All That Man Is by David Szalay Page B

to my room?’
    Despite the exhaustiveness of yesterday’s session he finds, slightly to his own surprise, that he wants more.
    She is eating a pack of toffee popcorn, the sort of thing she always has on her, in her handbag. She looks at him for a moment as if she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Then she says, ‘Yeah, okay.’
    â€˜Okay,’ Bérnard says, feeling pleased with himself. ‘I will see you later.’
    He looks quickly at Sandra – it was awkward, somehow, to speak out with her there. She doesn’t seem to have heard, though. She is just fanning herself with a brochure, and looking towards the brown glass door.
    The afternoon passes slowly. Bérnard sprawls on the pummelled, stained mattress on the floor of his room. He looks out the window. Nothing interests him. The only thing he is able to think about is what will happen later, when Charmian shows up.
    Finally, at about five there is a knock on the door.
    He opens it, wearing only his pants.
    It is not Charmian.
    It is her mother – feathery blonde pudding-bowl, red face, even redder cleavage.
    â€˜Hello, Bernard,’ she says.
    He swings the door mostly shut, leaving only his shocked face visible to her. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even manage hello.
    â€˜Can I come in then?’ Sandra asks.
    â€˜I need … I need to get dressed.’
    â€˜Don’t bother about that,’ Sandra says authoritatively. ‘Come on – let me in.’
    He opens the door and stands aside and Sandra advances, with obvious interest, into the narrow stale-smelling room.
    The thin sundress drapes her distended physique.
    Her face is papery, parched, especially around the eyes.
    â€˜Our room’s just like this,’ she says.
    Bérnard is standing there in his pants.
    â€˜You look worried, Bernard,’ she says. She looks at the mattress in its odd position on the floor. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about.’ Her eyes stay on the mattress for a few seconds, as if inspecting it, and then she says, ‘I’ve heard good things about you, Bernard.’
    He looks puzzled.
    â€˜Oh, yes, very good things.’
    â€˜What things?’ he asks worriedly.
    She laughs at the expression on his face. ‘Well, what d’you think? You know why I’m here, don’t you?’ she says, looking him in the eye.
    It takes him a few seconds.
    Then he understands.
    â€˜That’s more like it,’ she says, immediately noticing. She smiles, showing her small yellow teeth. ‘She said you were insatiable, and you are as well.’ She puts her hand on his smooth chest and says, ‘Charmian’ll be back tomorrow, don’t worry. She’s a bit sore today. Didn’t think she was up to it. So I asked her if it was alright if I had a go. I’ve never had a Frenchman before,’ she says, almost tremulously. ‘I want you to show me what all the fuss is about – alright?’ She is looking up at him, her hand on his face now. ‘Will you do that for me, Bernard?’ Her sea-green eyes are full of imploration. ‘Will you?’
    *
    She leaves after dark – she was more eager, more humble than the younger woman – and he sleeps until eight in the morning, without waking once.
    When he does wake, still lying on the mattress on the floor, the room is full of sunlight.
    He walks to Porkies and has an egg roll, a Greek coffee.
    And then, already in his trunks, and equipped with one of the Poseidon’s small, scratchy towels, he makes his way to the sea.
    As he had the previous day, he woke with a desire to swim in the sea.
    It is still too early for the beach to be full. The Russians are there, of course, with their pungent cigarettes, their Thermoses of peat-coloured tea.
    He walks down to the low surf – it is quite far from the road, the tide is out – and takes off his shirt and shoes. He puts his wallet