Sin City (37 page)

Reuben made love to me with the same sheer wild unstinting passion as he gives to his chosen country Israel. I was no longer just a stranger, some odd English girl, a hanger-on of Angelique's. I was Woman, Sexual Woman, Political Woman, his helpmate, henchman, midwife to his cause. The sex simply clinched it. It wasn't something separate or different. With most ordinary men, everything's in compartments: eight hours work, an hour or two drinking with the lads, another hour or two for sport or snooker, then a brief ten minutes' sex before eight or nine hours sleep. Reuben sleeps for just four hours – no more. He says man must evolve until he doesn't need much sleep; must use the extra time for struggle, revolution. He doesn't bother at all with sport or recreation, and work and sex are both aspects of the cause, both energy, commitment.

Energy, my God! He came four times in one night. I didn't know that men could even do that. I mean, four real times with all the build-up and the heaving, and when he came, he cried. Yes, really cried, each time. I've never seen such feeling. Jon would give an embarrassed little gasp, then push off to fetch a beer or have what he calls a leak, or start making Marmite sandwiches, doorstep ones, with stale bread cut all crooked. Reuben stayed – right there on that rug – the tears still running down his face and saying all these marvellous highflown things, using words I hardly understood, dazzling words more suited to religion. He simply wasn't bothered with boring things like eating, or swilling down Black Label from the can. He just kept talking talking talking, stroking me, adoring me, sharing all his plans. It made me feel tremendously important. I could see he really trusted me, needed me to help him in his work.

It's so wonderful to
have
work; to have met a man who's so absolutely certain; knows exactly what he wants, where he's going, what's important and what's not. All my own confusion, my seesawing from one view to another, my sheer muddle as to who I even am, simply seeped away. I'm Reuben's bride, his soul mate.

“Carole … ?”

I open my eyes. Norah is standing by the sofa, still dressed in that depressing green, which by now is like an archaeological record of our trip: airline gravy overlaid with Sunday champagne brunch; Victor's chocolates merging into spilt Moroccan couscous; strawberry ice from yesterday, and a new anonymous stain to bring us up to date. They haven't found her case yet. I've got to put a claim in, dig out our insurance forms, but I've been so busy I haven't got around to it. She won't touch the Gold Rush clothes. It's as if she's clinging to security, still hanging on to Beechgrove via her Crimplene.

“Are you really getting married?”

“Yes, of course.” I try to avoid her haunted frightened eyes. If it weren't for Norah, I'd be over the moon. Of course it hurts to leave her. And I can't help feeling worried. I mean, how will she get back or manage on her own? Actually, I'm still hoping Reuben will change his mind, agree she can come with us. I've got to work on it – and fast.

“Norah, you haven't got a bit of Jewish in you, have you? Somewhere far far back, perhaps? I mean, you never heard that … ?” I break off. How could she have heard anything when she knew neither of her parents, never had a relation in her life? That really chokes me. I mean, how d' you cope when you've nobody at all? It's bad enough for me, with my father gone and no brothers and sisters, but I've always had aunts and cousins (and even second cousins) and two rather distant grandparents. Norah's on her tod.
I
'm her sister and her cousin, her mother and her daughter, and I'm walking off, orphaning her again. No, I'm not. I can't. I'll really plead with Reuben. After all, if Norah is our bridesmaid and our witness, then she's someone very special, part of the whole marriage.

I pat the cushion beside me, try and coax her down. “Norah, you will be bridesmaid, won't you?”

She doesn't say a word, just shakes her head. She really does look awful, sort of agonised and grey; still keeps swallowing, as if something sharp and jagged is sticking in her throat.

“Why not?” I take her hand and squeeze it. It's cold, clammy cold, feels rigid, unresponsive, as if that hand has died and is just beginning to stiffen.

She doesn't answer. She's staring down and blinking. I think she's close to tears, but is trying desperately to hold them back. I want to weep myself for all the complications. Angelique said “no” as well. She'd have made such a stylish bridesmaid and been an extra tie with England, but I suspect she's cut all ties, after our one short night of friendship. I phoned her just this morning from Reuben's place, to tell her about Israel and the wedding and she was really weird – cool and rather distant and yet sounding scared as well, scared and angry. She was much the same last night, in fact, when I left to go to Reuben's. She kept telling me to leave the guy alone and not get involved in things I didn't understand. Reuben says it's merely jealousy. Apparently he slept with her as well, once, and she was so uptight and frigid, she didn't come at all. He says she's probably guessed we'd be wonderful together and simply couldn't face the contrast. I felt a whole conflict of emotions – a red rush of jealousy that she'd ever been to bed with him; regret that I'd upset her when I'd hoped she'd be a friend and might even come and see me when she was visiting her mother back in England; and a sneaking satisfaction that I was better in the sack than a trained exotic dancer who was considered worth a thousand bucks a week.

I stride into the bathroom, start stripping off my clothes. They're sweaty, creased and oily and I've got to look immaculate. I've things to do, people to impress. Norah follows. She's usually so modest she always keeps her distance when I'm changing clothes or washing, but today she seems nervous like a child, clinging to my skirts in case I disappear again. I remove my pants and stockings, put them in the basin to soak. So many men have pawed them, they must be alive with germs, almost crawling on their own into the water. I blush as I remember. Ritzy's seems a hundred years ago, instead of just a morning. I think it's because I grew up in those last few hours with Reuben, received the sacrament of adulthood, was touched and quickened by some higher power. I swing round, give Norah a great hug. I want to share my joy with her, my triumph; heal her misery, transform her from a cold and trembling spinster to a radiant bride.

“Norah, you must be at the wedding. It's vital. You'll be our witness, you see, which makes you part of the whole thing, writes you into it.”

She pulls away, starts tugging at her hair, mumbles something about not liking crowds of people.

“What d' you mean, crowds? We're not inviting anyone. Reuben said not. Just him and me and you. You only need one witness in Las Vegas.” I feel a sudden pang. I'd always imagined a large romantic wedding with a pink and white marquee, and big shots in morning dress swanning around a rose garden, and a six-tier cake and page-boys in white socks and …

“And I haven't got a dress.”

“Yes, you have – that Gold Rush one. It's perfect. You'll steal the show, in fact. It's me that hasn't got a dress, not anything remotely suitable.” I glance down at my naked legs, my bare and grubby feet. Reuben said it didn't matter. He told me it's the vows which count, the ceremony, and not to get hung up on the trimmings. All the same …

I sluice myself with water, put on clean pants and tights, start sorting through my rail of clothes. Nothing long, nothing white at all, and absolutely nothing like that wonder-gown I saw in the wedding chapel shop just half an hour ago. I know it's stupid to be dreaming of a dress like that – the flowing train, the layers of lacy petticoats, the scalloped neck, the sprigs of orange blossom embroidered on the skirt, but it really was sensational. Toomey's got to see it.

“Hey, Norah, would you like to see the wedding chapel? I've just come on from there. It's rather sweet, made of wood and painted like a gingerbread house. I've got to go back, actually. They were fully booked, you see, for all the hours round midnight, but the guy in charge said if I kept on trying, they were bound to have a cancellation. He said I could just phone, but why don't we go together and I'll show you this really gorgeous dress?”

“Dress?” She's started parroting again. God! It's so awful being happy when she's so obviously upset. I'll have to try and distract her, make her change her mind, involve her in my plans. It's a long hike to the chapel, but I can show her things
en route
, or we can walk halfway, then catch a bus. Even a few stops on a bumpy Route 6 boneshaker is quite a treat for Norah.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “They've got their own shop at the chapel which sells absolutely everything you need for a wedding – dresses, veils, rings, bouquets, photo albums, even suitcases. It saves time, you see. Most people in Las Vegas are getting married in a hurry. It's the only place where you can marry with no banns or anything. I mean, you can meet someone at ten and marry at ten past, so long as there's no queue at the Courthouse – that's the place you get the licence. Anyway, I saw this dress. It was really beautiful, like something in a film.”

“Is Milton going to buy it for you?”

“
Reuben
. Norah, honestly. You haven't heard a word I said. What's wrong with you? Milt's nothing to me, no one. And Jones is not a Jewish name, it's Welsh. Can't you even listen?”

“I … I am. I did. I heard it all. You're getting married. You're going to fight. In Israel. Reuben's going to buy your dress.”

“He's not. It's too expensive.” I stop, bite my lip. I could have bought it myself, twice over, if only Reuben had relented. It was my money, after all. Forget the veil, the rings, the flowers, the photo albums, but just to have the dress … You can hire them actually, but the ones for hire were nothing like as special as that one with orange blossom. No. I've got to see it his way. Dresses are just frippery and swank. He wasn't keen on any of the frills; said what mattered was our tie with one another, our commitment to one cause, not empty finery.

He wouldn't even come and see the chapels, left all that to me. I tried to take his line, just pick one with a pin, or phone around for the cheapest and the quietest, but it simply didn't work. I just had to see a dozen, spent a whole two hours this morning (the minute that I'd left him) swanning round Cupid-bowers and rose-gardens, comparing costs and decor. It was really quite a giggle. Some of them were ghastly with polystyrene cherubs and these awful lurid signs. “Fast and cheap!” screamed one. “Five-minute weddings. No hidden costs, no extras. Lowest price in Vegas. No waiting – walk straight in.” I walked straight out, in fact. The place was like a garden shed, and stood right next to a gas station, so that the Shell signs and the petrol smell overpowered the cupids. Okay, we want to keep it simple, but there's such a thing as dignity.

Another place was offering three free rolls of nickels to play in the casinos to every happy couple, and six free raffle-tickets for what they called a “Love-Boat Cruise”. I ask you! I was much more taken with a rather swanky joint which had six chapels in one, all done up in different period-styles, so you could play Scarlett O'Hara in flounces and a crinoline, or Calamity Jane carrying your six-shooter instead of a bouquet. The last of the six chapels (the twentieth century one) had ten instant colour-changes, done with lights and lasers, so any bride could colour-match the decor to her dress. They even had a honeymoon motel attached, with rows and rows of bridal suites and a special high-speed travelator which whisked you straight from pew to satin sheets.

I couldn't see Reuben dressed as Deadwood Dick in buckskins and a hat, or making vows to Scarlett, so I dragged myself away, settled for something smaller and more ordinary. Which is what I'd better do about the dress. I slam a mental door on lace and tulle, content myself with British Home Stores viscose – a floral skirt and toning blouse, which I put on for the moment. I'll pick out something later for the wedding, something plain and simple.

Norah is still tagging after me, shadowing every move I make. I try and change the subject, cheer her up a bit with a (highly censored) resumé of last night's rave-up at the club, but I can see she's hardly listening. She's in some other world, a dark and frightening world where every exit from the maze is a dead-end.

“At least it's nice and sunny,” I say brightly. Wrong again. Norah is screwing up her eyes against the glare, doesn't like the sun. I think she sees it like a searchlight in a prison.

I take her arm, lead her down the passage to the lift. While we wait for it, I read the list of rooms and services, floor-by-floor attractions: roof garden, play deck, health spa, Imperial Suites, Bridal Suite.
Bridal Suite
… I trace the letters, marvelling. That computer was right – a little premature, but right in essence. It was like a sign, a portent. Reuben believes in signs, believes everything is meant: our meeting, my Jewish name and blood, even his futile childhood in LA, which forged his revolutionary ideals, his need to fight, to break away from his parents' trashy fashion business, and their attempts to be accepted as all-American secular materialists. He calls America New Babylon – and Israel home.

God! He's going to hate the show. That's materialism gone mad, Babylon on stage. It cost eleven million dollars just to put it on. Eleven million dollars squandered on tit-and-arse and light effects, with a few big cats thrown in. Reuben could redeem the world with eleven million bucks. Perhaps he'll come just as a favour, our last big splash before the solemn rites. I smile again, at nothing. It's not easy to be solemn when I'm all candy-floss inside.

It's pretty gorgeous outside. Once we reach the street, I see that spring is in full stride – a truly golden day, sun burnishing the pavements, flowers in bloom in all the hotel flowerbeds, frothy white tulle clouds. I pick a flower, twine it in my hair. However much I try to keep my mind on serious things like saving worlds, or marriage vows, it keeps doubling back to orange blossom.