‘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?
He put down enough cash to cover the bill and a large tip. He rushed outside. She was in the street. He saw the dress first, then the hair. The hair was moving in the wind and she was trying to hail a taxi. The frailty of her wave made him think of his mother hugging him before he left for Brighton, scrabbling at his shoulders like a climber on a rock face, bound to nothing, bound to fall, knowing nothing, knowing something — but how much did she understand?
When he was close enough for Lena to hear him he said, ‘I’ve been up since quarter to four. Not sleeping. I’m sorry. Fatigue makes me more prick-like than usual. My name’s Dan … Forgive that stuff.’
She didn’t turn round. She didn’t flinch. Nothing seemed to surprise her. Maybe that’s what real happiness was, he thought: the inability to feel surprised. But it could just as easily be a definition of misery.
The road was distinctly lit. Lamp posts were queuing up a hill. He could take it all in with a flicker of the eye: the closed-up shops; the railings; the metal bars guarding windows.
‘I’ll walk until I find a lift,’ she said.
‘Let me walk with you, help you get a taxi.’
‘No. Yes. If you like.’
They walked side by side. The pavement was peaceful. The only movement was the flutter of litter. A Lilt can rattled at the kerb.
The list of things they didn’t discuss was long. Children, relationships, hopes, regrets, favourite foods, views on sex, friends alive, friends dead, break-ups, disease, famine, love, all the different kinds of leave-taking that make up a life. They exchanged maybe a hundred words, but the silences between felt special. He tried to hold her shoulder but she rolled it away. Cold and pebbled, her skin; he’d expected it to be warm. He looked at the shine of her eyes and sensed there was nothing he could do.
Maybe I should just ask, he thought. Would I be able to kiss you? Would that be OK? He wasn’t sure how it would sound. Like a fourteen-year-old’s zitty plea, probably.
They were perfectly still, facing each other. He looked down at his watch, registered the time. A bus stop. She decided to take a bus. A bus came and she moved towards its hissing doors.
He gave her a half-smile as they parted. That he could manage even that was a credit to his ability to pretend. This was nothing. It didn’t matter. In a few hours it would be a well-lit morning and he’d read the newspaper, see the accounts of the bombing, and accept that this moment on this street with this stranger was never a part of the story. She doesn’t like you. Move on.
On the walk back he laughed at himself. The idea that a cold brute, a prizefighter, needed the warmth of a good woman. It was the saccharine stuff that Hollywood sold and he wasn’t a prizefighter, was he? He was an electrician and what he needed was sleep.
He’d get into bed is what he’d do. He’d get home and sleep soundly. He wouldn’t wake to the letter box tonight. If they wanted to put something through the letter box, let them. He wouldn’t wake in the night and think how noisy the bed sheets were, a crashing sea all around him. He wouldn’t wake like he had these last three weeks with the dippy idea of the ocean in his mind, mouth dry with dread, hand grappling for a glass of water. He simply would not wake.
IX
MOOSE FELT DAFT with adrenalin. One hundred per cent alive for the first time in weeks. Finally it was happening: light laughter; gaps in chatter. Silence was smoothed by classical music. The old gramophone had been procured with events like this in mind. He was circulating through the bar area with a silver tray balanced on the splayed pads of his fingers. The more competent of the summer girls were doing the same, weaving tactfully through gaps in the partygoers. Twenty elegantly dressed men and women. Thirty. Forty. The space was filling up nicely. Tories, lords. The accident-prone staff he’d tidied away backstage: restocking chiller cabinets, fuelling security staff with coffee.