Sottopassaggio

by Nick Alexander

  I put down my bottle-filled carrier bag and step towards him. I watch as his lips thin, his forehead wrinkles and his cheeks start to distort. A tear runs from the corner of his eye.

  “Tom?” I say, moving forward and wrapping my arms around him.

  At first his body remains rigid, but then, with a jerk and a shudder, he stiffens, and then collapses against me.

  “You?” he gasps, his body shuddering as he emits a sob. “How?” he breathes.

  Jenny steps forward, and rests a hand on each of our backs. “Jesus Tom!” she says.

  A train rumbles overhead – our train.

  We lead Tom back though the underpass and order fresh cups of coffee at the café.

  The Italian waiter laughs and says something I make no attempt at understanding, but take to mean, “You changed your minds then.”

  Tom disappears to the bathroom and eventually reappears looking recomposed, but his eyes have an air of madness, a certain crazy stare that I have never seen before.

  He sits opposite, alternately running a finger across his pierced eyebrow or stroking his beard.

  “This is madness,” he says, shaking his head. “You know that this is mad, right?”

  I sigh and nod at him. “It is pretty crazy,” I say.

  Tom snorts and shakes his head. “You know the phrase,” he asks, his voice trembling a little again, “A sight for sore eyes?” He lifts a trembling hand to cover his mouth.

  Jenny tuts sympathetically. “Oh Tom,” she says.

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve had such a bad few days, I don’t know...” He swallows hard. “If I had thought this was possible… If I had believed I might bump into you here, today, right now, I would have prayed for it,” he says. “It’s incredible.”

  “But why are you here?” I say. “Where are you going?”

  Tom shakes his head. “Why am I here?” he says.

  I shrug. “We came over to Nice to get away from all that hassle,” I explain. “You know, Nick and everything. And then, today, well, we just went to the market, here, in Vingtimiglia.”

  Tom nods. “I’m going to Nice. I thought I’d try and get an early flight home.”

  Jenny strokes Tom’s arm. She glances at me and catches my eye. Her regard is profound and communicating. It says that she knows what I need to know, and she knows that I can’t be the one to ask the question.

  “And Antonio?” she says.

  Tom shakes his head slowly. “He’ll notice that I’ve gone in a few days,” he says sourly. He stares at the table for a while, then swallows and continues. “His parents turned up. It’s was so… Humiliating,” he says.

  I glance at Jenny; she shrugs discreetly.

  Tom shakes his head again. He scrunches up his eyes, fighting back tears. “He made me stay in a hotel,” he says. “I barely saw him. I had no idea anyone could be so ashamed. I had no idea anyone could be so ashamed of me.”

  “His parents don’t know then,” I say.

  Tom shakes his head. “I don’t think Antonio himself knows,” he says. “I offered to be discreet you know? But he said I’m too gay… He said I’m an embarrassment.”

  Tom’s face crumples. A fresh set of tears runs down his cheeks. He shakes his head dolefully. “I’ve never been treated like that in my life,” he says.

  I feel close to tears myself. I reach out and wipe Tom’s cheek with the back of my hand.

  Jenny pulls a tissue from her bag and hands it to him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says taking a deep breath. “I’m a bit overwrought. I didn’t sleep the last couple of nights. I kept waiting for him to realise, I kept thinking he’d come, that he’d say sorry or something, you know?”

  Tom wipes his nose again, and then snorts sadly. “I thought we were going to fix the details of the move,” he says. “Not organise a break-up.”

  Jenny rubs Tom’s back again. “Well, you’ll probably sort it all out,” she says. “Things are rarely as bad as they seem.”

  Tom shakes his head slowly. “I may be a bit too gay, but I’m no drama queen,” he says. He swallows hard and looks up towards the roof, blinking back the last of the tears. Then he reaches out across the table and lays one hand on Jenny’s and the other on mine.

  “And now you two!” he says. “I mean, what on earth is that all about?”

  After It’s Over

  On the journey back, the three of us slip into a stunned silence. I don’t know what the others are thinking about, but I can guess. Tom looks pale and slightly crazed. I imagine he’s still chewing over his last few days with Antonio. Jenny has a hand on her stomach and she’s staring out of the window at the fading light. She’ll be thinking about her baby, where to have it, how to organise things, what to do next.

  Me? I’m trying to resist telling Tom how much I love him. Seeing him vulnerable, and hearing about how badly he’s been treated, hearing the uncomprehending hurt in his voice has cracked my heart right open. Strangely, I’m also fixating on the sleeping arrangements. There are two beds in the apartment, so Tom is going to be sleeping with Jenny or with myself, and that thought, the relish that I feel about the simple idea of finally sharing my bed with Tom is inappropriate and selfish, but I feel it all the same.

  As we roll out of Menton, Jenny turns from the window and smiles at Tom.

  “Are you OK Tom?” she says.

  Tom nods. “A bit in shock I guess,” he says. “I feel a bit like my brain is overloaded. Like it has just sort of shut down.”

  “Do you want to talk about it all or…”

  Tom shakes his head. “Nah, not really,” he says. “There’s not so much to say… I mean, sometimes you’re trying to work out what happened. But this time?” he shrugs. “This is one of those occasions where you feel like you already knew, but just didn’t let yourself realise.”

  I frown at him. “Really?” I say. “I’m surprised. I thought you and Antonio were quite solid.”

  Tom shrugs. “I’m good at ignoring stuff,” he says. He shakes his head. “Too good. It’s dumb, but I always do it. I always stick my head in the sand. I never realise what’s happening till after it’s over.”

  Jenny leans over and touches his knee. “We all do that Tom,” she says. “Don’t give yourself a hard time about it.”

  Tom shrugs. “Yeah, it’s just that, well, ever since…” he looks at me. “Actually ever since that conversation we had together about his supposedly straight ex… you know, that Hugo bloke, well I knew that there was a problem we needed to deal with. But I just ignored it.”

  A train passes in the other direction causing a stunning whack as its slipstream hits ours.

  I wait until the quiet returns, and then say, “But you can’t fix other people; believe me, I’ve tried.”

  Tom nods. “Yeah, I could have tried to address it though, instead of just being surprised when it all falls apart.”

  Jenny smiles sadly. “Italians,” she says, nodding at me meaningfully.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We were talking about just this just an hour ago.”

  “Maybe if I could have got him away,” Tom says. “Maybe if I could have got him out of Italy, like we planned.”

  I nod. “With time, and patience maybe. But you know, he was in England, he was in Brighton when he was telling us how straight his ex was.”

  Tom nods. “He was so proud of that. Anyway, he wasn’t ever going to move,” he says. “I was actually considering moving to Italy instead.”

  A ticket inspector slides the door open. “Vos Billets s’il vous plait,” he says.

  We hold up our tickets to be clipped and watch as he inspects, clips them and moves on.

  “New wallet,” Tom says. “With a chain this time!”

  I nod and smile as I slip it back into my rear pocket. “Yeah,” I say. “I bought it in Ventimiglia today. The old one caused that much anguish.”

  Jenny nods meaningfully. “Especially for Benoit.”

  I shoot
her a glare. I’ve never told Tom about my relationship with Benoit, and now is not the moment. She pulls a grimace showing she understands this.

  Tom frowns. “Benoit? John and Jean’s mad photographer friend?”

  I nod. “Yeah… It’s a long story,” I say.

  Tom shrugs and looks out of the window but just as he turns, we enter a tunnel. He sighs heavily and looks back at me.

  Suddenly what he just said registers. “Mad?” I say.

  Tom grimaces. “Not very PC of me, sorry,” he says. “I used to quite fancy him actually. He’s lovely as long as he takes his meds.”

  I frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

  Tom shrugs. “Sorry, I thought… Never mind. It’s not for me to say really.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. “Please, Tom. I know Benoit quite well and I knew there was something, but... What’s actually wrong with him?”

  Tom grimaces. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s, you know, what do they call it? Manic depressive? Only there’s another term for it nowadays.”

  Jenny nods. “Bipolar disorder.”

  “Yeah,” Tom says. “That’s it. He’s lovely most of the time, but well, when he’s manic he’s a handful; he goes quite wild. Plus he’ll shag anything that moves.”

  I bite my lip and avoid looking at Jenny. “And when he’s depressed?”

  Tom shrugs. “You don’t see him at all when he’s down. Sometimes for months.”

  “Right,” I say.

  Another story that becomes clear only after it’s over. “Why don’t people ever tell you this stuff whilst it’s happening,” I wonder.

  “I didn’t know you were friends with him,” Tom says. “I’m sorry, please don’t tell him I said…”

  I interrupt him with a reassuring smile. “I haven’t seen him for months,” I say.

  The Big Picture

  Jenny pushes past me. “Bagsy the toilet,” she says.

  “Go for it!” I laugh.

  “God you have a cat,” Tom says, handing me his bag and sweeping Paloma into his arms.

  I close the door and laugh. “A very demanding cat,” I say.

  Tom lifts Paloma into the air and rubs her nose against his. She purrs appreciatively.

  “I love cats. I used to have one,” he says. “We called her Riley. Because she lived the life of Riley.”

  “Yeah?” I say. “Paloma does OK too,” I say, stroking the cat’s head. “Don’t you Paloma.”

  “She’s sweet,” Tom says. “Aren’t you Paloma?”

  I nod. “They’re a tie though,” I say. “It’s lucky my friend was able to look after her.”

  Tom nods and puts the cat gently down. “I know,” he says. “My mum ended up with mine. Though it didn’t stop her doing anything. She used to drive all over with that poor mog.” He shakes his head sadly at the memory.

  I pull a doubting expression. “If you carried that one to the corner-shop she’d have a heart attack,” I say.

  Jenny reappears from the bathroom. “Anyone want tea?” she says, “Or are we breaking open the Martini?”

  I pull a bottle from the carrier bag and head through to the kitchen. “Martini for me,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Tom says. “Me too. A good strong one.”

  I stand in the kitchen and pause, listening. From the lounge I can hear Jenny and Tom talking quietly. It seems as if I have been here before, doing exactly this, as if Jenny and Tom have already been next door waiting for Martinis.

  Maybe it’s just because it feels natural, normal that they should be here. Maybe it’s just the déjà-vu thing, my brain sorting away memories faster than it is processing the present, or maybe déjà-vu is really our momentary perception that what the scientists say is true, that time isn’t linear.

  I pull ice-cubes from the tray and think about our chance meeting with Tom, retracing the events in my mind. Didn’t Jenny freeze just before Tom appeared? “Wait,” she had said. “Look.” But there had been nothing to look at; nothing to wait for.

  Why would she do that unless she saw something? And if Jenny saw Tom before I did, then were we in the same moment at all?

  Just for a second a strange image fills my mind, an image of the planet as seen from afar. I see ripples of shifting time rolling across the surface and a vast web of connections and events, a network of secret tubes running, like wormholes back and forth through space and time, linking our lives and the lives of our parents and the lives of future generations, of our every act and every other.

  It’s as if there are secret passages forcing destiny in ways we don’t understand and for a split second my life seems to be not an isolated thing, but a logical manifestation of every event that ever occurred, a mathematical result of the complex ricochets of the entire shifting sands of human history.

  I shiver, and then as quickly as it came, the feeling passes. I frown and pick up the drinks.

  When I enter the lounge, Tom is crouched in the middle of the floor. The saxophone case lies open before him.

  He looks up at me frowning. “You have a sax,” he says.

  I bite my lip and put the drinks down on the coffee table. I take a breath and stare at the gleaming instrument.

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “It was Steve’s.”

  Tom nods and lifts the sax from the case. “I remember now,” he says. “You mentioned it.”

  I nod and shrug.

  “It’s beautiful,” Tom says reverently. “It’s a Selmer.”

  I squint at him and nod gently. “Is that good then?” I ask.

  Tom snorts. “It’s the best!” he says. “I bet it sounds lovely.”

  I shrug again. “I don’t know,” I say. My voice is foggy so I cough to clear my throat. “I never heard it,” I explain.

  Tom moves the mouthpiece towards his lips, then pauses and glances back at me.

  “Do you mind?” he asks. “Only, I’ve been really missing mine. Antonio was always complaining about my practicing, so in the end I stopped bringing it.”

  My eyes are tearing and my chest feels so tight, I can barely breath.

  Tom bites his lip and lowers the saxophone, but I shake my head.

  “No,” I say. “Please…”

  Tom raises an eyebrow and lifts the instrument again. “You sure?” he says. “It’s just, well… It’s a Selmer.”

  I nod gently and slide to the floor beside him.

  Jenny who is seated behind me lays a hand on my shoulder.

  “Go ahead Tom,” I say. “It’s all yours.”

  Epilogue

  I can see the sun, orange, no, red through my eyelids.

  I push my toes down through the layer of scorched sand into the damp, humid layers below. Against my chest, Sarah is wriggling and cooing gorgeously, and behind me the jazz band is playing old Fleetwood Mac songs.

  I raise myself on one elbow, and glance back up the beach.

  The sight of Steve wearing his baggy brown suit and his orange seventies shirt makes me smile. He winks at me and jazzes up his rift a little for my benefit.

  I turn back and see Sarah standing, pulling herself up onto my chest. She lies on my stomach and rubs her nose against mine. It tickles. She makes me sneeze.

  I open my eyes with a splutter and focus cross-eyed on Paloma’s furry chin. She has crawled onto my stomach and is head-butting me; she wants food.

  I gently push her to one side and rub the cat-hairs from my face. I stare at the ceiling and listen to the sounds of Sunday.

  Outside I can hear rain gently tapping against the windowsill. Upstairs in Jenny’s apartment, I can hear Sarah screaming madly, and beyond that I can just make out Jenny’s gentle yet exasperated voice as she tries to calm her.

  I can hear the gurgling of the central heating, and from the office I can hear Tom playing the same dreadful jazz rift he has been trying to learn for the last month. Over and over he plays the same soaring screaming sequence; over and over he stumbles at exactly the same point. I lie
and listen and wait… There! It’s still wrong. It still hurts my ears. It stops.

  I wait for him to start over, and roll my eyes and smile as I imagine his red face. I stretch languorously in the bed and then snuggle against Paloma.

  I lie and wait for the magical moment when the heat of Tom’s body against my back, when the feeling of his arms enveloping me, will announce the beginning of Sunday proper.

  I smile and listen to the screaming baby and Tom’s endless saxophone rift and Paloma’s purring and the rain outside.

  Then I push my toes down into the sand. It feels cool and dark and refreshing. Against my chest, Sarah is wriggling and cooing gorgeously, and behind me Steve and Tom are playing old Fleetwood Mac songs together.

  And the sun is red and hot against my eyelids.

  Keep reading for a preview of

  GOOD THING, BAD THING

  The next instalment in the

  Fifty Reasons Series, by Nick Alexander

  There are so many good-looking men at Nice airport; I stand and watch as they stream through the stuttering automatic doors – a bizarre male beauty parade.

  There are young guys in trendy two-tone sweatshirts, and smooth businessmen in luxurious suits. Dreamily I imagine dating them, imagine being the person waiting for the guy with the bleached highlights, or the high-flying executive with the shiny briefcase – and wonder, how would that be?

  And now, here he is, the one I’m waiting for. He’s hiking his bag over his shoulder and looking around, scanning the room. He hasn’t seen me yet – and for a moment I am able to see him dispassionately – just a man in the crowd.

  Not the best looking of the bunch, I decide, not the best dressed, nor the most athletic. But there’s something about him all the same – an optimistic bounce in his step that makes him look less bored than most of the others, maybe more alive.