‘Because a man is interested in me, this does not mean that I have any interest in the man. Are you interested in every woman who is interested in you?’
He wanted to keep the conversation alive, but suddenly he was aware of the loud hum of the dryer as the cylinder lumbered its slow way around the fixed circle. Once the buzzer signalled the fact that her clothes were dry she would no doubt leave, unless they were deeply involved in this, or some other, conversation.
‘Of course not. But you said that he had an interest and so I thought things might be difficult for you. But obviously they’re not, which is good.’
‘And why is it good?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Then you should maybe say nothing. I am happy with silence. Unlike you English, I do not have to talk to fill in the silence.’
‘I see.’
He watched as she reached into her rucksack and pulled out a book whose title was in Polish. She began to read and he understood that, at least for the moment, this peculiar young woman had nothing further to say. He stared at her collarbone, which was unusually prominent beneath the thin layer of skin, and which curved left and right like the bow of an archer, and then she looked up from her book and he quickly averted his gaze.
Half an hour later, she emerged from his bedroom in her warm clothes and handed him the neatly folded towel, which he placed on the arm of the sofa. He stared at her petite and perfectly formed feet which, unlike her nicotine-stained and somewhat scrawny hands, appeared to be so smooth they might be waxed. Her toenails were cut short and not painted, and for a moment he understood why, in some cultures, women are encouraged to walk delicately on the bodies of men. But presumably not in Poland. He stood and offered her a glass of wine, which she refused by simply looking at her girl’s watch and insisting that she could not afford to be late. She informed him that Rolf would be upset if he had to make up an excuse on her behalf, and this is how he discovered that Rolf was not only her roommate, but they also worked together as cleaners. She asked him to please call the minicab, and so he eased by her and passed into the kitchen where he had left his mobile. ‘Two minutes, mate.’ It was then that he heard Danuta close the door to the bathroom and then immediately flush the toilet. A few moments later she tiptoed back into the living room and he watched as she clumsily pushed her feet into her scuffed shoes, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was breaking down their heels. They both heard the doorbell.
The rain had stopped at some point, but the streets remained damp and strewn with puddles into which drivers seemed to be deliberately steering. She held her face close to the window, and whenever they passed beneath a lamppost he was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of her pensive reflection.
‘Near the BBC, you said, mate?’
The minicab driver had a heavy West African accent and he was wearing a lime green dashiki, which made his attempt to speak cockney come across as vaguely absurd.
‘You’ll be wanting this side of the Westway, or just over the other side?’
‘Just before, please.’
The African driver nodded to let him know that he had heard, and then he signalled and took the last left before the motorway. Danuta turned from the window and pointed through the front windscreen.
‘The building there.’
The driver ducked into a space by the night-watchman’s hut, but the man kept the engine running and his eyes focused straight ahead.
‘Perhaps I could see you tomorrow? I’m not working this week.’
She smiled, and then gathered up her rucksack and opened the door in one smooth continuous movement.
‘Thank you for my dry clothes.’
She slipped out of the car and slammed the door behind her. The minicab then began to move off in the direction of the West London Boys’ Club by Wormwood Scrubs, one of the community centres that fell under his jurisdiction. As they passed under the Westway he asked the driver to stop.
‘You have changed your mind?’
He reached in his pocket for his wallet and took out a £10 note which he handed to the driver.
‘I’ll get out here.’
‘Sir, I must charge you the full ten pounds, even though you have not completed your journey.’
‘It’s all right. It’s cool.’
He could see the driver staring into the rear-view mirror and looking closely at him as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket.
‘Cheers, my friend,’ said the driver. ‘Please take care of yourself.’
He momentarily met the driver’s eyes, and then he stepped out of the minicab and slammed the door shut.
Rolf reappears in the window, and this time he finds himself inching forward, out of the shadow of the oak tree, and he looks up. The blond boy scans the distance and raises a hand to his face as though attempting to see more clearly. He continues to look up at Rolf, and then he hears a man’s barking voice.
‘I said, what are you doing here?’
The night-watchman has left his hut and is slowly waddling towards him with his newspaper dangling from one hand.
‘You, over there. Are you deaf?’
Between Rolf in the window, and this man walking towards him, he has no choice now so he turns and begins to run in the direction of the main road. He hears the night-watchman shout something further, but he cannot make out the man’s words. As long as a dog does not come chasing after him he will be fine. He has done nothing wrong. He has broken no rules.
He is fully awake before he opens his eyes. He likes it this way, lying perfectly still in the dark and choosing not to move, and then he remembers. He feels nauseous, and he wants the bed to swallow him whole so that he can disappear and then, after a decent lapse of time, he can reappear and pretend that none of this has happened. He is wrong, he knows this. Wrong to have passed her the note, wrong to have waited for her at the language school, wrong to have invited her back to his place. He opens his eyes and looks around his cramped bedroom. Last night he ran all the way back to the flat and then closed the door behind himself and double-locked it. He slumped down on to the sofa and kicked off first one shoe and then the other before letting his head tumble forward into his upturned palms; shit, shit, shit. Really, what the hell was he thinking of spying on her like that? The curtains are still closed, but he can see that it is light outside. A few birds are singing, and in the distance he can hear traffic humming by on the main road. If it comes to it, he can always deny that he was anywhere near the office building last night. Who is going to be able to prove anything? He sits upright and quickly rubs his eyes. The boy, Rolf, he is probably better suited to her. They no doubt have plenty in common, being strangers in a strange country who are both studying the language and learning to clean up after the natives. The pair of them can laugh about the English and their strange bathrooms, with one tap for hot water, and a completely separate tap for cold water. Clearly this makes no sense, for one can never get warm water unless a decision is made to insert the nasty rubber plug into the bowl. It is all so unhygienic, but this is England. This is what he imagines the young couple thinks of his country, and so let them talk about this together. Perhaps Danuta will grow to love this Rolf and choose not to return to Poland? Perhaps she will go to Latvia? Or perhaps Danuta will stay in dirty England? But not with him, for he knows that his unbecoming obsession is over. This morning marks the beginning of a new resolution, for he must now begin to act his age and stop associating with young girls who one moment appear to be malleable and the next flare with anger.