Geoff Dyer - Paris Trance

‘Wind, wolves, rain, lightning. The coachman lashing the horses,’ said Alex, getting in the groove.

‘And after lashing the horses the coachman sets down the traveller at an inn—’

‘A lonely inn.’

‘Called something like The-Creaky-Sign-Blowing-In-The-Storm-Arms and everyone in the pub turns hostile when he tells them where he’s going. A lightning flash fills the window at this point, obviously. But why, instead of explaining to him that he’d be better off going somewhere else, why do they suddenly turn all sullen and virtually show him the door? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It’s because they realize the whole cycle is about to start all over again,’ said Alex. He saw Nicole put her glass neatly on a table and walk down the corridor. There was no sign of Jean-Paul but another man came over and began talking to Sahra.

‘But if they just let him stay a couple of nights till the storm died down and he then got the coach back to England, to his fiancée, everything would be fine. From time to time he could send them a postcard, thanking them for their hospitality. I would prefer that to the whole dismal bit about Dracula. Basically by the time he gets to Castle Dracula it’s all pretty well downhill. What I like is the cosiness that the prospect of horror builds up.’

‘You wouldn’t get that cosiness without the horror.’

‘Just the prospect of horror would do. I’d happily sit through two hours of jovial scenes in a Transylvanian pub. Culminating with him stepping outside into the storm-washed landscape, nursing a killer hangover, squinting at the terrible damage outside: uprooted trees, broken branches, omens of an obscure catastrophe narrowly averted. And there, in the background, in plain view, framed by the blue sky: the castle. What do you think?’

‘I think I’m dying for a piss,’ said Alex.

He went into the bathroom just as Nicole came out. She smiled at him, a little hurriedly. As he locked himself into the bathroom, Alex understood why: the smell of shit was heavy in the air. Probably her shit smelled just as bad as a man’s but in this context — an expensive bathroom with gleaming mirrors and towels of hotel whiteness — it mixed with the strawberry scents of oils and lotions in a way that, as Alex pissed into the white bowl in which no trace of excrement could be seen, seemed specifically feminine, not unpleasant, almost exotic.

The other three had all gone out on to the balcony. Alex joined them. An apartment opposite was filled with the blue lurch of television. It had started raining. Luke and Nicole put their arms around each other, alerting Alex to the way that he was not at liberty to put his arm around Sahra. The music changed: a track Nicole liked. She led Luke back into the party to dance, leaving Sahra and Alex alone. We are on our own on the balcony, Alex said to himself. He thought about trying to kiss Sahra but was aware of the rancid dryness the champagne had left in his mouth. She had been drinking champagne too, but she had also been chewing gum which — if advertisements were anything to go by — had rendered her mouth fresh and kissable. On the one hand the thought of her gum-fresh mouth made him want to kiss her, on the other it made him still more conscious of the parched sourness, the un kissability of his own mouth. He took a gulp of beer. Sahra was leaning with her forearms on the balcony rail, a glass held loosely between her fingers, staring through the rain. Alex was on the brink of kissing her — on the brink, rather, of plucking up the courage to do so — when the painter who was also a writer joined them on the balcony. He was carrying a bottle of champagne and filled Sahra’s empty glass with overflowing fizz that subsided almost to nothing. He was drunk but Sahra was adamant,

‘If you’re a painter you should just paint.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the painter who was also a writer.

‘There have been no painters who were good writers.’

Alex tried to think of one who was, but the painter who was also a writer beat him to it. ‘What about Van Gogh?’ he said. ‘His letters are superb, some of the greatest letters ever written.’

‘Yes,’ said Sahra. ‘But have you seen the paintings?’

That was the moment that Alex knew, without question, that he was in love with her. He suspected that the artist who was also a writer had fallen in love with her too: he rocked back on his feet, held out his hands — bottle in one, glass in the other — and called out to the street: ‘This woman: she is too much for me. Ha! Too much for the world.’ With that he headed back inside, chuckling, shaking his head and saying, ‘Too much’.

Rain fell out of the darkness, becoming purple as it passed through a belt of neon and then glowing yellow in the lights of cars whose wipers greeted it mechanically. Sahra held out her glass into the night, letting the rain bounce into it. Alex leaned on the balcony and looked down at the couples hurrying for shelter, disappearing beneath the red awnings of the café across the street. Sahra’s arm was shining wet, the glass filling with coloured sparks of rain. They stayed like that for several minutes, hearing the music behind them and the cars swathing by below. When there was half an inch of water in the glass she brought it to her lips and drank. Now he will kiss me, Sahra thought to herself, turning her face towards him, wiping rain from her lips. More people came on to the balcony, bringing bottles and laughter. Tossed out into the street, a cigarette butt fell like red tracer through the rain. An elderly couple appeared on one of the balconies opposite, watching the rain, waving back to the crowd of young people who greeted them noisily.

Sahra and Alex moved into the kitchen. Hummus-smeared plates were piled up on the draining board. On the table were the remains of a cake, and a bowl shaped like a lettuce leaf, full of grapes and stalks. The music in the living room had changed: dance music, louder than anything else that had been played. Above the table was a framed poster for an exhibition of Diebenkorn paintings: pale blues, squares of yellow, the same yellow as Nicole’s dress.

‘Perhaps you’ll frame the poster I gave you,’ said Alex.

‘I hate frames,’ said Sahra. Then, after a pause: ‘Actually, I hate posters too.’

‘You’re on good form tonight, Sahra,’ said Alex. ‘Vehement.’ She was eating grapes, her back to the fridge which was covered with coloured magnetic letters. Over her shoulder, on the freezer compartment, Alex saw a blue B, an orange O, and a red R which had been used to clamp a postcard of a Scottish loch in place. Jean-Paul came into the kitchen.

‘Est-ce qu’il y a encore de la bière?’ he said, awkwardly. Sahra moved aside. The multi-coloured words CHEVAL and ELANE loomed into view as Jean-Paul opened the fridge door. After rooting around for a moment he emerged holding a bottle of German beer.

‘T’en veux, Sahra?’

‘Non merci Jean-Paul.’

‘Et toi, Alex?’

‘Oui, s’il en reste encore une, Jean-Paul,’ said Alex. Jean-Paul passed him a bottle but was unable to find an opener.

‘Laisse, je l’ouvre,’ said Alex. Jean-Paul passed him his bottle. Holding that bottle in one hand he used his own to flip the top off Jean-Paul’s. He did it as quickly as if he’d been opening a can of Coke. ‘ Voilà,’ he said, passing the bottle to Jean-Paul.

‘Merci,’ said Jean-Paul, taking it.

‘Je t’en prie,’ said Alex, taking another beer out of the fridge and using that to lever open his own bottle.

Jean-Paul left the kitchen. ‘He is out of the fuckin’ loop,’ said Alex, suddenly exultant.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing. A line from a song.’

‘Pretty impressive, I have to admit,’ said Sahra. ‘The bottle-opening, I mean. Where did you learn that?’