Chinaski

by Frances Vick

  “You remember Lydia? She was really so helpful to us at the start,” Peter was babbling. “She was on the tour when we met you – in Germany, was it? She’s been fucking brilliant really.”

  Lydia peered at him suspiciously. After all their bitching on that tour? After practically asking her to leave? And not even inviting her to the studio since? Then she saw the fleck of white below his left nostril. Oh well, if he was going to say nice things about her then who cared why? She’d keep an eye on him and follow him to the toilet to make sure he gave her a line.

  Chris Harris crinkled his eyes and bared his stained teeth at her, “Yes. I remember. I think in, oh God, some horrible hole in Holland or somewhere,” and he leered significantly.

  Groningen. They’d been in Groningen when Chris first arrived – she still had the flyer at home waiting to be framed. Now she felt frightened, because of course he remembered her. He knew that she’d had to leave the tour. Why hadn’t she, as soon as she’d seen him at the bar, offered some rueful reminiscences of her own – something to make him understand that the way she’d been then was just a weird aberration. She tried now, hoping it wasn’t too late, “Oh God! God, yes! Yes, of course. Wow. Yeah. You were covering them on tour weren’t you? Yes. I was so busy misreading maps that I probably didn’t get to speak to you!” She allowed herself the artifice of asking his name, and just for dessert, finished with a “...and you work for...?”

  Chris Harris said nothing. Then, with a twirl of his stained fingers, he produced a wrap of cocaine and began chopping out monstrous lines on the bar with the edge of his bank card, handed her a rolled up note and nodded.

  Lydia was used to speed. Coke was – well, an establishment drug, an insider drug, and she had no way of judging how big the lines were. They were a hell of a lot longer than the lines of nutrasweet-cut speed she sometimes shared with friends, giggling in the toilets on student nights. Chris’ practised, balls-out flourish took her aback, as did the fact that no-one noticed or seemed like they’d care if they did. The coke hit the back of her sinuses and dripped down her throat, making her gasp.

  Chris gave her another glass of champagne and edged closer, nudging one sharp elbow into her waist, just where her tights dug in. “You do look lovely. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  How kind it was for him to have noticed her discomfort, and offer his time and cocaine to help her out of it! She allowed herself a vague fantasy – what would it be like to go out with a music journalist? Less to worry about in terms of other girls...more bands to know...potential for travel, and it would help her career a little. He must have a lot of contacts. Maybe she could get into the same thing; she’d been good at English at school...she began to sparkle at him, but his attention was on someone else. With his head cocked and a smile waiting, he oozed through the crowd towards Carl.

  Carl was wearing a t-shirt she didn’t recognise, and some carefully distressed biker boots. Everything else was the same though; similar, anyway. The pale skin with the hidden freckles; the blonde, vari lengthed hair – fine hair, but such a lot of it, and always tangled. The sleepless smudges under the eyes. The long limbs, ‘scrawny sexy’, some reviewer had said once. He was carrying a fake fur leopard print jacket and she thought that that pushed the whole outfit into the contrived. Until she realised that it wasn’t his jacket. It belonged to a girl – a slim hipped, fine boned beauty – who took it, and his hand, with equal possession as they were ushered over to a table. Carl passed within two metres of Lydia, but she couldn’t tell if he’d seen her or not. Her view was hidden by Chris Harris, who was whispering something to him. Carl nodded, gave his heart-stopping grin. The girl smiled too; everyone around him did, it was impossible not to. As he turned, he let his grin level into a tight smile as he briefly faced Lydia. And then, with Chris Harris at one elbow, and the beautiful girl holding the other hand, he was out of her sight again.

  Lydia found Peter and bullied him into giving her another line.

  Finally some familiar faces from Deep Focus arrived. They were sorry they were late, was she OK? Shit, they’d never seen so many industry types! That guy in the suit with a freshly pierced eyebrow? He had to be nearly 35. This whole thing’s mental. Some of them – I remember them from gigs before they went over to the dark side. No, no, there’s nothing wrong with signing, so long as you don’t sign all your control away. Sonic Youth got it right. But Sonic Youth suck now. Well, there were a couple of good tracks...no, no, there were no good tracks. Since Nirvana there’s been a free-for-all. Seriously, we could start a band now, right now, and we’d get picked up in a month. And we’d get dumped in a year. Well, yeah...it’s a bubble. It’s a market. You can’t blame people for wanting to make a bit of money. Fucking 10 years touring in a van for nothing – someone wants to pay them. What’s wrong with that? But we can’t pay out however much – what was it, 150K? I heard more. I heard it was more like 250. Well, it’s not like we’ll really know. I bet the band don’t even really know how much. They have a 30/70 split I heard. It’ll all go to shit if they don’t earn out the advance anyway.

  Every now and then, Lydia glimpsed Carl through the crowd, and fought the temptation to follow him with alcohol and more lines cadged from Peter. She was the grown up one here. She had been invited and wanted to wish him well as a friend, but, you know, if he wants to ignore that, that’s not my problem is it? The music was loud, and people had to lean in close to hear each other. Groups eddied together, split apart and drifted to others. Just like life, Lydia thought – people are allowed to move on with no reason or evil intent, but just the need for something new. And they always come back. That’s the main thing to remember. There’s wisdom in crowds, in the study of crowds. Someone must have done a study on this, some PhD. But even if they had it would be a dry, academic, rats-in-a-box, because you can’t really know anything, or come to wisdom, without experiencing it, while being outside at the same time, doyouknowwhatImean? You have to be on the outside, but still be inside to experience whatever it is you’re studying, because otherwise you’ll never know. The truth I mean. That things have a purpose without us even really being aware of it and maybe to look for the reason is the worst thing, like a watched pot never boils, you see? Because if you think you know the answer then you’ll short circuit the route that the answer has to take to you. You Have.To.Just.Let.It.Be. Things kind of go in an orbit, and you can’t interrupt an orbit, or you get, like, asteroids happening. It’s like if you love something then set it free, because it will come back.

  The people around Lydia would nod, hedge and peel off, to be replaced by others, strangers now. And Lydia was having a wonderful time. She and her mutable group would approach an A&R guy they recognised and start talking about the gigs they had in common, really getting them onside, and then get coke out of them, or at least a cigarette. And if it didn’t work, they’d just barrel along to the next one. They started the dancing, crazy versions of the tango. Oh it was funny! No-one knew what to do with them! All those industry types. All those vampires. Charging up to the bar with Peter – or not, he wasn’t there, maybe he’s left – with some other people then demanding Things On Fire, drinking Sambuca. When the crowd began to thin out, Lydia was having such a good time that she stayed. Balancing her drink on her laddered tights, letting it fall, hilarious! Hearing Chris Harris with his pockets full of ash and his brick red face, laughing laughing laughing with someone impossibly well groomed. Some girl. That girl. Very polished. But not real, no history behind her. And how can you have a future with no history? A future with Carl? How? And Lydia was moving towards them like a proud ship, away from her new friends, and her vision was crystallising into Polaroid-like snapshots, like walking through a strobe. She pushed herself between Chris Harris and the girl and began to sparkle sparkle sparkle. But underneath the sparkle (only Lydia knew) was real contempt, hatred for this girl, this thin, beautiful girl who had never been to a fucking gig in her life, not a real one anyway. This girl, who’d never haul
ed a PA about, who’d never printed up flyers or demanded the door money. This girl who had arrived a few minutes (or maybe more than that, maybe an hour?) ago with Carl. She felt sorry for this girl. She really did. Because he will turn on you, he will leave you. Because of the orbits. Because if you love something then set them free. And she showed her the scar on her arm. And then Chris Harris got up and Lydia fell to the side, struggling to get up, and someone took the girl away and someone else asked Lydia to leave. Sometimes she’d hear Carl’s voice very near but when she whirled round he was never there. Someone told her that he’d left but she knew that was surely a lie – he was just here – so she went looking for him, only to feel hands, many hands holding her elbows and her fingers. She was grabbed by the waist and pulled quickly – too quickly – backwards. She felt sick and the strobe vision came back again as freezing air hit her. She was by a taxi – the taxi driver didn’t want to take her, but whoever she was with said that they’d make sure she wasn’t sick. If she was sick then they’d pay for cleaning. The taxi was on a bill – it was all paid for. Just take her away. Chris Harris tugged a pigtail as he pushed her into the backseat, waving her off, his stained teeth bared in a grin, “Kisses!”

  4

  Deep Focus

  Before that terrible evening, since they’d officially split up, they’d still slept with each other – at first fairly regularly. Then he stopped staying with her all night, and eventually began leaving as soon as they were finished. They would meet as part of the same crowd in pubs – usually The Bristolian. They’d drink a lot, each with their own circle of friends, separated. But with each drink, gradually, semi-consciously, they would draw closer to each other while still talking to other people, and after a few hours, they would be close enough to speak nonchalantly while being buffeted by the crowd around them. Then Lydia would go to the toilet, hoping that when she left, Carl would be hovering about outside. Sometimes her prayers were answered and they would share a few drunken, meaningful words, and back in the crowd they would stand a little closer to each other. If their arms touched the hairs on hers would bristle. Her neck shivered when she felt his breath near her. They would go to the bar at the same time, casually but on purpose, and risk a significant glance. Lydia would leave right then, Carl would generally make his way to the other bar so he could leave without anyone noticing; and Lydia would be waiting around the corner outside, shivering with excitement and cold.

  There was something almost satisfying about this complicity, it almost passed in her mind for real intimacy, and she never, ever, even in her darkest moments, thought that this was anything but temporary. It could only be a glitch that they’d laugh about in later years. All that sneaking around was stupid, but wasn’t it sexy? Weren’t they mad to think that they could survive without each other?

  While he slept, Lydia tried not to; difficult, given the amount she’d had to drink by the time this elaborate dance had finished. But it was her only chance to look at him without upsetting him. His long torso was smooth and his belly was flat, and she would press her body into the small of his back and bury her face between his shoulder blades, stroking her top lip on the invisible soft down. She could kiss the back of his neck and nuzzle her nose against his ear. His face, slightly pugnacious even in sleep, his jaw faintly taut, was a marvel to her. When she saw the fluttering of his eyelids and knew he was dreaming, she wondered desperately what he was dreaming of, and would trace the line of his eyebrows to calm him. She could help him, ease him, without him even knowing it. She could indulge herself like this when he was asleep. No-one had ever loved him more. They couldn’t have.

  She never understood why they’d broken up. There hadn’t been a definitive moment. She never knew what she’d done. She only knew that the people she’d known for years now, whose band she’d nurtured, didn’t want her around anymore. Carl didn’t want her around anymore.

  It had begun to change during their first trip to Europe. Hastily scraped together by Deep Focus, to capitalise on the relative success of their first album, it was a real chore of a tour. Huge swathes of country had to be covered, and more dates were tacked on at the end, and edged into days when they really needed to travel. Support bands were mostly arranged hours before the gig, with club promoters putting up anything – tribute acts, their nephew’s death metal bands, punk semi legends that everyone thought were dead and who everyone was embarrassed to see relegated to support slots. Still, Chinaski had a lucky break about halfway through, when they were offered support with The Jesus Lizard in Holland for four nights. And that’s when Chris Harris first descended on them.

  Previously so sure of her ownership of the band, of Carl, she felt herself being pushed out by this man who was better at talking to men. She didn’t know the language, didn’t understand the customs, and it had been frightening, disquieting, riding in the van with friends that were suddenly strangers. There were no girls working at the venues, except for a few intimidating ones with Einstürzende Neubauten tattoos and painful looking piercings, who manned the bars and were married to the club owners. She was horribly aware of the unsettling prickliness that would surface once Chris had drunk most of the rider, his pointed stares, his sarcastic diplomacy. He was very friendly with The Jesus Lizard, and when he arrived, she’d assumed that he was only writing about them, but as it turned out, it was Chinaski he was interested in, and Carl in particular. Lydia would find them together in the van, shrouded in smoke, smothering laughter when she slid the door open.

  She’d tried to master her fear by pretending to be confident, but so often came across as shrill and strident instead. By Germany she was alternately sulking or trying to involve herself too much, dimly realising that both strategies were doomed, but unable to stop herself. She would work up courage for the day by starting to drink in the morning but then annoy everyone in the van by needing to stop all the time for the toilet. Relegated to map reading, she often took them the wrong way, insisting that she was right even when she was pretty sure she’d been wrong miles ago. And then she’d drink some more to cover the shame and embarrassment, and then have to make them stop the van again and annoy everyone even more.

  Chris Harris rode with them, smoking his shitty cigarettes, grinning his dirty grin and sharing his stories that made the band snigger like children. Once, when Lydia had them heading over the border, he asked to stop at a garage, and came back with beer and the news that they had driven 150km in the wrong direction.

  “I really don’t think we should blame poor Lydia though,” he said as he shared out the drinks, “she’s doing her best.”

  Lydia, hating him, still took a beer.

  The next day Carl and Chris opted to travel with The Jesus Lizard for a while. With them both gone, the atmosphere deteriorated into mutinous silence punctuated with comments that Lydia didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore. And then, finally, there was that business with the door, and Peter getting hurt. She knew she hadn’t done it, and even if she had, she hadn’t meant to. Carl had been the one lunging to open it anyway, she was sure, she was almost positive. Carl had opened the door and it had hit Peter in the face, and naturally, everyone blamed her. If she hadn’t been drinking all day, she would have been more sure of the facts, more able to put up a defence. As it stood, they had all gathered about Peter and his smashed up face, throwing nasty looks her way, and it was so unfair, just unbearable. She gave up then, called up Mother, asked for some money to be sent, and took the first in a long series of trains home the next day.

  For a while after she left Carl had called her every day. That fact was apology enough. He was lonely, he said. He missed her, he was homesick. She received a few short letters written on the back of setlists, a live tape, a Polaroid of his face and on the back in marker pen, ‘All work and no play makes Carl a sad boy’. He told her about David Yow kicking holes in the ceiling with the heels of his cowboy boots; about a club in Berlin that served coffee instead of beer, and the spoons had little holes dril
led through them to stop junkies cooking up with them. She heard about Peter shaving his head in a toilet in Hamburg, and how their driver abandoned them somewhere in the South of France. She heard about Chris Harris daring them to buy dwarf porn in some specialist shop he knew in Pigalle. She heard about some crazy girl who showed up to every gig and fingered herself distractedly throughout their set. He’d mentioned some major label interest Chris Harris had told him about. And always, always when he called, he sounded tired. There were parties – Chris was always organising parties. He didn’t have time to be alone, to relax, to rest. But she wasn’t to worry, he’d be home soon, and then they’d be together.