Dead Europe (39 page)

 

I asked for directions to the bar.

I knew that Zivan was working and I did not wish to bother him. He had told me that he would find me in the bar. It was mercifully empty except for the ponytailed young woman who was waitressing and an older stiff-backed couple sitting in two lavish leather armchairs near the back wall. They were both smoking cigars, each immersed in reading; he a newspaper, and she a novel. Behind the cigar smoke I could smell something putrefying, something deathly upon him. She smelt empty of anything but weak animal flesh. No sweat, no sex, not even a trace of excrement; unlike the young woman at the bar, who smelt strong and alive. I asked for a whisky and I lit a cigarette. I held the glass of oily amber liquid close to my face, so that the alcoholic fumes would dull the smells of the world around me.

The first glass of whisky was lead pellets straight down to my gut. The taste was medicinal, not pleasurable, but the second went down better and by the third I could manage to ignore my hunger. Within fifteen minutes the bar had filled up and there was smoke and discordant conversation all
around. Some football game must have just finished because a group of young men in bright soccer shirts had formed a half-circle of leather armchairs by the empty fireplace. They were yelling at each other, a mind-numbing drone. At a small table not far from the bar, a group of five effete gentlemen had ordered a bottle of wine and were hunched in close to each other, occasionally raising a disapproving eye towards the football crowd. From the snatches of conversation I could overhear, they were discussing an exhibition they had just been to.

The man with the loudest voice was in his late fifties, overweight, and with ridiculous coils of black hair jutting out like islands across the bald dome of his head. He was dressed completely in black, a thick poloneck top, and reeking limp woollen trousers. I could smell the residue of semen and piss and shit on those trousers; I would wager they had not been washed for months. The four men sitting around him were younger, all nervy and sallow, as if they were enemies of the sun. One of them had lank blond hair that hung lifelessly around his bony shoulders and as if to deliberately offend the footballers, was constantly fumbling with a pair of reading glasses that fell from a chain around his neck. Their conversation, that which I could make out, sickened me. It was pompous, overly educated, punctuated with
bons mots
and disparaging, catty remarks. They were discussing art but there was nothing about aesthetics or politics or ideas in their repartee. There was only gossip. Even though the youngest was barely into his twenties, there was something menopausal and jaded about these men. They smelt of mould, of something distasteful and decaying.

I turned and looked at the footballers. These men were burly and loud, with ruddy skin and shining eyes alive with bright Celtic hues. But their conversation, blaring through the intimate bar, was finally as noxious and inane as that of the dreary queens sitting near me at the bar. The footballers
spoke of the game and of sportsmanship in cliches drudged from some asinine tabloid. Trading opinions and jibes, they moved from sport to television to alcohol, back to sport and endlessly repeated the cycle.
Arsenal. Man United. Big Brother. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Lager. Stout. Arsenal. Liverpool City. Big Brother. Lager Lager Lager
. I ordered another whisky and listened in between conversations.
Arsenal, Man United, Big Brother, he's drinking too much, he should drink more, terrible exhibition, top game, Lager, Lager, Wine, Wine, mundane, haven't I seen it all before, she's become boring, her art's always been boring, Arsenal, Man United, Lager, Wine, I've seen it all before, lager lager lager, wine wine wine.

Will someone fucking kill the lot of them? The men of England, of Europe: working class, bourgeois, lumpen, aristocrat; all of them bloodless and effete. Someone just kill them all.

I felt his touch on my shoulder and turned around to see Zivan smiling broadly at me. His hair had been slicked back, he wore a crisp white shirt, a black tie and a black vest. The hotel's insignia floated across his chest. The old queen's eyes wandered the length of Zivan's body. I knew that Zivan was conscious of the attention but was studiously ignoring the group. The younger man followed the older man's eyes, spied Zivan, then deliberately sniffed, turning his back on us, and continued to play with his glasses.

Zivan looked even more handsome in his uniform; his height and fair beauty looked even more heroic in the conservative clothes he was wearing. The uniform could not contain him. He did not look like a worker. He took a cigarette from me and ignored the room, his eyes intent on my face. I assumed that Zivan's focus was always intense, always directed fiercely to whoever was in front of him. People must fall in love with him all the time.

He told me he was on a break and I offered to buy him a drink, but he shook his head.

—No, thank you. I am not allowed to have alcohol when I am working. But he beckoned to the woman at the bar and whispered to her to give me a discount. She nodded, and for the first time smiled at me. Zivan smelt of cologne, of some faint detergent, of bitter sensual sweat. People must fall in love with him every day.

—Are you ill?

He was searching my face.

—No. Why?

He shrugged.

—You are sweating. Your eyes are wide. Your lips dry.

—You sound like a doctor.

—Perhaps I am.

Was he teasing me? Before I could answer, a loud booming American accent filled the room and a bearded wolf of a man, with long black whiskers speckled with silver, and wearing a loose-fitting knitted jumper, was slapping the backs of the five queens. The man with the glasses around his neck screwed up his face in clear unabashed distaste but the American was unfazed.

—Well, what did you think of the exhibition?

The man in the black poloneck answered for the group.

—Fine. It was very fine. The tone was contemptuous, an exaggerated aristocratic sneer. The American called to the woman at the bar.

—A bourbon, honey. A double. He gestured towards the men. And another bottle of wine. His voice, though loud, was surprisingly high and feminine. One of the footballers glanced up, nudged a mate, and they giggled. Another footballer flapped his wrist and the whole team broke out into laughter. But it stopped immediately when a tall red-haired woman dressed simply in an olive-coloured strapless dress entered the bar.

Her hesitation, on seeing a room crowded with men, was brief. She moved purposefully to the bar and sat beside Zivan. All eyes were on her. She had a small, round face and her shoulders and back were pale and freckled. I understood immediately why the men in the bar had fallen silent. She was alive. Unlike them, she was life. The woman ordered a gin and tonic in an accent that was foreign to me. She looked straight ahead. The fragrance on her skin was sweet, the whiff of summer, but there was a darker pungent smell emanating from her. She was bleeding. My cock was immediately erect, my stomach churned and twisted, and I swivelled my stool towards the bar to hide my erection. I could see Zivan's mouth move, I knew that the American was arguing with the queens and I could sense the yells and laughter of the footballers. I could hear nothing but the sound of her blood, trickling, coursing, calling.

I turned to Zivan.

—I think I'm possessed.

He nodded, not at all thrown by my ridiculous statement.

—
I am
, I insist. Do you believe in possession, Zivan?

—What do you believe you are possessed by?

—I don't know.

—What can I do to help?

His eyes were concerned, warm. He was calm.

—Come, I answered; and taking my glass, I headed into the toilets.

One of the footballers was throwing up in a cubicle. I looked at my face in the mirror. In the strong fluorescent light of the toilets it appeared strangely white and I noticed I was thinner than I had been in years. I was immersed in my reflection and promptly forgot Zivan. I combed back my hair. It was damp from sweat and my hands were shaking. There was a loud fart from the cubicle. The toilets were drenched in the fetid stink of shit. Zivan screwed up his face but I breathed it in deeply, aware that there was the trace of
blood and flesh in the diarrhoea. The footballer lurched towards the sink, washed his hands, gargled and spat out water into the basin.

I waited till the footballer banged the door shut behind him, then I raised my glass and smashed it against the porcelain basin. It broke cleanly into three pieces; I took the longest and sharpest and turned to Zivan. I took his right hand, brought it close, and drew the shard of glass across the top of his index finger. The blood formed a minute balloon and I brushed the thick warm flow across my lips.

The blood enters my mouth and at once my eyes are sharp and my senses concrete. I can hear the buzz of the innards of the hotel all around me. I can hear Zivan's nervous heartbeat. I can hear the individual muted voices of everyone in the bar. I am not greedy. I suck enough to feel my stomach loosen, feel it become calm, and I drop Zivan's hand. He runs cold water across his finger, then asks me calmly for a handkerchief. He tightens the cotton square around his finger. He grabs my hand and pulls me towards him. This will satisfy you for a matter of hours only, he whispers to me, you will soon need to feed again. His voice is that of a boy's, insistent and childish, he is speaking in my father's tongue. London is a large city, find your way there. His lips have not moved, Zivan's smile is constant and tender. What shall I do there? My own lips do not move. Feed, the voice orders me, feed till we are satisfied. In time, only with time, the need will be less.

How do you know this?

Zivan's smile vanishes. This time his lips move.

—Do you really believe that you have seen more than I have?

I have not heard this tone in Zivan's voice before. It is brutal and full of hate. Without his smile, his face is cruel. He detests me.

—No, Isaac, not at all. Zivan is smiling again. The glimpse
I had of him disappears, he is again the handsome hotel porter. I do not hate you. Why should I hate you? He brings his bandaged finger to my lips. My lips move towards the specks of red. He pushes me away.

—I have to return to work.

When he has left, I look again at my face in the mirror. I cannot believe how handsome I look at this moment. Colour has returned to my face. I am aware of the powerful muscles around my neck, aware of the glowing sheen of my skin. I touch my hands, my cheeks. I wet my face and go out to the bar.

Zivan has been called over by the man in the black clothes. He is nodding, and the man is touching Zivan's shoulder. The touch offends me. His desperate whining desire is clearly etched on the man's face; he stinks of it. It is a rancid dirty smell. He writes a note to Zivan, and Zivan, at first hesitating, finally accepts it. He turns and walks out of the bar. As soon as he has left the four young men break out in cackles of ugly laughter. I wish I could tear them all apart, extinguish their lives instantaneously, and throw their worthless carcasses out onto the street. For dogs, for waste. I know, I am sure of it, that this is what men descend to at the end of all empires, this whimpering effeminate posing. They disgust me. The ignorance and deliberate stupidity of the footballers also appals me but at least they contain within themselves a spark, a glimpse of past dignity. The enervated men sitting at this table are spent. They are at the end of time, awaiting their extinction. I am gloriously alive with an incredible sense of truth, of clarity. They are obscene, a final limp turd squeezed out by history. A fire, just and swift and magnificent, should rage through all of Europe.

The American is at the bar talking with the woman in the strapless dress. They are discussing a conference. I take a seat beside them and order another whisky. He refuses her offer
of a drink and tells her he is driving back to London tonight. As soon as I hear his destination, I lean across.

—Excuse me, I say, smiling broadly, is it possible that you could give me a lift to London?

He is, of course, taken aback and eyes me suspiciously. I make up a quick and ready lie. I tell them that I have missed my last train and that I desperately need to be in London for the morning. I am polite, but firm, and eventually he nods.

—I have to head off soon, he warns.

—I'm ready. I offer to pay part of the petrol costs. At that he laughs, and shakes my hand. Out of the question. He asks me to meet him in the foyer in five minutes. I agree, finish my drink and head off to find Zivan. He is by the lifts, two suitcases in his hands. He is behind an expensively dressed young couple. The man is talking on his mobile phone and the woman is inspecting her long scarlet nails. Zivan sees me, and motions for me to wait. The bell rings, the couple enter the lift, and Zivan follows with their luggage. When he returns he is smiling and it is as if he has forgotten the madness of what occurred in the bathroom. But his amiable kindness shames me and I blurt out, quickly, Zivan, forgive me. He waves my objection aside. He has placed a small pink plaster on his finger.

I tell him that I am going to London but I promise to return the following evening. He shakes my hand. Behind us there is laughter and more of that damned cackling. The five queens are heading towards the exit. The older man turns and winks at Zivan. He mouths something to him, and slowly Zivan nods in agreement. The young man turns. There is envy and spite in his lean heron-like face. He turns and whispers loudly so we can all hear.
Pretty, but I'm sure she's dumb
. There is more laughter as the doorman swings them through.
I'm not in it for the conversation
. More laughter, and the doors swing shut. I wish them death. Through the glass doors I think I see a shadow cleave to them. They disappear
into the English night. I wish them death, I whisper it, and Zivan can hear me. We both look out through the glass door, to where the shadow has descended around the men, attaching itself to them, caressing them. I have to go to work, Isaac. Zivan turns abruptly and leaves me in the empty foyer.