(2012) Paris Trance

by Geoff Dyer

‘Though naturally I would prefer stockings to tights.’

  ‘Nothing if not predictable. See you later.’ She kissed him on the cheek and put on her new coat, the one she had bought in Belgrade.

  She was early for her appointment. The interviewer, her prospective employer, was late. His secretary made Nicole a coffee and said she could go through and wait in his office. She picked up the photo on his desk: wife and child, smiling, happy. She was surprised by how intensely she disliked this picture. It wasn’t the people in the photo she disliked: it was the executive convention of having such a picture on your desk. The daily presence of the photograph, its sheer obviousness, probably meant that the executive-husband became oblivious to it. Pictures like that didn’t help you to remember people, they helped you to forget them, and having one on your desk like this was a conventionally coded declaration of status: I am in a position to have framed snaps of my wife and children on my desk. And this advertisement, she suspected, was also a come-on. I have a wife and kids, the picture declared, therefore I do not try to sleep with my secretary or colleagues. But that statement somehow enhanced the chances of his being able to contradict it, to prove it wrong. By comparison the torn centrefolds, the oil-smeared nudes that mechanics stuck up on their workshop walls were images of felicity and integrity, faithfulness. She thought of the Polaroids she and Luke had taken: his face in her pubic hair, his swollen penis in her mouth, disappearing between the blur of her buttocks . . . If she became head of a company, she decided, these were the pictures she would have on her desk. Either that or the one of Luke when he was a little boy, in his cowboy hat. She was chuckling to herself when her prospective boss came in.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘Vous avez l’air tout guilleret.’

  ‘C’est à dire, oui, je suis en train de penser à un truc tellement drôle.’ She stood up, held out her hand. He was forty, handsome, smartly dressed, had kept himself in shape. She saw his eyes take stock of her, could almost see the thought bubble coming out of his head like in an American comic: ‘Well, get a load of this . . .’

  From that moment on it was obvious she was going to get the job.

  She started the following Monday, the day the coldest weather for fifty years swept into the city like an invading army. It was so cold that Nicole was on the brink of abandoning her bike – unheard of – and travelling to work on the Métro. The cold was unbelievable, exciting. Things stopped working. Trains became glued to the tracks. Streets were stained with the frozen piss of dogs. Soil froze hard as iron, iron became brittle. Fountains froze into meringues. News bulletins were given over almost entirely to discussing the weather (effectively, the news had been replaced by the weather). It was too cold to snow. Old people were urged to stay at home. The freezing winters of Chicago and Stalingrad were invoked constantly. Luke looked, aghast, at the electricity meter in the apartment, spinning round at the speed of a compact disc. He was better off at the warehouse, at Ice Station Zebra, as Alex had taken to calling it.

  Then the warm weather – the weather that was simply cold as opposed to glacial – returned and life settled into its drab winter norm. It drizzled the whole time, as if the sky were a pipe that had frozen, burst, thawed, and was now leaking over the city.

  At the beginning of March Sahra and Alex moved into a new apartment together. Alex’s sub-let had come to an end and Sahra’s place was barely large enough for her, let alone for both of them. They were getting desperate when they found the perfect apartment – at a far lower rent than they had expected. Since they were both foreigners and neither of them had salaried jobs, however, the landlord was reluctant to let it to them. Another couple were also interested and it was only by offering to pay six months’ rent, in advance, in cash, by the next morning, that Alex and Sahra were able to swing it. Luke and Nicole – who had to ask her new boss, Pierre, for an advance on her wages – lent them half the money and the rest they cobbled together with credit and bank cards.

  The apartment was over a watchmaker’s. Right outside their window was a large clock which kept perfect time. Across the road was a cinema, so near, Alex insisted, that it was possible to check the time on the clock, see that the film was about to start and still get to your seat without missing anything. It was a good cinema but, over the years, many of the letters used to display the films that were showing had been lost. Substitutes were used – W (upsidedown) for M, N (sideways) for Z – but Alex and Sahra suspected that the programme was determined, principally, by the availability of letters. It seemed a good omen: the contingent letters of the cinema echoed the message Alex had constructed on the door of the fridge.

  Nicole and Luke helped them move in and arrange the apartment (pride of place was given to Nicole’s catherine wheel light) but, for them, the big event in March was the arrival of Spunk. Nicole liked her new job and had settled quickly into the routine of going to an office. It brought an element of stability and purpose into her life with Luke, creating the conditions in which they could think about acting on one of their longest-held wishes: to get a dog. They both wanted a dog but neither could face the responsibilities of looking after it. They wanted a dog that didn’t smell, moult, eat or – heaven forbid – shit. No such breed existed. Then, in the aftermath of their worst quarrel, Luke found the perfect specimen.

  It was a Sunday. They had been cooking lunch together: curry. Nicole was wearing the sweater she had bought for him at Christmas. Luke loved seeing her in it. He picked up a jar of pickle by the lid. The jar crashed to the floor and smashed.

  ‘You know, one day I’m going to draw up a list of all the things you haven’t put the tops back on,’ Luke said as he began clearing up the mess. ‘Maybe even sub-divide it, for ease of classification, into jars – glass tins, I mean – pots, bottles and tubes. Under bottles, for example, we would have: olive oil, mineral water, shampoo et cetera. Under tubes, toothpaste . . .’

  ‘You can’t think of anything else that comes in a tube can you?’ said Nicole. She was leaning against the cooker.

  ‘Actually I can’t, but the general point still applies. Put a lid on it.’

  ‘Why don’t you pick things up properly? That only smashed because you picked it up by the lid.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what Nicole. Put a fucking lid on it.’

  ‘You put a fucking lid on it.’ She had still not got the hang of swearing convincingly in English.

  Luke kissed her. ‘You know, the things I love about you are absolutely the things that drive me out of my mind with irritation too. I don’t want you to put lids on things because I love the way you don’t put lids on things.’

  ‘But you wish I did put lids on things?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And it never occurs to you that I might be irritated by things you do?’

  ‘Actually, now you come to mention it, no. Are there?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The way you always splash in the bathroom, for example.’

  ‘When I’m pissing?’

  ‘No, when you’re washing. You splash everywhere. You don’t wash, you splash.’

  ‘To wash is to splash. To wash brackets verb: to splash water on one’s face. What’s that smell? Is something burning?’

  ‘I think so.’ She turned away from the cooker to check what was burning and Luke saw immediately that it was his sweater. In flames. He grabbed the washing bowl out of the sink and emptied the soapy water over her. Water and cutlery sloshed and clattered to the floor. They stared at each other. She was soaking. The kitchen floor was drenched. The curry they had been cooking was awash with grey suds.

  ‘You did that deliberately,’ she said.

  ‘You were on fire.’ It was true but he had thrown the water over her out of anger as well as alarm.

  ‘You didn’t need to do that.’ She was on the brink of tears.

  ‘You ruined my fucking sweater,’ Luke yelled, suddenly livid. ‘You ruin everything you touch.’

/>   ‘No. You do.’ She pushed him away. He gripped her arms.

  ‘You’re hurting me. Let go of me.’ He tightened his grip, dug his fingers into her arms as hard as he could.

  ‘You fucking bastard!’ She spat in his face, kicked at his shin. He let go of her arms and she grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand and clawed at his face with the other. It was agony. He felt like his scalp would come off in her hand. He yanked her hand free, shoved her away. She banged into the cooker and up-ended the frying pan of curry which slopped on to the already soaking floor. She grabbed the pan, threateningly, ludicrously, but by now the scene was too diluted by curry and washing-up water to sustain anger.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she said.

  ‘What I’ve done?’ said Luke. His face was burning where she had scratched him. His shin felt like it was broken. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ He moved towards her, hands raised as if in surrender, careful not to slip on the bilge-water floor.

  When they had cleaned up the kitchen Luke limped out for a walk. Nicole stayed at home. They were both stunned, exhausted by the sudden fury of the scene. They had quarrelled before but never as violently. It was like they had skipped three or four intervening stages – raised voices, heated arguments, recriminations, rows – and moved straight on to the fully fledged, all-out domestic riot. There was an element of novelty, of absurdity, to what had happened but they were both fearful that they had crashed through to that other dimension of domestic relationships where arguing and making up, yelling and apologising become the norm. Then the making up and apologising fall by the wayside. From there it is a small step to plate-smashing, hatred and attritional dependence.

  At the Bastille Luke saw a weary Indian selling balloons. In addition to silver, helium-filled hearts he had a lovely Dalmatian: knee high, smiling, with a tightly inflated tail. He even had a little bell tied round his neck with a pink ribbon.

  Nicole was sleeping when Luke got home. He lay on the floor and, using a broom, pushed the dog towards the bed. Nicole was awakened by the noise of the bell. She loved him immediately.

  ‘He’s the same one that followed us that night. The first time we went out.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Luke, sitting on the bed.

  ‘I knew he would turn up again.’ She touched his face. ‘Your face is all scratched. Does it hurt?’

  ‘It stings a bit.’

  ‘Is your leg OK?’

  ‘It’s broken but it doesn’t matter. What about your arms?’

  ‘They’re OK.’

  ‘You really do have a temper.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m the one that should be sorry Nic. I’m sorry. God, I feel like I’ve been dragged backwards through a Greek tragedy.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘That was some serious splashing back there in the kitchen wasn’t it?’ said Luke. Then he pointed at their new dog. ‘What shall we call him?’

  ‘Let’s call him Spunk,’ said Nicole who had developed a fondness for the crude English words she had learned from Luke.

  He was perfect. He stood by the bed waiting for them to wake up in the mornings. When they came home at night he was waiting by the door, always smiling, tail wagging. They would have taken him for walks but that would have seemed like an affectation and so he remained a house dog. Nicole bought a bowl for him. He was no trouble. In no time at all he acquired a personality of his own. They loved him.

  Alex was more sceptical. ‘That dog of yours,’ he said, ‘has got an inflated sense of his own importance.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Luke. They were due to play football. Alex had turned up for breakfast, as arranged, but Luke and Nicole were still in bed, drinking coffee. Spunk was by the side of the bed, eager, smiling. Alex was holding a bag of warm croissants.

  ‘The clocks went back today,’ said Nicole.

  ‘Forwards,’ said Luke.

  ‘So either I’m an hour early or an hour late,’ said Alex.

  ‘Early,’ said Nicole. ‘Which is nice. The coffee’s only just made. Have a cup.’ Alex fetched a plate for the croissants. He poured himself a coffee, sat at the end of the bed. Sun was streaming through the window. Their clothes were piled on the floor. A large mirror was propped against a wall. Nicole was wearing a white T-shirt, spooning jam on to a croissant. There were bruises on her arms.

  ‘Hmm. Fine jam,’ she said in an improbable English accent. She looked sleepy. Alex pictured her sitting dreamily at her desk in school, rubbing her eyes. Luke kissed the side of her head.

  ‘How many croissants did you bring, Alex?’ he said, finishing his first.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, plucking a second from the bag.

  ‘D’you often have breakfast in bed?’ said Alex.

  ‘Oh yes. You see, we do so like fine jam,’ said Nicole, spreading more on her croissant. A blob fell on the sheets and she began scraping it off.

  ‘Actually we never have breakfast in bed because I hate spillage. Today was an exception,’ said Luke, holding up both hands. ‘Look at this. I don’t know what to do with my hands. They’re greasy from the croissants so I don’t know where to put them. I can’t get out of bed and wash them because I haven’t got any clothes on and I can’t put my clothes on because I haven’t washed my hands and I don’t want to get greasy stickiness over my clothes.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Nicole said.

  ‘Make a run a for it,’ said Luke, climbing out of the bed and dashing, thin, naked, out of the room. Nicole was laughing. Alex was aware of a dryness in his throat. He was surprised that the mere fact of Nicole’s being in bed, a few feet from him, naked beneath her T-shirt, could generate such a tension.

  ‘What’s Sahra doing today?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing really. She’s going to call you, I think.’ He took a big gulp of coffee and looked at the window, the tray, the clothes in piles on the floor – everywhere but where he most wanted to. He glanced at the wall and saw her reflection in the mirror. She was looking away and he let his eyes rest on her image. He could see himself too, and then he saw Luke’s reflection coming into the edge of the frame, his hair wet. Alex looked over his shoulder, surprised to find that Luke was already by his side. In the mirror Luke saw Alex as he had been a few moments earlier, his eyes fixed on Nicole’s reflection.

  Alex stood up and took the tray over to the sink where he washed the cups and plates more thoroughly than was necessary. Luke sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on Spunk’s head, the other on Nicole’s shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing this morning?’

  ‘I’m sleepy. Maybe I’ll see Sahra.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ He kissed her on the mouth, her lips buttery.

  ‘Bye Alex,’ she said. ‘Have a good game.’

  ‘See you Nicole.’

  Luke and Alex walked to the station. Nothing they saw on the way there seemed worth mentioning. Alex said he was looking forward to the game. Luke too. A train pulled in as soon as they got to the platform. The carriage was empty and clean, new.

  ‘We’re going to be early,’ said Alex.

  ‘Yes.’

  They sat in clanging silence for a couple of stops. Then Alex said, ‘You know when you first came here, you were planning to write a book?’

  ‘Indeed I was.’

  ‘What was it going to be? A novel?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And what was it going to be about?’

  ‘Ah, I never gave that much thought.’

  ‘You had no idea what it was going to be about?’

  ‘It was going to be about . . . Well, that’s the funny thing. I suppose it would have been about the life we lead now. About you and Sahra and Nicole. About that house we stayed in over Christmas. It would have been about you and me and Nicole eating breakfast in our apartment. About our dog, Spunk. About you and I sitting on the Métro on our way to football . . .’

  ‘Having this conversation?’


  ‘Yes. Reflecting on things. So to speak.’

  ‘And why didn’t you write it?’

  ‘I didn’t have the faintest idea how to. It was just an adolescent idea.’

  ‘There’s still time.’

  ‘But there’s no need,’ said Luke. ‘What’s the point? Why write something if you can live it?’

  ‘Because you can’t live it for ever, I suppose,’ said Alex, getting up. ‘This is our stop.’

  It was only a five-minute walk from the Métro to the football pitch. They passed a homeless guy with a dog, hustling for change.

  ‘That’ll be you in a few years’ time,’ said Alex. ‘Sitting there with your bowl and your plastic dog.’

  ‘His name’s Spunk,’ Luke insisted.

  They had been playing for less than ten minutes when Luke stretched to block a shot on goal. He felt his foot twist horribly, forced round by the impact of his opponent’s kick. His teammates applauded the tackle but Luke could not play on, could not put any weight on his left leg. In minutes his ankle swelled up like an orange, then a grapefruit. He felt as if his foot had been torn off. His ankle was broken, he was sure. He sat behind the goal, on the brink of tears. Then, not even waiting for the game to end, he pulled on his tracksuit and told Alex he was taking a taxi home. Alex offered to come with him (Luke was emphatically not a taxi-taker, he had obviously hurt himself badly) but Luke urged him to stay and play on. He held his leg very still in the taxi, paid and hobbled up the stairs to the apartment. Nicole was still in bed. When she opened her eyes he began crying. Swollen beyond the realm of fruit, his ankle had assumed the colour of a bad banana, the kind of banana Sahra liked. He lay on the bed. Nicole put his foot on a cushion, wrapped a pack of frozen peas in a towel and wrapped the towel round his ankle.

  ‘You should have done this straight away,’ she said. ‘And we should go to the hospital.’ Luke lay on the bed, lost in pain, on the brink of throwing up.

  At the hospital they waited for two hours to see a doctor and then waited another hour for an X-ray. The ankle was not broken but the ligaments were torn so badly that it would be best to have it put in plaster. The doctor said this as though there was a choice. When Luke asked if there were a choice the doctor said no, not really.