She rushed straight from work, aware that she might not smell perfectly fresh, having had time to do nothing but drag a brush through her hair. Even so she was ten minutes late and found him already part way through a bottle of wine; he was smartly dressed, freshly shaved, as if this was an occasion, and she felt sorry about her crumpled skirt and blouse.
He stood, took her jacket and pulled back her chair before the waiter could get there and do his job. He poured her a glass of wine; she rarely drinks, but accepted this time, hoping it might relax her. She translated the menu for him, and he ordered the chef’s special for both of them.
Now she nibbles a floppy green bean. Her head’s aching as it usually does after work; all she really wants is to go home, stretch out on the sofa, eat bread and tomatoes, drink tea and watch television until her eyelids close as she does every night.
He returns from the toilet, speaks to the waiter on the way, ordering more wine, maybe. And then he sits across from her looking at her almost expectantly, it seems, though the candle flame reflected in his glasseses makes it hard to read his eyes.
‘Nice town,’ he says.
She pulls a face. ‘You think?’
‘Tell me about your family,’ he says. And OK, this is harmless, she tells him about Milya’s children, the daughter, Anya – so like Milya herself – the son, Georg, who she privately thinks is rather slow. Milya doesn’t know it yet, but Marta’s saving money to send Anya to university. She’s only nine but bright, serious and eager to learn, reminds Marta of herself at that age. She helps the girl with her English at the weekends – she can’t wait to introduce her to Jane Eyre, a shiny new copy, she will order online and present for her tenth birthday, she’s just about ready for it. This is Marta’s new accomplishment, online shopping; you can get anything from the West now, as long as you can pay.
‘Hey. You still there?’ Smiling, Mats snaps his fingers.
Marta shakes herself out of a sleepy trance. ‘Sorry.’
‘How often do you see them?’
Can he really be interested in her small life? She takes a breath, tells him about her weekend visits, how she babysits on Saturday nights so Milya and Egor can go out dancing. How she cooks lunch for everyone at Mama’s flat on Sundays, how even Antoni sometimes turns up with his spoilt son and his spiteful shiny wife. Mats appears interested, just as he did when she told him about her work. She stops to take a piece of potato.
‘I should let you eat,’ he says. ‘More wine?’
‘A very little. You speak now.’
And so he pours her wine and as she eats and sips, feeling the headache drain way as nourishment gets into her blood, she listens and watches. He tries to make his job sound interesting, but he’s most animated when talking about the boys, particularly Tom. His face glows with love then, and in her chest she feels a softening towards him. An affection. He’s buying her dinner, he’s straining to be kind. He is kind. Maybe he wants nothing more than this? Is this possible? She watches his mouth, the teeth a little stained but still, good strong teeth. She questions him about Tom, about Artie, about Vivienne, asks him what happened to break them up.
‘We stuck it out,’ is how he puts it. ‘It was a good enough marriage while it lasted.’
‘Good enough?’ she says.
He wipes his mouth with a napkin, frowns. ‘You know . . . it was a stable home for the boys.’
The waiter comes to clear their plates. ‘Dessert?’ He issues them with menus.
‘What do you like?’ Mats asks.
She runs her finger down the laminated page. ‘Ah, they have lapte de pasăre,’ she says. ‘This,’ she explains to Mats, ‘is clouds in custard.’
‘Sounds good. Sounds light.’
‘Is light,’ she says, ‘is delicious,’ forgetting her pronouns but too tired to retrieve them. She smothers a yawn.
‘Two of those, please,’ he says to the waiter, who nods curtly. He’s been eyeing Mats with suspicion all evening.
Marta gives him a hard stare.
‘Of course, you’re tired,’ Mats says. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was the biggest treat when I was small,’ she says, with a pang remembering her grandparents in the country, so many years ago, remembering the sweet, eggy taste of the dessert, served always in the best dishes, with their blue and gold design. ‘I haven’t had it for years.’
Maybe she’ll make it on Sunday for her family. Anya and Georg will love it, as they love all sweet things.
Mats is quiet for a moment, pouring himself more wine, extending the bottle to her, but she’s had enough.
‘Sure?’ he says. ‘Won’t go with the pudding. Needs to be finished.’
She shakes her head. She could almost swoon with tiredness, but at least she doesn’t have to work in the morning, not till 5pm when the first workers’ classes begin. Really, she should search for more work to fill Fridays, her quietest day of the week – but it is good to have a few hours to herself. Friday is her reading day. Right now she’s working her way through Tolstoy again – and sometimes sits in American Pie, reading and drinking espresso and smoking, pretending she’s in London or Paris or New York.
The lapte de pasăre arrive – white dishes with pale thin custard – so different from Grandma’s, hers was always thick and yolky yellow; these clouds are dainty puffs, not the towering mounds of cumuli Grandma used to whip up. Marta’s throat hollows with disappointment; but of course this is restaurant food, refined. With the hollowing of her throat, another yawn comes. So rude.
‘Sorry,’ she says, and smiles at Mats from behind her hand.
‘They have this in Britain,’ Mats says. ‘Floating Islands. Also in Norway too, but with jam under the custard. Can’t remember what we call that.’ He puts in his spoon and scoops up a cloud. ‘Mmm.’
They eat in silence. The custard is thin, cool, grainy with vanilla, the meringue melts in the mouth. It is delicious, but really mostly air, she thinks.
‘Coffee?’ the waiter is there, as soon as they’ve finished.
Mats raises his eyebrows at her and she nods, takes out her cigarettes and offers one to Mats, but he shakes his head.
‘I wish. Given up. Doctor’s orders.’
She lights up and breathes in the rough smoke, closes her eyes for a moment. Never will she give up this little pleasure.
The coffee comes and she tears the ends of two paper tubes of sugar, stirs it in.
‘OK,’ Mats says, nodding at her cigarette, ‘since you insist. One won’t hurt.’
She smiles as she passes him the packet and her lighter, watches his big fingers fumble. ‘Oh,’ he said as he takes his first drag. ‘This takes me back.’
She stiffens, back is not the right direction.
They smoke and sip coffee with no conversation but she can sense him preparing to speak.
‘If you could have one wish,’ he says, ‘what would it be?’
She snorts, half laughs, ‘What?’
‘A wish,’ he repeats, ‘one wish.’ His expression is quite serious, interested.
What nonsense is this?
‘Tell me,’ he says.
She sighs. ‘A million dollars,’ she says sarcastically, ‘world peace.’
But he is looking at her with such attention. She might as well indulge him, she can give him that much for the price of a meal. ‘OK. One wish?’ Oh but it is sore to think like this and a wish arrives swiftly like jab in the heart. ‘That my Tata was still here.’ She breathes in sharply, stiffens her shoulders and her face. ‘Before Tata died I was so angry.’ She twizzles her cigarette between her fingers, talks almost with her teeth clenched. ‘He stopped me seeing a boy, Virgil. Now I understand. I would do the same. He wanted me to go to university,’ she adds. She grinds out her cigarette in the ashtray. She will not cry.
‘You wanted that?’ Mats says. �
��University?’
She can’t speak now, but she nods; her throat seems turned to stone.
‘Finished?’ The waiter is back again. Wanting to get rid of them and close up, of course; they are the last diners.
‘The bill, please,’ Mats says. ‘Don’t go yet, Marta, I want to talk.’
She takes a deep breath and blows out smoke. ‘We have talked.’
‘I mean—’
‘No,’ she says, more sharply than she means. ‘Sorry. Thank you for dinner. Very nice, very kind, but I am too tired for more talk.’
His face sags, but he nods. He pays the bill, leaves a tip so huge the waiter will be laughing; Marta feels protective on his behalf. ‘Don’t leave so much,’ she says, taking up half of it and pressing it in his hand.
‘Sure. Don’t want to look mean.’
‘You make yourself look a fool,’ she says and sees him flinch. ‘You’re not mean,’ she adds, touching his arm. There’s warmth in her voice, and though she doesn’t mean this as encouragement, he seems to take it as such.
‘Can we meet tomorrow?’ he asks, as soon as they are outside.
She looks up at him curiously, his face, tilting down at her, is in shadow. ‘But you’re leaving in the morning, you said? I live this way.’ She throws down her cigarette stub, grinds it with her heel and starts to walk, Mats beside her.
‘We don’t have to leave tomorrow,’ he says.
‘Where are you staying?’ she says.
‘Casa Antiqua,’ he says.
‘OK. That’s near me.’
They walk in silence for a while. A car goes past, loud music pumping from its windows. ‘I hate that,’ she says. ‘Is showing off, stupid pricks.’ As she says this she has a sudden memory of Alis. See, that is the trouble with this, with seeing him, with looking back. She must keep all that, all that, shut up, shut off.
‘Tomorrow?’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please.’
They walk behind the Church; a short cut. She is so tired, her legs could fold underneath her.
‘Maybe,’ she says at last, she’s almost too tired to care what she does tomorrow, as long as she can get to bed now. She’s shivery with exhaustion, though it’s a warm night.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘look, I’ll bring Tom, we can do something together.’
‘Is a short cut.’ The path is rough and potholed, wet and smelly from a broken drain, and he stumbles. He’s breathless, she realizes and slows her pace.
They stop outside the hotel. ‘Meet us for coffee in the morning,’ he says. ‘Maybe we can go somewhere? An outing?’
Her quiet morning with Anna Karenina dissolves as she sighs, but OK. He is likeable, she did like him then and though she’s struggling not to, she likes him now. She knows she should let go the part of her that has turned so bitter. Milya scolds her for being a bitch; she never used to be one. The bitterness, the bitchiness, is only disappointment about the smallness of her life, the let-down. But who does she think she is? It’s a good enough life, isn’t it? Many in the world are so much worse. She shivers.
‘You’re cold,’ he says. ‘Come here.’ She lets him hold her, stands stiffly in his warmth.
‘I won’t have sex with you,’ she mumbles into his chest.
‘I know.’ He holds onto her tighter. ‘That’s not what I want.’
He bends down and kisses her on the top of the head, more like a father than a lover. Maybe he is on the level after all? He’s not a bad man, that’s for sure. He’s warm. And when was she last held? She sighs. ‘OK. ten 0’clock,’ she says, ‘American Pie.’
She misses that warmth as she hurries away, fumbling already for her key.
Tom
Strange to be out on my own in a strange town in a strange land. I get loads of looks, not sure if friendly or not. They don’t smile all that much here. My feet ache. I don’t know where I am. I go into a café, crowded with mostly men, drinking coffee or beer or some kind of shots. It’s hot and full of smoke, shouts and laughs, music jangling out of a speaker, a TV screen showing the same match with no one watching except some sad old git scratching his balls.
Coca Cola is another international word, so I go to the bar and when I finally get noticed say, ‘Coca Cola please?’ And before I can even get my money out, a voice says: ‘I pay.’
I turn to see a short woman with a round face and puffy orange hair. Her eyelids are blue and her lips bright red.
‘English?’ she says.
‘Kind of,’ I say. ‘Actually half Norwegian and born in Scotland.’
‘You help me practise English?’ She picks up my Coke and carries it away, winking at the guy behind the counter and saying something foreign. We sit in a corner under the TV. Light comes through a dirty window and shines on the side of her face, all fluffy and powdery.
‘What’s your name English boy?’ she says.
I tell her and she lights herself a cigarette, offering me the box. I take one though I don’t smoke. She lights it for me and I inhale and cough.
‘Maria,’ she says, breathing out smoke. ‘How old are you?’
When I say sixteen she pulls a doubtful face. ‘Nearly,’ I say and it’s true. Fourteen is nearly fifteen, which is nearly sixteen.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks. I tell her we’re off to Bucharest tomorrow then I find myself telling her that Dad and Mum are getting divorced. I don’t know why, words just keep on coming out.
‘Ah poor Tom,’ she says and squeezes my hand.
‘S’OK,’ I say.
She nods, peers at me with her eyelashes all squished together. I don’t know if it’s mascara or actual false lashes, but they’re massive and sticky looking. You could trap flies with them. Her tits are massive too, that does not escape me. They’re fighting to get out of her dress, all crammed in in a way that looks cruel. Between them’s a dark powdery crease and when she sees me looking it seems to deepen as if she’s pushing her tits together with her elbows. I look away quick but my face goes red. She laughs, hand to her mouth. Her nails are artificial with one missing.
I look away and sip my warm Coke. ‘What bit of English do you want do learn?’ I say, thinking she seems pretty good already.
‘Talky English between friends,’ she says. So we talk about weather and food and then she says. ‘You have girlfriend?’
I tell her about Else. I make it sound as if we’re together in that way; Else would kill me!
‘You fuckyfuck with her?’ she asks and my face goes beetroot.
‘You want to practise?’ she says. ‘Only 600 krone.’
At first I don’t get what she’s saying, but then she puts her hand under the table and squeezes my knee, smoke drifting out through her lipstick.
‘Or hand job is 300.’
I stand up so suddenly my chair falls over behind me and I run. Laughter chases after me, not just hers. I run and run, totally lost now, and it’s nearly dark, the sky like a spill of Tango and Ribena. I can see factories and blocks of flats outlined against it in the distance. My heart hammers and I’ve got a hard-on so it’s difficult to run. Horrible. I stop by a stinking river and sit on a wall, getting my breath back. She was so old. But she was a woman and I’ve never done it. Imagine telling Ben and Si I’ve done it with a Romanian prostitute. That would be so cool. Cooler even than seeing a bear. I can say both. Who’ll know?
Takes me till proper dark to find the hotel again. There’s a girl behind the desk now, a proper one, pretty and young with shining brown hair. I can’t look her in the eye when I ask about the pizza. She apologizes and says she’ll get it sent right up. I go upstairs hoping Dad might be back but no, the room’s empty, the TV still on, just as I left it. I flick through the channels and find a dubbed version of Friends and it’s kind of fun watching and trying to read their lips to see what t
hey’re actually saying. And at least they’re familiar. Like actual friends. How sad is that? It’s getting late. Where’s Dad?
The more I try not to, the more I think about the prostitute and her eyelashes and tits, imagining being trapped in the crease between them and the horror of that makes me wonder if I’m gay? I have wondered before. I could have paid her to try it out. I had enough money in my pocket. Or paid a nicer one, younger like the one on the desk. But that would probably cost more. You get what you pay for in this world, Dad says. And then I realize: I am actually thinking about paying for sex! And that’s so wrong. When I do it I want it to be with an actual girlfriend (or boyfriend) who wants it too and not for money. Though maybe it would be worth practising first?
I try thinking about Else instead. I’ve seen her naked in the sauna at her home (seen her mother too and her dad) but it’s not sexy it’s just embarrassing. Though perfectly normal for Norwegians. I don’t want to think of Else in a sexy way. Does that make me gay? I will never pay for sex though, whatever I am, I know that already. Dad would be so ashamed, disappointed if he knew I’d even thought about it. He’s always told me to respect women, girls, not to look at porn and stuff.
There’s a knocking on the door and when I open it there’s the girl with a big red pizza box flat on her hand. ‘Sorry for delay,’ she says. I get a hard on again at the idea of her coming into the room. I take the pizza and hold it in front of myself, stand back, not sure whether to tip. In the end I just give her more money for the pizza than it is and say, ‘Keep the change,’ like Dad does.
The pizza is pure stodge and not much taste but I don’t care, I’m ravenous. I munch my way through it, watching Ross and Joey and Monica and the rest with Romanian spouting out of their mouths not quite in synch with their lips.
It’s late. Dad should be back. Every five minutes I look out of the window. What if he doesn’t come back? What if something’s happened? In a place like this, what would I do? There’s a tree under the window and the street lamp flickers on and off and makes the leaves look purple. I keep the telly on, some old film now, and my music in my ears and try to read a bit more Animal Farm to use my time profitably, as Dad would say.
The Squeeze Page 22