concentrate properly any more, all he could understand was ‘wait’ and ‘time’ and ‘bastards’. He was dizzy, he meant to hold onto the table but he knocked the whisky glass over, it was almost empty and it rolled across the table and then fell to the floor without breaking. ‘Sorry,’ he said, holding onto the table with one hand and turning round to her. She smiled. ‘No problem,’ she said. She squatted down and picked up the glass.
She held it in one hand, squatting down in front of him and looking up at him. She had short blonde hair, and now he saw she was freshly made up. Bright red lips, and he turned around and went to the window. As he went to pull the curtains aside she held onto his arm. He looked at her, and she said, ‘I’ve never … never had a …’ she thought for a moment. ‘Black, I’ve never …’ she thought again, ‘never touched such dark skin,’ and then she laughed. She was still holding onto his arm. ‘Soft,’ she said. He looked at the curtains and then at her hand. He was tired, so tired. He’d cheated on his wife once, before a fight in Madrid, with a little black-haired Spanish woman; he’d spent the whole night in a hotel with her. The next night in the ring, he’d taken one punch after another, left, right, hooks, jabs, and he felt like he couldn’t keep his cover up whenever his opponent went for him, a little black-haired Spanish man. Left, right, hooks, jabs. The audience had booed and whistled; he was known for giving all he had, for defending himself with everything he had, for countering, pummelling his opponent’s body, for testing them, his opponents, getting everything out of them, giving them a challenge they could learn from, but that night he’d let the other man beat his head in. His wife had cried when he’d come home, his face swollen and smashed, a cut on his cheekbone. She’d stroked his face and he’d told her quietly about the boxing club he could come in on, if he put a bit of money into it. A few more fights, just a few more fights.
‘Come over here,’ she said. ‘Lie down, have a rest. You can stay all night if you like.’ He nodded, and she took him by the arm and led him to the sofa against the wall by the table. It was a pretty large sofa with a couple of cushions on it, and it looked huge in the small room. He lay down and then she was sitting next to him. Her hands were on his chest, he closed his eyes, felt her unbuttoning his jacket and taking it off. He meant to say something, wanted to say no, but she said, ‘Shhhh,’ as if she were calming a young child. He wanted to get up and leave, no matter if they were waiting for him outside, but he stayed lying there, he’d fought eight long rounds. He’d have a rest, get some sleep and maybe let her stroke him to sleep, that was all. He wasn’t going to cheat on his wife again, not ever. She laid her chest on his and said, ‘You can stay all night.’ And that calmed him somehow, her breathing very even, and he thought about a lot of things and gradually fell asleep.
He leapt up. He leapt up so quickly that she stumbled aside. He was all there again. ‘No,’ he said, laying his hand on his trouser pocket. ‘My money, bitch.’ The roll of notes had moved – had he felt her hands? He hadn’t imagined it, even though he was wiped out and drunk and might have been half asleep, but now he was all there again. He stroked his shirt smooth. ‘Bastard,’ she said as he picked up his jacket and went to the door. ‘They’ll wreck your face, they’ll wreck your face even more, your ugly black face!’ She laughed, loud and shrill, and he could still hear her laughing as he ran down the stairs.
He ran. He thought of all his running through Rotterdam’s harbour, running and running to keep his form, thought of the ships and cranes disappearing and only the sea still there. He heard them behind him. They’d jumped out of the car; now he saw tower blocks on either side,
She held it in one hand, squatting down in front of him and looking up at him. She had short blonde hair, and now he saw she was freshly made up. Bright red lips, and he turned around and went to the window. As he went to pull the curtains aside she held onto his arm. He looked at her, and she said, ‘I’ve never … never had a …’ she thought for a moment. ‘Black, I’ve never …’ she thought again, ‘never touched such dark skin,’ and then she laughed. She was still holding onto his arm. ‘Soft,’ she said. He looked at the curtains and then at her hand. He was tired, so tired. He’d cheated on his wife once, before a fight in Madrid, with a little black-haired Spanish woman; he’d spent the whole night in a hotel with her. The next night in the ring, he’d taken one punch after another, left, right, hooks, jabs, and he felt like he couldn’t keep his cover up whenever his opponent went for him, a little black-haired Spanish man. Left, right, hooks, jabs. The audience had booed and whistled; he was known for giving all he had, for defending himself with everything he had, for countering, pummelling his opponent’s body, for testing them, his opponents, getting everything out of them, giving them a challenge they could learn from, but that night he’d let the other man beat his head in. His wife had cried when he’d come home, his face swollen and smashed, a cut on his cheekbone. She’d stroked his face and he’d told her quietly about the boxing club he could come in on, if he put a bit of money into it. A few more fights, just a few more fights.
‘Come over here,’ she said. ‘Lie down, have a rest. You can stay all night if you like.’ He nodded, and she took him by the arm and led him to the sofa against the wall by the table. It was a pretty large sofa with a couple of cushions on it, and it looked huge in the small room. He lay down and then she was sitting next to him. Her hands were on his chest, he closed his eyes, felt her unbuttoning his jacket and taking it off. He meant to say something, wanted to say no, but she said, ‘Shhhh,’ as if she were calming a young child. He wanted to get up and leave, no matter if they were waiting for him outside, but he stayed lying there, he’d fought eight long rounds. He’d have a rest, get some sleep and maybe let her stroke him to sleep, that was all. He wasn’t going to cheat on his wife again, not ever. She laid her chest on his and said, ‘You can stay all night.’ And that calmed him somehow, her breathing very even, and he thought about a lot of things and gradually fell asleep.
He leapt up. He leapt up so quickly that she stumbled aside. He was all there again. ‘No,’ he said, laying his hand on his trouser pocket. ‘My money, bitch.’ The roll of notes had moved – had he felt her hands? He hadn’t imagined it, even though he was wiped out and drunk and might have been half asleep, but now he was all there again. He stroked his shirt smooth. ‘Bastard,’ she said as he picked up his jacket and went to the door. ‘They’ll wreck your face, they’ll wreck your face even more, your ugly black face!’ She laughed, loud and shrill, and he could still hear her laughing as he ran down the stairs.
He ran. He thought of all his running through Rotterdam’s harbour, running and running to keep his form, thought of the ships and cranes disappearing and only the sea still there. He heard them behind him. They’d jumped out of the car; now he saw tower blocks on either side,
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