Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  I clutch a handle as the plane swings round a corner in the sky. I try and remember what I have to ask for, how I want the money. I remember something else instead, some other words I stored up in my brain. “The warmth of each other’s touch, the joy of each other’s smile, the comfort of each other’s nearness …”

  I touch the ring and smile. “St Joseph,” I say softly, hear him whisper “Mary” as he nestles close.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’m a queen. I am. Queen for the day. No, queen for the night. It’s a cold night, steely-blue, with a duvet of grey cloud softening the jagged mountain-tops. Each star has been individually polished and re-hung; the whole sky smells of flowers. My flowers. Lilies, roses, freesias, soft green fern like babies’ hair. The bouquet feels strangely light as if the flowers were only scent and petal – no stalks or leaves, no thorns. Everything is light. The dress looked quite bulky in the shop, with its full flounced skirt, its layers of petticoats. Now I have it on, I seem to float. I feel completely different in it – no longer Carole Joseph, but Mrs Ben Schmuel. I’m taller, more important, even beautiful. You couldn’t not be beautiful in a dress like this. Once I’d zipped it up, all the greedy, grasping, shameful bits of me simply fell away as if the dress had magic powers to transform anyone who wore it.

  I’d actually decided on my honey-coloured dress, neither new nor very special, but the nearest thing to white in my rather scanty wardrobe, and quite pretty in its way. I’d laid it on the bed with lace stockings, a lacy bra and pants, gone to run my bath. It was quarter to eleven, time to change. I’d just stripped off all my clothes when I heard a scuffling outside the door. I stuck my head out. Norah. We stared at one another. She looked absolutely knackered, trailing a grey raincoat I’d never seen before, terror in her eyes, a smudge of dirt across one ashen cheek, and loaded down with an enormous plastic carrier and another bulky bag – Reuben’s shopping, I presumed.

  I snatched off my bath-cap, went to steady her. She looked about to topple, bags and all.

  “I … I couldn’t find you.” Her voice was hoarse and scratchy, as if someone had stripped its gloss off, rubbed it down with sandpaper. “You weren’t at the fireworks. Or the show.”

  I could feel myself blushing, not just my face, the whole of me. The blush clothed me like a body-stocking, head to toe. “No,” I muttered. “I’m sorry, Norah. We meant to come, honestly we did, but …” My voice tailed off in shame. How could I have let her down like that? It just didn’t seem important at the time. Nothing seemed important – neither Norah, nor an eleven-million-dollar Show Spectacular. The only thing which mattered was Reuben’s body joined to mine again. God! Love makes you selfish. Poor Norah, all alone with dancing girls and catherine wheels while I set off sparks in Reuben’s bed. The blush deepened as I recalled the things he said. He taught me a few Hebrew words as well as just the Yiddish. Both languages sounded so exotic – sort of passionate and breathy and very complicated. I suspect he was showing off a bit – but so was I. We both perform for one another, and I don’t mean just the languages.

  Even now, I’m back with him in bed, when I should be on my knees to Norah, begging her forgiveness. It’s not easy when I’ve nothing on. I try to hide my bare boobs with my arms. Norah’s really hung up over nakedness – hers or anyone’s. I think she was probably born with all her clothes on, struggled out of the womb in a Crimplene babygro and Damart thermal nappies. She’s staring at the wall, looking as if she’s holding back the tears. I apologise again, call myself a rat, a louse, a rotten faithless friend. She doesn’t say a word. I coax the raincoat from her, use it as a fig leaf.

  “Shall I phone down for some tea or something? You look all in.”

  She shakes her head, sinks slowly into a chair, one bag across her lap like a monster child. She removes her glasses, shines them up. Her naked eyes look weak and dazed like pale blue shellfish which have lost their homes.

  “Well, did you enjoy the show?” I ask her, trying to sound bright. She must have left it early. It’s still dazzling on downstairs. I could hear hysterical applause booming from the showroom when I passed it on my way up here, just fifteen minutes ago. Even then, I didn’t give a thought to her, just floated down the passage with nothing in my mind but Reuben, Reuben. I really am a swine. She must have felt quite awful sitting there alone, with everybody else romantic couples or happy laughing groups. In fact, it’s quite a tribute to what I feel for Reuben, what he makes me feel and do in bed, that we preferred to stage our own private Show Spectacular, than attend the one the posters call a miracle. There won’t be any shows like that in Israel – with pumas and white tigers, walls of fire on stage, waterfalls, real cannonfire …

  Yet Norah has no words for it. No smile for the princes, no whisper for the elephants, no gasp of admiration for the world’s biggest stage, which had to be totally remodelled to fit its cast of hundreds, its behind-the-scenes menagerie, its forty different set-changes. The miracle has simply left her cold. She looks as if she’s just come back from shock treatment, not from the most lavish extravaganza ever conceived in the whole hype and history of showbiz.

  I try again, crouch down on the floor beside her chair, take her hand. “How about the fireworks? Were they fun? And the balloons? You saw them, did you, Norah, found the square all right?” Norah loves balloons, and these are really something, according to reports. Thousands and thousands of them are released into the sky from the top of the Union Plaza, and float slowly up and up, until the whole night is filled with drifting coloured spheres. Angelique urged me not to miss it, said it’s almost more impressive than the fireworks.

  Norah continues shining up her glasses, seems unaware she’s doing it. Her hands move like automatons, her eyes aren’t focused properly. To tell the truth, I’m losing patience with her. I admit I’m in the wrong, but does she have to rub it in, keep up that stubborn silence? I mean, she could say it’s okay and let me off the hook, instead of piling on the guilt like this. And she’ll make us late if she just sits there looking tragic, staring into space. I’m pretty tense already, with the minutes ticking by and still not dressed or anything. I don’t get married every day, for God’s sake.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Norah, honestly. I’ve said so twenty times. Can’t we leave it now?”

  No, obviously we can’t. I drag myself up from the floor, stand stiffly by the mirror. Weddings are quite stressful without all this extra aggro. Can’t she understand that? I just don’t know what to do. She’s never been like this before, seemed quite so strange and silent. I can see her face, mask-like, in the glass, her shoulders hunched and tense as if she’s expecting to be whipped.

  She clears her throat, swallows once or twice. “Are you and Victor still getting m … married?” she asks.

  “Me and Reuben are, yes.” I’m so miffed that she can’t even remember my fiancé’s name, I fling her coat off, march back to the bathroom. Both taps are thundering still, angry water belching through the overflow. I turn them off, put one toe in. Hot. “Reuben,” I whisper to myself. If the most romantic and exciting name in all the word means nix to Norah, then I’ll lock her out, wallow in my bath, re-run our private magic.

  Tap-tap on the door.

  I pretend I haven’t heard, start humming a rousing Hebrew tune which Reuben had been singing in his bath. Actually, he hasn’t got a bath. We had to go two floors down to the one he shares with fifteen other people. A bath to me has always been a simple (and private) exercise in washing, with perhaps a little reading or choir-practice thrown in. This was something else entirely. I smile as I remember, feel myself relaxing. Stupid to be cross. Why spoil my one Big Day? Norah probably needs her pills. I’ll get them in a minute. Meanwhile, I’m going to have another bath with Reuben.

  I close my eyes. He’s soaping me, all of me, the inside bits as well as just the outside. He turns the shower to “fierce”, aims the jet right between my legs. We’re giggling, both of us, and now he’s sort of thrusting down on top of
me, water splashing everywhere. We both slide forward, so I can feel the taps hot and hard, digging in my back, and …

  Louder tapping. Norah never interrupts me normally. She’s too well-mannered, hates to make a nuisance of herself. I suppose she must be busting for a pee. (Reuben peed in front of me. I wasn’t shocked. I liked it.)

  “Can’t you hold on just a sec? I’m in the bath.”

  “I … I bought the dress.”

  “I won’t be long, I promise. Pee in the flower-vase if you’re desperate. Okay?”

  No answer.

  “Norah?”

  Silence.

  I’m worried suddenly. She’s fainted. Ill. Terribly upset. I yell her name, really loud this time. It echoes round the bathroom, but no answer from outside. Perhaps she’s just walked out, had enough of me. I won’t have any witness then, or bridesmaid; no loving batty friend to take to Israel.

  I leap out of the bath, unlock the door, barge into the bedroom, dripping wet. “Norah, please don’t go. Don’t leave me. I know I’m horrid, but …”

  I stop. I clutch the wardrobe. I’m the one who’s dizzy now. The Dress is laid out on the bed. It looks alive, the silky fabric rustling, the full skirt swelling slightly in the breeze from the air-conditioning fan. A bouquet of hothouse flowers has appeared from nowhere and is blooming on the pillows, supported by a huge great book on weddings and a padded satin photo-album with two white doves cooing on its cover.

  Norah’s sitting crying. Yes, crying. Her handkerchief is twisted through her fingers, a box of confetti in the other hand. I fling my arms around her.

  “Oh, Norah Norah Norah Norah Norah!”

  I’m soaking her. Her tears are soaking me. No, she’s not crying any more. She’s sniffing, blowing, smiling, and I’m hugging her and shouting and asking questions and not waiting for the answers and dancing her round and round the room until we both collapse exhausted on the bed (the other bed). By then, I’m dry enough to dare to touch the dress, hold it up against me. We’re both silent suddenly, because this moment’s somehow sacred, not just the wonder of the dress, but the fact that Norah bought it, did that for me, cared enough.

  I still don’t understand how on earth she found the cash. The story was so garbled and centered around some poor old thing called Mary whom Norah hoped to meet, but her son dashed off so fast, he didn’t even wait to get his coat back. Norah was so concerned about the coat, so frightened that he’d say she’d stolen it, we spent more time on that, than on the amazing feat of her swelling fifty-seven dollars to five hundred (which puts the loaves and fishes in the shade). I kept pumping her and pumping her and she began to look quite wretched and embarrassed, and it crossed my mind that perhaps she’d let this “son” take her to his room and do something quite unspeakable. Surely not? Not Norah. And why should any rich guy proposition a grey-head in scuffed lace-ups, when Vegas is bursting with young talent? In the end, I left it. I was still wild with curiosity, but time was getting really short and I hadn’t tried the dress yet.

  It’s a little long, in fact, but there wasn’t time for shortening hems. In fact, we were almost late by the time we’d finished with the bride and started on the bridesmaid. I glance across at Norah. She looks transformed as well. I somehow managed to wrest off her old cardigan and cover up the bra-hooks with a lacy stole from my case and I also lent her stockings (sheer ones, not thick lisle), and she even dared a dab of lipstick and a hint of eyeshadow. I catch her eye and smile. We both keep smiling like a pair of loons. She’s so thrilled she’s coming with us. I talked Reuben into it, said I couldn’t leave her. Wouldn’t. I’ll really make it up to her in Israel, pay her back, make her someone special. I love her. Now Reuben loves me, it’s easier to love. It’s like money making money. All these hostile feelings I had towards my mother, or the irritation I felt with Dr Bates or Sister Watkins have simply disappeared. I can include them in my love now – them and everyone. I love the Jews, the whole great race of Jews, even the Shylocks and the Fagins. I love the Arabs. Reuben says I have to hate them as the Enemy. I can’t.

  I check my watch again. Ten to twelve. A restless breeze is ruffling up my skirt, the clouds fidgeting above me; everything impatient. The other waiting couples are all inside, in a cramped and stuffy room which smells of cheap cologne and hair-oil. I’d never fit in there – not just my flouncy petticoats, but all my layers and layers of happiness, my flowing train of elation and excitement. Anyway, I want to be outside with the cold and clouds and the huge miraculous night. I’ve hardly seen the Vegas sky before. The man-made lights are so brilliant and obtrusive, they quite eclipse the real stars. Not tonight, though. Tonight they’re like confetti, flung in handfuls.

  I glide towards my bridesmaid. I love the swish my dress makes – swish and rustle. “Norah, you’re not too chilly, are you?”

  “No,” she smiles, smoothing down the gooseflesh on bare arms. Her stole has fallen off. I pick it up, drape it round her shoulders. I long to warm her with my own warmth, shine down on her cold world, thaw it like the sun.

  “Happy?” I whisper.

  She nods, though her smile has slipped a little, like the stole. “He’s late.”

  “Don’t worry. He said he might be – just a fraction. He had such a lot to do and I held him up a bit.” More than just a bit. I smile again, a private smile for Reuben.

  I loop my skirts up, rustle to the corner where I can see the big main street. Hordes of people, streams of cars, their headlamps steady golden eyes against the ever-changing tangle of the rainbow lights. I couldn’t make out anyone, not in all that glare. The place looks like a film set. Crowds of New Year revellers are swarming in the streets, singing and dancing between the hooting scrum of traffic, marching arm in arm along the pavements, smashing magnum bottles against the parking meters, so that champagne foams like Omo in the gutters. I feel they’re all my guests – dressed up in my honour with paste-and-tinsel tiaras, or funny hats and paper flowers; drinking my champagne, tramping out my wedding march. There’s even a full orchestra. They’ve bought these things called noise-makers which I saw this afternoon on all the stalls. It’s such a happy noise. One guy’s got a whistle; another blows a trumpet, shakes his little bells: wedding bells, fanfare for the bride. “I love you all,” I whisper, as I skitter back to Norah. I can’t just walk. My feet are too excited; my body wants to float.

  The chapel doors are opening, the couple booked before us emerging hand in hand. They’re young, both very handsome – Mexican, I think, dark and sultry-looking, with that coarse strong hair which reminds you of a horse’s mane. I smile at them, but their world stops at each other’s eyes. It’s obvious that he’s wonderful in bed, licks her front and back. She’d only look at him like that if they’d gone pretty far together. Love bonds you. People only call it lust or sin when they’ve never done it, or had cold or clumsy lovers.

  Oh, hurry, Reuben, hurry. I want your eyes on me like that; your hands against this silky dress so you’ll know I have nothing on beneath it, only shoes. I take my watch off, hold it in my hand as if that way I can control the time – and Reuben. Two minutes to go. The chapel director has come out of his office and is flapping round us. If a bride or groom is late, he says, then he’s sorry, but the couple lose their slot. He’s booked solid as it is, and if he hangs around for us, he’ll make everybody else late. But not to worry, he’ll fit us in later, between bookings, as soon as my friend shows up.

  Friend. Reuben’s not my friend. He’s my flesh, my cause, my life.

  “We’ve still got fifty seconds,” I say, as coolly as I can. Sweat trickles down my back, contradicts my voice. I can hear the fifty seconds hammering in my head. Ten to go. Seven, six, five, four, three …

  “Happy New Year,” I say to Norah, looking past her as I hug her, so I won’t miss even a second’s-worth of Reuben. The time doesn’t matter, actually. It’s just a fiction. They said “Happy New Year” at the fireworks and that was only nine o’clock. (We heard it on the radio, in
bed.) Nine o’clock in Vegas is midnight in New York, you see, and since they show the Vegas fireworks on eastern-time-zone television, they have to stage them three hours in advance. It’s like they move the New Year forward here, to fit in with New York. Television rules, okay? (As usual.) The whole time thing’s frightfully complicated. There’s a place near here, on the Colorado River, which stands between two time zones, so you can cross back and forward from the old year to the new; cling on to the past for one hour more, or leap into the future at eleven. It makes me feel quite weird; more so when I think of Jan in England. Her New Year started hours and hours ago, whereas people in Tahiti or Hawaii have still two hours to go.

  I’ll decide my own time. My New Year can only start with Reuben. The clock will strike the moment he arrives. This midnight means nothing much at all. It’s merely local custom, a convenience for other, simpler people like the couple after us who’ve just been summoned from the waiting-room to take our place. They both look really scruffy; he couldn’t find his razor, she didn’t iron her shirt. I loathe them. They’re smiling, shaking hands with the minister. He looks wrong as well – no robes, no flowing vestments, just a loud blue suit with two-tone shoes like some vulgar flash tycoon. Has he really taken orders, learnt his Bible, or was he simply borrowed from the nearest business school? And where’s our Rabbi? I suppose he’s late like Reuben, or did his price go up for New Year and we were twenty dollars short?

  The chapel doors close behind the three of them, almost in my face. I’m tempted to wrest them open, yell out “Wait your turn!” How can I, with no Reuben? I stare dully at the wood (fake wood). There’s a notice on the doors: “PLEASE – no food or beverages. No bare feet. No chewing gum.” That’s ridiculous, uncalled-for. Brides are hardly likely to march in barefoot with a double strawberry cornet instead of a bouquet, or bridegrooms smuggle in Kentucky Fried. Why ruin everything, remove all the dignity of marriage? And look at that really hideous drinks machine, stuck right outside the chapel, with dirty paper cups littered on the floor. If they had to have it there, couldn’t they have chosen something tasteful, without that massive-breasted cowgirl holding out her Coke to us and winking one green eye? The place looks like a bar-room, not a church.