Steve Erickson - These Dreams of You

“You think it’s Regent’s?”

“It’s Regent’s,” the Yank says.

Outside the pub is another song from one of the city’s windows that are lit up like reverbed fireflies. Over, under, sideways down. Bob appraises the remnants of the midnight legion that cross the curbs and brush past; they wear lace and silver trench coats, brilliant-red braided Hussar coats and Moroccan boots. Their wide Edwardian ties have images of fish so radiated with color that all the people in the street appear to be aquariums. When will it end? Everyone in the world is young, suddenly.

Each road is a vortex. In the wet nighttown gleam, there drifts past the three of them on the sidewalk a Rolls Royce the color of a prism, the aurora borealis on wheels. The window is down on the passenger’s side and they have a clear glimpse of who’s in back. “See who that was?” Jasmine says to Reg.

“Bloody right,” Reg answers.

“Who was it?” says Bob.

“Who I’m not.”

“Elvis Presley?”

“Better.”

“These days,” says Bob, walking now, “London isn’t the way I remember.”

Jasmine says, “These days, London isn’t the way anyone remembers.”

“Are you a Beatle too?” he says to her as they stroll, only because it’s a time when such a thing can be believed.

“Assistant for the management of Reg’s band. Studying journalism at Kingston Hill.”

This seems to interest the Yank. “What kind of journalism? Politics?”

“Not politics,” she shakes her head. “Politics as it’s presently practiced doesn’t matter much these days, does it?” She’s aware this sounds pompous.

“My brother considered journalism when he was young.”

“What happened?”

“He went into politics,” Bob laughs almost bitterly.

“Sorry.”

“You’ve been to London before, then,” says Reg.

“I grew up in London,” says Bob.

“Seriously?” she says.

“Only a year or two. After the Blitz, before the war. I was twelve.” He shrugs. “The other war, of course. Not the one now, in Southeast Asia.”

“Your war,” says Jasmine, “not ours.”

Reg says, “I was four when the war ended. Think I remember listening on the radio, Churchill and the King waving to the crowd from some bloody balcony or other. The palace, I imagine.”

“You, uh, wouldn’t remember the Blitz,” says Bob, “not if you were four. The Blitz was over by the summer of ’41.”

“That’s when I was born,” and Reg immediately realizes he’s just blurted his real age. Missing nothing, Jasmine laughs. “Anyway,” he says, looking at her sheepishly, “I wasn’t in London. I’m from Andover, in Hampshire.”

“So how is it you were living in London?” Jasmine asks the Yank, still laughing at Reg.

Always uncertain what’s so damned funny, Bob answers, “My father worked here.”

“What sort of work was that?” says Reg. He lights a cigarette and offers one to the other man, who waves it off. “Right,” says Jasmine, “it’s a bit of a walk from here to Regent’s,” and the three stop, gazing around. “Not really me town,” Reg explains to the Yank. “She’s the native.”

“I’m not a native. I’m not even English.”

“You’re English,” he puffs his cigarette, “you’ve been English since you were bloody two years old.”

“Well,” says Bob, “I know I walked to the pub where I met you.”

“Not saying it can’t be done,” she answers, “and, you know, the longest way round is the shortest way home, eh? Did you realize you had gone that far?”

“I suppose not. I was looking for the theatre district.” He says, “I don’t mind the walk,” the three still stopped in the street. “I’ll, uh, be able to get some sleep when I get back. I won’t on the plane tomorrow. I understand if you two want to take off.”

“Going back to New York, then,” says Jasmine.

“No,” and Jasmine can see in the dark the provocation of the Yank’s blue eyes as they regard her, his hands in his pockets like it’s the most casual thing in the world — in some ways it’s the most casual he’s been all night — when he says, “South Africa.”

As if he’s taunting her — and finally her ambivalence about him metastasizes to dislike. He’s trying to incite me and, jolted as much by the way he’s said it as what he’s said, she wants to walk away. His idea, she wonders, of taking the piss? Delivered with the same bullying bluntness as everything else he’s said tonight? An insensitive, even cruel retaliation for. . what? good-natured teasing about not knowing who Elvis Presley is?

Of course it can’t help feeling like a violation. She’s restrained from leaving only by the regret she’ll feel not having told him to sod off. “On business?” Reg says with an obliviousness that would infuriate her more if she weren’t so used to it: Jasmine may not be political but Reg is hopeless. He doesn’t know South Africa from South Antarctica and now she’s not sure which of them to be angrier at. “Yes,” Bob says, not taking his eyes from hers, still the taunt, “business,” and then turns to continue walking. Reg follows. She hangs back and Reg turns to look. “Can we leave?” she says.

Reg insists, “Let’s walk a bit more.” In the early-morning hours the three make their way up Charing Cross along Soho’s eastern border. Looming before them is the head of an incandescent African woman, painted on the side of a seven-story building; she has crouching day-glo lions for eyes and, like Medusa, her skull flames with bright violet dreadlocks that glimmer from the rain and appear to slither up the street. The words Abyssinia and Queen Sheba wreathe the woman’s face like smoke. “Right,” Reg says, practically jaunty, “so what was it took you back to Leicester Square anyway this time of night, Bob? A little late for the theatre.” He glances up at the huge painting of the woman’s lysergic dreadlocks and peers back over his shoulder at Jasmine, who walks along behind glaring at the ground, arms folded.

Bob never looks up from the ground. “A little late for the theater. . ” he nods.

“Never fancied the theatre myself.”

“Retracing steps. . ”

“How’s that?”

“From, uh, an earlier trip.”

“Back when you were living here.”

“No. After the War.”

“So you’ve been back since?”

“I met an actress then, in one of the shows.”

“Not your wife?” Reg says. Jasmine still lags behind alienated, head full of her own voice.

“No.” He stops to look up at the sky.

“Fancy being married?”

“Sure.” The Yank holds out his palm.

“Kids?”

“Lots.” Still looking up, “It’s about to rain.”

“Right, I felt something too.”

“So we’re checking out the haunts of old flames,” says Jasmine, “brilliant,” and Reg looks at her.

“I suppose,” Bob answers quietly.

Reg says, “London bird then,” still looking at Jasmine, finally sensing her mood. She stares back defiantly and Reg tears himself from her stare.

“She was in a show playing my older sister who, uh, just had been killed in a plane crash.”

“Hang on,” says Reg. “The actress you were dating was playing your sister?”

“It’s queer, I suppose.”

“You suppose it’s queer?” says Jasmine.

“It is bloody odd,” agrees Reg.

“Fancied a woman playing your dead sister?” Jasmine says, taking some satisfaction from her own tactlessness.

“What happened?” says Reg.