Come Let Us Sing Anyway Page 8

  ‘Happy?’ asked the velvet man, when all were chosen and she stood, sticky with sap and ever so slightly breathless at her own excess. She hesitated. He was still smiling, gently leaning down to move a leaf from her hair.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. So generous. Thank you so much.’

  ‘And now…?’

  His bow was near-genuflection. She stared.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  *

  She was the kind of woman who had always paid her way. Paid her half of the meal, despite her date’s protests. Not that there had been a million men in her life. She had an ordinary face and an easily concealed body, so there had been no more than a few gently drunken fumbles before Jack, at uni. She knew she could have gathered many more sexual experiences: a plain girl was easy, by necessity. But she was determined not to be seen in that way; invisibility was the better choice.

  Jack was bearded and fairly ordinary himself: unexpectedly judicious in his courting. The first time they had sex he lost and gained his erection three times, sawing back and forth inside her so long that his eventual orgasm had them both mistaking relief for love.

  *

  She wanted to see things, do things, new things. The velvet man slid them into an black car sleek with butter-soft upholstery.

  A private viewing of several complex and beautiful paintings, he guiding her from one piece to another, pointing out colour, texture, inviting her thoughts. She knew nothing of modern art, but as he smiled and shared his own pleasure in the work, she slowly began to say what she saw, felt, loved.

  The velvet man hired a helicopter so they could zoom low over the city, snug together in the belly of a huge bumblebee, yelling happily over the roar of the blades. Below her, the city looked bleak and cheerless, and she was momentarily frightened, making herself small under the velvet man’s armpit. He smoothed the soft hair at her temples and squeezed her hand, yelling almost angrily at the pilot: ‘Take us down!’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘can we just see something pretty?’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you when,’ and she might have dozed against his chest, or through some deeper reverie, and then the city was behind them and they were to-ing and fro-ing above green hills, watching silver-blue rivers pour deep into tiny valleys. She wondered if they disturbed the birds, and at the softness of the velvet man’s skin over his chest and arms.

  ‘Happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to say, her cold cheek against his good shirt.

  ‘I’ll do anything you want,’ he said.

  *

  Jack had broken off with her in the second year, to sleep with a more intelligent woman, she suspected, then come back with his tail between his legs the term afterwards. She’d punished him for just long enough and then they’d stayed up late studying for finals in her neat and polished room – he politics and history, she marketing. They had married two years later; divorced seven years after that. There had been no children, a fact that relieved her nearly as much as the sight of his slightly sweaty-shirted back walking out of their small, well-organised apartment, hands gripping two suitcases she’d refused to pack for him, then packed anyway, and a large teddy bear he’d had since childhood. The divorce was uncomplicated, as such things go.

  All the way through their courtship and lives together, she’d had jobs, maintained her own chequing account and independence; paid half the bills. She had decided to be the best of modernity: she would not be hoe or a bitch or a gold-digger or a floozy – or what did they call them these days? Thots and skanks and ratchet girlies. No. That kind of woman offended her. The rampant consumerism even more than the exchange of flesh.

  *

  A spa was next: entry via a discreet doorway off an expensive street. He waited patiently in the quiet foyer as she was taken away and stripped: washed first in sprays of perfumed water, a salt scrub applied, then thick, warm cinnamon oil ladled all over her body and rubbed in; more water to finish; the gentle breathing of the two women working on her tight neck, her loose calves. She had always been thin and relatively fit, but under their ministrations she felt like a crust of something – stale bread, a discarded piece of a pie. A sliver of something they were trying to render pliable.

  One of the girls wrapped her in a robe and brought her attention to a tray of jewellery sent in for her, and the security guard beside it. Despite their professionalism, neither masseuse could restrain their giggles – a kind of raw pleasure that scraped against her as she watched them. They nudged her, all girls together, excited. She felt their envy and bewilderment, realised that they were examining her, trying to see what magic she had worked on this man. Where was it – in her pores and crevices, and could they have some, too?

  She considered her own feelings as she touched the diamonds. There was a price to be paid, she accepted that. She did not want to think what, but certainly sex. She had never slept with a stranger before; the thought made her feel dull and determined. But she would go with him, and do what he wanted. There was no other ending to the story.

  ‘Your boyfriend says he wants to watch you choose.’

  She pulled her robe tight and watched the velvet man come in, through slitted eyes.

  *

  She had never really kept close friends; the few she did have, from university, and then two colleagues, a man and a woman, all seemed to admire her, but then no more. Jack had been more sociable than she: he had someone over at least once a month to eat the food she cooked and to remark on their flat. Someone had once politely called it a show home, and the praise always left her satisfied.

  ‘Just so,’ Jack had said, mimicking her. ‘Everything just so. Like you’re my fucking mum or something.’

  ‘It doesn’t take very much to keep things nice,’ she’d argued. ‘Just put it back where you found it. Everything in its place. The secret is in the upkeep. Just be organised.’

  ‘I’d like to see you lose your mind, just once,’ he said. It was one of the few things he’d ever said with substance; he was no puzzle. But it had surprised her: the force of his wish. Would he have revelled more in her temper or a screaming, undignified orgasm? Or did he want to see her stark staring mad, clawing at the sky?

  She’d been glad to see the back of him. Friends of his called to tell her how much they admired her fortitude, her pragmatism; the quiet respect she afforded him during a short period of bitter-mouthed alcoholism, short because well – he was far too judicious to really become a nuisance in anyone’s life. He had done his best with her. Just she wore away people, over time. She knew that about herself. She was a transitory experience. Her parents rang infrequently, usually Tuesday, as if they kept a diary somewhere. She was a duty: that was fine.

  *

  She was shaking by the time they reached her neighbourhood, car inching its way through old buildings like oil. Some arrangement had been made with the market florist and all her pink flowers had been packed carefully, carpeting the floor of the car and overflowing in the back. The driver sneezed. The velvet man stroked her hand. He looked concerned – or was it the grim visage of a man about to claim his pound of flesh? She was horrified. What was the price of this day, of the diamond bracelet on her wrist, its sharp brilliance cutting through the evening gloom?

  ‘Here,’ she said. The car slunk into place.

  He saw that she was shaking. His face, distressed. ‘What can I do?’ he said, rubbing and rubbing the back of her thin hand. ‘How can I help?’ Above them, the balcony of her simple, second-floor apartment loomed.

  She turned to face him.

  ‘We have to go somewhere else. I’ll do what you say, but not here.’

  ‘I wanted to see your home, full of flowers.’

  ‘Not here,’ she hissed. ‘No.’

  He drew away from her. ‘What is it that you think we’re going to do?’

  She made a gesture, across her body, hand sharp, fingers flailing.

&
nbsp; He shook his head, stroked her face.

  ‘You still don’t understand. I do what you want. Your pleasure is mine. There is no price.’

  She squinted. ‘But…’

  He laughed, low. Seemed softer than ever.

  ‘Whatever you need.’

  She could feel her backbone begin to unfurl. Could there be this kind of man? She didn’t know how it worked.

  He gathered her face in his hands. ‘Anything I can do. It’s my pleasure.’

  The feeling of recognition returned, that there are spirits that know what you are. She felt something tilt inside. She grasped his shoulders, hurting herself, hurting him, perhaps? It didn’t matter. All for her. He said so. An impossibility. Let him see her sins.

  *

  Her nails bite into his wrist, as they walk towards her front door. There is a nest of silver cobwebs in the eaves, a black garbage bag, strewn in the way. She keeps hold of his hand, fits the key with the other, smoothly opens.

  The apartment smells of old washing-up and the cheese of mould. There are pieces of discarded clothing in the hall. They traverse the items, she kicking them out of the way. Old candle wax, long-sputtered across bookshelves. Dust everywhere, on alphabetised books and matching crockery.

  She stands, hands dangling, as he takes it in, looking around him, back to her.

  There is a half-eaten chicken leg in the middle of the living room floor. The sofa is stained, with matching stained cushions. Detritus teeters: saucers, each sugared with ancient meals. In the kitchen, piles of dirty clothes totter in front of the sink, the full dishwasher, the full washing machine. She has been washing the same clothes for three days, unable to do more than add new liquid, then sit on the dirty kitchen floor, watching the same items wash again, unable to make herself open the door and take the damp items out and spread them on her balcony, or through the flat to dry. Dotted through the rooms are dusters, including a feather one, spray polish, disinfectant, floor-cleaner, bleach. She has been carrying them around, and laying them in piles.

  He watches her carefully, nods her on. They are not done.

  She has been sleeping on a naked mattress for weeks; it is too much to make the bed at the end of a day. Most of the bed is occupied – half-drunk water bottles among the pillows, hairbands and used tights where she’s dragged them off and discarded them. Pills – all her efforts to soothe, improve, heal, take control: Omega-3 supplements, multivitamins, evening primrose oil. A cracked lipstick. There is old vomit down the side of the bed.

  The velvet man looks at the flat and looks at her. She is swaying in her shame.

  Her mouth cracks open.

  ‘I’m so lonely,’ she says.

  *

  Into the night, she listens: to the scud of a broom across wood; the flushing of a toilet; the tamp-tamp sound of fresh sheets being shaken out; jangling clothes-hangers; a scrubbing brush against the floor, the rattle of pill bottles. Bleach, floor polish. He could pay, but he does it with his hands. Sounds of him lifting the bed, the desk, each one of her shoes. Bags of junk, stink, shame, removed. As dark deepens: the striking of a match for candles and incense; the sweet smell of peonies gathered and fluffed; a choice of low music – guitar and drum, and him, humming along; she begins to breathe again; she dozes; wakes to his lips brushing against her forehead; the snicker of the front door opening and closing.

  ART, FOR FUCK’S SAKE

  I had been celibate for a year before a pair of lions happened along. Well, they weren’t lions, but the kind of men who make you think of lions, with their tumbling shades of brown and their big soft paws.

  I’d decided men were dogs. Panting, impatient things that looked at you with irresistible eyes, then wagged their tails at the very next bitch. When I was fifteen, I met a young man with a mantra. His mother taught it to him: ‘There is only one way to handle women. Fool them, fuck them and forget them.’ Two can play that game. I’d chosen to forget them. My best friend Marcia fucked them. She specialised in one-night stands where the talking went wrong and the sex went right. But I couldn’t imagine a careless grind and a stranger in my bed the next morning. I’d never done anything like that, and I never intended to.

  *

  I went and sat on Marcia’s sofa two hours after I finished my fifth novel. I hadn’t seen her for weeks, but she was used to me coming out of post-novel hibernation. That kind of work does things to you, loses you in a world of one. My eyes were bloodshot and my weave needed emergency treatment. Marcia looked at me in friendly disgust.

  ‘Girl,’ she said, ‘you need some sex.’

  ‘You always think that sex is the answer to everything.’

  ‘Sex is good for you, Simone. You know how much man I check since you disappear into that novel? Me nearly call you the other night to come out, but then me remember you don’t business with crotches when you writin’.’

  She told me about her latest exploits: a man at a local bar with three golden teeth and an oral technique that made her praise God; another who leaned against her car while she was having her nails done (‘The man waited for me two hours!’). I let the details wash over me. Crickets sang through the burglar bars on her living-room window. I loved that sound. Whatever changes in Jamaica, the sound of crickets at night is constant.

  The night before I finished the novel, I dreamed crickets and dreamed a man. Just a nice man. Someone who did what he said he would do, and knew that when he touched a woman he made a promise. To cherish her, to love her. To be there. And then we made love: skin and arms and moans among the sounds of crickets calling for a mate. I woke up aching, knowing I’d never find him. There’d been too many lies.

  Marcia touched my arm. ‘You alright?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. That sounds good.’

  ‘You not listening at all.’ She laughed and smacked me lightly on the knee. ‘Stop pretending.’

  I turned to face her. ‘Why you make man use you so?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘I’m not being used.’

  ‘How can you not feel used?’

  She stretched out for her wineglass and sipped delicately. She looked fragile under the lamp. Perhaps that was why men came to her; maybe they needed to bed something they thought they could break.

  ‘As a writer I would expect more from you,’ she said. ‘A little more empathy. But never mind that. Somebody’s coming over now.’

  I stared at her. ‘You throwing me out?’

  Marcia rolled her eyes. ‘Call it whatever you want, girl.’

  *

  Walking back to my car, I thought about how I’d once tried to write a character like Marcia, but couldn’t make it work. There were too many things about her motivation that I didn’t understand.

  She’d forgive me in a day or so, I thought. I felt sorry for her. I’d clearly hit a nerve.

  *

  Two weeks later, in time-honoured middle-class Jamaicanness, my hair was a sleek waterfall down my back and my nails were scarlet. My manuscript was off to my US editor and I was well into what Marcia had dubbed Operation Run Down Man. She was talking to me again, of course she was – just in time for the partying. It wasn’t that I never partied. Or flirted. Or laughed. I could do all those things. But I still found myself in the middle of bars and on the front steps of houses sweating into my frock, wondering if everyone could see how dead I felt inside. I didn’t want to do this. Waste of time, I thought, as men bought me drinks, leered down my cleavage, presented their crotches for me to dance with. Love wasn’t this superficial.

  It was Joshua who called the next morning as I downed strong coffee and held my head. I grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ I said, hating whoever it was.

  ‘Simone Jacobs?’ I had to smile. It was the kind of voice that made you want to smile.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

  He was very professional. He explained that he was a musician, told me about gigs he’d played and contacts we had in common. A friend introduced him to my novels; now th
ey had a proposal for work.

  ‘Tell me more about the project.’ I wasn’t curious about the job yet. I just liked how the growl in his voice woke me up.

  ‘We don’t have a name for it. We’ve been calling it Project X.’ Multimedia. He’d do the music; his friend Che would create the central piece, a sculpture. And they wanted me to think about words. A set of short stories, perhaps.

  ‘Is there a theme?’ I asked.

  ‘Passion.’

  I nearly laughed.

  *

  I met them in a wine bar off Hope Road. They got to their feet when I entered, like Jamaican men with broughtupcy. I recognised Joshua’s voice. He was shorter than Che, but bigger, darker. Barrel chest, rock-faced. Che bounced on his heels, smiling. A yellow man, his hair an explosion of soft, black flames.

  We ordered shrimp pasta, bread, crisp salads that weren’t. They told me about Project X, interrupting each other, joking, occasionally dropping into the kind of code reserved for old friends. It was nice to watch.

  ‘Blame everything on Che,’ said Joshua, mock serious. ‘I wanted to explore the implications of twenty-first century postmodernism in Jamaican politics, but he wants to get into slackness!’

  Che bounced, like he couldn’t keep still. He coughed over his Red Stripe. ‘Me? You see how you making the woman think is foolishness we trying to do? Passion is everything – not just sex.’ His hands were rough, a sculptor’s hands. He touched his own face, put his fingers into his mouth, then crossed his arms as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

  ‘When did you two first meet?’ I asked.

  Che rolled his eyes. ‘Dis bwoy followed me around school till me talk to him. And I still can’t get rid of him.’