Zadie Smith - NW

“Fridge,” said Felix to himself now and opened it — two family-sized bottles of Diet Coke, three lemons and a can of mackerel — and then remembered, and opened the freezer instead. He lifted out the bottle of vodka. He returned to the fridge and removed the least white lemon. He looked about him. The kitchen was a tiny cupboard with a cracked Belfast sink and no space to store anything and no bin. The sink was full; there were no clean glasses. A curtain-rag fluttered at the half-open window. A line of ants processed from the sink to the window and back, carrying little specks of food on their backs, with a confidence that suggested they did not expect to see tap water here in their lifetimes. Felix found a mug. He sawed at the lemon with a blunt knife. He poured the vodka. He put the top back on, replaced the bottle in the freezer and thought of how he would describe this scene of sobriety on Tuesday at seven pm to a group of fellow travellers who would appreciate its heroic quality.

Back up on the roof Annie had changed position — a cross-legged yoga pose, eyes closed — and was now wearing a green bikini. He placed the mug in front of her and she nodded, like a goddess accepting an offering.

“Where’d you get that bikini?”

“Questions, questions.”

Without opening her eyes she pointed at the family on the terrace. “Now all that’s left to them is to pick up the pieces. Lunch has been ruined, the Sancerre runs dry, but somehow, somehow, they’ll find a way to carry on.”

“Annie—”

“And what else? I’ve no idea what’s up with you anymore. Any movement on the film front? How’s your brother?”

“I left that place time ago. I’m apprenticed at this garage now, I told you.”

“Vintage cars are a nice hobby. “

“Not a hobby — it’s my work.”

“Felix: you’re a very talented filmmaker.”

“Come on, man. What was my job? Getting the coffees, getting the coke. That was my job. That was it. They weren’t gonna let me get no further than that, believe. Why you always going on about shit that ain’t even real?”

“I just happen to feel you’re very talented, that’s all. And that you criminally undersell yourself.”

“Leave it, man!”

Annie sighed and took the clip out of her hair. She separated the hair into sections and started working on two long, childish plaits. “How’s poor Devon doing?”

“Fine.”

“You’re mistaking me for one of those people who ask questions out of politeness.”

“He’s fine. He’s got a provisional release date: 16th June.”

“But that’s wonderful!” cried Annie, and Felix felt a great, impractical warmth toward her. In Grace’s company Devon was rarely mentioned. He was one of the “negative sources of energy” they were meant to be cleansing from their lives.

“Why ‘provisional?’”

“Depends on how he acts. He has to not piss anyone off between now and then.”

“If you ask me, he seems to have somewhat overpaid his debt to society for a little stick-em-up with a toy shooter.”

“It weren’t a toy. It was unloaded. They still call it armed robbery.”

“Oh, but someone on Friday told me the funniest joke — you’d like it. Oh gosh: wording. Something like: do you know what poor people…? No. Sorry, start again. Poor people — Oh God: ‘In poor areas people steal your phone. In rich areas the people steal your pension.’” Felix smiled minutely. “Only, it was much better done than that.”

She was shouting, without realizing it. Over on the other terrace, the Japanese woman turned and peered politely into the middle distance.

“I mean, look at this woman: she’s obsessed with me. Look at her. She desperately wants to photograph me but can’t bear to ask. It’s very sad, really.” Annie waved a hand at the woman and her family. “Eat your lunch! Proceed with your lives!”

Felix put himself between Annie and the view. “She’s half Jamaican, half Nigerian. Her mum teaches at William Keble down Harlesden way — serious woman. She’s like her mum, she’s got that Nigerian education thing: focused. You’d like her.”

“Hmmm.”

“You know that place York’s on Monmouth Street?”

“Naturally. People went there in the eighties.”

“She just got promoted,” said Felix, proudly. “She’s like the top waitress, what do you call that again? She doesn’t do the tables no more. What do you call that?”

“Maitre D.”

“Yeah. Probably end up managing it. It’s full every day — lots of people go there.”

“Yes, but what type of people?” Annie put her drink to her lips and knocked it back in one. “Anything else?”

Felix got flustered again: “We got a lot in common, like… just a lot of things.”

“Long walks in the country, red wine, the operas of Verdi, GSOH…” Annie held her arms wide and put her fingers together as in a yogic chant.

“She’s knows what she’s about. She’s conscious.”

Annie looked at him oddly: “That’s setting the bar rather low, don’t you think? I mean, bully for you she’s not in a coma…”

Felix laughed, and spotted her grinning gummily with pleasure.

“Politically conscious, racially conscious, as in she gets it, the struggle. Conscious.”

“She’s awake and she understands,” Annie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Bully for you.”

But some flicker of imperiousness in her face tipped Felix over. He started shouting.

“All you know how to do is take the piss. That’s all you know. What you doing that’s so amazing? What you getting accomplished?”

Annie opened one startled eye: “What am I — what on earth are you talking about? I was joking, for Godssake. What exactly am I meant to be getting accomplished?”

“I’m talking about what are your goals? What do you want for your life to be like?”

“ What do I want for my life to be like? I’m sorry, grammatically I’m finding that question extremely peculiar.”

“Fuck you, Annie.”

She tried to laugh this off, too, and reached out for his wrist, but he pushed her away: “Nah, but there’s no point with you, is there? I’m trying to tell you where I’m going in my life, and you’re just taking the piss. Pointless. You’re pointless.”

It came out more brutal than he’d meant. She winced.

“I think you’re being very cruel. I’m only trying to understand.”

Felix took it down a notch. He didn’t want to be cruel. He didn’t want to be seen to be cruel. He sat down next to her. He had his speech prepared, but also the sense that they were both speaking lines, that really she was as prepared as he was.

“I’m tired of living the way I been living. I been feeling like I’ve been in the game, at this level, and I had a good time at this level — but, come on, Annie: even you would say it’s a level with a lot of demons. A lot of demons. Demons and—”

“Excuse me — you’re talking to a nice Catholic girl, who—”

“Let me finish talking! For one time!”

Annie nodded mutely.

“Lost my thread now.”

“Demons,” said Annie.

“Right. And I’ve killed them. And it was hard, and now they’re dead and I’ve completed the level, and it’s time to move to the next level. It ain’t even a matter of taking you to the next level. You blatantly don’t want to go.”

This was the speech he had prepared. Now it was out of his mouth it didn’t seem to have the subtle depth it had taken on in his mind, but still he saw it had had some effect: her eyes were open and her yoga pose was over, arms unfolded, hands flat on the floor.

“You listening? Next level. People can spend their whole lives just dwelling . I could spend my whole life dwelling on some of the shit that’s happened to me. I done that. Now it’s time for the next level. I’m moving up in the game. And I’m ready for it.”