Clear (11 page)

‘It’s a fucking
love
affair,’ Solomon trills.

‘You could just be right there,’ Jalisa smiles, ‘and I certainly get the strong impression that when Blaine does these “stunts” of his–you know, standing on that ninety-foot pole, packing himself in ice, all the rest of it–he’s completely neglecting to research into the likely consequences of the things he’s doing. They represent a kind of leap into the darkness. A leap of
faith
. But also an act of total
nihilism
. And that’s Korine’s influence. Blaine wants to impress Korine. He wants to
embrace Art
. I’m certain.’

She pauses. ‘Is that dessert?’ she asks, reaching for the apple and quince pie, and taking a big spoonful of it. ‘I do think we’re dealing with a generation of young Jewish men,’ she muses, ‘who are, at some very fundamental level, acting out the pain and the guilt they feel at perhaps not loving life
quite
as much as they think they should do after all the sacrifices made by those who went before them…’ She gradually peters out. ‘Or perhaps they’re clinging on to the…the
drama
…’ (she’s re-energised by another mouthful of pie), ‘or to the sense of
belonging
…’ she swallows, ‘or perhaps this is a fundamental
uncertainty
which they’re now experiencing as a direct consequence of Israel’s current belligerence which makes them feel this overwhelming
urge
to rediscover their victimhood. I mean, ‘
Don’t let those damn Muslims take it away from us
…’

She sighs. ‘The end of the Millennium kind of drew a line under that jumble of feelings…and yet, somehow, paradoxically, it also brought them back, ever more acutely.’

Solomon merely snorts as he experiments with his second and third gooseberry. Jalisa starts counting things off on her fingers–‘
First
there’s all the Herzog stuff,’ she says, ‘which I think is terribly symbolic, and
then
the double irony of Blaine, in that tiny box–totally rekindling all those images of Jews being shipped in those cramped railway carriages to the concentration camps, without food, you know? The sense of something unspeakable taking place, but in
public
–and finally, there’s the fact of the “
Jew
”, Blaine, being guarded as he starves in that box by his beautiful
German
girlfriend…’

Solomon chokes on his grated beetroot. ‘
Now
you go too far,’ he almost bellows.

(
What
? The king of controversy, finally on the run? Arse-whipped by a
woman
?)

Jalisa doesn’t turn a hair.

‘Why?’ she asks insouciantly. ‘This is just
Art
, after all…’

I step in. ‘Do you approve of what Blaine’s doing?’ I ask.

She rolls her eyes, boredly. ‘It’s not a
question
of liking or disliking,’ she says. ‘Good or bad. This kind of Art is like a Stop sign. You can either put on your brakes or decide to run through it. You don’t get
angry
with the sign itself, or
love
the sign. That’d be kinda inappropriate.’

‘So are Blaine and Korine
feeling
guilty or
representing
guilt?’ Solomon asks.

‘Both, of course,’ Jalisa says pertly, helping herself to another chunk of pie.

‘Well I suppose
you
should know,’ Solomon smiles, icily.

‘Pardon?’

Jalisa glances up.

‘The
headscarf
.’

Solomon enunciates his words so cleanly I can almost hear them squeaking. A short, tight silence follows. Then Jalisa merely shrugs. ‘You’re
right
,’ she says, ‘perhaps that’s just the culture we find ourselves in,’ she takes a defiant swig of her wine, ‘where looking back is, in a sense, our only real way of looking forward.’

She gently puts her glass down again. ‘Everybody nowadays feels this overwhelming urge to source the root of their own perceived oppression,’ she says, ‘victimhood is the new black, or green or whatever…’

Then she pauses, ‘But fuck you, anyway.’

Solomon says nothing, but he’s plainly utterly delighted by the impact he’s had (am I just out of my depth here, or does this man have
no
idea how to secure himself a shag?).

Man
…

You’d struggle to chip this atmosphere with an ice pick. I shift in my seat and look down at the table. It’s then that I observe how almost
all
of Aphra’s food has been casually ingested during the course of this ‘discussion’. And none of it by
me
.

Jalisa suddenly gets up and stalks off to the bathroom. Solomon marches defiantly upstairs in the apparent pursuit of weed. I go to the fridge and grab myself a Coke (Nusrat Fateh howling away rhythmically in the background about the eternal love of bloody Allah–and only my heathen ears to hear him), when
bugger me
if I don’t turn around at the critical moment to see those three evil curs forming a vile, black tripod across the table and decimating the paltry remainder of Aphra’s fine repast. Bud even goes so far as to snatch a Tupperware container–holding the fragrant chicken–in his gnashing white teeth and carry it off.

You
fancy getting that thing back off him?
Huh
?

Nope.

Me neither.

‘There’s an apple pie in
Shane
, actually. The book. It features quite prominently in chapter 3. The narrator’s mother–Marian–bakes this huge, succulent, deep-dish pie, in the pathetic hope (at
some
level) of impressing “the dark stranger”, Shane, with it, but then she gets distracted and the pie burns and she goes absolutely loopy–in that fantastically “repressed housewife of the developing American West” sort of way.

It’s a
classic
interlude…’

Aphra–who is currently holding my (recently rediscovered) copy of
Shane
in her hoity hand, having just that second dug it out of her (recently returned) Premier Christian Radio bag–gazes up at me, blankly. Oh
dear
.

So it’s the morning after the feast before and I’m just blathering on meaninglessly to a–frankly, strangely laid-back-seeming–Aphra as I struggle to explain
why
exactly I (or
not
I) demolished her succulent food-store.

‘While I’m
incredibly
impressed by your literary critique,’ she says (casually leaving the entire food-theft issue behind her–which I’m extremely grateful for), ‘Westerns don’t really ring my bell.’

She tries to pass the book back over to me.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ I say, taking a step back and refusing–out of principle–to take it from her.

‘I’m not a great
reader
,’ she says, scowling.

‘I’ll bet you a fiver,’ I say, ‘that you won’t be able to put it down after the first two chapters.’

She rolls her tired eyes (been working the hospital night shift, maybe? I mean this girl has ‘nurse’ written all over her.
Uh
. Except for the
feet
part, where today she’s wearing the most alarmingly flirtatious pair of scarlet, patent-leather, pointy-toed, kitten-heeled creations I’ve ever beheld). ‘You honestly think I’m gonna be fatally
seduced
by the story of a burnt
pie?
’ she asks.

‘The pie is
symbolic
,’ I sniff.

She merely shrugs, shoves the book roughly back into her bag again (it’s an
early edition
, for Heaven’s Sake), and glances down along the embankment wall where–about ten feet away from us–two rookie coppers are lounging disconsolately.

‘Looks like
somebody
took yesterday’s attack seriously,’ she observes.

‘
Hmmn
. They certainly seem over the moon to be here,’ I murmur.

It’s a dull old autumn morning. Grey sky. Nippy wind.

‘Been here long yourself?’ I ask, shivering involuntarily, then sneezing, then yanking my short, beige, heavy canvas Boxfresh jacket even closer around me.

‘Bless you,’ she says (sidestepping my question with typical finesse), then casually adjusting the Tupperware bag in her hand, before pausing for a second to inspect the contents more closely.

‘How hungry
were
you?’ she asks, lifting out a badly mangled dish.

‘The
dogs
,’ I cringe. ‘Sorry. We all got a little distracted after my flatmate and his girlfriend had this unholy
row
about Blaine…’

‘Really?’

(Is that a
glimmer
of interest?)

‘Yup.’

As I speak her bleary eyes settle quietly just above my left shoulder (it almost feels as if I have an extremely entertaining parrot crouching there). The magician (for it is he who crouches, not a bird) is still asleep (yeah,
not
crouching then, so scrap that), bundled up inside his bag–corpsing it–just a dark, slightly poignant, elongated blob.

‘Remember what your friend Larry said yesterday?’ I ask. ‘About there being this whole, unspoken, anti-
semitic
agenda against Blaine?’

‘Larry
who?
’

‘Punk’s Not Dead,’ I say.

‘Yes it
is
,’ she snaps, then yawns again.

‘Well anyway,’ I continue (why’s it always such a
battle
with this girl? Is it simply dispositional? Is it her? Is it
me
?), ‘my flatmate’s girlfriend, Jalisa…’

‘Ja-
who
?’

‘Lisa.’

‘Oh.’

‘…was saying how Blaine is actually very
into
all the Jewish stuff. She said this entire stunt had been devised as a consequence of Blaine’s friend Harmony Korine-the film-maker…’ (Absolutely no sign of recognition at this name.)

‘…having shown him a short story by the German-Jewish writer, Franz Kafka.’

‘What’s the story about?’ she asks (moderately interested).

‘Haven’t read it yet…’ I say.

‘Ah.’

(The light inside her quietly switches off.)

‘But from what I can tell…’

‘He just moved his hand,’ Aphra murmurs.

I blink.

‘Pardon?’

‘He moved his
hand
,’ she says.

I turn around.

Yup
. There’s his hand. Out of the sleeping bag. Scratching weakly at his trademark mop of dark hair.

The hand disappears again. I turn back around.

‘Gone,’ she says, mournfully.

Her eyes return to my face for a moment. Sad eyes. Grey eyes.

Okay
…(So I’ve temporarily run out of steam. I open my mouth to say something but nothing emerges. So I inhale, deeply, and close it again.)

‘Were you clear?’ she suddenly enquires.

‘Pardon?’

‘The
clinic
,’ she says, ‘were you clear?’

I frown, somewhat taken off my guard (Now this is a
whole
other can of worms…)

‘Yes,’ I finally mutter, ‘I was, actually.’

‘Good,’ she says, her eyes sliding back over towards the Illusionist again.

‘How did you know?’ I ask (maybe a
touch
of aggression in my voice–which I try my best to temper on the grounds of our recent–and still potentially delicate–food-theft situation).

She just shrugs. ‘An old friend of mine was temping there. I met her from work for a drink that night. I was with you in the waiting room…’

She smiles. ‘…And because I’d already had the benefit of observing your antics around
here
…’

She stops smiling.

‘Two and two, et cetera,’ she concludes.

I scratch my head. She looks down at her watch.

‘Don’t you have a
job
to go to?’ she asks tartly. (Well that’s a Summary Dismissal if ever I heard one.)

I half-turn but don’t move. Instead I pretend to busy myself with methodically fastening my jacket (it has one of those magnificently chunky, ‘work-wear’, lumberjack-style zips), then immediately
un
fasten it, then
re
fasten it, like a boy standing outside his school science lab, debating whether to head inside for a practical, or bolt off across the playing field and down into the ditch beyond where all the bad kids like to hang, during lessons, and sniff solvents, and make out, and share a smoke (or was that just
my
school?
My
science class? Was that just
me
?

Yeah?

So
fuck
the universal).

She straightens up and jumps down from the wall (plainly preparing to head off herself), and as she does, one of the security guards waves at her, jovially, from inside the fenced enclosure. She waves back.

‘See you
later
,’ she yells.

He nods, does the thumbs up.

(Great.
Another
rival.)

‘Hey…’ she suddenly murmurs (much softer, now, and in my direction).

I glance up, briefly, from my zippering hell (
man
, all that friction’s starting to burn off my
thumb
nail).

‘So next time you want a free feed, MacKenny…’ She rattles her bag at me, smiling, rather tenderly…

(
Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus
–is she actually gonna ask me round for
dinner
?)

The smile suddenly drops. ‘Why not bring your
own
fucking Tupperware,
eh
?’

Gets me
every
time, damn her.

But come
on
, the shoes were
hot
.

Back to last night:

‘She can cook,’ Jalisa informs me as she returns from the bathroom. ‘God
knows
she can cook.’

(Solomon–too–is rendered virtually
rhapsodic
by some of the more ‘esoteric’ culinary productions.)

‘I mean everything in tiny pieces and portions,’ Jalisa murmurs, ‘as if prepared for a sickly child or a fussy dowager…’

‘Bizarrely
aromatic
,’ Solomon announces, ‘did you happen to notice that?’

Uh
…I cock my head (I mean I didn’t get to
eat
much yet, but smell…? Yeah. Maybe.)

‘Low-fat,’ Jalisa interjects, informatively.

‘And succulent,’ Solomon continues, ‘if unbelievably
fussy
…’

‘Yeast-free,’ Jalisa raises her voice slightly (
Wow
. Think that crack about her headscarf might still be stinging her?).

‘Yeast-fucking-
free
?’ Solomon scoffs.

Jalisa stares at him, heavy-lidded (
Ay
. The hypnotic glare of the angry polecat).

‘
And
gluten free,’ she growls.

‘What about the
bread?
’ Solomon raises one sceptical brow.

‘
Spelt
flour,’ she hisses.

‘And the filo
pastry
?’

Silence
.

‘So you basically think that this food is intended to appeal to someone sickly?’ I jump in (before the actual
blows
commence-
Hmmn
. Is Aphra sick? She doesn’t
look
sick…)

‘Perhaps an allergy sufferer,’ Jalisa ponders, ‘or a
very
healthy hedonist…’

‘Given that we’re dealing with what could essentially be described as your basic south-east Indian cuisine here,’ Solomon shrugs his ridiculously manly, steel-grey-lambswool, John Smedley-encased shoulders, ‘by
your
estimation…’ he delivers Jalisa a pitying look, ‘the entire Indian sub-continent should be peopled by allergy sufferers.’

Jalisa stares at him for a while, her expression, quizzical. ‘I’m not sure who built the
road
, Solomon,’ she eventually murmurs, ‘but you seem to be experiencing some kind of temporary
charm
bypass.’

(No comment is forthcoming from the guy wielding the tarmac.)

The overall impact of this scathing attack is marginally undermined by the fact that as soon as Jalisa finishes speaking she picks up a stray spoon and finishes off the rice pudding with it.

‘
I
wanted some of that,’ Solomon finally hisses.

Jalisa smacks her lips, defiantly.

(So he’s
definitely
not getting any tonight, eh?)

I slowly tiptoe away from the table and towards the door, hands raised (perhaps) in the slightly defensive attitude of a frightened hamster.

‘Well this
has
been fun,’ I mutter, rapidly exiting.

‘Yes,
hasn’t
it,’ Jalisa tosses back.

The guard’s name is Seth and he’s extremely garrulous. Within five minutes he’s told me where he’s originally from (Greenwich), which part of London he currently lives in (Battersea), what his last assignment was (some shonky American Wrestling deal at the London Arena), what his next will be (the new Bridget Jones film), how much he’s earning (£100 per day), the duration for which his mother
breast
fed him (Okay, so now I’m just showing off- the dude was
bottle
fed, as it happens).

As I’m sure you can imagine, it doesn’t take a man of
my
subtle conversational abilities long to lure him around to the fascinating subject of Aphra.

‘
Lovely
girl,’ he says cheerfully, ‘but a total fucking
nutter
.’

‘Really?’

‘Didn’t you notice yet, guv?’ he chortles.

‘Well, she’s certainly a little…’

I raise my brows, suggestively (Could that
possibly
be constructed as ungallant?).

‘Believe it or not,’ he runs effortlessly on, ‘the first time she ever came here she didn’t have the first
clue
about who David Blaine was or what the fuck he was doing up there…’ He smiles, fondly, at the memory. ‘She’s like, “But
why’s
he in the box…?” “Won’t he get
sick
if he doesn’t
eat
for all that time?”, “And how will he go to the
toilet
?”, “
What
? With everybody just
watching
?”’

He cracks up laughing, ‘I mean she was
totally
concerned for the guy. Just standing there, in her funny little shoes, open-mouthed, staring up at the box in sheer wonder. Like a kid at Christmas, pretty much.’