“She’s a great person.”
He wasn’t happy and I could tell I didn’t pass his test. He gulped down his beer and I did the same with my cider.
“Such a pussy drink, man,” he said, pointing at my cider. “How can you drin’ that shite?”
I ignored him. I knew it wasn’t about the cider despite his genuine loathing of the drink. “I heard you went out with Gabrielle last week?”
“You ‘eard right.”
“You guys are dating?”
He screwed his face, looking rather pensive as if I had said something bad, as if I simply didn’t get the big picture. He nodded a few times and then he said with all tenderness, “I luv ‘er. I’m madly in love with ‘er.”
He must have seen the horror on my face, because he quickly turned jovial and smiled broadly. “Nah, I’m jus’ messin’ with you, man, though you deserve it if it was true. No. We jus’ wen’ out for a pint. She’s still all worked up about that Italian fuck.”
I took a lung-full of air as if a heavy weight that had prevented me from breathing was lifted. Daniel didn’t notice or pretended not to notice. His attention had turned on two girls who had come out of the pub with their own drinks. He then turned to me and said in his fatherly tone, “I’m not telling you what to do and I don’t want to press you, Marty, but you have to take a stand. You know what I mean?”
I nodded, but didn’t answer. I hated these situations. I hated Daniel making me face my own inadequacies, even though deep down I knew I wouldn’t be able to do anything without his constant prodding. I knew he meant well and he was merely trying to be gentle, but I still couldn’t help feeling frustrated and defensive. He recognized all these in me so he didn’t push. Even then I was wondering what he told Gabrielle and how she had reacted. I continued my silence, and he didn’t really expect an answer. The silence lingered.
III
But it doesn’t last.
I come out of my reverie and noticed I had finished my cider. It’s been only twenty minutes since I left Gabrielle’s hotel. I walk back in the pub and order another. I come outside and sit on the same spot.
“Great spot,” A woman informs me as she stands above me with a glass of white wine. Daniel would have hated her for drinking wine in a pub.
“Best in the pub,” I say.
“Can I sit down?”
I nod and move over. I want to talk to Daniel, but the woman says, “My name’s Jill.”
“Marty.” I want to be Marty while I’m in London.
“Hey, Marty. Are you visiting?”
“No. I live in the neighborhood,” I lie. “You?”
“Been here for three days, then Paris for four, and then Rome and …”
I tune her out. I hate tourists who jump from one city to another as if they are at a buffet table. I hate buffets. I like to order from the menu. They get nothing from these trips, but they go home and tell their friends they have been to Europe. They have done Europe. And if the conversation turns to a city, any city, they could say they have been there. They would say, I have been to Rome, but the food is terrible and the people are so rude and no one speaks English. I like Paris better even though…
I take a big gulp of my cider. She is looking at me expectantly. “That’s great,” I say.
Jill doesn’t give up. She is not as young as she once was — the wrinkles, which are partially covered by expert make up, expose her age when she drops her guard. She is unguarded at the moment. It’s her last night in London and nothing was going to deter her from having fun. “What are you drinking?”
“Cider.”
She squints her face as if she has tasted something bitter. “You mean apple cider?”
I know she is thinking American plain cider. I have no patience for her, especially since she is drinking white wine in a pub. “It’s hard cider. It’s very good.” She is still suspicious. “It’s very English.”
She is intrigued. “Could I have a sip?”
It’s strange how dainty and hygienic we can be all day long, but at night in a pub we readily ask to take a sip from a stranger’s glass — exchanging fluids in a minute amount as a prelude for a larger exchange. She leans over and I hand her my glass and she takes a tentative sip. I know she will like it and she does.
“Wow. It’s great. So it’s called Cider?”
She still doesn’t like the name. I see faint traces of her lipstick around the rim of the glass, but such things don’t trouble me. I don’t see this as anything other than a sip, even if she might, and sharing a glass with a stranger doesn’t bother me. Most people have a three-second rule about picking up food from the ground. I have a three-minute rule.
I offer the glass back to her, but she is hesitant to get more involved without some foreplay. I don’t have time for this game tonight so I simply nod and pull back the glass. She is dismayed and I hate to leave her like this; plus Daniel hated people drinking wine in a pub. I want to give Jill something less offensive.
“I’ll get you a pint,” I say and before she could say anything I go inside.
I come back and hand her the drink and tell her I need to go. She is puzzled and I know she feels insulted. I tell her that I have to go home to my family. She doesn’t believe me, but I don’t care.
I walk back to Cerulean hotel, taking the long way so I can walk by Kensington Park.
IV
I never thought that by the age of sixteen, I’d learn to love spending time in a park doing nothing but observing people. Daniel taught me that. He made me look at people, not in the cursory manner that I had always done, but to really absorb people’s gestures and movements. The way they interacted with each other and the way they held themselves. Daniel could read people and he taught me how to read them too. I was never as good as he was, but I learned to see people’s moods and general sense of disposition as if each carried a large cartoon speech bubble next to his or her head. I could simply look up and read it. They signaled so visibly and loudly that I was surprised that people could function with so much distraction. Daniel was a master though. He could look at a couple and he could read immediately if they loved each other or if they were about to separate. He could tell if they just had sex or an argument.
“Most people get confused by the obvious signals,” he would tell me and like a sage master he would demonstrate by picking a couple seemingly at random and then test me to prove his point. He would point to a couple and ask if they were real. In fact, he would ask, “Lovers or haters?”
I’d look up and see a couple in their late thirties holding hands so gently and warmly that it was clear they were lovers. But I would take a moment to make sure before answering, like a good pupil trying to apply all the techniques of my master. They were both dressed nicely and strolled in a leisurely fashion. Neither was leading and they seemed to be in step. They were both wearing wedding rings so it was clear they were married, or at least wanted to convey this message. But it occurred to me perhaps they were not married to each other. But I set that option aside since if they were cheating they would have a different body language, a kind that exudes sexuality and lassitude at the same time. Lovers walked with an aura of sexual contentment, but those in an illicit relationship tended to show a unique type of weariness, as if some sense of morality was weighing them down. Both those ingredients were missing in their movements. It was clear to me that they have been married for a while, but they still loved each other very much.
“Lovers.”
“Are you sure, Marty?”
It was clear I was wrong, not just because of his tone, but because of my name. “Why not?”
“’Cause, my daft friend, y’missed their fuckin’ eyes.”
“I did not.”
I had.
“’Course y’ad. Y’re so fuckin’ enamored by their fuckin’ good looks and their fuckin’ dainty walk that y’missed that both of ‘em are constantly eyeing others.”
“They could still be lovers, but not married to e
ach other…”
He shook his head and once again turned serious. “No, Marty. They’re not nervous like two cheaters would be. They’re very calm and comfortable. They’re eyeing others because they are on the prowl. They’re the worst. They cheat, but they only cheat each other and each is unaware of the other’s unfaithfulness.”
“You can’t see all that in one glance,” I said and he laughed at me, like an adult would laugh at a child who is amazed by a simple feat.
In public, people take on different personas, trying to shield their private thoughts, but nothing seemed to be ever hidden from Daniel. He saw right through them as he saw right through me, but ironically he was completely shielded from himself. He thought he knew who he was, and who he wanted to be but he really didn’t know himself. Life was too boring for Daniel so he drove fast and spent hours at a time trying to drill deep into strangers’ psyches. He wanted to see intrigue in people’s regular and benign conversations and created background stories to fit the body and facial movement of his targets. It didn’t help that he was sometimes right.
“The fat man is back,” he informed me as soon as I sat next to him on the bench. He had names for them as well, but I couldn’t keep up so he would use descriptors to help me.
“Where is he?”
“Talking to Roger.” He’d enunciate each word as if he was on a mission and didn’t want a single word to get lost.
“Which one is Roger?”
“Don’t be so daft and obvious. Look over your book.”
I had started to carry a book with me whenever Daniel wanted to go for a walk in the park, his little code word for spending hours watching people. Daniel had opposed the idea of bringing books in the beginning, insisting that I had to focus on people, but then relented seeing that I could not keep my attention as long as he did. I was looking over my book trying to find the fat man and Roger, two people that Daniel had targeted weeks earlier. Daniel had two real passions: becoming a spy and driving fast cars, and perhaps in his mind each one was an integral part of the other.
He was already studying Russian in school. He was patient and observant. He read people well. He wanted a Camaro and he wanted to join MI6.
“Which one is MI6?” I’d ask. I could never get them straight.
“The good one,” he’d tell me.
I was still looking for the fat man and Roger.
“The bald man with rimmed glasses is Roger. They are pretending to feed the ducks.”
Both were there, the fat man named Boris and the bald short man with thick wire rimmed glasses named Roger. They were feeding the ducks in a careless manner, not really looking at the ducks, so sometimes the pieces would hit the birds on the head. They were intent in their conversation. It was mostly Boris who spoke and Roger simply nodded. Though at times, Roger would raise his hand, like a student in a classroom and interject something, which inevitably would force Boris to search his coat pocket and take out a small notebook to write something. He would then put the notebook back in his coat and continued with the conversation. He would put the notebook in the same pocket, the inner left side of his coat, but every time Roger raised his hand Boris would search his coat looking for the notebook as if he had forgotten its location. They met almost every Thursday, sitting on the same bench, talking intently and feeding the birds, absentmindedly. Daniel was sure Boris was from the Russian Embassy and they were working on a major espionage case.
Daniel had a small camera and took several shots of the men talking. He was an excellent photographer and developed all of his black and white films. He had albums of his targets with dates, locations, and names. In this case, he was partially right. Boris, as the papers revealed later, was really David Hansel, and Roger’s real name was Roger Graham. They were arrested for a bank robbery. They were clumsy thieves who planned their heist while feeding the ducks. Their arrest only emboldened Daniel to work harder on his plan to become the best MI6 agent ever.
He never did. He chose a different path. Life had other plans for him and he in his own fashion accepted it with open arms.
I had hoped to sit on our bench and look at people for old time’s sake, but the gate to the park was closed and the only thing I could do was to stare out at the empty park from a distance. I did this for a minute but without Daniel, I didn’t have the patience and it was time to go back to the hotel anyway. I cleared my head of the past and walked briskly back towards Gabrielle’s hotel.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I
Gabrielle is not in the lobby. I’m about to call her room when she walks out of the elevator. She has put her hair up and changed from her travel clothes to something more appropriate for a Friday night in London. She’s wearing a short velvet black dress and her bare shoulders are covered with a red cashmere shawl. She had put on makeup and had straightened her rebellious eyebrow. I had never seen her so posh.
“You look great, Gabrielle.”
“Worth the wait,” adds the receptionist from behind me.
It’s very un-English of him and he is beginning to annoy me. Gabrielle likes him though and she smiles and thanks him.
“Where do you want to eat?”
She says, “I’m not fussy.”
She is not, but yet she is. Gabrielle doesn’t say it, but I know she doesn’t want to stay in the neighborhood. She didn’t want to have her hotel here either, but I had forced the issue since I wanted to stay at the Gore. Gabrielle wanted to stay close by, but didn’t want to pay Gore prices.
We walk outside and I tell her I want to take a cab. She doesn’t care, but there are none in front of her hotel. We walk up towards Kensington Road. We talk, but we keep the topics bland. We’re still drawing parameters and setting guidelines. We’re two timid explorers embarking on a journey without understanding why. We don’t know each other well.
We pass by Queens Arms. Jill is still there, talking to a couple of people, drinking the pint that I bought for her earlier. She is probably telling everyone cider was her drink when she visits London. She sees me with Gabrielle, and shakes her head as if she had expected my apparent deception. She turns her head, takes a small sip and then continues with her conversation. I am clearly dismissed.
“Wanna’ have a pint before we eat?”
“Not here, please,” she rejoins. She doesn’t even look up. She knows where we are and she doesn’t want to look at the place. “I never want to go there.”
I understand and I had expected it. As much as the place draws me, it repels her. We have different memories of the place. I shouldn’t have challenged her and I’m already feeling remorseful. I had offered the pub to provoke her and it wasn’t necessary. I made her uncomfortable to win a point, though I’m not sure if there was anything to win. She had a good reason to hate the place and my invitation and her inevitable refusal only brought back bad memories for the both of us.
I had read about a new oyster bar in Battersea called Bartley. The owner used an old coal merchant’s house that was built in 1780 for the site of his restaurant. It was far enough to satisfy Gabrielle. I offer it to her and she readily agrees, happy to get away. There’s a cabby across the street and she hails it quickly.
“Twenty-five Battersea Square,” I instruct the driver before we get in. He nods and I open the door for Gabrielle.
“This is great,” she offers generously as we take our seats.
We drive through Knightsbridge and turn right onto Sloane and then onto King’s Road. We’re in Chelsea and there is nothing memorable about it. It isn’t my part of town. Gabrielle says, “Fionna sends her condolences.”
“Thank her for me.”
Perhaps my tone was too dry because she complains, “I never understood you two.”
“It’s been a long time, Gabrielle. And it was never as serious as you guys made it to be. I meant it, thank her for me.”
“I will. She’s changed, you know. She’s gentler now. She had a difficult time then.”
I remember. She used to
talk to me about it. Our public hostile banter was balanced by a private truce. And when Gabrielle was busy with her Italian friend, Fionna reached out to me. Our mutual hatred of the Italian boy proved a strange attraction. We became friendlier. It was good. I was there for her when she needed someone and she was there for me.
I am happy for her. “Where’s she now?”
“She’s in Berlin, working in the same place as us.”
I knew that already. “Same department?”
“Yeah, same department. Actually, we share the same office.” I knew the answer to this one too, but I wanted to make sure. I’ve done my homework. Gabrielle smiles, a shy girlish smile. “I guess Fionna and I are connected for life.”
It makes my work easier. It’s not what I want to do, but I must. “Tell her I said hello.”
The cab is now turning on Battersea Bridge. We’re almost there. I was on a date with Cybil Albright, a small graceful girl, on this bridge. We were walking on the bridge when it started to rain. It was one of those heavy downpours and our little umbrella hardly covered us. We were in the middle of the bridge, so we would get soaked no matter what direction we’d decide to take. I wanted to dash but Cybil pulled me back — there was no point in running. She folded the useless umbrella and gave me a contented smile. Cybil had a prim reputation in school and throughout the night she was dainty and proper. The rain proved everyone wrong. She showed me and perhaps showed herself that she could be different when the moment allowed it. We all need a catalyst and Cybil’s was the drenching rain. The cold rain poured over us, as if we were standing under a waterfall, but we didn’t care. She lifted her head and let the rain wash over her face. She smiled again and stepped forward and allowed me to hold her tight. The rain was cold but our bodies kept us warm. She kissed me, further emboldened by the strength of the rain, and I kissed her back, oblivious of the weather. Her lips were warm and soft and showed surprising expertise, as they played gently on my own.
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