Terence Nimrod is leaning against a pillar in the grand entrance to the hotel foyer, passing some time with an irascible Ransom (who is nervously smoking – tapping ash into his cigarette packet) as he impatiently waits for the housekeeper to release the spare key to Esther’s room on the (patently false) proviso that he wants to gather together some extra personal effects for her elongated stay in hospital.
‘I mean he’s not a big guy,’ Nimrod amiably chunters, ‘but he’s solid, emanates a kind of … yeah … solidity. And very burnished, very … very “buff” – to use my daughters’ favourite adjective. Anyway, we were stuck in there for the best part of an hour, just hanging around. It’s a nice room but a small room – wooden floor, heavy drapes, the classic box seat in the window – all fairly uninspiring, except for this amazing, red leather chaise longue sitting in one corner which is very dramatic, very over the top, very camp …’
Nimrod takes Ransom’s cigarette, steals a puff, then returns it. ‘So our photographer – Kenny, the guy who’s turning up to take some shots tonight – was just fixating on this chaise longue and saying, “We gotta get Fiddy to lie on the chaise longue ! We gotta make him do that!”’
‘Fiddy?’ Ransom glances over at Nimrod, frowning.
‘Fiddy – Fifty Cent – the rapper. It was one of those maddening situations where time constraints oblige you to conduct the interview while they’re taking the photographs – a real pain in the arse. Anyhow, Kenny was just desperate to get Fiddy on to that chaise longue. We’d all been gassing about his latest book …’
‘Autobiography?’ Ransom speculates, taking a deep pull on his cigarette.
‘Business-cum-self-help-manual. He was in early negotiations with Robert Greene at the time – you know: The 48 Laws of Power, The Art of Seduction?’
‘Yeah.’ Ransom nods (plainly all too familiar with these works).
‘Anyway, we’re standing around together in this cramped, little space and Fiddy’s PR is telling us about Fiddy’s favourite theory which he calls “The Lion in the Room” …’
‘The Lion?’ Ransom scowls.
‘It’s hilarious. Apparently Fiddy thinks the best way to dominate a business meeting – any business meeting – is by the simple expedient of refusing to nod.’
‘What?’ Ransom scratches his head, distractedly.
‘Not to nod. To refuse to nod. Basically you’ve just got to attract the attention of the speaker with strong eye contact but then keep perfectly still. Don’t nod.’
‘But why would you nod?’ Ransom’s confused. He peeks around the pillar to check if there’s any progress being made on the key front. There isn’t.
‘Because that’s what people instinctively do in meetings,’ Nimrod explains, ‘they automatically nod when the speaker is making his presentation. It’s unconscious.’
‘I never knew that,’ Ransom confesses.
‘Well, Fiddy’s theory is that if you hold the speaker’s attention but don’t nod, it undermines the speaker’s confidence so that they increasingly start to direct the entire presentation towards you – the non-nodder – to try and win you over. Naturally everyone in the meeting starts to notice that the speaker is directing his presentation entirely to you – one person – so they all start directing their attention towards you, too, just to try and work out why, thereby transforming you into the Alpha Male – the “Lion in the Room”.’
‘So if you don’t nod …’ Ransom’s finally catching on.
‘You become the Alpha Male. It’s just basic dominance behaviour.’
‘I like it!’ Ransom’s impressed.
‘There’s always been a close relationship between rap music and business,’ Nimrod expands, airily. ‘It’s a street music. It’s all about the hustle. I mean Fiddy was a drug dealer way before he ever laid down a beat. Business is very much “his thing”.’
‘The Lion in the Room,’ Ransom muses, nodding approvingly.
‘So anyway,’ Nimrod gets back to his story, ‘it’s in the context of all these hard-boiled, no-nonsense, Alpha-style business theories that we suddenly start thinking: Wouldn’t it be funny to get the Lion – Fiddy – to lie down on this red chaise longue?’
‘Why?’ Ransom demands.
‘Why?’ Nimrod seems slightly irritated by this question. ‘Because we just didn’t see how he would agree to do it, obviously.’
‘You wanted to humiliate him?’ Ransom speculates.
‘We just wanted to have a little pull on the Lion’s tail, that’s all.’ Nimrod grins. ‘Make him growl – see how he’d react.’
‘Fair enough,’ Ransom concedes. ‘Did he do it?’
‘Kenny and his PR actually had a bet on it. The PR said there’s absolutely no way on God’s good earth that Fiddy will agree to lie down on the chaise longue – he’s a rapper, been shot nine times – it’d be way too compromising, too emasculating to stretch out on that thing …’
‘Emasculating,’ Ransom echoes, half under his breath.
‘But then Kenny says, “Well if I can even get him to sit on it – let alone lie on it – just to sit on it and have his picture taken, then I win … uh …”’ Nimrod waves his hand, imperiously. ‘I forget the precise amount – a tenner – whatever …’
‘Did he sit on it?’ Ransom asks.
‘Well that’s the weird thing.’ Nimrod chuckles. ‘Fiddy finally comes into the room – very gracious, very polite, very …’
‘Buff,’ Ransom fills in, throwing the last segment of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it underfoot.
‘Exactly – buff – and Kenny takes a few photos in the window-seat, a couple standing against the drapes, then he turns and looks over at the red chaise longue … As you can imagine, we’re all in an advanced state of hysteria by this stage …’
Ransom peers around the pillar again. The desk clerk is talking to the housekeeper.
‘… and he says, “How about a couple of shots lying down on that chaise longue?’ He points to it. Then Fiddy – ever the gentleman, really polite – clocks the chaise longue, registers the issues, raises one brow, then just shrugs his shoulders and goes, “Sure.” He walks over to the chaise longue – prowls over there all smooth-jointed, like a panther – and he throws himself down on it! No bother!’
‘Fiddy lay down on the chaise longue?’ Ransom’s fully engaged now.
‘He lay down on it!’ Nimrod confirms. ‘And I swear to God, he was a fucking Lion when he lay down on that thing! He lay down on it like a fucking Lion! Almost like he knew! Like he sensed we all had this secret, little bet going on, and he wasn’t in the slightest bit bothered or intimidated by it, because he was the Lion. Fiddy was the Lion! He just didn’t give a shit! He pretty much Alpha-ed us all out of the building!’
Nimrod grins, remembering. ‘Amazing! Absolutely bloody amazing!’
‘I was chatting to Andy Helmsley the other week’ – Ransom (not to be outdone – by Nimrod or Fiddy, for that matter) snatches up the Lion mantle and promptly runs with it – ‘he’s one of South Africa’s most promising up-and-coming faces on the golfing scene …’ He peeks around the pillar (the desk clerk has – much to Ransom’s satisfaction – dispatched an assistant desk clerk to bring Ransom Esther’s spare key). ‘And he’s telling me about this bush-walk he did in one of the big African game reserves recently. They were heading home through the veld at sunset, about four miles from base camp, just the three of them with a ranger – who’s armed with a small rifle – and while they’re walking they can hear this constant groaning sound …’
‘Groaning?’ Nimrod echoes.
‘A weird groaning’ – Ransom nods – ‘fairly close by. Follows them wherever they go. So after a while Andy turns to the ranger and says, “What’s making that strange groaning noise?” The ranger says, “It’s a lion. It’s a dominant male. He’s escorting us through his territory.” Well as soon as they hear this they’re all just cacking themselves – can’t walk fast enough – can’t get close enou
gh to the ranger and his rifle, basically …’
The assistant clerk arrives with the spare key and the two of them duly plod after him around the side of the main building to a less flashy area just between the bins and the car park.
‘So after the best part of an hour of hiking and groaning,’ Ransom continues his story while they walk, ‘Andy finally asks the question that’s weighing on everyone’s minds. He says, “If the lion attacks, what are the chances of you killing it with the first shot of your rifle?” The ranger shrugs and says …’ – Ransom adopts a generic, ‘African’ accent – ‘“None, sir. We’d be screwed. The rifle’s only good for making a commotion, aside from that it’s of no practical use at all. He’s way too big and too fast and too powerful – a trained assassin, a killer …” So they all walk on, literally shitting themselves, for a few minutes longer, then the ranger adds, “But don’t stress out about it, man. It’s fine – it’s all good. If this guy wanted to kill you he would’ve done so over an hour ago.”’
‘Bloody hell!’ Nimrod’s shaken.
‘Yup.’ Ransom chuckles (pleased with this response) as they draw to a halt in front of the door to Esther’s room. The clerk proceeds to shove the key into the lock, twist it and push the door wide. Both men pause for a moment on the threshold, surprised by the warm, slightly unhealthy, Vicks Vapour Rub-tinged fug that greets them as they prepare to enter. They immediately apprehend that this part of the hotel complex is far less well finished and maintained than the areas they’ve grown accustomed to.
Ransom steps inside, frowning. It’s a small, cramped room. There are no proper curtains at the lone window which faces out on to a series of large, metal bins, brightly illuminated by an external light which floods, unremittingly, into the room. Esther has hung a large petticoat – blotched with stains and ripped down one side – from one of the plastic window fitments, to try and block it out.
The bed is small and has no proper linen. Hanging over the back of a broken chair are several pieces of Esther’s underwear – a bra, two huge pairs of pants – which have been hung up to dry. There is no shade covering the bulb on the bedside light and no light-fitment whatsoever up above, just a series of wires dangling from the pelmet.
Ransom turns to look at the assistant clerk.
‘This is a shit-hole,’ he mutters. ‘Why’s she staying here?’
‘Staff accommodation.’ The clerk shrugs.
Nimrod scratches his head and gazes around him. ‘Does she normally stay in rooms like this?’ he asks.
‘Dunno,’ Ransom admits, ‘I’ve never been to her room before.’
‘Never?’ Nimrod’s surprised. ‘In fifteen years?’
‘Nope.’
Ransom walks to the bedside table and inspects the three, cheaply framed photos on display there. One is of Esther’s mother sitting on her porch in Trenchtown, cradling Esther’s daughter in her arms. A second features Esther’s son and a boy who Ransom now knows to be Israel posing proudly in new school uniforms. The third is of Esther and Ransom, taken many years ago. Ransom picks it up, surprised. In it a long-haired Ransom celebrates winning second place at the Spanish Open while a thinner, younger, grinning Esther stands behind him – in her caddie’s uniform – holding aloft the winning ball.
Ransom shudders and places the photo down, his eye returning, nervously, to Israel in his uniform. He grimaces and reaches out to pick it up, but his hand starts shaking so violently that he rapidly withdraws it again.
To cover his confusion he steps forward to open a door into what he presumes will be the bathroom. Instead he discovers a tiny cupboard. Inside it are two shirts, two dresses and – folded up on the floor – a jumper and a single pair of trousers. Underwear aside, these appear to be the sum total of Esther’s clothes. Another shirt lies neatly folded on the bed where Esther has been sewing on a mis-matching replacement button.
‘Where’s the bathroom?’ he asks.
‘Down the corridor,’ the clerk answers. ‘It’s shared.’
Ransom nods. He is gazing down at an old, worn-out pair of carpet slippers.
‘Can you find what you’re looking for?’ Nimrod asks. Ransom shakes his head. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, he’s certain that he won’t find it here, in this shabby room. He walks over to a battered suitcase that leans up against the wall, opens it and exclaims as a pile of sugar and coffee sachets, tiny soaps, bags of tea and mini packets of biscuits fall out. Nimrod comes over to take a look.
‘In all the time I’ve known Esther,’ he murmurs, ‘we’ve never shared a proper meal together. She never seems to eat …’
He bends down and starts gathering the supplies together. Also inside the case are an old Bible (the paper cover worn almost to nothing from overuse) and a grey box file. Ransom opens the box file. It’s crammed with newspaper cuttings from the entire length of his career, each one carefully folded, dated and preserved in plastic.
‘She scoffed those three pains au chocolat the other day,’ he volunteers.
‘She scavenged them from me and Tobe,’ Nimrod admits, then scowls. ‘I mean I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, it’s just …’ He peers around him, shaking his head, depressed. ‘How long since her last pay cheque?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ Ransom admits (possibly not as ashamed by this admission as he might be). ‘She pays herself.’
He straightens up and reappraises the room.
‘This is like …’ He pulls on his chin, mystified by the alien scene he surveys. ‘I saw a documentary on TV the other night about this Indian guy who had a huge stomach tumour. Had it for years – since he was a kid, but he was always too poor to do anything about it. It just kept growing bigger and bigger. Eventually it grows so massive that it’s endangering his life – pressing down on his vital organs. He gets referred by some charity to a specialist who agrees to get his team to operate. When they do, they realize that it isn’t a tumour at all, it’s a lost twin.’
‘A twin?’ Nimrod echoes.
‘Yeah. Somehow or other this guy’s twin brother had ended up forming inside of him – inside his own stomach.’
‘What?! Is that a true story?’ Nimrod clutches his own capacious gut, horrified.
‘Yeah. They had an interview with the actual surgeon and everything. For some reason the twin had been trapped inside this guy’s belly but – get this – it was still alive! Had no brain, but it was alive. And when they cut open his stomach a nasty little hand shot out.’
‘Fuck!’ Nimrod exclaims. Even the waiting clerk looks appalled.
‘Disgusting!’ Ransom nods, peering around him. ‘And that’s what this reminds me of. Can’t quite put my finger on it …’ He frowns. ‘It’s almost like Esther is that little trapped twin, that messed-up little twin living a sordid, closed-off life, feeding on …’
He doesn’t utter the word ‘me’, but it’s clear that this is how his mind is working.
‘Sordid,’ he repeats. ‘And just …’ he sighs, ‘a real, friggin’ downer, basically.’
Nimrod doesn’t seem quite able to amass an immediate response to this theory. He just closes the suitcase and straightens up, with a grunt.
‘Let’s get the hell out of this shit-hole,’ Ransom murmurs, ‘before I get angry.’
She looks so beautiful when she answers the door to him that it almost feels like an ambush: a kidnap attempt – a sudden punch to the stomach – a sack over the head. He is winded by her – incapacitated. She is all in red: a tight-fitting red satin dress, red gloves stretching way beyond her elbows, high, red heels, her red fringe hanging straight over her eyes (catching in her delirious lashes), her hair in several, ornate plaits which are twisted into a neat, little bun and covered with a flat, red bow at the back.
Her eyes are black-lined. Her lips are like cherries. He just gazes at her for a few seconds, astonished, then the next thing he knows they are pressed up against the sitting room wall having sex.
/> He knows her body now, even tightly sheathed and slippery as it is; a ripe, red plum, its yellow flesh pressing out against the smooth arc of its cool, fragrant skin. He understands the basic groundwork, has visited the orchard like a hungry finch, has gorged on the fruit and rejected the pips, has explored the geography.
She smells of almonds, like a plump Bakewell pudding; and he is the spoon, the whipped cream, the helpless dollop of warm custard. She steams. He applauds, his tongue hanging out (like a bloodhound espying a raw chop in a cartoon).
She is topped with melted apricot jam. It makes her shine. Beneath that: the spongy gold, the give, the softness. Then still further down, the firmer butteriness of a thin-baked layer of crumbling shortcrust.
‘Pardon?’
‘The leg – Sheila’s leg – was it as bad as it looked?’
She closes the front door behind him and leads him through to the kitchen. He stands facing the window, hands braced against the sink. He is staring at the red glimmer of her reflection – red and white – a squirt of chili sauce in a dish of thick, Greek yoghurt. It’s not yet dark, but there are candles flickering away on the table, which confuse him.
‘Jamaica?’ she mutters. ‘But why?’
He turns. A cat slithers around his legs. His mouth is dry.
‘There was a chance meeting at the hospital with …’ He scowls. ‘It’s complicated.’
He glances down at his watch. Jen is late. He takes out his phone and tries to ring her. His call goes straight to message bank.
‘How complicated?’ she asks. She is standing right in front of him, reaching out her hand and touching his fringe. He stops breathing. Minutes advance then retreat. Somebody is speaking. It is him. What is he saying? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He is a stuck second hand on a railway station clock ticking forward, then back, forward, then back.
‘And you’re just going to let her go?’ she asks, frowning, lounging against the table – her hip jinking like a bright lozenge of cough candy. ‘Let her leave? Just like that?’
The Yips Page 47