Geoff Dyer - Paris Trance

‘You did that deliberately,’ she said.

‘You were on fire.’ It was true but he had thrown the water over her out of anger as well as alarm.

‘You didn’t need to do that.’ She was on the brink of tears.

‘You ruined my fucking sweater,’ Luke yelled, suddenly livid. ‘You ruin everything you touch.’

‘No. You do.’ She pushed him away. He gripped her arms.

‘You’re hurting me. Let go of me.’ He tightened his grip, dug his fingers into her arms as hard as he could.

‘You fucking bastard!’ She spat in his face, kicked at his shin. He let go of her arms and she grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand and clawed at his face with the other. It was agony. He felt like his scalp would come off in her hand. He yanked her hand free, shoved her away. She banged into the cooker and up-ended the frying pan of curry which slopped on to the already soaking floor. She grabbed the pan, threateningly, ludicrously, but by now the scene was too diluted by curry and washing-up water to sustain anger.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she said.

‘What I’ve done?’ said Luke. His face was burning where she had scratched him. His shin felt like it was broken. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ He moved towards her, hands raised as if in surrender, careful not to slip on the bilge-water floor.

When they had cleaned up the kitchen Luke limped out for a walk. Nicole stayed at home. They were both stunned, exhausted by the sudden fury of the scene. They had quarrelled before but never as violently. It was like they had skipped three or four intervening stages — raised voices, heated arguments, recriminations, rows — and moved straight on to the fully fledged, all-out domestic riot. There was an element of novelty, of absurdity, to what had happened but they were both fearful that they had crashed through to that other dimension of domestic relationships where arguing and making up, yelling and apologising become the norm. Then the making up and apologising fall by the wayside. From there it is a small step to plate-smashing, hatred and attritional dependence.

At the Bastille Luke saw a weary Indian selling balloons. In addition to silver, helium-filled hearts he had a lovely Dalmatian: knee high, smiling, with a tightly inflated tail. He even had a little bell tied round his neck with a pink ribbon.

Nicole was sleeping when Luke got home. He lay on the floor and, using a broom, pushed the dog towards the bed. Nicole was awakened by the noise of the bell. She loved him immediately.

‘He’s the same one that followed us that night. The first time we went out.’

‘Exactly,’ said Luke, sitting on the bed.

‘I knew he would turn up again.’ She touched his face. ‘Your face is all scratched. Does it hurt?’

‘It stings a bit.’

‘Is your leg OK?’

‘It’s broken but it doesn’t matter. What about your arms?’

‘They’re OK.’

‘You really do have a temper.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m the one that should be sorry Nic. I’m sorry. God, I feel like I’ve been dragged backwards through a Greek tragedy.’

‘Me too.’

‘That was some serious splashing back there in the kitchen wasn’t it?’ said Luke. Then he pointed at their new dog. ‘What shall we call him?’

‘Let’s call him Spunk,’ said Nicole who had developed a fondness for the crude English words she had learned from Luke.

He was perfect. He stood by the bed waiting for them to wake up in the mornings. When they came home at night he was waiting by the door, always smiling, tail wagging. They would have taken him for walks but that would have seemed like an affectation and so he remained a house dog. Nicole bought a bowl for him. He was no trouble. In no time at all he acquired a personality of his own. They loved him.

Alex was more sceptical. ‘That dog of yours,’ he said, ‘has got an inflated sense of his own importance.’

‘Very funny,’ said Luke. They were due to play football. Alex had turned up for breakfast, as arranged, but Luke and Nicole were still in bed, drinking coffee. Spunk was by the side of the bed, eager, smiling. Alex was holding a bag of warm croissants.

‘The clocks went back today,’ said Nicole.

‘Forwards,’ said Luke.

‘So either I’m an hour early or an hour late,’ said Alex.

‘Early,’ said Nicole. ‘Which is nice. The coffee’s only just made. Have a cup.’ Alex fetched a plate for the croissants. He poured himself a coffee, sat at the end of the bed. Sun was streaming through the window. Their clothes were piled on the floor. A large mirror was propped against a wall. Nicole was wearing a white T-shirt, spooning jam on to a croissant. There were bruises on her arms.

‘Hmm. Fine jam,’ she said in an improbable English accent. She looked sleepy. Alex pictured her sitting dreamily at her desk in school, rubbing her eyes. Luke kissed the side of her head.

‘How many croissants did you bring, Alex?’ he said, finishing his first.

‘Six.’

‘Great,’ he said, plucking a second from the bag.

‘D’you often have breakfast in bed?’ said Alex.

‘Oh yes. You see, we do so like fine jam,’ said Nicole, spreading more on her croissant. A blob fell on the sheets and she began scraping it off.

‘Actually we never have breakfast in bed because I hate spillage. Today was an exception,’ said Luke, holding up both hands. ‘Look at this. I don’t know what to do with my hands. They’re greasy from the croissants so I don’t know where to put them. I can’t get out of bed and wash them because I haven’t got any clothes on and I can’t put my clothes on because I haven’t washed my hands and I don’t want to get greasy stickiness over my clothes.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Nicole said.

‘Make a run a for it,’ said Luke, climbing out of the bed and dashing, thin, naked, out of the room. Nicole was laughing. Alex was aware of a dryness in his throat. He was surprised that the mere fact of Nicole’s being in bed, a few feet from him, naked beneath her T-shirt, could generate such a tension.

‘What’s Sahra doing today?’ she said.

‘Nothing really. She’s going to call you, I think.’ He took a big gulp of coffee and looked at the window, the tray, the clothes in piles on the floor — everywhere but where he most wanted to. He glanced at the wall and saw her reflection in the mirror. She was looking away and he let his eyes rest on her image. He could see himself too, and then he saw Luke’s reflection coming into the edge of the frame, his hair wet. Alex looked over his shoulder, surprised to find that Luke was already by his side. In the mirror Luke saw Alex as he had been a few moments earlier, his eyes fixed on Nicole’s reflection.

Alex stood up and took the tray over to the sink where he washed the cups and plates more thoroughly than was necessary. Luke sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on Spunk’s head, the other on Nicole’s shoulder.

‘What are you doing this morning?’

‘I’m sleepy. Maybe I’ll see Sahra.’

‘I’ll see you later.’ He kissed her on the mouth, her lips buttery.

‘Bye Alex,’ she said. ‘Have a good game.’

‘See you Nicole.’

Luke and Alex walked to the station. Nothing they saw on the way there seemed worth mentioning. Alex said he was looking forward to the game. Luke too. A train pulled in as soon as they got to the platform. The carriage was empty and clean, new.

‘We’re going to be early,’ said Alex.

‘Yes.’

They sat in clanging silence for a couple of stops. Then Alex said, ‘You know when you first came here, you were planning to write a book?’

‘Indeed I was.’

‘What was it going to be? A novel?’