Goodbye Lucille

by Segun Afolabi

  ‘Only for a short time …’ Mama replied.

  ‘Yes,’ Papa said again. ‘But it’s not a question of time.’

  I listened to their voices, picking out irritated snatches of rhythm, feeling my eyelids droop. Then they were quiet, and for a while I held sleep at bay. The car whistled through the night air, the tyres slick, greedy for the sodden road. Mama used to explain that rain was always a precursor to a fresh beginning. It washed away the accumulated filth. It was like a new day, a wiped slate.

  The silence was broken by laughter. I thought either they had begun to talk again or I had slept and woken. Mama sighed the way she always did when she had laughed too much and it began to hurt; they were talking about a bumbling colleague in Papa’s office and the previous gloom had now lifted. I must have fallen asleep.

  When I woke again, when I was jolted awake, I could not understand why we had come to a standstill. Why there was glass on the seat beside me, rain stealing its way into the car. Papa made a long, strange, high-pitched noise – like singing – that did not seem to come from his mouth. Then he fell quiet. I kept thinking he would wake up, that he must have been very tired. Sleep was all he required and then we would move off again. Matty kept shaking our mother. He was crying and shaking her hysterically, but she never once stirred. I sat in the corner with the rain soaking me, watching the desperation in him, a little asleep, a little terrified, but I didn’t say anything. I did nothing. Nothing came to me.

  13

  A BLUES BAND, fronted by a singer who seemed like a man leaning into a hurricane, played in a corner of the bar. There was nothing in front of him, no object behind, only the thin metallic pole of the microphone into which he poured the gravel of his voice.

  ‘Of course it was suicide,’ Claus said as he handed me the drinks across the bar. ‘That’s what they’re saying now, and quite frankly, I’m giving it serious thought.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to rumours,’ I said. ‘And you shouldn’t spread them either, especially when they’re ridiculous. Have you forgotten that Henkelmann was beaten unrecognizable?’

  ‘So far I’ve come up with twelve possible explanations for the death, so you can see I’m getting desperate for ideas.’ Claus laughed and looked towards the stage. ‘These fellows are something else, aren’t they? A real find.’

  The bass player began to sway, leaning forward into the crowd, thrumming the guitar furiously. The audience applauded after his solo. He leaned back again, his blue-black face soaked in sweat.

  I carried the glasses to the table where Clariss, Arî and Frank sat. Frank kept slapping his hand against his thigh. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to get into the spirit of things or whether he genuinely enjoyed the music.

  ‘I’m a year older,’ Clariss’s voice rose above the clamour, ‘since you been gone. You make those drinks yourself, sweetpea?’

  ‘Sounds like a song,’ I said. ‘I was chatting to Claus.’ I put down the beer and the wine and Arî’s ginger ale.

  On stage the singer began to move, but he did so in halting, ungraceful movements. Ease on down the river, he sang, damn, packed my bags, set myself free. He lurched forward, came to a halt, then dragged one leg towards himself. His eyes were shut tight. Droplets of sweat clung to the end of his chin, but he didn’t seem to mind. He turned his body to face a rotating fan to one side of the stage, but the crippled leg remained rooted to the spot, twisted, as if his foot had been nailed to the floor. Gonna mosey on down that river, where ain’t nobody gonna bother me.

  ‘Nigger – why don’t you put your sorry self out!’ Clariss shouted.

  Frank looked at her, aghast.

  ‘Pay Clari no mind.’ She patted his thigh. ‘I’m only teasing.’

  He reached across and stroked the back of her hand and smiled. Arî tittered.

  ‘Another drink anyone?’ I asked.

  ‘Already?’ Clariss and Frank had barely touched their wine.

  ‘Arî?’ I waggled my empty glass.

  He shook his head. Frank declined. I got up anyway.

  At the bar Claus was serving a woman in a pink I New York T-shirt. Her breasts were so ample it seemed entirely possible the material might tear down the middle. Claus noticed me and waved as he served.

  ‘Vincent – here’s Ingrid,’ he called. ‘She doesn’t believe me … about our blues singer. About the leg.’ He turned to fetch a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator.

  I had no way of knowing what he was talking about. I moved closer. ‘What’s not to believe?’ I said.

  ‘You know – the accident. The river.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Ingrid interrupted. ‘Let me hear it from his lips. You keep quiet there. No funny business. So, what happened then?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, glancing at Claus. ‘Let’s see if I can remember. It was so long ago – my memory’s not great.’

  Claus rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. ‘The river – don’t you remember anything? The accident. The branch …’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey. What’d I tell you? No butting in mister. Let’s hear the story from this guy. Go on.’

  ‘Okay, okay. As you wish.’ Claus held up his palms and smiled. ‘But he’ll probably get it all wrong. I’ve booked these guys before. I know the whole story.’

  ‘Yes, the river … the river. In Florida I think it was, or somewhere South. But Claus always gets it wrong – about the branch. I’ll tell you.’

  She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. She had biceps, Ingrid, and cyclist’s thighs, which she had squeezed into tight faded blue jeans. She hooked her thumbs into the pockets and began strumming her fingers against her legs. I was both alarmed and amused by her aggression, her lack of humour. She seemed like a woman to wrestle and conquer on a waterbed, covered in oil.

  ‘He was with a bunch of friends,’ I said. ‘They were playing in the river – don’t ask me which one because I don’t know. They’d climbed up a tree and balanced on a branch stretching out over the water.’ I used my hands to illustrate the jutting branch, the river below. ‘Claus is partly right about the branch, by the way, but that wasn’t the cause of it.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’ Claus looked baffled.

  ‘Oh?’ Ingrid said. She was right there in the story.

  I took a swig of the beer Claus had placed before me. I had no intention of paying.

  ‘What happened was, he, they – it was a group of school friends – took it in turns to tiptoe out to the end of the branch and jump into the river. The papers all focused on how dangerous this was, but they’d done it a hundred times before. They were school kids. Boys. For them this was normal.

  ‘After a while, the kid drifts off towards the opposite bank – he’s a bit bored of the whole climbing/jumping-off routine. I can’t remember how it happened, whether anyone saw it coming or not. Claus brought a photocopy of the article ages ago. He might still have it.’

  Ingrid looked across at him, and he swung his head towards her. ‘Yeah … of course, yeah. The article. Yeah.’

  Ingrid frowned.

  ‘Well, one minute the boy’s just floating on his back in the water, the next he feels a tug on his leg, and under he goes. Then all hell breaks loose. The other kids are shouting and throwing whatever they can at him. Rocks, shoes. Turns out it’s not at him, though. The ones on the bank are thrashing torn-off branches in the water. But not one of them dares go in. The ones in the water are scrambling out.’

  ‘But – what was it?’ Ingrid demanded. The heart shape kept heaving up and down her chest. She looked as if she might hurl me to the ground if I didn’t finish the story.

  ‘They confirmed that the bite marks were those of an alligator, but the boy himself never caught a glimpse of it. A couple of the boys in the tree swore they saw it, but it all happened so quickly.’

  ‘Poor kids. They dragged him out, all of them terrified they might be next,’ Claus added, as if he had been there. ‘He was lucky, wasn’t he, that he didn’t bleed to
death?’

  Another barman called for Claus’s assistance and he left us. Ingrid gazed over the crowd at the blues singer, her mouth open, a little undignified. ‘Poor man. What a life. You know, I once broke my leg.’ She patted her left thigh. ‘I was skiing, in St Anton am Arlber. Seventeen I was at the time, but oh, do I remember the pain.’

  I thought the two incidents were incomparable: breaking one’s leg and nearly being chomped to death by an alligator. I was about to suggest this when I realized I was getting carried away with the story.

  Ingrid sighed, but she did not continue. She sipped her wine and I thought how pleasant she looked – with her flushed cheeks, the cautious eyes – when she wasn’t speaking or gesturing. At one stage she pinched the neckline of her T-shirt between forefinger and thumb, quite delicately. She pulled the material to and fro in an effort to cool down, exposing the slope of her breasts. There was no chance of the T-shirt splitting. I glanced at the outline of her nipples each time the cotton returned to the perspiring skin. She took another sip of wine and turned to meet my gaze over the rim of the glass and smiled. I smiled back.

  ‘Never any peace,’ Claus grumbled when he returned. ‘They could manage for a single second without me, you’d think. The burden of responsibility is not an easy one.’ He glanced down at Ingrid’s cleavage. I noticed he was wearing a fresh shirt.

  ‘So this is your place?’ Ingrid’s narrow gaze widened. ‘I didn’t know. Very nice. It’s a bit different from your usual bar. I like what you’ve done with the plants and all these posters. Very artistic. Is that Spain?’ She pointed.

  ‘No, Brazil – Rio. Remember – Café Rio?’ Claus said. He tapped his head and uncrossed his arms, pushed out his chest a little. ‘I do my best with what I’m given.’ He shrugged and Ingrid laughed as if he had made a joke. ‘But staff,’ he looked across the bar at his helpers and shook his head. ‘It’s hard to get decent workers in the first instance. You never know how long they’ll stay, whether they’ll rob you blind.’ He fidgeted with the sleeve of his batik shirt and scratched his temple and crossed his arms again.

  I didn’t know why he was talking about his staff like that. He never usually had a negative word to say about them. Ingrid’s presence, I thought. We both glanced at her chest again, her flushed, sweaty face.

  ‘You know, I’m not sure I can go on if this weather keeps up.’ Ingrid had lost interest in Claus’s managerial responsibilities. ‘It’s not supposed to be this hot in Europe. We’re just not used to it.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘After the last winter it’s great to have these Mediterranean temperatures, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m with Ingrid on this one,’ Claus said, playing the agreeing game. ‘Summer’s fine, but heatwaves are a pain; we’re not used to them. No one has air conditioning. People start losing their heads. Look what happened to Henkelmann. Probably taken out by someone with sunstroke.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Ingrid said. ‘Gosh – I’m as dry as a cotton ball.’

  ‘Here, let me get you another.’ He snatched her empty glass.

  ‘Kind of you, Claus.’ I handed him my glass. ‘And I thought you said it was suicide?’

  ‘See what I’m forced to put up with?’ He nodded towards me. ‘People constantly taking advantage of my generosity. What have you ever done for me, Vincent?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for me, this place would shut down in a minute.’

  ‘You see? No shame.’

  Ingrid laughed. I could see she was already half in his hands. Claus would struggle, but she wanted him to fight. My dream of spending the night with an athlete had been stripped away as fast as the hairs on Claus’s scalp.

  In no time, it seemed, I could barely stand. I had only eaten breakfast. And French fries for lunch. A tin of corned beef with bread after that. Bratwurst at the stand by the U-Bahn station at Bayerischer Platz, a chocolate bar for the journey home. It was coming back to me now. Two tins of creamed rice before leaving for the Rio. The alcohol, in any case, had gone straight to work. I trapped Ingrid into hearing about my trials with Lucille, while Claus served other customers.

  ‘But you can hardly blame her when she’s all the way in London,’ Ingrid said. ‘If it were me, I’d have, well, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place – you end up living two separate lives. Before you know it, you’re strangers. That can’t be fun.’

  I frowned. I had been trying to get Ingrid on my side. I blinked and it must have been some time before my eyes opened again, because Claus had ventured over to our side of the bar.

  ‘Here we go, Vincent.’ He raised my arm over his shoulder and hoisted me up. ‘Hold on now. I don’t want to drop you. What a crash that would make.’ He chortled and Ingrid said, ‘Stop that! – Let me get the other side.’ Her girl guide’s zeal was swift.

  I didn’t mind being carried out of the bar. I could have walked myself, but I liked the idea of being escorted.

  ‘She was the tidiest person I ever met,’ I said, continuing my saga about Lucille.

  ‘Tidiness … now that’s not a good sign,’ Claus said, panting. ‘My ex-wife … she was exactly the same … a perfectionist. Nearly drove me insane … Better to be a complete mess, I say.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Ingrid concurred. ‘Never trust a tidy person. Always something going on under the surface.’ Unlike Claus, she didn’t sound as if she had just jogged up a mile-high staircase.

  ‘Now listen, Lucille’s not like that exactly,’ I protested. I didn’t entirely approve of the direction the conversation was taking.

  ‘You know, I once went out with a guy who wouldn’t leave the house unless all the laundry had been stuffed into the washing machine,’ Ingrid continued. ‘The thought of dirty clothes lying around was too much for him. Even at night, before we went to bed, the clothes we’d been wearing all day went straight into the mouth of the beast – otherwise he’d have lain there all night agonizing about the filth around him. You can guess what the rest of the house was like. That should have been a sign, but like a fool, I stayed with him for years and years.’

  ‘I’ve got you exactly … Paula was just like that with the dust … And don’t remind me about the rubbish bins. They had to be empty all the time … as if they were only there for show.’ I could hear the anger in Claus’s voice. ‘No surprise she went insane.’

  ‘Really! She was mad?’

  They were talking around me as if I wasn’t there, but it was an effort for me to construct a sentence anyway.

  ‘Well, not really insane … but something had to give. All those years of doing things just so. It’s not natural, is it?’

  ‘I see,’ Ingrid said. She paused, measuring what she should say next. ‘But what happened … in the end?’

  ‘Oh, well. You know. Someone discovers a taste for something and then “boom” – there you go. It’s an addiction. In Paula’s case it was adultery: my neighbour, Paula’s friend’s husband.’ Claus paused. ‘My best friend, colleagues in her office. Who knows who else? It was a sickness really. It wasn’t in her nature … but as I say, something snapped. Too many years of repression. Vincent, give me the keys. Give me the keys.’

  ‘Oh, you poor man,’ Ingrid said as Claus unlocked the door.

  ‘Don’t “poor man” me. I’m better off without her,’ he said dismissively. ‘You’ll be all right from here, Vincent?’ he shouted as if I was deaf as well as drunk.

  ‘Yes … yes,’ I said.

  ‘No more drinking so much,’ he chided. Ingrid stood to one side as Claus pressed the keys into my palm. He had never spoken about his wife before. He always seemed so jovial. Before he could withdraw I pulled him close and held him.

  ‘That’s enough now, Vincent. You get to bed, okay?’

  Ingrid stood by the door with her arms crossed. I reached over, feeling her resistance until she gave in to my bear hug.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Claus said. ‘We’ll be here all night at this rate.’

  ‘
Death to tidiness!’ I bellowed as they headed back to the bar.

  ‘Who’s that? Who’s making all that noise at this hour?’ Frau Lieser opened her apartment door a fraction of an inch.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, seeing me in the hall. She craned her head a little further. She had forgotten to wear her scarf and the bright hall light shone through the meagre hairs on her scalp. ‘This is not good,’ she said. ‘Not good at all, Vincent. You must go upstairs at once. And please be quiet! You will disturb the other tenants.’

  I waved. She sighed. She shut and bolted her door.

  I was so tired it required a supreme effort to drag myself upstairs. I fell onto the bed. I wondered whether I could fall asleep without first tidying the apartment. I lay on the bed trying in vain to get up. I heard moans from above and then the ceiling began to rumble. The windows gibbered quietly. The noise grew louder. Dieter and Caroline were at it again.

  I thought of Claus and Ingrid and their tidy exes, Angelika and B, the puzzle of Frank and Clariss. Arî’s fiancée was still in Turkey and Frau Lieser’s husband had died over a decade ago. Tunde was into his third or fourth relationship in as many weeks. I hardly saw Marie’s husband, Stefan. Nothing was straightforward – there were moments of what passed for bliss, but, in life, chaos appeared to be the norm. Lucille and I were alone in different countries, although we hadn’t really been together for several years.

  The noise from upstairs drew to a gradual halt. There were a few post-coital cries. The windows stopped shaking, the ceiling shuddered, sighed and was silent. The night air was warm and still.

  14

  THE ANDREAS GROB gallery is a vast hangar of space whose façade is composed almost entirely of glass. I could see figures moving inside long before I reached the building. I had hoped to arrive before Jochen for once, but there he was flirting with a woman who was trying to ward off the attention of an excited child. As I approached I realized the woman was Claudia.

  ‘You’re late,’ Jochen remarked without emotion.

  ‘I know.’ What could I say?