Rupert Thomson - Dreams of Leaving

‘And?’ he said.

Gloria smiled. ‘You were very gentle.’

*

They had parted at Green Park. Moses’s heart pumping fast. The coke lasting. Or emotion, perhaps. Or some amalgamation of the two.

‘I’ve got to get some sleep,’ Gloria said. ‘I’m supposed to be singing tonight.’ She scribbled a few words on the back of a Marlboro packet. ‘That’s in case you want to come.’

‘Of course I want to come,’ he shouted after her as she ran away from their last kiss and down the steps into the tube station.

‘Why?’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Do you like jazz?’

‘No,’ he shouted. Which made her laugh. And her laughter hung on in the musty tunnel long after she had gone.

‘Jazz,’ he said to himself as he walked to his car. He thought of people with names like Rubberlegs and Dizzy — funny names, made-up names, names like his. He saw trumpet-players’ cheeks blown up like bubble-gum. He saw sweat scattering like hot rain and the fingers of singers twisting round dented silver microphones and false ceilings built of smoke. He tried to fit Gloria into that.

Then it was evening and he was driving over Vauxhall Bridge. A dense fierce rain slammed into the left side of the car. On the north bank of the river the lights ran. Flood warnings on the radio. His life had been derailed by the night with Gloria. The whole thing already seemed unreal, as unreal as the tiger dream. He was thankful they had arranged to meet again so soon otherwise he might have begun to doubt whether any of it had actually happened.

‘Gloria,’ Moses said out loud.

He stamped on the accelerator and flicked into overdrive. In less than fifteen minutes he was there. The rain drenched him as he ran across the pavement. Downstairs he had to wait in a queue. Scarlet light discoloured one side of the doorman’s face the way a birthmark does. From inside came the erratic fluttering heartbeat of a double-bass. He was close to her now.

But the first person he saw in the crowded bar was Eddie.

‘You’re late,’ Eddie told him.

‘What’re you doing here?’

‘I came to see your girlfriend sing.’

‘How did you know she was singing?’

‘She told me. At the party.’

Moses shook off his coat. He pulled up a chair and helped himself to some of Eddie’s wine.

Eddie leaned across the table. ‘Did you have a good night?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Well, anyway, you’re late. She’s been on once already.’

‘What’s wrong with you? Are you speeding or something?’

Eddie chuckled.

‘So where were you?’ Moses asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where were you hiding?’

Eddie leaned back. ‘In the broom cupboard,’ he said. ‘I think it was a broom cupboard. There was a broom in it.’

Moses had to smile. ‘The broom cupboard. Of course. Next time I’ll look in the broom cupboard. Anyway, listen. I dropped Doreen off for you.’

‘Dawn.’

‘What?’

‘Dawn. Her name was Dawn.’

‘I’m surprised you remember.’

‘I found a bit of paper in my pocket this morning. It had Dawn written on it and a number. I rang the number to find out who she was.’

‘And?’

‘She said she never wanted to see me again.’

‘Incredible.’

Eddie shrugged.

A hand reached down in front of Moses, snatched up his glass, and replaced it seconds later, empty. Before he had time to say ‘Hello Gloria’ or ‘That’s my wine’ or ‘What did you invite him for?’ she was up on stage introducing herself.

‘Good evening, folks,’ she said, hands behind her back. ‘This is Holly again — ’

Whistles. Applause.

‘Second set,’ Eddie said. ‘You see? I told you.’

But Moses was thinking, Who?

‘That’s her stage name,’ Eddie whispered.

How come he knows so much? Moses wondered.

‘ — and this is the band who haven’t got a name yet — ’

More whistles. More applause.

Holly? Why Holly?

‘Her surname’s Wood,’ Eddie told him. ‘Her real surname, I mean.’

‘ — and we’re going to do a few songs for you — not too loud, though, because they’re trying to sleep upstairs — ’

Jeering.

‘ — it’s an old people’s home or something — ’

Laughter.

‘ — anyway, this is the first one — it’s called “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do”-’

Gloria swung away from the microphone and the band launched into the intro. Remote smiles played on their faces. The drummer was using brushes. He looked a bit like Teddy Kennedy. It was a slowed-down slurry version of the song.

‘ — oh and thanks for coming — ’ Gloria was looking directly at Moses — ‘don’t think I hadn’t noticed — ’

Moses settled deeper in his chair, almost blushing. Eddie nudged him in the ribs, half-rose out of his chair, and, looking round as if Moses was somebody famous, clapped loudly.

For Christ’s sake, Moses thought.

They had just finished their second bottle of wine, some French stuff, nineteen seventy-something. Now Eddie was ordering champagne. It wasn’t that he was ostentatious. It was just that if money began to pile up in his bank accounts (and he had at least three) he felt as if he had slipped up somewhere, as if he wasn’t really living. So he spent money like water and the water turned into wine and Moses drank it.

Moses turned back to Gloria. He quickly realised that he wasn’t going to have to lie to her about how good she was. She didn’t let the music dominate her. She used its rhythms, its momentum, and rode on them, always balanced, always in control. She could be as agile as the song demanded. She could wrongfoot you just when you thought you knew where her voice was going, leaping seemingly into a void, landing in places you hadn’t even known were there. What a relief, Moses thought, not to have to lie to her.

He had been thinking about her off and on all day, going over remembered ground — incidents, gestures, fragments of conversation — going over and over them in his mind as waves go over stones, polishing them until they shone, felt smooth against his skin, had value. Something went through him, sideways and upwards, as he watched her performing on stage in her charcoal-grey forties’ suit and her diamante earrings and her diaphanous black scarf that she wore looped loosely about her neck, something made up of so many feelings, half-feelings and fractions of feelings that he felt like a whole audience — generous, expansive, irrepressible. The song finished and he was clapping, using every square millimetre of his massive hands.

Towards the end of ‘Stormy Weather’ Vince showed up. He dropped into the chair next to Moses, his hands wedged into his pockets, his waistcoat slippery with grease and oil and spilt drinks. His face had the dampness, the pallor, of a sponge. Stubble littered his chin. Moses could sense his knees jiggling up and down beneath the table.

Vince scowled. ‘I feel like shit.’

Eddie grinned. ‘I was just going to say. You look like shit, Vince.’

‘How did you get in with that waistcoat on, Vince?’ Moses asked. He poured Vince a glass of wine.

Vince downed it in one and slumped back in his chair. ‘I haven’t slept for three days.’ He stared morosely at his empty glass. ‘Took some smack on Wednesday night. Fucked me up completely.’

Moses and Eddie exchanged looks of resignation. Vince being histrionic again. Nothing unusual about that.

‘I thought you’d stopped that,’ Moses said.

‘How many times do I have to tell you, Vincent?’ said Eddie.

‘Screw you.’ Vince turned to Moses. ‘You got any downers, sleeping-pills, anything like that?’