‘No,’ he whispered. ‘A glass of water’s fine.’
‘Or a whisky, what about a wee dram, Stephan, help you sleep …’
‘No thanks, a glass of water’s fine.’ We looked at each other and he smiled. I got up and went to the table with the bottles of water and whisky. I drank a slug of whisky out of the bottle and poured a glass of water for him. I looked over at him and had another drink and saw his eyes moving, looking at me now. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘sometimes …’
‘Yeah?’ I said, screwing the cap back on the whisky bottle. He didn’t answer, and I asked, ‘Shall I turn the light off?’ I took the glass of water over to the bed. He’d closed his eyes and I sat down on the edge of the bed. His forehead was soaked in sweat, and I raised my hand but just put it down on the pillow next to him. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘sometimes …’ I drank his water and pushed the empty glass under the bed.
I saw their faces sometimes when I slept. There was one man who put up a bit of a fight. He was already near-naked and Blondie had taken his shirt off as well. Pretty young lad he was, with glasses, maybe a student. He was pretty well-built too but he wore glasses with black frames and pretty thick lenses. I didn’t usually even have to touch them, but this young lad was in his room, his own little room, and he wanted to defend it, it wasn’t just some cheap hotel, some corridor, some dark corner where he’d got himself a quick blow job, it was his own little home that he’d taken Stephan back to, and I’d almost come too late because the door was closed. Blondie hadn’t managed to open the door for me. He’d been lying on the bed, the student on top of him, he was a pretty broad well-built lad, probably not a student at all, a queer builder or an office worker who lifted weights, and all I saw was Stephan’s arms on the sheet next to the guy. ‘You can tell the cops your story, eh, about picking up a rent boy. You hit him, eh? Did you force him?’ There was a bottle of whisky on the bedside table; I unscrewed the cap. ‘Maybe I’ll go to the cops and tell them you beat him up.’ I held his ID card in my hand and said, ‘I bet your parents are nice people, eh?’
‘I didn’t hit anyone,’ he said. His glasses were on the bedside table next to the bottle; one of the arms was broken. I drank a glug of the whisky and said something about compensation and was surprised he didn’t start crying like the old man had cried, outside the basement door up on the coast. He pressed a hand to his eye but there was no blood, and with the other eye he looked between me and Stephan, who was sitting at the table buttoning up his shirt. I said, ‘Stephan,’ and I threw him the whisky bottle, but he didn’t catch it and it fell on the floor and smashed. Was that the first time we went on tour?
I heard him breathing next to me and looked at the ceiling. The flies had gone.
We were sitting at a small table right by the huge window. It was night, and all the lights of the city lay twenty-seven floors below us. I don’t know whose idea it had been to come to Leipzig. We’d passed through a couple of villages around it, knocking off a load of dodgy pills. Then we’d picked up two guys in a dark park next to the ethnology museum, and now we were high above the city, five-star hotel, drinking kir royale and champagne and looking out across the lights on all the buildings, in the streets, eating starters and desserts, cod liver and prunes in bacon, cheese platters and turkey medallions, waving over the waiters who came trundling between the tables with little carts. ‘Would the gentlemen care for a choice pear brandy from the private distillery …?’
‘The gentlemen would,’ said Stephan, and the waiter fussed around, placing two little glasses on the table and filling them up with even more fuss.
‘Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen,’ he said with a slight bow of his torso, then trundled off with his cart.
‘Enjoy your drink, gentleman,’ I said as I raised my glass.
‘I will,’ said Stephan, and then we touched glasses. We downed the choice pear brandy from some private distillery in one. ‘What d’you reckon it costs?’
‘No idea,’ I said.
He nodded and tapped his breast pocket. ‘I’ve got it covered.’
‘And if not?’
‘Then you’ll have to box us out of here,’ he said, patting my hand for a moment. ‘When we’re on tour together, you know, I’m never scared.’ He patted my hand again, and when I went to take it away again he held onto it, and first I pulled a bit and then my arm went suddenly slack, and he lifted up my hand. ‘Your hands are so small though,’ he said, ‘almost smaller than mine, see?’ He was still holding onto my hand and now he put his other hand up against it. ‘Doesn’t it hurt when you punch them?’ I leant back with a jerk, wrenching my arm away so that his hands fell on the table. He was sitting bent over the table, and for a tiny moment it looked as though he was going to lay his face on his hands. He still had a trace of lipstick on, although he’d wiped his lips with a tissue. He’d used black mascara on his lashes and eyebrows. We’d taken the money straight to the restaurant. ‘A table for two!’ And the waiters had given us a funny look, ‘right by the window, if possible!’ And the people at the other tables had turned around, maybe because I’d turned my sleeve up a bit and they could see the lizard. I took the champagne out of the cooler and filled our glasses. He drank a sip and said, ‘You know, I’ve never drunk champagne before.’ He’d leaned back as well; his face was in the shade now, not looking so pale any more. He smiled.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why not?’ He drank another sip, then he took a piece of bread from the basket full of all different, probably exquisite slices of bread from some private bakery. ‘You reckon just because I’m queer I ought to know all about champagne and that?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘you know I didn’t mean it like that, you know I …’ I picked up my champagne and tried to down it in one, but the stuff fizzed so hard in my nose that I put it back down on the table halfway through.
‘Yes,’he said, ‘I know. I didn’t mean it like that.’ He dipped the piece of bread in the remains of his cod-liver paté. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we, we’re almost like …’ He ate the bread and cod-liver paté and I picked up my glass. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we are.’ We drank and looked out at the city again. There seemed to be more and more lights down there, red lights and yellow and white, lights that flickered, lights that moved around and disappeared again. We were silent for a long while until one of the waiters came trundling up again with his cart. ‘Would you care for a cigar, gentlemen?’
‘You choose two for us,’ I told him. ‘Two good ones.’ Stephan nudged my leg under the table. ‘We fancy a really good cigar, don’t we Stephan?’
And then we smoked and the waiter trundled off with his cart. It had taken him ages to choose two cigars, present them to us and then prepare them. We smoked, smoked hectically and quickly, I hadn’t smoked a cigar for years, and Stephan can’t have done either, and the smoke hung between us in dense swathes.
‘Do you think they’re looking for us?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘don’t you worry, Stephan. Those guys would never go to the cops.’
‘Even if they do,’ he sucked at his cigar and thought for a moment, ‘it doesn’t make any difference.’ He smiled, breathing out smoke.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t make any difference.’
‘Remember back in Torgau …’
‘Not now,’ I said, and he said, ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. Do you want a dessert?’
‘Sure, why not?’
Looking out of the window, I could see the big bridge. A couple of ships in front of it, but it was almost dark. I was drinking whisky, my watch next to my glass.
‘He’s a pretty dodgy guy,’ Stephan had said. ‘Does all sorts of stuff. Sex toys and bondage and that. Picks up boys on the street, he’s into picking them up off the street. I know where, and I know how. It’s worth it, he’s loaded.’