Rupert Thomson - The Insult

That weekend I met Gregory in Leon’s. I leaned over the table in a conspiratorial manner that I knew he liked and asked him if he had noticed anything strange about the second floor.

‘You mean, at the Kosminsky?’

I nodded.

‘No.’

‘You haven’t noticed anything at all?’

‘Like what?’

I told him to go and have a look for himself. The second floor, I said. From midnight onwards.

That morning, close to dawn, I saw eight people doing it. They were standing in a circle at the top of the stairs, four women and four men. All the women had dildos strapped around their hips. Each person was being fucked and fucking at the same time (somehow it reminded me of a doughnut). You could charge for this, I was thinking. But, at the same time, I was wearied by it and I wished there was another way of getting to my room. I decided to have a word with the management. I wasn’t going to complain, exactly. I’d just mention it. Discreetly.

I found Arnold on duty the next evening and, since he was the more senior of the two receptionists, I thought it was him I should speak to. It was raining outside; water tipped through the rips in the canopy, splashed on to the pavement below. I took him aside and told him of the recent goings-on.

‘Goings-on?’

I leaned closer. ‘On the second floor.’

Arnold lit a cigarette with a snap of his lighter.

‘All right, I’ll be blunt,’ I said. ‘People fucking.’

Arnold’s eyebrows dipped towards the bridge of his nose. Just for a moment they resembled the logo of our national airline.

‘Actually, sir, now you mention it, there have been a few complaints —’

‘There. You see?’

‘About you.’

‘What?’

‘About you loitering.’

‘Loitering?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

‘It’s probably an over-reaction.’ Arnold inhaled. Smoke poured upwards from his nostrils and his mouth. His whole head disappeared. ‘You’re blind. Blind people — well, you know. They frighten people.’

‘I suppose — yes, that’s true, but —’

‘I’d stick to your own floor in future. I mean, we don’t want to go round upsetting people, do we.’ He smiled suddenly, disarmingly, then he inhaled again.

As I walked out into the rain I pondered Arnold’s attitude. There was only one conclusion I could draw: that part of the hotel was being used as a whorehouse — clandestine, certainly, quite possibly illegal too — with all the rooms, even the corridors, reserved for hookers and their clients. No wonder he wouldn’t admit to anything. He was probably being paid by the Kosminsky brothers to run the place. He probably got commission from the girls. After all, there had to be a reason why the hotel had such a dubious reputation. In retrospect, it had been naive of me to mention it to him.

That night, as I sat in Leon’s, watching the football on TV and waiting for my pig’s heart goulash, I suddenly thought of a name for the second floor. It could be a name known only to a privileged few (though I could also see it in slow-flashing, scarlet neon). THE LOVE STOREY. Should I suggest it to Arnold, who could pass it on to the brothers for me? No, maybe not. To pretend I knew nothing of their operation might be wiser. They weren’t the kind of men who welcomed interference. If they thought you were poking your nose into their business, they’d probably pay someone to cut it off.

Towards one o’clock in the morning the door opened and the draught carried an unmistakable hint of fish. Gregory sank heavily into the chair beside me. He’d spent most of his night off on the second floor. He hadn’t seen a thing.

‘What?’ I said. ‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. Not a thing.’

‘There’s people fucking all over the place,’ I said. ‘There’s couples, there’s threesomes. There’s people sucking shoes —’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘It’s a brothel, Gregory. Haven’t you noticed?’

He began to stammer. ‘Well, of course, sometimes —’

‘You haven’t noticed,’ I said, ‘have you.’

‘Well, no,’ he muttered, ‘not —’

‘You must be blind.’

History could be happening outside his window and he wouldn’t know about it. He’d be too busy wondering what was for supper, which soap-opera to watch. I should never have mentioned it to him. I looked at his hair plastered to his forehead in a frieze of unintelligible hieroglyphics. I looked at his jutting lower lip, his hands fumbling on the table-top. Now I’d upset him. And we were supposed to be friends.

‘Don’t worry about it, Smoke,’ I said wearily. ‘I probably made the whole thing up.’

‘You did?’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Sometimes I can’t figure you out, Blom.’

Sometimes!

One further development, regarding the suspected involvement of the Kosminsky brothers. It was two nights later. I was in the hotel lift, going up. I’d pressed 8, but the lift stopped on 2. Nobody got in. As I reached out to press 8 again, a door directly opposite the lift swung open. The sight of one of the brothers emerging from a room full of laughing, half-naked girls at three-fifteen in the morning confirmed all my previous suspicions.

I was late for the wedding. It wasn’t my fault. If they’d started at a sensible time, I would have been there — but one-thirty in the afternoon? The house was out in the suburbs, too, not far from the bleak square where the trams turn round. One dismal street after another, all of them identical. I don’t know how long it took me, but it was dark when I arrived. I would have been even later if an old woman hadn’t insisted on walking me right to the door.

It wasn’t unlike the place where my grandparents used to live: small and grey, with a patch of grass for a front garden, a glass-house at the side and a wrought-iron fence that had been painted pale-green. The latch clinked as I opened the gate. The front door was just a few steps along a concrete path. I could hear music coming from somewhere. So there was dancing. If the old woman hadn’t been watching me, I might have left there and then. Instead, I had to knock.

‘Blom!’ Gregory embraced me. Fish mingled uneasily with beer. ‘We thought you weren’t coming.’

He took me over to the bride and groom and introduced us. His daughter’s name was Petra. She looked like Gregory, only she had hair. Her husband’s name was Rolf. I offered them my congratulations.

‘We’re so glad you could come,’ Petra said. ‘We’ve heard all about you.’

How lonely I was, presumably. How terribly alone.

‘And look,’ Gregory said, ‘here’s Loots.’

I didn’t recognise him at first, without his glittering, star-encrusted jersey and his bicycle. I saw a thin young man with reddish hair, his shoulders high and stiff inside his shirt as he bounced across the room towards me. His heels hardly seemed to touch the ground.

‘I’ve seen you before.’ Loots mentioned a street that ran parallel to the Kosminsky.

‘I feel the same way,’ I said, and smiled mysteriously.

Gregory laughed and put an arm around my shoulders. ‘He’s quite a character, is Blom.’

We drank chilled vodka from thimble glasses. A toast to the newly-weds, then down in one. Another toast, to happiness this time. And then another. Friendship. I wanted to question Loots about his acrobatics, but he’d already moved across the room to where the music was. I watched him dancing with the bride. He had a rather formal style, very correct, almost quaint. Their arms — his left, her right — curved up into the air like handles on a jug, their joined hands floating high above their heads.

I met the bride’s mother, Gregory’s ex-wife. She was drinking cheap champagne.