Open-handed

by Chris Binchy

  ‘I’ve no choice,’ Marcin said.

  ‘There’s always a choice.’

  ‘No. There’s not.’

  ‘So who cleaned the toilets in the end?’ Artur asked, in the semi-darkness of the room.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was silence for a moment, long enough for Marcin’s mind to begin to drift.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ Artur said. ‘I’m telling you that for nothing.’

  23

  Just past two, and Victor was thinking of home. A fifteen-minute drive that at this hour seemed too far to go. The mid-week nothing nights that were just like any other for everybody involved, those were the ones that killed him. Time sticky on the quiet streets. His stomach jangling with endless cups of tea, his teeth sore from sugar. Jokes across the street with the guys from the sports bar, friendly slagging that had an undertone of something in it.

  The last few stragglers were leaving now, being swept out by Gareth and the new guy. He would be in bed soon. Off tomorrow. Get up late. Go to the gym.

  And then there she was, dressed up and looking like someone who had landed from another world into the damp grey of a Tuesday night in Dublin. It was like waking into a dream. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You came.’ There was nothing in him but delight.

  ‘I was just passing,’ she said, a contained smile that told him nothing.

  ‘Were you out?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m on my way home and I thought I’d see if you were here. To say hello.’

  ‘Well, hello,’ he said. ‘I’m very happy to see you. You look nice.’

  ‘Thank you. And hello to you.’

  There was a moment of silence. Victor’s mouth felt dry. He shook himself out of nervousness to say what he had to. ‘I’m finished up now. Do you want to go for a coffee or something?’

  ‘A coffee? At two in the morning?’

  ‘Or a drink. Whatever you want.’

  ‘It’s just a drink. You understand?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I am a gentleman. You will see.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I will take you somewhere that you have never been.’

  They walked for less than five minutes, then turned into a narrow street that led to the south quays. Victor made a call. Just before the corner they stopped at an Italian restaurant with closed steel shutters.

  ‘Is this it?’ she asked. There was traffic on the quays, a post-club crowd around the place.

  ‘Yeah.’

  The shutter went up halfway from the inside. Victor bent and spoke to someone through the door. He waved his hand in front of Agnieszka.

  ‘You’ll have to bend over.’

  She looked at him. ‘What is this?’ The sound of people talking came out, the smell of cigarette smoke, perfume.

  ‘It’s nice. You will like it. I promise you. If you don’t we can go. I’ll take you home.’

  She hesitated. ‘You can see,’ he said, and he pointed. Agnieszka bent over and looked in. Then she passed through into the room and Victor followed. A young fellow, rosy-cheeked and wholesome, pushed down the shutters again when they were in. There were maybe twenty people in the room sitting around at tables, drinking wine and vodka and coffee. Everybody was smoking. There was dance music playing low in the background.

  ‘This is Mircea,’ Victor said to Agnieszka. The guy who’d opened the door shook her hand.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s my restaurant,’ Mircea said. ‘And a place for friends to go when everywhere else is closed.’

  They sat at a table. Victor nodded at a couple of people in the room and laughed when a guy called something out to him.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked him.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He said that a guy like me has no business with a girl like you.’

  ‘He doesn’t know me.’

  ‘But he knows me. And he can see you.’

  ‘I knew you weren’t Italian.’

  He smiled. ‘My ID card says I am.’

  ‘But then it’s not your ID card.’

  ‘The guy looks like me,’ he said, putting the card on the table in front of her.

  ‘Nice picture,’ she said.

  ‘This was taken the day after I got out of the army. I drank too much the night before and this photo was in Bucharest station at seven in the morning. I don’t drink, and if you look at this photo, you can see why.’

  She drank water and he drank espresso, short bursts to keep him awake and alert, to hold him in the reality of where he was. The feeling of conspiracy in the room fed into the way that they talked to each other. The space in which they sat, the dark intimacy of it and the background noise, meant that they leaned in across the table to talk.

  ‘So you’re a bouncer?’ she said.

  ‘We don’t like this word “bouncer”.’

  ‘I do. I think it’s funny. You know what bouncing is?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Like a ball…’ His hand mimed it in the air above him. ‘Bouncing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We don’t bounce.’

  ‘What do you prefer?’

  ‘Doorman. Security.’

  ‘Do you think you’re still a soldier? Is that it?’

  ‘Not soldiers,’ he said. ‘We don’t fight.’

  ‘But you hit people.’

  ‘Not normally.’

  ‘Isn’t hitting people your job?’

  ‘No,’ he said, sitting forward. ‘No. It’s the opposite. People don’t understand this. When you do it right you never have to touch anyone. You talk to them. You use your head. It’s not an easy thing. It’s easier to just, you know…’ He clenched his fist. ‘But a good doorman doesn’t need to do very much. You watch and you’re good to people. That’s the way to do it.’

  ‘There must be times?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘That? No. I don’t enjoy it. I can do it. I’m good at it, maybe, but I don’t enjoy it. I prefer, you know, “Have a good evening”, “See you again”, this kind of thing. And I don’t think…’ he said, then paused for a moment. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever hit anyone who didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘You make it sound like you’re a diplomat.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You’re the UN,’ she said. ‘Peacekeeping.’

  ‘I know them. I’ve seen those guys. We’re much better than them,’ he said.

  Victor didn’t know what to make of her. Was she here because she liked him, because he’d been direct with her? If a girl comes back when you invite her out, it must mean something. She wasn’t just passing. A girl like this, though. Her eyes, which were almost too bright for her face, too blue and clear against her tanned skin. Why would she come to a guy like him, working on a door?

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ he said.

  She looked at him.

  He waited for a moment. ‘Were you just passing tonight?’

  ‘Yes. More or less. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering.’

  ‘Were you hoping that I got all dressed up and came into town to see you because you’d asked me to?’

  He couldn’t tell if she was joking with him. It seemed likely. ‘I hoped that, yes.’

  ‘Not too disappointed now?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Not one bit. Where were you before?’

  ‘I was out with people from work. It was nothing. Boring. This is better.’

  When the lights went on suddenly the two of them faced each other, blinking and embarrassed as if they’d been caught doing something inappropriate. They laughed the same laugh.

  ‘Mircea has to go to bed,’ Victor said.

  ‘We all should,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll drive you h
ome.’

  ‘I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘It’s no problem.’

  ‘Thank you. But it’s fine.’ They ducked out on to the street, blue and cold and clear in the first light. He walked with her down to the quays. He stuck up his hand and a taxi stopped immediately.

  ‘Thank you for that. It was fun.’

  ‘Maybe again,’ he said. ‘Some time. Or something else?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the mouth, then got in the car.

  ‘I don’t have your number,’ Victor said through the window.

  ‘I’ll come to you,’ she said. ‘I’ll call in.’

  ‘You’ll have to,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything else.’

  The taxi moved off. She waved at him once, and then was gone. Victor walked back towards the car-park, the taste of her lipstick on his mouth, a lingering smell of her perfume on his skin.

  24

  In the daytime Marcin moved like a ghost around the house, skin grey, eyes sunken, barely there, barely visible, while Basil and Andrzej and Artur were out at work. And while they drank in the living room together, like citizens of the real world, Artur with his newly shaved head bending to fit in, Marcin was brushing his teeth upstairs getting ready for work. The others all headed off every morning together in a car to build new estates in Kildare and Meath and west Wicklow while Marcin came home to sleep. On the weekends Artur went to two-day house parties with people he’d met through work. Marcin worked weekends, and when his days off came, all he wanted to do was sleep.

  He got a couple of extra shifts and worked two weeks without a night off. When he got paid he bought himself a Herald and went looking for a place. He found one, a room at the top of an old house divided into flats, that was not far from his work and just about affordable. He told Artur when he got back that night.

  ‘It makes sense,’ Artur said. ‘I mean, it’s been good having you here but it’s the wrong side of town for you. You’ll be better off on your own.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And we’ll still meet up.’

  ‘Of course. Maybe without the boys. I’m going to miss them.’

  Artur smiled. ‘They were beginning to come around to you, I think.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Marcin said.

  ‘Not really. I thought you’d know that was a joke.’

  ‘I did,’ Marcin said. ‘But anyway. We’ll go for drinks.’

  ‘When you get off nights,’ Artur said.

  ‘Maybe, yeah. It’s okay for now.’

  ‘It’ll kill you,’ Artur said. ‘Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I’ll find something else. I just have to get a bit of money together.’

  ‘I could see if we need anyone,’ Artur said. ‘If you wanted.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Marcin said. They smiled at each other, both aware of the reality that existed between them now but knowing it would be easier if they pretended not to be.

  He had a single bed, a built-in wardrobe, cooker, counter and sink. The first day he came back to it after working he climbed the stairs, one floor too many, and at the top collapsed on to the bed. His dreams were guided by the things that happened in the house during the day, the comings and goings, the phone calls and the loud, African conversations in the hallway four floors below. The cooking smells that came up to him and the whirling, grinding flush of the communal shower and toilet not far from his head through plasterboard walls. He woke disoriented, exhausted from living the life of the house. The water in the shower was cold and he didn’t have the right coin for the meter. When he turned on the light in his room to get dressed for work, the bulb flashed and squeaked and went out with a pop.

  He got dressed in the dark, then went downstairs to go to work, every step bringing him lower. The handwritten signs in the hallway, telling him to close the door properly and not to put the bins out early and to leave messages attached to the cork-board, which was there for that specific purpose, did not improve his mood.

  But walking home along the canal the following morning, after a quiet night, he felt there might be hope. That when he got a bit ahead of himself and had sent some money home, put aside a bit for comfort, he could start thinking about getting another job. Something maybe working among the people who marched in their droves north and south along the routes into town and out to offices while he walked steadily across their path heading west. Some day soon he would walk along this path, heading home after a long night but knowing he would not be going back to the hotel, and that thought was enough to sustain him. Behind him as he walked he heard a siren, faint but getting louder. When he turned he saw it was three swans flying above the water having just taken off, their wings wheezing as they strained to gain height. They flew over him in formation, necks straining forward like runners at the tape as he watched, mouth open, with the rising sun on his back.

  25

  Dessie walked into the kitchen just before seven.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Anne said.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to get back myself.’

  He sat at the table and lit a cigarette. She was slicing vegetables at the sink and putting them into a small pot.

  ‘And where’s Yvonne?’ he asked.

  ‘In town. Won’t be back. She went out after college with a few of them.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Do you want some of this? I can put another one on for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Pork.’

  ‘Yeah. Please. Maybe two.’

  She put food in front of him ten minutes later and sat across from him to eat.

  ‘All right day?’ he asked her.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Did you go in to see your mother?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And how was she?’

  ‘The same.’

  Silence. If there was anything for him to say he would have said it, but he was frozen by the knowledge that the conversation would only go one way.

  ‘How about you?’ she asked him.

  ‘Oh. Driving in traffic. Going places to pick up things that weren’t where they were supposed to be. Phone ringing every five minutes.’ He stopped. ‘It wasn’t so bad. He was in meetings most of the day.’

  She looked at him. Say anything, he thought. Just not that, not now.

  ‘Nice to have you here for dinner,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d be alone.’

  ‘Yes. Makes a change. This is good,’ he said, pointing at his plate.

  ‘It’s nothing much.’

  ‘It’s the best thing I’ve had today.’

  ‘You can relax tonight, anyway.’ She was smiling at him. He tried to smile back but couldn’t.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not tonight.’

  She sat still, stopped chewing for a moment. ‘Out again? Again?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m not going to say it,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ he said, not sure if he meant it to hurt or to defuse the situation.

  ‘Please,’ she said then. ‘Will you just look?’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to start?’

  ‘Anything will do. I don’t care. We don’t need that much.’

  ‘This much. We need all of this. Yvonne needs everything she gets. She could use more.’

  ‘For all that you do it’s not enough,’ she said. ‘Without you, what do you think would happen to him? Do you know how much he’d have to pay to get what you give him?’

  ‘Do you know what he gives me? By the time you add it all up?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Dessie. But I’d rather have less for you to be doing a proper job. Not all envelopes, fifties here, hundreds there. Not to have you out working all the hours God sends and you never being here.’

  ‘It’s a mercy,’ he said, standing up. The cruelty could come now for both of them if they let it. He would regret it soon, even two minutes later
when he was getting into the car he would be sorry, but that knowledge wouldn’t be enough to stop him now.

  26

  The girl was older this time. She’d told him she was twenty-five but she could have been ten years more than that. She was English, some accent that reminded him of a soap opera – grey light, tight rooms, conversation in pubs. Bleached blonde, solid, curvy. There was very little talk and very little hurry. He had two hours and she said she would make them the best of his life. Something he would always remember. It was sales patter but he liked the ambition of it. She stripped naked slowly in front of him, pressed her stomach against his face and placed his hands on her arse.

  ‘Feel that,’ she said.

  ‘I feel it. Kneel down,’ he told her. She knelt and rubbed her face against his crotch.

  ‘Do it,’ he said, and she undid his belt, unbuttoned his trousers. He felt the cool of her hand, slightly rough, against his cock, and then the warmth of her mouth as he lay back and looked at the ceiling. He needed this one. It wasn’t the weeks where he’d been busy or stressed that really built it up in him. It was the slower ones. When he was waiting for something to happen, when he had time to wonder about what was coming. Failure. Exposure. Mockery. These were the things that reared up in front of him when he had time. In the past he’d travelled out to hotels in Greystones or Navan for meetings that didn’t exist just to fill in those days. Spend your life the way he did and anyone would need this. He sighed at the ceiling above him. A deep exhalation to clear his mind and get back to where he should be.

  ‘All right?’ she asked. ‘Should I stop?’

  ‘Keep going,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you when you can stop.’

  His hands rested against the tiled wall of the shower. There was a numbness around his groin and a jittery thrill still pulsing in his stomach. A neutral emptiness – freedom from feeling, a new start, another day. The water battered against his head. If the time came that he wasn’t able for this any more he would still like to come here just to take a shower, to be beaten and pummelled by endless jets of hot water with nobody banging on the door, nobody talking to him or asking him things. He checked himself in the mirror, turned around twice, looking for bruises, marks, swellings. There was nothing. He got dressed in the room, straightened the bed and put the pillows back in place. On his hands and knees he checked the floor, under the bed, the chairs, the desk. All clear. He would walk out, and by the time he got home there would be no trace that he had ever been here. He put his tie on and texted Dessie. When he got the reply he left the room, closing the door gently behind him.