ago.’
‘You know anyone?’
‘Only you.’ I grinned. ‘Sounds like a song, doesn’t it.’
‘You know, you should get out,’ he said, ‘meet some people.’ His voice brightened suddenly. His daughter’s wedding, he’d mentioned it already, it was in a few days’ time. Maybe I should come along.
‘That’s very kind of you, Gregory, but –’
‘Loots is coming.’
‘Who?’
‘Albert Loots. He’s a friend of mine.’ Gregory leaned forwards. ‘He used to work in a circus. Works in a factory now. Cakes and biscuits.’ Gregory sighed, but it was a sigh of deep satisfaction. He liked it when lives described a curve, as both ours did. He liked to have some kind of proof that fortune’s wheel had turned. ‘I see him on his bicycle sometimes. Usually it’s when I’m going home, six or seven in the morning –’ Gregory yawned. ‘Wish I could hit the hay. Ah well, no rest for the wicked.’ He heaved himself to his feet, looked down at me. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you think you’ll come?’
‘I’ll try.’
I watched him leave with dread rising in me like a river whose history it is to burst its banks. Gregory’s daughter’s wedding. It was bound to be one of those interminable suburban functions. There’dbe a band – some bunch of tone-deaf alcoholics playing folk tunes. There’d be dancing, which I’d always thought of as a kind of illness, like Parkinson’s disease, or epilepsy (someone call an ambulance, for Christ’s sake). There’d be displays of sentiment and bonhomie on every side. I was going to have to get out of it – but how? I walked through the 14th district for most of that night, trying to think up excuses.
Towards dawn I was on my way back to the Kosminsky when I saw a man riding a bicycle down the middle of a wide, deserted street. It was still very early, the trees loud with birds, light slowly beginning to ease into the sky. Because he was just about the only thing moving, I kept my eyes on him. He was some distance away, though; I couldn’t see his face.
As I watched, the man swung himself up into the air. Suddenly he was upside-down, one hand on the handlebars, the other on the saddle. It was so deft, so effortless, that he appeared weightless, immune to the laws of gravity. And the bicycle was still travelling down the middle of the street; if you’d traced its progress with a piece of chalk, if you’d drawn a line on the tarmac, I doubt there would have been even a kink in it. The man wore tight-fitting, pale-yellow trousers and a glittering blue jersey with stars on it. It seemed to me that he was juggling what looked like oranges with his feet. Then, just before he disappeared from view, he dropped back down into the saddle, his feet synchronising with the pedals, the oranges vanishing, one by one, into his pockets. I found myself applauding.
‘What happened?’ asked a passer-by.
‘It’s over now,’ I said. ‘You missed it.’
As I prepared for bed I remembered something Gregory had told me. Used to be in a circus. Sometimes I see him on his bicycle. Surely it had to be the same man. That friend of his, the one he’d invited to his daughter’s wedding. What was his name? Teats? Groot? Something like that. I felt my anxieties lift, my excuses fall away. I’d spent half the night in torment – and now? I realised I was actually looking forward to the event. All it had taken was a man on a bicycle and half adozen oranges. I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror. I watched my mouth open wide, I saw my teeth. I was laughing.
That same week I noticed a disturbing phenomenon. It was after returning from Leon’s one night. I pressed the call button outside the lift. Nothing happened. I must have waited five or ten minutes, first pressing the button, then leaning on it, but the lift never came. In the end I took the stairs.
I’d just reached the second floor when I saw something that brought me to a sudden standstill. Two people, having sex. They
‘You know anyone?’
‘Only you.’ I grinned. ‘Sounds like a song, doesn’t it.’
‘You know, you should get out,’ he said, ‘meet some people.’ His voice brightened suddenly. His daughter’s wedding, he’d mentioned it already, it was in a few days’ time. Maybe I should come along.
‘That’s very kind of you, Gregory, but –’
‘Loots is coming.’
‘Who?’
‘Albert Loots. He’s a friend of mine.’ Gregory leaned forwards. ‘He used to work in a circus. Works in a factory now. Cakes and biscuits.’ Gregory sighed, but it was a sigh of deep satisfaction. He liked it when lives described a curve, as both ours did. He liked to have some kind of proof that fortune’s wheel had turned. ‘I see him on his bicycle sometimes. Usually it’s when I’m going home, six or seven in the morning –’ Gregory yawned. ‘Wish I could hit the hay. Ah well, no rest for the wicked.’ He heaved himself to his feet, looked down at me. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you think you’ll come?’
‘I’ll try.’
I watched him leave with dread rising in me like a river whose history it is to burst its banks. Gregory’s daughter’s wedding. It was bound to be one of those interminable suburban functions. There’dbe a band – some bunch of tone-deaf alcoholics playing folk tunes. There’d be dancing, which I’d always thought of as a kind of illness, like Parkinson’s disease, or epilepsy (someone call an ambulance, for Christ’s sake). There’d be displays of sentiment and bonhomie on every side. I was going to have to get out of it – but how? I walked through the 14th district for most of that night, trying to think up excuses.
Towards dawn I was on my way back to the Kosminsky when I saw a man riding a bicycle down the middle of a wide, deserted street. It was still very early, the trees loud with birds, light slowly beginning to ease into the sky. Because he was just about the only thing moving, I kept my eyes on him. He was some distance away, though; I couldn’t see his face.
As I watched, the man swung himself up into the air. Suddenly he was upside-down, one hand on the handlebars, the other on the saddle. It was so deft, so effortless, that he appeared weightless, immune to the laws of gravity. And the bicycle was still travelling down the middle of the street; if you’d traced its progress with a piece of chalk, if you’d drawn a line on the tarmac, I doubt there would have been even a kink in it. The man wore tight-fitting, pale-yellow trousers and a glittering blue jersey with stars on it. It seemed to me that he was juggling what looked like oranges with his feet. Then, just before he disappeared from view, he dropped back down into the saddle, his feet synchronising with the pedals, the oranges vanishing, one by one, into his pockets. I found myself applauding.
‘What happened?’ asked a passer-by.
‘It’s over now,’ I said. ‘You missed it.’
As I prepared for bed I remembered something Gregory had told me. Used to be in a circus. Sometimes I see him on his bicycle. Surely it had to be the same man. That friend of his, the one he’d invited to his daughter’s wedding. What was his name? Teats? Groot? Something like that. I felt my anxieties lift, my excuses fall away. I’d spent half the night in torment – and now? I realised I was actually looking forward to the event. All it had taken was a man on a bicycle and half adozen oranges. I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror. I watched my mouth open wide, I saw my teeth. I was laughing.
That same week I noticed a disturbing phenomenon. It was after returning from Leon’s one night. I pressed the call button outside the lift. Nothing happened. I must have waited five or ten minutes, first pressing the button, then leaning on it, but the lift never came. In the end I took the stairs.
I’d just reached the second floor when I saw something that brought me to a sudden standstill. Two people, having sex. They
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