Another Country

by Anjali Joseph

  ‘I guess the waiting staff wanted to go home …’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh well. It’s not like we didn’t leave in time.’

  ‘No.’

  They walked on. She made an effort. ‘You were telling me about when you lived in Dublin. What were you doing when you were there?’

  He smiled. ‘Work, for the company before this one. I do some consultancy, you know. It’s business development essentially. Boring, boring –’ He waved it away. Leela was still examining him; it struck her there was something grave, disciplined about him, perhaps also something adamantine. She scolded herself: there was no need to narrate the experience before it happened. Her feet, in sandals, were cold; she stumbled. Simon put out a hand and caught her elbow. The hand rubbed her back between the shoulder blades, rested on one shoulder. He was good at doing this, she noted – touching in an exploratory fashion that managed to seem merely friendly. Perhaps, argued her brain, it is merely friendly. ‘Dublin,’ he said. The hand cupped her scapula and smoothed it out, let it go, rested warm and innocuous on the muscles aside it. ‘It’s a great city, we had some really good times there.’

  ‘Where else have you lived?’

  The hand smoothed the side of her upper arm.

  ‘Lisbon for a bit – a long time ago. South America for a while.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Rio … Here.’ They turned up the rue Vieille du Temple. It was late, a weekday evening, and the bars and cafés whose life bloomed onto the narrow street in the day were shut now, pulled into themselves. The pavements were clear, only lamplight shattering on damp macadam. She followed its Deco starbursts. They passed the café called Les Philosophes, and another place she and Nina had once gone, an odd little bar with sun lamps, where Belgian white beer was served in litre tankards.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Simon said. ‘Here, we should take another right. I’ll show you where I live, then you can drop in if you’re passing.’

  Up a silent street, where old buildings leaned into the darkened road. They passed massive doors. Simon paused outside one. A traffic sign, a white circle ringed in red, said ACCÈS with a red diagonal crossing it.

  Simon wasn’t holding her arm any more. He stood in the street, not far away, his face more than half in shadow, and his voice slightly nervous. ‘Come in for a drink?’ he said. ‘See the flat?’

  She hesitated, but the next day was a respite without classes; she always timed a weekly adventure or crisis for this night, and slept half the free day away, as though from nerves, or loneliness. ‘Sure,’ she said.

  He grinned, she thought, in the dark, and turned to put in the digicode. The lock clicked, and he pushed one of the great doors. Leela stepped over the threshold.

  The stone stairway was cold and damp; the flat was on the second floor, with a burgundy door. Simon used his key, and Leela went in. A dark crowded hallway – a small wooden table, boots near a closet with a half-open door, and, ‘Here,’ said Simon, ‘come into the main room.’

  It was very large, with two big sofas, and a white wall of shelving, in which were neatly arranged paperbacks, and various other objects: cigarettes, a road map of the Île-de-France, a glass ashtray, a box of mints, black and grey plastic film canisters, keys, coins, and a scuffed copy of In Cold Blood, splayed open on its front. The room reminded Leela of a larger, airier version of an Oxbridge fellow’s study, and she felt impersonally indulged, welcomed in the way students always were in those rooms – seated on a sofa and given coffee or a drink to sip.

  ‘Beautiful room,’ she said. She looked up at the high ceiling.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ Simon’s hand rested briefly on her shoulder. He walked past, to the coffee table, and removed a mug, piled up a few large books, flicked at a cushion. ‘This room is really why I took the flat. Well, that and the upstairs. Come with me, I’m going to the kitchen to get us a drink.’

  He walked out, and Leela followed him, into the hallway and then a small, plant-filled kitchen. ‘The lady whose house it is asked if I’d be willing to look after the plants,’ he said, smiling at Leela. She brushed gingerly past a large spider plant, whose leggy babies, each on a long stalk, were reaching for the floor tiles.

  Simon was opening a cupboard. ‘Would you like a drink-drink? A gin and tonic, or a vodka?’

  Leela hesitated. He grinned, his hand on the cupboard door. ‘You can have anything you like. Even if it’s non-alcoholic.’

  ‘Do you – can I have some tea?’

  ‘Tea?’ His grin was wide, but not without warmth. ‘Sure you can. With milk and sugar? Real tea?’

  She nodded. He smiled to himself as he filled up the kettle. ‘A cup of tea.’ While it was boiling, he got out tea bags – Assam, she noted sadly – a jar of sugar, and a tall glass. She watched him move around the kitchen, and, looking at the red melamine counter, scored in places, she felt a fleeting affection for the family life that might have gone on here earlier.

  Simon worked methodically, unhurried: he took tonic out of the fridge, and a lime, sliced it, got the ice cubes and so on as he made his drink. Leela watched. She was aware that he didn’t really care whether or not she had been there, and this made her relax and warm to him in a way she would have found difficult to explain.

  He took out the tea bag, smiled at her, put in milk, and – which also made her warm to him – two and a half spoons of sugar without comment, stirred it, gave her the mug. He picked up his own glass.

  ‘Let’s go through to the other room.’

  Leela followed him, and he put on a floor lamp near the back sofa and sat down. The room was dim, hospitable. The enormous windows gave onto a damp, dark blue night.

  Leela sat on the same sofa, and sipped her tea. It was too hot. She put it down.

  ‘Just a second.’ Simon got up and went towards the kitchen. He was gone for a little while, and she reached for the heavy art book in front of her, a collection of photographs entitled Doorways. She leafed through it randomly: entrances in what looked like Mexico, some that seemed to be here in Paris, London, she thought …

  Simon returned, smoking, carrying another ashtray. He stood looking down at her. ‘Like the book?’

  She smiled at him. ‘It’s interesting. Lots of, well, doorways.’

  He laughed, and ruffled his hair. It made him look older, and slightly wild. ‘Yeah, it’s always good to have an eye at the exit, isn’t it?’ He put the cigarette in the ashtray, put the ashtray down, eyed Leela with a quick calculating glance that the quiet part of her consciousness noted – but wait and see what happens, urged the rest of her mind – sat down, leaned quickly over and kissed her. He took one shoulder to keep her steady, and she cooperatively kissed him back, noticing that his lips were soft, that he pushed his tongue into her mouth too soon but withdrew it as quickly, that he was good at this, that it wasn’t having any effect on her beyond the most automatic physical arousal, and that he tasted of both cigarettes and mint.

  He pulled back, smiled at her, a smile of elation with himself. ‘Stay here tonight?’

  Leela, the eternal wanderer with no destination to aim for, said, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Come and see the bedroom.’ He jumped up, pulled her with him, raised his eyebrows, mocking the moment. She laughed. He came back for his drink. The cigarette had gone out. Leela followed him, turning at the door to look at her abandoned mug of tea.

  The staircase was narrow, the carpet plush and thick; she followed Simon up it, looking at his bum and wondering with the usual self-amusement if she was really about to become better acquainted with it. His trousers looked vaguely dad-like, she worried. Atop the stairs was an opening. She stepped into a large attic, with two skylights and pale blue walls. The bed was a white, messy island.

  ‘It’s a lovely room,’ she said, but Simon was bending to kiss her again, more intent, and his expression – she kept her eyes open, alarmed at herself – was completely serious, admitting of no humour. She felt self-conscious, she wanted to make a joke; s
he put up her arms to hold his upper arms, and he put a hand up her top, moved aside her bra to rub her nipple, a gesture that made her flinch, or shiver, she wasn’t sure.

  When she woke it was early. Cold morning came through the skylights. Simon slept on his back, his breathing audible, like a standing fan. One arm came out of the covers. His hair was rumpled. She felt no desire to touch him, and recollected their long and exhausting feints in bed – the various things he’d done, with which she’d cooperated, increasingly wishing she’d gone home: his putting his fingers roughly into her to feel her wetness, then licking her, something she found intensely embarrassing, and this time, not particularly arousing, and finally sex. She had thought she might come, but hadn’t; had wondered whether to pretend, however that was done, but hadn’t; he had persisted for a long time before finishing. After that he’d tried to touch her, instructing her to move against his hand, but she’d said instead that she was tired, and he had rolled over. How was it possible, when you’d had an apparently urbane, socially competent time earlier, to find yourselves behaving so ineptly when unclothed? She had failed, she supposed; yet, obstinately, she still wanted to be loved.

  Confused, parched, and with an incipient headache, she got up from the edge of the bed where she’d lain all night for fear of being caressed in sleep, or the desire that if this happened it should be done deliberately. There were her clothes, strewn about the floor. She picked them up, looked back at Simon, who snuffled and moved the arm that hung off the bed. There was a book on the floor. She moved it to the armchair, then tiptoed down the stairs with her clothes clutched to her. In the beautiful living room, hunched near the bookshelves where she was least visible from the street, she put on her clothes, first her bra, then her pants, wincing at the slight soreness. She looked round the room when dressed, as though to gauge its expression – would she and this place meet again? In the bleached light, the furniture was impassive.

  Near the hall table, next to Simon’s desert boots, she found her shoes and pulled them on. She managed to slide back the door bolt, and shut the door behind her. The landing and stairwell were now those of many Parisian buildings. As she walked through the cold interior courtyard, the stone was slimy with dew; black plastic bags gave off overripe odours.

  She briefly feared the outer door wouldn’t let her leave, but she found the button to press and slipped into the street. It was raining, and cold. She walked slowly home, reassured by the quotidian misery of the Monoprix, with its fluorescent lights on against the dim day. It was eight o’clock. She bought bread, milk, and coffee. As she crossed the road towards her building, she saw in the alcove of the Crédit Lyonnais the mad old woman, wrapped in her layers of clothing, sitting on the stone ledge. She held a Styrofoam cup of coffee in claw-like fingers. Leela walked towards her, trying not to look, and angry eyes burned into hers. The old woman spat.

  In the studio, Leela took a shower, then made coffee. She turned on the television, the lights, the electric heater, and sat on the floor cushion. Late episodes of The Bold and the Beautiful, dubbed into French, were airing, and she watched one, depressed by the huge jaws of the men, their suits, the women’s heels and tans and bouffant hair. The rain became louder, smashing on the thick pane of the single window. Leela imagined floods, people’s cold, wet stockinged feet on the tarmac outside, bus horns, Paris cursing. She didn’t have to go to work. She thought of Simon, when they’d been chatting in the kitchen, saying he kept his car in a garage nearby, that they should take it out and go for a drive in the country one weekend, and she wondered abstractly and yet inquisitively, as a child to whom something has been promised, whether this would happen. Maybe Simon would be her boyfriend? She imagined them doing the things couples did – being seen here and there – and she pictured Patrick’s face when he saw them. But she could see it as nothing other than pleased, if surprised, and she stopped thinking of it and hunched tighter on the floor cushion.

  When the programme ended, she went to wash the cup and cafetière, and saw the Chinese student in the window opposite. The air outside was dark and stormy; the light in the toilet was on, and while she washed up she glanced across and thought how cold the little cubicle must be. When the man in the facing window made a gesture of privacy – buttoning up his trousers – he lifted his head and turned, as though drawn to the facing light in her window, and she thought their eyes met for a moment before, embarrassed, even slightly sad, both quickly turned away.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Leela froze, her hand still out, and wondered if she’d forgotten herself sufficiently to have replaced ‘hello’ with ‘knock knock’.

  ‘Um, sorry?’ she said.

  He laughed. He was dark-haired, slightly lantern-jawed, handsome in the alienating way of Captain America.

  ‘Just joking. I meant, who’re you? I’m Greg.’ He was definitely not French; she thought she heard the Home Counties in his accent.

  ‘Oh, hi Greg.’ She felt relieved, as well as shifty, clutching her plastic cup of red wine. She’d helped lug the bottles up when classes ended that afternoon. Attendance at the monthly school social – an opportunity for students to practise their English with teachers in an informal setting – was obligatory. ‘I’m Leela.’

  The fluorescent lights were bright, it was seven forty-five, and three of her students were across the room, looking around, diffident but hopeful, avoiding the wine.

  ‘Hi Leela.’ He smiled at her. The corners of his eyes crinkled. Something about him made her feel despair.

  Across the room she saw Guillaume, ratty and smooth in his good coat. He was talking intently to a young woman who seemed to want to get away. When Leela’s eyes met his, he ignored her.

  She wasn’t sure Greg wanted to talk to her, but he had begun the conversation. She ought to be offering herself up to yet another dialogue with a stammering, forceful student. But she’d done that for nearly two hours.

  ‘Do you work here?’ Across the room, she saw with envy that Nina and another teacher, an Irish girl called Tessa, were laughing together, again in contravention of the rules, and pouring each other wine.

  ‘No, I’m living with one of the tutors, I mean I’m sharing his flat.’

  ‘Oh, who’s that?’ Leela was having a hard time focusing on his face. Why? It was a well-appointed face. His dark hair, pushed back, made a curl then flopped like a waterfall over his brow.

  There’s nothing behind his face, she thought, and realised he had been speaking.

  ‘Where do you live?’ He said it patiently, as though speaking through glue, probably for the second time. Must concentrate.

  ‘Oh, on the boulevard Saint-Denis.’

  ‘Ha ha, really?’

  ‘The boulevard Saint-Denis,’ Leela repeated. ‘Not the rue Saint-Denis. It’s perpendicular. At the north end of the rue Saint-Denis.’

  ‘But it’s quite something, isn’t it, that street? God!’

  His face became earnest, his eyebrows wavered; she noticed his black jacket, well cut, and the thin cotton scarf wrapped several times around his throat, mentally clocked the time and energy he must have put into assembling this look. Again she had the strange, unwelcome sense that behind it all, scarf, handsomeness, jacket, there was nothing: shadows in the sunshine day.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, all those ads in phone booths, those little doorways – video parlours.’ His eyes bulged at her, and she suspected him. ‘It’s pretty depressing, isn’t it?’

  Leela thought of Baudelaire’s consumptive girlfriend; she was still there, but today she lived up a narrow staircase, and had to fuck businessmen and be videoed while she did it, a piece of paper with ‘virgin, just arrived’ written on it in the doorway below.

  She had an intense urge to get away from Greg.

  ‘I’ve got to – excuse me.’ She smiled and walked towards Nina and Tessa, who were laughing and drinking across the room in his line of sight.

 
‘Hm, he’s lovely, who’s that?’ Tessa enquired.

  ‘Some guy, he’s living with Jim Davis.’

  ‘He’s cute,’ Nina said. ‘Listen, my brother’s coming here for a visit in a few days. Are you free on Sunday? We were maybe going to go out for lunch.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ Leela said.

  Nina lowered her voice. ‘Hey, what’s happening with that man you met?’

  ‘Simon? I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in a bit.’

  Before the end of the evening, Leela, now much drunker, sought out Greg again. His eyes flashed alarm when she approached, but she talked to him for ten minutes, discovered that they had grown up not far away from each other – though he must have had a genteel, quite English set of parents, and, she thought, a minor public school education – and discussed with him his interest in amateur theatre. Like her, he felt he didn’t see enough plays. There was Shakespeare in the twentieth somewhere that week. She gave him her telephone number.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, his eyes frightened.

  She went home inebriated and truculent, and stayed up too late.

  In the morning, the day was clear and mild, and the flat was filling with water. Her green television bobbed on clean water; sun spilled into the room and refracted from small waves; water rose towards her platform bed. She sat up, slid down the ladder, and dipped in a toe. It was warm. She sighed, slid in, swam to the kitchen, out of the front door, down the corridor, and out of a window. Paris was submerged. The sun shone. She swam towards the top of the Tour Saint Jacques. Prostitutes from the rue Saint-Denis swam past, and a bus driver. She knew she was dreaming, but felt she was about to find out something important; she tried to stay in the dream even as she woke. Rain was beating on the heavy glass window; her fingers were chilled and slow.

  That night, she couldn’t sleep. Disoriented, she walked to the kitchen, got water, turned down the blast of the heater, wondered, and silently enquired of her surroundings, like the white-glaring kitchen tiles, What do you want from me?