0513485001343534196 christopher fowler (32 page)

Of course, the crowd had also connected with Malcolm, or to be more accurate had connected with his collarbone, his left ankle, his skull and four of his ribs.

Margaret tells me that this is why she now goes to football, to experience that incredible moment when the crowd becomes a single powerful creature, when for a split-second it feels as though anything in the world is possible just by needing it.

She tries to tell me that here is something mystic, deep-rooted and inexplicable, but I point out the simple truth: when you have so many thousand people all concentrating on one man's ability to plant a ball in the back of a net, you harness an energy that can shift the world from its axis.

Margaret's children can tell you what life is really like. It smells of frying onions, and will beat the shit out of you if you resist it.

LOOKING FOR BOLIVAR

There are a number of ways you can change your life in a week.

You can fall in love with the wrong person. Career-switch from banking to wicker repair. Experience religious conversion. Get caught shoplifting. Change your barber. Undergo an epiphanal moment when you realise that you'll never drive through Rio in an open-top Mercedes unless you stop spending your weekends drifting around the shops looking at things you don't really want. What I mean is, at some point you either realise who you are and act toward the grain of your personality, no matter how unpalatable that might turn out to be, or you end up in a kind of bitter emotional cul-de-sac that eventually leads to you machine-gunning thirty people dead in McDonald's.

I saw this ad once for running shoes or CDs that said 'Whoever you are, be someone else.' I was twenty-four when I realised I could no longer imagine being someone else, and decided to make a change before it was too late. I moved from London to New York, and ended up looking for Bolivar.

As a child I was sickly, timid, sensible. Rejected by other kids, adored by adults. 'So grown-up!' my aunt would marvel, pinching my face between her fingers as if reaching a decision on curtain material. I left college with unimpressive credentials and was employed in the customer relations department of Barclays Bank, a job with an interest factor equivalent to staring at mud. To spend an evening in the pub with my colleagues was to grasp a sense of the infinite.

I rented a dingy flat in North London. 'It's not a lowerground,' my estate-agent brother informed me, 'it's a basement. I should know.' I failed to meet the Right Girl. 'Plenty of time for that,' said my mother, who had a mouth designed for holding pins, 'after you've done some hard work.' When the possibility of a transfer came up I took it without quite knowing why, although shifting from such a domineering family to a place where my nearest relative would be several thousand miles away seemed the sensible thing to do.

Maybe I was sick of living in a city that looked like a fish tank whose owner had forgotten to change its water. Maybe I went to New York because the streets were wide and thelight was high, because the wind swept in from the sea, because at night the town looked like Stromboli's fairground - how many reasons could there be?

On the day I left, I found myself at the departure gate surrounded by relatives vying with each other to impart advice. I boarded the flight with a head full of rules and lectures, and forgot them all before we landed.

The big things about New York were over-familiar before I'd even seen them. Vertiginous chromium avenues and yellow cabs were so instantly commonplace that they were rendered curiously unimpressive.

Rather, I remember being struck by ground-level details. The colours of old Manhattan, faded reds and browns, interiors painted a dingy shade of ochre peculiar to the city. Those little iron hoops that bordered all the trees. Racks of vegetables sprayed with water. Basketball courts on the street. Smelly subway gratings through which could be heard the distant thunder of trains. Vending machines chained to the ground, but trusting you enough to take just one newspaper.

The bank rented me an apartment in Hoboken. My first mistake was to lease a flat where the bedroom window was situated above a bus stop.

I had no idea people would actually sit on the bench below all night long, talking and playing ghetto-blasters. I wasn't about to go down and ask men with grey cotton hoods protruding over leather jackets to turn the music down.

After six weeks I was desperate. I am a light sleeper at the best of times, but this was impossible; I arrived at Union Square each morning lurching into work like a zombie. Finally I arranged to break the lease and move to another apartment in a quieter neighbourhood, but there was a shortfall between the dates of about a week, when I would have nowhere to stay.

One evening in early June I went out with some people from the bank.

They were more conservative in conversation than their London counterparts, but spoke frankly of their careers and finances - subjects we tend to regard as slightly taboo. They were sending off a teller named Dean Stanowicz, who was leaving under some kind of cloud nobody wanted to talk about. We went to this little Jewish restaurant and they gave him a gaudy iced cake, a tradition for every staff birthday, anniversary and wedding. For some reason I found myself explaining my housing problem to Dean, and he told me about a woman he knew who owned an apartment on West 44th Street. It seemed this woman - I couldn't decide how the two of them were related - was going into hospital for a hip operation, and she needed someone to take care of her apartment for a week. It was perfect. Our dates matched exactly. Her name was Mary Amity, which sounded friendly.

Until then it hadn't occurred to me that people lived in the centre of Manhattan. On Saturday morning I arrived at the front door of Miss Amity's building carrying a bag of clothes, a bulky set of keys and a page of scribbled instructions. Dean was supposed to have taken me around the place on Friday evening, but didn't seem very reliable. I had called his home number, but his message service was switched on. I don't know what I was expecting to find inside that tall terraced house with brown window frames and black railings. I had not yet been invited inside an American home - my colleagues worked hard and kept to themselves, valuing their privacy and guarding it accordingly. I suspected they considered me unfriendly, and back then perhaps I was.

A deep brown hallway - that colour again - smelled of freshly polished boots, and led to four gloomy flights of stairs. At the top of these, a firetruck-red front door sported three hard-to-open locks. The keys weren't marked, and the elimination process took me twenty minutes. I resolved to label them before I attempted to regain entry. I was a tidy man, and liked labelling things.

Inside, a narrow hall led to a disproportionately enormous lounge that smelled strongly of cigarettes. There were dozens of scruffy plants dotted in between comfortable pieces of furniture, and as many stacks of books.

In the corner was an easel with an odd half-finished painting of what appeared to be a three-legged cow, or an overweight hairless cat, on it.

There were a number of seventies' new age items scattered about, including a blue glass bong and several sets of redundant wind chimes.

Miss Amity had been admitted to hospital two days earlier, so I had the place to myself, or so I thought. No sooner had I set my bag down when a man in white overalls wandered out of the kitchen with a mug of tea in his hands, real PG-Tips-tea, not those perfumed things on strings you get in New York cafes.

'Hi,' he said amiably, 'do you know if there's a toy store around here?'

Thrown, I shrugged. 'I'm new in town. I don't know where everything is yet.'

'See, I gotta get my kid this troop-carrier spaceship for his birthday and I ain't got time to get to FAO Schwartz. Sixty bucks for something that'll be broke in a week. Crazy, huh? Makes me wish a bunch of real mean aliens would turn up and blast the shit outta the place just so kids would stop wanting models of 'em.'

I wasn't in the mood to conduct a conversation about spaceships with a total stranger when I had been expecting to be left in peace on my own.

Just then, an extraordinary clanging noise started up in the next room.

'I'm Charles,' I shouted, holding out my hand and hoping for some reciprocal information.

'And I'm Carlos. Hey, Chuck.' He slapped my fingers.

'Charles, actually.'

'You the guy looking after the joint while the lady of the house is away?'

'Yes, but I don't know - I mean - I wasn't expecting anyone else to be here.'

He looked amazed. 'You mean Dean didn't say anything about me and Raoul?' He aimed a paint-spattered thumb back at the kitchen.

'Raoul's in there trying to get the wastepipe loose.'

'Not a word.'

'You want some tea?' He filled a mug from a large brown pot and returned with it. 'Miss Amity's kind of like the mother Dean never had.

When he found out she'd have to go into hospital and miss her birthday, he arranged for us to come in and rebuild her bathroom, kind of a surprise for her when she comes out, so if she calls, don't say nothing about it. She's got this old bath that ain't plumbed in right and the tiles are all cracked, so we're putting in a load of new stuff.'

'Then why does she need someone to look after the place if you're here?'

'Because we're only gonna be here a couple days, and Bolivar gets lonely.' Skittering in across the polished floorboards came a bulky brindle bull terrier with a grinning mouth that looked wider than his body. He was wearing a broad leather collar studded with spikes, the kind of dog that looks like he's owned by the manager of a bar. I stepped back, alarmed.

As a child, I'd had a bad experience with such an animal.

'Nobody said anything about a dog.'

'Hey, he's no trouble. Eats anything, waits till he gets outside to piss, spends most of the day snoring and farting. Not like a dog at all. More like an intelligent pygmy with a big appetite.'

The bedroom was filled with dusty velvet swagging and framed photographs crammed on to unstable tables. Miss Amity appeared to be a sparky, photogenic woman in her early fifties, well-preserved, compact, her hair a range of different colours from copper to blonde. She was strangely beautiful, in the way that very kind people eventually become.

She seemed to attend a lot of charity events, and across the years had been photographed with an unlikely range of guests, including a couple of mayors, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Joe DiMaggio, Sylvia Miles, Joey Buttofuoco and someone who looked like - but surely couldn't be - Malcolm X.

There was also a picture of a man dressed as a giant carrot.

She wore a lot of junk jewellery - the room looked like a dumping ground for Mardi Gras beads. It wasn't tidy, or very clean. Nor was the rest of the apartment. The refrigerator contained mostly items past their sell-by dates. There was something growing in a Tupperware tub, and a half-chewed plate of lasagna had a kind of pubic mould springing from it.

While I was unpacking, Raoul wandered in chewing a chicken leg. He transferred the grease from his hand to his thigh and slapped his fingers against mine. 'Yo - Chaz, how ya doin'?'

'Er, Charles, actually.'

'Listen, you got no hot water tonight.'

'Great.'

'We're not plumbers.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You don't have to be all hoity-toity with us. We're not plumbers, we're just helpin' out, okay?'

I didn't wish to appear stuffy but they both seemed overfamiliar, with me, and with the apartment. Carlos was sitting with his legs hanging over an armchair watching NBA highlights on cable. Raoul was chugging a beer in the bathroom, hammering on the pipes again. Wandering uncomfortably from room to room, I announced that I was going to take the dog for a walk.

'A word of advice,' called Raoul. 'Let him lead you. He'll go the route Mary always takes him. Bolivar knows the way, okay?' Bolivar stared at me knowingly, then rolled back on his haunches and began licking his absurdly protruberant testicles. I slipped the heavy chain around his muscular neck and seconds later was dragged out to the stairs.

Ron's Lucky Silver Dollar Bar & Grill did not possess a grill, although there was a giant silver dollar in the window above a hand-painted sign that read SUBS & GYROS. Where I came from, a gyro was a cheque. I asked the barman if he was Ron.

'Nope. Ron's dead. He ate a bad scallop. Not here, somewhere else.

I'm Bill.'

'Charles.'

'What can I get you, Chuck?'

'I don't really - the dog pulled me in here.' I pointed at my feet. Bill leaned over the bar. 'It just - wouldn't stop pulling.'

'Hey, that's Bolivar! Hey boy!' The dog hoisted itself clumsily on to its hind legs and began scuttling back and forth with its tongue lolling out. Bill poured two shots from bottle with a lot of signatures on it. He raised his glass. Not wishing to seem rude, I drank with him. The shot tasted like chillis mixed with liquid soap. I noticed that Ron had arms like a weightlifter, or someone who'd been in prison. His biceps were as big as his head. He had a tattoo of a scorpion stinging itself.

'So where's Mary?'

'She's in the hospital. I'm apartment-sitting for her.'

'She comes in most nights. Her son, Randy, used to work here.'

'He was a barman?'

'Well now, that's not for me to say. Randy operated for himself, kind of a one-man business.' Ron suddenly found something to do behind his bar. A crease of concentration ran across his forehead. Then he brightened. 'But you're welcome here any time. No friend of Mary's will ever be a stranger in the Lucky Dollar.' He grasped my hand warmly, grinding several bones to powder.

When I returned to the apartment, Raoul and Carlos had gone, locking up behind them. It took me ages to open the door again. They had left behind the remains of their dinner. I was washing their plates in cold water when the phone rang.

'Hey, Mary,' yelled a woman's voice. 'I have the armadillo. Do you realise Dan had to bring it in the back of his car from Tucson?'

'This is Charles,' I replied patiently.

'Oh. I must have the wrong - '