by Martin Amis
The telephone rang and Keith did something he hadn't done in a while: he answered it. 'Ashley!' he said. Keith didn't say much after that. He just periodically said 'Yeah' - perhaps half a dozen times. Then he said, 'Right. Right. Yeah cheers, lads.'
Solemnly Keith picked up Darts: Master The Discipline and turned to one of its most stirring passages. He read: Whilst darts is basically a twentieth-century sport, darts go way back into the English folk Heritage. Those famed English archers are said to have played a form of darts prior to defeating the French at the proverbial Battle of Agincourt in 1415.
Keith looked up. 1415! he thought. 'Heritage,' he murmured richly.
How many times, how many, many times had he chalked for his father, at the chalkboards of the dartboards of the pubs of London, where he was raised. Dad would be playing, usually, with Jonathan Friend, or with Mr Purchase: Chick's dad. And if little Keith made a mistake with the sums .. . Standing in the garage, Keith raised a palm to his cheek and felt it burning, still burning, always burning. ..
But we mustn't go too far back, must we, we mustn't go too far back in anybody's life. Particularly when they're poor. Because if we do, if we go too far back — and this would be a journey made in a terrible bus, with terrible smells and terrible noises, with terrible waits and terrible jolts, a journey made in terrible weather for terrible reasons and for terrible purposes, in terrible cold or terrible heat, with terrible stops for terrible snacks, down terrible roads to a terrible room - then nobody is to blame for anything, and nothing matters, and everything is allowed.
Ashley Royle, Lee Crook and Kirk Stockist had told Keith that if he didn't give them all the money they wanted by Friday, then they would, among other things, break the middle finger of his right hand. This, of course, was Keith's courting finger: even more centrally, it was his darting finger. He finished his vodka, straightened his flares, put on his windcheater (even the wind Keith cheated) and went off to try to find Thelonius, to talk to him about semi-violent crime.
Keith has started asking me for money. I knew this would happen.
Late last night we had a stand-up snack at Conchita's. Keith had words with Conchita's daughter. He wanted the chili rilienos. In due course a plate of devilled plutonium was set before him. It bubbled audibly, and gave off thick plumes of ebony and silver. I was reminded of the splattings and belchings of Sulphur Springs, in St Lucia (land of Thelonius's fathers). Keith took a matter-of-fact first mouthful and stood there with smoke coming out of his nose and asked me to give him money.
I want to give him money. I really don't need this Thelonius business. Thelonius is a joke criminal anyway, riding a farcical lucky streak. What if it all goes wrong, which it will? Keith canned: Keith out of the action. I can't bear to see them hunkered down together in the Black Cross, saying things like 'Payday' and 'Bingo'. They've even got a crappy little map. On the other hand I don't want Keith's darting finger broken either, that precious, multi-functioned digit, on which he further depends for his Americanized obscene gestures.
No, I want to give Keith money. (I want to give Thelonius money too.) But the trouble is I don't have any. And Keith needs so much, so soon, and will presently need more. Why no call, no deal, no rapturous jackpot from Missy Harter? Why? Why?
Mindful of Heisenberg's principle that an observed system inevitably interacts with its observer — and aware too that the decent anthropologist never meddles with his tribe - I decided not to tell Nicola about Keith and semi-violent crime. Then I told Nicola about Keith and semi-violent crime. I told her to get moving and give Keith money. It's okay, she says. She just 'knows' that the crime of semi-violence will take place, and it'll be okay. How I wish I could share in her hope - the awakened, lips parted, the new ships . . .
Well, I told Keith no. He stared my way in what I took to be anti-Semitic silence for about fifteen seconds, and then went taciturn on me. At least 1 think he went taciturn on me. I don't know what that chili rilienos was doing to his insides (it even means 'red-ass'), but his tongue looked like a reefer knot. 'That's more like it, Conchita,' he eventually croaked.
I felt bad. I do owe him something. After all, where would I be without Keith?
The snack was cheap and I handled it.
Death seems to have solved my posture problem - and improved my muscle tone. What jogging and swimming and careful eating never quite managed, death is pulling off with no trouble at all. I recline with burger and fries, while death completes its own stay-fit programme. And with none of that sweating and grunting which some of us consider so unattractive.
Yes, for the present I flatter myself that death is having a good effect on my appearance. I definitely look more intelligent. Is this why Lizzy boo digs me? I look almost messianic. The skin is tightening under my jaw and over my temples, and gaining in glow. In death I shine. In death I am — I am beautiful. As cosmeticist and shape-up coach, my condition is doing a fine job. It's a little painful, true - but all good things hurt. Apart from what it does to the eyes (red-tendrilled, and swelling, or growing), the death-effect really isn't too bad. Apart from the eyes and the death.
I accompany Lizzyboo and Hope and Guy and Dink Heckler to the tennis club in Castellain Road. I sit on an umpire's chair and watch. Mixed doubles: Guy paired with Lizzyboo, facing Hope and Dink, the South African number seven ... I don't think Guy sees what's brewing between Dink and Hope. Poor Guy. He's like me, myself. We're here. But we're not here. When we look up our eyes find the same cloud, heavy and queasy and low-flying, the colour of an avocado, yes, and with a query of vinaigrette in its core.
Unsmiling, in supercasual sportswear, and as hairy as a tarantula, Dink is the one they all want to see, here at the club; the pale secretaries and treasurers, the ageing pros, the brilliant black kids come by to admire and envy Dink's power and touch, his rollover backhand, his snorting smashes. Wearing grey socks, grey shoes, khaki shorts and half a kaftan, Guy is easily the most rhythmless of the four, the least determined, and the worst adapted (his generous confirmations and disavowals, his compulsive apologies, almost as regular as the sound of bat on ball) . . . But it was the ladies I had come to see.
Equally tall and brown and resplendent they are also both equipped with bravura backhands and the special looping second serve. Optimum use has been made of the available material, with investment here and outlay there, at the tennis ranch and the tennis clinic. They swoop and swoon in their whites. Of course, Lizzyboo boasts even more sap and down than Hope, her older sister. Yuck, they both say, when the shot goes awry.
Hope plays with severity (she is as firm and strict as the pleats on her skirt), Lizzyboo with laughter and friendly ambition. Hope assumes a vexed expression when she plays her shots (fending off that big fuzzy bug). Get lost! her strokes seem to say. Lizzyboo 'persuades' or 'caresses' the ball. Come here, says her racket. Come back. But if the girls were playing singles, there would be nothing in it — they would be perfectly matched. Their throats shine as they grin and shriek. They must have a hundred teeth between them. When the balance and the skill and the timing were being handed out, the sisters were given the same amount of tennis talent. But Lizzyboo definitely got the tits.
The set went to six-six, to the tie-break. Withdrawn and indolent until now, Dink exploded with a horrible competence, lunging from tramline to tramline to poach his volleys, beetling backwards on tiptoe for the whorfing overheads. He came on all masterful with Hope: hand on shoulder for the jock-intimate huddles between each point, and the approving, the legitimizing pat of his rackethead on her rump. Also, to my fascination, he started thinking it would be good if he gunned for Guy at the net. Lizzyboo's short second serve would kick up in girlish invitation, and there would be Dink, wriggling into his ravenous wind-up, cocking every muscle to drill that yellow bullet into Guy's waiting mouth. And Guy never flinched. He fell over two or three times, and one ball scorched his hairline; but he didn't back off. He just got to his feet and apologized. At six-zero Dink aced Lizzyboo wit
h shameless savagery, and then half-turned, his mouth white and tight and starkly crenellated, as he cuffed the spare ball toward my chair. Nobody takes a set off the South African number seven. Nobody. Unless of course he's the South African number six. That asshole. It didn't occur to him that Lizzyboo and Hope and Guy would be pretty good at tennis too, if they did nothing else the whole time.
Lizzyboo came and stood beside me and laid a hot head on my shoulder. I commiserated. Hope sat with Dink. Guy sat alone. He sat alone staring straight ahead with a towel across his knees ... Of course, Lizzyboo had a thing with Dink, some time ago. And there is this sexual plagiarism which operates between the two sisters. Lizzyboo had a thing with Dink. And it didn't work out.
And it won't work out with me either. Pretty soon she will start wondering what is wrong with her. She will become ashamed. Aren't people amazing? I guess I ought to come clean. But I can't. I don't want it to get around. I'll just have to tell her that I love another.
This feels terrible. She rests her head on my shoulder. I should be taking powerful drags of her toasty sweat, her life vapours. Instead, I avert my jaw. This feels terrible, like a mean parody of love. On the tennis court, I notice, Dink says nothing instead of love. Fifteen-nothing. Nothing-thirty. Even on the tennis court love has gone; even on the tennis court love has been replaced by nothing.
I've started reading books to little Kim. They're about the only books I can manage these days. She's interested, and seems to concentrate, particularly when she's lulled by her bottle.
When she drinks from her bottle she sounds like someone winding a watch. She's winding a watch, against her future time.
'How I wish — how I wish, Nicola, that I could share your confidence, your belief that all will yet be well.' 'Yes, it's nice to have such a rosy view of things.' 'I've got to run. Or go, anyway. Listen. This is somewhat embarrassing.' 'For you or for me?' There are two things I need from you — from the horse's mouth. First off, could you get Keith to unbutton a little. I need his P.O.V.' 'His what?' 'His point of view. I'm not sure he knows what "discretion" really means. He still sings, but it cramps his style. Lift the D-notice a little. Just tell him to shut up around Guy.' 'Okay. Consider it fixed.' 'Great.' 'That's not embarrassing. What's the other thing?'
I dropped my head. Then I raised it and said, 'Your kisses. It would help if I knew how you kissed.'
She laughed recklessly. Then she gathered herself up from the chair and came forward.
I held up a finger. 'This isn't a pitch or anything.'
'No no. My stuff doesn't work on you. Isn't that right?'
That's right. Come on. You kissed Keith.'
'After a fashion.'
'And I figure you'll kiss Guy next time.'
'Absolutely. But wouldn't this be a dangerous precedent? I mean, where's it going to end?'
'So you'll be going further. With both of them. Of course. How far? All the way. Where else. Relax,' I said. 'Sexually I'm dead already. Sexually I'm Postman Pat. I just need a couple of pointers for the next chapter.'
'Can't you make anything up? All this literalism. You know, it's the death of love.'
'You needn't worry. You won't catch my fatal disease.'
'Why would I care?'
We were standing there with our force fields touching. I felt nothing in the heart but my face had begun to tremble. 'Go on,' I said. 'Give me a kiss.'
She placed her wrists on my shoulders. She shrugged and said, 'Which one?'
I get back late and the goddamned pipes are at full throttle. Such moronic bugling — I think of Guy's cock or rooster, Guy's gallo, so far away, so long ago. I walk at speed around the apartment with my hands pressed over my ears. Christ, is the whole house dying?
Oh, the pipes, and their brute pain. I hear you. I hear you, brother. Brother, I hear you.
Chapter 11: The Concordance of Nicola Six's Kisses
i
n the concordance of Nicola Six's kisses there were many subheads and subsections, many genres and phyla - chapter and verse, cross-references, multiple citations. The lips were broad and malleably tremulous, the tongue was long and powerful and as sharp-pronged as a sting. That mouth was a deep source, a deep source of lies and kisses. Some of the kisses the mouth dispensed were evanescent, unrecallable, the waft or echo of a passing butterfly (or its ghost, hovering in the wrong dimension). Others were as searching and detailed as a periodontal review: you came out from under them entirely plaque-free. The Rosebud, the Dry Application, Anybody's, Clash of the Incisors, Repulsion, the Turning Diesel, Mouthwash, the Tonsillectomy, Lady Macbeth, the Readied Pussy, Youth, the Needer, the Gobbler, the Deliquescent Virgin. Named like a new line of cocktails or the transient brands of Keith's perfumes: Scandal, Outrage . . . Named like the dolls and toys - the rumour and voodoo - of an only child.
One kiss was especially tricky (it resisted description - it resisted everything), featuring as it did two apparent opposites: passionate demurral and outright inexorability. You had to fix things so that your partner, or opponent, felt your desperate reluctance even as your lips homed in on his. Halfway between the Needer and the Deliquescent Virgin, it was particularly handy after fights, or when you wanted to turn a man around again within the space of a few seconds (out of decrepit satiation it snatched shocking renewal). This was the kiss she would bestow on Guy Clinch. Looming forward, he would enfold her with his height. She would blink up at him in adorable distress - a distress not altogether feigned, because she did pity him the torments that were destined to come his way. With this kiss, you didn't move your feet but it felt like tiptoe. A straining aspiration in the breast, while the mouth, if it could, seemed to want to turn and hide. But it couldn't. Now overseen by an invisible interaction, their lips would inch closer. The kiss was called the Wounded Bird.
Physically, it was among her mildest. At the other end of the escalation ladder—intense, athletic, hard core—was a kiss she seldom used: unforgivably, it was called the Jewish Princess. Nicola learned it from a pornographic film she had seen long ago in Barcelona, but its associations all lay elsewhere. Rich, vulgar, young, plump, effortlessly multiorgasmic and impossibly avid: a squanderer's kiss, the kiss of an impossible self-squanderer. Whereas, in the Wounded Bird, the tongue was conspicuous only by its shimmering absence (that butterfly again, caught in a screened chamber), the Jewish Princess was all tongue — and not its tip but its trunk, its meat: brute tongue. Here, the tongue did duty for every organ, male and female, the heart included. Such a kiss was more a weapon than a wand; a weapon of the exponential kind (one that called upon the speed of light), because it was almost unusably powerful. The Jewish Princess was inordinate. Applied at the right moment, it made a man kneel on the floor with his chequebook in his hands. Applied at the wrong moment (and Nicola could certainly pick these wrong moments), it could finish a love affair in half a minute: the man would be backing towards the door, and staring, one hand raised, and the sleeve pressed to his lips. 'I'm sorry— don't go,' she once said. 'I didn't mean it: it was an accident.' No use. To achieve the Jewish Princess you brought your tongue out to its full extent and let it rest on the lower lip before the kiss began. Thus the kiss, when it came, was from the second mouth.
The kiss was called the Jewish Princess — unforgivably. But then the kiss itself was unforgivable. The Jewish Princess was unforgivable.
And what about a kiss for Keith ? What about a smacker for the kisser of Keith Talent?
When he came in that time — tabloid wedged under armpit, winded jeans, wall-eyed hangover- Nicola couldn't help it. She made herself huge and bristled above him saying, 'You know the iron and the coffee-grinder and the vacuum-cleaner you had fixed?'
'...Yeah?'
'Well they've all gone wrong again.'
Keith stared back at her, the dry tongue waiting on the lower teeth.
Nicola waited, too, until the itch, the heat-flash, the eczema of detestation had passed through her and moved on somewhere else. Then she cha
nged: she made herself small. She could be big and she could be small but mostly she was big and when things went wrong they went wrong on a big scale. Bath overflows, heavy tumbles, broken beds.
'Yeah well it's the way of the fucking world innit. Jesus. I come up here . . .'
She made herself small. She compressed her body into the gamesome folds of her pinstriped suit. She clasped her hands. She dropped her head - so that she could peer up at him as she gently said,