by Martin Amis
When he walked the grids of the A to Z, through the flowing metal of the city, he gratefully heeded the instructions daubed on the roadside crossings, LOOK LEFT, LOOK RIGHT. But now—and this happened when he was driving too—he kept suspecting that there was a third direction he should be wary of. There was a third direction that things might be coming from. Not right, not left—but aslant, athwart.
Book Five
Trauma
1
THE TURN
Soon came the waiting, then came the metamorphoses, then came torquere (“to twist”); but first came the turn.
When he entered the tower bedroom, at half past two, Lily and Kenrik were lying together on the bared bottom sheet. Lily in her satin housecoat, Kenrik in shirt and jeans and gyms. A rhombus of moonlight bathed their bodies in its innocence; but their faces were lost in black shadow. Keith said,
“Are you awake? … I drove the Rolls.”
Lily unsleepily said, “Where was Tom Thumb?”
“In the back with the Dog. Doing God knows what.”
“Was that them screeching off? That was an hour ago.”
“I sat up thinking.”
“Mm, I bet you did. Now where will you lay your head? You can go next door and climb in with Junglebum for all I care.”
“What’s he doing here anyway?”
“Him? What’s he doing here? Well. He made love to me, you see. And it was heaven. Some men know how to make a woman feel beautiful. And then he put his clothes back on—because he wouldn’t want you to know. Would he. Then he fell asleep. Or maybe he’s just pretending.”
“I wish I could see your face. Kenrik? … Push him over. There’s a pillow on the rug. Push.”
Then Kenrik rolled. There was a soggy but nonetheless sickening thud, then silence.
Lily said, “By the way. Buggery is the beast with one back. Isn’t that right?”
He said, “I wish I could see your face.”
“But you don’t have to do it that way round.”
“I wish I could see your face.”
The two visitors were packed up and on their way by mid-afternoon, but nobody who saw it ever forgot it: Rita and Ruaa, in the same frame of vision—Ruaa and Rita, down by the pool.
Meanwhile, Kenrik and Keith lay on the lawn in their swimsuits. Their utterly hairless chests, their flat stomachs, their full brown thighs: not particularly well made, and not innocent, but indubitably young.
Kenrik leant up on an elbow. “It’s Eden here,” he said nauseously, and sank back with a quavering sigh. “… Jesus, those birds look a bit rough. The crows. Not the, not the gaily coloured coolies in the tree—Christ, they like a laugh, don’t they?”
“Look at them up there.” Keith meant the magneti, perforating the horizon.
“They’re cool too. No. The crows.”
The crows, their bitter, scavenging faces, their hoarse cries of hunger. And Keith, too, croaked out his question: the one about last night and Lily … He was no longer all aglitter with cunning; he had begun to suspect that there were certain people who were better at cunning than he was. Keith felt like a tyro physicist who, on his first day, initiates an irreversible chain reaction, and then just stands there and stares. Kenrik said,
“I don’t think anything happened. But I can’t remember. Again. It’s shocking, that. And rude. But there it is. I can’t remember.”
Yes. Keith’s scheme contained another obvious weakness: it had Kenrik in it. “I thought you’d sobered up.”
“Me too, but after all that fucking coffee I drank another barrel of wine and went back on the Scotch. Jesus. It’s a bit better now. When I opened my eyes, first thing, I hardly knew what I was. Hang on. Maybe it’ll all come back to me.”
“… Describe hangovers. I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”
Showing one of the fragments of a good (Protestant) education, Kenrik said, “They’re like … they’re like the Inquisition. Yeah. Exactly like. A hangover racks you for your sins. And when you confess, it racks you even more. And by the way, if you don’t think you’ve ever had one, then you haven’t ever had one.”
“Isn’t it the same with sex? If you don’t think you did, then you didn’t.”
“Ah but it’s a funny mix, sex and booze. You can wake up saying sorry you didn’t, when in fact you did … Okay. We talked on the terrace. Then we were up in the tower. I remember thinking how nice she was. I remember thinking how loyal she was—Lily.”
This wasn’t as informative as it sounded: loyal, for Kenrik, was a term of broad approval; various drinking clubs, snooker halls, and gambling dens were praised by him as loyal.
“Sorry, man. You can’t ask her, I suppose. Can’t check with Lily.”
“I can but she—”
Lily in her indigo bikini was coming across the lawn to where they lay, unusually light-footed, Keith thought, like a girl in an ad for something healthy or fragrant—Ryvita, say, or 4711. She knelt at Kenrik’s side and kissed him carefully on the mouth. They watched her walk on down the slope.
“Mm, that reminded me of something. Change the subject for a bit. Rita. Did you watch her dancing?”
“The whole club watched her dancing.” The sweating nightspot, the cleared floor, the circular crowd, the strobes, the mirrorballs, Rita’s tank top and Union Jack miniskirt. “The limbo.”
“The limbo.” Kenrik sank back.
“And Jesus. The last time round, that pole can’t have been more than nine inches off the ground.”
“See, that’s what she wants. Amazing, isn’t it. For her that’s the perfect state of affairs. Every pair of eyes in the whole place,” said Kenrik, “transfixed by her box.”
“Would we do that? If we could?”
“Maybe. If we could. I don’t see it somehow. Then what?”
“Then outside she said, You drive, Keith, and I’ll pop in the back with Sebs.”
“Could you see anything?”
“No, I kept the mirror up. I didn’t dare look. But I listened.” Intense silences, punctuated by movements of demented suddenness—instantaneous joltings, jerkings, snappings-to. “Sort of whiplash effects. From him. Every now and then.” Keith sank back again. “When I got out he clambered over the seat. And they tore off.”
Kenrik laughed, reluctantly; then unreluctantly. He said, “Whiplash. She’s sort of great, the Dog. I’m too young to be doing all that queer stuff. Too young and too queer.”
“What’s it like, all that queer stuff?”
“It’s terrifying really. Cool at the time. Rita’s right, you know. I don’t think I like it—now that girls like it. I liked it better when they didn’t. Or pretended not to. What’s the time? Can I start drinking yet? … That kiss reminded me of something. There was kissing.”
“And kissing was all?”
“Yeah. I think. You know, I’m ninety per cent certain I wasn’t a naughty boy last night. And I’ll tell you why.” He came up on an elbow. “See, for about a week I’ve been thinking … I’m going to make an announcement. I’m going to announce that I won’t be fucking anyone ever again.”
“Anyone. Not even Scheherazade if she asked you to.”
“Not even Scheherazade. And I want it official. I want it in my passport. A special stamp, like a visa. So in the tent tonight, all I’d have to do is open my passport at the Dog. Christ, did you see the size of that bee? I bet that packs a sting … It’s Eden here.”
The roses pouted and simpered, the scents swayed and swooned. They were talking about the birds and the bees. It was Eden. And Keith, who was feeling very fallen, said, “I’m sorry to hear that. I mean Lily. But would she have, d’you think? Would she have?”
At noon, from the pool, they saw the Rolls Royce come cruising round the curl in the mountainside. Lily and Keith went to the rampart and looked over: Rita flying up the stone steps while the car made a gruff three-point turn on the gravel. She paused to wave, on tiptoe, and there was the bronzed forearm, lazily brandished.
“He does a beautiful breakfast,” said Rita as she wriggled out of all her clothes. “Served on his balcony. It’s not a castle, where Seb lives. It’s a bloody town.”
She was now under the poolside shower, with one hand ready on the grip of the tap. But first she had much to impart … There were just the four of them down there, now, and Scheherazade.
“Flowers on the tray. Three kinds of fruit juice. Croissants. Yoghurt and honey. Little herb omelette under a little silver platter. Oh, it was handsome. Except the tea. I couldn’t drink it. I can’t drink that muck, me. I need me Tetley. I should’ve brought along a bag or two. Why didn’t I? I must have me Tetley.”
“She travels with it,” said Kenrik. “Her Tetley.”
“I’m no good without me Tetley. Rik. Go on, star, go and make us a mug. Ooh, go on.”
Kenrik climbed to his feet, conversationally saying, “No offence or anything, and don’t answer if you don’t want to, but what was he like? Adriano.”
It was then that Ruaa appeared, beyond, behind, moving sharply round the side of the pool hut, halting, stiffening, tilting back; her sable gown told you only three things about the body there encased: its gender, of course, its height, of course, and, rather more mysteriously, its youth.
“Look at this he gave me,” said Rita, all unaware, as her hands sought her throat: an undulant silver necklet with a solid glint to it. “My serpent of old Nile … You know, Schez, I’ve never been made love to like that before. He begins so gentle. And just as you’re swooning with the tenderness of it all, he changes. And you think, Oof, have I ever felt that well plugged? I think it must be the girth of him.”
Then she swivelled. And the moment seemed to zoom upward into the gold and the blue: there they were, by a castle on a mountain in Italy, Ruaa and Rita—yes, the Blob in her burkha, the Dog in her birthday suit … Rita shouted out,
“Jesus Christ, love, you must be fucking frying alive in there! You want to get that tent off, chick, and come and have a splash with us!”
For lunch there were the leftovers from the (very distant) night before. And then they were gone.
“You know,” said an equable Scheherazade, “she’s better than us.”
“Who is?” said Keith.
“Ruaa.”
Lily said, “Oh, come on. Why? Because she wears an instrument of torture? And why’s it black? Black traps the heat. Why not white? Why are they dressed as widows?”
“Well that may be true. But she’s better than us.”
Keith went on staring out, long after the little sports car had dropped over the slopes of the first foothill. And when he turned away there was no one there, no Scheherazade, no Lily, no one at all, and he felt suddenly empty, suddenly alone under the sky. He stood at the poolside and stared. The water was motionless and for now translucent; he could see the copper coins and a single flipper. Then the light began to change, as a cloud hurried sideways to shield the modesty of the sun, and a shape like a dark starfish came writhing up from the depths. Only to meet its original—a falling leaf—as the surface changed from glass to mirror.
It was just the two of them on the terrace before dinner, and Lily said,
“Why aren’t you angry?”
“About you and Kenrik? Because I assume you’re teasing me. Some men know how to make a woman feel … You sounded like Rita on Adriano.”
“And you’re like Kenrik listening to her. Utterly indifferent.”
“Because you make it sound implausible.”
“Oh, you don’t believe me. You don’t believe Kenrik tried. Because I’m not attractive enough.”
“No, Lily.”
“What did Kenrik say about it?”
“Well he wouldn’t tell me, would he?”
“Wouldn’t he? … Anyway. He didn’t. He was very sweet, and we had a kiss and a cuddle. But he didn’t try and take it further. That was all.”
“Ah, but would you have? That’s the point. Would you have?”
“What, so you can … No. I wouldn’t have. Listen. You and I made a vow. We swore. Remember? That we might break up, but we’d never do that to each other. Never be underhand. Never deceive.”
He admitted the truth of this.
“… I don’t know quite what you had in mind, but I’ve been thinking. Is there an animal between a dog and a fox? Because that’s what we are. We’re not tree rats and we’re not red squirrels. We’re the grey. You know, it’s not the rich who’re really different from us. It’s the beautiful. You don’t get Visions. I can, sometimes, because I’m a girl. But it’s never on equal terms. And it always hurts. We’re Possibles, you and me. We’re still quite cute, and we make each other happy. Look, we can’t break up here, can we. I love you enough for now. And you should love me back.”
He coughed, and went on coughing. When you’re a smoker, you sometimes have the chance to get rid of the other stuff that’s choking you. She knew everything, he felt. So he came out with it. “I can’t believe I said that. Would you have? Please forget I ever did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Love Story. The one we hated. Remember? Hysterical sex means never having to say you’re sorry.”
“Good, Lily. That’s your first proper one.” It would in fact take him not very long to see how completely useless this was, as an axiom. The truth of it being that love meant always having to say you’re sorry. “I’m sorry, Lily. And yes to everything. I’m sorry, Lily. I’m sorry.”
At dinner in the kitchen, with Scheherazade and Gloria, he kept his head down, and told himself, Well at least, now, the bad dreams will stop—the dreams of Lily. There were variations along the way, but these dreams inevitably came to the point where she was crying and he was laughing. These dreams always gave Keith enough power to wake himself up from them. So even in the mad universe of sleep—you passionately wanted something, and it came about, it came true. You woke up. And it was the only time it ever really happened (he thought): it was in this sense and in this sense only that your dreams ever really came true.
That night it was a little better, the indescribable act. You could even say that Jupiter made love to Juno. It was Jovian, it befitted the King of Heaven, in that Juno was not only his sister but also his wife.
“I wish Timmy would come.”
“I do too.”
“That would be simplest for everybody. Especially for her. So she can stop …”
Being desperate, he thought. And then he gave it up.
For now Adriano held back. And, the next morning, it wasn’t Timmy’s name that was on everyone’s lips. No, the advent of Jorquil, long-rumoured, had hardened into a date, perceptibly adding to the prestige and legitimacy of Gloria Beautyman. Jorq, after all, was speeding to her side—while Timmy fecklessly tarried in Jerusalem. Now power changed.
At lunch, fanning herself with the confirmatory telegram, Gloria asked Scheherazade if she would need any help moving her stuff out of the apartment, adding,
“You can’t do it all by yourself, and there’s no Eugenio—or Timmy … We can leave it till Tuesday. Of course, I’d be perfectly happy in the tower. But you know Jorq.”
“I know Jorq. Fine. God, it’s his castle.”
“And the apartment’s awfully big for just one person, isn’t it.”
“Yes.”
“And there’s no sign of Timmy, is there.”
“No.”
“I mean, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of Timmy, have we.”
“No.”
“Well, you’ve got—what?—another five nights all alone up there.”
And this.
Keith was grimly transcribing some notes in one of the anterooms (he was tidying up, in readiness for Dickens and George Eliot) when Gloria passed by with her sewing (she was making a patchwork quilt, patch by patch). And she said,
“I expect you’re terribly pleased about Jorquil.”
“… Why d’you expect that?”
“Because it means the servants’ll be back.
This place is turning into an ashtray, don’t you think? Haven’t you finished with that yet?”
She meant Pride and Prejudice. “I nearly have.” He was jotting down the details of Charlotte Lucas’s prudential marriage to the Reverend Collins. “Why d’you ask?”
“I thought I might have a read of it. If you’d be so kind. Or are you the sort of swot who’s ‘funny’ about his books? His uh, Signet paperbacks.”
“Wait.” He looked at her, and she looked the same—clumping sandals, dull dun smock, tufted black hair. “Does that mean you’ve already polished off Joan of Arc?”
“Oh, irony again. I’d forgotten how ironical you are.”
“There’s a much fancier set in the library. Leatherbound. Illustrated.”
“No, I’ll use yours, if I may. Then I can be as grubby as I like. Is it my kind of thing?”
Keith thought of Jorquil, the heavy blond shape under the top hat in the rural marquee. He said (he paraphrased), “It’s a novel about the amorous effects of money. Young women of the middle class—revealing with such sobriety—the economic basis of society.”
“… You clever young men. And it’s hilarious, really, because you don’t know anything.”
The heat persisted, and there was now something wholly disgraceful in the way it uncurled and revealed itself each morning. They woke up and it was already there, uncurling and revealing itself, like a beast. The kitchen smelled of cabbage and drains. The milk went off. The pool was ninety-eight point four. I will never tire, the sun was saying. I am like the sea. You will tire. But I will never tire.
“Oh come on, Lily. What d’you mean, keeps having handjobs?”
“She does. She keeps having handjobs. At least two a day.”
“Two a day?” And Keith wasn’t sure that girls even had handjobs. “Where?”
“In the bathroom. With the showerhead in the tub that’s like a mad snake when you turn it on full. She says the one in the apartment isn’t quite as good. Less pressure.”