Two Sketches of Disjointed Happiness

by Simon Kinch

  ‘Granville,’ a voice whispers. I ignore it. The moustached gentleman’s date is holding back her tears. He is still shaking his head and, looking down at his pocket, pulls out his packet of cigarettes. He takes one out, far more abruptly than before.

  ‘Granville.’ The voice becomes louder, before it snaps. ‘Granville!’

  I turn to the voice. Clara is leaning over me. She gives me a gentle, warm smile. A summer dress hangs loosely from her shoulders, where, off one, a small carry-all is slung, and, near the other, her name badge is still clipped. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

  I semi-motion towards the plates in front of me to indicate I’ve eaten and muster enough of a sentence to ask her the same.

  ‘I’ve just finished work,’ she confirms. As she says this, she realises her name badge is still on and begins to unpin it. ‘Look, I didn’t even notice.’ She unhooks it and tucks it into the carry-all. ‘Are you waiting for anyone?’ I unintentionally leave an unnatural pause before saying I have eaten alone. Clara eyes me cautiously. I apologise and repeat that I’m not waiting for anyone, hopefully a little more convincingly. This makes her smile.

  ‘If you’ve finished, why not come for a drink with me?’ she asks. I nod, wanting to display I am keen, but my attention isn’t solely with her. My gaze is drifting to the table across from us, to the moustached gentleman and the woman with him. The waiter has returned inside; there is no longer the clatter of crockery and cutlery. The young couple on a date have returned to their awkward silence. The woman has stopped speaking. She is staring directly at the gentleman, squinting her eyes with a look between disgust and disbelief. ‘Are you coming then, Granville?’ Clara repeats.

  I nod again. I sense I am coming across as shifty, but I can’t pull myself away from the situation at the table across from us. Without her becoming agitated, I can feel Clara getting impatient. I take out a five euro bill and start counting out some coins to cover my food. My eyes are darting between Clara and the gentleman at the other table. The woman is taking a pack of tissues from her handbag. I glance around for the waiter, in order to pay up, but he is nowhere to be seen. Clara is itching to get going. I scoop up the money I’ve collected and head into the bar to pay. When I reemerge, the gentleman and the woman have disappeared, leaving only a pair of wine glasses and a half-finished bottle of red. I am about to ask Clara what happened, where they have gone, in which direction. But seeing her motion to start moving, I realise she probably hasn’t noticed and, more so, hasn’t cared. We start walking.

  Clara suggests we go back to her apartment, as she has to drop off her belongings there. When we arrive, she adds that we might as well eat something too. She lays out two glasses and takes a quart bottle of beer from the fridge. I sit at a small table in the corner of the kitchen, as she moves from cupboard to cupboard, collecting ingredients and placing them on the table in front of me. She then pulls up her own chair and starts slicing tomatoes into a shallow dish, pressing the knife through each fruit until it reaches her thumb on the other side. She takes an avocado, proceeding to peel it in a way I’ve never seen, as if it were an apple. As she slices the peeled avocado into the same dish, she catches me staring at her and asks me what’s up. I shrug and she continues. She coats the dish in olive oil and salt, and places a fork on either side of the plate.

  ‘I’m sorry that it’s not much,’ she tells me. I say that it doesn’t matter as I’ve already eaten and normally I am happy with whatever I get. She smiles at me like I have said the wrong thing, but that she has understood me anyway, like some kind of mistranslation.

  As she talks about her day, I find myself thinking about those empty wine glasses and the half-finished bottle of red left at the restaurant. I wonder whose fault it was. Whether it was him, his infidelities, his inadequacies, or whether it was her being overdramatic, making something out of nothing. I wonder why he is staying at the guesthouse. Maybe he is only visiting town, returning for business, or to tie up loose ends. Or perhaps he has been kicked out by the woman he was with. Clara is moaning about a fussy client at the hostel. I nod and agree how bad it must be. I don’t really feel like speaking about the hostel any more, so decide to compliment her on the food to change the subject. She smiles and thanks me.

  After we have cleared away the plates, I suggest going out to have a drink. She looks at me and smiles again. ‘But why? There is plenty to drink here,’ she says. ‘Why don’t we stay in?’ She takes her glass into the front room and makes herself comfortable on the sofa.

  I insist that we go out. When she realises that I am serious, her mood quickly changes and she seems to take offence at what I’ve said. I am very welcome to go and have a drink by myself, she tells me, but she would prefer to stay where she is. I thank her for the food, finish my beer and head out.

  I walk as quickly as I can. It is late, but the bars are still full, with customers clutching cañas and spilling out into the streets. I reach the plaza where I sat before. The waiter is folding up unoccupied chairs. The young couple have disappeared. I stand in the plaza for a moment, wondering which way to go, before settling on the direction of the studio, to go home and sleep.

  FORTY-ONE

  That night she wants to eat out at a restaurant. I wear a shirt and let her choose where we eat. The restaurant’s tables all have a mahogany finish. She looks at the menu for a very long time and, even when the waiter is standing over us, she can’t decide. I order something or other. Finally she chooses the spaghetti Bolognese. It is the last thing on the menu I would choose. The waiter heads off. She asks me a question but my mind is elsewhere. I say, ‘Have you ever been to Europe?’

  She says no and, dismissing my question, asks me again what she’d originally said: something about going for a drink with her friends on Friday. I nod and say I think I am free. When her meal comes out, I become obsessed with watching her slowly twirl spaghetti around her fork. Every moment I can, I glance down at her plate. The sauce seems too orange, looks too sweet. It doesn’t look Italian. She eats it very carefully, with no mess at all. I imagine eating with Stefani for a moment, at some restaurant in Bari. She too would eat tidily, I decide.

  Laura talks about her day. I ask her how the Bolognese is. Fantastic, she tells me. I ask if it tastes authentic – as good as she’s tasted, she tells me. I nod.

  I manage to maintain our conversation throughout the meal. Afterwards, we head to the taxi rank. I feel a little light-headed from the wine. It is a clear night and, looking up to the sky, I can see more stars than normal. As we amble along, Laura tells me I am particularly quiet. I feel she is reproaching me for not talking to her. I say it’s not her fault, it is only because I was looking up at the sky. She drops her accusing tone and loops her arm through mine, although I’m unsure if this is because she too has been taken in by the beauty of the sky, or because she is perplexed by my preoccupations.

  At the taxi rank, she leans forward and kisses me gently. As she gets into her taxi, she smiles affectionately at me, before closing the door. I feel a little flutter of contentment and decide to walk home instead of taking a taxi.

  FORTY-TWO

  I’ve realised that in this heat, the heat of the late afternoon, even the birds keep out of the sun. A few people are now venturing out, probably to get back to the office after their lunch and a nap.

  After a few days of living off my spare change, I go to the cashpoint. Finally I have some bills in my pocket. I still have no idea how much is left in my checking account, nor do I want to know.

  The money in my pocket lightens my mood somewhat. It would be too much to say that it gives me freedom, but I feel I now have far more choice in what I do, and realise that I must have missed that in the days beforehand. I break a twenty buying a newspaper from a kiosk. It is indecipherable. Still, I fold it, tuck it under my arm and continue walking.

  I take my spot on the wall. It takes me a moment to get comfortable. I
unfold the newspaper and focus on the top paragraphs, letting my gaze cross the top of the pages, across the street, to the doorway. Nothing makes any sense.

  I have no idea how long I spend sitting on the wall. One hour? Two hours? Three? I wriggle to keep comfortable. A lady who passed me earlier returns, coming from the opposite direction, this time with her child in tow. The child is scraping his feet, but his mother is ignoring this. I look at his scuffed, leather shoes. They must do this every day, I think. His mother asks him something, but the child is reluctant to talk.

  I look both ways down the street. Some pensioners are approaching from the distance. They seem to take an eternity to reach me and then another as they head off, away from me. I continue to focus on the open doorway.

  I am certain I can make something out in the doorway. From the dimly lit passageway, a shadow has appeared, stretching out towards the street. Someone has come down into the lobby and is speaking to the guesthouse owner, I am sure. I cannot see who it is, nor the front desk, yet the shadow looks like it is nodding. It nods again. Something is being agreed. Is this someone paying up? Are they checking out?

  The shadow stretches even further towards the street. I have the newspaper up so high that only the top of my gaze reaches over it. My heart is pounding like I never expected it to.

  And at that moment a cab pulls up. The indicators are on, all flashing. Out of the guesthouse steps the moustached gentleman, clutching his caramel-coloured suitcase. He leans towards the open taxi window. I must have lowered my newspaper without realising, as I am staring at the taxi as hard as I can, staring at the moustached gentleman, trying to take everything in. I can no longer hear the people in the street, nor the traffic – only the hum of the taxi engine. He is going to get away, I know it.

  ‘How could he . . .’ I utter and, as soon as I have, I am shocked to hear what I have just whispered, shocked at my sense of injustice. I have not been treated unfairly – I have never been treated unfairly. I find myself where I am not through any ill-treatment, nor through any cursed luck; I have made the choices I’ve made, followed them through unencumbered, and yet . . . That image returns. That questioning look, shot across to me from this very gentleman, shot across the guesthouse reception, straight into me, no more than a moment to assess me, to know me, then return to his business. Mine no more than a fleeting appearance in an ever-revolving cast of passersby, a presence that, to him, was no more than a bit-part role in his theatre of plazas, arcades and boulevards. And just as his taxi door slams, just before the sound of the street returns – the sound of the passersby, of the traffic, of church bells ringing streets away, of the sparrows chirping as they hop along the wall beside me – I catch those words ‘. . . la estación . . .’ directed at the taxi driver, but escaping momentarily into the street. I have dropped the newspaper. I suddenly find myself running, running as fast as I can. First ahead of the taxi, but the faster I push my legs, the more ground the taxi makes on me, until it is ahead, far ahead.

  I see another taxi ahead of me, pulled over, waiting. I yank open the door. ‘La estación,’ I plead. The driver returns a blank look, as surprised as he is confused. ‘La estación, la estación!’ I am shouting. My hands are shaking. My palms are sweating again. He doesn’t understand me. I can feel tears flooding towards my eyes.

  ‘La estación . . .’ I let out desperately. He turns and sets the meter. I am still unsure whether he has understood me. The taxi pulls out. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. We are moving, at least. We are going somewhere. I am breathless and sink into the back seat.

  He has understood me. We pull into the train station. Already, my eyes are searching for the moustached man. The fare is eight euros. I give the driver ten and leap out of the cab. The entrance is too crowded for me to run, but I stride as quickly as I can through to the centre of the concourse. My eyes dart from person to person, then past their expressionless faces, seeking lines of sight to the distant platforms and far corners of the main hall.

  I can feel my heart slowly sinking, my breath slowing. I walk along the station hall, glancing across at each platform. The tracks are either empty, or cleaners and ticket conductors are nipping in and out of carriages, with clear plastic bags full of paper coffee cups and drinks cans. The station is already emptying, a different place to the swarming hub it is earlier in the day. From across the station hall, I can hear baristas whacking portafilters against bins and releasing steam from espresso machines as they close shop. Some of the staff behind the ticket desks have also begun to leave, collecting their coats and saying their goodbyes.

  FORTY-THREE

  Joe called me on the house phone. He wanted to grab a drink with me, wanted to catch up. I still hadn’t got round to replacing my cell. I began to wonder exactly how long he had been trying to get in touch. He hadn’t heard from me and was dying to know about my trip to Europe, he insisted. Alyson split up with me, I replied. He said he knew.

  A drink after work on Wednesday would work for him, he told me. There was a new wine bar on Washington Avenue that I should see. It sounded like the type of place that would make me feel uncomfortable, all low-lighting, couples and young professionals, but I couldn’t think of anywhere better to go. We agreed to meet at 7pm.

  Work actually went okay that Wednesday. Maybe I was looking forward to seeing Joe. In any case, I was a bit restless and didn’t fancy heading home to talk to my parents – not just yet, anyway. At twenty past five I shut down my computer and took my coat. ‘Have a nice evening,’ I said to Robert. He smiled and then went straight back to his work. I looked across the office. Laura had already left. I headed for the door.

  I walked quickly. Realising I was going to arrive well ahead of 7pm, I took a detour down Mills Street.

  There were a few shops I hadn’t seen before. I stopped briefly to look in each window. I didn’t care much for the new clothes boutiques, but there was a small patisserie-café that caught my eye. I stopped and peered intently through the glass.

  The window was full of decorated cakes and fresh baguettes, displayed on tiered wooden shelving. But past all this, something caught my eye. I moved closer to the window. Something shone. I fixed my gaze over the top of the layers of swirled, decorative icing. A small, golden earring glinted – glinted from the bottom of a slender earlobe. A fringe, swept behind the ear, that at its tip curled towards the chin.

  A thick, styled bob.

  Alyson’s thick, styled bob,

  Alyson’s fringe,

  Alyson’s earlobe and

  Alyson’s small, golden earring.

  Granville continued to peer through the patisserie-café window, over the tops of the decorated cakes. Peering at that shining, golden earring, itself pointed to by the swept fringe of that thick, styled bob, adorned by the girl whose brusque text message had sent his cellphone to the floor of the Mediterranean. And across from this girl sat another guy, confidently gesturing, recounting something to Alyson, making her smile, making her laugh. This other guy couldn’t possibly be her date, he initially thought, couldn’t possibly, but the more he stared, the more apparent this became.

  And although Alyson sat away from her date, Granville noticed how she aligned her body directly at him, occasionally looking him deep in the eyes, cautious yet intense. The drama of the patisserie-café continued around them – customers going up to the till to collect coffees and pastries, the waitress frothing milk, staff clearing tables – the drama continued as if nothing were happening, as if this crime in front of Granville’s eyes were not taking place. Alyson remained spellbound by this brute opposite her. This couldn’t be, Granville told himself. His hair was too thickly gelled. His shirt was tucked in, too tucked in, if that were possible. From his spot on the sidewalk outside, Granville tried to make out their conversation. This guy’s responses seemed short and blasé. He was sitting too confidently, as if in little doubt of his powers of seduction. His hand rea
ched out to touch hers. And Granville, now trembling, could sense the goose pimples run up her arm, sense her body freeze, unable to react, craving to.

  They continued to talk. He continued his series of abrupt responses. She should have been put off by his arrogance, yet the more aloof he became, the more she persisted with the conversation, just looking at him, rolling her bottom lip under her teeth.

  Granville’s eyes watered and, unable to take any more, he turned to run. And as Granville stumbled away, the guy with Alyson looked up out of the window and caught sight of him fleeing. An expression of confusion crossed the guy’s face, before souring to something between disgust and pity. Yet Alyson, with her fringe swept towards her gleaming earring, never looked towards the window, never looked towards the fleeing Granville, and, instead, kept her eyes fixed on the brute in front of her.

  FORTY-FOUR/FORTY-FIVE

  I have been staring at the ceiling for so long I no longer know what time it is. All I want is sleep, yet it won’t come. Easing myself off the bed, I pull on some jeans and a T-shirt, and lace up my Nikes. There’s half a glass of wine on the desk. I put it to my nose, a waft of fetid acidity hitting my nostrils. Taking my keys, I leave the studio and, leaving the house, head into the street. As I close the front door behind me, a couple of birds take flight from the branch outside my bedroom window. It is the dead of night, but there is a soft, warm breeze and just enough moonlight to trace the outlines of the tree’s branches.

  I walk for five minutes without seeing a soul. Finally, a taxi rattles past with its toplight off, the driver heading home having finished his shift. I dig my hands into my pockets – not because of the cold, but through habit. I head for Tenney Park, heading straight for the river, to stand on the bridge, to lean over its edge. I keep my head down as I pass the moustached man’s guesthouse, the vacancies sign still lit up, past yesterday’s patisserie-café, the shutters down, the lights off. A tramp is asleep on a bench, the dregs of a quart of beer unfinished in the bottle beside him.