Us (12 page)

‘Which are …?'

‘Observable characteristics, traits, manifestations of the genotype and the environment. In fruit flies, shorter wings, eye pigmentation, changes in the genital architecture.'

‘“Genital architecture”. That's the name of my band.'

‘It means that you can see indications of mutation in a very short time. Fruit flies are evolution in action. That's why we love them.'

‘Evolution in action. And what do you do when you want to examine their genital architecture? Please, please don't tell me you kill them all?'

‘Usually we knock them unconscious.'

‘With tiny truncheons?'

‘With carbon dioxide. Then after a while they stumble back onto their feet and get on with having sex.'

‘My typical weekend.'

A moment passed.

‘So can I keep one? I want …' She pressed a finger to the glass ‘… that one there.'

‘They're not goldfish at the fairground. They're tools of science.'

‘But look – they really like me!'

‘Perhaps it's because you smell of old bananas!' Another moment passed. ‘You don't smell of old bananas. I'm sorry, I don't know why I said you smelt of old bananas.'

She looked over her shoulder and smiled, and I introduced her to Bruce, our pet fruit fly, to show that it was not only the art-school crowd who knew how to have a good time.

The tour continued. I showed her the cold room, where we remarked on how cold it was, and the 37-degree room.

‘Why 37 degrees?'

‘Because it's the temperature inside the human body. This is what it feels like to be inside someone.'

‘Sexy,' said Connie, deadpan, and we moved on. I showed her dry ice, I showed her the centrifuge in action. Through a microscope we looked at cross sections of the tongue of a rat that had been infected with parasitic worms. Oh yes, it was quite a date, and I began to note the amused faces of my colleagues working late as usual, mouths open, eyebrows raised at this lovely woman peering into flasks and test tubes. I gave her some Petri dishes, to mix her paints in.

When she'd seen enough we went, at her suggestion, to a tiny Eastern European restaurant that I had walked past many times without ever imagining I might enter. Faded, dimly lit, it was like stepping into a sepia photograph. A hunched and ancient waiter took our coats and showed us to a booth. At Connie's suggestion, we drank vodka from small, thick glasses, then ate velvety soup a shade of burgundy, delicious dense dumplings and pancakes and syrupy red wine and sat side by side in the corner of the almost empty room, and soon we were fuzzy-headed and happy and even almost at ease. Rain outside, steam on the windows, an electric-bar fire blazing; it was wonderful.

‘You know what I envy about science? The certainty. You don't have to worry about taste or fashion, or wait for inspiration or for your luck to change. There's a … methodology – is that a science word? Anyway, the point is you can just work hard, chisel away and eventually you'll get it right.'

‘Except it's not quite as easy as that. Besides, you work hard.'

She shrugged and waved her hand. ‘Well, I used to.'

‘I saw some of your pictures. I thought they were amazing.'

She frowned. ‘When did you see them?'

‘Last weekend. While you were asleep. They were beautiful.'

‘Then they were probably my flatmate's.'

‘No, they were yours. Hers I didn't like at all.'

‘Fran is very successful. She sells a lot.'

‘Well, I don't know why.'

‘She's very talented, and she's my friend.'

‘Of course, but I still loved yours. I thought they were very …' I searched for some artistic term. ‘Beautiful. I mean, I don't really know much about art—'

‘But you know what you like?'

‘Exactly. Also, you can draw terrific hands.'

She smiled, looked at her own hand, splayed the fingers and then placed it over mine. ‘Let's not talk about art. Or fruit flies.'

‘Okay.'

‘How about last weekend instead? What happened, I mean.'

‘Fine,' I said and thought,
here it is, the bolt gun
. ‘What did you want to say?'

‘I don't know. Or rather, I thought I did.'

‘Go on.'

She hesitated. ‘You go first.'

I thought a moment. ‘Okay. It's very simple. I had an amazing time. I loved meeting you. It was fun. I'd like to do it again.'

‘That's it?'

‘That's all.' It was by no means all, but I didn't want to alarm her. ‘You?'

‘I thought … I thought the same. I had a
happy
time, unusually. You were very sweet. No, that's wrong, I don't mean that, I mean you were thoughtful and interesting and I liked sleeping with you too. Very much. It was fun. Your sister was right – you were what I needed.'

I had found myself in this situation often enough to recognise the imminent arrival of a ‘but' …

‘But I don't have a very good track record with relationships. I don't associate them with happiness, certainly not the last one.'

‘Angelo?'

‘Exactly. Angelo. He wasn't very nice to me and he's made me … I suppose, I want to be … cautious. I want to proceed with caution.'

‘But you want to proceed?'

‘With caution.'

‘With caution. Which means?'

She considered for a moment, biting her lip, then leant forward. ‘Which means that if we got the bill right now and went outside, if we found a taxi and went home to your bed, then I'd be very happy.'

Then she kissed me.

…

…

…

…

…

‘Waiter!'

The party started at a time you might reasonably expect most parties to stop, the usual treble and bass boom-tsk of electronic music soon replaced by a low-frequency oom-pah oom-pah with a distinctive comb-and-paper buzz.

‘Is that … an accordion?'

‘Uh-huh,' mumbled Connie.

‘Albie doesn't play the accordion.'

‘Then he has an accordionist in his room.'

‘Oh, good grief.'

Now the asthmatic chug resolved into four familiar stabbing minor chords, played in rotation, accompanied by much foot-stomping and thigh-slapping percussion, provided by my son.

‘What is this song? I know this song.'

‘I think it's “Smells Like Teen Spirit”.'

‘It's what?'

‘Listen!'

And sure enough, it was.

When – if – I thought of accordionists, the word suggested an olive-skinned male wearing a Breton top. But here, Nirvana's howl to youthful alienation was bellowed by a primal female voice, a kind of soulful town crier, with Albie now accompanying her on percussive guitar, his chord changes always just a little way behind.

‘I think they call it jamming,' I said.

‘As in jamming your fingers in your ears,' said Connie.

Resigning myself to a long night, I turned on the light and reached for my book, a history of World War II, while Connie sandwiched her head between two foam pillows and assumed a horizontal brace position. The accordion, like the bagpipes, is part of the select group of instruments that people are paid to stop playing, but for the next forty-five minutes my son's mysterious guest pushed at the musical limits of the squeezebox, regaling much of the fifth, sixth and seventh floors of the Good Times Hotel with, amongst others, a boisterous ‘Satisfaction', a sprightly ‘Losing My Religion' and a version of ‘Purple Rain' so long and repetitive that it seemed to stretch the very fabric of time.
‘We are enjoying the concert, Albie,'
I texted,
‘but it's a little late'.
I pressed send and waited for the message to be received.

I heard the bleep of a text arriving on the other side of the wall. A pause, and then ‘Moondance' sung by emphysemic wasps.

‘Perhaps he didn't read my text.'

‘Hm.'

‘Perhaps I should call reception and complain. What's French for “remove the accordionist from room 603”?'

‘Hm.'

‘Seems a bit disloyal, though, complaining about my own son.'

‘Hasn't stopped you in the past.'

‘Or shall I just knock on the—?'

‘Douglas, I don't care what you do as long as you stop talking!'

‘Hey! I'm not the one with the accordion!'

‘Sometimes I think an accordion would be preferable.'

‘What does that mean?!'

‘It doesn't mean— It's two thirty, just …'

And then the noise stopped.

‘Thank you, God!' said Connie. ‘Now, let's go to sleep.'

But the irritation lingered and we lay beneath its cloud, contemplating other nights we had spent like this, dwelling on a moment's unkindness, impatience or thoughtlessness.
I think our marriage has run its course. I think I want to leave you.

And then a jolt, like a bass drum behind our heads, followed by the particular, insistent thump-thump-thump of a headboard banging against a wall.

‘They're jamming,' I said.

‘Oh, Albie.' Connie laughed, her forearm across her eyes. ‘That's just perfect.'

We met the beguiling musician the next morning in the hotel's gloomy basement breakfast room. Uncharacteristically for Albie, they were up before us, though it was hard to see the girl's face at first, clamped as it was to Albie with the tenacity of a lamprey eel. I cleared my throat, and they peeled apart.

‘Hello! You must be Douglas and Connie! Christ, look at you, Connie, you're gorgeous! No wonder your son is so hot, you're a be-auty.' Her voice was gravelly, Antipodean. She took my hand. ‘And you're a very beautiful man too, Dougie! Ha! We were just having some breakfast, the breakfast here is a-mazing. And it's all free!'

‘Well, not exactly
free
…'

‘Here – let me move Steve out of the way.' Steve, it seemed, was the name of her accordion. Steve had his very own chair, where he sat toothily grinning. ‘Come on, Steve, let poor Mr Petersen sit down, he looks wasted.'

‘We enjoyed your concert last night.'

‘Aw, thank you!' She smiled, then used her fingers to arrange her features into a clown's sad face. ‘Or did you not really mean that?'

‘You play very well,' said Connie. ‘We'd have enjoyed it more before midnight.'

‘Oh no! I'm so sorry. No wonder you look fucked, Mr Petersen. You'll have to come and see me play at a reasonable hour.'

‘You're actually playing a concert?' said Connie, with a hint of incredulity.

‘Well,
concert
's a big word. Only outside the Pompidou.'

‘You're a busker?'

‘I prefer “street performer”, but yes!'

I don't
think
my face fell, I tried not to let it, but it's true that I was wary of any activity prefixed with the word ‘street'. Street art, street food, street theatre, in all cases ‘street' preceding something better carried on indoors.

‘She does an amazing “Purple Rain”,' mumbled Albie, who was slumped diagonally across the banquette like the victim of a vampire.

‘Oh we know, Albie, we know,' said Connie, regarding the accordionist through narrowed eyes. The girl, meanwhile, was scooping the contents of many tiny jars of jam into a croissant. ‘I hate these little jars, don't you?
So
shitty for the environment. And
so
frustrating!' she said before cramming her entire tongue into one.

‘I'm sorry, we didn't quite get your—'

‘Cat. As in the hat!' She patted the black velour bowler that she wore at the back of her head.

‘And are you Australian, Cat?'

Albie tutted. ‘She's from
New Zealand
!'

‘Same thing!' She gave a loud bark of a laugh. ‘You guys better get some breakfast in you, before I eat it all. Race you!'

Over the years, at conferences and seminars, I've had some experience of the breakfast buffet system and have noticed that when confronted with a table of ostensibly ‘free' food, some people behave with moderation and some as if they've never tasted bacon before. Cat was of the group that believes that ‘eat as much as you like' is a gauntlet thrown down. She stood at the juice dispenser, pouring a glass then downing it, pouring a glass then downing it; juice-hanging, I call it and I wondered, why not just open the tap and lie beneath it? I smiled at the waiter who shook his head slowly in return, and it occurred to me that if management made the connection between last night's accordion workout and the woman now piling a great mound of strawberries and grapefruit segments into her bowl, then we might be in very real trouble.

We shuffled along the counter. ‘So what brings you to the Eternal City, Cat?'

‘Paris isn't the Eternal City,' said Connie. ‘The Eternal City is Rome.'

‘And it's not eternal,' said Albie, ‘it just feels like it.'

Cat laughed and wiped juice from her mouth. ‘I don't live here, I'm just passing through. I've been bumming round Europe ever since college, living here, living there. Today it's Paris, tomorrow Prague, Palermo, Amsterdam – who knows!'

‘Yes, we're the same,' I said.

‘Except we have a laminated itinerary,' said Connie, examining the empty grapefruit container.

‘It's not laminated. What I mean is, we're going to Amsterdam tomorrow.'

‘Lucky you! I love the 'Dam, though I always end up doing something I regret, if you know what I mean. Party town!' She was filling a second plate now, balancing it on her forearm like a pro and focusing on proteins and carbohydrates. Lifting the visor on the bacon tray, she inhaled the meaty vapour with eyes closed. ‘I'm a strict vegetarian with the exception of cured meats,' she said, loading dripping coils of the stuff onto a plate already overflowing with cheese, smoked salmon, brioche, croissants …