by Geoff Dyer
‘What about werewolf films? The way the escalation of terror is always indicated not by atrocity but lexicographically, by consulting a dictionary. An old, heavy dictionary. A dictionary of the arcane. “Lycanthropy: here we are . . .”’
‘That’s a werewolf conversation. I’m talking about a vampire conversation. Talking about trying to make sense of that convention whereby the traveller is on his way to Castle Dracula.’
‘Wind, wolves, rain, lightning. The coachman lashing the horses,’ said Alex, getting in the groove.
‘And after lashing the horses the coachman sets down the traveller at an inn—’
‘A lonely inn.’
‘Called something like The-Creaky-Sign-Blowing-In-The-Storm-Arms and everyone in the pub turns hostile when he tells them where he’s going. A lightning flash fills the window at this point, obviously. But why, instead of explaining to him that he’d be better off going somewhere else, why do they suddenly turn all sullen and virtually show him the door? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It’s because they realize the whole cycle is about to start all over again,’ said Alex. He saw Nicole put her glass neatly on a table and walk down the corridor. There was no sign of Jean-Paul but another man came over and began talking to Sahra.
‘But if they just let him stay a couple of nights till the storm died down and he then got the coach back to England, to his fiancée, everything would be fine. From time to time he could send them a postcard, thanking them for their hospitality. I would prefer that to the whole dismal bit about Dracula. Basically by the time he gets to Castle Dracula it’s all pretty well downhill. What I like is the cosiness that the prospect of horror builds up.’
‘You wouldn’t get that cosiness without the horror.’
‘Just the prospect of horror would do. I’d happily sit through two hours of jovial scenes in a Transylvanian pub. Culminating with him stepping outside into the storm-washed landscape, nursing a killer hangover, squinting at the terrible damage outside: uprooted trees, broken branches, omens of an obscure catastrophe narrowly averted. And there, in the background, in plain view, framed by the blue sky: the castle. What do you think?’
‘I think I’m dying for a piss,’ said Alex.
He went into the bathroom just as Nicole came out. She smiled at him, a little hurriedly. As he locked himself into the bathroom, Alex understood why: the smell of shit was heavy in the air. Probably her shit smelled just as bad as a man’s but in this context – an expensive bathroom with gleaming mirrors and towels of hotel whiteness – it mixed with the strawberry scents of oils and lotions in a way that, as Alex pissed into the white bowl in which no trace of excrement could be seen, seemed specifically feminine, not unpleasant, almost exotic.
The other three had all gone out on to the balcony. Alex joined them. An apartment opposite was filled with the blue lurch of television. It had started raining. Luke and Nicole put their arms around each other, alerting Alex to the way that he was not at liberty to put his arm around Sahra. The music changed: a track Nicole liked. She led Luke back into the party to dance, leaving Sahra and Alex alone. We are on our own on the balcony, Alex said to himself. He thought about trying to kiss Sahra but was aware of the rancid dryness the champagne had left in his mouth. She had been drinking champagne too, but she had also been chewing gum which – if advertisements were anything to go by – had rendered her mouth fresh and kissable. On the one hand the thought of her gum-fresh mouth made him want to kiss her, on the other it made him still more conscious of the parched sourness, the unkissability of his own mouth. He took a gulp of beer. Sahra was leaning with her forearms on the balcony rail, a glass held loosely between her fingers, staring through the rain. Alex was on the brink of kissing her – on the brink, rather, of plucking up the courage to do so – when the painter who was also a writer joined them on the balcony. He was carrying a bottle of champagne and filled Sahra’s empty glass with overflowing fizz that subsided almost to nothing. He was drunk but Sahra was adamant,
‘If you’re a painter you should just paint.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the painter who was also a writer.
‘There have been no painters who were good writers.’
Alex tried to think of one who was, but the painter who was also a writer beat him to it. ‘What about Van Gogh?’ he said. ‘His letters are superb, some of the greatest letters ever written.’
‘Yes,’ said Sahra. ‘But have you seen the paintings?’
That was the moment that Alex knew, without question, that he was in love with her. He suspected that the artist who was also a writer had fallen in love with her too: he rocked back on his feet, held out his hands – bottle in one, glass in the other – and called out to the street: ‘This woman: she is too much for me. Ha! Too much for the world.’ With that he headed back inside, chuckling, shaking his head and saying, ‘Too much’.
Rain fell out of the darkness, becoming purple as it passed through a belt of neon and then glowing yellow in the lights of cars whose wipers greeted it mechanically. Sahra held out her glass into the night, letting the rain bounce into it. Alex leaned on the balcony and looked down at the couples hurrying for shelter, disappearing beneath the red awnings of the café across the street. Sahra’s arm was shining wet, the glass filling with coloured sparks of rain. They stayed like that for several minutes, hearing the music behind them and the cars swathing by below. When there was half an inch of water in the glass she brought it to her lips and drank. Now he will kiss me, Sahra thought to herself, turning her face towards him, wiping rain from her lips. More people came on to the balcony, bringing bottles and laughter. Tossed out into the street, a cigarette butt fell like red tracer through the rain. An elderly couple appeared on one of the balconies opposite, watching the rain, waving back to the crowd of young people who greeted them noisily.
Sahra and Alex moved into the kitchen. Hummus-smeared plates were piled up on the draining board. On the table were the remains of a cake, and a bowl shaped like a lettuce leaf, full of grapes and stalks. The music in the living room had changed: dance music, louder than anything else that had been played. Above the table was a framed poster for an exhibition of Diebenkorn paintings: pale blues, squares of yellow, the same yellow as Nicole’s dress.
‘Perhaps you’ll frame the poster I gave you,’ said Alex.
‘I hate frames,’ said Sahra. Then, after a pause: ‘Actually, I hate posters too.’
‘You’re on good form tonight, Sahra,’ said Alex. ‘Vehement.’ She was eating grapes, her back to the fridge which was covered with coloured magnetic letters. Over her shoulder, on the freezer compartment, Alex saw a blue B, an orange O, and a red R which had been used to clamp a postcard of a Scottish loch in place. Jean-Paul came into the kitchen.
‘Est-ce qu’il y a encore de la bière?’ he said, awkwardly. Sahra moved aside. The multi-coloured words CHEVAL and ELANE loomed into view as Jean-Paul opened the fridge door. After rooting around for a moment he emerged holding a bottle of German beer.
‘T’en veux, Sahra?’
‘Non merci Jean-Paul.’
‘Et toi, Alex?’
‘Oui, s’il en reste encore une, Jean-Paul,’ said Alex. Jean-Paul passed him a bottle but was unable to find an opener.
‘Laisse, je l’ouvre,’ said Alex. Jean-Paul passed him his bottle. Holding that bottle in one hand he used his own to flip the top off Jean-Paul’s. He did it as quickly as if he’d been opening a can of Coke. ‘Voilà,’ he said, passing the bottle to Jean-Paul.
‘Merci,’ said Jean-Paul, taking it.
‘Je t’en prie,’ said Alex, taking another beer out of the fridge and using that to lever open his own bottle.
Jean-Paul left the kitchen. ‘He is out of the fuckin’ loop,’ said Alex, suddenly exultant.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. A line from a song.’
‘Pretty impressive, I have to admit,’ said Sahra. ‘The bottle-opening, I mean. Where did you learn that?’
‘Zimbabwe.’
‘Zimbabwe?’
‘Well, a friend who’d been to Zimbabwe taught me. In London.’
‘I’ll just go to the bathroom,’ said Sahra.
‘Sure,’ said Alex, intent on scanning the letters on the fridge door. He couldn’t find a Y but by the time he saw Sahra coming back along the hall he had arranged the letters into a rough draft, hiding his preparatory work by taking up the position she had occupied, directly in front of the fridge.
Sahra poured a glass of water and helped herself to the last grapes. While she was doing this Alex nudged a few more letters into place, completing his little sentence and then moving aside. Sahra watched absently and then saw, in blue, orange and green letters:
I WANTO GO
BED WIV U.
She looked at Alex, who stood uncertainly, wondering if he should smile.
‘You must be a good Scrabble player,’ she said. The atmosphere in the kitchen had changed. Alex leaned on the fridge which began to rumble. Having drunk half of his bottle, Alex poured the rest into a glass and studied the foam. Was it just the fridge he was leaning against, or had he begun to shake very slightly?
‘Is it my turn now?’ said Sahra.
‘Sure.’
She slipped her finger into the orange O from GO and moved it into a space of its own. Alex watched, preparing to see her precede it with an N. Instead she reached down and added a K.
The volume of music in the living room diminished. Luke and Nicole came into the kitchen. Luke poured glasses of water which he and Nicole gulped down. They were sweating.
Luke whispered in Alex’s ear, ‘I’ve just seen Jean-Paul leave. Like I said: out of the mother-fuckin’ loop.’ Aloud, triumphant, he said, ‘I got my tape on!’
‘For about ten minutes,’ said Nicole. ‘Then they took it off.’
The party began to thin out. Nicole and Luke were ready to leave.
‘Shall we go soon?’ Alex said to Sahra when they were alone again.
‘Yes.’
‘And can I come home with you when we do go?’
‘No, not tonight.’
‘Why not?’
‘Now I’m tired and drunk.’
‘I want to,’ he said.
‘So do I.’
‘So?’
‘What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Will you be at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Would you like lunch?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
‘So I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? At about two.’
‘OK.’
‘Perfect. Now I’m going home,’ she said, kissing him briefly on the mouth and turning away.
‘I’ll get your coat,’ said Alex, remembering.
He was actually vaguely relieved that they were not going home together tonight. He had said – or at least he had written – that he wanted to go to bed with Sahra which was true but as yet he felt no lust for her. He wanted to go to bed with her so that he could begin lusting after her. He knew immediately when he fancied a woman but what did it mean, this fancying? It meant he wanted to sleep with her, become her lover, fuck her – but lust played no part in it. He only lusted after women he had already slept with. He lusted after his old girlfriends but Sahra, he looked at her and felt . . . what? A longing. An ache – not even an ache really, something more abstract than that, an abstract ache if that was possible: an absence. He felt incomplete, insubstantial without her. And yet, at the same time that there was no lust in this feeling, it contained the seed of what, once they had begun sleeping together, would become overwhelmingly focused on sex. He had to sleep with her so that he could begin wanting to sleep with her.
Sahra arrived at two o’clock on the dot, when Alex was still preparing the salad. He greeted her at the door, holding a bowl of lettuce, just washed.
‘Punctuality,’ he said. ‘A great quality in men and women alike.’ She kissed him on the mouth, exactly as she had the night before.
‘Let me take your coat,’ he said, standing behind her.
‘You’re very gallant all of a sudden. Thank you.’
‘You got home OK?’ said Alex, hanging up her coat.
‘No. I was raped and murdered actually. How about you?’
‘Are you in a bad mood?’
‘Just playing.’
‘I walked. Ten minutes, that’s all. I was quite drunk.’
‘Me too. Do you have a hangover?’ she asked.
‘No. Surprisingly. You?’
‘No. A little. We’re speaking in short sentences. Have you noticed?’
‘Yes. Why? I mean why do you think that is?’
‘Because we are due to go to bed together, probably.’
‘That was a longer sentence,’ said Alex. Sahra was standing at the window, leaning with her back to the light. She would have been silhouetted had the room not been filled with light from all sides. It poured in.
‘It’s a nice apartment,’ she said. ‘Very light.’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Of water, yes, please. Tap water is fine. And you have a lovely view.’
‘Almost down to the Bastille. Yes, I love it.’ The water took a while to run cool. He handed her a glass. She was wearing slacks. He supposed that’s what they would be called. Light, tight-fitting around the ankles: difficult to take off, he thought.
‘What is this music?’ she said. She was looking along his shelves, at his books and stuff. ‘Do you mind if I look?’
‘It’s the radio. No, you can look.’ He dried the forks and knives he had just washed, put plates and bowls on the table.
‘Why are you so tense?’ she said.
‘I’m not tense,’ he said. ‘Except now I am, of course. That was an unfair remark, guaranteed to make me tense. You said it because you’re tense.’
‘Well yes, I am tense. I thought I wouldn’t be but I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of this fucking sex thing, I suppose.’
‘We can eat if you like.’
‘Yes, I’m hungry. Actually I’m starving.’
They sat opposite each other. He broke the loaf of bread in half.
‘It was fun last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I enjoyed it.’
‘In spite of the music.’
‘The music was bad.’
‘Let’s eat. Add oil. Pepper, too, if you like. Then it’s just a question of chewing.’
The tomatoes were over-ripe, as Sahra liked them. The basil was dusty with its own scent. Deep Purple were on the radio. Alex turned up the volume, played a little air guitar. They duetted on the chorus:
‘Smoke on the water . . .
Fire in the sky.’
By the time the song had finished Sahra was mopping up the tomato-pipped residue of olive oil on her plate with a piece of bread. When there was nothing else to mop up she poured in some extra oil.
‘There’s more salad if you like.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Fruit?’
‘Do you have any?’
‘I can get some.’
‘Oh don’t bother going out. Shall I go?’
‘It’s no bother.’ He seemed eager to procure fruit.
‘What would you like? An orange?’
‘An apple would be great.’
‘I’ll get you one.’ Sahra followed him as he walked across to the open window.
‘Hey, Louis,’ he called down to a man working at the fruit stall across the street. ‘Passe moi une pomme. Je te paierai plus tard.’
‘Pour la demoiselle?’
‘Oui.’
Louis reached back, selected a good apple, held it up.
‘Celle-là va bien?’
‘Parfaite.’
Louis threw it up and Alex caught it in both hands. He gave the apple to Sahra and the thumbs-up t
o Louis. Sahra smiled down at him, waved.
‘Was that off the cuff or up the sleeve?’
‘Ideally I would have caught it in one hand.’
Sahra peeled her apple, quartered it, cut out the pips, handed Alex a piece. They munched noisily.
‘How is it?’
‘Quite good.’
‘Not crisp enough?’
‘Too crisp. I like soft apples. The sort they give to pigs.’
‘No one likes apples like that.’
‘That’s why they give them to the pigs. But I love them.’
After they had finished chewing Alex went to the bathroom. When I get out I must kiss her, he said to himself over and over. When he got out, she had gone. Then he looked over at the bed. She was under the duvet, making exaggerated snoring noises. He looked over at the chair to see if she had taken her clothes off. He saw her trousers and top, he wasn’t sure about her underwear.
‘Nice clean sheets,’ she said. The sheets were pulled up to her neck. Only her head was visible.
‘If we’re being absolutely frank I changed them specially.’ He wasn’t sure what to do.
‘You can get in too, if you like. It’s your bed, after all.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Except that would involve me taking off my clothes, in broad daylight. Crucially, I wouldn’t know whether to take my underpants off. Are you wearing your underwear?’ It would be inappropriate, he felt, to lift her clothes off the chair to check.
‘No.’
‘Basically, not to beat about the hedge, you’re naked.’ Disseminated by Luke, Nicole’s almost correct English expressions were becoming standard.
‘Yes,’ said Sahra.
‘I see. So that would involve me taking off all my clothes in broad daylight.’
‘Yes. And I’ll watch. To see how you cope. Like this I don’t feel so nervous. In fact I don’t feel nervous at all now. How about you?’
‘Oh I’m pretty nervous, yes. So I think first I’ll draw the blinds.’ He walked over to each window in turn, lowered the blinds and tilted them so that the walls and floor were lined with gold stripes: the kind of lighting effect seen in commercials. The large window was still open, the blinds clinked in the breeze. The atmosphere in the room thickened, as if the sky had suddenly become dense with rainclouds. Sahra watched Alex take off his T-shirt and toss it on to the chair where her clothes were piled. He removed his socks.