Zachary Lazar - Sway

His mother handed his father a cup of tea on a saucer. Then she turned to Anita, whose hair was so much like Brian’s that they seemed to be impersonating each other. “Do you take yours with sugar?”

“Yes,” said Anita. “I’ll just go and put this in the kitchen, if that’s all right.”

She turned in a purposeful way, a robotic smile on her face, and walked out of the room. Brian sat down in a seat angled toward the window. Through the lace curtains, he could see the silent street outside. He could see the silhouette of the white limousine that was waiting for them. He was trying to remember how this had all played out in his mind beforehand — a couple of jokes, a little comic nervousness as his parents tried some caviar from the gift basket, holding up one of the little tins in curiosity to read the label.

He stared out the window of the limousine, his face rigid, watching the neighborhood pass by. There were ranks of iron fences, hedges whose leaves had turned a muddy brownish green. He held Anita’s hand absently, his wrist on the leather seat.

“They never told me their names,” she said.

“Lewis and Louisa. Very droll. They met at a jumble sale.”

“They never asked me any questions. Nothing.”

“They know everything they needed to know about you.”

“They were afraid, I think.”

“No. They weren’t afraid. They were glad that everything went the way they expected it to.”

She lit a cigarette. In her lap was a magazine she had brought over to amuse his parents but had never taken out of her purse. Inside it was a picture of Brian and her that could have been an advertisement for “Swinging London.” He was standing with his back to her, holding her hands behind his waist, turning to the camera with a faintly mischievous grin. She was falling away from him in a sudden fit of laughter, her mouth open to reveal a white ridge of teeth. They looked like twins, that’s what everyone said, Brian in a finely tailored suit, Anita’s long legs seeking purchase on the slick white floor.

She rested her head on his shoulder and took his arm. “Do you have anything left?” she said.

He looked at her from out of the corner of his eye. “No. That’s the worst part.”

But then he reached his fingers into his jacket pocket and smiled, pulling her closer with his other hand. When she caught his eye, sitting up a little, their life together came back in a sudden blur of color. On their last night in Rome, her friend had come back with them to the hotel and all three of them had ended up on the bed, kneeling and kissing and touching one another’s hair, laughing. Whatever they’d smoked had made the room brighter, outlined in a haze of yellow and violet. They were both smiling at him as they took off his clothes, admiring him as if he were their creation.

He handed her a canister and a tiny silver spoon. She leaned against him as she brought them carefully to her nose. Then she tilted her face up to his and he put his finger on the ridge of her cheekbone, staring into her upside-down eyes.

“I wish we were back in Rome,” he said.

“No. Someplace else.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Morocco. I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco.”

Their flat was in Earl’s Court. It was made of sooty red brick, with tall windows whose wooden frames were covered in flaking white paint. When they got back that night, Keith called them from his house on the Sussex coast. It had just been raided by the police. They’d found drugs everywhere — drugs on Mick and on their art dealer friend, Robert Fraser — and when they went upstairs, they’d found Mick’s girlfriend, Marianne, curled up in bed with no clothes on. They were all coming down from an LSD trip: a walk in the woods, an hour or so of wandering on the beach, looking at the stones and the remnants of the wooden piers. For the half hour that the police were there, it had never fully sunk in that the raid was real.

Keith’s voice was almost inaudible, more solemn than Anita had ever heard it. She hunched on the edge of the bed, shielding her eyes with the flat of her hand in an effort to concentrate.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine. Surprisingly fine.”

“I’m sorry. We’re a little out of it. We’ve just been lying here, sort of strung out.”

“Well, whatever you’ve got left, you’d better chuck it. Brian’s going to be next.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Everything’s gone.”

“Well, just tell him to cool it. You know how he is. That’s the last thing we need.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I’ve got to hang round here for a while. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Are you?”

“I’m not too worried right now. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

She hung up the phone. Then she closed her eyes, inexplicably lonely.

“They were busted,” she said.

“Who?”

“Everyone. Keith, Mick, Marianne, Robert. Keith is out on bail.”

He stood up from the bed. The air in the room, clouded by candle smoke, moved in circular waves.

“They would have come by now if they were going to come, don’t you think?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

He felt dizzy and sluggish at the same time. He looked at the Moroccan rugs on the floor, the religious icons, the pop-art painting of a 7UP ad on the far wall. His sinuses burned and his mouth was dry, but he knew that they were down now to just booze.

“What did Keith say?” he asked.

“He said he was all right. He seemed calm.”

He went over to the window and pushed aside the curtain. His heart pumped in a strange, disjointed rhythm, and he closed his eyes and then opened them until it stopped.

“They could come in here and plant something if they wanted,” he said. “We should go through the drawers.”

He looked at her, her face tinged yellow in the light from the candles. She wouldn’t look back. She sat with the distant, sullen concentration of a child, one foot in her hand, crossed over her knee.

“What else did he say?” he asked.

“He said he was worried about you.”

He turned. “He said that or you said that?”

“Don’t. You’re acting like it happened to you. Like you’re at the center of it all.”

He grabbed her by the arm, but she twisted away. She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if too exhausted to say anything else.

He walked out of the room. He felt awkward, unwieldy, more drunk than he’d thought. Every movement he made now reminded him of his father.

She could hear him banging around the flat, knocking things off the bookshelves, moving the furniture. When she finally got up, the lamps in the living room were all burning. He was standing in nothing but his underpants and the white dress shirt he had worn to lunch.

“You’re not going to keep it together, are you?” she said.

“No. Not if you’re like this.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not getting started with all that. I’m not going through the drawers.”

He shook his head, smiling. “I never should have taken you there. That was all very funny to you, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My parents. What else would I be talking about?”

She brushed her hair out of her eyes, then rubbed her cheek with her hand. “They were just two people. A little ordinary. I don’t see why it matters.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. When she freed herself, she stubbed her toe on the edge of the carpet and they both fell to the floor. They rolled and struggled, their hands grappling and their elbows cocked. They didn’t stop until they were both curled up in their separate numbnesses, unable to look at each other.