William Boyd - Stars and bars

“I’m not the fucking hat-check, numbnuts,” she had said reasonably, and had turned on her heel, oblivious to his stream of aghast apologies. Later on during the dull party, while pouring himself a white wine at the makeshift bar, she approached with an empty glass and asked to be topped up.

“I’m not the bloody barman,” he said, with a boldness that astonished him (he couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘fucking’). She found this very amusing. They started to talk and discovered that they disagreed violently about the paintings on show. Henderson thought they were puerile and derivative; Irene was a friend of the artist — hence her invitation — and greatly admired them.

Henderson had been initially and immediately attracted to Irene because she bore a considerable resemblance to a girl who worked in a butcher’s shop in Spain, about and around whom he had spun a tingling sexual fantasy which had enlivened an otherwise banal and tedious holiday some years ago. He bought meat from this girl twice, sometimes three times a day, never saying anything more than ‘ jamon’, ‘chuletas de cerdo’, ‘es todo’, ‘gracias ’. The girl, unlike her tanned and rubescent clients, was pale, as if she never went out in the sun. She had broad shoulders and strong arms. She cut meat expertly and powerfully. Henderson stood across the bloodied marble from her, finding difficulty in breathing, while she handed him soggy, heavy plastic bags full of chops, steaks, liver, chicken breasts and any other cut of meat he could find in his dictionary. As he was staying in a hotel he had later to throw all this away. He spent a fortune on uneaten meat that holiday.

The girl came to recognize him, and they would make a long and direct eye-contact throughout their transaction. Sometimes, counting out his change, her encarnadined fingernails would scratch his damp palm.

Irene, like this nameless she-butcher, was strong-looking and pale. She had thick black hair that curled onto her neck. Her eyes were brown; her features were emphatic: prominent nose, distinct lips, unplucked eyebrows. And she was tall. That night at the gallery she was taller than Henderson.

“You know,” he had interrupted their futile disquisition on the paintings’ merits, “you remind me of someone.”

“Oh yes? Who?”

“A girl who worked in a butcher’s shop in Alicante.”

Irene had looked around the room. “I suppose that’s some kind of compliment.”

“God. No, um, what I meant to say,” his left hand had clutched air, seeking straws, “to ask. Is…is if you had any Spanish blood in you. That’s what I…yes.”

“No. I’m Jewish.”

“Oh.” Nods. “Aha.”

“You’re not Jewish,” she had said, a horror-struck expression on her face.

“Lord no. I’m English.”

Irene had laughed so hard, people had stopped talking and looked round.

Henderson considered her now, perched on a bar stool. She was wearing a sleeveless dark blue dress. Her skin looked almost pure white. White as a fridge. He put his hand on her knee.

“I can get away. No problem,” she said. “When do we leave?”

“Ah yes.” Henderson swallowed hard and removed his hand.

“Mr Dores? Your table is ready, sir.”

By the time they sat down Henderson was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. How was he going to tell Irene that her place in the car had been usurped by Bryant?

“I’ve been to New Orleans,” Irene said, “but never to the real South. Where exactly are we going?”

The waiter crept up behind Henderson.

“Hello there, people,” he said cheerfully, “my name is James—”

Henderson looked round with a start. “Oh! Hello. My name’s Dores. Henderson Dores.” He rose to his feet. “This is Miss — Ms — Stien.” Unthinkingly, he held out his hand.

The waiter flashed a puzzled glance at Irene, before shaking it. “Nice to meet you, sir.” His discomfiture lasted a second only. “As I was saying, my name is James, I’m your waiter for this evening and I’ll be looking after you.” He handed over the menus. “Enjoy,” he beamed, and left.

Henderson sat down. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought…”

Irene stared irritatedly at him. “What do you think you’re doing? Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. Trying day, what with one thing and another.”

She shook her head in mock despair. “Are you coming home with me tonight?” she asked, scrutinizing the menu.

Henderson did likewise, trying to ignore his popping cardiac valves.

“Yes please.” He would have to tell her about the trip later. “Good God,” he said, “what’s happening to menus in this city?”

♦

Henderson ate sparingly, his fillet of hake in lager and cranberry sauce failing to stimulate his appetite. Irene ate her two roast baby pigeons in fresh grapefruit nests with relish. Conscious of having to prepare the ground somewhat he asked her if she was really sure it was all right for her to take a few days off work. Irene reassured him once more. She was a co-director — with her brother — of a firm that sold personal computers. She was her own boss, she reminded him, she could take a holiday when she wanted. Good, Henderson said, good.

When they left the restaurant it was after midnight and a light rain was falling.

“We’ll get a cab on West Broadway,” Henderson said. “This way.”

Irene had a collapsible umbrella which she erected. Henderson slung his sabre case over his shoulder and linked arms with her. He smelt her hair, a vague fruit fragrance — apples or sultanas — lingering from her shampoo. They made their way leisurely down the street, picking their way through the rubbish and the puddles, from time to time pausing to look into the lighted windows of the boutiques and small galleries that proliferated here. At one of these windows, he kissed her. He shut his eyes and gently fitted his lips to hers, her bottom lip snug in the hollow between his two. He pressed his nose into her cheek, felt his teeth bump and grate against hers as she opened her mouth slightly. He felt suddenly helpless, victim of his rampaging desire.

They walked on, the rain a little heavier, the streets almost deserted as people took shelter.

“I thought you said you knew your way,” Irene said.

“I do. Along here.”

They turned and walked down a shopless street. High up he could see the lambent plant-filled windows of the lofts. Rain runnelled off the fire escapes.

“Next left, I think.”

They turned. Someone jogged down the street in a sodden track-suit. These madmen really will jog at any time of the day or night, Henderson thought with vague admiration.

“I think we should go back,” Irene said. “Call a taxi from the restaurant.”

“It’s not far from here, I’m sure.” Henderson stepped out from the shelter of Irene’s umbrella and looked up and down the street. There was a junction at the top. He looked for a street sign. Nothing.

“Let’s go back,” he said suddenly. He had seen four figures — strolling, unhurrying, masculine figures — turn the far corner. He felt a spontaneous, improbable thirst. Irene was rummaging in her handbag.

“I’ve got to blow my nose.”

Henderson looked round again in what he hoped was an unconcerned, natural way. The figures — dark, lithe-looking — had crossed to their side of the street with what looked like more urgency. Henderson clenched a fist. He looked quickly right and left. They were alone. Irene still searched for a tissue.

Jesus Christ, Henderson thought, they say it happens to everybody sooner or later — like a car crash or a burglary. He felt a surging panic begin to overwhelm him. It’s only when you haven’t got any money that they kill you. Or pour petrol over you and set you alight. Or rape you. Gang-sodomize you. They were only ten yards away.