Rainbow Milk

by Paul Mendez

  “Yes please.”

  “Fiction or non-fiction?” asks Conroy.

  “Non-fiction, at the moment. Life writing.”

  “And what’s your surname?” Conroy asks, curiously.

  “McCarthy.”

  He nods his head. Jesse thinks, why is he looking at me like that?

  “Interesting. When do we get to read some?”

  “When I get time to finish it. I’m working a lot at the moment.”

  “You’re gonna have to stop using that as an excuse soon,” says Gini. “This is supposed to be the quiet time of year yet you’re doing more shifts than ever.”

  “They’re really short-staffed at the moment.”

  She and Melania don’t really know each other, and he doesn’t want to tell Gini, in her present state, about the miscarriage.

  “Why’s that your problem? Tell them to hire more waiters,” says Surenna, sipping her drink. “God knows there’s nuff people out there a look job an cyah find.”

  “Innit,” says Gini.

  “Where do you work?” asks Mahalia.

  “The Light Café.”

  “What, in King’s Cross?” says Ronny.

  “That’s the one.”

  “We love it there. The bar’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, it’s cool.”

  “Do you and Owen write in the same space?” asks Ronny.

  “Yeah, we have desks opposite each other,” Jesse says, knowing this will impress Ronny, who looks like an absolute playground.

  “How many collections has he had published?” asks Conroy.

  “This next one will be his…fourth?”

  “Who publishes him?”

  “Endymion.”

  “I see. Very small press.”

  “He’s great. I love him,” says Ronny.

  Jesse wonders whether Owen knows he has such fit young fans. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear that.”

  “He’s working on a new collection, then?” Ronny asks.

  “Yes. It’s been a long time in the making.”

  “What does he write about?” asks Mahalia.

  “He writes about working-class men in particular who are kept in a state of low education and expectation while the world changes around them,” says Ronny, impressively.

  “But he seems to be expanding his remit with this collection,” Jesse adds, feeling oddly displaced from his rightful position as Owen’s gospel-spreader-in-command. “He’s writing a lot about sex and love, all of a sudden.”

  “Mmm-hmmmmm…” says Gini.

  “He’s keen to develop the queer voice in poetry.”

  “And I bet you’re helping a lot with that, aren’t you, babe?” says Surenna.

  “So exciting!” says Mahalia.

  “So he can’t come to my picnic?” says Gini.

  “He’s got an important meeting with his editor tomorrow, so he’s preparing for that.”

  “What’s it like being in the same room as someone writing what’s probably going to become a famous collection?” asks Ronny.

  “I might ask what it’s like interning with the beautiful and amazing Ginika Redmond Ndukwe,” he says to revive Mahalia, who seems to be falling asleep. Gini tells him to shut up. Ronny nudges Mahalia and she reaches for her tobacco.

  “How long have you guys known each other?” she asks, a little too loudly.

  “Gini was my first friend in London when I’d been living here for three whole days.”

  “When did you move here?” asks Ronny.

  “Two thousand and two.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “So, wait, that means you’re…”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “No! Way! I thought you were, like, twenty-three!”

  “Max!” says Ronny. “What is it about you guys?”

  “Black. Don’t. Crack!” says Mahalia.

  Conroy shakes his head and laughs, despite himself. Surenna sucks her teeth. Gini just looks at Jesse as if to confirm they weren’t actually invited.

  “Wait, how old are you?” Mahalia says to Conroy.

  “If you don’t mind her asking,” says Surenna.

  “This is an even bigger tune!” says Jesse, pointing his gun-fingers in the air.

  Just in time, Rihanna’s “Man Down.” Jesse puts down his plate, and he, Gini and Surenna all get up and wait for the beat to drop. The amount of times they’ve been out together and this has come on in the club. They know all the words and sing along. Jesse’s phone rings in his pocket. He panics for a second that time has flown and he’s already late for work.

  “Melania?”

  “Bitch, I’m back.”

  “So good to hear from you! Are you feeling better? I thought you were still ill?”

  “No, but if I stay home I’m just gonna be even more depressed so I thought I’d just come to work and be with normal people instead of my boyfriend who’s driving me fucking crazy.”

  “Oh?”

  Gini has burst out laughing at something—a laugh that fills the sky—so Jesse has to walk away and put a finger in his ear.

  “I mean, he’s been amazing, actually, I’m being really harsh,” says Melania. “But I’m still sick of the sight of him. He’s literally been absolutely perfect, doing absolutely everything for me. He’s taken fucking paternity leave for a dead child, for fuck’s sake. I’m like, Babes, go back to work, I’m fine! but he’s like, Honey, I wanna take care of you. You’ve been through something terrible, mentally, emotionally and physically and you’re in denial. That’s why I have to be here with you. He’s like the Internet this, the Internet that. But sometimes a girl’s just got to go through these things by herself, you know? It’s my body, and like, you know, I mean, I don’t want to shut him out but I just want to smoke like a million cigarette in my pyjama in bed with the blind closed and listen to techno and maybe just go for a fucking shit by myself and yet there he is making sure I’m eating healthy and bringing me remedy and magazine and being like let’s go for a fucking walk and wrapping me in scarves and holding my hand too tight and inside I’m like, Fuck! Off! but on the outside I’m like baby, thank you, you’re being amazing I’m so lucky, and then he’s got his fingers in my hair like, Baby, are you better yet? Do you think it’s time to try again cos you know I was reading the other day on this American parenting website about the best way to get over a miscarriage is just to get pregnant again straight away or as soon as your body’s recovered and I’m like, Yeah, soon babes! Babes. I’m not letting his dick anywhere near me again. I’m gonna go on the pill and get fitted for a coil. I don’t wanna be pregnant. Ever. Again!”

  Ronny and Mahalia walk past, waving goodbye. It’s like he’s holding her up. His ass looks massive in those shorts, and he keeps smiling and looking over his shoulder. Jesse puffs out his cheeks and adjusts himself in his underwear.

  “Are you okay, Melania? Do you need somewhere to stay?”

  “No, no. I don’t know, babes. Maybe?”

  “You can stay at mine whenever you want.”

  “No, babes, I’m sure it’s fine I’ll be fine I’ll be fine I’ll be fine. I don’t want to be anyone’s trouble.”

  “You’re not anyone’s trouble. Have you spoken to him?”

  “No.”

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  She says nothing.

  “Melania, has something happened?”

  “Not yet.” There is a breathiness in her voice Jesse’s never heard before. “But he is a little bit too…how can I say…forceful, sometimes, you know? He’s started working out in the bedroom as soon as I’m up and he’s given me breakfast like I’m a child, instead of going to the gym, like he used to. He’s pumping his body up because I don’t know, maybe, wei
rdly, he blames himself for me losing the baby, that he didn’t create a child that was strong enough to cling on. So now he’s pumping up, maybe thinking that when we try for a baby again his spunk will be stronger and therefore the baby will have stronger fucking suction pads on its fingers and toes, or whatever. Maybe he thinks that in the past it was too easy to blame women and so now he’s gone into hunter-gatherer-protector mode. It’s like he’s not even thinking. I feel really bad for him, and know he’s suffering more than me. I mean it’s the longest he’s not been able to fuck me since we met. He barely lets me out of the house, and only with him. I feel vulnerable, and yet I’ve got this huge powerful angry thing who won’t leave me alone. He’d never hurt me, I know that, but I’ve been in abusive relationships before and I just don’t feel one hundred per cent safe.”

  “Does he know you’re there?”

  “No. He went shopping and I got dressed and came to work.”

  “Has he been in touch?”

  “I switched off my phone.”

  “Where will he think you are?”

  “Maybe here, maybe at the bottom of the Thames, I don’t care.”

  “Melania, don’t say that, please.”

  “I’m kidding, babes. Babes, you want the night off?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A table of twenty cancelled. Ben’s gone fucking mental because they ordered a lamb and everything. But we’re dead tonight. Just thirty covers. I think even I can manage that. And guess what, babes?”

  “What?”

  She lowers her voice.

  “I walked in and Veedub gave me a hug and a kiss and said she was sorry and asked me if she could do anything for me.”

  “Oh. My. God!”

  “It’s that kind of day. So I’m a little bit emotional but I think it’s going to be okay. I’d actually rather be at work than miserable at home. And I can do your shifts this weekend, if you want. I know you’ve been doing doubles nearly every day.”

  “Melania! If you think you’re up to it.”

  “I’m fine, babes, the next step will just be to force myself to get back to normal.”

  “Oh darling, if you’re sure, but if you do take on my shifts you have to be absolutely certain, because Owen’s been begging me to go to Suffolk with him to spend the weekend at his publisher’s house. You know what he’s like. He doesn’t want to drive alone. And if you can’t work one of the shifts, especially if it’s Sunday lunch, it’s not going to be easy for me to come back from all the way there.”

  “It will be fine. Go. You deserve a break and it’ll be gorgeous in this weather. Imagine the wildflower.”

  “Shall we see how you go this evening? Do you want to stay at ours? I think, if you get through tonight okay, you’ll be better off being at work than going home. At least for the weekend. Just break the stranglehold. Show him you’re still the same woman.”

  “Oh, babes, I’m being a dick. I don’t blame him, I really don’t.”

  “But it does sound like you need a bit of space. Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “No. I don’t know, Jess. No. We’ll see.”

  “The offer’s there.”

  “Ugh, babes, I just wanna be a bad bitch and go to Berlin and do a fucking pill and dance with no bra and fuck an arrogant German guy with a really big dick in the toilet. I wanna go to Panorama Bar and run around with my tits out for three days. I don’t wanna deal with this grown-up shit.”

  “I hear you, darling.” Georgia’s voice in the background. It’s magical they’re talking again, after two years.

  “Anyway, babes, it’s been ages. How are you? I’ve missed you.”

  “I’m fine. Do you remember my friend Gini? She texted me to come down to Brixton for a picnic, so I’m here now.”

  “Ah. Perfect. Stay there, babes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fucking enjoy your weekend. I love you so much.”

  “Oh Melania, I love you, too. Keep in touch.”

  “Will do. My love to your darling hubby. Bye.”

  “Yes! I’ve got the night off, and the weekend off!” Jesse squeals, making the next group of white people turn round and share the same thought about loud blacks. Mariah Carey’s “The Roof” is playing.

  “That’s good, bubbie,” Gini says. “How come?”

  “My colleague’s just come back from being off sick. Oh my God, what a blessing. I was just thinking, I’m having so much fun here and I don’t want to go back to fucking work. I’ll text Owen and see if he wants to come down.”

  “You know what, I have to say something,” says Conroy. “You’re the spitting image of someone I used to know back in the eighties. You have the same…about here,” he says, gesturing over his eyes and nose. “That’s why I asked your surname.”

  “Jesse’s adopted,” says Gini.

  “I didn’t know that,” says Surenna. “Did I know that?”

  “You did. Remember I showed you the pictures of his half-sisters?” says Gini, as Jesse finishes and sends his text.

  “I’m only adopted by, well, I still refer to him by his Christian name. I grew up with my mum and she married again when I was four.”

  “You ever know your real dad?” asks Conroy.

  “No, I don’t remember him. Who is this person you’re talking about?”

  “His name was Robert Alonso. I was dating his sister Glorie around…1979, when I was studying art at Wolverhampton Polytechnic, and Robert painted self-portraits. He wasn’t a student, but he hung around the scene a little bit from outside. I know from what his sister told me that he’d been in and out of foster care as a teenager. I think their mum had a bit of a breakdown at some point and the dad died when they were still babies.”

  “So you were one of the Blk Art Group?”

  “You know about that? Not a full member, no. I was involved in one of the group shows but from the beginning of my studies I knew that curation and writing were going to be my thing, and as soon as I finished my degree I moved to London. But he wasn’t a bad painter, you know. Nudes, mainly with flowers—usually roses. His sister and I dated for a while, as I say, nothing too serious, but we stayed friends and I’m still in touch with her. She still lives up in Wolverhampton with her daughter.”

  “Does any of this sound familiar, Jess?” says Gini.

  “I honestly don’t know anything about my dad,” Jesse says, though the mention of nudes with roses gives him a jolt. “My mum always refused to talk about him.”

  “Don’t you have a birth certificate or anything?”

  “It’s only got my mum’s name on. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I bumped into him one time at the Tate Gallery, maybe around 1990. He looked unwell, like an old man. I didn’t recognise him at first. Glorie never mentioned him at all and I didn’t ask. He said he was painting again, to document the process of his illness and had sold a couple of pieces.” The pleasant expression on Conroy’s face drops as he realises the uncomfortable truth he has inadvertently approached. “He had AIDS. He had that face they all had. Drawn and grey. But he still had those eyes, that unrelenting life spirit. That beauty, which did not change.”

  Jesse feels an urge to hit out at Conroy, but as with a cynical and presumptuous customer, manages to keep his cool. The fist clenched round the stem, a thorn pricking the palm, blood dripping down the forearm. “It can’t be him. The only thing my mum has told me is that my real dad died when I was two.”

  “Your mum,” says Gini. “I wouldn’t put it past her lying. Not for any other reason than to protect you.”

  “She wouldn’t lie. She’s a Jehovah’s Witness.”

  “But she became a Jehovah’s Witness when you were a child. If she lied to you before she became a Witness then maybe it was difficult for her to change her story, afte
r that.”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t fucking matter now, anyway,” says Jesse. His mouth has gone dry. “I’m good. I’ve got Owen, and you, and all my other acquired family. I don’t need all that other shit.”

  My dad died of AIDS? When? Does that mean he was gay? Bi? Did he inject drugs? That man in the picture? How dare this man sit next to me in front of my friends and tell me over a picnic, as if it wasn’t anything to do with me, that my dad died of AIDS? My dad! Is he talking about the right person? People tell me all the time that I remind them of someone, mostly white people, though, not woke black scholars. If Iago was black, this is the sort of shit he would try. Create upset when there is none, through lies and deception. I was so happy—why has this man planted this in my head? The last time they saw each other was at the Tate in 1990. Robert Alonso. Where have I heard that name before? And my own mother? Has she been lying to me all this time? What did she think was going to happen when I found out? Sister Doreen Charles told me once, “Hi believe in the trut, that the trut halways fine ha way fe come out.” I don’t understand. My mother accused me before the elders, all those years ago, of being a liar, a cheat and a thief, and look at her. She is the liar, the cheat, and the thief. Why would this Conroy man lie to me? Why would he try to trick me? He is the one with the fine reputation, who has educated himself and is a man of knowledge and culture. She belongs to a sect that has brainwashed her against her own firstborn. She has lied to me, all my life. My father was alive when I was eight. I was alive for at least eight years and I never got to meet him. He must have died thinking his son cared nothing for him. Were they in contact? What did she tell him? Robert Alonso. A painter. A black male painter of nudes. Self-portraits, mainly, with roses, documenting the progress of his illness…our eyes…our unrelenting life spirit…Nude…Nude with Othello…

  Chapter 3

  JANUARY 16, 2014

  The bodies of Othello, Desdemona and Emilia lay lifeless. Iago stood centre stage with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out, watching the audience watching him, and then simply walked free. Darkness. Jubilant applause and three curtains, the actor playing Iago getting the biggest cheer of all.