Geoff Dyer - Paris Trance

‘Zimbabwe.’

‘Zimbabwe?’

‘Well, a friend who’d been to Zimbabwe taught me. In London.’

‘I’ll just go to the bathroom,’ said Sahra.

‘Sure,’ said Alex, intent on scanning the letters on the fridge door. He couldn’t find a Y but by the time he saw Sahra coming back along the hall he had arranged the letters into a rough draft, hiding his preparatory work by taking up the position she had occupied, directly in front of the fridge.

Sahra poured a glass of water and helped herself to the last grapes. While she was doing this Alex nudged a few more letters into place, completing his little sentence and then moving aside. Sahra watched absently and then saw, in blue, orange and green letters:

I WANTO GO

BED WIV U.

She looked at Alex, who stood uncertainly, wondering if he should smile.

‘You must be a good Scrabble player,’ she said. The atmosphere in the kitchen had changed. Alex leaned on the fridge which began to rumble. Having drunk half of his bottle, Alex poured the rest into a glass and studied the foam. Was it just the fridge he was leaning against, or had he begun to shake very slightly?

‘Is it my turn now?’ said Sahra.

‘Sure.’

She slipped her finger into the orange O from GO and moved it into a space of its own. Alex watched, preparing to see her precede it with an N. Instead she reached down and added a K.

The volume of music in the living room diminished. Luke and Nicole came into the kitchen. Luke poured glasses of water which he and Nicole gulped down. They were sweating.

Luke whispered in Alex’s ear, ‘I’ve just seen Jean-Paul leave. Like I said: out of the mother-fuckin’ loop.’ Aloud, triumphant, he said, ‘I got my tape on!’

‘For about ten minutes,’ said Nicole. ‘Then they took it off.’

The party began to thin out. Nicole and Luke were ready to leave.

‘Shall we go soon?’ Alex said to Sahra when they were alone again.

‘Yes.’

‘And can I come home with you when we do go?’

‘No, not tonight.’

‘Why not?’

‘Now I’m tired and drunk.’

‘I want to,’ he said.

‘So do I.’

‘So?’

‘What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Will you be at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Would you like lunch?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK.’

‘So I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? At about two.’

‘OK.’

‘Perfect. Now I’m going home,’ she said, kissing him briefly on the mouth and turning away.

‘I’ll get your coat,’ said Alex, remembering.

He was actually vaguely relieved that they were not going home together tonight. He had said — or at least he had written — that he wanted to go to bed with Sahra which was true but as yet he felt no lust for her. He wanted to go to bed with her so that he could begin lusting after her. He knew immediately when he fancied a woman but what did it mean, this fancying? It meant he wanted to sleep with her, become her lover, fuck her — but lust played no part in it. He only lusted after women he had already slept with. He lusted after his old girlfriends but Sahra, he looked at her and felt. . what? A longing. An ache — not even an ache really, something more abstract than that, an abstract ache if that was possible: an absence. He felt incomplete, insubstantial without her. And yet, at the same time that there was no lust in this feeling, it contained the seed of what, once they had begun sleeping together, would become overwhelmingly focused on sex. He had to sleep with her so that he could begin wanting to sleep with her.

Sahra arrived at two o’clock on the dot, when Alex was still preparing the salad. He greeted her at the door, holding a bowl of lettuce, just washed.

‘Punctuality,’ he said. ‘A great quality in men and women alike.’ She kissed him on the mouth, exactly as she had the night before.

‘Let me take your coat,’ he said, standing behind her.

‘You’re very gallant all of a sudden. Thank you.’

‘You got home OK?’ said Alex, hanging up her coat.

‘No. I was raped and murdered actually. How about you?’

‘Are you in a bad mood?’

‘Just playing.’

‘I walked. Ten minutes, that’s all. I was quite drunk.’

‘Me too. Do you have a hangover?’ she asked.

‘No. Surprisingly. You?’

‘No. A little. We’re speaking in short sentences. Have you noticed?’

‘Yes. Why? I mean why do you think that is?’

‘Because we are due to go to bed together, probably.’

‘That was a longer sentence,’ said Alex. Sahra was standing at the window, leaning with her back to the light. She would have been silhouetted had the room not been filled with light from all sides. It poured in.

‘It’s a nice apartment,’ she said. ‘Very light.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Of water, yes, please. Tap water is fine. And you have a lovely view.’

‘Almost down to the Bastille. Yes, I love it.’ The water took a while to run cool. He handed her a glass. She was wearing slacks. He supposed that’s what they would be called. Light, tight-fitting around the ankles: difficult to take off, he thought.

‘What is this music?’ she said. She was looking along his shelves, at his books and stuff. ‘Do you mind if I look?’

‘It’s the radio. No, you can look.’ He dried the forks and knives he had just washed, put plates and bowls on the table.

‘Why are you so tense?’ she said.

‘I’m not tense,’ he said. ‘Except now I am, of course. That was an unfair remark, guaranteed to make me tense. You said it because you’re tense.’

‘Well yes, I am tense. I thought I wouldn’t be but I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of this fucking sex thing, I suppose.’

‘We can eat if you like.’

‘Yes, I’m hungry. Actually I’m starving.’

They sat opposite each other. He broke the loaf of bread in half.

‘It was fun last night, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, I enjoyed it.’

‘In spite of the music.’

‘The music was bad.’

‘Let’s eat. Add oil. Pepper, too, if you like. Then it’s just a question of chewing.’

The tomatoes were over-ripe, as Sahra liked them. The basil was dusty with its own scent. Deep Purple were on the radio. Alex turned up the volume, played a little air guitar. They duetted on the chorus:

‘ Smoke on the water . .

Fire in the sky. ’

By the time the song had finished Sahra was mopping up the tomato-pipped residue of olive oil on her plate with a piece of bread. When there was nothing else to mop up she poured in some extra oil.

‘There’s more salad if you like.’

‘No thank you.’

‘Fruit?’

‘Do you have any?’

‘I can get some.’

‘Oh don’t bother going out. Shall I go?’

‘It’s no bother.’ He seemed eager to procure fruit.

‘What would you like? An orange?’

‘An apple would be great.’

‘I’ll get you one.’ Sahra followed him as he walked across to the open window.

‘Hey, Louis,’ he called down to a man working at the fruit stall across the street. ‘Passe moi une pomme. Je te paierai plus tard.’

‘Pour la demoiselle?’

‘Oui.’

Louis reached back, selected a good apple, held it up.

‘Celle-là va bien?’

‘Parfaite.’

Louis threw it up and Alex caught it in both hands. He gave the apple to Sahra and the thumbs-up to Louis. Sahra smiled down at him, waved.

‘Was that off the cuff or up the sleeve?’

‘Ideally I would have caught it in one hand.’

Sahra peeled her apple, quartered it, cut out the pips, handed Alex a piece. They munched noisily.