Tommy Wieringa - Little Caesar

‘His swimming trunks,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’

The gratitude when she glanced at me again. The life that may have been coming back.

‘Denzel,’ I said, ‘was he black?’

‘Afro-American, yeah.’

I knew nothing about the world, a rank beginner. She was a lifetime ahead of me.

Days later, when she had closed the door behind her early in the morning and left me there alone, I blushed again when I thought back on that moment. I turned onto my side and looked at the black fetus in his cloak of blood and slime.

‘Hi, Dylan,’ I said.

I didn’t know whose hands were holding him. White hands, maybe hers. After a while she had started going out with men again, some of them became lovers, with none of them had it become anything more than that.

At night she said, ‘You have soft skin. Like a girl’s.’

‘So do you.’

A man and a woman laugh quietly in the dark. The words: We were together. I have forgotten about the rest . She took my hand and pushed it between her legs. The coarse hair, the slipperiness of her cunt.

‘Another one,’ she groaned, and twisted her body until four fingers were in her.

They moved slowly inside her, I barely had to do a thing. She breathed loudly through her nose and made little noises, the air burst from her lungs when she came. I had never been so hard, and slid right into her — I could smell my fingers beside her face, the slight sourness, the hint of iron.

We slept between thin sheets. Our bodies slid across each other, dry and cool, sometimes half awake, the delicious sense of being alive, of feeling joy at the existence of someone else, of then sinking back into the darkness of sleep.

*

I called the hotel to see if my mother was there, and was put through. She answered. I said I’d be there in an hour.

‘Oh, and Ludwig, could you pick up some sandwiches for us?’

I walked to Loews, bought sandwiches and soft drinks along the way. She knew I was spending my time with a girl these days, and no longer asked about it. I visited her a few times a week. When I asked what she was up to, she remained noncommittal. I had the impression that Rollo Liban’s publicity campaign was working: I saw her in the newspapers and sometimes, when I stopped somewhere for a sandwich, she would suddenly appear on the TV above the counter, in some talk show with an exuberant host who asked her about things to which I closed my ears. Let her go her godless way.

She was sitting on the balcony, wearing a big pair of sunglasses, her head tilted back to catch the sun.

‘So, here I am,’ I said.

It was supposed to be a hint to her to cover herself; she was wearing nothing but a pair of black panties and a hotel bathrobe that was hanging open. I saw her breasts, and felt embarrassed. She smiled.

‘Ah, room service! Get a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, would you, sweetheart?’

Once I was back in the room, she shouted after me, ‘I had them slide the beds together again, you never sleep here anyway these days.’

The room showed signs of more permanent habitation. There was an electric kettle now and a tray with different kinds of tea. On the windowsill was a wooden plank, inlaid with mother of pearl — the white ash told me she used it to burn her incense. There was a smoking ban at Loews, but she paid it no heed. The pictures of the men with beards had followed her from the house on Kings Ness; she had them arranged beside the mirror, so that every time she looked at herself she could see them too, and perhaps be reminded of their philosophy. In the minibar I found a little bottle of white wine with a twist-off top and took two glasses from the bathroom.

She was still sunning herself as blatantly as ever, with those glorious breasts and all. The last time I had seen them was in Lilith , at Selwyn’s house. I stood on the threshold of the balcony, my eyes exploring her body. I looked at her the way Uncle Gerard had once looked at her beside the canal, the sweet gleam of her skin, her slender, elegant limbs.

‘Put something on,’ I said gruffly. ‘I’m not going to eat lunch with you like this.’

She turned her face towards me; behind the dark glasses I couldn’t see her eyes.

‘Why not? I’m your mother, I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘I don’t feel like looking at your tits while I eat.’

‘Well then, look somewhere else.’

She nodded towards the sea. I had the uneasy feeling she was challenging me. That she wouldn’t bat an eye if I laid a hand on her breasts, caressed her.

‘Stop acting like some goddamn hippie,’ I said.

‘Oh God, I didn’t know you were so awfully prudish, Ludwig.’

She wrapped her bathrobe around her with a sigh.

‘I brought cheese,’ I said. ‘I hope you like that .’

‘Actually, I’m trying not to eat too many dairy products these days.’

She unwrapped the sandwich.

‘I looked at a little house, no too far from here. I can’t stay here forever, unfortunately. A cute little place, perfect for the two of us.’

‘Where?’

‘Venice.’

‘That’s where Sarah lives.’

She wiggled her toes. Light pink nail polish.

‘Sarah, is that her name?’

‘Sarah Martin.’

‘That’s funny.’

‘What’s so funny about it?’

‘Oh, nothing in particular. It’s just. . so normal. I mean, that could be anyone’s name. Is she a spy?’

She thought that was humorous. She asked me, ‘So when do I get to meet her? I’ve never seen you so wrapped up in a girl. Are you in love? Bring her over, while I’m still here. Ask her to come tomorrow, we’ll do a high tea. Lovely scones, bonbons, those little tiny cakes. Or isn’t she allowed to eat sweets?’

‘I’m not sure this is her kind of place.’

‘This is one of the finest hotels in town! Of course, she’ll love it!’

She rented the house for the remainder of her time in Los Angeles, the agent said she could move in on the first of the month. It had two bedrooms, she told me, and a little garden at the front and back. You could open the garden doors to air it out. It was a quiet neighborhood, they had assured her, with none of the violent crime you had in other parts of Venice.

After our lunch I went looking for Berny Suess, the hotel manager, to see whether he needed a pianist — one who could sing as well, a jukebox with fingers. I found him in his office at the end of a dark hallway on the second floor. As soon as I appeared in the doorway, his face went all service-minded. I told him who I was and what I had come for. He came out from behind his desk energetically.

‘So show me your stuff,’ he said. ‘We need someone occasionally, but not real regularly.’

He trotted out in front of me. A wisp of hair had detached itself from the top of his balding scalp and bobbed along at the side of his head. I tried to keep up with him, but he remained one step ahead the whole time.

‘At night we have a guitarist who sings in the bar, maybe you’ve seen him. The only time we need a pianist is for special occasions: private parties, presentations, you know what I mean.’

There was no stool. I fetched a plastic chair from the conference room and sat down at the piano.

‘What would you like to hear?’

‘“Bridge over Troubled Water”,’ Suess said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘The loveliest song I know.’

Fortunately I knew it by heart, and my voice was suited for it.

‘Yes,’ Suess murmured a few times as I was playing.

The song seemed attached to some memory of his, and he was visibly moved by it. When I was finished I launched right into the andante of Mozart’s eleventh sonata, just to show off my eclecticism.