Linger Awhile (9 page)

‘I don’t want to take too much,’ I said. ‘Let’s just get her into full colour so we can see where we are with this.’ Mind you, while we were doing all this the rest of London was going on as usual. Some trains were running, some weren’t. The streets were full of buses and cars and pedestrians, the pubs were full of drinkers, and we were putting blood into this thing that had climbed out of our suspension of disbelief. Great.

As J Two filled up with colour I felt a little stirring of interest. She was a good-looking woman, you had to give her that. ‘Hello, honey,’ she said as she came round. ‘Why don’t you get naked with me.’ She stuck out her tongue which was quite a long one and gave me the wettest kiss I’d ever had. She tasted like a swamp full of incontinent crocodiles. My head went round, the room tilted several different ways, and the wall opened up to let some huge hopping thing into the room. ‘Mmmmm!’ said J Two. ‘Oh yes, gimme that old-time religion, do it, do it, do it.’

‘Are you talking to me or the huge hopping thing?’ I said. ‘I don’t usually tilt this much on the first date.’

‘Artie, try to come down a little if you can,’ said Grace. ‘Justine, you’ll have to slow down if you want to hang out with us. We’re actually a pretty quiet crowd.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said J Two. ‘Who died and left you in charge, Grandma?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ said Irv.

‘Up yours, Grandad,’ said J Two.

The room was heaving around and the thing that had hopped out of the wall was making obscene gestures but I still couldn’t see its face. Maybe I’m St Anthony, I thought. Is this a temptation?

3 February 2004. I don’t read much poetry any more but there are some poems that I go back to. There’s one by Yeats that’s certainly short enough to stay in my memory but I never get it exactly right and I have to turn to the page in his
Collected Poems
where the bookmark is:

MEMORY

One had a lovely face,
And two or three had charm,
But charm and face were in vain
Because the mountain grass
Cannot but keep the form
Where the mountain hare has lain.

The form where the hare slept is emptiness in the shape of the hare. Last night I dreamt that Rose Harland came to my bed. I was lying on my side and she shaped herself to my back and pressed herself against me. In
the dream I woke up and said, ‘What?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, I only wanted to get warm.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said as I woke up out of the dream. I put my hand where she’d been but her side of the bed was cold.

23 January 2004. I went up to Golders Green out of curiosity; I wanted to see how Chauncey and Justine were getting on. I didn’t phone ahead, I thought I’d just drop in and catch them unawares. Not knowing where I’d find an off-licence in Golders Green I bought a bottle of Glenfiddich at Nicolas in Berwick Street. I like the red Nicolas sign with its yellow lettering, it has spiritual uplift.

I was standing on the Northern Line platform at Tottenham Court Road when I noticed a rat down among the cables by the tracks. I remembered reading somewhere that in London you’re never more than ten feet away from a rat. That’s about how far I was from this one when it turned and looked at me. ‘You looking at me?’ I said. It didn’t say anything but its nose was twitching. Then it went back to its cable run. I did a few bars of rat music in my head. I hate their naked tails and their superior attitude, their behind-the-scenes cynicism. Cockroaches too – you can scrunch as many
as you like but they’re laughing because they know they’ll win in the end.

Justine. What made Irv Goodman and Chauncey Lim and me suddenly fall in love with her? Love, shit. Irv is eighty-three and he’s got no business falling in love. I’m sixty-five and Chauncey’s only in his forties but all of us are old enough to know better. Irv started it. Almost at the end of his life and wanting something impossible he comes to me and flings down the gauntlet: ‘You can do it, Istvan.’

When I first saw the interference pattern on the white card I thought,Well, yes, I
am
interfering. Maybe she wants to stop in the video, maybe she wants to stay dead. But I was hot for her and I wanted her alive and I was in charge. Now she was with Chauncey Lim and for the most part I was glad to have her off my hands. Maybe I was a little jealous. Dead people! I wonder what Lazarus did when he came out of the tomb. Must have had a hell of a thirst. Did he head for the nearest pub? If he did, they probably gave him plenty of room at the bar.

The train came and I found a seat by the doors. A woman sat down next to me but at Goodge Street she moved to another seat. Did I still smell of primordial soup? Or maybe I just looked crazy. Whatever. So many different faces in the Underground. Chinese, Japanese, Pakistani, Afro-Caribbean, Afro-African, and a few white American and English ones. All of them had necks, some exposed by open coats or jackets, others hidden. Faces staring into space, faces reading, faces looking inward at the stories inside them.

It’s a long ride to Golders Green and I had to change at Camden Town to the Edgware train. Up the steps and across through a crush of faces and footsteps and down again to the other platform. There was an Edgware train with its doors open and in I went. Not very many people this time. Chalk Farm, Belsize Park, Hampstead. Hampstead Heath was where I once walked with Luise von Himmelbett. We sat on a bench high up on the Heath with a view of London down below us. There are ghosts of me all over this town.

When next I looked out of the window we were above ground, in a long grey stretch of railroad-yard looking things and wintry afternoon daylight. Then here came Golders Green station. The last time I’d been there was years ago when I needed some Jewish records from Jerusalem the Golden.

I went down the stairs and out into the winter sky (very high and open, with gold-tinted clouds) and the last part of the day. Brightly lit newsagents and snack shops led me out of the station into lights and traffic and crossings and railings and the Finchley Road. After the cramped closeness of Soho it all seemed very wide and spread out and strange to me. Elijah’s Lucky Dragon was only a short walk from the station, between Leverton and Sons Ltd, Independent Funeral Directors since 1789, and The Gate Lodge pub. I wouldn’t have minded dropping in for a quick one but The Gate Lodge sounded like designer beers and careful drinkers and the pub front was red with hanging plants and yellow outlines on the panels and windows, all very charming. I don’t like charming and I don’t like careful
drinkers. I like pubs plain and dark and old-fashioned with names like The Hand of Glory, The Spade and Coffin and The Jolly Sandboys. With serious drinkers. There was a bus stop nearby with dark huddles of people and buses coming and going. In this cold northern twilight the buses looked larger and redder than the ones in my part of town.

The sign on Rosalie Chun’s restaurant was a green neon dragon wearing a yarmulke. The red neon lettering was that
Chu-Chin-Chow
cuneiform they used in movie titles back in the 1930s and it was still being used as recently as
The World of Suzie Wong
in the 1950s.

I looked through the glass door and saw the chairs up on the tables and a black man mopping the floor. I tapped on the glass and he came to the door shaking his head. ‘
Shabbas
,’ he said. ‘We’re closed.’

‘
You’re
working,’ I said.

‘I’m the
schwartzer
,’ he said.

‘Can you tell me where the Chuns live?’ I asked him.

‘Why?’

‘I’m a friend of Chauncey Lim’s, he’s staying with them. Justine Trimble too.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Istvan Fallok.’

‘Wait here,’ he said, and disappeared. I turned around and watched the traffic. There wasn’t much. After about five minutes he came back. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Go to the side entrance and ring the bell.’

‘You’re very careful,’ I said. ‘Been having any trouble here?’

He shook his head and went back to his mopping.

I went round and found two bells, one above the other. No names. It was a three-storey building. I rang the bottom bell. ‘Yes?’ said a man’s voice.

I told him who I was and said I’d come to see Justine.

‘Ring the other bell,’ he said.

This time Chauncey Lim answered. ‘What?’ he said.

‘It’s me,’ I said, ‘Istvan.’

He buzzed me in and I went up the stairs to the second floor. There was a mezuzah on the doorpost so I touched my fingers first to my lips, then to the little metal cylinder. When Chauncey opened the door he didn’t seem very glad to see me. ‘Did you kiss the mezuzah?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m a multicultural kind of goy. Why? Have you converted to Judaism?’

‘No, but you needn’t be flippant. When the Lord smote all the firstborns in the land of Egypt, he passed over the houses of the children of Israel where they’d smeared the blood of the Paschal lamb on the doorposts as instructed by Moses. The mezuzah is a reminder of that.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Did you read that in a fortune cookie?’

‘All right,’ said Chauncey, ‘you can make jokes all you like but blood is a serious thing.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I said.

‘Hear, O Israel!’ said a strange voice. There was a parrot in a large cage in a corner of the room.

‘That’s Elijah,’ said Chauncey. ‘He’s a member of the Chun family.’

‘Handsome bird,’ I said. ‘African grey?’

‘Tishbite,’ said Elijah. ‘First Kings, not dew nor rain.’

‘Rosalie does Bible readings with him,’ said Chauncey.

‘My word,’ said Elijah.

‘OK already,’ said Chauncey.

‘Some of my best friends are
goyim
,’ said Elijah.

‘Great,’ I said, ‘but I still wouldn’t want my sister to marry a parrot.’

‘Why didn’t you phone before coming?’ said Chauncey. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t want you to make any preparations.’ I gave him the whisky.

‘Thanks,’ he said. He turned his back on Elijah and lowered his voice. ‘Has H-U-N-T-E-R been around again?’

‘Not yet. Where’s Justine?’

‘Napping. She sleeps a lot.’ He looked as if he might say more but didn’t. He got two glasses and poured the Glenfiddich.

‘
L’haim
,’ said Elijah.

‘Cheers,’ said Chauncey without much enthusiasm.

‘Here’s to romance,’ I said.

He laughed in a small way. ‘That’s right: all you need is love.’

‘How is she?’ I said. ‘Are you topping her up or is she hunting?’

‘Neither. Rosalie’s been feeding her kosher Chinese plus Golem broth and gosky patties Ba’al Shem Tov and she seems to be thriving on it – she’s even put on a pound or two.’

‘Wonderful! And she’s not losing colour?’

‘No, she’s looking great.’

‘Phwoarr,’ said Elijah.

‘When do I get to see her?’ I said to Chauncey.

‘She’ll be out in a minute or two. Have you been around to my place at all?’

‘Yes. Couple of messages on your door.’ I gave them to him.

‘Customers wanting to know about their orders,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to work soon.’

‘And Justine? What’s our next move with her?’

‘Rosalie says she can stop here indefinitely. She and Justine have become great chums.’

‘What about Rosalie’s husband? Does he mind Justine’s being here indefinitely?’

‘Lester Chun isn’t at home very much,’ said Chauncey. ‘He travels a lot.’

We sat there with our drinks not making much eye contact while I looked around the room.

‘You looking at me?’ said Elijah.

‘No,’ I said, ‘just the room.’ White walls and only one picture, a Chagall lithograph with an elongated female nude slanting to the right while being admired by a standing-on-air black cock with an inner man. Perhaps a full moon up above, perhaps an Eiffel tower down below, a man’s face at the base? Looking at the picture I began to hear klezmer music in my mind. I thought of Luise von Himmelbett whom I loved a long time ago. And was unfaithful to. And lost. Maybe loss is the main action of the universe and we’re here because the universe wants us to experience it. So why did I bring Justine Trimble out of my primordial soup?
And why was I a little jealous of Chauncey Lim? I looked at the kelim under my feet and the pattern didn’t do anything, didn’t move forward and back like the optical-illusion bathroom tiles of my childhood.

‘Yo, Uncle Ish,’ said Justine as she came into the room. She looked great and gave me a hug and a kiss. Her breath stank and when she stepped back she looked a little wild, the way she did when she came home on the night she killed Rose Harland and had sex with two different men afterward. ‘Anything I can do for you?’ she said. ‘Chauncey won’t mind, will you, Chaunce?’

‘I don’t care a rat’s arse either way,’ said Chauncey.

‘Do it, Uncle Ish,’ said Elijah. ‘Do Justine.’

‘You don’t sound like yourself,’ I said to Chauncey. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘“The lotus springs from the mud.”’

‘What lotus are we talking about?’ I said.

‘I’ll let you know when I find out,’ said Chauncey.

‘I’m a Texas lotus that sprung out of the soup,’ said Justine. ‘How about it, Ish? You up for a little action?’

‘
Pas ce soir
, Josephine,’ I said. ‘Have a drink.’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she said. She got it down her neck pretty quickly. ‘Well, if nobody needs me here I might as well take a walk.’

‘Good idea,’ said Chauncey, ‘a little exercise always puts roses in your cheeks.’

‘I’m off then,’ she said. ‘See you both later.’

Chauncey and I drank more whisky. ‘What is it?’ I said after a while.

‘What is what?’ he said.

‘Come on, Chaunce,’ I said. ‘There’s something bothering you.’

‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ he said. ‘My falling in love with Justine was a delusion that came out of my wanting to take her away from you. That was how it started, then when we got into sharing her it seemed a really cool thing to do but now …’

‘Now what?’