Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

‘You banged your head when you fell in the river. That’s what did you in. Isn’t that right?’ She was laughing with her mouth open. ‘What were you doing down there, by the river?’

People loved this story; they rang to ask about it, and it was repeated around town. He couldn’t deny her.

He said, ‘I got Carol to stop the cab after that party because I needed a pee and didn’t want people to see me.’

‘Is that why you climbed over the wall and slipped?’

‘With my cock out, actually, all the way down the ramp. Right into the cold river, I feared. But into the cold mud, luckily.’

‘Didn’t Rowena and Carol haul you out?’

‘Haul me out?’ he said. ‘They were tottering around hysterically at the top. I could hear them screeching like a zoo. I was told Rowena rang her agent who was having dinner at Gaga and asked him what to do.’

‘What did the agent say? I told her to get rid of that fish. I can fix her up with Morton. He did that deal for Ronnie. Maybe I should arrange —’

Brett said, ‘If you really want to know about it, the taxi driver pulled me out. Otherwise, I would have gone down for good, and that, as they say, would have been that. He had blankets in the boot which he wrapped me in. He took me home. I guess I messed up his car. D’you think it’s too late to call him and apologise?’

‘Where did Carol and Rowena go afterwards?’

‘Don’t know.’

The taxi driver had been tall and dark-skinned, a North African of some sort, wearing worn-out shoes. At home, Brett invited him in and made tea. The man sat there with Brett’s mud on him and said he was a law student with two children. He studied half the time and drove the rest; sometimes he slept; occasionally he played with his children.

Brett offered him dry clothes. When the man refused, Brett tried to give him money for his dry-cleaning bill. At this, the man raised his hands in protest.

‘What’s wrong?’ Brett had asked.

‘You don’t understand!’

‘Please tell me —’

‘Anyone would have done this thing!’

‘Yes, of course!’ said Brett. The man seemed relieved. ‘I see, I do see,’ said Brett.

He shook the man’s hand.

Drinking tea only, Brett had thought about this for the rest of the night and went over it again the next day.

Probably the man was religious. But you didn’t need religion to save someone. It had not been a sentimental gesture but what you did when someone fell.

Now Brett watched people shouting at one another. They would laugh inexplicably, their mouths almost touching. No one was listening, but what was there to hear? People’s words were not in any recognisable order and their gestures were unrelated to anything they said. A couple dancing looked as though they were wrestling.

Brett kissed Francine’s cheek. ‘It’s time I made a move.’

‘Already? That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard in minutes.’

They went out into the hall, where she started talking to someone. She and the other person went into the bathroom and Brett left the house.

Outside, he lit a cigarette and looked for his car keys. It was frosty and still. From the house opposite, he could hear voices singing, and a piano.

He had reached the gate when she caught up with him, one arm in her coat.

‘You tried to sneak off without me. Would I leave you here alone? Have I ever done that to you? Here are the keys I took from your pocket.’

He helped her on with the coat and said, ‘You live way across town.’

‘We’re going on to Gaga! Please, just for a bit. Then you can take me home.’

‘I don’t want to go to Gaga, but I’ll drop you off there.’

‘How will I get home?’

‘How have you got home every night for the last fifteen years?’

‘What nonsense you talk, Brett. Come on, you’ve got to sober up for the drive.’

In the car, she was smoking. Her skirt was up.

‘You behave so badly, Brett. But somehow I always forgive you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Jesus. Have you seen what’s going on tonight?’

He drove slowly. The high street was more than busy. Crowds gathered outside bars and clubs. People ran into the road; they shouted and a man threw a punch; there were ambulances and police cars about. He slowed to a stop and waved at the cars behind him. Someone was lying face-down in the road. Others were trying to pull the person to the pavement but couldn’t decide which side of the road was best.

He said, ‘What you just said sounded strange but intriguing. What do I have to be forgiven for?’

‘Brett, where is the light in this wretched car?’

She had managed to empty her bag on to the floor and was bent double, trying to reclaim her credit cards, cocaine, numerous pills and keys.

He thought he was bleeding. He reached up and realised it was snowing on his head. Slush ran down the back of his neck. Looking for the light, she had released the sun roof. He left it open.

She was saying, ‘Forget all that. Brett, the thing is, I think we both need to go away. It’s that time of the year. How about Rio?’

‘Now?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s too far.’

‘Paris? It’s only up the road now.’

‘What would we do?’

‘Eat, drink, go out.’

‘I don’t want to do that any more.’

‘What else is there?’

He said, ‘Where am I going to park?’

She had already opened the car door and was heading towards the members’ club, plumping her hair and squirting perfume at her throat.

‘See you inside!’ she called.

They knew him at Gaga. At the end of the night, they often called cabs for him and lent him money to pay for them.

When he pushed the familiar glass door and stepped across the carpet which he remembered, on occasion, feeling against his cheek, he saw a former business partner with mistletoe attached to his forehead by bands of Sellotape.

He pulled Brett to him and started kissing him. ‘It’s you — you, you bastard! The one who let me down! Now we’re both bankrupt!’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Brett. ‘That’s right!’

‘Been swimming in the river, I hear! How are you doing now?’ It took his friend a while to find the words. He was so pleased he repeated them. ‘You doing … you doing swimmingly …’ he went, laughing to himself. ‘Won’t sit down! Busy with something!’

Brett bought Francine a drink and one for himself. How expensive it was! How much money he had spent on it over the years, not to mention energy!

In the bathroom, he threw the drink away and filled his glass with water. What a beautiful drink water was.

He took a seat at the bar and watched the man with the mistletoe weave about until he dropped on to a sofa. There, he went to some trouble to relocate the mistletoe in his open fly. Then he leaned back with his knees apart and began the business — giggling the while — of attracting the waitress’s attention.

Over the years, Brett must have sat on all the bar stools and armchairs in the place. He could see a group of his friends settling down to play cards. Johnny, Chris, Carol and Mike. They would be there for a long time; later, they’d go somewhere else. On any other night, he’d have joined them.

The aggression in Gaga seemed high. People wanted help and attention, but they were asking the wrong folks, others just like them. Some of them were wired, with their eyes popping. Others were exhausted, with failing heads. Odd it was, the taking of substances that made you feel worse, that made everything worse in the end. Dissipation was gruelling work, a full-time job. Yet things did get done; these men and women had professions. Brett had to be grateful: at least he had kept his flat and job. He’d only lost his wife.