‘If you’re a painter you should just paint.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the painter who was also a writer.
‘There have been no painters who were good writers.’
Alex tried to think of one who was, but the painter who was also a writer beat him to it. ‘What about Van Gogh?’ he said. ‘His letters are superb, some of the greatest letters ever written.’
‘Yes,’ said Sahra. ‘But have you seen the paintings?’
That was the moment that Alex knew, without question, that he was in love with her. He suspected that the artist who was also a writer had fallen in love with her too: he rocked back on his feet, held out his hands — bottle in one, glass in the other — and called out to the street: ‘This woman: she is too much for me. Ha! Too much for the world.’ With that he headed back inside, chuckling, shaking his head and saying, ‘Too much’.
Rain fell out of the darkness, becoming purple as it passed through a belt of neon and then glowing yellow in the lights of cars whose wipers greeted it mechanically. Sahra held out her glass into the night, letting the rain bounce into it. Alex leaned on the balcony and looked down at the couples hurrying for shelter, disappearing beneath the red awnings of the café across the street. Sahra’s arm was shining wet, the glass filling with coloured sparks of rain. They stayed like that for several minutes, hearing the music behind them and the cars swathing by below. When there was half an inch of water in the glass she brought it to her lips and drank. Now he will kiss me, Sahra thought to herself, turning her face towards him, wiping rain from her lips. More people came on to the balcony, bringing bottles and laughter. Tossed out into the street, a cigarette butt fell like red tracer through the rain. An elderly couple appeared on one of the balconies opposite, watching the rain, waving back to the crowd of young people who greeted them noisily.
Sahra and Alex moved into the kitchen. Hummus-smeared plates were piled up on the draining board. On the table were the remains of a cake, and a bowl shaped like a lettuce leaf, full of grapes and stalks. The music in the living room had changed: dance music, louder than anything else that had been played. Above the table was a framed poster for an exhibition of Diebenkorn paintings: pale blues, squares of yellow, the same yellow as Nicole’s dress.
‘Perhaps you’ll frame the poster I gave you,’ said Alex.
‘I hate frames,’ said Sahra. Then, after a pause: ‘Actually, I hate posters too.’
‘You’re on good form tonight, Sahra,’ said Alex. ‘Vehement.’ She was eating grapes, her back to the fridge which was covered with coloured magnetic letters. Over her shoulder, on the freezer compartment, Alex saw a blue B, an orange O, and a red R which had been used to clamp a postcard of a Scottish loch in place. Jean-Paul came into the kitchen.
‘Est-ce qu’il y a encore de la bière?’ he said, awkwardly. Sahra moved aside. The multi-coloured words CHEVAL and ELANE loomed into view as Jean-Paul opened the fridge door. After rooting around for a moment he emerged holding a bottle of German beer.
‘T’en veux, Sahra?’
‘Non merci Jean-Paul.’
‘Et toi, Alex?’
‘Oui, s’il en reste encore une, Jean-Paul,’ said Alex. Jean-Paul passed him a bottle but was unable to find an opener.
‘Laisse, je l’ouvre,’ said Alex. Jean-Paul passed him his bottle. Holding that bottle in one hand he used his own to flip the top off Jean-Paul’s. He did it as quickly as if he’d been opening a can of Coke. ‘Voilà,’ he said, passing the bottle to Jean-Paul.
‘Merci,’ said Jean-Paul, taking it.
‘Je t’en prie,’ said Alex, taking another beer out of the fridge and using that to lever open his own bottle.
Jean-Paul left the kitchen. ‘He is out of the fuckin’ loop,’ said Alex, suddenly exultant.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. A line from a song.’
‘Pretty impressive, I have to admit,’ said Sahra. ‘The bottle-opening, I mean. Where did you learn that?’
‘Zimbabwe.’
‘Zimbabwe?’
‘Well, a friend who’d been to Zimbabwe taught me. In London.’
‘I’ll just go to the bathroom,’ said Sahra.
‘Sure,’ said Alex, intent on scanning the letters on the fridge door. He couldn’t find a Y but by the time he saw Sahra coming back along the hall he had arranged the letters into a rough draft, hiding his preparatory work by taking up the position she had occupied, directly in front of the fridge.
Sahra poured a glass of water and helped herself to the last grapes. While she was doing this Alex nudged a few more letters into place, completing his little sentence and then moving aside. Sahra watched absently and then saw, in blue, orange and green letters:
I WANTO GO
BED WIV U.
She looked at Alex, who stood uncertainly, wondering if he should smile.
‘You must be a good Scrabble player,’ she said. The atmosphere in the kitchen had changed. Alex leaned on the fridge which began to rumble. Having drunk half of his bottle, Alex poured the rest into a glass and studied the foam. Was it just the fridge he was leaning against, or had he begun to shake very slightly?
‘Is it my turn now?’ said Sahra.
‘Sure.’
She slipped her finger into the orange O from GO and moved it into a space of its own. Alex watched, preparing to see her precede it with an N. Instead she reached down and added a K.
The volume of music in the living room diminished. Luke and Nicole came into the kitchen. Luke poured glasses of water which he and Nicole gulped down. They were sweating.
Luke whispered in Alex’s ear, ‘I’ve just seen Jean-Paul leave. Like I said: out of the mother-fuckin’ loop.’ Aloud, triumphant, he said, ‘I got my tape on!’
‘For about ten minutes,’ said Nicole. ‘Then they took it off.’
The party began to thin out. Nicole and Luke were ready to leave.
‘Shall we go soon?’ Alex said to Sahra when they were alone again.
‘Yes.’
‘And can I come home with you when we do go?’
‘No, not tonight.’
‘Why not?’
‘Now I’m tired and drunk.’
‘I want to,’ he said.
‘So do I.’
‘So?’
‘What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Will you be at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Would you like lunch?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
‘So I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? At about two.’
‘OK.’