Richard House - The Kills

At first she thinks that this is a gold-coloured ball. But then realizes it’s the head, the panda head from the first video, except it’s not black and white, but gilded, and the sun reflects from it, not sharply, but with a soft touch, as the sun in the late afternoon when the harshness has burned out. It makes her laugh. This gold static head rising from the surface, perfectly round with two semi-circular ears. Then slowly, so slowly the man emerges from the water, semi-naked as before, wearing the same shorts, his arms, as ever, at his side. As she watches she began to find the image hostile, and can’t quite figure why this is so: because the man is almost naked? Because his figure is presented face-on, but the head is disguised, which seems thug-like, no different from a youth wearing a hood? Because it’s controlled, confrontational: this time he doesn’t look away, the head doesn’t turn, but insists and stares, black double Xs for eyes as if it/he might be dead. By the time the man can be seen, full-figured, the sky behind him has turned mauve, then violet, and she realizes that this has been shot over a long period of time, and that the man has spent many hours slowly emerging from the sea while behind him the day slowly falls into night. As it becomes dark she watches the body, the head, slowly diminish, become indistinct and dissolve into the night — a small regret at the disappearance. This is, she’s certain, an enigmatic farewell.

Just before the light is completely gone the man spells out a sentence, shaping the letters with his hands. The gestures are repeated until, being so dark, there is nothing more to see.

W H A T D I D Y O U D O T O D A Y

At the end of the video the small inset square becomes black, and GPS coordinates fade in.

She clicks on the coordinates and finds a link to the beach. The birthplace of Aphrodite. How lovely, how perfect. These men, she thinks, have a gentle disposition.

… W H A T D I D Y O U D O T O D A Y

… that counts?

… that carries meaning?

… that made the day worthwhile?

… what will you do tomorrow?

8.1

She catches him first in a reflection as she walks to Tomas’s. Monday midday. A boy hurrying across a road, looking to the traffic as he crosses. In the same reflection she’s walking as if contained, all held in, like it embarrasses her to take up space. The boy looks Russian, or what she takes to be Russian. Blond, short hair, not what she’d call stocky exactly, but thick, too young to be called toned, and perhaps the real giveaway, a loud short-sleeve shirt, not quite Hawaiian, and skimpy shorts. He’s wearing an expensive pair of sunglasses. One nice thing. Isn’t that what Mattaus would say. It doesn’t matter what else you wear, but one nice thing, something select, expensive, to define you.

He catches her at the door. One foot on the step, her hand on the glass. He speaks to her in German.

‘Excuse me. Rike Falsen?’

She stops, her hand flat to the glass door. In five minutes she needs to be teaching.

‘Rike?’

‘Yes?’

‘I want to give you this.’ He offers her a book, a hardback, slim and new. Rike won’t accept it. There’s no solid reason behind this, perhaps because he’s used her name and she knows that she does not know him and this seems to be some kind of a scam. Once made, the decision cements itself.

He lets the book brush her arm, by accident. This handing-over constitutes some kind of contract. If she takes the book it will mean something. Although, as yet, she has no idea what this might be, but clearly he wants her to take it.

‘This is for you.’

‘I’m sorry?’

It isn’t the strangeness of being approached by a person you do not know, or being addressed in your home language, but the boy’s insistence.

‘Do I know you?’

The boy is polite. ‘I know your brother.’

‘Is he here?’

‘No. But he wants me to give you this.’

The subject has changed now.

‘When did you see him?’

‘He gave me this to give to you. Here. The book is for you.’

‘Is he here now?’

‘Please, take the book.’ The boy holds it out and again she refuses to accept. This time her hands go behind her back, and she looks at him with a fastness that shows determination. It’s just not going to happen.

‘Tell him he needs to get in touch with either me or my sister. His sister. He’s caused enough trouble. If he wants me to have the book then he can give it to me himself.’

The boy swears to himself. It’s too much. ‘I’m not passing on any messages. The book is for you.’

He could throw the book down, he could place it somewhere — on her head, on her shoulder, where she would have to take hold of it. He could push it against her breasts so she might automatically raise her hands in some kind of outrage. Instead he places it at her feet, literally leans it against her right foot.

Rike stubbornly refuses to move.

‘I’m not taking it. Tell him what I said.’ And then she’s gone, pushed through the door and gone. The book is tipped now against the step.

Rike couldn’t care less. She has no idea what her brother is up to, nor who this boy is to him, or why he would pass on a book. The whole thing is irritating. It’s a book, and who cares about a book? To be honest, if Mattaus wants her to have it, then he should deliver it himself. After Saturday night she has no tolerance for his nonsense.

The boy walks up the street, disappointed, and it occurs to her that not accepting the book might appear petty.

Rike hurries up the stairs to Tomas’s apartment.

* * *

He’s ready for her after the lesson when she comes out of the building. Rike looks quickly up and down the street as if she might be ready for him also. As soon as she passes by the café he steps forward, strides, in pace, right behind her.

‘Take the book.’

She turns to face him, rolls her eyes. ‘You again.’

‘Take the book.’

‘No.’

‘Take it.’

‘No.’

‘Take it. Take it. Take it. Take it.’

She doesn’t respond. In fact, she’s not even bothered by him. She isn’t threatened at all.

‘Take the book. Take the book. Take the book.’

A man steps off the pavement in advance and watches them pass. They both notice him.

‘It’s her book. She won’t take it.’ Then to Rike, ‘Take the book.’ Still walking. ‘I have nothing else to do today.’

‘Did you tell him?’

The boy hurries to walk beside her now, no break in pace.

‘Who?’

Rike stops. ‘Mattaus. Did you tell him?’

‘I’m not a messenger.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name? Sol.’

‘Well, listen, Sol. When you next talk to my brother, tell him we need to talk. It’s the only way I can get in touch with him.’ She shunts her bag higher on her shoulder. ‘He isn’t answering his messages. You’re going to have to tell him.’

‘No.’

‘Good luck with the book then.’

‘If I tell him you’ll take the book?’

‘I’m not bargaining.’

Now frustrated he stops. ‘Fuck you. Fuck the book.’

‘Read it yourself,’ she says, in a taunt that sounds childish, so he gives up and lets her go.