The Nothing

  ‘Is it true, Anita?’

  ‘Dating doesn’t describe it,’ says Anita.

  Zee pulls her rings from her fingers, and her earrings from her ears, before flinging them at me. She stamps off to her room. She throws a suitcase out into the hall and begins to put her things in it. I turn away.

  I notice that Anita has closed her eyes and is practising a form of Tibetan breath control, designed, I presume, specifically for moments like this.

  Her eyes open. ‘Would you forgive her? Would you take her back?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I was a man once, too. I’m familiar with bad behaviour and infidelity. I regret it, and would beg to be forgiven, if it were possible. Who hasn’t had infatuations?’

  ‘They want to rob you. Or worse.’

  I shrug. Anita goes over to check on Zee.

  She comes back. ‘She says you’re a bastard and she’s leaving. She can’t tell you where, and she will not be back. What should I say to her?’

  ‘You’re an actress: say goodbye to her for me in your nicest voice.’

  ‘You can’t stay here alone. Shall I get the nurse?’

  ‘Why would I be alone for long?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d be happy to cut my own throat.’

  ‘Don’t scare me.’

  ‘Why would I want to carry on living alone and unloved?’

  ‘The rest of us manage it.’

  ‘Not me, baby. There’ll be a martyrdom operation.’

  ‘Jesus, Waldo, why do you have to be so extreme?’

  The front door bangs and I hear the lift. I have no intention of wheeling to the window to watch a woman walk away.

  Anita runs to the door; she is in the lift and soon, I guess, she is outside, in the street. I wait, staring at the wall.

  She is away for a while: at least half an hour. I believe I can hear raised voices but I could never be sure from this distance. She returns out of breath.

  ‘There’s a deal.’

  ‘Where’s Zee?’

  ‘There.’

  And she is standing there, vibrating with fury.

  She breaks my heart, that woman.

  SIXTEEN

  Something is occurring. For the next two days, Zee and Eddie come and go from the apartment. They are busily absent for hours.

  I am not thrilled with Anita’s ‘deal’: Zee will remain at home if she can invite friends to stay without my ‘interference’. This ‘friend’ turns out to be Eddie.

  He is cheerful, with an exciting future, and goes about his daily life as if he is at home.

  Will Zee introduce Eddie to her daughter Samreen? I have assumed the flower of evil will disappear at least for the duration of Samreen’s vacation. Samreen has taste and intelligence. Surely she won’t like him? But now I can’t be sure. Everything is tilting. I could be done for. I could be the one to recede. Zee has already asked me if I might be ‘more comfortable’ somewhere else. In my grave, I tell her.

  On the third day, alone together, she makes a move. She proposes something.

  ‘Shall we spend the evening talking and hanging around?’ She kisses me. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.’

  She begins cooking early, around five. We open a good wine and chat in the kitchen. ‘Tonight it is only us,’ she says.

  Since Samreen is arriving in a week we must discuss her itinerary. I explain how keen I am to accompany my adored stepdaughter to the theatre and to the tennis. I will be happy just to stroll and chat with her.

  Before I make the perfect mistake, Zee and I talk about what we want to watch, and sit through a sizzling Joan Crawford. There are few sane characters in good movies. Hollywood was once the cinema of madwomen. Monstrous unleashed crazies with exceptional eyebrows and a knife or gun relax us both.

  ‘These women know what they want,’ I say.

  ‘They’re pitiless.’

  Then, since I follow alternately the misfortunes of Manchester United and of each spousal debit on my iPad, I ask Zee if she could keep a tighter hold on her spending. I inform her that she has become extravagant. It must stop; we could be in danger. I am not earning anything. It’s a race to see if I go bust before I die.

  ‘The bank has warned me. I am closing the account tonight, Zee. The money will be controlled solely by me. You have some dough of your own.’

  She gets up, her face flushed, and plumps the cushions on the sofa. I become nervous, like a beaten dog whose cruel master raises a stick. But if a woman cannot pat cushions in her own home, what can she do?

  She controls herself. Despite an upsurge of fury and flashing eyes, she helps me to bed and sits beside me, caressing my arm and hands. She pulls down the top of her dress to show me her breasts, letting me take her nipples into my mouth.

  I thank her. ‘Can I see your pussy?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I suspect it’ll be the last time. I will consider it to be a reunion as well as an adieu.’

  To my surprise she agrees. As she removes her underwear, I whisper, ‘Oh, Zee, I regret already—’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That I will not live to see you as an old woman, at seventy, eighty, or ninety years old. I would kiss you even then. I hope you live a long time, and take care of yourself, my love. When I am gone, my love will follow you, and you will know that. My voice will guide you, if you want to hear it.’

  Legs apart, she is sitting in a chair across from the bed. She is silent until she says, ‘That’s kind, Waldo.’

  ‘Please stay in and watch over me. I am nervous tonight, Zee.’

  She dresses, neither assenting nor disagreeing. I relax and fall into a doze. It is early, and I wonder if Zee crushed a pill into my food.

  I may be a foolish, drunken and otherwise idiotic old man, but I am aware when the front door bangs later that she has been getting ready in the bathroom. She has gone out for the evening. The poison of her perfume hangs in the air.

  With the fury I have left, I drag myself out of bed and manoeuvre myself into my chair. My arms are starting to weaken, but I have always been determined. I locate some strength and scoot about headlessly.

  It takes some time, and one of my hands has to hold the other, but I text Anita.

  I wait impatiently. She replies fifteen minutes later, asking if I’ve fallen over. Am I sick? Should she send an ambulance? It is not that, I explain. I am in mortal danger. They are plotting.

  She replies that she is thinking of me as she often does. I must rest this evening and look after myself. I am not losing my mind. And why would I be in any danger?

  She is out tonight. She will pass by the flat tomorrow.

  It could be too late. I stare at myself in the mirror. My face seems to have collapsed. My mouth hangs open, my lips tremble, as if I don’t know what to say. My eyes stare in fright.

  This hurts, especially at my age. I have been more humiliated than I can bear. He haunts my dreams now.

  I ask her to send me some comfort.

  A few minutes later she sends me a selfie from a restaurant bathroom. It is a tight shot of her lifting her hair. She knows I appreciate her neck. I reassure her: she is looking good.

  She sends another, wider shot.

  At the edge of the mirror I recognise something. Or, rather, someone, walking past the open door. This is an opening I can use.

  I call the owner. The world bursts into my ear.

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Maestro, how good to hear from you! Where are you?’

  ‘In purgatory.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘On the other side – of the junction.’

  ‘What a shame you are too poorly to be here,’ Carlo informs me. ‘I can see your dear friends enjoying themselves from my little window. My best waiter, Pietro, is looking after them. He can’t hold his pad, it is twitching. He worships Anita and she is looking particularly beautiful in her leather jacket, black stocki
ngs and heels.’

  ‘Bling?’

  ‘Chains of pearls hang over her magnificent breasts. Maestro, can Pietro ask her for an autograph?’

  ‘Of course not, Carlo. I’d be very offended. I’ll send a signed DVD tomorrow of The Wrong Blonde. Tell me: did they have the special?’

  ‘The special “special” today is a beautiful creamy mozzarella which you would love, with some little tomatoes, basil and some oil. You would describe it as “juicy”. Do you know the English call some mozzarella “buffalo” – as if it comes from the beast?’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘But only Mr Gibney asked for it.’

  ‘What a man of taste Mr Gibney is. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘What did Anita have?’

  ‘The calamari.’

  ‘A good choice. And the others? How are they?’

  ‘Anita is pleased with the beautiful flowers Zee brought her. Did they perhaps have a disagreement?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘There seems to have been some kissy-kissy making up. Now they are best friends, Maestro.’

  ‘Phew. Is Zee eating well? You know how I worry. Or did she just have the fried zucchini and aubergine and leave most of it?’

  ‘She started with that. Then she will smoke a cigarette and decide more.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The group is at a table by the window and they’re on their mains. Carlo is specific when it comes to food. Gibney is enjoying steak and Eddie is having the sea bass.

  ‘Does Eddie seem hungry?’

  ‘He always eats enthusiastically while talking a lot, sir. But something has happened.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He has stepped outside. He paces up and down on his feet.’

  ‘On the phone?’

  ‘He seems to be worrying.’

  ‘Is he alone? Has Mr Gibney joined him? Or perhaps Anita?’

  ‘No, not Anita. She stays inside. She is very fascinated by Mr Gibney.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Romantically. As if they are in one envelope. How she looks at him. Her lips are—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘So close to his ear, Maestro.’

  ‘Shocking.’

  ‘Are they engaged, perhaps?’

  ‘It’s a matter of time.’

  ‘I am pleased for her. How could such a woman go so long without a husband? We will have the reception here. You know we have a private room where we had the party for your prize.’ There is a pause. ‘Maestro, Mr Eddie seems upset about something and Zee is discussing it with him.’

  ‘He does? Can you look into it, Carlo?’

  ‘With respect, Maestro, how can I hear the details from here?’

  ‘Send Pietro over. Put him nearby. He is our CCTV.’

  ‘Certainly, Maestro.’

  ‘Ask him to call Mr Eddie close and whisper something to him. Do not mention me. It’s a lovely surprise which will cheer him up. But he must not let anyone else hear. You know how I like to be incognito. It’s “Dear Pussy”.’

  ‘“Dear Pussy”?’

  ‘“Dear Pussy”.’

  ‘I will write it down.’

  ‘Don’t. You will remember. “Dear Pussy”. Whisper this password to me, Carlo, I beg you. In the voice of Silvio Berlusconi.’

  ‘Sir, he is a waiter, not yet a comedian. But nonetheless …’

  Carlo repeats it before the phone goes dead for a while. I hear voices in the background. Perhaps they are rehearsing. I wait.

  Carlo comes back on the line. ‘Are you there, Maestro?’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘With respect, not as well as you predicted, Maestro.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He looked as though he’d swallowed a little pin. He stared around the street wildly for the person who put it in him. Up and down, here and there, round and about as if for an assassin with a gun. He smacked his fist against his forehead.’

  ‘Did he go and sit down again?’

  ‘Zee comforts him. She thinks he is dizzy from the alcohol.’

  ‘Please, Carlo, be sure to get a photograph of the whole table in their delirium. Send it to me so I can revel in my friends’ enjoyment.’

  ‘That will be difficult. But for you I will do it, Maestro.’

  ‘As I said, don’t mention me, Carlo. If they knew how I writhe here with worry it would interfere with their pleasure.’

  ‘Of course, Maestro. I know how you think of others.’

  A few minutes later a photograph of them all at dinner pings into my phone. Sam Spade couldn’t have done it better.

  I am cheerful and laugh so much I defecate in the bed. The shit keeps coming, more and more of it, rising up around me like a remorseless tide, until it reaches the ceiling and I lie drowned in a sarcophagus of faeces.

  SEVENTEEN

  The sound of heavy rain, and a noise which makes me open my eyes. Drifting cigarette smoke. A sidelight switched on.

  It is night. I come round and sit up a little. From my mirror I can see into the mirror in the living room, where she stands in a tight, ankle-length, sheath-like dress, smoking.

  I can’t see Eddie but I can, I believe, hear him. I make an effort to move position until I catch the top of his head. His face is in her thighs. He is drooling into her legs, snatching at her dress.

  ‘What are you doing down there, Eddie?’

  ‘You are horny and I apologise. I wish I could satisfy you tonight. I can try and give you some pleasure.’

  ‘I’m unattractive now?’

  ‘I’m disturbed.’

  ‘Why would you be, when everything is going well, and we have talked through our future? But it happens sometimes.’ She lifts her head a little and for a moment seems to be looking straight at me. ‘Though rarely to Waldo. He is very sensual. He had an eager penis all his life.’

  ‘I’m not a machine, Zee. This pace is impossible for me.’

  She says, ‘I’m an old woman but even tonight Waldo wanted to see my pussy.’

  ‘You showed him?’

  ‘He begged, Eddie. He is my husband.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. I can’t believe it. Suppose I showed my cock to my wife. What would you say?’

  ‘Would your wife want to see your cock?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘It’s too late. He’s looked now.’ He groans and she says nothing, until, ‘Does Gibney have other women?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You sound uncertain, Eddie. Don’t you boys discuss everything? Waldo will go crazy if he finds out. He’s fond of Anita.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Waldo.’

  She asks, ‘Is Gibney a liar? You know I don’t like liars, Eddie. You’ve given all that up, haven’t you? Despite everything, I like Anita. She tried to be kind.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘She was wild when I tried to run away. She gave me what Waldo calls “a tremendous bollocking”. She said I should do my duty, not follow rainbows, and be devoted until he passes. After, I’d be free to do what I like with any conman I fancied—’

  ‘She called me that?’

  ‘She called me everything—’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘She knows I appreciate loyalty. It’s the only value we have on the subcontinent. I just hope that uneducated crook doesn’t mess her about.’ I cannot hear his reply. Zee says, ‘Get up, for God’s sake, man. Where’s my lighter? I can be a difficult woman. I’m not a filmi star, but at least I have two men devoted to me.’

  I guess Eddie gets up off his knees. It takes some time. At last his head appears. ‘You do? Who, apart from me?’

  ‘Waldo, of course.’

  ‘I’ve told you, he doesn’t matter. Why do we have to have this discussion?’

  ‘How could he not matter? He’s creative, he’s admired. I ask myself in the middle of the night: how did I do it? Capture the atte
ntion of one of the most fascinating men? There are books about him. There’s a new one over there.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It’s a piece by a friend who worked with him. It made me laugh. Waldo’s rude, lazy, capricious, anarchic and a provocateur. Wherever he goes, he shakes things up.’

  Eddie sounds weary. ‘Does that mean a lot to you?’

  ‘The places we go, the hotels, the dinners and friendship with famous people. It isn’t because of me, dear. Do you really think anyone cares a damn what I think? Half the time they don’t look at me or remember my name. You have to be careful with the English. They don’t like show-offs. Waldo protected me.’ She says, ‘I will have to cross back into the ordinary world at some point.’

  Eddie is disappointed. ‘I can’t give you what he can. That’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘You get invited places, don’t you? You’re always scurrying here and there.’

  ‘I go along to things, yes. I can find out where everything takes place. You’ll come with me, won’t you?’

  ‘You make me sound like a pet.’

  ‘So far you’ve been treated as a grand woman—’

  ‘Because of him? Is that what you insist on saying?’

  ‘You don’t notice, but people genuflect,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid you’ll miss it. I won’t know to keep you entertained.’

  ‘As long as we don’t have to spend time with Gibney, we’ll see.’

  ‘No one has stood by me like him.’

  ‘A man like you can do better than that spiv.’ Then she sighs. ‘Eddie, quiet. Don’t just chatter on. Your noise is like a dagger in the head. What is that awful look on your face?’

  ‘Not only have you been displaying your vagina, but I’ve been thrown into a mad mood, Zee. Look, I’m shaking. I heard something frightening. From the waiter at the restaurant.’

  ‘Pietro?’

  ‘He came over, smiling absurdly. And whispered, “Dear Pussy, Pussy, Pussy”.’

  There is a silence. I stuff the duvet into my mouth to stop myself laughing.