(2012) Paris Trance

by Geoff Dyer

  Luke pissed and then washed his penis in the basin while Nicole sat on the toilet. He touched her head and left the bathroom. It was raining harder. He opened the door to the balcony, startled by the noise of the rain. They lay in bed, listening to the rain, watching it pour past, angling in and bouncing off the floor of the balcony. Lights across the road were blurs and streaks.

  ‘Did you like that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me in your arse.’

  ‘Yes. You’re so tender, Lukey. You were in my core. Is that the word?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was, I don’t know, primitive.’

  ‘Had you done it before?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes. Have you? No, don’t tell me. If you have I don’t want to know.’ She turned away. Then she faced him again and said, ‘I ask you something else instead.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘What is it you want to do, Luke?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘With your life.’

  ‘I’m doing it.’

  ‘Ultimately.’

  ‘Ultimately I want to keep on doing it. Keep on living it. My life, I mean. You just said I was in your core, yes? Well, I feel the same. That I’m close to the centre, the core, of my life.’

  ‘What about work?’

  ‘As in a career?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to spend the rest of my life working five days a week at the warehouse.’

  ‘What would you like to do instead?’

  ‘I’d like to go part-time.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘I’d like to retire.’

  ‘You’re strange, Luke. When I first saw you, at passage Thiéré. I thought . . . There was such yearning in you.’

  ‘I was yearning for you.’

  ‘No, it was more. I see it in you still. It’s part of you. It is you. And then in other ways you seem almost not to want anything, not to care.’

  ‘I care about you. And I really want a beer. I’m yearning for one.’ Luke walked over to the fridge and opened the door. ‘Actually,’ he said, rummaging around for a beer, ‘I yearn to be exactly where I am now.’ Nicole said nothing. Luke turned and found she was gone. The room was full of the hiss of rain. He walked by the bed and peeked round the door of the balcony. She was leaning with her back against the balcony rail, the rain flooding over her. Her hair was soaking black over her shoulders. Her eyes were closed. The rain was falling so hard that it must have been on the brink of hurting. Luke watched the ricochets and darts of rain like electrical charges leaping around her.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him.

  Ahmed turned up for work on Monday with a broken nose and a black eye. He looked like he’d been in a fight. He had been in a fight – or at least he’d been on the receiving end of one. He and Sally had left the club together. She had to get up early the next day and had taken a taxi home. Ahmed had begun walking. There was never any trouble in clubs and Ahmed had carried that safe, friendly atmosphere out into the street with him. It was late, there was hardly anyone around. A guy asked him the time. Ahmed said he didn’t have a watch. The guy punched him in the face. The blow knocked Ahmed to the floor. He felt a couple of kicks in the ribs and the side of the head but was able to scramble to his feet and run. The guy who’d hit him didn’t bother giving chase. Ahmed walked straight to the hospital and stayed there till nine in the morning, getting his cuts stitched, having X-rays.

  ‘Why didn’t you telephone?’ said Luke.

  ‘It was too late.’

  ‘Too late?’

  ‘And I was sort of embarrassed. Sunday I slept almost all day. I called Sally and she came over.’

  Lazare said Ahmed could go home, he’d pay him for the day anyway. Ahmed preferred to work. He didn’t want to sit at home moping about what had happened. Lazare was in excellent spirits: a consignment sent to Marseille had gone missing so he was able to spend the whole morning calling people up and abusing them. When I went into the office I heard him use the word ‘cocksucker’, a sure sign that he was enjoying himself.

  In the afternoon Luke went out for ten minutes and returned with a box of Arab cakes.

  ‘For everyone,’ he said, ‘but make sure you leave some for Ahmed since he’s not capable of fending for himself . . .’

  Sahra called Alex before he had a chance to phone her, on Monday night. His heart leaped when he heard her voice.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ he said. ‘What did you do yesterday?’

  ‘Sunday? Oh, I didn’t leave the apartment. The Day That Wasn’t Even A Day. What about you?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Maybe the same.’

  ‘There’s a party,’ said Sahra. ‘On Friday. Would you like to go?

  ‘Sure. Yes.’

  ‘It’s quite a smart party. We’ll have to dress up – you’ll have to dress up.’

  ‘Great. I love to dress up.’

  ‘And Nicole and Luke. Do you want to ask them as well?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘Is that your idea of a conversation: “Yes, sure?”’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ said Alex, glad at the chance to sound laconic.

  ‘See you Friday then,’ she said – and hung up.

  Nicole was still getting ready when Luke called for her. He was wearing his suit.

  ‘I’ve never seen you look so smart,’ said Nicole, kissing him. ‘You look so . . .’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So manly.’

  ‘What do I normally look like?’ he said, watching her leave the room.

  ‘I’m not quite ready,’ Nicole called back. ‘Put a record on.’

  She tried on various outfits but was happy with none of them (Luke liked them all). Eventually she tried on a sleeveless dress, pale yellow, short.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You could make a dead man come,’ said Luke.

  ‘Always charming,’ said Nicole, and disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out she had made up her eyes and put on lipstick.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Why are you looking like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’ve lost a pound and found a flyover or whatever that stupid English expression is.’

  ‘Lost a fiver and found a pound,’ said Luke, grinning.

  ‘Something must be wrong if you correct my English. What is it?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never seen you wear make-up before.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I think you look nicer without it.’

  ‘What if I want to wear it?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So, are we ready?’ She picked up her bag, her keys, a tube of mints.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why don’t you want me to wear make-up?’

  ‘Because you look so much nicer without it.’

  ‘You just don’t want other men to fancy me.’

  ‘Actually, like most men, I like it when other men fancy the woman I am with. As it happens, nobody could fancy you with all that shit on your face.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You look like a doll. I hardly recognize you.’

  ‘I don’t tell you how to dress, or how to look.’

  ‘If you did I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I mind you telling me.’

  ‘I just hate make-up. Lipstick makes me want to throw up. I’ve never seen you wearing make-up before so I was shocked. The only people who need to wear make-up are people with something wrong with them.’

  ‘You should wear it then, you bloody fucker!’

  Luke laughed: Nicole rarely swore and never sounded convincing when she did. She threw her bag at his face. He ducked. The bag hit the wall behind him. Nicole strode into the bathroom. Luke picked up the bag and its scattered contents, waited. A few minutes later she came out of the bathroom with no trace of make-up to be seen.

  �
��You look beautiful,’ said Luke. He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her.

  ‘I hate lipstick too,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just did.’

  ‘Does that count as our first quarrel?’

  ‘I suppose. Even though we were quarrelling about something we agreed on.’

  ‘So, you’re a temper-loser rather than a sulker.’

  ‘What is sulking?’

  ‘You know, after you’ve quarrelled you refuse to speak for ages.’

  ‘Oh yes, I hate sulking. Life is too long for that.’

  ‘Do you mean too short?’

  ‘No, too long.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Luke, hugging her. ‘But we should get a move on. We’re meant to meet Alex and Sahra in ten minutes.’

  The four of them arrived at the party at the perfect time: just late enough to make them wish they had arrived earlier. Sahra had been invited by the husband whose wife was using her birthday as a chance to exhibit her paintings: large, skin-coloured nudes of her husband. In the flesh, the husband was clothed in a white shirt, patterned waistcoat and dark trousers. He helped Sahra off with her coat. She was wearing black jeans and a white, sleeveless blouse. It was the first time Alex had seen her arms. The wife, the artist, was wearing a shimmery top and an ankle-length greenish skirt with a long slit up one leg. It was an outfit that declared a mature understanding of parties, of the need to lend the evening a slight erotic frisson which, at around midnight, would give way to a franker, tipsy flirtatiousness. It was the perfect outfit for a hostess. Alex and Luke handed over shopping bags full of wine and beer. In return the husband poured glasses of champagne. It was amazing champagne. Luke helped himself to a beer. The bell went again and the husband left them to toast his wife who made the four of them feel as welcome as if they had all been invited. She introduced Sahra and Alex to a painter who was also a writer and then went off to accept gifts from the latest arrivals. They moved into the main room, stood near a piano, listening to the painter who was also a writer talk about painting and writing. There were about forty people in the room and except for the walls which were lined with paintings of the naked husband, it did not appear crowded. The bell to the apartment was ringing frequently. Everyone was drinking champagne except Luke who preferred canned drinks, beer essentially. In the kitchen a table was loaded with food, red serviettes and plates. Having finished his first glass of champagne, Alex, as hungry as he was thirsty, loaded tabbouleh and other salads on to a plate. Aware of a desire to hang, puppy-like, around Sahra, he made a special effort to do the opposite, introducing himself to strangers, levering these introductions into conversations that gradually took him away from her. Every time he looked back she was talking to someone else. Nicole came and stood by him, complimented him on his suit, asked how it was going.

  ‘The party?’

  ‘No. Sahra.’

  ‘Who knows. What do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you missed an important chance when we arrived.’

  ‘Really? What chance?’

  ‘You could have helped her off with her coat.’

  ‘That kind of thing always seems a bit too attentive, too gallant.’

  ‘No. You don’t understand. Helping a woman with her coat is a perfect, formal way of establishing some kind of physical intimacy.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s right! I’ve never thought of that before. I’ll help her on with it at the end.’

  ‘That might be even better. Helping her on with her coat is a little more formal. Helping her take off her coat might be a bit too – a bit too like undressing her.’

  ‘Shit, I wish I had helped her off with it!’ laughed Alex. ‘Now I can’t wait for the party to end so that I can help her on with her coat.’ When in pursuit of a woman, Alex thought, your friend’s girlfriend will always be your best co-conspirator. Nicole took a sip of wine and immediately began coughing, spluttering.

  ‘It went down the wrong throat,’ she said, her eyes suddenly wet with tears.

  In another corner of the room a grinning German passed Luke a joint.

  ‘Does it have tobacco in it?’ he asked. The guy thought it did. Luke said he would pass. He also declined the offer of champagne when a bottle was angled towards him. He saw Nicole leave Alex’s side and make her way to him across the room. A few moments later he saw Sahra touch Alex on the shoulder.

  ‘Are you ignoring me?’ she said.

  ‘Hi. No. How are you? I was . . .’

  ‘Looking at that woman’s stomach.’

  ‘Yes, I was. There’s no denying it.’ When Nicole had moved away he’d found himself doing exactly that: contemplating the bare stomach of a woman standing a few feet away from him.

  ‘Do you like that? The ring through her navel?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I have one like that.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘But not in the same place.’ Embarrassingly, Alex was sure he was blushing. He felt hot. ‘You’re supposed to ask where,’ said Sahra. Alex took a gulp of champagne but there was nothing left in his glass.

  ‘Where?’ he said, sure that the next word he was going to hear would be ‘nipple’ or ‘clitoris’.

  Sahra shook her head: ‘Joking. And you’re blushing.’

  A woman with long Spanish hair sang a couple of songs, accompanied by two men who played guitars. The guitarists were grey-haired, neatly dressed in sports jackets and ties. Luke loved this tradition – and anything he loved automatically became part of some ‘tradition’ or other – of the soberly dressed guitarist in polished shoes revealing a slight gap of pale flesh between turn-up and sock. In the instrumental break the guitarists sparred with each other before the singer returned for the last verse of the song. It wasn’t exactly flamenco but it appealed to the spirit of flamenco. Sahra translated for Alex who listened intently. The first song was about separation, parting and blood. The second was about betrayal, faithlessness and blood. The third was a mixture of the preceding two. There were no songs about reconciliations, meetings and returns. When the last song had finished the two guitarists shook hands and the singer kissed them both and everyone applauded. Later a woman in a white blouse read out some poetry that turned out to have been by Verlaine. More joints were smoked. Luke was stoned. The music on the stereo was jazz.

  ‘Too jazzy,’ said Sahra. ‘I hate jazzy jazz. The more like jazz it is the less I like it.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Alex.

  ‘Der-iv-ative! der-iv-ative!’ sang Sahra, syncopating the word, holding out her glass to a woman pouring champagne. People danced a little to the jazzy jazz and then the music changed and they started dancing to rock ’n’ roll.

  Taking the opportunity to start airing preferences of his own Alex said he hated rock ’n’ roll – but this particular preference was lost on Sahra: Jean-Paul had arrived, had walked straight over to her. They kissed, began talking, leaving Alex with only his drink for company. He found Luke who was grumbling about the music: he wanted to dance but the music, he claimed, was ‘undanceable’.

  ‘I’ve actually got a tape with me. Maybe I can seize control of the stereo,’ he said.

  ‘That might not be such a good idea, Luke.’

  ‘You’re probably right. But it’s a party with no clear musical policy,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get another drink.’

  ‘Jean-Paul’s arrived.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘That guy who was with Sahra at the Petit Centre.’

  ‘The guy she was with at the Petit Centre?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I just said,’ said Alex. ‘They’re over there. Look.’

  They were laughing together. Sahra had her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘You may as well leave now to avoid further humiliation,’ said Luke. Sahra looked over their way, Jean-Paul too. They came
over. Sahra re-introduced them. Jean-Paul was formal, friendly in a not so friendly way. He wasn’t sure exactly when they had met.

  ‘Au Petit Centre,’ said Alex.

  ‘Ah, le Petit Centre,’ said Jean-Paul, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Yes, the Petit Centre,’ said Luke. Sahra left the three of them together. Luke did most of the talking. After a few minutes Jean-Paul excused himself. Luke and Alex watched him cross the room, heading towards Sahra.

  ‘I’d like to fight him,’ said Alex.

  ‘Sure, champ.’

  ‘Smash his face in.’

  ‘Break his nose.’

  ‘Bust up his kidneys.’

  ‘Make him piss blood.’

  ‘Kick fuck out of him.’

  ‘Fuck him up bad.’

  ‘Hurt him.’

  ‘Hurt him and fuck up his face. That’s it, champ,’ said Luke. ‘Forget it, champ. Look at him. He’s finished.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Sure. It’s over between them. Probably nothing even started. And now even that nothing is over with. He’s out of the loop. He is out of the fuckin’ loop, man. OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Now I’m going to get a drink.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Hey champ. You’re OK yeah?’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘You sure you’re OK, champ?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ Alex stayed where he was. Jean-Paul was talking to a guy Alex didn’t know and Sahra was dancing with someone else he didn’t know. After three indifferent songs, ‘Get Back’ by the Beatles came on and Sahra stopped dancing and went over to Nicole. Alex saw Luke on his own and the four friends segregated themselves by sex. The two pairs could see each other talking. More exactly, the men leaned against the wall, wearing their manly suits, saying nothing, watching the women talk. Nicole had her hand on Sahra’s arm. Luke and Alex could not hear what they were saying but they saw them giggling.

  ‘Man, what are those bitches talking about?’ said Luke. Seeing the men watching them Sahra whispered to Nicole who then glanced at Luke, held up her hand, thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart, before they both doubled up laughing. Luke mimed a sardonic belly laugh.

  ‘Right, we’ll show them,’ he said to Alex. ‘We’re going to have a conversation about the vampire film I saw on TV a few nights ago.’