barbecue with colleagues or in the car with her kids, she suddenly purses her lips and makes a face because her memory has swerved in that direction. Her husband, in the seat next to her, will look surprised. She’ll wave her hand as if tosay, it’s nothing. Something she ate. She’ll take a tablet when they get home. It will pass.
And what about me, did it pass?
Yes, it did. That’s the worst thing about it.
I made up a whole bunch of stories.
That in France I was studying to become a helicopter pilot, to rescue stranded mountaineers. That sort of rubbish. And the more lies I told her, the more I started to believe it. At lastI was becoming another person. Kathleen hadn’t lost that sulky look she had when I went up to her, but nor had she walked away. She couldn’t help but smile, sometimes, because of my accent. We were in the other room, in the chapel. It was much darker there, with red seats and dim lights. We could hear the music from the dance floor, muted, just the bass causing the walls to vibrate. Around us, onlycouples in various stages of intimacy. A back room in a church. The England I had hoped to see. Not the one where tourist couples wander through rooms in a museum or stroll through parks pointing at swans and daffodils.
She wanted to dance.
She was wearing one of those black lace dresses thatwere in fashion. With a leopard skin scarf in her hair. Bold red lipstick. A come-hither sort of attitude.An ersatz Madonna let loose on the streets of London. One among thousands.
At one point she let out a graceless yawn, and I thought that was it, but she said it was just that she was tired, she’d had a rough week, she lived all the way on the edge of London, quite far away, there were no more trains or underground, the taxi would cost a fortune and in any case they would never agree to take herway out there at that hour of the night, was I staying at a hotel?
“Yes.”
“Can we go there?”
“There’s just one problem. I … actually, I’m sharing the room with my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes, we came to London together.”
“Ah-hah.”
“But she shouldn’t be there anymore, she was supposed to leave for France this evening.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Right. Otherwise we can find a room inanother hotel.”
“I’m not a whore.”
“I never said you were.”
“Either we sleep at your place, or it’s nyet. ”
“What, nyet ?”
“Well, come on then.”
I remember our walk through the London night.We didn’t talk. I didn’t even know her last name. And everything she had learned about me was untrue. Anyway, she was no fool. She felt like spending the night with me and, while we were at it, she’d havea place to sleep. I prefer to think it went in that order.
While we were walking, I wondered if I could stop it right there. If I could explain and say, “Actually, Cécile and me, you see … I don’t know what came over me. It’s not right. Can we meet again tomorrow or another day? Really, tonight’s no good, but I would really, truly, madly like to kiss your breasts.”
But the words didn’t come.
It took us half an hour to walk from the cathedraltemple of the night to Cartwright Gardens, and I found myself praying to the Holy Ghost that Cécile really had left in the end, and everything would be easy, we could make it up back in France, I would grovel before her with apologies, I would make promises, and she would never find out a thing about Kathleen No-Name. Or maybe the aforementionedKathleen would remember a very important appointment at three o’clock in the morning, and she absolutely had to get back to her suburb, she would slip me her name and her phone number, and then she would say tomorrow, same time, and the next day at the same time I would be there, I would have dealt with the Cécile problem, Cécile would be gone, bag and baggage, bye now, air kisses on both cheeks,no hard feelings, right?
Sometimes, when you’re twenty, you
And what about me, did it pass?
Yes, it did. That’s the worst thing about it.
I made up a whole bunch of stories.
That in France I was studying to become a helicopter pilot, to rescue stranded mountaineers. That sort of rubbish. And the more lies I told her, the more I started to believe it. At lastI was becoming another person. Kathleen hadn’t lost that sulky look she had when I went up to her, but nor had she walked away. She couldn’t help but smile, sometimes, because of my accent. We were in the other room, in the chapel. It was much darker there, with red seats and dim lights. We could hear the music from the dance floor, muted, just the bass causing the walls to vibrate. Around us, onlycouples in various stages of intimacy. A back room in a church. The England I had hoped to see. Not the one where tourist couples wander through rooms in a museum or stroll through parks pointing at swans and daffodils.
She wanted to dance.
She was wearing one of those black lace dresses thatwere in fashion. With a leopard skin scarf in her hair. Bold red lipstick. A come-hither sort of attitude.An ersatz Madonna let loose on the streets of London. One among thousands.
At one point she let out a graceless yawn, and I thought that was it, but she said it was just that she was tired, she’d had a rough week, she lived all the way on the edge of London, quite far away, there were no more trains or underground, the taxi would cost a fortune and in any case they would never agree to take herway out there at that hour of the night, was I staying at a hotel?
“Yes.”
“Can we go there?”
“There’s just one problem. I … actually, I’m sharing the room with my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes, we came to London together.”
“Ah-hah.”
“But she shouldn’t be there anymore, she was supposed to leave for France this evening.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Right. Otherwise we can find a room inanother hotel.”
“I’m not a whore.”
“I never said you were.”
“Either we sleep at your place, or it’s nyet. ”
“What, nyet ?”
“Well, come on then.”
I remember our walk through the London night.We didn’t talk. I didn’t even know her last name. And everything she had learned about me was untrue. Anyway, she was no fool. She felt like spending the night with me and, while we were at it, she’d havea place to sleep. I prefer to think it went in that order.
While we were walking, I wondered if I could stop it right there. If I could explain and say, “Actually, Cécile and me, you see … I don’t know what came over me. It’s not right. Can we meet again tomorrow or another day? Really, tonight’s no good, but I would really, truly, madly like to kiss your breasts.”
But the words didn’t come.
It took us half an hour to walk from the cathedraltemple of the night to Cartwright Gardens, and I found myself praying to the Holy Ghost that Cécile really had left in the end, and everything would be easy, we could make it up back in France, I would grovel before her with apologies, I would make promises, and she would never find out a thing about Kathleen No-Name. Or maybe the aforementionedKathleen would remember a very important appointment at three o’clock in the morning, and she absolutely had to get back to her suburb, she would slip me her name and her phone number, and then she would say tomorrow, same time, and the next day at the same time I would be there, I would have dealt with the Cécile problem, Cécile would be gone, bag and baggage, bye now, air kisses on both cheeks,no hard feelings, right?
Sometimes, when you’re twenty, you
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