Hanif Kureishi - Collected Stories

‘Is it the education that’s useless, or just Rocco?’ Feather asked.

‘Exactly,’ said Bodger.

‘Both, probably. Thank God this government’s cutting down on it.’ Vance turned to Feather. ‘Can’t you therapise him into normality?’

‘Suppose he turned out worse?’

Vance went on, ‘You know what he said to me? He called me greedy and exploitative. And no one has fucked more of my waitresses. Did I tell you, he was in bed with one and she asked him if he’d liked it. I teach them to be polite, you see. He said … what was it? “The whole meaning of my life has coalesced at this timeless moment.”’ Neither Feather nor Bodger laughed. ‘How idiotic can you get? Last time he came into the restaurant, he raised his arse and farted. The customers couldn’t breathe.’

‘Stop it,’ said Bodger to Feather, who was laughing now.

‘The worst thing is, girls fall for him. And he’s got nothing! Can you explain it?’

‘He knows how to look at them,’ said Feather.

She herself had a steady gaze, as if she were deciphering what people really meant.

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Vance.

‘Women look into his eyes and see his interest in them. But he also lets them see his unhappiness.’

Vance couldn’t see why anyone would find Rocco’s unhappiness amatory, but something about the idea puzzled him, and he considered it.

When they’d first come to the town, Vance had welcomed Lisa and Rocco. He didn’t let them pay for their coffee, ensured they had the best table, and introduced them to the local poets and musicians, and to Bodger. She was attractive; he was charming. This was the sort of café society he’d envisaged in his restaurant, not people in shorts with sandy feet and peeling noses.

Bodger was drawing. ‘Calling the man scum — well, that’s just unspeakable and I don’t agree with it.’

‘His problem is,’ said Feather, ‘he loves too many people.’

Vance started up again. ‘Why defend someone who sleeps with people’s girlfriends — and gives them diseases — borrows money, never works, is stoned all the time and tells lies? These days people don’t want to make moral judgements. They blame their parents, or society, or a pain in the head. He came to my place every day. I liked him and wanted to give him a chance. People like him are rubbish.’

Bodger threw down his pencil. ‘Shut up!’

Feather said, ‘The desire for pleasure plays a large part in people’s lives.’

‘So?’ Vance stared at her. ‘Suppose we all did what we wanted the whole time. Nothing would get done. I’ll tell you what riles me. People like him think they’re superior. He thinks that doing nothing and discussing stupid stuff is better than working, selling, running a business. How does he think the country runs? Lazy people like him should be forced to work.’

‘Forced?’ said Bodger.

This was one of Vance’s favourite subjects. ‘Half the week, say. To earn his dole. Sweeping the streets, or helping pensioners get to the shops.’

‘Forcibly?’ said Bodger. ‘The police carrying him to the dustcart?’

‘And to the pensioners,’ said Vance. ‘I’d drag him to them myself.’

‘Not everyone can be useful,’ said Feather.

‘But why shouldn’t everyone contribute?’

‘I’ve lost my concentration,’ said Bodger.

They went out into his garden where everything grew as it wanted. It was hot but not sunny. Cobwebs hung in the bushes like hammocks. The foliage was dry and dusty, the trees were wilting, the pond dry.

The liquefying heat debilitated them; they drank water and beer. Bodger fell asleep in a wicker chair with a handkerchief over his face.

Feather and Vance went out of the back gate arm in arm. He asked her to have a drink with him at the restaurant.

‘I would, but I’ve got a client,’ she said.

‘More dreams?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Don’t you get sick of all those whingeing people and their petty problems? Send them to me for a kick, it’ll be cheaper.’

‘People’s minds are interesting. More interesting than their opinions. And certainly, as Rocco might have said, as interesting as hamburgers.’

She was smiling. They had always amused one another. She didn’t mind if he mocked what she did. In fact it seemed to stimulate her. She liked him in spite of his personality.

‘Come to me for a couple of sessions,’ she said. ‘See what sort of conversations we might have.’

‘I’ll come by for a massage but I’ll never let you tinker with my brain. Words, words. How can talking be the answer to everything? There’s nothing wrong with me. If I’m sick, God help everyone else.’ After a while he added, ‘Rocco’s dangerous because he uses other people and gives them nothing in return.’

‘Some people like being used.’

‘I’m giving you notice, Feather, I’m going to kill that bastard.’

‘As long as there’s good reason for it,’ she said, walking away.

Too weak to move, ravers from the previous night sat on the beach in shorts. Some slept, others swigged wine, one had set up a stall selling melons. A woman, a regular who came every morning with her cat in a box, walked it on a lead while the kids barked at her.

Lisa snoozed on the sand until she thought she’d boil, and then raced into the sea.

She loved her black dress. It was almost the only thing that fitted her. She put on her large straw hat with its broad brim pressed down so tightly over her ears that her face seemed to be looking out of a box. As she passed them the boys called after her. She was tall, with a long neck and a straight back. She walked elegantly, with her head up. In another age a man would be holding a parasol for her.

Nearby sat a middle-aged woman, a TV executive, who kept a cottage nearby, commuted to Los Angeles, and read scripts on the beach. She had most of what anyone could want, but was always alone. She dressed expensively but she was plump and her looks had faded. The boys, barking at the cat, also barked at her. Lisa shuddered. Men wanted young women — what a liberated age it was!

Maybe Lisa would ask her for a job. But working like that would bore her after a few weeks. How would she have time to learn the drums? At least … at least she had Rocco.

What conversations they had had, hour after hour, as they walked, loved, ate, sat. If she imagined the perfect partner, who would see her life as it was meant to be seen, absorbing the most secret confessions and most trivial incidents in a wise captivated mind, then he had been the one. What serenity and unstrained ease, without shame or fear, there had been, for a time.

Lately he had been hateful. She would have threatened to leave him, except his mood was her fault; she had to cure him. It was she who’d insisted they leave London, imagining a place near the sea, with the countryside nearby. They would grow their own food and read and write; there would be languorous stoned evenings.

There had been. Now they were going down. She’d spent too much on jewellery, bags, and clothes in Vance’s. The manager, Moon, had ‘loaned’ her Ecstasy too, which she and Rocco had taken or given away. She owed Moon too much. Beside, she was wasting her life here, where very little happened. But what were lives for? Who could say? She didn’t want to start thinking about that.

She and Rocco rarely fucked now. If they did, he would smack her face before he came. She was always left in a rage. But he was curious about her body. He watched her as she did up her shoes; he would lift her skirt as she stood at the sink; he would look her over as she lay naked on the bed, and would touch her underwear when she was out. But she ached for sex. Her nipples wanted attention; she would pinch them between her fingers as she drank her tea. She felt desire but didn’t know how to deliver herself of it.