Читать книгу The Radiant City - Lauren B. Davis - Страница 11

That night Matthew returns home after consuming a great deal of beer at the Bok-Bok. He lies in bed and considers the Ferhat family. Saida is a pretty woman. Her dark eyes are arresting, one might even say haunting, lit with sorrow, yes, but also with dignity and intelligence. Good bones, as they say, although it’s obvious from the way she shields her scars that whatever happened to Saida has left her feeling unlovely, which is such a shame.

Matthew likes the boy, too, who is growing into his skin, pushing out to see where the limits of things are. It is a tough age, sixteen. Matthew knows that only too well. So many things can change, some irrevocably, others only feel that way. So many things cannot be changed.

Matthew’s own family lives in a carefully guarded compartment in his mind. It has been a long time since he has seen his father and brother, Bill, Jr. Bill has built a house on the same farm and lives there with his wife and three children. Matthew has never met his brother’s wife, nor his children, God help them. He has not seen a picture of them; has never heard their voice on the phone.

Matthew’s mother died two years after the barn burning. All her dreams of going to Halifax and studying to be a vet went up in smoke in that barn, as did her hope of a new life, away from her drunken, violent husband. She would not go so long as Matthew was still at home, but she had been planning. Saving a little here and there. Putting something aside for years, all the while trying to protect Matthew as best she could from her husband’s drunken rages. It was always Matthew. Never Bill, Jr., and the reason was simple enough: Bill, Jr. was the perfect clone of his father. However, with Matthew getting ready to go off to college, she had confided in him. Told him she was planning to leave, too. Somehow, her husband got wind of those plans.

The day after the barn burning, the town constable, the insurance man and the fire marshal came to poke around and ask some questions. They all said there was no sense to things like this. Just plain fool bad luck. The insurance man asked if there was any motive for his good friend Bill Bowles to burn down his own barn. Matthew held his breath and stared at the man real hard, so he would know that hell, yes, there was a motive and just give him a moment alone without his father around and he’d sure tell him what it was. But then the insurance man shrugged, said, “There’s just no figuring,” and the men all looked solemn. A little later they had a drink together, Bill and Bill, Jr., and the constable and the fire marshal and the insurance man, and then the three men got back in the constable’s car and went away, beeping the horn in a friendly way as they turned onto the main road.

Later the man from the county came to haul away the animal carcasses. The air was still thick with the smell of burned horseflesh; all his life Matthew would be haunted by the image of the black, bloated bodies hanging from a back leg as the knacker man winched them onto the back of his truck. And then the knacker man, too, was gone and the three Bowles men were left alone in the yard, amidst the smoulder and the stench.

Bill Bowles spit on the ground and then turned to look up at his wife’s ashen face, staring down at them from the upstairs window. “Nobody goes anywhere,” he said. “Not on my fucking watch.” And although it was not clear whether his mother could hear the words or not, the message was indisputably clear. Bill Bowles Senior held the reins of power and he was not going to give them up. The curtain fell and Matthew’s mother’s face disappeared.

After that, his mother remained in her room, mostly. She did what she was told and said little and cried not at all, not after that first night. The two or three friends she had from church came by from time to time, but his mother refused to see them, and so gradually the intervals between visits lengthened and then they stopped all together. His mother did not wash and she didn’t eat, or hardly anything, and then only when her husband threatened to force-feed her.

She was bent on dying. Had her mind set on getting out. One day she called Matthew into her room where she lay on the bed, a stick-doll under a faded quilt. “Get out now,” she said to him, trailing her finger along the most recent bruise colouring his face. “Don’t wait.”

But he could not, of course. Not as long as she was left behind.

It took her a long time to die.

A week after she had been laid in the ground Matthew packed his duffle bag and, closing the door softly behind him in the middle of the night, headed for Halifax and whatever fate he found, vowing he would spend his life pointing a finger at the brutal tyrants of the world. He would make people listen. He would make them see. He would make them do something.

And what has he done?

People see. People know. And so what? They do not care. They cannot care. It would rock their view of the world too much. People think that if it is true, what he and others like him have to say about the world, then the world is too horrible, too terrifying to continue living in. And so they look, but do not see. Hear, but do not listen. Know, but will not admit. Admit. To let in. To permit access to. Like light.

Matthew rolls over, buries his face in the pillow and weeps. He weeps for a long time, and when he is done he reaches for the sleeping pills he keeps handy and takes more than he should.

Matthew has developed a loose pattern to his days, one divided into blocks of time. He sleeps in the mornings, tries to write in the afternoons, and generally fails. Late afternoons are for Chez Elias, when he feels calm and friendly. Evenings are for the Bok-Bok. Unless he is in what he almost laughingly calls The Emotionally Hopeless Forest. Then it’s alone in his apartment with the phone off the hook. Now he is on his way to the Bok-Bok. Or at least he was, until the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Matthew!” Brent. Only Brent pronounces his name “Mat-you.”

“Hey, Brent.”

“Don’t hey me. What did you write today?”

“I’m working.”

“So send me something.”

“Fine, I’ll send you something.”

“You said that last week.”

“And I sent you a chapter.”

“I didn’t get it. Big surprise. You didn’t overnight it.”

“French mail is whimsical.”

“I’m laughing.”

“I like to make you happy.”

Brent heaves a huge sigh. “Listen, Matthew. Listen to me. You got an advance. A very nice advance. Your editor is expecting to see something from this. You are not an international charity. If you don’t start producing—”

“I am producing. I’m just not ready to show anything yet.”

“This isn’t fiction, Matthew, where timing doesn’t matter. Timing matters. You’re hot for only so long and then somebody else comes along and does something else that everybody’s talking about and nobody remembers you. If nobody remembers you, nobody buys the book, get it?”

It is Matthew’s turn to sigh. “I get it. I get it, Brent. And really, I am working. It’s just a little rough yet. I want to impress them, you know?” His insincerity is like thistles in his throat.

“Impress the hell out of us. Write something.”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t make me come over there, Matthew.”

“See you, Brent. I’ll get you something in the next couple of days.”

All the way over to the 20th on the metro, Matthew mutters to himself about avaricious agents and bloodsucking publishers. The seat next to him remains empty.

When he arrives at the bar, someone calls out to him. “Hey Matthew, over here!”

His eyes have not adjusted and he cannot make out the face, but he knows Jack’s voice.

“Hey,” he says, blinking and squinting into the smoky gloom. Soon he can make out Jack’s bulk, sitting at his usual table with his back to the wall. “I’ll get a drink. You want one?”

“Draught,” says Jack. “And bring a Coke for my pal, Anthony.”

“Hey,” says another voice.

“Fair enough.”

Matthew orders two beers and a Coke from Dan who pours them into thick glass mugs and hands them over without saying a word. There is a tired-looking woman sitting at the end of the bar, her blond wig slightly askew. Matthew nods and she smiles back. It takes him a moment to realize it is Suzi, the girl wearing the black wig the first time he came to the Bok-Bok. “Nice look for you,” he says. “I like it.”

“You’re sweet. You buy me a drink, too?” She pats the seat next to her.

“Get Suzi whatever she wants, okay, Dan?”

Suzi gets up and comes over to him. Although he has lied about how flattering the wig is, it strikes him, not for the first time, what a pretty woman she is. Her eyes are huge and look even larger because of the dark circles underneath. Her mouth is very small, and overall she looks like a girl from another time, from the twenties, perhaps, when Betty Boop was the It girl.

“Coupe de champagne,” she says. “You join me, yes?”

“Maybe later, okay? I have to deliver drinks to the boys.”

“Let me know, Matthew.” She pronounces it in the French way, Matte-u—which, although similar to Brent’s pronunciation is infinitely more pleasing to the ear. She runs her green painted fingernail under his chin. “Merci,” she says and toasts him with her drink. Dan snorts.

Matthew makes his way through the tables, most of which are empty. John and Charlie sit together, as always, and, as always, before the end of the evening they will be arguing loudly. Three men Matthew has not seen before scribble something on the back of a paper napkin, and whisper. As he walks past, they stop talking and cover up the napkin. Matthew ignores them.

Jack takes his beer, drinks and wipes foam from his moustache. Three mugs stand empty on the table. Next to him is a man almost as large, wearing a broad-shouldered black leather coat. His forehead is high and his hair black, cut close to the scalp. His skin is the colour of red rice and strong tea. He wears an open, unguarded expression, which is unusual in a place like this. When he smiles, which he does as soon as Matthew approaches, his gums are predominant, and his teeth disproportionately small. There is no defence against such a sincere smile, and Matthew immediately smiles back.

“Thanks. I’ll get the next round,” says Anthony, and he holds out his hand for Matthew to shake.

“Pleased to meet you,” says Matthew.

“Anthony’s been down south in Marseilles.”

“Ah,” says Matthew.

“Anthony used to be a cop in New York City.”

“Tough place to be a cop,” says Matthew. He has trouble reconciling this occupation with the man who sits before him.

“All places are tough when you’re a cop. It was a long time ago.” He reaches up and taps his head. “Wound up with a metal plate.”

“Ouch.” Matthew winces.

“I was moonlighting as a guard at Bellevue. One of the inmates got all whacked out and picked up this big table. Whammo! Cold-cocked me.”

“Jesus,” says Matthew.

“I don’t remember it.”

“Anthony was in a coma for, what, two weeks?”

“Thirteen days. When I woke up there were these spaces where things used to be. Can’t plan things or remember some things like I used to. And I can’t drink the way I used to. I’m better than I was. Some headaches, dizziness. Been eleven years. Now mostly I just have trouble with new situations. Like, when I’m traveling, right, I can read the train ticket fine, and I can read the station board where they list the track numbers. Problem is, sometimes I can’t figure out how one thing relates to the other. Connection synapses don’t fire.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s stupid, though,” says Jack.

“Well, no stupider than before.” Anthony smiles. “I just like to tell new people what’s what, so they don’t draw the wrong conclusions if I draw a memory blank. Worse thing isn’t the head though, it’s numbness.” He flexes his fingers a few times. “Nerve damage. Not exactly conducive to handling a firearm. Not that I want to do that anymore. If I never see a gun again—fine by me.”

“Hell of a story,” says Matthew.

“It’s not a story.” Anthony looks puzzled.

“No, I didn’t mean that it wasn’t true, just that it’s hard.”

“I guess. But I got off light. You should have seen some of the guys in the head ward. Acting like five year olds in a grown man’s body, or couldn’t walk, or talk. Naw, a little confusion, a little numbness, it’s all right. I get a check from the city of New York. I get to come to Paris and all. I’m studying food. That’s what I was doing in the south, but it didn’t work out. I got a job as a kitchen grunt. A crappy job, but it was a start. Good restaurant. But I didn’t catch on fast enough.”

“Sorry to hear that,” says Matthew, but Anthony just shrugs.

“Language problem is the way I choose to see it. I make it a practice not to hang on to resentments. Keep calm. Kind of a vow I took when my life derailed. No more violence, you know?”

Jack snorts. “Anthony had a spiritual awakening. Turned over a new leaf. I knew Anthony back in New York. Made a fair penny together back in the day.”

“Long time ago,” says Anthony and he drops his eyes.

“Aw, don’t get all remorseful,” says Jack, punching him in the shoulder. “That was then. Now we’re just three guys in Paris, right? No pasts.”

“At least not in here,” says Anthony. “Think that’s why I took to this place, the first time Jack brought me.”

“I’ll drink to that,” says Matthew.

Suzi passes their table on the way to the toilet and ruffles Jack’s hair.

“Jack’s got a girlfriend,” Anthony says.

“Grow the fuck up,” says Jack.

“Suzi’s all right,” says Matthew.

“Hell, yes. No problem there,” says Jack. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.”

“Yours for the asking, I’d say.” Matthew takes a long pull of his beer.

“Mine for the paying, actually. And I don’t pay.”

“I don’t think she’d make you pay. She likes you,” says Anthony, then smiles. “I got a girlfriend. Vietnamese girl.”

“Anthony’s new romance.” Jack looks amused.

“What’s her name?” says Matthew.

“Pawena. In fact, you should meet her. Come over for dinner. I’m going to cook and Jack’s coming. What do you say?”

“Sure, why not? Thanks for the offer.”

“Jack, you working at the hostel Saturday night?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, Saturday night then.” With that, Suzi comes out of the bathroom, and Anthony reaches out and takes her hand. “Suzi, you want to come to dinner with us? At my place? I’m cooking. You can meet my girlfriend.”

“You want me to come to dinner?”

“You working Saturday night?”

“She always works nights, asshole,” says Jack.

Suzi arches an eyebrow and puts her hand on her hip. “This Saturday I will take off. Can you really cook?”

“I can cook.”

“I would love to come for dinner. Give me the address.”

Anthony gives her an address and she whistles. “Oh-la-la! You live in an area I know very well. Good area for girls.”

Anthony throws his head back and laughs. “Not on my street!”

When she walks away, Jack slaps Anthony on the back of the head. “What are you doing?”

“Pawena’s going to bring her girlfriend, and with Matthew coming I thought it would be nice to have an even number. What?”

“Listen, Brainiac, how do you think your girlfriend’s going to take to you inviting a hooker?”

“Oh, she won’t mind.”

“Geez, I hate cops.”

“Present company,” says Anthony and waits.

“Excepted,” says Jack, rolling his eyes and grinning.