I wonder if he goes with any of the whores, she thinks. When I'm not around. Then: How do I know they're whores?
It's the best thing here, he says, for the money. He means the hot beef sandwich.
You've tried the other things?
No, but you get an instinct.
It's quite good really, of its kind.
Spare me the party manners, he says, but not too rudely. His mood isn't what you'd call genial, but he's alert. Keyed up about something.
He hadn't been like that when she'd returned from her travels. He'd been taciturn, and vengeful.
Long time no see. Come for the usual?
The usual what?
The usual wham-bam.
Why do you feel the need to be so crude?
It's the company I keep.
What she'd like to know at the moment is why they're eating out. Why they aren't in his room. Why he's throwing caution to the winds. Where he got the money.
He answers the last question first, even though she hasn't asked it.
The beef sandwich you see before you, he says, is courtesy of the Lizard Men of Xenor. Here's to them, the vile scaly beasts, and to all that sail in them. He lifts his glass of Coca-Cola; he's spiked it with rum, from his flask. (No cocktails, I'm afraid, he'd said while opening the door for her. This joint's dry as a witch's thingamajig.)
She lifts her own glass. The Lizard Men of Xenor? she says. The same ones?
The very same. I committed it to paper, I sent it off two weeks ago, they snapped it up. The cheque came in yesterday.
He must have gone to the P. O. box himself, cashed the cheque too, he's been doing that lately. He's had to, she's been away too much.
You're happy with it? You seem happy.
Yeah, sure… it's a masterpiece. Plenty of action, plenty of gore on the floor. Beautiful dames. He grins. Who could resist?
Is it about the Peach Women?
Nope. No Peach Women in this one. It's a whole other plot.
He thinks: What happens when I tell her? Game over or eternal vows, and which is worse? She's wearing a scarf, of a wispy, floating material, some sort of pinkish orange. Watermelon is the word for that shade. Sweet crisp liquid flesh. He remembers the first time he saw her. All he could picture inside her dress then was mist.
What's got into you? she says. You seem very… Have you been drinking?
No. Not much. He pushes the pale-grey peas around on his plate. It's finally happened, he says. I'm on my way. Passport and all.
Oh, she says. Just like that. She tries to keep the dismay out of her voice.
Just like that, he says. The comrades got in touch. They must've decided I'm more use to them over there than back here. Anyway, after that endless beating around the bush, all of a sudden they can't wait to see the last of me. One more pain out of their ass.
You'll be safe, travelling? I thought…
Safer than staying here. But the word is nobody's looking too hard for me any more. I get the feeling the other side wants me to scram as well. Less complicated for them that way. I won't tell anybody which tram I'll be on though. I'm not interested in being pushed off it with a hole in my head and a knife in my back.
What about crossing the border? You always said…
The border's like tissue paper right now, if you're going out, that is. The customs fellows know what's going on all right, they know there's a pipeline straight from here to New York, then across to Paris. It's all organised, and everyone's name is Joe. The cops have been given their orders. Look the other way, they've been told. They know which side their bread is buttered on. They don't give a hoot in hell.
I wish I could come with you, she says.
So that's why the dinner out. He wanted to break it to her some place where she wouldn't carry on. He's hoping she won't make a scene in public. Weeping, wailing, tearing her hair. He's counting on it.
Yeah. I wish you could too, he says. But you can't. It's rough over there. He hums in his head: Stormy weather, Don't know why, got no buttons on my fly, Got a zipper…
Get a grip, he tells himself. He feels an effervescence in his head, like ginger ale. Sparkling blood. It's as if he's flying-looking down at her from the air. Her lovely distressed face wavers like a reflection in a troubled pool; already dissolving, and soon it will be into tears. But despite her sorrow, she's never been so luscious. A soft and milky glow surrounds her; the flesh of her arm, where he's held it, is firm and plumped. He'd like to grab hold of her, haul her up to his room, fuck her six ways to Sunday. As if that would fix her in place.
I'll wait for you, she says. When you come back I'll just walk out the front door, and then we can go away together.
Would you really leave? Would you leave him?
Yes. For you, I would. If you wanted. I'd leave everything.
Slivers of neon light come in through the window above them, red, blue, red. She imagines him wounded; it would be one way of making him stay put. She'd like him locked up, tied down, kept for her alone.
Leave him now, he says.
Now? Her eyes widen. Right now? Why?
Because I can't stand you being with him. I can't stand the idea of it.
It doesn't mean anything to me, she says.
It does to me. Especially after I'm gone, when I can't see you. It'll drive me crazy-thinking about it will.
But I wouldn't have any money, she says in a wondering voice. Where would I live? In some rented room, all by myself? Like you, she thinks. What would I live on?
You could get a job, he says helplessly. I could send you some money.
You don't have any money, none to speak of. And I can'tdo anything. I can't sew, I can't type. There's another reason too, she thinks, but I can't tell him that.
There must be some way. But he doesn't urge her. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bright idea, her out on her own. Out there in the big bad world, where every guy from here to China could take a crack at her. If anything went wrong, he'd have only himself to blame.
I think I'd better stay put, don't you? That's the best thing. Until you come back. You will come back, won't you? You'll come back safe and sound?
Sure, he says.
Because if you don't, I don't know what I'll do. If you got yourself killed or anything I'd go completely to pieces. She thinks: I'm talking like a movie. But how else can I talk? We've forgotten how else.
Shit, he thinks. She's working herself up. Now she'll cry. She'll cry and I'll sit here like a lump, and once women start crying there's no way to make them stop.
Come on, I'll get your coat, he says grimly. This is no fun. We don't have much time. Let's go back to the room.
Nine
The laundry
March at last, and a few grudging intimations of spring. The trees are still bare, the buds still hard, cocooned, but in places where the sun hits there's meltdown. Dog doings unfreeze, then wane, their icy lacework sallow with wornout pee. Slabs of lawn come to light, sludgy and bestrewn. Limbo must look like this.
Today I had something different for breakfast. Some new kind of cereal flake, brought over by Myra to pep me up: she's a sucker for the writing on the backs of packages. These flakes, it says in candid lettering the colours of lollipops, of fleecy cotton jogging suits, are not made from corrupt, overly commercial corn and wheat, but from little-known grains with hard-to-pronounce names-archaic, mystical. The seeds of them have been rediscovered in pre-Columbian tombs and in Egyptian pyramids; an authenticating detail, though not, when you come to think of it, all that reassuring. Not only will these flakes whisk you out like a pot scrubber, they murmur of renewed vitality, of endless youth, of immortality. The back of the box is festooned with a limber pink intestine; on the front is an eyeless jade mosaic face, which those in charge of publicity have surely not realised is an Aztec burial mask.