Sottopassaggio (19 page)

A little apprehensive of the monsters lurking in the depths of my mind, I spend the afternoon reading the newspapers, surfing the net, checking my finances, transferring money around, and listening to radio 4. Anything, in fact to keep my brain occupied.

I'm just noticing the fading daylight, just starting to worry about spending the evening alone when the phone rings. Like a drowning man grabbing at a rope, I swipe it from the base.

“Mark?” says Benoit's voice.

“Hi,” I say, trying to remember how I feel about Benoit. It seems as if I last thought about Benoit weeks ago.

“I thought I'd call you,” he says. “Check that you are OK.”

I look at myself in the mirror as I speak, and rub my chin deciding that I need to shave. I frown.

“Why wouldn't I be?” I say shaking my head and wondering how Benoit could know.

I can hear the TV playing in the background again; sirens and squealing tyres.

“I saw JJ yesterday and they said that they saw you, that you were strange,” he says. “So I am calling to verify.”

I frown. “Oh, right,” I say. “Benoit, do you
ever
switch off your TV?”

He laughs. “It worries you? Hang on…”

The sound of the car chase fades then disappears completely, and Benoit's voice returns. “Better?”

I smile. “Sorry. It didn't worry me, I just wondered,” I say.

“Well, it keeps me company, I suppose,” Benoit says. “Otherwise I get lonely.”

It's a nothing phrase, but strangely it opens a doorway into seeing Benoit differently. Seeing him as a human being. For some reason, I callously hadn't imagined that Benoit could
get
lonely.

“So?” Benoit asks.

I cough. “No, look,” I say. “To be honest, I was a bit miffed actually.”

“Miffed?”

“Yeah, disgruntled,” I say.

“Sorry, I…”

“A bit
annoyed
,” I explain.

“Oh,” says Benoit. “I have annoyed you?”

“Yes,” I say. “A bit.”

“Oh.”

“I just didn't much like the idea of you talking to John and Jean. About us I mean.”

“About
us
?” Benoit sounds incredulous.

“Yeah, about the sex we had.”

I wait for him to reply, but there is only silence followed by a tone indicating that he has hung up.

I frown at the handset and shrug. “What a twat!” I say.

I wave the phone dismissively in the air and replace it on the base station. I turn to go to the kitchen, but it rings again, calling me back.

“You hang up?” Benoit asks.

I shake my head as if he can see me. “No!” I say. “I thought
you
did.”

“Oh,” says Benoit.

“So where were we?”

“Well,” Benoit sniggers. “You were about to come around and tell me how angry you are, and then we were about to have sex, and I would never tell this to a soul,” he says.

I laugh. “Is
that
where we were?” I say. “Really!”

Benoit giggles. “Yes,” he says. “I think so.”

I frown and look around the apartment, weighing up
the options. Stay here alone or cross Brighton again.

“Hey, you don't fancy coming here for a change do you?” I suggest.

“Ah. Yes…” Benoit says. “This would be good, I've been here all day working. I'm bored with my apartment. Though maybe I should come after food. I haven't eaten yet.”

“Me neither,” I say. “I was going to get fish and chips.”

Benoit laughs. “You English. So sophisticated.”

I laugh. “Yep,” I say. “That's me.”

“Maybe I bring you fish and chips then. Maybe we eat them together,” he says.

It turns out to be as strange eating with Benoit as it was when we had breakfast together.

We eat in a weird muffled silence with only the sound of our rustling, chewing, breathing. It's only when Benoit points a ketchup-coated chip at me that things ease up.

“Do you want to suck my chip?” he giggles.

I grin and as suggestively as I can I suck the ketchup off, following it with a pickled onion.

Benoit frowns at me. “Share!” he says, leaning forwards.

I crunch the onion in half – the vinegar makes my nose tingle – and then I lean forward to kiss him, passing half across.

A few minutes later we are lying naked on the floor and Benoit is dipping chips into my belly button-come-ketchup-reserve.

I dip my own finger in and draw little red rings around his nipples. “Dirty boy,” Benoit laughs, “Now you lick that off.”

It's all disgustingly sticky, but at least the stickiness between us has vanished. We roll around in a mess of ketchup and tartar sauce, and kiss and cuddle and rub each other into a frenzy. It's all very low key, very good-natured. The earth doesn't shift on its axis, but by the
time we bring each other to orgasm my mood has shifted and I'm feeling thoroughly optimistic.

Afterwards, we shower and dry each other, then we lie on Owen's bed and Benoit smokes.

The after-sex smoking ritual reminds me of home, makes me feel homesick even, and I start to speak to Benoit in French instead.

The conversation drifts easily as the last of the light fades and the curtains blow in and then out on the evening sea breeze.

Benoit tells me he's from Tours, tells me his family are farmers, that he came here for a holiday five years ago and never went back. He says he has no desire to go home, but that his financial situation might force him to.

I make a mental note to give him the cash for the fish and chips in the morning and tell him how I ended up in Nice and then about my job, about my time in New York.

Benoit moves onto his side and slowly draws rings around my nipple as I speak, telling him about Hugo and the fact that Antonio dated him, then about meeting Steve, about the car accident, about Owen bringing me here.

Eventually I realise that Benoit's finger has stopped moving, and I gently raise myself so that I can see his face and see that he is sleeping. I wonder how long he has been absent. His mouth is open and he has the slightest of smiles on his lips.

Moving slowly, I reach over, remove the ashtray, and switch out the light. It's barely 10pm so sleep doesn't come quickly.

I lie and listen to the sound of the curtains dragging across the floor, and the distant sound of the waves, and the in and out of Benoit's breathing.

I think how long it has been since I listened to someone sleeping, think how simple, yet ecstatic it is feeling his body heat beside me, feeling the raising and lowering of his chest next to me, simply being here in
this bed right now with a fellow human being.

The sound of the wind and Benoit's breathing mixes with the white heaving of the sea, and slowly the tide edges its way up the beach, surrounding then washing over us, submerging the day in a brilliant white foam of sleep.

I awaken to the screaming of seagulls. I lie on my side trying to differentiate the whooshing of the cars on the distant main road from the sound of the waves, so present at night.

Suddenly I remember Benoit, and roll towards him. Empty space.

I sit up, rub my eyes and look around the room in surprise. I hold my breath for a moment, listening for sounds of movement in the house. No Benoit. Then I sigh, and roll out of the bed.

Downstairs I make coffee and sit watching the steam rise and thinking about the previous evening. The memory of his ketchup games makes me smile, and I realise that it's the first time we have spent the night together. I wonder if this means something; I wonder if Benoit is becoming something other than occasional shag.

I tip my head to one side, considering the possibility. It would seem ironic that I should travel a thousand miles from Nice back to England to meet a Frenchman from Tours.

I sip my coffee and frown. In fact, I realise, I don't know if he stayed the night at all. I turn the cup and stare at my distorted face reflected in the china, then I reach for the phone.

Benoit answers immediately with a gruff, “Yes?”

I grin at the deep cigaretty French-ness of his voice.

“Morning sexy,” I say.

Benoit sighs. “Morning,” he says.

“Just thought I'd check…”

“Check what?” Benoit interrupts aggressively.

I frown at the phone and start again.

“Just thought I'd check that you exist. That I didn't dream you up.”

Benoit exhales sharply. “No,” he says. “I'm real.”

“So why did you sneak off like that?” I ask, forcing, with difficulty, a warm tone into my voice. “I was looking forward to…”

“I didn't have my stuff, so I had to come back. I never intended to stay the night. That's all,” he says gruffly.

I grimace. “OK, no problem, I just wondered,” I say. “What time did you leave?” I force a laugh. “I didn't hear anything. Amazing!”

“About 2,” Benoit replies coldly.

“And what stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, what stuff did you need to sleep till 7 instead of 2?” I ask, wincing at the vague tetchiness entering my voice.

Benoit coughs. “I fell asleep with my lenses. I didn't have the stuff for my lenses, and I didn't have my meds. That's all.”

I nod. “OK,” I say, slowly processing the sentence.

“Meds,”
I think.

“And now I'm working,” Benoit adds.

“Meds,”
I think again.

I wrinkle my brow. “OK, well, have a good…”

But Benoit has hung up.

I remember last time, and stand over the phone for a few seconds in case he's going to call back again, but it remains silent.

“Fuck him,” I say quietly.

As I shower, my mind runs through the conversation. Of course there are a hundred possible reasons why Benoit might be taking meds, but slowly, like lichen climbing a tree, the idea that Benoit has HIV seems inescapable.

HIV is back again. That wearing, tiring, boring, terrifying disease is back in my life. I sigh heavily again and step out of the shower.

I stare at myself in the mirror. And
contact lenses
? I
didn't know Benoit wore contact lenses. I'm realising that, of course, I know very little about Benoit.

I run through every sexual act he and I have performed, and even though it has all been safe; even though I don't even know if my supposition is true, I start to feel angry that he never warned me.

AIDS. Again. Will it ever end?

As I towel myself dry, I consider phoning him again, but it's clearly not the moment.

Instead I dress quickly and head downstairs. I pull on a denim jacket and swipe my keys from the table. Patting my pockets to check I have everything, I head towards the door.
Sports World
awaits.

But as I pat my rear pocket, I frown. No wallet.

I leave the front door ajar and run back upstairs to the bedroom. I swipe my jeans from the bed and frown. No wallet there either.

I stare at the ceiling for a moment, remembering. The combat trousers I'm wearing
are
the trousers I wore yesterday. I glance around the room and head back downstairs to the lounge.

These are the trousers. This is where I lay when Benoit undid them. I crouch on all fours and look beneath the sofa.

I stand and run my hand behind the cushions.

I check the kitchen surfaces.

I frown. I run back upstairs and check under the bed. I tidy the pile of jumpers on the dresser. I sigh.

I go back downstairs. I check under the sofa again, pointlessly.

Then I angrily remove my jacket, close the front door and put my keys back on the kitchen counter.

I sit at the kitchen table and run my hand across the top of my head.

“Fuck it!” I mutter.

I sit with my head in my hands and retrace my steps.
Sports World
, Tom's, place, here...

I rub my chin and realise that I have no money,
realise that I don't even have any way of
getting
money without my Visa card.

Only then, only after checking the entire house over and over and over again; only after phoning
Sports World
and then phoning Tom; only when Tom has crouched on all fours and checked under his own sofa, and declared that, “There's a lot of dust, but no wallet,” does the terrible dark thought cross my mind for the first time. Maybe Benoit picked it up by accident? Or maybe Benoit
stole
it.

I detest myself for even imagining such a scenario. I order my mind to discount the thought
immediately
.

But he
was
very strange on the phone this morning. He was
very
jumpy.

“
Fuck
!” I know I have to phone Benoit again.

Benoit's
Allo
, is even shorter, even sharper than the last time.

I take a deep breath. I try French.

“Benoit,” I say. “Mark encore. Désolé.”

But Benoit replies in English. “Mark, I have work to do, I cannot…”

“Benoit, I know, I'm sorry. It's just I can't find my wallet anywhere?” I say.

Silence.

“And I wondered if you had picked it up, by accident or something,” I say.

There is a long pause, before Benoit says, “Your wallet?”

“Yeah,” I say, as lightly as I can manage.

“You think I have your
wallet
?” Benoit repeats incredulously.

“Yeah, I mean, it might look like yours or something,” I say.

Another pause.

“Or something?” Benoit repeats.

“Hell, Benoit, I don't know. But I've lost it so I thought I'd give you a call and…”

“Mark, I don't have your wallet. I didn't take
anything else from your house,” Benoit says. “Now goodbye.”

“OK, sorry…” But Benoit has hung up again.

In an act of fury, I throw the telephone across the room. So that it doesn't break I aim for the sofa.