Love of Fat Men
Page 3
One of his hands has fallen loose from the quilt, and dangles off the low bed. Its back brushes the floor. There are more soft dark hairs on the hand and the forearm. Somehow the hand is familiar to her in a way the rest of the body is not. She can picture it lifting a glass, taking a cigarette. The hand must have been somewhere off to the side of her field of vision the evening before. It is certainly not the hand of the man she drank with and danced with. She has a face to go with that one. She concentrates, but it’s impossible. She can’t locate a man to go with the dangling hand.
But all the same it is sad to see a hand hanging out of her bed. She kneels down beside it and slides her own hand underneath it, scooping it off the floor. Now the full weight of the hand lies in her own. It’s quite cool. The straw-scented heat she’s smelled around his body hasn’t got down this far.
She bends one of the fingers a little and it stays bent, just as she has arranged it. She straightens it again. Then she leans over and breathes into the palm, in and out, again, again, until the moisture of her breath gathers on his skin. She lifts the hand to her own face and lays it against her cheek. Very lightly she begins to caress it, with her cheek, with her lips, with her tongue. With her teeth she nips off one of the soft black hairs, then she wipes the hand very gently of her breath and her spit, and lays it back on the mattress, along the man’s bare side, with its palm still upturned. She draws the light, dense quilt right over it. Then she crosses to the window and pulls down the string of the Venetian blinds.
In less than three hours’ time it’ll be dark again.
The Bridge Painter
I’m used to the wind. That’s the first question people ask. Don’t you get blown about all the time? Doesn’t your stuff get blown away?
Over the years you learn. I keep my hair short. I wear wool. There’s nothing worse than denim when the wind sets in from the north-east, with grains of ice in it. Some languages, they have a hundred words for snow. Wet snow, snow that’s melted then frozen over, snow that’s soft and new and just clinging together. They have a word for every type. But of course you only get the language you need. That’s why there’s fewer and fewer people I feel like talking to these days. ‘Bit chilly,’ they say, on their five-minute dash down to the paper shop in their slippers. They don’t even look at the sky, not properly. Weather’s nothing to them. They take a fug of indoors with them wherever they go.
And when it comes to waterproofs I don’t skimp. If you spend all the hours of daylight outdoors, winter and summer, then it’s worth any money to be dry and warm. I go for the new, breathable fabrics, the ones that don’t trap your sweat in a cold slick next to you. Ninety-six quid this anorak cost me. No, you’d never believe it.
Ah. You’ve guessed it. Or you’re beginning to. Why’s he paying for his own gear, if he’s a bridge painter? Don’t the contractors supply protective clothing? What’s all this about paying ninety-six quid for an anorak? You’re on the right track. We’ll get there.
I’m on the second Severn crossing now. I’ve done the first, of course. Many, many times. Back when it was just an idea walking on stilts, then time after time with the traffic pouring over it like it was a street in the sky. It is a street in the sky. That’s what I like. The shapes. The rush. The cornflakes lorry bounding over the bridge with the great big shine of the estuary behind it. I can guess how big a pock each lorry would make in the mud, if it fell. But it’s never going to fall. That’s what these bridges are all about.
The second Severn crossing’s coming along nicely. Not long now till there are the two of them stitching up the big gape of water and air, like two smiles. What I need now is an aerial view. A light plane. I’ll do it one day. It’s lucky most people don’t realize that if you really want one thing and dedicate yourself to it, you’re more or less sure to get it.
Like I’ve dedicated myself to bridges. The place where I am now, this particular journey, is all part of it. I’ve come to see the new bridge they’re building between Fyn and Sjaelland. That’s in Denmark. The bridge goes seventeen kilometres between the two islands. It has to put its foot down once, but that’s all it does to span all that space. It’s the biggest this and the longest that. But a bridge is just a noise in my head until I see it. I’ve been everywhere. There’s nowhere I won’t go to paint a bridge. Nothing I won’t do. No, I mean that.
So here I am in Denmark, on the ferry that does the job that the bridge’ll do once it’s built. It’s a nice ferry, top of the range, like a big tea-tray gliding over the sea. It’s got no idea at all that it’s about to become obsolete. Not that it’s going out of service: for political reasons, I suppose, they’ll keep it on. Most of the passengers stay in the train down below. They’re so used to the journey they don’t even bother to register the change from land to water by getting out of their seats. Those that have bothered are glumly shovelling in pastries in the cafeteria. They don’t care what the bridge is doing.
It’s a bright blue day up here. No wonder our tea-tray’s gliding along so smoothly. You could stroke this water. Not a breath of wind. Only the churn of our engines. But I’m on the wrong side of the ferry. I’ll have to make haste, because we only stay on it an hour.
And there she is. Up on her legs but not walking yet. A beautiful baby. What a bridge she’s going to be. Great pillars standing in the middle of bright blue nothing. And on the top of them, cranes that look like flies with one leg hooked up. It brings tears to my eyes. No, it does, truly. I shut my eyes and I can almost see the curve of the earth with pillars marching across it.
And the winds. The crosswinds. The thwack of wind all winter long. That’s what she’s going to take, what she’s been born for. Wind and weight and weather. But she stands there, making herself ready. And then she’ll step away.
The thing about a bridge, it’s never afraid. It’s built to take the stress. Built to give. Not like a human being.
‘It is causing a lot of trouble, that bridge.’
I didn’t see her come up, but here she is at my elbow, crowding out my view. No chance of standing still and staring. They all speak English better than I do.
‘Oh? How’s that then?’ I wait for her to tell me about the inevitable construction problems. Delays, deaths. Don’t they know that’s what has to happen, with a bridge?
‘Many people don’t want it. It will change things. Change our country. Lorries will come up through Germany, over to Copenhagen, on to Sweden. Everything will be different.’
And about bloody time too, I think, but I don’t say it. They should think themselves lucky. They don’t know what bridges cost. Years ago they knew the price and they paid it. ‘London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down …’ Nice little rhyme. What it’s really about, is human sacrifice. ‘Set a watchman to watch all night, watch all night, watch all night …’ They’ve found watchmen, lodged in some of these old bridges. Little curled-up skeletons. Cats, or children. Wall them in and they become watchmen. They keep the bridge safe, keep it standing. For it’s hard to keep a bridge standing above the swirl of water, what with the weight and the wind and weather. So they set a watchman. It’s what they thought a bridge needed, then. Or wanted, perhaps.
I let the Danish woman clatter on about ecological opposition for a bit, while I make my first sketches, sizing up the huge pale tan column riding against an island. It’s the first touch I like. Knowing how well I’m going to come to know her. All I have with me today is my sketchbook and pack of pencils. It’s the first touch, the first line now. All that whiteness of paper takes shape once you make a mark on it. The Danish woman’s watching but that doesn’t stop me. She’ll get fed up soon, wander off. They always do.
A bridge like this, you can’t hurry her. Yes, I’ll give her all the time she wants. That woman’s too close. Pecking her head in at my sketch like a hen. Peck away. You’ll find you’re pecking at stone. There’s nothing for you here. No lovely view, no nice little clouds and waves. Just the bridge.
&
nbsp; The bridge is real. The land is only an idea. Call it England, call it Wales. Whatever you call it you can’t make it any different. It stays where it is, as it is. But a bridge does things. A bridge is alive.
I’m going to tell you something you may not want to know. But I’ll turn the page first. There. All that excitement every time and then the first sketch is never any good. It doesn’t matter. You have to do it, to get on to the next one. I tear off the sheet, crumple it into a ball and toss it into the sea. The Danish woman looks at me. I’ve really shown myself up now. Go on, leave me alone, leave me alone. Get down below to your coffee and cake.
And she does. I make a mark on my second sheet. You monster, you beautiful monster. If you put your foot down on this ferry you’d send us straight to the bottom. All those little lives working on you, serving you. You deserve it. You’re going to be so beautiful. They can’t stop you now, not the environmental campaigners, not the economists, not the local politicians nor the big guns in government. They’ve got more than they bargained for, building you.
‘Set a watchman to watch all night, watch all night, watch all night.’ I’ve done that too. There, that made you jump. I’m not just a bridge painter. What next? What’s he going to tell us next? Are we going to have to do something about him?
Not if you don’t want to. Don’t get worried. Listen. I first got the idea fifteen years ago. It was just a little bridge over the River Rye. There’d always been a bridge there, but none of them lasted that long. Sticks and stones, bricks, rubble, cement: over the centuries they’d tried the lot. But it was a fast, thin, wicked little river just there, and it ate away the piles and shook the arches every time it flooded. They were stripping it down and rebuilding it.
It was evening, about eight o’clock. One of those green dusks you get near rivers, and the midges were biting. I was sitting there, sketching a pile of stones they’d pulled down and set aside for the rebuilding. That was when she came. She had her baby in one of those slings. They weren’t so common then. And he’d fallen asleep.
‘It’s late for him to be out,’ she said, ‘but he’s been driving me mad crying all day. It’s the only way I can get a bit of peace.’ She was about seventeen I should say. No wedding ring. Meagre little face with big startled eyes. Peace, I thought, I’ll give you peace. I kept on sketching. The light was going fast.
It’s very quiet just there. Mostly a bridge brings houses and people, but over the years the flooding had driven the village away, up on to higher ground. The baby’s cheek pressed against the side of the sling. I remember thinking there’d be a mark. Fast asleep, eaten up with sleep. The girl looked up and down the path, then at my sketch. No one but us for half a mile or more. She touched the baby’s cheek with the back of a finger, but he didn’t stir.
That’s when I had my idea. I remembered those little curled skeletons they’d dug out from among the stones. They were never far from my mind. At odd times I’d think of hands reaching into the dark to place the baby inside. Then other hands knocking the stones into place. I could see it all.
‘You drawing that bridge?’ she asked.
‘What does it look like?’ I said. I looked at the heap of stones, and then at the baby. My idea grew strong.
Don’t be frightened. It’s not what you think. About the same time they brought in those slings, they brought in dolls that really looked like babies, dolls you could change and cuddle and stick a bottle into, with the same squashed face as a real baby. A few feet away, you can’t tell them from the real thing.
I can’t tell you how many granddaughters I must have by now. Every time I go into the shop it’s the same. ‘One of those real baby dolls. Yes, the one that cries. For my granddaughter.’
Or these days, with self-service, I don’t even need to ask.
There’s always a time when the men are off-site. I’m a bit of a bricklayer now, as well as a painter. Or sometimes I just dig a hole at the foot of the pile nearest the water. No one’s ever seen me. And I set a watchman to watch all night. Curl it up, with its thumb in its mouth. It’ll last for ever, with these modern materials. As long as the bridge does. The little soft babyface lying in the dark. You can’t ask a bridge what it wants, but if you’ve a feeling for it, you know without words. All over the country I’ve been, and beyond. Painting the bridges, and setting watchmen for them. It’s only what they deserve. When I die I’ll leave a nursery of my babies underground.
So now you know what’s in the parcel I’m putting into the big pocket of my waterproof. It’s soft, squashy, and not very heavy. I’ve finished my sketch. In three minutes, according to my calculations, we’ll be as close to the bridge as this ferry goes. That woman’s gone below and there’s nothing but me and the bright blue sky. And the bridge.
But you can’t dig a hole in the sea. No, I know that. And it’s no good unless you hide away your watchman in the dark with your own hands. My hands are ready. I watch them grip the rail where it’s cold and slippery. I notice, as if they’re someone else’s hands, how rough they are, how chapped from years of working in the open air. Then they tense, taking my weight, ready to climb. I shall set my watchman. The sea’s so smooth, so flat you could almost believe you could walk on it.
Spring Wedding
‘Oh God, I don’t know what’s the matter,’ groans Jorma. His pale fluffy cheek vibrates against hers. He’s crying.
No he’s not. The second she peeks up, timid with concern, he throws himself back on to her and they roll over in his narrow pine bed until Ulli’s head and shoulders are tipping dangerously over the edge and Jorma has to haul her back on to the mattress. The quilt slides off on to the floor. The room’s warm, but even so Ulli feels exposed. If he wants to, Jorma can see all of her. She had kept her baggy T-shirt on as she ducked under the quilt, and then somehow it had got rolled up over her head and now it’s lying in a ball in the corner of the room. Jorma’s bedroom. Jorma’s lucky. His father is an architect and he’s made a huge low room up here for his two sons, with wide, sweet-smelling, pine-planked floor and pine-panelled walls. A blond room, cupping light even when it’s grey outside. A steep window set in the roof, and a long desk underneath it, for Jorma and Jussi to study.
Jorma has the room to himself this weekend. His parents and his brother are away at a family wedding, but Jorma’s got out of it because he has a test coming up on the Monday, an important test in English and Maths for which he’ll be able to revise in the peace and quiet of the empty house. Can his parents really believe one word of it, Ulli asks herself. She doesn’t know what to make of Jorma’s parents. They are effusive on the telephone, ostentatiously welcoming when she comes to their house to listen to music and drink coffee upstairs with Jorma and Jussi. They have managed to let her know that Jorma has lots of little girlfriends who are always ringing up or calling round, and that while of course they’re perfectly happy about that, it’s rather hard for his parents to tell one little girl from the next.
One time they’d had friends round for drinks when she’d been there. Jorma’s mother had insisted on introducing Ulli to everybody, even though Jorma had clearly been trying to edge her past the open sitting-room door and up the stairs without attracting anybody’s attention. Ulli had come on her bike and she was out of breath and conscious of sweaty hands. She had her jeans on, and a sweatshirt which she’d tie-dyed unsuccessfully. Jorma’s parents and their friends were dressed in expensive buff and white and cream playclothes that cuffed the women’s carefully waxed legs. Jorma’s mother had a plain gold chain round her neck. She wore a yellow linen dress and shoes of soft peach-coloured leather, and her pale hair was coiled into a knot at the back of her neck. Not one wisp slipped loose.
‘Did you do this yourself?’ she asked, fingering Ulli’s sweatshirt. ‘That’s marvellous, isn’t it, darling? You young people are so creative.’
Beside Ulli, Jorma scowled and darkened. ‘It’s not a work of art, Mummy. You don’t have to make such a thing about it.’
‘What about that revision, darling? I’m sure Ulli’s got work to do as well. I don’t want to get in your parents’ bad books for letting Jorma distract you from your studies, Ulli.’
‘You don’t need to worry about Ulli, Mummy. She’s about a million times brighter than me, ask anyone. And she’s got two more years ahead of her.’
‘Gracious, Ulli, are you only sixteen? I’d never have thought it. Your face is quite … old … somehow.’
There was a silence, and then, ‘Oh well, off you go. But don’t forget, darling, the Manners will be here at six. And I particularly want you to look after Maija-Liisa. She’s such a lovely girl, but so shy.’
‘I must admit,’ cut in Jorma’s father bluffly, ‘I rather like to see that in a young girl.’
Ulli shuts her mind. It’s all in the past and anyway Jorma’s parents are a hundred kilometres away, drinking champagne or whatever people drink at weddings these days. Triple schnapps, if the colour of Jorma’s father’s face is anything to go by. He doesn’t like Ulli. His dislike makes her skin stiffen and prickle when she has to pass him on the stairs.
Jorma is rubbing his thumb up and down the inside curve of her hip-bone. Her stomach lies slack and shallow. She feels she’s scarcely breathing. Jorma lays his head on her stomach, and shuts his eyes.
‘I can hear your stomach rumbling,’ he says. ‘Just think, I know more about what’s going on inside you than you do.’
His head is very heavy. Now she believes what she has learned at school about the relative weight of the head to the rest of the body. His hair is so soft and fine, and yet it curls. She can unroll one of the curls, and he doesn’t even notice. He’s as good as asleep, and she doesn’t want to disturb him, but she’s starving. She thinks of the big white double-doored fridge in the kitchen/breakfast-room downstairs. There’s always enough juice in Jorma’s house, in glass pitchers without smears or streaks on them. There are fruit yoghurts in packs of a dozen, and iced buttermilk to drink. Jorma’s mother doesn’t go to the market. She buys fruit the expensive way, in the supermarket, and it lies in the fridge solid and clean in its plastic wrappers, unbruised, giving off no scent. Ulli dreams of a cheese sandwich. The lurch of her stomach juices stirs Jorma, and she tips him off her and folds her body away from his. She doesn’t want to walk away with her back to him. She will feel him looking at her. She dives, scoops up the white baggy T-shirt and pulls it over her head. She shakes out her hair over it. Jorma is leaning up on one elbow, resting on his side and looking at her. His face is wiped clean with sleep, its strong irregular bones softened.