Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

Hair caught under Ow, as he sucks the air Morning are you awake? Yes, did you sleep alright? I did, you’re like having a hot water bottle in the bed. Stretch and click. Are you wiping your nose on me? Itching only itching, he laughs And you smell so good fancy making it the best of three?

Last relics of old pain work down to his up. Sparse though, palled by his damp on my back. Thigh pinned. Reached. He has me every which way but still it circles just beyond my body. Where I see and want. Where it’s certainly him. Where his long fingers perform while I long to give in, way, gratify. But the skin and what’s in it can’t let yet. When I tell him so Fuck it, he says Really? What can I do? Nothing, I like it, bit sore, that’s all. He goes Mmm, in the grip of his qualmless own, making its way to the well-traversed close. Even where and how he touches me in the moment seems re- and re-rehearsed. Many times I’d say. All but the bite. Back of my neck. Sorry, don’t know what that was about — he says after — Luckily I didn’t break the skin. War wound, I say. Now that’s more like it! as he lets himself slip out of me.

And he opens the curtains in the spiral of day. Body white in the light with his cigarette. Have you work to do? he asks as I blind in the dazzle. A scene to learn from Richard III. ‘Was ever woman in this humour woo’d’? Yes, I shade my eyes. Shall I be on the book for you? he offers. Oh, okay.

Stare up for concentration instead of at him. He knows it already better than I do. Makes tea and prompts from all round the room while I stumble and untether text. What about your RP? I can’t do that. Have to learn, he warns Might as well from the start. So I hide in the pillow but the words make blocks, hard, with no movement in them. Despair-ING, he corrects Not Despair-EEN. I think it sounds exactly the same. He repeats in my accent ‘And by despaireen shalt thou stand excused’ Great accent, I say. Irish mother, he mumbles. From where? No, you can’t distract me — but consoles with his own student tales of Mercutios sounding like Hepburn Doolittles and the slaggings he got for that. Eventually though I am saved by the Toast? And hang over the bed, over his shoulder as he passes back triangles to chew.

I love that play, he yawns into Time Out. You love lots of plays. Don’t you? I suppose, dot dotting my crumbs from his shoulder and neck. So fancy a film or are you in a rush? No I’d love to, if it doesn’t interrupt? Interrupt what? he asks. I don’t know, your writing? Family stuff are you seeing your daughter this weekend? No I’m not. Will you next weekend then? No, she doesn’t live here. In London? In England she’s in Canada with her mother. Oh you must miss her, I Fuck! he gets up I can’t believe I nearly forgot, Nostalgia’s on in Belsize Park we’ll make it if we run.

Coffee smelt cinema no kissing here. Long limbs crooked to fit. Balled coats kicked under. Darkening. Music there. Quiet here. Then it comes, in its light and white-light. From the start, it has me. I am unprepared. Paralyse in its image. Forward to breathe as birds fleer from the Virgin’s dress. The stamp of it. Weight in me. All down my neck. Going farther than I know how to be. Rain. Pool and bottles. Soft book in flames. You want to be happy but there are more important things. I’m not only lost though. I’m unmade by the intent. Scalded by the too beautiful eye of it. How the far side of despair is reached by faith but not life. And there, beneath its great cathedral arc, let its loneliness be all of me. Relinquish the bounds of myself to become just a girl, another person in this world, who life is running out of now. He, letting my hand slip into his hand, says nothing but looks also burned now. So in this — belief or no belief — find we two are the same.

Still and stay it, as all the others drain. Each in our own life but palm to palm. I do miss her, he says then lets go of me and gets up.

Silenter walking down Haverstock Hill. Hands in my pockets. Cigarette on his lips. Me growing pink-faced in the chill while he stays white and fine, staring off into the winter light, higher and further than I can see. Looking up, I’d like to ask him things but he hasn’t the face for it now.

At the Steele’s he says How about a drink?

Thanks, I say as he puts down the pints. Sip and smoke til the tongue unwinds. How many times have you seen it? I ask. Four or five maybe. Do you like it a lot? Yeah, he says I like how it takes a while to adjust but once you shift yourself into his time Jesus what you get to see, was that your first time? Yes. What did you think? It’s beautiful but do you think there are more important things than happiness? Yeah, of course there are, he says But it’s pretty hard to do without or face not having again. And his life opens a little to let me look in. I want to ask more so badly but say I’m glad you took me. Thanks for coming with, he smiles.

And it’s almost five when I say So I’ve got to go not cool enough for any Ask for my number, won’t you? Well, if you have to. I don’t have to but you know I should probably wash. You smell alright to me, he says. That’s because I smell of you, and I catch his eye but he only goes Yeah well I smell of you too. Will he ever ask? Ask. I — reluctant — get up. He also goes to with I’ll walk you back. No, no, you stay put and Irish myself from what I most want thanks for a lovely weekend. Yeah, he looks into his pint It was great. Jesus Christ. Well bye then. He stands up now, to give me a Shit! You’re bleeding! What? You have a nosebleed. He dabs and Fuck I haven’t had one in years. Sit down, I Put your head back. He obedient does and quiet wiping ensues with what I find in my pockets. He is so white though and dark under the eyes Should we go across to the? No no I’ll be fine, he says and God how stupid is this? But it’s a bad one. It takes an age to clot. On both our fingers by the time he says Look, if I promise not to haemorrhage all over you would you like to do this sometime again? Jesus, I thought you’d never ask! Slow starter, he grins Always was, but showing the blood on his teeth. I write my number on a beermat and one for the school. Go on then, he says I’ll give you a call, and we try not to kiss goodbye too much because of the blood. Beyond the door though my bottom lip licks of rust. So lick it out into the chill on Haverstock. And that is the end of the day.

*

Who’s been doing the mauling? she asks, in the changing room, as I don everything unedifying for ballet. No one, I say but with hair up high a fine dog of teeth marks are plain and press the blistered memory of his room. I’d give her all of it later but, for now, have it mine — just as lustre on bad pliés or lepping about like fake Fonteyn. She’ll have it now though and I knew its! loudly when I say who. Didn’t I tell you you’d see him again? Then Where? When? How long did you stay? Which film was it and is he dirty in bed? Remember, brief, him licking my palm but cannot think of one dirty thing. Giving to what she means though, I say He knows what he’s at. She, mad for a mystery though, plagues for Origin of the Bite? Kitsching now I When he came! hand fanning myself. The Bounder! she adds. But I like of his upon me, whatever marks he’s made. So smoke away and drink my tea and read Black Snow, this Monday after him.

Just one moment Lady! the landlady calls up the stairs. Yes? You were seen, she says. I was what? One of my working gentlemen saw you in Belsize Park with a man, an older one at that, apparently. I burn but a lie comes quick That was my Acting teacher. He was also at the film. London’s awful godless, she says I may not be your mother but I feel responsible so I hope to God you’re telling the truth. English men have no morals, you bear that in mind. I will, I mumble, scarfing the embarrassment down, then legging it upstairs soon as I can, for relentless reliving. And godlessness notwithstanding, the rest of the week is the same.