Sottopassaggio

by Nick Alexander

  Afterwards, we shower and dry each other, then we lie on Owen’s bed and Benoit smokes.

  The after-sex smoking ritual reminds me of home, makes me feel homesick even, and I start to speak to Benoit in French instead.

  The conversation drifts easily as the last of the light fades and the curtains blow in and then out on the evening sea breeze.

  Benoit tells me he’s from Tours, tells me his family are farmers, that he came here for a holiday five years ago and never went back. He says he has no desire to go home, but that his financial situation might force him to.

  I make a mental note to give him the cash for the fish and chips in the morning and tell him how I ended up in Nice and then about my job, about my time in New York.

  Benoit moves onto his side and slowly draws rings around my nipple as I speak, telling him about Hugo and the fact that Antonio dated him, then about meeting Steve, about the car accident, about Owen bringing me here.

  Eventually I realise that Benoit’s finger has stopped moving, and I gently raise myself so that I can see his face and see that he is sleeping. I wonder how long he has been absent. His mouth is open and he has the slightest of smiles on his lips.

  Moving slowly, I reach over, remove the ashtray, and switch out the light. It’s barely 10pm so sleep doesn’t come quickly.

  I lie and listen to the sound of the curtains dragging across the floor, and the distant sound of the waves, and the in and out of Benoit’s breathing.

  I think how long it has been since I listened to someone sleeping, think how simple, yet ecstatic it is feeling his body heat beside me, feeling the raising and lowering of his chest next to me, simply being here in this bed right now with a fellow human being.

  The sound of the wind and Benoit’s breathing mixes with the white heaving of the sea, and slowly the tide edges its way up the beach, surrounding then washing over us, submerging the day in a brilliant white foam of sleep.

  Lost In Action

  I awaken to the screaming of seagulls. I lie on my side trying to differentiate the whooshing of the cars on the distant main road from the sound of the waves, so present at night.

  Suddenly I remember Benoit, and roll towards him. Empty space.

  I sit up, rub my eyes and look around the room in surprise. I hold my breath for a moment, listening for sounds of movement in the house. No Benoit. Then I sigh, and roll out of the bed.

  Downstairs I make coffee and sit watching the steam rise and thinking about the previous evening. The memory of his ketchup games makes me smile, and I realise that it’s the first time we have spent the night together. I wonder if this means something; I wonder if Benoit is becoming something other than occasional shag.

  I tip my head to one side, considering the possibility. It would seem ironic that I should travel a thousand miles from Nice back to England to meet a Frenchman from Tours.

  I sip my coffee and frown. In fact, I realise, I don’t know if he stayed the night at all. I turn the cup and stare at my distorted face reflected in the china, then I reach for the phone.

  Benoit answers immediately with a gruff, “Yes?”

  I grin at the deep cigaretty French-ness of his voice.

  “Morning sexy,” I say.

  Benoit sighs. “Morning,” he says.

  “Just thought I’d check…”

  “Check what?” Benoit interrupts aggressively.

  I frown at the phone and start again.

  “Just thought I’d check that you exist. That I didn’t dream you up.”

  Benoit exhales sharply. “No,” he says. “I’m real.”

  “So why did you sneak off like that?” I ask, forcing, with difficulty, a warm tone into my voice. “I was looking forward to…”

  “I didn’t have my stuff, so I had to come back. I never intended to stay the night. That’s all,” he says gruffly.

  I grimace. “OK, no problem, I just wondered,” I say. “What time did you leave?” I force a laugh. “I didn’t hear anything. Amazing!”

  “About 2,” Benoit replies coldly.

  “And what stuff?”

  “Stuff?”

  “Yeah, what stuff did you need to sleep till 7 instead of 2?” I ask, wincing at the vague tetchiness entering my voice.

  Benoit coughs. “I fell asleep with my lenses. I didn’t have the stuff for my lenses, and I didn’t have my meds. That’s all.”

  I nod. “OK,” I say, slowly processing the sentence.

  “Meds,” I think.

  “And now I’m working,” Benoit adds.

  “Meds,” I think again.

  I wrinkle my brow. “OK, well, have a good…”

  But Benoit has hung up.

  I remember last time, and stand over the phone for a few seconds in case he’s going to call back again, but it remains silent.

  “Fuck him,” I say quietly.

  As I shower, my mind runs through the conversation. Of course there are a hundred possible reasons why Benoit might be taking meds, but slowly, like lichen climbing a tree, the idea that Benoit has HIV seems inescapable.

  HIV is back again. That wearing, tiring, boring, terrifying disease is back in my life. I sigh heavily again and step out of the shower.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. And contact lenses? I didn’t know Benoit wore contact lenses. I’m realising that, of course, I know very little about Benoit.

  I run through every sexual act he and I have performed, and even though it has all been safe; even though I don’t even know if my supposition is true, I start to feel angry that he never warned me.

  AIDS. Again. Will it ever end?

  As I towel myself dry, I consider phoning him again, but it’s clearly not the moment.

  Instead I dress quickly and head downstairs. I pull on a denim jacket and swipe my keys from the table. Patting my pockets to check I have everything, I head towards the door. Sports World awaits.

  But as I pat my rear pocket, I frown. No wallet.

  I leave the front door ajar and run back upstairs to the bedroom. I swipe my jeans from the bed and frown. No wallet there either.

  I stare at the ceiling for a moment, remembering. The combat trousers I’m wearing are the trousers I wore yesterday. I glance around the room and head back downstairs to the lounge.

  These are the trousers. This is where I lay when Benoit undid them. I crouch on all fours and look beneath the sofa.

  I stand and run my hand behind the cushions.

  I check the kitchen surfaces.

  I frown. I run back upstairs and check under the bed. I tidy the pile of jumpers on the dresser. I sigh.

  I go back downstairs. I check under the sofa again, pointlessly.

  Then I angrily remove my jacket, close the front door and put my keys back on the kitchen counter.

  I sit at the kitchen table and run my hand across the top of my head.

  “Fuck it!” I mutter.

  I sit with my head in my hands and retrace my steps. Sports World, Tom’s, place, here...

  I rub my chin and realise that I have no money, realise that I don’t even have any way of getting money without my Visa card.

  Only then, only after checking the entire house over and over and over again; only after phoning Sports World and then phoning Tom; only when Tom has crouched on all fours and checked under his own sofa, and declared that, “There’s a lot of dust, but no wallet,” does the terrible dark thought cross my mind for the first time. Maybe Benoit picked it up by accident? Or maybe Benoit stole it.

  I detest myself for even imagining such a scenario. I order my mind to discount the thought immediately.

  But he was very strange on the phone this morning. He was very jumpy.

  “Fuck!” I know I have to phone Benoit again.

  Benoit’s Allo, is even shorter, even sharper than the last time.

  I take a deep breath. I try French.

  “Benoit,” I say. “Mark encore. Désolé.”

  But Benoit replies in English. “Mark, I hav
e work to do, I cannot…”

  “Benoit, I know, I’m sorry. It’s just I can’t find my wallet anywhere?” I say.

  Silence.

  “And I wondered if you had picked it up, by accident or something,” I say.

  There is a long pause, before Benoit says, “Your wallet?”

  “Yeah,” I say, as lightly as I can manage.

  “You think I have your wallet?” Benoit repeats incredulously.

  “Yeah, I mean, it might look like yours or something,” I say.

  Another pause.

  “Or something?” Benoit repeats.

  “Hell, Benoit, I don’t know. But I’ve lost it so I thought I’d give you a call and…”

  “Mark, I don’t have your wallet. I didn’t take anything else from your house,” Benoit says. “Now goodbye.”

  “OK, sorry…” But Benoit has hung up again.

  In an act of fury, I throw the telephone across the room. So that it doesn’t break I aim for the sofa.

  “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” I say.

  To calm my nerves, and because anything else I might do requires cash, I go for a jog along the seafront. As I leave, the sun is still out, but a wall of grey is approaching from the east.

  By the time I get back, the sky is black and ominous, and the first drops of rain are falling.

  As the rain trickles down the windows, I assemble the various piles of coins from around the house. I have the princely sum of six pounds and twenty-two pence.

  I phone my bank. They tell me that it will be “up to ten days” before my new Visa-card arrives, that is, before it arrives at my French address! Six pounds clearly will not suffice.

  After considering all the options, I call Jenny. She can afford a Smeg, I figure, she can lend me some cash.

  It rains all week. Constantly. Endlessly.

  Some days it drizzles, and some days it pours, and some days it excitingly drifts from one to the other, but at no point does it stop.

  I sit and stare outside. Then I stare at the contents of the freezer and concoct previously unimaginable meals from the limited contents.

  I phone Tom twice, but get the answer-phone both times. He doesn’t call back.

  I toy with the idea of calling Benoit; imagine the conversation, testing various techniques in my mind. Apologising, accusing, phoning for a neutral chat… But in my dry runs they all end in disaster. I may be wrong about the wallet. And I may be wrong about his HIV status. But somehow, it just doesn’t seem that likely I am wrong about both. I feel hard and cynical about it, but I just can’t face trying to sort any of it out.

  On Friday evening when I hear the sixties’ chugging of Jenny’s twenty grand camper-van, I am desperate, not only for company and conversation but for cash.

  The freezer contains three fish fingers and I have twenty pence left.

  A Difficult Client

  Jenny pulls her coat from her head. “Jesus! The rain!” she exclaims.

  “I know,” I say closing the door. “It hasn’t stopped all week.”

  I smile at her, and then break into a frown. Jenny pauses, mimicking my expression.

  “You look weird,” I say. “Your makeup or something?”

  Jenny shrugs. “Thanks,” she says.

  “Sorry,” I say. But as I lean in to kiss her cheek she pulls away.

  “No, it’s me,” she says. “I bashed my cheek. I covered it up, but…”

  I stand back and look at her cheek. I can see it is swollen, and it has a vague blue tint, peeking through the caked foundation.

  “Jees,” I say. “How did you do that?”

  Jenny rolls her eyes, and turns into the lounge. “It’s too dumb for words,” she says. “I walked into the clothes line.”

  Wrinkling my nose, I follow her into the lounge. “The clothes line?” I repeat doubtfully.

  Jenny slumps heavily in a chair. “Well, the pole actually. We’ve got one of those rotary ones?”

  I nod.

  “It span around in the wind,” she says. “And whacked me.”

  I make a face. “Ouch,” I say. “Strange but true.”

  Jenny nods and makes a twilight zone sound. “My life. Where fact is stranger than fiction,” she says. “Does it look that bad?”

  I shrug. “Nah, it shows, but…”

  “I look a bit like coco the clown, right?” she asks.

  I shrug. “You just look a bit… Overdone, I guess.”

  Jenny sighs. “Oh well, so, do I get a cup of tea or not?” she asks.

  I grimace. “If you’ve got some cash for milk you do,” I laugh.

  “Oh yeah! I almost forgot,” Jenny grins. She grimaces and touches her cheek. “It hurts when I smile,” she says. “

  She reaches into her jean pocket and produces a wad of banknotes.

  “I got two hundred. Will that be enough? To tide you over?”

  I take the money. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”

  Jenny shakes her head. “Don’t be. Nick thinks you’re my gigolo now, but,” she shrugs. “Frankly, who gives a damn?”

  I stuff the money into a vase and keep a single ten-pound note.

  “Now,” Jenny says. “Tea please. With milk.”

  On Jenny’s advice, I reluctantly phone Tom again, but again I get his voicemail. “See,” I tell her, waving the phone. “He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

  Jenny frowns and sips her tea. “But I wanted to see him,” she says.

  “Me too,” I laugh. “I think Antonio’s told him to stay away from me.”

  Jenny bites a fingernail. “Why would he do that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Um… Hello?” I say.

  She nods. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says. “But I don’t think Tom’s the type to be bossed around. Do you?”

  I shrug.

  “He’d be right though,” she says.

  “Who? Antonio?”

  Jenny nods. “Yeah. I mean; this won’t work at all if you can’t get to see him?”

  I smile at her. “What won’t work?”

  Jenny raises her eyebrows and nods. “Our strategy,” she says.

  I cross my eyes. “Your strategy,” I say.

  Jenny nods. “OK. My strategy,” she says. “But it won’t work.” She sips her tea again and stares out at the rain then she takes a deep breath.

  “OK,” she says, pulling her phone from her pocket. “Time to play dirty.”

  I frown at her.

  “He’s being difficult,” she says. “Playing hard to get. Gimme the number,” she says.

  I frown.

  Jenny nods earnestly. “Give me Tom’s number.”

  “But, why?” I ask.

  “Give!” she insists.

  Tom answers Jenny’s call immediately. I rest my chin on one hand and listen in annoyance.

  “Tom!” Jenny says. “Jenny here. Mark’s friend.”

  “…”

  “Yes, that’s right. In Brighton.”

  “…”

  “I’m at Mark’s, that’s right.”

  “…”

  “Yeah, I know, he’s opposite. I expect he’s wondering why you take my calls and not his.”

  I bite my lip and smile.

  “…”

  Jenny laughs. “Only joking, I know you were going to call him back.” She winks at me.

  “…”

  “Yes, he’s taking us both to dinner tonight,” she says.

  “…”

  “Yes, that’s right. Me too.”

  “…”

  “Well, I think he tried to tell you.”

  “…”

  “Yes Tom. I’ll be there as well.”

  “…”

  “I don’t know, hang on.” Jenny holds the phone to her chest and shrugs. “Where are you taking us?” she asks me.

  I open my hand and shrug. “What do I know?” I say.

  She lifts the phone to her ear. “Did you hear that?”

  “…”

  “Yeah, Mar
k doesn’t know. You’re the local boy after all,” she says. “Food For Friends?” she raises an eyebrow at me.

  I nod.

  “7pm?”

  I nod again.

  “OK, great. See you later,” she says.

  Jenny clicks her phone shut. “See,” she says. “Easy.”

  I laugh. “Very clever,” I say. “No one could deny your efficiency.”

  Jenny laughs. “We use it at work a lot. Swapping phones to get in touch with difficult clients.”

  I nod. “But it doesn’t answer the real question though,” I say. “Why he didn’t answer my calls.”

  Jenny nods in agreement. “He made sure I was going to be there. He asked, like, three times.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I heard.”

  “So, either he’s in love with me,” she says. “It is possible, after all…”

  I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.

  “But unlikely I agree,” she says.

  “Unlikely,” I repeat.

  “Or he’s scared of being alone with you.” She nods melodramatically.

  I snort. “Me being so scary and all,” I say.

  Jenny pushes out her lips, and looks at me craftily from the corner of her eye.

  “But if you ask me,” she says thoughtfully, closing one eye. “The most likely explanation…”

  I nod.

  “Is that he’s scared of himself.”

  I wrinkle my brow.

  Jenny nods again. “He’s scared of what he might do if he’s alone with you.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You’re too much,” I say.

  Jenny shrugs. “Why?”

  “Oh, you just overestimate my powers of seduction.”

  Jenny shakes her head. “Nah,” she says. “I don’t think you have any powers of seduction at all.”

  “Oh,” I laugh. “Thanks.”

  “But for some reason, Tom does,” she says. “There’s no accounting for taste.”