was actually jeered away from the Bar Royale’s commissionaired portals (for being fucked up — ‘Sorry, sir, I can’t let you in.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You’re too fucked up’ — an eventuality I had anticipated and, in part, made alternative arrangements against): on the contrary, there was nobody there to stop us. We went to the Maverick Lounge, where we quaffed many Sidecars and Old Fashioneds, supped several Banana Daquiris and Harvey Wallbangers, drank deep of Whiskey Sours, Bullshots and Screwdrivers, of Tequila Sunrises, of Vodka Gibsons and of Mint Juleps. I was totally delirious by this time, naturally, but still talking and so on, still acting in the manner of one who had hopes that he might indeed be going to go to bed with somebody or other that evening. Jan was cheerful and young-seeming, and of course blindingly beautiful. We then had dinner, I appear to recall, in an Italian restaurant in Greek Street (what was that doing there?). I tried hard to eat a lot, to shore up against the mutinous gang-warfare taking place within my body, but could manage only a slice of melon and a couple of burpfuls of risotto. I noticed with climbing awe, however, that Jan was inflexibly present when I paid the bill, obstinately by my side when I hit the street and looked for a cab, still in intransigent attendance when I poked the key into the front door, rode the lift and entered our flat.

  ‘I know,’ I said, leading the way upstairs, ‘let’s have a drink.’

  ‘Up here?’ said Jan. ‘Where’s your gorgeous mate?’

  ‘My foster-brother,’ I said.

  ‘He’s not in, is he?’ said Jan.

  ‘Oh no, he’s out,’ I said.

  ‘Oh no he’s not,’ said Gregory. ‘He’s in.’

  ‘Come on,’ he had said. ‘Please. Stay and chat with me for a while.’

  ‘All right. Yes, let’s all have a drink together,’ I said, with some pride.

  ‘Most frightful day. Had to steal back from the gallery and seek my crib. I tried to ring you, Terry, but you weren’t there. It’s this flu again.’

  ‘What is it with that flu of yours?’

  ‘I know. Well I think it’s bloody unfair.’

  ‘Ezza poor baby,’ said Jan.

  ‘Well I do. Bloody unfair.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t be in your way, don’t worry. You can just leave me up here at death’s door, and go off and play bodies together.’

  Pretty sexy stuff, I thought, coming from his delicately curled lips. If he thinks I can, maybe I can.

  ‘Tell me,’ he then asked us, ‘what devilment have you been up to tonight?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jan, ‘we had some flash drinks. Lots of flash drinks. And then we had a flash dinner. And then we came back here.’

  ‘To do what, pray?’ said the twinkly Gregory as my blood congealed.

  Jan turned to me and said, in a brilliantly hurtful imitation of Gregory’s voice, an imitation that did full justice to how pompous and prissy and coarse and queer he sounded: ‘… To play bodies.’

  I laughed — I laughed hugely, with vicious abandon. I laughed in pure triumph, delivered at last of all envy and fear.

  ‘… Really, Terence,’ said Gregory, ‘isn’t it about time you coped with your teeth? They’ve gone green now, and you can get them done on the National Health. You can get toupées too, you know. In fact, Terry — ’

  Jan frowned. Then the telephone rang.

  I stood outside on the street. It was raining now. I held up an arm. I wondered how much the taxi would cost, realizing I could never ask anyone for the money back. I hated myself for thinking that, of course, but there were so many new things I hated more: the gorgeous Gregory, up there in bed, dry and clean; the beautiful Jan up there with him, drunk and free; the ruined Ursula, abruptly half-alive in an ambulance somewhere, being driven with a swish through the glossy streets, kind uniformed hands trying to make her feel all right, her brother on his way.

  (ii) You know what it’s like, of course, to

  be desired utterly by someone? — GREGORY

  Oh dear.

  It seems that I have misbehaved. It seems that I am in disgrace. I have ‘misbehaved’. I am in disgrace.

  Oh dear.

  I must say, however, that Terence is behaving in the most killingly stuffy way about it all. He’s in a massive sulk. Stupid boy. It’s hardly as if I’ve run off with his wife, and — as I told him quite frankly — it was far more her idea than it was mine. Yet he is livid: I have never seen those gingery features so intense and concerted, so resolute and yoblike … Nasty business.

  In a way, you know, I suppose I could argue that the whole thing was simply a matter of habit. Insomuch as our previous sexual dealings with women ever coincided, there was never the slightest question of Terry having any say in the issue of who got whom, who wanted whom, who preferred whom. In fact his status then — and a status unthinkingly embraced by T. himself — was one of courier, of scampering pander, rather than of an autonomous sexual unit, with its own needs, hurts and dignity. ‘Terence, go and get those two girls over there … There are two girls over there, Terry — go and get them … Go and get them — those two girls over there, Terry …’ That sort ofthing. Naturally enough, he would get the ugly one (if that), or on those rare occasions when the girls were equally desirable — and it is rare: beauties hunt with beasts (why, look at Terence and me then) — he might, he just might set his cap at the moody and disgruntled reject. He accepted this. Now and then, inevitably, I would sense the dull, adenoidal longing usher from him like a great slow pulse — as, say, his grumpy dog looks on in resigned wonder when my bronzed Viking staggers replete from the bedroom — but really his demeanour was on the whole one of extreme diffidence. Sex, anyway, equalled transgression to Terence, and he saw transgression at the heart of all life.

  I even hatched complicated schemes to make Terry feel better about it. For instance: two rich, neglected girls appear in the village one spring. No sooner am I back on holiday from Peerforth than I am established as the elder’s cosset, taking my tea there in the long, parentless afternoons. I bring little Terence along — partly for his own amusement, and partly also to deflect the bothersome younger sister, who has not taken my preference for her rival well (and who has too, I note, dark hairs on her legs crushed flat by her stockings, like a preparation ready for the microscope). Nevertheless she gives Terry no change, until I step in, promising secretly to service the trollop if she will look more kindly on my friend. V exhausting and almost gets me into trouble.

  Or again: under my direction, Terence lures over two rather fine young shopgirls in the Cambridg
e bus-station. Within minutes both are stroking my shiny hair, and Terry is edging down the bench with a vacuous, qualmish smile on his ill-bred face. While he’s off getting us Coca Colas, I playfully promise the tarts that the first one to be nice to my foster-brother shall also be the first to have an hour alone with me. (Promises, promises — besides, I was devoted to a school-friend at the time.)

  That was the way it had always worked, the sort of odd-job arrangement we’d always had. By the same convention that he got my expensive clothes when I soared out of them, so he got the rejects, the table-droppings, the leave-offs, which he guiltily exhumed as if from a forbidden attic drawer.