Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

a foreigner,

who’s quickly Spanish,

only provoked

you held your drinks

and drank

another score of gut-red wine.

I think

but held your feet

ignored the barman’s coffee

black

mirthless grin

til you got home, sat down

and rocked

your head explode.

Oh, Ronda

in my dreams

I hear your vultures

sweep

below the friendless cliffs

and know I lost

a love insane

beneath your awful cliffs

felt in my mouth

an acid waste

for lovegone lovedied,

all was empty waste

I didn’t know what to make of that and said aloud, “Dunno what to make of that.”

Began to hum the Beach Boys, “Help me Rhonda”.

Damn tune would be lodged in my head all evening.

Marianne Faithful wrote in her sixties’ memoirs, “You would ask your date, do you know Genet, have you read a Retours? And if he said yes, you’d hop into bed.”

I wasn’t about to read Genet, and, course, that was then. Probably have to read one of those un-spell-able South Americans now and hint at magic realism. A guy I knew had wondered why his chat-up line always failed. He’d tell them he was an arse-shi-tec.

I’d met some of those too.

I wanted the sixties, all that free love passed me by. Even then I was paying. But I liked the nostalgia for it, as women love being in love. As I thought this, I thought I knew what I meant, but I wouldn’t have liked to defend, much less define, it.

As I passed reception, I heard a deafening racket... and it took a few moments to recognise, “Gun”. They hadn’t improved in the daylight. Jack was reading, Reader’s Digest. And said to me, “I study English here. Do you think is good?”

“Got me where I am today. I’ll be staying a few extra days.”

“You are most welcome.”

“See, Jack, you’ve mastered sarcasm already.”

I bought a newspaper as I walked down along Hyde Park. No screaming headlines on me yet: on page four, a report said there’d been 46 murders in the first six months of the year. Unlike the cricketers, I managed to bring up half a century. It felt good to walk, the lengthy sleep had helped, and I kept going to Marble Arch. A large pub called The Arch loomed ahead. Now how did they arrive at that name? Music poured out on the path. Marianne Faithful doing her version of “Madame George”.

Reckoning this was a stretched example of serendipity, I went in. The place was hopping and I was lucky to grab a stool by the bar. Two tenders. One, a six-foot black with the moves of an athlete. His face resembled Hawk, the sidekick of the Boston P. I. Spenser. If you don’t know him, you’re not hurting. I’d like to describe his face as being touched with acne but... it was riddled. What my old man called “pock-marked”. The other tender was a black woman round about thirty, in there. Black Rules... OK... ish.

She’d a lush body that summoned up jail sentences. Caught me looking or, to be Reader Digested, I was “ogling”. And she smiled. Jesus, how long now since I’d had that. A no-frills, no-percentage slice of human warmth. I’d been in the basement too long.

The guy saw it too and that was less OK. Especially as he moved to serve me, asked, “See something you like?”

South-London inflection, lots of hard. I could go with it, said, “Yeah, but guess I’ll settle for a drink. A large Scotch.”

“A particular type?”

“Yeah, a wet one.”

He let it slide. I could care. The drink came and with it an appraising look, missing nothing. I wittily said, “And do you see something you like?”

My eye caught a can with the letters TNT. He picked one up, said, “Wanna try one, my treat?”

“Pour the sucker.”

I took a long swallow. He waited and what else could I say, so I said it.

“Explosive.”

But his eyes were now set over my right shoulder, hard and concentrated. He said, “Two dudes followed you in here and they be shootin’ glances your way. Now one’s coming over.”

“Filth?”

“Naw, the gear is wrong. Those dudes got taste, bad taste but an effect.”

I turned and the guy looked familiar. It took a few moments. He said, “Hiya Nick, remember me... Danny... from the club.”

Yeah, I remembered. Last time I’d met him he’d been calling women “chicks”.

“Something I can do for you Danny?”

“Me and George... that’s George, he took over your job when you left. We’ve been looking for you. Lo and behold, we’re cruising round, there you are out for a constitutional. Small world, eh.”

He looked at the barman, said, “You wanna park it someplace else nigger.”

The barman gave a low whistle and moved down the bar. I said, “So why would you be wanting me Danny?”

“That spade got lifted, Baldwin. He used to know that black piece you’ve been shafting and, that hard-case Dexy, he knew him. Now it seems the missis paid a mill plus for his return. Me ’n’ George, we figger you could help with inquiries, know wot I mean Nick. But hey, we’re not greedy, fifty big ones each, we’re outa here.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Danny sighed. “Not going to happen Nick. George said you’d be difficult. Tell you what, I’ll give you a week, say next Friday at your place. How would that suit? Otherwise, as the Yanks say, I’ll have to drop a dime on you.”

I watched them leave, they waved cheerily. Course my luck was bound to change. I’d hit all the green lights and, when I eased up, luck came and bit me in the arse.

The barman ambled towards me, asked, “Frens of yours?”

“No, I’m real sorry about that crack.”

“Wha’ dat?”

“Am, you know... about you being black.”

“Oh, calling me a nigger, dat wot you all want to say.”

“I’m sorry. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll have me a club soda.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“That’s it. Used to be I was a juicer.”

“Excuse me?”

“A dipso, alky, like that. Now I ain’t.”

“You miss it?”

He passed me another large Scotch, held it up to the light. The gold aura rocked gently and he put it in front of me, asked, “Would you?”

Nursed the drink for a while and thought how I’d miss everything. Then finished it and headed off, shouted, “See you.”

He gave a slight nod, nothing elaborate, no fancy show.

As I got outside, Danny appeared right in front, pushed a blade into my groin, said, “Do anything stoopid, you’ll be a soprano. Now let’s all move down the alley for a wee chat, a business conference, if you like.”

We did, if somewhat awkwardly. George was waiting and swigging from a beer bottle. The fucker was big and very little of it was fat. A boxer’s ruint face with eyes that never saw the light. What they used to call a nasty piece of work and they were right. As we frog-walked behind him, he gave a huge grin. Yellow uneven teeth, he seemed proud of them. Go figure.

I said, “You’re the Colgate nightmare.”

And he kicked me in the balls. I’m no different from any other bloke, I dropped and vomited. All thoughts of Rilke, America, life vanished. Howling was the sole ambition.

George said, “Hey Danny, he ain’t so tough but I better fix his mouth, wotcha fink?”

Danny thought so too.

He smashed the neck of the bottle against the wall and grabbed my hair, pushed the jagged piece in close to my lips, said, “Time to eat shit hard boy.”

I put up my hand and Danny said, “Hold a mo’ George.”

Near gaggin’ on the taste of puke, I managed to say, “Cut me and no cash.”

George would have gone for it regardless but Danny knew my form, considered, then said, “Let ’im go George.”