by Неизвестный
She laughs again. ‘An honest boy.’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Why?’
‘Just that they let you speak on the phone at this time.’
‘My father’s out. And my mother’s asleep.’
‘She doesn’t wake up when you talk?’
‘I’m on the roof.’
You consider this. The image of her alone on a rooftop makes you somewhat breathless. But before you can think of anything appropriate to say, she speaks again.
‘I’ll take another tomorrow. You pick. But a popular one.’
Thus begins a ritual that will last for several months. You meet on the way to work. Without stopping or exchanging a word, you either hand her a DVD or receive one she has just seen. At night you speak. Initially you feel like a professor of a subject in which you are barely literate, but because you give her only movies you have already partly seen, you are at least able to offer opinions of your own. Soon you find that she is helpfully filling in gaps in plot for you, telling you entire storylines, in fact. And your debates grow richer, and sometimes more heated. Your phone charges ought to be considerable, eating up most if not all of your tips, but she insists on being the one to call you, and so you spend nothing. She also insists that the two of you do not discuss yourselves or your families.
The pretty girl’s father is a trained stenographer who has not taken dictation, or held any other kind of employment, for some time. He always had weaknesses for cards and moonshine, but a lack of funds ensured in his case that these remained minor vices. His undoing came when his employer, the owner of a small plastic-bottle-manufacturing business, sold the company and rewarded the workers with bonuses. The pretty girl’s father, having been in close daily contact with his departing boss, was treated with particular generosity, receiving over a year of his modest salary in a single lump sum. He never worked again.
A day in the life of the pretty girl’s father now begins with him going to sleep, which he does at dawn, rising at dusk or even later. He seizes what money he can from his wife and daughter and heads out to the bar, an underground establishment run by illegal African immigrants in a room that moves around the neighbourhood, relocating each time the police, despite the bribes they receive, feel enough pressure from religious activists to make a show of shutting it down. He drinks alone until about midnight, when the game begins. Then he makes his way to the shuttered stall where his friends deal him in. Some of them have beaten him brutally in the past, one of the consequences of this being that he cannot bend three fingers on his left hand. He currently owes a substantial sum to a local gangster, an unsmiling man who is decidedly not his friend, and he plays in the hope of winning back this amount, and in the fear of what will happen if he does not.
His wife, the pretty girl’s mother, suffers from severe and premature arthritis, a condition that makes her work as a sweepress, the only work she could find when circumstance thrust her relatively late in life into the paid labour force, an exercise in unmitigated agony. She no longer speaks to her husband, rarely speaks to the pretty girl except in occasional shrieks that can be heard up and down their street and, at her job, pretends to be mute. She does speak to the divine, requesting to be released from her pain, and since she does so in public, mumbling seemingly to herself as she shuffles along, she is thought to be insane.
The pretty girl, not surprisingly, is planning her escape from her family. Her salary at the beauty salon is far more than what her mother makes, and she surrenders all of it to her parents without resistance. But the salon also caters to the needs of a number of lesser-known fashion photographers, so she has been exposed to their world, and has even been taken along to assist with hair and make-up on a few low-budget shoots. Through this she has become the mistress of a marketing manager responsible for a line of shampoo. He says he recognizes her potential to be a model, promises to make this happen and in the meantime gives her gifts and cash. This cash the pretty girl has been saving, without telling either her parents or the marketing manager, believing that it represents her independence.
In exchange, the marketing manager demands physical favours. Initially these were kisses and permission to fondle her body. Then oral sex was required. This was followed by anal sex, which she believed, much to his surprise and delight, would allow her to preserve her virginity. But as the months passed, she came to doubt this logic, and eventually she permitted vaginal sex as well.
Whatever excitement and warmth the marketing manager once evoked in the pretty girl are now long gone. Her goal is sufficient funds to afford the rent of a place of her own, a goal she is now close to achieving. She also holds out some hope that the marketing manager will come through on his commitments to put her face in an ad and to introduce her to others who could further her career. But she is no fool, and she has been getting to know some of the photographers who use the services of her salon, more than one of whom has told her in no uncertain terms that she has potential.
What is clear to the pretty girl is that she must bridge a significant cultural and class divide to enter even the lower realms of the world of fashion. Hence her initial interest in movies, and in you. But she has discovered, beyond their educational value, that she actually enjoys films, and even more surprisingly that she actually enjoys talking to you. In you she has made a friend, a person who renders her life in the neighbourhood she hates more bearable.
She recognizes your feelings for her, however. She sees the way you look at her as you pass each other in the alley. Her own feelings for you, she tells herself, are rather different. She thinks of you with warmth and fondness, like a little brother, except of course that you are the same age, and not her brother at all. And you do have beautiful eyes.
Yes, she knows there is something. She is happy during her conversations with you, happier than at other times. She appreciates the lines of your body and how you carry yourself. She is amused by your manner. She is touched by your evident commitment. You are a door to an existence she does not desire, but even if the room beyond is repugnant, that door has won a portion of her affection.
So before she leaves the neighbourhood for good, she gives you a call. This is itself not at all unusual. What she says, though, is.
‘Come over.’
‘Where?’
‘Meet me on my roof.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘Where is it?’
‘You know where it is.’
You do not bother denying it. You have walked by her house many, many times. Every boy in your neighbourhood knows where she lives. Though you have an hour left in your shift, you jump on your bicycle and pedal hard.
You climb the outside of her building carefully, moving from wall to windowsill to ledge, trying not to be seen. When you get to the top she does not speak, and you, out of habit from your many unspeaking encounters, remain silent as well. She undresses you and lays you flat on the roof, and then she undresses herself. You see her navel, her ribs, her breasts, her clavicles. You watch her expose her body, taking in the shock of her nudity. A thigh flexes as she kneels. A brush strokes your belly. She mounts you, and you lie still, your arms stiff at your sides. She rides you slowly. Above her you see the lights of circling aircraft, a pair of stars able to burn through the city’s pollution, lines of electrical wires dark against the glow of the night sky. She stares into your face and you look back until the pressure builds so strong that you have to look away. She pulls off before you ejaculate and finishes you with her hand.
After she has dressed, she says with a small smile, ‘I’m leaving.’
She disappears downstairs. You have not kissed her. You have not even spoken.
The next day she is gone. You know it well before you fail to cross her on your way to work, word spreading quickly in your neighbourhood that she has surrendered her honour and run away with her deflowerer. You are distraught. You are the sort of man who discovers love through his penis. You think the first woman you m
ake love to should also be the last. Fortunately for you, for your financial prospects, she thinks of her second man as the one between her first and her third.
There are times when the currents leading to wealth can manage to pull you along regardless of whether you kick and paddle in the opposite direction.
Over dinner one night your mother calls the pretty girl a slut. You are so angry that you leave the room without finishing your egg, not hearing that in your mother’s otherwise excoriating tone is a hint of wistfulness, and perhaps even of admiration.
GRANTA
* * *
ONE MORE
LAST STAND
Callan Wink
* * *
At the last rest stop before Crow Agency, Perry pulled off and donned the uniform in a stall in the men’s restroom. Navy-blue wool pants and high-topped leather riding boots. A navy-blue wool tunic with gaudy chevrons and large gilt buttons. Elbow-length calfskin gloves. A broad-brimmed hat with one side pinned up rakishly. He smoothed his drooping moustache and ran his fingers through his long blonde hair. When he got back into his car he had to take off the hat. He was tall and the crown crushed against his Camry’s low ceiling.
Out over the Bighorn range the sky was going red, a red shot through with soot-black tendrils of cirrus horsetail. He came in fast, pushing the Camry up to ninety just past the last hill into the Little Bighorn valley. It felt like a charge, headlong and headstrong, brash, driving hard into the final waning moments of a Martian sunset. He rolled the windows down to feel the rush of air. Only in this place, Perry thought, could the sky look like an expanse of infected flesh. What was the saying?
Red sky at night – sailors take fright?
Red sky at night – keep your woman in sight?
How about: red sky at night – bad men delight?
He’d reserved his usual room at the War Bonnet Motel and Casino. There was a king-sized bed and an ironing board that folded down from the wall, and an unplugged mini-fridge. The first thing he did was plug in the mini-fridge. The second thing he did was take off and hang up the uniform. Then Perry stretched out on the bed in his boxer shorts and undershirt and fell asleep.
When he woke an hour later it was full dark. He drank a beer and flipped through the channels until he found the weather and was pleased to see the weekend forecast called for high eighties and almost no chance of rain. It was going to be hot and dusty out there but better that than rain. Nothing like rain to ruin a re-enactment.
Perry called home. It was only nine but Andy sounded sleepy when she answered.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘It’s only nine; I didn’t think you’d be asleep.’
‘It’s OK, it’s just I had a feeling like I wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight so I took something and then there was this documentary about meerkats on PBS and I started watching that and fell asleep and was having these absolutely insane rodent dreams. You know, that’s the problem with when you take something, you fall asleep and then you dream so hard it’s like you have a full day or sometimes it seems like a year and then, just as you’re ready to lie down for sleep, you wake up. You know what I mean? You take something and you sleep but you’re not rested. Anyway, how was the drive?’
‘Fine. Long. I got an audiobook at a truck stop in Sioux Falls. It was about this guy in New York who tried for a year to follow the Bible exact. Did you know that the Bible says you shouldn’t wear clothing that is made of fabric that mixes wool and linen?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Seriously. Also you shouldn’t trim your sideburns and the corners of your garments should have tassels.’
‘Tassels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure. But, according to the book, there’s a store in New York City that sells nothing but tassels. Tassels without Hassles.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what it’s called. The store. Tassels without Hassles.’
‘Huh. Why was this guy doing this? Trying to follow the Bible exact, I mean. What was his reason outside of trying to come up with an idea for a book?’
‘To awaken his spiritual side I guess. Connect to his Old Testament ancestors.’
‘Is he Jewish, the author?’
‘Yeah. In the book he went to a Hasidic dance in Crown Heights in New York, which, from what I gather, is like an Indian reservation but for Orthodox Jews. There weren’t any women there – they didn’t allow them to come to the dance. It was a life-changing experience, he said.’
‘Sweet, sounds fun.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think if I were a Hasidic woman I’d have a big problem with not being allowed at the dance. Perry, I think I’m going to go to bed now.’
‘Sounds like it might be a good idea. I’m tired myself from all the driving.’
‘Love . . .’
‘Love.’
Perry drank another beer then put on the uniform and headed down to the War Bonnet Lounge. He was surprised to see a new bartender this year, a young guy with a black goatee and a spiderweb tattooed over his elbow. ‘Well,’ the bartender said when Perry bellied up, ‘looks like the re-enactment is in town. Either that or you’re lost. In the wrong century.’ He laughed.
‘Maybe both,’ said Perry. ‘Where’s Nolan?’
‘He died.’
‘No shit. When?’
‘April.’
‘How?’
‘He was old. And diabetic. And Indian. How do you think he died?’
‘I was accustomed to seeing him here. We were kind of friends. I didn’t know. How old was he anyway?’
‘I have no idea, old enough to die and not have it be much of a surprise to anyone that actually knew him.’
‘OK, fair enough.’
‘Beer?’
‘PBR with a shot of Evan.’
Perry shot the Evan and chased it with a small sip of Pabst. He scanned the slot machines. When the bartender came around Perry asked about Kat.
‘Kat who?’ the bartender said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Kat Realbird?’
‘Yes, Kat Realbird. She been around tonight?’
The bartender leaned his elbows on the bar and spun an empty shot glass around on the bar top.
‘Not tonight. Last night though.’
‘How was she? I mean how did she look? How did she seem?’
‘What do you mean how did she seem? She came in and played nickel slots with her old grandmother. She had two Coronas with lime. She looked fine. She wore pants. And a shirt. And she had black hair. She looked Indian. I mean what the fuck do you want from me here?’
‘Nothing. That’s it. That’s all I wanted. Thank you.’
Perry finished his beer, and when he did, he flagged the bartender down.
‘Another?’
‘No, I’m done. But a quick favour for me if you would. When you see Kat Realbird give her a message for me. Tell her the General is back in town.’
That night Perry fell asleep waiting, nursing a beer, still in full uniform on the king-sized bed. When the knock on the door came he thrashed awake and spilled the beer down the side of his tunic.
She stood in the shadows thrown by the motel vapour lights. She was in full regalia – a turkey-bone breastplate, a fawn leather breechclout – her hair braided and adorned with a single raven’s feather. Her paint was different this year, the left side of her face starting below the eye was chalk white, the right side was unpainted except for a red, quarter-sized circle on her high cheekbone.
She crossed the threshold and was on him hard, her fingers twisting in his tunic, her lips dampening his full moustache. She drove him back onto the bed and her smell – a mixture of leather, bear-grease face paint and knock-off Chanel No. 5 – came over him. He breathed in where her neck met her shoulder and it was like a return home after a long journey fraught with uncertainty and peril.
‘I think about you,’ he said. ‘Back home
at work I sometimes put on my uniform and imagine this. I’ll spend whole days downstairs in my office, in full dress. I do conference calls in my hat and gloves and cavalry pants. It makes me feel closer to you – to this.’
He was still on the bed. She was in the room’s small bathroom washing off the face paint and rinsing the grease from her hair. She came out towelling her hair, her face clean and bare. He could see the faint pockmarks on her cheeks.
‘I have to wash that stuff off, or I break out terribly.’
‘Kat, did you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And? Do you think of me? During the year, in your real life?’
‘I do. But it doesn’t change anything, so I try not to.’
She got in bed and put her body tight next to his, her face on his bare chest. She twisted a lock of his long blonde hair between her fingers and then put the ends in her mouth, wetting it to a tip like a paintbrush. She traced invisible designs on his chest.
‘You painted your face different this year,’ he said. ‘I almost didn’t recognize you.’
‘Oh? You have a lot of half-naked Indian women in traditional dress coming to your hotel rooms these days?’
‘Of course. But I send them all away.’
‘Sha, you know no one but me is crazy enough to do this with you. Just so you know, I wasn’t going to do it this year, the re-enactment. But when I came to the War Bonnet and heard you were back, I just couldn’t not come. I gave John some half-assed excuse and came up to my cousin’s. You realize that I just snuck out and walked a mile across Crow Agency in the dark in a breechclout with no panties or bra?’
‘Thank you. You were beautiful. You are beautiful.’
‘Sha, you say. General?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I’ve had a bad year.’
The first day of the re-enactment went as well as could be expected. They did three shows each day of the weekend and the first was always the roughest. There were always logistics to be straightened out. Horses that acted up. That was Perry’s least favourite part about the whole thing. The horses. Inevitably he got stuck on some spavined nag that wanted to stop in mid-battle to take a mouthful of grass or take a shit right where Perry was supposed to lie after being killed.