‘Too jazzy,’ said Sahra. ‘I hate jazzy jazz. The more like jazz it is the less I like it.’
‘I like it,’ said Alex.
‘Der-iv-ative! der-iv-ative!’ sang Sahra, syncopating the word, holding out her glass to a woman pouring champagne. People danced a little to the jazzy jazz and then the music changed and they started dancing to rock ’n’ roll.
Taking the opportunity to start airing preferences of his own Alex said he hated rock ’n’ roll — but this particular preference was lost on Sahra: Jean-Paul had arrived, had walked straight over to her. They kissed, began talking, leaving Alex with only his drink for company. He found Luke who was grumbling about the music: he wanted to dance but the music, he claimed, was ‘undanceable’.
‘I’ve actually got a tape with me. Maybe I can seize control of the stereo,’ he said.
‘That might not be such a good idea, Luke.’
‘You’re probably right. But it’s a party with no clear musical policy,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get another drink.’
‘Jean-Paul’s arrived.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘That guy who was with Sahra at the Petit Centre.’
‘The guy she was with at the Petit Centre?’
‘That’s exactly what I just said,’ said Alex. ‘They’re over there. Look.’
They were laughing together. Sahra had her hand on his shoulder.
‘What am I going to do?’
‘You may as well leave now to avoid further humiliation,’ said Luke. Sahra looked over their way, Jean-Paul too. They came over. Sahra re-introduced them. Jean-Paul was formal, friendly in a not so friendly way. He wasn’t sure exactly when they had met.
‘Au Petit Centre,’ said Alex.
‘Ah, le Petit Centre,’ said Jean-Paul, lighting a cigarette.
‘Yes, the Petit Centre,’ said Luke. Sahra left the three of them together. Luke did most of the talking. After a few minutes Jean-Paul excused himself. Luke and Alex watched him cross the room, heading towards Sahra.
‘I’d like to fight him,’ said Alex.
‘Sure, champ.’
‘Smash his face in.’
‘Break his nose.’
‘Bust up his kidneys.’
‘Make him piss blood.’
‘Kick fuck out of him.’
‘Fuck him up bad.’
‘Hurt him.’
‘Hurt him and fuck up his face. That’s it, champ,’ said Luke. ‘Forget it, champ. Look at him. He’s finished.’
‘You think?’
‘Sure. It’s over between them. Probably nothing even started. And now even that nothing is over with. He’s out of the loop. He is out of the fuckin’ loop, man. OK?’
‘Sure.’
‘Now I’m going to get a drink.’
‘OK.’
‘Hey champ. You’re OK yeah?’
‘I’m OK.’
‘You sure you’re OK, champ?’
‘I’m OK.’ Alex stayed where he was. Jean-Paul was talking to a guy Alex didn’t know and Sahra was dancing with someone else he didn’t know. After three indifferent songs, ‘Get Back’ by the Beatles came on and Sahra stopped dancing and went over to Nicole. Alex saw Luke on his own and the four friends segregated themselves by sex. The two pairs could see each other talking. More exactly, the men leaned against the wall, wearing their manly suits, saying nothing, watching the women talk. Nicole had her hand on Sahra’s arm. Luke and Alex could not hear what they were saying but they saw them giggling.
‘Man, what are those bitches talking about?’ said Luke. Seeing the men watching them Sahra whispered to Nicole who then glanced at Luke, held up her hand, thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart, before they both doubled up laughing. Luke mimed a sardonic belly laugh.
‘Right, we’ll show them,’ he said to Alex. ‘We’re going to have a conversation about the vampire film I saw on TV a few nights ago.’
‘What about werewolf films? The way the escalation of terror is always indicated not by atrocity but lexicographically, by consulting a dictionary. An old, heavy dictionary. A dictionary of the arcane. “Lycanthropy: here we are. .”’
‘That’s a werewolf conversation. I’m talking about a vampire conversation. Talking about trying to make sense of that convention whereby the traveller is on his way to Castle Dracula.’
‘Wind, wolves, rain, lightning. The coachman lashing the horses,’ said Alex, getting in the groove.
‘And after lashing the horses the coachman sets down the traveller at an inn—’
‘A lonely inn.’
‘Called something like The-Creaky-Sign-Blowing-In-The-Storm-Arms and everyone in the pub turns hostile when he tells them where he’s going. A lightning flash fills the window at this point, obviously. But why, instead of explaining to him that he’d be better off going somewhere else, why do they suddenly turn all sullen and virtually show him the door? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It’s because they realize the whole cycle is about to start all over again,’ said Alex. He saw Nicole put her glass neatly on a table and walk down the corridor. There was no sign of Jean-Paul but another man came over and began talking to Sahra.
‘But if they just let him stay a couple of nights till the storm died down and he then got the coach back to England, to his fiancée, everything would be fine. From time to time he could send them a postcard, thanking them for their hospitality. I would prefer that to the whole dismal bit about Dracula. Basically by the time he gets to Castle Dracula it’s all pretty well downhill. What I like is the cosiness that the prospect of horror builds up.’
‘You wouldn’t get that cosiness without the horror.’
‘Just the prospect of horror would do. I’d happily sit through two hours of jovial scenes in a Transylvanian pub. Culminating with him stepping outside into the storm-washed landscape, nursing a killer hangover, squinting at the terrible damage outside: uprooted trees, broken branches, omens of an obscure catastrophe narrowly averted. And there, in the background, in plain view, framed by the blue sky: the castle. What do you think?’
‘I think I’m dying for a piss,’ said Alex.
He went into the bathroom just as Nicole came out. She smiled at him, a little hurriedly. As he locked himself into the bathroom, Alex understood why: the smell of shit was heavy in the air. Probably her shit smelled just as bad as a man’s but in this context — an expensive bathroom with gleaming mirrors and towels of hotel whiteness — it mixed with the strawberry scents of oils and lotions in a way that, as Alex pissed into the white bowl in which no trace of excrement could be seen, seemed specifically feminine, not unpleasant, almost exotic.
The other three had all gone out on to the balcony. Alex joined them. An apartment opposite was filled with the blue lurch of television. It had started raining. Luke and Nicole put their arms around each other, alerting Alex to the way that he was not at liberty to put his arm around Sahra. The music changed: a track Nicole liked. She led Luke back into the party to dance, leaving Sahra and Alex alone. We are on our own on the balcony, Alex said to himself. He thought about trying to kiss Sahra but was aware of the rancid dryness the champagne had left in his mouth. She had been drinking champagne too, but she had also been chewing gum which — if advertisements were anything to go by — had rendered her mouth fresh and kissable. On the one hand the thought of her gum-fresh mouth made him want to kiss her, on the other it made him still more conscious of the parched sourness, the unkissability of his own mouth. He took a gulp of beer. Sahra was leaning with her forearms on the balcony rail, a glass held loosely between her fingers, staring through the rain. Alex was on the brink of kissing her — on the brink, rather, of plucking up the courage to do so — when the painter who was also a writer joined them on the balcony. He was carrying a bottle of champagne and filled Sahra’s empty glass with overflowing fizz that subsided almost to nothing. He was drunk but Sahra was adamant,