Hanif Kureishi: Collected Stories

One time Roy walked past and heard Springsteen’s hypodermic cry ‘Hungry Heart’ blaring from inside. He’d lingered apprehensively: surely the song would rouse the men to some sudden recklessness, the desire to move or hunt down experience? But they merely mouthed the words.

He thought of the books which had spoken to him as a teenager and how concerned they were with young men fleeing home and domesticity, to hurl themselves at different boundaries. But where had it led except to self-destruction and madness? And how could you do that kind of thing now? Where could you run?

Roy’s preferred local was a low-ceilinged place with a semicircular oak bar. Beyond, it was long and deep, broken up by booths, corners and turns. Men sat alone, reading, staring, talking to themselves, as if modelling for a picture entitled ‘The Afternoon Drinkers’. There was a comfortable aimlessness; in here nothing had to happen.

Jimmy raised his glass. Roy saw that his hand trembled, and that his skin looked bruised and discoloured, the knuckles raw, fingers bitten.

‘By the way, how was Clara this morning?’

‘That was her, right?’ said Jimmy.

‘Yeah.’

‘She’s big outfront but looking great. A bit like Jean Shrimpton.’

‘You told her that?’

Jimmy nodded.

Roy said, ‘That’s what did the trick. You’ll be in with her for a couple of days now.’

‘Still fuck her?’

‘When I can’t help myself,’ said Roy. ‘You’d think she’d appreciate the interest but instead she says that lying beside me is like sleeping next to a bag of rubbish that hasn’t been collected for a fortnight.’

‘She’s lucky to have you,’ said Jimmy.

‘Me?’

‘Oh yes. And she knows it too. Still, thank Christ there’s plenty of pussy back on stream now that that Aids frenzy has worn off.’

Roy said, ‘All the same, it’s easy to underestimate how casual and reassuring married love can be. You can talk about other things while you’re doing it. It isn’t athletic. You can drift. It’s an amicable way of confirming that everything is all right.’

‘I’ve never had that,’ said Jimmy.

‘You’re not likely to, either.’

‘Thanks.’

After a time Jimmy said, ‘Did I mention there was a phone call this morning. Someone’s office. Tuesday?’

‘Tuesday?’

‘Or was it Wednesday?’

‘Munday!’

‘Munday? Yeah, maybe it was … one of those early days.’

Roy grasped him by the back of the neck and vibrated him a little. ‘Tell me what he said.’

Jimmy said, ‘Gone. Everything vaporises into eternity — all thoughts and conversations.’

‘Not this one.’

Jimmy sniggered, ‘The person said he’s in the air. Or was. And he’s popping round for a drink.’

‘When?’

‘I think it was … today.’

‘Christ,’ said Roy. ‘Finish your pint.’

‘A quick one, I think, to improve our temper.’

‘Get up. This is the big one. It’s my film, man.’

‘Film? When’s it on?’

‘Couple of years.’

‘What? Where’s the hurry? How can you think in those kinda time distances?’

Roy held Jimmy’s glass to his lips. ‘Drink.’

Munday might, Roy knew, swing by for a few minutes and treat Roy as if he were a mere employee; or he might hang out for five hours, discussing politics, books, life.

Munday embodied his age, particularly in his puritanism. He was surrounded by girls; he was rich and in the film business; everywhere there were decadent opportunities. But work was his only vice, with the emphasis on negotiating contracts. His greatest pleasure was to roar, after concluding a deal: ‘Course, if you’d persisted, or had a better agent, I’d have paid far more.’

He did like cocaine. He didn’t like to be offered it, for this might suggest he took it, which he didn’t, since it was passé. He did, nevertheless, like to notice a few lines laid accidentally out on the table, into which he might dip his nose in passing.

Cocaine would surely help things go better. As Roy guided Jimmy back, he considered the problem. There was a man — Upton Turner — who was that rare thing, a fairly reliable dealer who made home visits and occasionally arrived on the stated day. Roy had been so grateful for this — and his need so urgent — that when Turner had visited in the past, Roy had enquired after his health and family, giving Turner, he was afraid, the misapprehension that he was a person as well as a vendor. He had become a nuisance. The last time Roy phoned him, Turner had flung the phone to one side, screaming that the cops were at the door and he was ‘lookin’ at twenty years!’ As Roy listened, Turner was dumping thousands of pounds worth of powder down the toilet, only to discover that the person at the door was a neighbour who wanted to borrow a shovel.

Despite Turner’s instability, Roy called him. Turner said he’d come round. At once Munday’s office then rang.

‘He’s coming to you,’ they said. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

‘But when?’ Roy whined.

‘Expect him in the near future,’ the cool girl replied, and added, with a giggle, ‘This century, definitely.’

‘Ha, ha.’

They had some time at least. While listening for Upton’s car, Roy and Jimmy had a few more drinks. At last Roy called Jimmy over to the window.

‘There.’

‘No!’ Jimmy seized the curtain to give him strength. ‘It’s a windup. That isn’t Turner. Maybe it’s Munday.’

‘It is our man, without a doubt.’

‘Doesn’t he feel a little conspicuous — in his profession?’

‘Wouldn’t you think so?’

‘Jesus, Roy, and you’re letting this guy into your new home?’

They watched Turner trying to land the old black Rolls in a space, his pit-bull sitting up front and music booming from the windows. He couldn’t get the car in anywhere, and finally left it double-parked in the road with the traffic backing up around it, and rushed into the house with the noisy dog. Turner was small, balding and middle-aged, in a white shirt and grey suit that clung to his backside and flared at the ankles. He saw Jimmy drinking at the table and came to an abrupt standstill.

‘Roy, son, you’re all fucking pissed. You should have said we’re having a bit of a laugh, I’d have brought the party acid.’

‘This is Jimmy.’

Turner sat down, parting his legs and sweeping back his jacket, exposing his genitals outlined by tight trousers as if he anticipated applause. He reached into his pocket and tossed a plastic bag onto the table containing fifty or sixty small envelopes. Jimmy was rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Turner said, ‘How many of these are you having? Eh?’

‘Not sure yet.’

‘Not sure? What d’you mean?’

‘Just that.’

‘All right,’ Turner conceded. ‘Try it, try it.’

Roy opened one of the envelopes.

‘Never seen so many books an’ videos as you got in these boxes,’ Turner said, pacing about. He halted by a pile and said, ‘Alphabetical. A mind well ordered. As a salesman I evaluate the people from looking at their houses. Read ’em all?’

‘It’s surprising how many people ask that,’ Roy said with relaxed enjoyment. ‘It really is. Turner, d’you want a drink or something else?’

‘You must know a lot then,’ Turner insisted.

‘Not necessarily,’ Jimmy said. ‘It doesn’t follow.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Turner winked at Jimmy and they laughed. ‘But the boy must know something. I’m gonna offer credit where it’s due, I’m generous like that.’ He lit a cigarette in his cupped hand and surveyed the kitchen. ‘Nice place. You an’ the wife getting the builders in?’