Geoff Dyer - Paris Trance

‘I was yearning for you.’

‘No, it was more. I see it in you still. It’s part of you. It is you. And then in other ways you seem almost not to want anything, not to care.’

‘I care about you. And I really want a beer. I’m yearning for one.’ Luke walked over to the fridge and opened the door. ‘Actually,’ he said, rummaging around for a beer, ‘I yearn to be exactly where I am now.’ Nicole said nothing. Luke turned and found she was gone. The room was full of the hiss of rain. He walked by the bed and peeked round the door of the balcony. She was leaning with her back against the balcony rail, the rain flooding over her. Her hair was soaking black over her shoulders. Her eyes were closed. The rain was falling so hard that it must have been on the brink of hurting. Luke watched the ricochets and darts of rain like electrical charges leaping around her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

Ahmed turned up for work on Monday with a broken nose and a black eye. He looked like he’d been in a fight. He had been in a fight — or at least he’d been on the receiving end of one. He and Sally had left the club together. She had to get up early the next day and had taken a taxi home. Ahmed had begun walking. There was never any trouble in clubs and Ahmed had carried that safe, friendly atmosphere out into the street with him. It was late, there was hardly anyone around. A guy asked him the time. Ahmed said he didn’t have a watch. The guy punched him in the face. The blow knocked Ahmed to the floor. He felt a couple of kicks in the ribs and the side of the head but was able to scramble to his feet and run. The guy who’d hit him didn’t bother giving chase. Ahmed walked straight to the hospital and stayed there till nine in the morning, getting his cuts stitched, having X-rays.

‘Why didn’t you telephone?’ said Luke.

‘It was too late.’

‘Too late?’

‘And I was sort of embarrassed. Sunday I slept almost all day. I called Sally and she came over.’

Lazare said Ahmed could go home, he’d pay him for the day anyway. Ahmed preferred to work. He didn’t want to sit at home moping about what had happened. Lazare was in excellent spirits: a consignment sent to Marseille had gone missing so he was able to spend the whole morning calling people up and abusing them. When I went into the office I heard him use the word ‘cocksucker’, a sure sign that he was enjoying himself.

In the afternoon Luke went out for ten minutes and returned with a box of Arab cakes.

‘For everyone,’ he said, ‘but make sure you leave some for Ahmed since he’s not capable of fending for himself. .’

Sahra called Alex before he had a chance to phone her, on Monday night. His heart leaped when he heard her voice.

‘How’ve you been?’ he said. ‘What did you do yesterday?’

‘Sunday? Oh, I didn’t leave the apartment. The Day That Wasn’t Even A Day. What about you?’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe the same.’

‘There’s a party,’ said Sahra. ‘On Friday. Would you like to go?

‘Sure. Yes.’

‘It’s quite a smart party. We’ll have to dress up — you’ll have to dress up.’

‘Great. I love to dress up.’

‘And Nicole and Luke. Do you want to ask them as well?’

‘Yes, sure.’

‘Is that your idea of a conversation: “Yes, sure?”’

‘Yes, sure,’ said Alex, glad at the chance to sound laconic.

‘See you Friday then,’ she said — and hung up.

Nicole was still getting ready when Luke called for her. He was wearing his suit.

‘I’ve never seen you look so smart,’ said Nicole, kissing him. ‘You look so. .’

‘So what?’

‘So manly .’

‘What do I normally look like?’ he said, watching her leave the room.

‘I’m not quite ready,’ Nicole called back. ‘Put a record on.’

She tried on various outfits but was happy with none of them (Luke liked them all). Eventually she tried on a sleeveless dress, pale yellow, short.

‘What do you think?’

‘You could make a dead man come,’ said Luke.

‘Always charming,’ said Nicole, and disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out she had made up her eyes and put on lipstick.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Why are you looking like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you’ve lost a pound and found a flyover or whatever that stupid English expression is.’

‘Lost a fiver and found a pound,’ said Luke, grinning.

‘Something must be wrong if you correct my English. What is it?’

‘It’s just that I’ve never seen you wear make-up before.’

‘So?’

‘I think you look nicer without it.’

‘What if I want to wear it?’

‘Fine.’

‘So, are we ready?’ She picked up her bag, her keys, a tube of mints.

‘Sure.’

‘Why don’t you want me to wear make-up?’

‘Because you look so much nicer without it.’

‘You just don’t want other men to fancy me.’

‘Actually, like most men, I like it when other men fancy the woman I am with. As it happens, nobody could fancy you with all that shit on your face.’

‘What did you say?’

‘You look like a doll. I hardly recognize you.’

‘I don’t tell you how to dress, or how to look.’

‘If you did I wouldn’t mind.’

‘ I mind you telling me.’

‘I just hate make-up. Lipstick makes me want to throw up. I’ve never seen you wearing make-up before so I was shocked. The only people who need to wear make-up are people with something wrong with them.’

‘You should wear it then, you bloody fucker!’

Luke laughed: Nicole rarely swore and never sounded convincing when she did. She threw her bag at his face. He ducked. The bag hit the wall behind him. Nicole strode into the bathroom. Luke picked up the bag and its scattered contents, waited. A few minutes later she came out of the bathroom with no trace of make-up to be seen.

‘You look beautiful,’ said Luke. He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her.

‘I hate lipstick too,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t like it.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I don’t know. I just did.’

‘Does that count as our first quarrel?’

‘I suppose. Even though we were quarrelling about something we agreed on.’

‘So, you’re a temper-loser rather than a sulker.’

‘What is sulking?’

‘You know, after you’ve quarrelled you refuse to speak for ages.’

‘Oh yes, I hate sulking. Life is too long for that.’

‘Do you mean too short?’

‘No, too long.’

‘You’re right,’ said Luke, hugging her. ‘But we should get a move on. We’re meant to meet Alex and Sahra in ten minutes.’

The four of them arrived at the party at the perfect time: just late enough to make them wish they had arrived earlier. Sahra had been invited by the husband whose wife was using her birthday as a chance to exhibit her paintings: large, skin-coloured nudes of her husband. In the flesh, the husband was clothed in a white shirt, patterned waistcoat and dark trousers. He helped Sahra off with her coat. She was wearing black jeans and a white, sleeveless blouse. It was the first time Alex had seen her arms. The wife, the artist, was wearing a shimmery top and an ankle-length greenish skirt with a long slit up one leg. It was an outfit that declared a mature understanding of parties, of the need to lend the evening a slight erotic frisson which, at around midnight, would give way to a franker, tipsy flirtatiousness. It was the perfect outfit for a hostess. Alex and Luke handed over shopping bags full of wine and beer. In return the husband poured glasses of champagne. It was amazing champagne. Luke helped himself to a beer. The bell went again and the husband left them to toast his wife who made the four of them feel as welcome as if they had all been invited. She introduced Sahra and Alex to a painter who was also a writer and then went off to accept gifts from the latest arrivals. They moved into the main room, stood near a piano, listening to the painter who was also a writer talk about painting and writing. There were about forty people in the room and except for the walls which were lined with paintings of the naked husband, it did not appear crowded. The bell to the apartment was ringing frequently. Everyone was drinking champagne except Luke who preferred canned drinks, beer essentially. In the kitchen a table was loaded with food, red serviettes and plates. Having finished his first glass of champagne, Alex, as hungry as he was thirsty, loaded tabbouleh and other salads on to a plate. Aware of a desire to hang, puppy-like, around Sahra, he made a special effort to do the opposite, introducing himself to strangers, levering these introductions into conversations that gradually took him away from her. Every time he looked back she was talking to someone else. Nicole came and stood by him, complimented him on his suit, asked how it was going.