Jonathan Lee - High Dive

‘Jack?’

‘Jack who gets told by his friends to shut up.’

‘Oh … Jack.’

He tried to smile but couldn’t quite do it. Knew he was being teased but couldn’t quite accept it. Felt a trace of the old embarrassment he’d experienced at school, knowing something he’d said wasn’t right, or that he’d sniggered at the wrong bit of a naughty story. He looked at his face in mirrors these days and thought he could see the emotional muscle tone slowly going soft, replaced by little twists and twitches, and when he smiled the smile glowed with engineered cheer — the McCluskeys’ flashing Santa. And now, sitting here looking at this beautiful woman — she was beautiful now; she’d been promoted from pretty to beautiful on account of being tricky to access — he was thinking of Dawson again and he could hear a dog barking and a new anger was rising up in him. He didn’t know what to do with it.

‘I couldn’t be less racist,’ he said. ‘Not least with the Argies. The Falklands? You know about the Falklands? I’m hoping you don’t subscribe to the standard propaganda.’

‘Boring,’ she said, tipping a last drop of wine through her lips.

His face felt stiff, warm. ‘No, it’s not boring. They had no right to be there.’

‘ We , you mean.’

‘The Brits. No right.’

Her eyes shone as new wine arrived. A white cloth was draped over the waiter’s sleeve. He filled Lena’s glass and proceeded to pour an unrequested one for Dan.

‘Everyone’s a right to take back what’s theirs,’ she said. ‘Do you disagree? Don’t you, as a rule, like to take what you deserve?’

If there was a sexual connotation to this, an invitation to steer things back towards the personal, he didn’t have the wherewithal to grab at it. ‘That’s what the Argies did. They’re the ones who took back what was theirs.’

‘In the night,’ Lena said. ‘Sneaking.’

‘You’d have preferred walking or charging.’

‘Seized the airfield and barracks, did they not? Overnight with no notice, my brother says.’

So then, a brother. He drank some wine and tried to act empty. ‘You mention advance notice, ultimatums. But why do you think Thatcher offered no ultimatum to Buenos Aires? Why do you think she gave orders to sink the Belgrano , no warning? Sailing west, it was, withdrawn from action.’

‘Presumably there aren’t always warnings.’

‘With terrorists?’

‘With war.’

He mentioned the UN. She blinked. She didn’t know. Her ignorance filled him with new fuel. ‘Discussions were going on in the United Nations in New York about — whatever — the leasing or whatever of the islands. Did you not read that, Lena? No? That’s a huge thing, the main thing. There were discussions of the Argies having them back. So, what happens? Thatcher makes calls to get these discussions to collapse, I believe, many people believe. That’s why the junta, as a last resort, revived their dormant old invasion plan. Because that’s the context. Responsibility, you know? Here’s more context: Thatcher’s tough time at home, humiliated, mocked for being weak. Laughed at in the Commons, right? So what does she do? The fair thing, the reasonable thing? Or the thing that will play well with the public, at the expense of lives? Fights aren’t all about the fight, that’s all I’m saying. They’re always about something else. They’re about — it’s the past. Egos and … and weaknesses. About people silencing other accounts, pretending there’s a single story.’

He sat back. He felt in serious need of water. How long had he been talking? It felt like the longest speech of his life.

‘Whatever you think of her,’ Lena said, ‘she took the islands back with decisive style.’

‘What, Lena? Please. Are you serious, Lena? The Tories? Style?’ He leaned over to the next table, unoccupied now, and stole a fistful of nuts from a bowl.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’m not the authority.’

‘Neither am I. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but. You should … you should read this.’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘Or a better one. Did you want some of these, the peanuts? I’m saying — all I’m saying is — you should be a bit … a bit interested .’ He could hear the slur in his words, the excess volume.

‘I’ve enough to worry about.’

‘Come on.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘For fuck’s sake.’

‘What did you say?’

‘You’re a smart woman. You might be bored, but these are people’s lives.’

He was lecturing her on the value of human life. The irony did not escape him. His own words had struck him a dull blow to the skull. She looked away and played with her necklace. Gold bumblebee buzzing on a thin gold chain. Her cheeks had become flushed. The colouring doubled or trebled her beauty. But he’d lost her. He knew he had. He should have bottled his prattle.

She rubbed her forehead. The bar guy came to check everything was OK. Told them table service would be stopping soon.

‘Listen,’ Dan said to him. ‘What part of Argentina are you from?’

‘I’m from Uruguay,’ the waiter replied. ‘Originally I’m from Uruguay, but I’ve lived here for ten years.’

The bare facts of the waiter’s nationality left Dan lost for words. He crawled for something to say. He sneaked. ‘Hey,’ he announced. Why was he suddenly saying ‘hey’? ‘One more question. Maybe you could help me and Lena here. We have a terrorism query.’

Why was he saying all this?

‘We have a question for you about Maggie.’

‘Maggie?’ the waiter said.

‘Aye, that’s right. Maggie.’

The waiter puckered his lips. ‘Thatcher?’

‘That’s her. The one who’s left Ireland to rot in the rain.’

‘Thank you,’ the waiter said. ‘But I am badly busy.’

‘Tell me, Badly Busy. Tell us. Is Maggie a terrorist?’ He was sounding sneery. Angry. He hated himself when he sounded sneery. But if the waiter didn’t listen properly, he’d take him by the throat. He’d squeeze the life right out of his smug little neck. ‘Like, you know, Jomo — Jomo Kenyatta. Or like, you’ll know him, Menachem — his name is Menachem, something, Mena— I’m asking, what’s the difference between a terrorist and a leader? Is it just about waiting for the times to change?’

The barman’s hand moved to his throat and glided uninterruptedly down his tie. The supreme elegance of this gesture left Dan speechless.

Lena had decided to be amused. She watched the barman move around the room spreading his message that service was stopping. She swung her legs to the side of the table. ‘Had a few tonight, then?’

‘It’s complicated, is all I’m saying.’

‘Everything is.’

‘No, not everything. Most things are unbelievably fucking simple.’ Wake up. Join an army. Feel the frightening scale of the world.

She reached for her handbag and half strangled herself with the strap.

‘Got to go,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I have to go.’

‘I’ve offended.’

‘Ach, no. Nice to meet you. I’ve overrun a bit, that’s all, and I’m a simple sort, so there you go.’

She stood and held out her hand. It was as if this really had been all business, a promising transaction collapsed.

He looked at her. What to say? ‘OK. I enjoyed meeting you.’

Her fingers slipped from his.

Everything in the bar looked peculiarly flat now. The Argentinian barman, the one who wasn’t Argentinian, moved stiffly, like a practised drunk, past a line of two-dimensional bottles with strange chrome spouts. The ceiling and walls were drained of natural light and weather. Everything was bland and artificial, free of the unsettling effects of events. The darkened window glass offered only reflection now. Here he was, in a place of temporary safety, soon to know if his wiring had worked, and what the fuck was he doing?