Tommy Wieringa - Little Caesar

‘Your man! Your man!’ the coach screamed.

But I was lying on the ground and my man was on his way to his try. The boy on crutches was standing on the sideline as well. I avoided his eyes. The second time I let my man go I was saved by Selwyn Loyd — who came roaring in from halfway across the field, grabbed the boy who had passed me from behind just before he reached the line, and smacked him to the ground.

The Wednesday after that I was given tackle training.

‘And eat more pork,’ the trainer said. ‘Or don’t you eat meat at home?’

Apparently I had the aura of a vegetarian.

‘We eat meat, Mr. Gorecki,’ I said.

‘Steve.’

He approached me, zigzagging.

‘Go all the way through with your tackle,’ he said.

After he stiff-armed me, I found myself lying on the grass, looking up at him.

‘You didn’t go all the way through. Hit him with your shoulder and finish it. Don’t let go till your man’s on the ground. Concentrate on the thighs, not the ball.’

Fleshy tree trunks, those thighs, pig’s bristles and mud. I could barely get my arms around them. Still, I succeeded in tackling him a few times. He wasn’t too enthusiastic about my technique, but my perseverance pleased him more.

The field, where I learned that I had a body, was beautifully located. It lay atop the rise beside Alburgh, the golf course began below it. Behind the eastern goalposts lay the sea, behind the clubhouse was the water tower in a rolling landscape of grass and gorse. The wind was almost always blowing hard.

That spring I noticed that my body had grown stronger, harder, and that I had started enjoying standing around in the canteen after training or matches and laughing stupidly with the people around me. I drank beer for the first time, because they always forgot to bring along Coke for me. From rudimentary kitchens came an endless flow of hot pork sandwiches on which we squeezed out rusty-brown HP sauce. I liked the stories and anecdotes told by the older players, men who seemed to me to have been not so much born but sprung full-blown from dragons’ teeth. I kept a keen eye on their matter-of-fact, alert manner, and imitated it. The windows of the canteen were always steamy, I remember the eternal rain and the sea in the distance. And that Mike Leland drank from a mug in the form of a tit, with a hole in the nipple from which he sucked his beer. After the match songs were sung beneath low ceilings; when I joined in my individual identity slowly grew fluid and passed into something communal, a place where things were light and easy.

Sometimes I thought about my father, about how I was being faithful to his assignment, and imagined that he could see me in the midst of that rugged, jovial crowd, and that he approved.

It’s almost four-thirty, an early Sunday morning in Suffolk, and I’ve just walked Linny Wallace to her room. Both exhausted, the bottle empty but for the last two fingers. The point of hesitation, the uneasy moment at which people sometimes become lovers, that first kiss, the hungry rustling of fingers over cloth, the magnetic card slipping into the lock and the door falling closed behind everything else that follows. I know that I have seen many such nights of hasty, aggressive sex, but at this moment I can’t remember any of them individually.

The cell phone is dead now. The screen lights up for a few seconds when I turn it on, then falls back into the yawning darkness of an empty battery. I stand there looking at the phone in my hand with a growing feeling of isolation; I am now beyond reach of the accusations of women and badmouthing hotel managers. Hate mail is also a form of attention.

I wake up with my clothes on. It’s already past ten. I drink three large glasses of water, take an ibuprofen and undress. Then I sleep on, until early in the afternoon. I have lunch in the restaurant: bread, bacon and eggs, two double espressos and big glass of orange juice.

As agreed, I meet Linny in the lobby at one-thirty. Her eyes are fresh and bright, not misted-over like mine. I’m glad we didn’t go to bed together, even though I’m accustomed to the uneasy contact that tends to follow that. I know the way. Questions remain hanging in the air, hints. Sometimes you feel like it, sometimes you don’t.

We go outside, I want to show her the cliff.

‘You’re not a grasshopper at all,’ she says. ‘You’re a storyteller on a square in Marrakesh.’

I feel ashamed. I’ve been bending her ear with my life story, a madman who grabs you by the arm on the street and walks along as he relates his gruesome history. Then, when it’s all over, he asks you to buy him a gravy roll.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I let myself get carried away.’

The desire to tell her about my parents, the things that happened only so recently, confuses me. So much floating around inside me, all that debris in orbit. The reason for my confession, as far as I can tell, lies in the desire to impose order, something that overcomes me sometimes at restaurant tables when I pile up the dirty dishes after the meal, the knives with the knives, forks with the forks. It’s hard to refrain from doing that, even though I’ve noticed that in some circles the piling up of dishes is not viewed as a sign of good upbringing.

‘How far along are we in the story?’ Linny asks.

‘Halfway, more or less.’

‘Your story was a dream, last night. I couldn’t remember my own life anymore.’

‘I don’t know what got into me.’

‘It was hard for me to let it go. You are going to tell me more, aren’t you?’

‘You fell asleep.’

‘I was so tired. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.’

‘You stuck it out amazingly long in that madhouse.’

Her bright laugh. Her voice would be perfect for telemarketing.

‘A madhouse, yes, it is that a bit.’

We walk up onto the esplanade. I point out to her House Avalon, along the walkway. A deep front garden, from the drawing room the inhabitants can see the sea.

‘English eclectic,’ Linny says. ‘I’m awfully fond of that.’

I know the white house from the inside. In front of the low hedge was a bench. Misty season , the inscription read. We look at the house behind its white picket fence. The memory splinters behind my eyes.

Selwyn, the rugby player, lived here. He became my friend. A boy who sailed along this coast as in a painting by Hopper. His father was a physician, his mother played cello with the Norwich Philharmonic Orchestra. There was a Blüthner in the drawing room; the first time I visited them I did my very best on a couple of Chopin waltzes. I liked Selwyn’s mother. She was mildly eccentric. A chocolate fondue fountain after a dinner could move her into a state of disquieting rapture. Selwyn had an older brother as well, who came home sometimes at the weekend. They didn’t look much alike.

Linny and I head towards the pier. She has pretty hair, I notice that as she walks in front of me, down the steps to the beach. It’s very soft, when it’s just been washed she might say it sticks out all over the place . I feel like laying my hand on it.

At Kings Ness she stares at the crumbly earthen barrier, the remains of Warren’s sea wall.

‘I’ve read about it,’ she says, ‘about how the coast is eroding, but I had never imagined it this way. So. . romantic.’

I ask what she means by that.

‘It reminds me of Caspar David Friedrich. Maybe because of what you’ve already told me about it.’

Involuntarily, the image arises of her as an art-loving single girl. Perhaps she even uses the word unattached . Perhaps she goes on group tours to ruined cities in Jordan and cloisters in Georgia, exchanges photos and reminiscences on the Internet for a time afterwards, then she’s alone again and no one thinks about her anymore.