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HOW CAN I EXPRESS what happened in those first few hours with Nina? Deirdre, Isabelle, Chelsea, if that was even her name, and then Sigrid, if that was her name, had each added to the deep seething storehouse of desire stewing at the center of me. By the time I was next to Nina, I could do nothing to control or even pace myself. I wanted her as if I had been seeking her. She patted me on the cheek—it wasn’t a particularly sexual gesture; in fact, it may have been slightly contemptuous—and I caught her hand, turned it over, and pressed my lips to her palm. It was a reflex of the heart, just like your foot making a little whoopee kick when your knee is tapped by the doctor’s rubber hammer. The hard wiring, the deep instinct of a man’s drive toward a woman, was the most real thing about me now, more real than the book I was going to write, certainly more real than any moral qualms I might have. Nina knew it for what it was, and for what it wasn’t, and she wasn’t bothered in the least. She wasn’t worrying Oh no, this poor guy is in love with me, she wasn’t thinking So this one wants to pretend it’s some big romance, she wasn’t even thinking Oh he’s getting carried away, maybe I can milk him for an extra grand, or maybe she was, maybe she was. I did this; she did that; I did another thing. Strike up the band! Once again, it was time to dance! Did she feel like dancing? Highly improbable. Did the great hoofers of yore feel like windmilling their arms and tap tap tapping their patent leather shoes five times a day when it was their turn to come out on stage? Once it was showtime, once the music began and the curtain parted, only the most discerning members of the audience would be able to sense that anything less than 100 percent was being given. Because Nina was such an accomplished dancer, because she was a professional, even I—Ginger to her Fred—attained a grace rare to my experience, and, unlike Astaire’s partners, I even imagined I was in the lead.
When I turned her over, I placed my thumbs against the tattooed filigree work on her coccyx, pressing hard as if to splinter a violin. She looked back at me, her eyes flashing behind a veil of hair. Her deep womanly tides rose up from her—no matter what, we are human. There is no other meaning, nor shall there ever be; there is nothing but that.
The bed wheezed; the headboard beat like a fist against the wall.
Where was I?
I want to make a band, Nina said to me, as we rested in bed, waiting for room service. I sing and I write songs. She beat out a complex rhythm with her hands on her belly. And drums, too. I tried to encourage her to sing me one of her songs, but she said she couldn’t, not without accompaniment. Who are your songs like? I asked her. I wasn’t trying to suggest that her music was imitative or derivative, but that’s how she seemed to take it. They are my own. I don’t care to copy another band. She had a slight British accent; she may have taken a semester or two in London. I know, that’s not what I mean, I said. I’m just trying to get a sense of what they’re like, your songs. I mean, are they rock, are they punk, reggae? Reggae? Nina said, her voice rising. She seemed to find this wildly amusing. Like some nigger from Trinidad?
Reggae comes from Jamaica, I said, suddenly tight-lipped, suddenly moral, suddenly hoisted up into a position to pass judgment. I know that, she said, giving me a playful shove. Like a nigger from Trinidad—Don’t say that, I said. I can’t stand that kind of talk. It’s a line from one of our songs, she said, smiling. Our band is called—in English you would say The Forbidden Zone. We take everything that is forbidden and put it in our songs. We want to come to U.S., where many things are forbidden. Where you cannot say this or that, and even certain kinds of sex are against the law. Many people in the U.S. are in jail for anal sex. They may go to jail and have anal sex, I said, but they’re not in prison because they had it. She shook her head, as if deciding not to disabuse me of illusions about America. There’s a lot of laws on the books that no one bothers to enforce, I said, somehow duty bound to clear up negative misconceptions about my country. I really wasn’t prepared to deal with the anti-Americanism of the hookers I was encountering.
We will play in small clubs and rock out the house, Nina said, arching her back, stretching her arms out behind her. Her nipples were turned out, one looking right, the other looking left, like security guards protecting her heart. We shout forth all that is verboten, not just nigger but cunt and ass, too, and Jeffrey Dahmer, and fuck you, Wal-Mart. She laughed, amused by her own naughtiness. Yes, that will be pretty bracing, I said, rolling over, draping my leg over her midsection. No kings or queens, no one better than anyone else, that’s what we sing, Nina said. Tear down all smokestacks and stop fucking up the world. You want to fuck up the world, then fuck up your own world, not mine or my children. You have children? I asked. Maybe one day, Nina answered, truthfully or not. I realized I was scratching my head, I didn’t know why, exactly, but my scalp was more responsive right now than any other part of my body.
Nina sat up suddenly in bed, turned herself around, and crawled slowly toward the middle of the bed, stationing herself between my legs. She grabbed my dick, which was hibernating. She blew on it, a couple little aimed puffs, like a photographer blowing lint off the camera’s lens. Do you know in China last year they put under arrest more than half a million people for prostitution? “Chinese Whore” is one of our songs. I shan’t be singing, but they give me time for the most crazy drum solo. I didn’t know they had prostitution in China, I said. I took a sharp involuntary sip of breath as she put me inside her mouth. I thought about asking her to stop, but it just wasn’t a realistic option. Eventually my dick rose, like a tired old host gamely hauling himself up out of his armchair to greet a guest who has come too late for the party. Come on, Nina said, you must get ready to get set and go. It’s all for you, baby. Anywhere you want it. I nodded agreeably, scratching my head. I did not want to make my scalp the focus of my sex life forever, but right now there was nothing better. Of course they jolly well better have prostitution, she said, taking my penis out of her mouth but continuing its stimulation with her hand. Her palm was cool as marble. Now China has a free market, she said, and men are moving here and there. So they get rather lonely and need comfort. She put me back in her mouth and sucked very, very hard, like in a cowboy movie when someone is trying to extract the poison of a rattlesnake bite. Whoa, I said, touching the top of her head. She crawled back up the bed, thrusting her shoulders forward and then back, like a dancer imitating a lion crossing the veldt.
This is the last time I shall ever do this, she said. After you, no more, we will have brought this to a conclusion. She cupped her hands over her breasts and massaged them. I wasn’t sure if she meant this to be erotic. I was, in fact, losing track of what was and what wasn’t erotic, just as I had somehow lost the distinction between what was naughty and what was despicable. Uh-oh, she said, pointing to the pillow. I had leaked a little blood, the incessant scratching must have opened up the cut I got on Fifty-sixth Street—or was it Fifty-fifth? I had lost track of that, too. I was lost, so lost, I wondered if I would ever find my way back again. What happens to you? Nina asked. It’s nothing, I said. I hurt myself back in New York. There was a knock at the door; a woman’s high, timid voice said Room service please.
Nina grabbed the bloodstained pillow, whipped it off the mattress, and stowed it beneath the bed. They’ll be quite peeved if they find this, she said. The management here is very calculating. To them success is a column of numbers. She wrapped a towel around her waist and opened the door. Nina towered over the graceful, petite woman who brought our food. The woman wore a beige hotel uniform, and her hair was covered by a sheer turquoise hijab. If she noticed Nina’s naked breasts or that I was lying in bed covered by a pale top sheet that was somewhat the worse for our last hour’s exertions, she gave no evidence. She rolled the cart in and kept her dark eyes fixed on the gray drapes and the thin sedate slice of the Norwegian night in between. There were two plates and a bowl on the cart, each covered by a pewter dome. I couldn’t remember what we had ordered. When things come so easily, it’s hard to keep track of them
.
Nina began speaking to the woman in Norwegian, and the woman answered, though at no time did she make eye contact. Nina took the bill off the cart and put it in front of me. She had already taken a blue glass bottle of water out of the ice bucket, and she drank directly from it. I signed, without paying attention to the prices. I hope you’re giving her a whopping tip, Nina said. These women are all frightfully poor. Take some dollars out of my pants pocket then, I said. My pants were on the floor. With pleasure, Nina said, and while she went through my pockets she continued to speak to the room service waitress, who was surely just trying to answer Nina’s questions as succinctly as possible and get out of our room.
Her brother is working in a biochemistry laboratory in one of our most important universities, in Tromsø, Nina said. He is supervising the systematic importation of plants from his native home. These plants have proven medicinal value, which we enterprising Norwegians are learning how to synthesize. I nodded as she spoke, though I was having a difficult time understanding what she was saying—not the words, but the purpose of them. What did we order? I asked. Nina lifted one of the covers. Tomatoes with herbs, she said. She lifted another. Soup. She touched her finger on it and then brought it to her mouth. Beef. I don’t remember anything we ordered, I said. You don’t need to, Nina said. It’s right here. Who needs memory if you have money? She lifted the next cover. Roasted beef sandwich and chips. We ordered well, I said. I just wish I remembered more. Nina put a french fry in her mouth and spoke while chewing. You American men are always so afraid you are losing your mind. I wonder why that is. Is a mental health epidemic in the U.S.?
After we finished eating, we showered. Nina washed her privates with disconcerting vigor, and then she insisted on treating mine with the same thoroughness. She held the bar of soap up into the spray of the shower and then tried to put it in me, which I resisted, instinctively. She smiled at my maidenly demurral, took the soap, and drew an X over my chest with it, and then hit me at the X’s crossroads. It wasn’t painful but it was spooky—maybe some kind of Arctic voodoo was being performed. Do you want me to tell you the secret to happiness? Nina asked, as she cupped her hands beneath the shower spray. Every morning when I wake up, I say Okay, Nina, today you shall kill yourself, and what would be the best method to achieve this? That’s your secret to happiness? I asked. Yes, and you must do it seriously, no larking around. From your first waking moments the idea of ending your life must be more real than any other thought. You can even decide how it must be done. Shall you slit your wrists or take an overdose? You must think of it realistically. That could be dangerous, I said. I reached around her, turned off the shower. It was immediately cold without the water running over us. Of course it is dangerous, Nina said. But listen to what must happen next. You have one exact minute to come up with a reason why today is not the day to end it all. She smiled widely. I always find a reason, and it makes me happy for the whole day. Maybe the reason is something stupid and small, like oh today my boots come back from the shop, where the nice chap has fixed them, or maybe today is my Aunt Goola’s birthday and I promised I would call her. Oh, oh, don’t go, baby, she said, grabbing my penis, which was shrinking in the sudden cold. Where’s my poor baby going? I slid the glass door open and stepped out of the tub, grabbing a large towel and wrapping it around my waist.
Let me, Nina said, taking the towel off of me and drying me from top to bottom. When she was finished with my front she pushed my hip bone to turn me around, and when she was finished drying my back she slapped me on the ass and said There we go. Thank you very much, I said, taking the towel back and wrapping myself up again. This is what you get as a child, I thought, but you’re too innocent to really enjoy it and then you get it now and you’re not innocent enough to enjoy it. She took my hand and led me back into the sleeping area, where the bed awaited us, covers and top sheet on the floor, and all but one solitary pillow thrown overboard. I felt doubtful that I could perform sexually again, and I had to remind myself that she was being paid to keep me happy and not the other way around.
What do you say we go downstairs to the bar and have a drink? I suggested. We have the minibar, said Nina. Oh, I don’t want to do the minibar thing, I said. They charge triple prices for the minibar. Uh-oh, I thought, now she’ll think I’m a low roller. But Nina ruffled my hair and said Now we must be friends for you to say that.
THE LOBBY BAR was already closed for the night, but we were able to be served in the pub next door. It was made to look something like a hunting lodge, with moth-eaten stag heads and crossed swords on the walls. We were greeted by a tall, elderly man in a worn black suit, who seemed to want to seat us before we changed our minds and fled. The only other customers left in the place were six smashed Norwegian men, who were red faced from booze and disputatiousness, and a trim Japanese man in a pinstriped suit who sat in their midst with his hands folded, a look of pained discomfort on his face, a half glass of beer in front of him. The man next to him, a beefy guy in a black jacket and white tie, leaned over to say something into his ear. Whatever it was, the Japanese man shook his head vehemently, as if his reputation or even his personal safety depended on it.
A young waiter in a red cutaway jacket and a bow tie brought a plate of olives to our table, hoping to further cement our relationship to the pub. Dressed, Nina looked much less like Deirdre. She was wearing a blue silk dress with a faint paisley pattern on it. Deirdre never wore blue. I’ve got red hair and white skin, she had said, if I wear blue, that’s it, I’m a flag.
What shall we have? Nina asked. She pushed the olive dish a little closer to me. Say what you will about the lack of feeling between a man and his paid companion, there was something in that gesture that filled me with sudden warmth, as if I had just gulped down a cup of tea. I didn’t know Nina and she didn’t know me, but I knew how she smelled, the slightly sour floral scent of her skin, the distant whiff of chicken stock simmering in the little waxed wrinkles of her armpits, the hot minty taste of her mouth, and the bumpy cool oatmeal texture of the inside of her, and she had heard my helpless whinny, that involuntary song of surrender I make when I come, which probably told Nina a lot more about me—animal me, faintly girly me, wounded me, bury my heart at wounded me—than most of the people with whom I supposedly had decent relationships could be said to know.
I leave it to you, I said. Whatever you like. She tilted back in her chair and signaled the waiter, who came over with small late-night menus. She ordered before he could put them down, and he nodded but did not immediately turn around. He lingered for an extra few moments, looking first at her and then at me, and in all likelihood pieced the story together. A little match flame of shame sparked up within me but was quickly extinguished by a gust of simply not caring what anyone thought. It was the most exquisite freedom. It may have been what Fleming was really offering.
Do you mind if I ask you a question or two? I said to Nina. If I can go first, she said. Am I making you tremendously happy? she asked. Is everything to your liking? You’re great at sex, if that’s what you mean, I said. Really and truly great. Thank you, Avery. I jolly well appreciate it. And I’m sorry I tried to put that piece of soap up your bum. I laughed nervously and told her it was okay, no big deal. Mr. Castle is going to ask you for an evaluation of my services, and then he will tell my Norwegian boss, who is a shit. Last month I was given a rather shabby evaluation, so now I’m a bit nervous. Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll definitely give you five stars.
The waiter brought a bottle of vodka, icy and opaque, two small glasses, and a plate of cut-up herring, each glistening piece skewered by a toothpick, each toothpick topped by a green ruffle. Nina waited for him to leave and then filled her glass and mine. She drained hers in one gulp, filled it again. I think Mr. Castle operates on a ten-point scale, so if you say give Nina a five that will mean I’m a cooked goose. This chap in April, it was a complete disaster. I thought my boss was going to give me the heave-ho, but maybe filling m
y place was not so easy. Most of the girls who do this work here in Oslo are Africans and Asians. None of the Ukrainian girls come here, I don’t know why, and the Norwegian girls who do the job are maybe a little bit ugly or with problems. She poked her finger against the inside of her arm, tapping the vein. Still, I know he’s keeping an eye on me and would like to replace me, so that is why I mention the evaluation.
So tell me about your boss, I said, as casually as possible. It’s a man? Nina made a philosophical gesture. It depends what you call a man, she said. Maybe he’s a man, he could be, but maybe more a snake notwithstanding. So tell me something about him. I smiled, as if the two of us were in on something, running our own little scam on the outskirts of the larger enterprise, as if we were close, as if there were things she could tell me that she might not ordinarily tell anybody else. How did you meet this guy? Oh with Nils, you don’t meet him, he meets you. He’s full of moods and angers and has the most crazy crooked face. To demonstrate, Nina hooded her eyes and twisted her mouth. Then she glanced over her shoulder, to make certain we weren’t being overheard. I was working one night at Benetton, and he came in and…She waved her fingers as if dispelling smoke. That’s the end of the story, for now. She picked an olive off the plate and placed it in my mouth. I had no recourse but to chew it, though it was sour and loathsome. Nina refilled her glass and then topped mine off, too, though it was already almost full. She was looking at me with more intensity than she had when we were having sex. If you like we can make a private arrangement, she said. I will tell you everything you want, and you will pay me extra money. It’s a you win–I win situation. You get what you want, and with the extra money I can buy a National Steel guitar for my boyfriend, because when we were in Bergen a fortnight ago our van was robbed.
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