Hanif Kureishi: Midnight All Day

From inside the café Ian saw Anthony’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes. After sending the car away, Anthony checked his hair and brushed himself down. He had a young woman with him, to whom he was giving instructions. She would be his new assistant. Leaving her walking up and down the pavement making calls, Anthony came in.

He was wearing a well-cut dark suit; his hair had been dyed. Anthony was tall and skinny; he drank little. Apart from confusion and an inability to get along with women, he had few vices. Ian had attempted to introduce him to a few. After Anthony’s first Ecstasy pill (provided by Ian, who got them from his postman) they took drugs — mostly Ecstasy, along with cocaine, to keep them up; and cannabis, to bring them down — for a year, which was how long it took them to realise that they couldn’t resurrect the pleasure they’d had on the first night. Ian now took only tranquillisers.

‘Where is she?’ Anthony asked, looking about. ‘How does she look?’

‘She’s at the apartment. She looks splendid. Only … I told her about Jane.’

Anthony sat down and ordered an omelette. ‘A bloody blackmailing nuisance,’ he murmured.

Ian said, ‘It was making me mad, the fear of telling her. Can you tell me how Jane is?’

He had asked Anthony to look into it. Anthony would know how to find out.

Anthony said, ‘There’s nothing physically wrong with her. Of course, she’s distressed and depressed, but she will survive that. She’s coming out of hospital today.’

‘Do you think I should go and see her?’

‘I don’t know.’

Ian said, ‘Consciousness is proving a little tenacious at the moment. Where are my tranquillisers?’

‘I told the quack they were for me. He wouldn’t give me any. Said I’m tranquil enough.’

‘So you didn’t bring any?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, Anthony.’

Anthony opened his briefcase and took out a gadget, a little computer, clearing a space for it on the table. ‘Listen —’ He was busy. Ian’s recent slow pace wasn’t Anthony’s. ‘I need your advice about a director I — we — might use. I think you know him.’

While Ian gave his opinion Anthony typed, rather inaccurately, it seemed to Ian; Anthony’s fingers seemed too fat for the keys. It was a machine Ian knew he would never understand, just as his mother had decided it was too late to bother with videos and computers. Still, Ian wondered whether he was really the fool he liked to take himself for. His ideas weren’t so bad.

He and Anthony switched subjects quickly, as Ian liked to, to football. Ian hadn’t been getting the English papers; he wanted the results. Anthony said he’d been to Stamford Bridge to watch Manchester United play Chelsea.

‘I’m assuming you want to make me jealous,’ Ian said.

‘Why don’t you come next time?’

‘It’s true, I miss London.’

When he could not sleep, Ian liked to imagine he was being driven in a taxi through London. The route took him through the West End and Trafalgar Square, down the Mall, past Buckingham Palace — with Green Park, lit like a grotto, on the right; through the perils of Hyde Park Corner, then past the Minema (showing an obscure Spanish film), and the windows of Harvey Nichols. If you did not know it, what a liberal and individual place you would think London was! He was becoming tired of the deprivations of this little exile.

He started to wonder whether Marina was asleep, or walking in Paris. It occurred to him that she might have left and gone back to London. He wondered if this was a wish on his part, to end his anxiety at last. But he knew it was not what he wanted. He felt like rushing to the apartment to reassure her.

Ian asked, ‘How’s the American project?’

‘Shooting in the summer.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. It wasn’t difficult getting the money, as I told you.’

He felt patronised by Anthony, but he was at ease with him too.

Ian said, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t make those films I liked.’

‘You were breaking up. Then you weren’t around. Why don’t you do them now? There’s money for development.’

‘Marina and I haven’t got anywhere to live.’

Anthony waved out of the window at his assistant, still walking up and down.

‘She’ll find you a flat. If you come back to London I’ll put you in a hotel from tomorrow and there’ll be an apartment from Monday. Right?’ Ian said nothing. Anthony said, ‘You did the right thing by leaving — leaving Jane, and then leaving London.’

‘Jane kept saying I didn’t try hard enough. It’s certainly true that I was … preoccupied elsewhere, some of the time. But I was with her for six years.’

‘Long enough, surely, to know whether you want to be with someone. You’ve done it. It’s over. You’re free,’ Anthony said.

Ian liked the way Anthony made it seem straightforward.

‘I’m full of regret,’ Ian said, ‘for how unhappy I’ve been so much of the time.’

Anthony sighed. ‘You can’t hold on to that unhappiness for ever.’

Ian said, ‘No. I’ve come to believe in romantic love, too. I feel a fool having fallen for the idea. What’s wrong with sublimation? Rather a Rembrandt than a wank, don’t you think?’

‘Why not sublimation as well as copulation?’ said Anthony.

‘Look at Picasso.’ He leaned across the table. ‘How is it with Marina?’

‘It’s the ordeal of my life. Cold turkey, psychosis and death — all at once. I’ve been trying to understand something about myself… and what I might be able to do. I’m clearer now. I don’t want to give up.’

‘Why should you? You only have to look at her to see how passionate she is about you. It’s funny how blind one can be to such obvious things. Ian, there’s a lot happening in the company. I’d like it if you came back. Soon. Monday, say.’ Anthony was looking at him. ‘What do you think?’

‘You really need to know?’

‘Yes.’

Ian realised he hadn’t talked to Marina about it. Only rarely did he ask her advice. He was used to doing everything alone. If he could solicit her help, if he could learn to turn to her, maybe she would feel more involved. Perhaps love was an exchange of problems.

‘I’ll ask Marina’s advice.’

‘Good,’ Anthony said.

Ian wanted to carry on talking but Anthony was late for a meeting. After, he would meet his lover. Ian stood up to go.

‘The thing is, I’m a bit short of money at the moment.’

‘Of course.’

Anthony opened his cheque book and wrote a cheque. Then he gave Ian some cash. Outside, Ian was introduced to Anthony’s assistant. He wondered how much she knew of him. Anthony said Ian was returning to work on Monday. When Anthony and the young woman got into the car, Ian waved from the pavement.

As he walked back, Ian thought that he wanted to be at home, in a house he liked, with a woman and children he liked. He wanted to lose himself in the mundane, in unimportant things. Perhaps those things were graspable now. Once he had them, he could think of others, and be useful.

He pushed the key into the lock, got into the building and ran up the stairs. He rang the bell repeatedly. It was cold but he was sweating. He rang again. Then he fiddled with the keys. At last he unlocked the door and went up the hallway. The room was dark. He put the light on. She was lying on the bed. She sat up.

The minute they arrived at the adventure playground, Roger’s two sons charged up a long ramp and were soon clinging to the steel netting that hung from a high beam. Satisfied that it would take them some time to extricate themselves, Roger sat on a bench and turned to the sports section of his newspaper. He had always found it relaxing to read reports of football matches he had not seen.