‘I’m not bipolar,’ I insist, and then, because I am too flustered and irritated to think of a plausible lie, ‘That was Paul,’ I say.
‘Oh, right.’ Ish keeps a commendably straight face. ‘What did he want?’
‘Ariadne’s going away. He wants me to go and talk to her before she leaves.’ I groan, scrub my face with my hands. ‘Aaargh, it is all so ridiculous and embarrassing!’
‘You must really like her, to put in this much effort,’ Ish says neutrally.
‘I do like her,’ I say, staring at my shoes. ‘I don’t know why it is so hard to tell her. I am not twelve years old.’
Ish looks at me for a moment. ‘It just is, Claude,’ she says. ‘It just is.’ Then she glances at her watch. ‘Tell you what, though, if you want to see her at the café you’d better get your skates on.’
I look up at the clock on the wall of the Research Department. She’s right, the Ark will be closing in a few minutes. ‘Maybe I should just wait till she comes back from her holidays.’
‘No way, Claude, you’ve got to seize the day with these things,’ Ish says firmly. ‘Otherwise they drag on and on and on.’
‘But I have so much work —’
‘You’ve been mooning over this girl for weeks, just go and talk to her!’
‘All right, all right.’ With a swiftly deepening sense of unreality — as if it were water pouring into a leaking boat — I pull my coat back on and smooth down my hair. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘You don’t need luck!’ she says. But as I am waiting by the lifts I hear her calling my name. I turn and see her hurrying towards me, in her hand a small porcelain jar.
‘What’s that?’
‘I was going through a crate of old stuff last night and I found it,’ she says, opening the jar and pouring into her palm a hillock of white powder. ‘It’s from Kokomoko. They call it bila. If you inhale it it’s supposed to work as an aphrodisiac.’
‘I thought you said I didn’t need luck.’
‘Go on, give it a go, just for the laugh. What you do is, you blow it in her face like this — oh cripes! Sorry, Claude!’
‘Aaargh!’ My eyes blaze.
‘Oh God! Oh God!’ Through tears I see a vaguely Ish-shaped blur bounce fretfully around me.
‘I’m fine,’ I gasp, feeling my throat begin to reopen. ‘Honestly.’
‘I’m sorry!’ she says. ‘Strewth, I must have blown half the jar at you. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I think so …’
‘Like you don’t feel … different or anything?’ Slowly her face comes back into focus, peering concernedly into mine.
‘I’m not sure,’ I admit. ‘It’s hard to tell.’
‘Look into my eyes a second, Claude … look into my eyes …’
‘I think I am feeling better now.’
‘Hmm, I don’t know, you look a bit weird. Maybe you should leave Ariadne till tomorrow.’
‘She’s going away tomorrow.’
‘Oh, right,’ Ish says, still holding my gaze.
‘I’d better go,’ I decide and, turning, stumble for the lift.
In the mirrored wall of the lift I examine myself. Bila clings to my lapels and shoulders, glowing faintly like magical dandruff. I brush it away as best I can, though I can do nothing about my eyes, which are red and streaming, and instead of a sophisticated gallery owner make me look authentically deranged. Nevertheless, as I descend, I feel exhilarated, transfigured, as if I have found my way at last into Paul’s unwritten book, waiting here all along at an invisible angle to the truth …
The café is empty of customers, and in one corner the chairs have been lifted on to the tables. ‘We’re just about to close,’ the blonde waitress tells me.
‘I have a message for Ariadne,’ I say.
The girl goes to fetch her. A moment later Ariadne emerges from the kitchen, carrot peelings stuck to her hands; what a thing, to envy a carrot peeling. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says, in what strikes me as a slightly louder voice than is necessary. Behind me I sense her golden-haired colleague stop what she is doing in order to monitor the situation.
‘Yes,’ I say, trying to maintain my composure over my pounding heartbeat, the bila chattering in my veins. ‘I just wanted to …’ But my attempt at an apology is exploded by a violent sneeze, and my apology for this first sneeze is overwhelmed by a second, even more violent, which ushers in a fit of minor sneezes and sneezelets. With a tsk of concern, Ariadne hurries over with a bouquet of paper tissues.
‘Thank you.’ I dab at my eyes, which are streaming again.
‘You have a cold,’ she chides, going behind the counter then returning a moment later with a mug of herbal tea. ‘You boys are all the same, you don’ take care of yourselves.’
‘Thanks.’ I sniff again, taking the mug. It seems Ish’s aphrodisiac has played its part after alclass="underline" my copious sneezing rules me out as any kind of threat, except as a disseminator of germs. I drink my tea, surreptitiously take in her dark beauty, shimmering against the backdrop of the rain-teeming window. Everything is just as it should be; my line presents itself as if I have the page right in front of me. ‘About the other day.’
‘Don’ worry,’ Ariadne says. ‘Your Dr Cyrano has come in and explained everything.’
‘Who?’
‘Dr Cyrano — the psychiatrist?’
I roll my eyes, then realize this makes me look more bipolar. ‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘He told me about this experimental drug you’re taking that makes you act weird around women?’
‘Yes, that’s right, the experimental drug. However, I have stopped taking it now. In fact, I am completely cured.’
‘Oh, that’s great!’
‘Yes, I wanted to let you know. And also to apologize if I alarmed you.’ I pause, looking down at my knees mysteriously. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you.’
‘Oh?’
‘It relates to your paintings.’
She lights up. ‘You want to buy one?’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that. If you have a few minutes, maybe we could … ?’
She looks intrigued, but the noisy approach of a floor-polishing machine, piloted by her blonde colleague, restores her to reality. ‘Ah, but we are closing,’ she laments.
‘Oh,’ I say, then, innocently, ‘Maybe tomorrow would be better?’
‘Tomorrow I am going away,’ she says.
‘I see.’ I frown, then look at my watch. ‘Perhaps a quick drink? Before you go home?’
I can’t help being impressed by my own suaveness here; it’s as if Ariadne is acting as a kind of catalyst, in whose presence I am transforming into someone half-worthy of her.
Ariadne tocks her tongue thoughtfully against her palate. ‘I have somethink to do,’ she says. ‘But you can come with me, if you want? Is not so far?’
‘Perfect,’ I say. The scene is unfolding just as I intended — although it is a surprise when she thrusts a large black garbage bag into my hands.
‘Buns,’ she says enigmatically. She whisks away into the kitchen, then reappears behind a trolley, on top of which sits a large steel vat. ‘There’s a couple of places we bring what we have left at the end of the day,’ she says.
‘Ah,’ I say, and then, suavely, ‘They are fortunate to get such excellent food.’
‘I think leftovers is always tasting of leftovers, whatever they are. You coming?’
I jump up and hold the door for her, then thrust open my umbrella and raise it over her head; in this manner, like some strange new creature of feet and wheels and umbrella spokes, we pass over the threshold of the Ark and outside. Outside! Where we are no longer waitress and customer, simply woman and man; where as far as the world is concerned, we could be on a date, or lovers, or ecstatic newly-weds …