Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  A strange expression, go in for, he thought, as if it was a sport that you had to choose at school. He saw sex as just something that you wanted or didn’t and had never considered it to be an add-on option. An option to take up or not.

  ‘How old are you anyway?’

  ‘Thirty, nearly thirty-one.’

  ‘Oh, that makes a big difference.’

  A rare moment of sarcasm.

  ‘The ribs are delicious.’

  Relieved that he had something that consumed him fully, hands, mouth, and napkin. The works. Fully occupied and he didn’t feel the embarrassment of having to make conversation.

  ‘Married, are you?’

  She asked dispassionately.

  Now forking a small amount of the squab onto the lettuce and wrapping it into a roll, the plum sauce having lined the lettuce. So that’s how it’s done; he felt a moment of stupidity, but small by comparison to how stupid he had felt for most of the evening.

  ‘Yes, but separated, the child turned out not to be mine. Not that it affects my love for him. He’s called Jacob, he’s two, nearly three really.’

  Why is everything a ‘nearly’ thought Ever.

  ‘Well it’s not the love, just the sense of connection I suppose, well, incorrectly perhaps, really, the sense of ownership, and I know, before you correct me, you don’t own your kids.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  She interrupted.

  ‘I don’t have any. And your father, what about him?’

  ‘The person I have loved more than anything in the world.’

  He could see the invitation to carry on in her look.

  ‘I watched him destroy himself slowly over a period of years. His creativity was, I suppose, his life, the thing that motored him, and it just left him. Disappointment and pain, well an agony, just took him.’

  The invitation remained.

  ‘It happened after this man bought all his work and then did nothing with them, you know, the paintings. He just warehoused them, waiting to see if he ever broke. You know, became something.’

  ‘I know.’

  She interrupted the invitation, with a mild annoyance.

  ‘I understand what you are saying.’

  ‘It took away his will.’

  Ever continued.

  ‘I think in a way watching his heart break broke mine. My brain anyway, well that’s not entirely true, and, well, this will probably get me kicked out of the house, but I have had a lot of mental problems, well, issues, and I don’t blame him or anything, but I have been filled with a desire, a real burn, to correct what I thought, what I think, is wrong.’

  ‘Why are you blaming someone who paid good money for his work and afforded him some kind of lifestyle, I am assuming, anyway?’

  Ever had often tortured his way around this one; he didn’t have to think to reply.

  ‘It was the fact that nothing sold.’

  Ever paused, looking at the ice in his glass, it was in the last throes of its usefulness. The ice was melting. It must be so relieved, he thought, its job was nearly done, flowing into a liquid peace. Lomita was wating for his eyes to raise. When they did it took Ever no time for his pain to return.

  ‘Well…’

  He started with little confidence knowing that he was going to be exposed in his argument.

  ‘I thought, as he did, that nothing had sold but then I found out that over half of the paintings sold eight years ago.’

  ‘Well that’s…’

  ‘No hear me out, sorry, please.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you. Somehow that makes it all worse. Because he never knew, that’s the point, he never got any money, which apparently he wasn’t entitled to… anyway…’

  Ever swirled the glass to break down the last fractures of ice. There was a gentle tinkle from the glass.

  ‘So that is almost worse to me, that is just cruel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not telling him anything basically, so he was none the wiser.’

  ‘But is that what stopped him painting?’

  ‘He lost his belief, yes, his confidence in his talent.’

  ‘Carmen Herrera is in her hundreds and still painting and she didn’t get her first show till she was in her fifties or sixties; she just gets up and does it every day. That is belief, that is belief in self. Not affected by outside forces, by approbation.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So maybe you’re blaming the wrong man.’

  This sat like a lit, unexploded firework; no one sure whether to go near it again.

  There would have been time to cook potatoes in the bonfire.

  ‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’

  Ever acknowledged the hiatus.

  ‘I really am, I’d only just found this out, about the sale, you know, when…’

  ‘When you roped me in on all this.’

  Lomita’s statement was a flatline of emotion. The confusion and contortion were disconcerting, he was evidently spongeing up all the pain.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much did they sell for?’

  ‘They have no legal requirement to tell me, apparently. Discretion was the word used.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But promises were made that were broken and that to me seems wrong. Anyway what I’m saying is that, what happened to those paintings is what finished him. Sold, warehoused or whatever. The way he was treated. It broke him. Maybe I am fucked up, I don’t know, I am confused, I know, but I think that it will, in some way, bring him a peace.’

  Lomita said nothing, not asking the question, waiting for the mop up of pain to stop.

  ‘Then I can pray to him at night and tell him it’s all OK.’

  This created another silence in the room.

  ‘Then he can rest.’

  Lomita didn’t want any more silence.

  ‘Well, obviously, there is “discretion” because if the paintings went for a lot of money or very little they wouldn’t want the sale price to have any effect either way if they were taken to auction. They’d want a clear shot, I guess. It seems logical to me. The less people know is always better. But it is possible they have stagnated since the purchase eight years ago, you know, the value just got stuck.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know or how do I know?’

  Ever nodded, not sure at what.

  ‘Because as much as I tried to ignore the business practices that went on around me in my previous life, I picked up a little.’

  Lomita smiled tantalizingly.

  ‘So I’ll ask you again: are you blaming the wrong man?’

  Ever’s food energy had dissipated, he sat back in his chair, in a slight slump, and downed the last of his ice-melt wine.

  Please don’t question me don’t make me confused I came here clear don’t change my course don’t belittle me with your knowledge it is all irrelevant I know what happened to my father you don’t don’t bring your objective uncaring analysis into my life. That was what he wanted to say. He didn’t, those thoughts were subsumed into the words:

  ‘I think I should go, I don’t feel too good, I am sorry to be an eat-and-runner. I was wrong, I leap to situations in my mind and take them to places they haven’t gone to in other people’s. I imagine people are feeling the same as me and that they – I am sorry. I am so sorry, I was wrong.’

  He stopped abruptly, finished with his attempt at explanation.

  ‘I have got the thing for you. Diazepam or lorazepam, both big downers, though highly addictive, so you can only have 5 mg.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Ever said, without pause for thought, fondly familiar with downers.

  ‘Whichever.’

  She wheeled herself away from the table, just as Manita came in with the duck.

  ‘Don’t worry, Manita, carry on, I am coming right back.’

  This, Ever had eaten before; the meat was shredded off the bone,
he knew to plum sauce the pancake and put a little cucumber and spring onion and then the duck. He was relieved to have that knowledge and knew it would be delicious. But first he poured himself another large glass of the white, dropped a slightly melted cluster of iceberg cubes into the glass and drank. And drank. What was he doing? The silence of the wheels on the polished floor could be heard as a smooth absence and she returned with a little purple pill. A half.

  ‘Diazepam, you’ll feel calmer in half an hour, don’t worry about mixing it with alcohol, it’s not going to hurt you, you just shouldn’t drive. But you can stay here.’

  Ever went quiet, groin quiet, at least.

  In acknowledgement of the obviosity of the male, Lomita quickly followed –

  ‘I have an en-suite guest bedroom, of course. You are more than welcome.’

  She smiled an ‘end to all that’ smile.

  ‘So basically what, after you have viewed these paintings, which I presume you have seen before anyway, do you want to do with them?’

  A very good point, as Ever could not tell her what his real desire was, even he considered it to be tinged, to say the least, with an imbalance. A lack of sane proportion to the act committed.

  ‘Buy them? Own them? What, tell the guy he’s a schmuck? I can guarantee he already knows that. Anybody with money knows that deep down, that’s why they’ve got the money, to cover it up. That’s why they worked so hard in the first place, and if they didn’t work hard and it just came to them, well—’

  She let the ‘well’ hang, as the conclusion to her statement didn’t demand a voice. It was obvious.

  He was preparing his second pancake, with the air velveting over him, the wine giving him a glow, feeling a little connection to the soul that he liked to connect with, but rarely did. She popped a bigger pill of a question.

  ‘You are not contemplating revenge, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He knew full well she knew.

  ‘On him, what’s his name again?’

  ‘I never told you. Ingmar Lorken.’

  ‘Oh my, yes, we’ve all heard of him.’

  ‘I don’t think so, not revenge.’

  He lied, with no conviction at all.

  She seemed to ignore this unconvincing denial.

  ‘What would you do? Hurt him? His family? He already feels totally unimportant – that’s why he collects things that are important.’

  The collector’s psychological profile. And then with the laugh, really coming from deep in her throat.

  ‘Or do you want to kill him? Complete his collection.’

  They both were laughing, that was his spontaneous reaction to her infectious noise. And for the first time the dinner relaxed, she poured more wine for herself, then stood for the first time that evening. In her stand she groaned.

  ‘My God, pain is a curse. Just getting a little cramp.’

  She walked slowly around the table. She was dressed in a long silk dressing gown of a wild pattern of flowers and birds. Dramatic. Ever thought that it was probably Hermès; that was the most expensive brand that came to mind.

  ‘Do you like it, my gown?’

  She did a little, delicate and slow twirl.

  ‘Pucci, fabulous eh? Made for me in 1969. I look after things, you see. Beautiful isn’t it?’

  It was. She completed her walk around the table, she came around behind him, rested her hands on his shoulders, lowered her head towards his, then draped her body like a shawl across his back and said, very quietly,

  ‘Do we like each other, truly? Do we trust each other, truly? I don’t do that easily and if you’re thinking about revenge, my sweet, I can tell you some things about revenge that may make you change your mind. That is, if your mind has both the capability and capacity to receive the information.’

  She smiled with affection. He was unable to see it, but sensed the warmth in the moment.

  ‘I just don’t know if we have reached any kind of point that I can tell you. I don’t tell anyone. So why you? Except I rarely like people. And I like you.’

  Ever was at his most immobile and silent. He could feel her breath, smell the wine and that perfume, that smell of hers that he had never smelt on anyone before. She kissed his cheek and moved back into her wheelchair.

  ‘My film, Christ, I said that to you, what was I on? My film. No, my sweet, we are not going to watch that.’

  The singular indicated more than just the existence of a solitary film in her life; she had picked out the word as if it were a mouldy fruit in a bowl.

  Ever was so confused by signals that were all different – one minute, please hold me as you say goodnight, next no interest in sex. Why did she let him be there? Had he been able to force his way in because of physical attraction? At first he’d thought she had a lonely miserable life, but now she appeared to be a sophisticated woman of the world. What did she want with him? Why ask him back for tea if it wasn’t a physical attraction, no that really is too stupid – too male. But what was he doing expecting her to help him, what could he offer in return? He supposed, no, he thought he knew, that it would be sex, but what was he doing implicating this woman in what he was intending to do, which was, essentially, murder in the first degree? Was he blaming the wrong man?

  He quietly out of the silence spoke.

  ‘I feel tired but I am OK to drive.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Was all that came from her, and on thanking her for dinner, he got up and walked to the door. She made no attempt to salvage whatever situation they were in, just said with a calm voice.

  ‘Drive carefully, my sweet.’

  *

  He closed the door, got into his car and felt his soul leave him.

  He was on his own again, lost with a crazy idea that obsessed him and a life he didn’t really want. His default position. His only gratitude at that moment was extended towards Lomita, who had the kindness to feed him and entertain him after he sent her a stupid, childish, drunken letter asking her to do what? God, please damn it all. He drove off very slowly, feeling heavy with the pill and wine. Disappointed in himself again, and feeling like the crazy boy who had to swing the broom. For what, Ever, why do you do what you do? Why do you want to?

  Twenty-seven times he wanted to swing the broom.

  It didn’t make a difference, the twenty-seven, he didn’t want it to, it had made no difference to his father.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The time was coming for him to be checked by the doctor.

  And he had forgotten to mention the Basquiat exhibition. Not that he gave a shit, but he did, he just wanted to meet Ingmar Lorken.

  He admired the turmoil that had been the short life of Jean-Michel Basquiat.

  He turned right onto Sunset.

  His slow concentrated crawl seemed to attract the attention of a woman who, at the lights, indicated to him that she would like a ride. Having felt his soul float away, so now more convinced of his lack of moral compass, he paid attention; she looked drunk, drugged, just out of it on some substance, he decided no, then she walked to his car and tried the door. That thing that happens to those sensing the adventure happened, he unlocked the door and she climbed in.

  ‘Just down Sunset if you can. If you would. Thanks. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  He had said nothing. And was not going to object to her smoking; you don’t pick up a girl and then impose the moral etiquette of no smoking.

  ‘Fine.’

  He muttered.

  ‘How far you going?’

  He thought of a cross street.

  ‘Highland.’

  ‘Thanks guy, I’m Mari.’

  ‘Hi.’

  He said, not offering a name.

  ‘Do you want me to blow you for the ride, and maybe a few bucks?’

  He gave this serious consideration.

  At the next lights he looked at her long and hard. Why not being his first thought.

  The roots had been growing out
so long they could no longer be called roots. She was about thirty-five. User of something hard. Smelt of perfume, strongly. Wore leggings. Tight top, small breasts, all covered with a fake leopard-print coat. Thin face, not unappealing, not much make-up. Teeth, there at least, if not pearly. Eyes – dark. Ethnicity – Caucasian. He could see no reason why not.

  ‘Sure, how much?’

  ‘Twenty, take me to Cahuenga and you can fuck me if you want. Another twenty.’

  Oh Christ it was getting worse.

  ‘No, a blow job is fine.’

  ‘OK, when we get to Cahuenga.’

  ‘Sure. OK.’

  They continued with her talking about her music, how her boyfriend was not supporting her and that she couldn’t get any gigs anymore. She rounded off,

  ‘Life is going pretty good otherwise though, you know, nothing to complain about.’

  My God, thought Ever, how positive is that. Sitting in a car offering to blow a stranger. And life was pretty good. It’s strange how strangers can get down to something as basic as sex without any circumnavigation when they want to. Yet in a relationship it becomes a major issue. They had reached Cahuenga.

  ‘Just pull down the street. Take a right.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Got the twenty?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She went to unzip his pants and leant over to grab his cock. He wasn’t sure if he was going to get hard, already feeling there wasn’t too much that was sexy about this.

  Then she vomited all over his lap.

  Christ.

  That was one thing that he could not cope with.

  Vomit.

  He thought of Clarissa and how he could never deal with Jacob being sick. It made him feel embarrassed at this predicament. As if they could see him. He grabbed the keys from the car and leapt out, screaming.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’

  She was wiping her mouth, insisting she was really sorry.

  ‘I know a place you can clean up.’

  She was saying.

  ‘Just near here.’

  He went around to her side and helped her out. The stench was making him retch. He dumped her on the side of the road. She put up no resistance and just tried to light another cigarette. He gave her a twenty-dollar bill anyway, U-turned and drove back to Havenhurst, retching the whole way, windows down, sticking his head out of the window. The car would never lose this smell.