Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

And I wait. But there’s nothing. A long silence on the phone. Any messages? No. She asks after? No. Why doesn’t he so and hasn’t he called? One week slides to fortnight and reliving palls amid tints of my mistakes. Then dawn of thinking about who he is. How easily he can get hold of someone else. And this I see. It claws itself in my brain. Some glossy real actress, bones in her back on display. They’ll speak interestingly of the Royal Court at some elegant restaurant where he’ll footsie her up. Then go back to her flat. Pet her Siamese cat and spend the night inside because he’s the type knows what’s good for him — women who give men what they want. Not me, with a band-aid on the hook of my bra, unable even to fake it and no idea. All the women he must’ve slept with. Why would he call? And my own gullibility galls. But then. Then again. Didn’t I get what I wanted? Bloody virginity banished, and more. There, you see? Rise and fall. Party this Saturday at mine, she says Come, it’ll cheer you up.

*

Slop riot here. Music. Drinking. Passing things around. Cheque guarantee cards chop unwrapped talcs. Ponytails like tidal waves slap tabletops and nostrils butterfly. This is new but I am fixed and press his memory to some hard place. Just smoke whatever I am passed. Getting stoned and stoneder. Getting much more stoned and stretch myself beyond myself out into the crowd. Smirking. Snarking. Little jig. Up in her room Here have some of this. She and me and the back of my Jesus. Yow it burns. But not too long before it turns my brain. Bright and dark at the self-same time. And the night, it seems, begins again. To the sitting room! she cries. Running through hours like water then. Losing track of everything. Drink, lines, blood in my brain. Talk to him or her. People I know, or not, the same. Fine to be out of my brushed-off skin. Anyone can dance with me and I can dance with anyone. Saying only sometimes This fella I knew And who cares anyway now? Hither me, thither me. Smoke on that. Drinking drinker. Vodka. More of. Gone to play and such distance made that when some fella says Sit on my lap, I do.

Numb mouth mirror and roaring eyes, we go reeling down her path. Take my hand, he offers. You a funny guy. What’re you on? he asks. Lots of miles an hour. Better than drunk I’d say and quicker and faster for the sharper world I see. Trees black under a blacked-out sky. Cutting cut out stars over black bits white. The grass and wind. Has my hand now. My heart going go go go. I can’t tell though, stop from go. Just this big fella with new smelling hair. I’ll see his Pericles Prince of Tyre. I know I know his name. Sure he’s all lips and muscles — what more do I want? Where’re we going? To get a night bus. I’m whirling. Slip. He catches me. Sit down, no sit down there. I a-seat myself. I agree with his kiss. I love an Irish redhead. Can you see I’m not? Well, and were you raised by nuns? Convent girls are best. Best what? Conquests, apparently. Go on with your conquering, but fall in with his way. See me. Skirt high on Adelaide Road. That’s a party. The way I want. Taste this man, but see the. No. Come down you sweet little roses, I sing Come down you little rose in the garden. Bus stops. I slip. He pulls me up. Transfigured night ahead. Wild one convent girl, come on. The tug of him and the brawl in my mind. Don’t, I say Leave me alone. Sister, I know what’s to be done.

*

England? Camden? Kentish Town? Turn like someone’s snapped my twangs. A man’s blond hair. His broader back. Mouth raw. Jaw stiff. Hey, wake up! Was I snoring? No, fucking hell! Relax, he yawns It’s only me. Blinks of dancing. Where is this? Finchley. Really? Jesus Christ. Nothing either of any sex though pretty sure there’s been. In fact, none of the night I see. Just being there, being here and empty in between. Fuck! What happened? What do you think? Where’d I get these bruises? You fell on the bus. Really? Several times. I don’t remember. That’s weird, he frowns But then, all that vodka when we got in. You were a right laugh though. How’d you mean? Well the guided tour. Oh God! No, he laughs It was good, especially all the ‘head, own hair’ part. Scan for iotas but all that’s blinded out and the nothing’s rushing fast. Then like playing Dallas, I sheet my breasts Did we use something, at least? He picks at a tissue Yep we did. Not as handsome. Not as tall. Relief but laying itself across what’s certainly, seriously disappeared. I should go. Bra skirt shoe shoes knickers top. And when I’m dressed, he says Cheers for that. Yeah, I say You too.

Out to the out. Bang the front door. City blast in my ears. Pigeon shit on sycamores. Don’t panic. I already am. Panic like a mad one the whole way home. London crossing before me, preoccupied with itself. Content I’m the girl who does this for a laugh, but later, alone, bats an eye.

Good party? the landlady asks. I offer my best occluded self and Didn’t get much sleep on her sofa though. Oh, she guiles I’m sure the drink didn’t help. I smile to let her in and keep her out. Any nice boys? No, not at all. Ah, time enough for that. Exactly. Go on so — I am dismissed — have yourself a little lie down.

Still. I can. I make myself still until I hear her leave. And into the bath to scrape skin off. Rubbed under bubbles til I’m pure gold butter dripping from my tongue. No. Never that again. But everything else? I might have. I can just about guess by the aches and pains where his larking was. Think. Don’t. Think of. Him. Just go to my room and as the day goes down, light a cigarette. Then let it find its own information, for pain knows what it is. Better there where I can see. Better than his mystical fading. Landlady later screaming You used my hot water again!

Sunday

Door opens on the scrat of party debris and her howling at the sink. What is it? I got here quick as I could. She Did you see him on his way out? Who? She means me. You duplicitous shit! He lights his rollie Anyway I’m off. Wait, I say What’s going on? But he’s already out the door. Oh God, pink marigolds hit the floor. Her sliding after them down on her arse. Come here, I say Tell me what’s wrong? as hicks and kinks go mad. Pick by bit though it comes out He just told me only now that after Christmas after Christmas. What? He’s marrying some Czechoslovakian bitch — shrouds of crying and sheets of snot — It’s a visa thing. It’s a what? So she can stay. So it’s not for real? He’s really marrying her alright. Is she paying him or something? It’s for his fees! Well that means it’s only the money. Oh come on, she says We all need that but I’m not marrying strangers for a few thousand quid. I touch her lovely haircut But. Don’t defend him to me. I’m not, he’s a gobshite. He is whatever that means. Another rumple of awful tears. Ah don’t, I say Sit up here, I’ll make you a cup of tea.

Weeks roll over to December. Room and school the same. A month of holiday meeting every eye and today is the last day.

There’s a message for you on the notice board. Just a number and ‘Please ring him’ below it. It’s got to be your Him, she says Who else would it be? Will I? Or Fuck him! It must be five weeks, never mind what else I’ve been at. She says Forget about that, he has no right to know.

Hello? Hello there, how are you? Fine. What are you up to? I’m off to Ireland tomorrow. For good? No, for the Christmas break. So are you around tonight? Actually this afternoon’s our Showing, then we’re all going for a drink. Right, Doctor Faustus, I remember well break a leg maybe catch up in the But I could do later on? Okay, Prince Albert again? Round nine? Half past, I say — to be the final word.

Clearly none of you have a clue what this play is about. Do you know how it feels to be in the grip of evil? To have a desire for which you’d sell your soul? To have sold your soul and owe the devil? The Principal waits, pacing, until it’s clear we don’t and then he really starts. Guts spill and — though it’s no surprise — we flinch against the music of our own tearing sound. Bloodless. Sexless. Stick insect. Blank card. Beat to low by the end. But afterwards, shoving flats back into the furniture dock, hanging costumes on rails, packing, we laugh and think of drinks ahead. One or another peel and pick off to the Fiddler’s Elbow or Barnacle Bill’s for chips. I, slow and almost last, love the dust of the day closing off. No more Song Exercises. Drums. Madding about. Night showing itself beyond the canteen light and forgotten water bottles on its floor. Past cutlery dumped by the serving hatch door. Tide-marked jockstraps on the sofa. Scripts. London’s Calling fliers ripped for a roach. Spotlights with our favourite actors’ pictures torn out and mugs on the tile tabletops. One white sheet on the notice board reads: School reopens 10 am 9 January 1995. And I choose these months — for everything — as the very best of my life, so far.