And then he was alone, lying on a wet pavement, wondering if he was in fact dreaming. Please, let me be dreaming
His mouth seemed to be the wrong shape. Near his eyes, something…What was that?
—
Hubcap.
Fuck.
Hubcap of a…
Toyota Yaris?
Dizzy when he stood up.
And sick. Suddenly he felt very sick.
—
Two days later, when his mouth has deflated, he emerges and finds Hans-Pieter in the Umorni Putnik.
‘I heard about your night out,’ Hans-Pieter says.
‘Yeah, that. It was quite a night.’
‘I heard it,’ Hans-Pieter says.
It is some time in the afternoon. Maria is working, is there.
‘Oh, yeah?’ Murray wants to know, smiling worriedly. ‘What’d you hear?’
‘Damjan said it was a good night.’
Murray’s smile turns less worried. He says, ‘A fucking massive night, actually.’
‘You’ve been recovering,’ Hans-Pieter asks, ‘since then?’
‘That’s right. In the recovery position. If you know what I mean.’ Murray himself isn’t sure what he means. He tastes his lager, the first that has passed his lips since then.
Yesterday he experienced a sort of dark afternoon of the soul. Some hours of terrible negativity. A sense, essentially, that he had wasted his entire life, and now it was over. The sun was shining outside.
As it is now, igniting the yellow of the leaves that still cling to the little trees in front of the hostel.
He sees them through the dusty window.
‘How about you?’ he asks Hans-Pieter. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m okay,’ Hans-Pieter says.
Murray sees one of the leaves detach and drop.
Hans-Pieter says, ‘Damjan says you were sort of on the pull, the other night.’
‘What — I was?’
‘That’s what he said.’
Murray does something with his mouth, something uneasy. ‘Don’t know about that.’
‘Well,’ Hans-Pieter says, ‘I know a very nice lady, you might be interested in.’
‘Who’s that then?’ Murray asks snootily.
‘A very nice lady,’ Hans-Pieter says again. Then he whispers, ‘Maria’s mudder.’
In a savage whisper Murray says, ‘Maria’s mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘No fucking way. ’
‘Why not?’
‘Fuck off,’ Murray scoffs.
‘Why not? She’s quite young…’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Forty-eight, I tink. And she’s in nice shape,’ Hans-Pieter tell him.
‘You’ve seen her, have you?’
‘Sure.’
Maria, having no one to serve, has ventured out in search of empties. She stops at Hans-Pieter’s shoulders, puts her hands on them. Her substantial hip is smack in Murray’s line of sight.
‘I was just telling Murray,’ Hans-Pieter says to her, half-turning his head, ‘about your mother.’
‘Yeah?’ she smiles. She seems to have forgiven Murray for the way he tagged along to Iron Man 3 with them the other day. It occurs to him, in fact, that the way he tagged along that day might actually have suggested to her the idea of fixing him up with her obviously lonely and desperate mother.
‘Just take her out for a drink,’ Hans-Pieter…what? Suggests? Orders? Murray is still wondering what to make of this development — fucking Hans-Pieter telling him what to do — when Maria says, ‘She’s really pretty. And much thinner than me.’
‘We won’t hold dat against her,’ Hans-Pieter says, almost suavely.
‘She’s always telling me I should lose weight.’
‘Don’t listen to her.’
‘It’s true — I should.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Hans-Pieter tells her. And then says to Murray, ‘So will you do it? Take her for a drink?’
It’s awkward, saying something like, ‘Not on your life, no fucking way,’ with Maria standing there, still smiling at him, a piece of pink-dyed hair falling over her eye.
‘You got a picture?’ he asks her after a few moments. ‘I mean, on your phone or something?’
‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Yeah, here.’
Leaning forward over Hans-Pieter’s shoulder, she passes Murray her phone.
He looks.
A woman holding a cat. Not very easy to make out. Thinner than Maria, yes. Okay? Maybe.
‘What about your father?’ he asks, handing back the phone without saying anything about the photo, and smirking. ‘He won’t mind?’
‘He lives in Austria,’ she says. ‘And they’re divorced. Obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Murray says. It had been a joke. He had assumed that her father wasn’t still on the scene. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll give it a go.’
‘Do you want her number then?’ Maria asks.
‘She speaks English, does she?’
‘Of course.’
‘Or why don’t you call her?’ he suggests, suddenly nervous. ‘Set it up.’
Leaning on his shoulder, she looks at Hans-Pieter, wanting his opinion, perhaps even his permission.
‘Sure,’ Hans-Pieter says. ‘Set it up.’
Without warning, another leaf detaches itself from one of the trees outside and drops down to the pavement.
—
On his way home, a few hours later, Murray stops at Oaza to pick up a kebab. The plastic sign — palm tree, smiling camel — is illuminated in the gloom. One of the Albanian twins is standing around near the entrance, keeping an eye on things. He does not acknowledge Murray, and Murray, after a moment’s hesitation, says nothing to him either. Having ordered in English, he just waits there for his kebab, eyeing the slices of baklava as if wondering whether to have one. He wishes more than ever that the twins would offer him some sign, some little sign, that they looked on him as an equal — as an equal, no more than that. Damjan had been honoured with a nod, a few words, had been thereby elevated in Murray’s estimation. He thinks more highly of Damjan now. The baklavas shine, sodden with honey. Yes, Damjan seems in some way superior to him now.
Seemingly unaware of Murray’s presence the twin exchanges a few words, in some language Murray does not know, with the kebabist, who is shoving tongfuls of shredded salad into a pitta. He spoons on the sauces and hands Murray his supper, tightly wrapped in tinfoil, warm to the touch.