Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

Do you have to use my hot water up? I have to wash. Every day? Too much lady, too much. Get a shower, I think but keep to myself and wash my expedition away. Fare thee well purple foothills of sex. I clean a man off my body. I clean a man off my face. Lick from breasts. Spit between legs. The sweat and. Where mouths. Thigh dry blood what’s he. What? What is he doing now?

Up Lady Margaret Road in the wintering air. The trees and distance and closeness, the same. Evening, to you, town. Evening, to me. A little light think amid bus staunched breeze and he’s really only streets away. Somewhere over maybe there. Did he wash his sheets? Is he with someone else? Or his daughter? How he smoked his cigarettes. Three or four draws down to the tip, is that a telling thing? Back in my room I practise it. And smoke far on into the dark, until dawn goes white over Kentish Town Road, the Assembly House, the Forum and beyond to? Don’t know. All London then, I suppose.

We are rat tat pull and snigger. We are drinks and draggeldy home. I am chips and she’s pickled egg. Always for the tale and tale again. And it gets heavy with the lies I make but I like them. She does too. Thrown on the bed type three times come. Interlocked fingers or wrists held down. Why she doesn’t notice the new every time is beyond me. But I lie well. But not inside. That, unhitched, goes flail about. Wheedles its sticks into You let me down. Sorry, Mind says to Flesh. No matter no matter, get over — though Camden stays shoulder checked. Revoke that memory. Forget the face. Just be in on the joke. Part of the tease. These are not things barred to me any more. These are me as well. And the. But the. Fleadh wears down. Knees from kneeling. The time on my own, until my once becomes like not at all. This the lamest fun of lonely that she can drip feed to her Him. So the cigarette gets to like the leg. The arm wonders what it should do with itself. Nicks with a razor but then gets a band-aid for for fuck’s sake what are you at?

*

River run running to a northern sea. Thames. Needle skin brisk and the eyefuls of concrete. Lead by the. Strip for the. National Theatre. Go on. Get a ticket. Go in.

Here the vault and not Hawk’s Well. Smacks of the hell-less or at least of the sensible. I’d be. What I’d be. Is this the Olivier? Yeah, on upstairs for you. Through and oh to its canyon. I never saw so many chairs. On beyond uncurtained stage — You may take and have me, please. But Saturday matinee. Sole in my row. Where is everyone else?

In the dark comes spiders out of art and first I’m sleuthed away. Measuring up the vying worlds. Meandering into the emphasised words but under neat speeches are oceanous platitudes and so I slide and slide. Up. Don’t sleep. Don’t. You do not. Settle my head back on my neck but the veining of boring expands and contracts until I’m left to myself. And soon I’m judging a hupped toupee. Then predicting a spit trajectory. Right down, I’d say, to that redhead asleep. Too far from here though. Over there would be Over there ov is it? With black specs on? Really? such a dead cert knit, and for London. Him. Of course it is.

And the air makes whistles.

And my brain makes hay.

Guts to gorge. Look at him. Be sure? It is. oh god. But if I sit still. Live for the stage. Focus on the actors and glorious fake and. Look again is he looking at me? Read at the programme.

Then he definitely isn’t.

Then it’s the interval.

Look again. He gets up pray for poise. More as he excuses himself across. Yet more at my aisle. Please poise at my step. Hello, I thought it was you, he says and I remember and I remember and make some word like Hi. Enjoying it? Yes I. Really? he says I thought I saw you nodding off? I wasn’t it’s just my first time I mean you know I was looking around. He solemn nods but somewhere smiles So how have you been? I scaldcheek Fine and you? Fine, he says Coming out for a smoke? an unlit in his fingers. No, I No thanks, and go at reading biogs. like War and Peace. He loiters further but I am shame sealed. Well, I’ll leave you to it, he says Nice to see you again. You too, I say and don’t look up. Do not watch him climb the steps. Nor think at all Why were you rude? Only Bladder, why have you forsaken me now? Just wait til he’s gone, then go.

Right, stick on that nonchalant smile don’t buy an ice cream like a child and get what urbane I possess into line as I go back in. But at the bottom of the steps he’s all chat to some girl. Close and smiling. She giving laughs. Him too, or thoughtful, pushing his hair back. Gets kissed on the mouth too at the bell, and offered permutations of See you soon then, before he heads back to his row. And so what of it? What do I care? I am here for the Art.

And the dark swims over. And the play winds on.

In twenty minutes, he’s up again. Maybe leaving? Should I wave? No. Oh here. He crosses aisles instead, comes up to my row then drops in the seat beside. You pissed off with me? he asks, leaning his long self in. No, why would I be? Don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. Well I’m not, and glare at the stage. I had a good time the other night, he says I know it got a bit weird at the end but Don’t, I say Just don’t. Alright, with his eyes wandering down my face So let’s go. What? Let’s go, this show is shit and it’s not going to improve. It isn’t. It is, you liar, he says Come on, then gets up and leaves and I, for only trouble it seems, get up and go as well.

On the stairs down he says The designer’s a mate so I have to say a quick hello backstage but I won’t be long. Won’t he be offended you left? No, I made the effort, besides he said it was bad.

Bang out. Sky gone to winter but still fanfares of sun. I’ll just have a look at the books while you’re gone. Don’t wander off, he says. I shrug. No, I’ll be five minutes that’s all I mean it, don’t go home. But I turn on my heel. Into the book stalls and the so many books. What is he after? What am I up to? I think it’s called adventuring. So shuffle on in with the shufflers then lose myself in spines.

And tick on the moment he reappears where I pretend not to see. His friend as tall as, not as thin, dark-skinned, older, earnestly discussing, the pair of them. His fingers negotiating something imaginary but stops with a loud Yeah, anyway. Then he looks up for me into the end of the sun. Pick me. There she is, over there so til next weekend. There’s a form of an arms round and his friend laugh calls to me Watch yourself with this one, sheep in wolf’s clothing my dear! Terrible English! he shouts, walking backwards from him After all these years, you should be ashamed! then turning around warns Ignore him! with the concrete halving under his feet.

Anything good? he asks. Lots, I say. So what do you want to do? What? You’re the one who wanted to leave, what do you want to do? He hmms at the river, casts about Okay ever walked across the Hungerford bridge to Embankment? Not yet. Then I’ll show you my favourite view of London, he says as we go into the weeding dark. Where’s your friend from? Algeria, and France. Do you know him from work? That, and he was with my oldest friend. Not any more? No he died. What happened? Cancer, he lights up Pancreas. Like my father. Really? When was that? He died when I was eight. Horrible thing to see, he says and I nod because it is.

Up to the walkway under hulkish sky. Breeze licked and nerves cracking fissures inside as he points out Big Ben. Parliament there — look through the grating. At halfway he says Here’s London spread out for you. In the murk cold Thames still curling away. Lights just beginning across the city. All the stone world of it. Its stone face. Showing its towers and flanks and shapes, purplish in this light, and grey. And I stand, strick, by its great space, watching the boats til St Paul’s there, he says the Oxo Tower. Barbican. Pointing out places I cannot see, then can, because he stands behind Look along my arm. No there. No. There. Do you see? When I still don’t, he bends to see it how I see and I see all of it then. This is the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen, I say. Really? Better than Naples with those boats stretched out across the bay? Ah fuck. He remembers my lies. Sorry, those were all lies, I say I’ve never been there, or anywhere else. His elbow on the rail Well you’re a surprise, what did you make all that up for? I don’t know to be interesting I suppose. How very calculating, he laughs And I thought you believed in love? I do but love isn’t what that was. True, he says But what if I’d been a lonely soul looking for it? Are you? No, I’m not, and you’re not much of a liar — I guessed. This I concede, I’ve never been. Oh well, that means you’re probably quite good at the acting. I quick look up to see if he’s joking. He’s only watching though and in a moment says So, you just used me for your sexual gratification then? Well, I say It didn’t turn out to be that gratifying so perhaps I got what I deserved. Didn’t you get what you wanted? Didn’t you? I say. Sort of it started out well enough but. You were hurting me, I whisper. You were a virgin, he whispers back I’m not responsible for the laws of nature. I know that but I thought at least I wouldn’t have to see you again. Ah, well you shouldn’t have shagged an actor then — but by now he is laughing and I almost am, over my chasing brain. So throw my breath to the Thames and the strange of the day as we strangers stand looking out on the city. Quiet then but for its sound — that noise it must make for its life to go round. Slow aftershave smell of some passing man. Loud of the train as it clanks behind. Me watching the river. Him watching me. What? I ask. You know well what, he says and stoops and kisses me. Fresh inclination and the blood goes up Bends me like a body puts inside into my mouth and we deep and open where is no mistake, where are only runs of thoughts of next of kissing him in that short past, naked and He stops I stumble forward in perfect dazed unfurl his breath on my hot cheek then kissing me further. And I might fall over but he has my arm and we kiss like he drags me live from under the Thames and where was allthiswant when I needed it? I don’t care I don’t and I could do Enough! he says This is getting ridiculous now, do you fancy getting something to eat? There now legs but disgraceful knees. All his impulses working inside out too, it seems, for even as I nod, see him almost go again for me. And I am all for that. But he turns instead, wiping his mouth on his hand, leaving me tapping the prickle of mine, to trail him over the bridge.