Geoff Dyer - Paris Trance

‘The party?’

‘No. Sahra.’

‘Who knows. What do you think?’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you missed an important chance when we arrived.’

‘Really? What chance?’

‘You could have helped her off with her coat.’

‘That kind of thing always seems a bit too attentive, too gallant.’

‘No. You don’t understand. Helping a woman with her coat is a perfect, formal way of establishing some kind of physical intimacy.’

‘Jesus, that’s right! I’ve never thought of that before. I’ll help her on with it at the end.’

‘That might be even better. Helping her on with her coat is a little more formal. Helping her take off her coat might be a bit too — a bit too like undressing her.’

‘Shit, I wish I had helped her off with it!’ laughed Alex. ‘Now I can’t wait for the party to end so that I can help her on with her coat.’ When in pursuit of a woman, Alex thought, your friend’s girlfriend will always be your best co-conspirator. Nicole took a sip of wine and immediately began coughing, spluttering.

‘It went down the wrong throat,’ she said, her eyes suddenly wet with tears.

In another corner of the room a grinning German passed Luke a joint.

‘Does it have tobacco in it?’ he asked. The guy thought it did. Luke said he would pass. He also declined the offer of champagne when a bottle was angled towards him. He saw Nicole leave Alex’s side and make her way to him across the room. A few moments later he saw Sahra touch Alex on the shoulder.

‘Are you ignoring me?’ she said.

‘Hi. No. How are you? I was. .’

‘Looking at that woman’s stomach.’

‘Yes, I was. There’s no denying it.’ When Nicole had moved away he’d found himself doing exactly that: contemplating the bare stomach of a woman standing a few feet away from him.

‘Do you like that? The ring through her navel?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I have one like that.’

‘Do you?’

‘But not in the same place.’ Embarrassingly, Alex was sure he was blushing. He felt hot. ‘You’re supposed to ask where,’ said Sahra. Alex took a gulp of champagne but there was nothing left in his glass.

‘Where?’ he said, sure that the next word he was going to hear would be ‘nipple’ or ‘clitoris’.

Sahra shook her head: ‘Joking. And you’re blushing.’

A woman with long Spanish hair sang a couple of songs, accompanied by two men who played guitars. The guitarists were grey-haired, neatly dressed in sports jackets and ties. Luke loved this tradition — and anything he loved automatically became part of some ‘tradition’ or other — of the soberly dressed guitarist in polished shoes revealing a slight gap of pale flesh between turn-up and sock. In the instrumental break the guitarists sparred with each other before the singer returned for the last verse of the song. It wasn’t exactly flamenco but it appealed to the spirit of flamenco. Sahra translated for Alex who listened intently. The first song was about separation, parting and blood. The second was about betrayal, faithlessness and blood. The third was a mixture of the preceding two. There were no songs about reconciliations, meetings and returns. When the last song had finished the two guitarists shook hands and the singer kissed them both and everyone applauded. Later a woman in a white blouse read out some poetry that turned out to have been by Verlaine. More joints were smoked. Luke was stoned. The music on the stereo was jazz.

‘Too jazzy,’ said Sahra. ‘I hate jazzy jazz. The more like jazz it is the less I like it.’

‘I like it,’ said Alex.

‘Der- iv -ative! der- iv -ative!’ sang Sahra, syncopating the word, holding out her glass to a woman pouring champagne. People danced a little to the jazzy jazz and then the music changed and they started dancing to rock ’n’ roll.

Taking the opportunity to start airing preferences of his own Alex said he hated rock ’n’ roll — but this particular preference was lost on Sahra: Jean-Paul had arrived, had walked straight over to her. They kissed, began talking, leaving Alex with only his drink for company. He found Luke who was grumbling about the music: he wanted to dance but the music, he claimed, was ‘undanceable’.

‘I’ve actually got a tape with me. Maybe I can seize control of the stereo,’ he said.

‘That might not be such a good idea, Luke.’

‘You’re probably right. But it’s a party with no clear musical policy,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get another drink.’

‘Jean-Paul’s arrived.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘That guy who was with Sahra at the Petit Centre.’

‘The guy she was with at the Petit Centre?’

‘That’s exactly what I just said,’ said Alex. ‘They’re over there. Look.’

They were laughing together. Sahra had her hand on his shoulder.

‘What am I going to do?’

‘You may as well leave now to avoid further humiliation,’ said Luke. Sahra looked over their way, Jean-Paul too. They came over. Sahra re-introduced them. Jean-Paul was formal, friendly in a not so friendly way. He wasn’t sure exactly when they had met.

‘Au Petit Centre,’ said Alex.

‘Ah, le Petit Centre,’ said Jean-Paul, lighting a cigarette.

‘Yes, the Petit Centre,’ said Luke. Sahra left the three of them together. Luke did most of the talking. After a few minutes Jean-Paul excused himself. Luke and Alex watched him cross the room, heading towards Sahra.

‘I’d like to fight him,’ said Alex.

‘Sure, champ.’

‘Smash his face in.’

‘Break his nose.’

‘Bust up his kidneys.’

‘Make him piss blood.’

‘Kick fuck out of him.’

‘Fuck him up bad.’

‘Hurt him.’

‘Hurt him and fuck up his face. That’s it, champ,’ said Luke. ‘Forget it, champ. Look at him. He’s finished.’

‘You think?’

‘Sure. It’s over between them. Probably nothing even started. And now even that nothing is over with. He’s out of the loop. He is out of the fuckin’ loop, man. OK?’

‘Sure.’

‘Now I’m going to get a drink.’

‘OK.’

‘Hey champ. You’re OK yeah?’

‘I’m OK.’

‘You sure you’re OK, champ?’

‘I’m OK.’ Alex stayed where he was. Jean-Paul was talking to a guy Alex didn’t know and Sahra was dancing with someone else he didn’t know. After three indifferent songs, ‘Get Back’ by the Beatles came on and Sahra stopped dancing and went over to Nicole. Alex saw Luke on his own and the four friends segregated themselves by sex. The two pairs could see each other talking. More exactly, the men leaned against the wall, wearing their manly suits, saying nothing, watching the women talk. Nicole had her hand on Sahra’s arm. Luke and Alex could not hear what they were saying but they saw them giggling.

‘Man, what are those bitches talking about?’ said Luke. Seeing the men watching them Sahra whispered to Nicole who then glanced at Luke, held up her hand, thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart, before they both doubled up laughing. Luke mimed a sardonic belly laugh.

‘Right, we’ll show them,’ he said to Alex. ‘We’re going to have a conversation about the vampire film I saw on TV a few nights ago.’

‘What about werewolf films? The way the escalation of terror is always indicated not by atrocity but lexicographically, by consulting a dictionary. An old, heavy dictionary. A dictionary of the arcane. “Lycanthropy: here we are. .”’

‘That’s a werewolf conversation. I’m talking about a vampire conversation. Talking about trying to make sense of that convention whereby the traveller is on his way to Castle Dracula.’