Human Pages Read online

  Annunciation Square now lay immediately ahead. It formed a kind of antechamber; an intimation in its length and breadth of the greater open space of the Rag Market which, in its turn, funnelled and ballooned from its eastern corner. Bearing in mind his internal injunction to look and see, Sonny dutifully paused in front of the two adjacent buildings, which the civic authorities had respectively favoured with a historic plaque and an architectural interest roundel. The first adorned the rebuilt Greek Orthodox Church whose original structure had been destroyed by fire in 1876, the second the 1908 apartment house façade designed by the minor art deco architect, Alan Emscot.

  The head of Walter Grebbel, the eighteenth-century mathematician, surmounted on a huge granite block, chiselled with his dates and doctorates, situated on the northern side of the square, had been, by general consensus, poorly executed and had therefore been spared official recognition.

  One substantial edifice remained, namely the nondescript Agricultural Savings Bank, before he gained the Rag Market. Its sidewall was buried under an overlapping plethora of competing fly posters. As he passed, Sonny let his eyes wander over each of them, backwards and forwards, from top to bottom. One in particular stood out. Against a white background, thick red letters, printed as though they were dripping blood, shrieked, ‘FREE ALBERT WENDE!’ Drawing closer, small black print revealed it to be the handiwork of the ‘One in a Hundred Committee’. Various scribblers had added their own names around the ‘ALBERT’ and the ‘WENDE’. The two posters underneath unsurprisingly plugged hopeful pop singles, but the third, which he almost overlooked because of its unprepossessing layout, made him stop and stare. In two nights’ time, Wilson Loumans, on his only Greenlea appearance, was going to play solo piano at the Veterinarian Hall, sponsored by the Amadeo Cresci Foundation.

  He took out the pages of Elizabeth Kerry’s message and studied them again once he had reached the counter of the Sunrise Tea & Coffee stall, a convenient vantage point in the Rag Market for the departure islands of tram routes 4, 9, 11 and 14, which radiated out to the northern suburbs. It was his habit to stop there most evenings, and Sylvia, on seeing him approach, had already prepared his espresso.

  Under her teasing gaze, he unwrapped a lozenge of sugar and dipped its tip slowly deeper into his cup, watching it change colour until it had all disappeared. The discarded wrapper dropped on the paper in front of him obscuring the words ‘on behalf of the executors’. Tonight, they were using ‘Black Cat’ brand. Within a cream rectangle, bordered by a green serrated line, a black cat’s head faced him with its ears pricked. Thinking about Ute Manoko and the melting sugar, in his mind’s eye he saw it change shape, grow a body and a tail and resolve itself into maneki neko, the Japanese warning cat, whose replicas he had often stopped to admire in Yokohama all those years ago. Its eyes became large and piercing. Its paw was raised for all eternity to warn others, not just the travelling monk, of imminent danger.

  Manoko, Fitzhugh, Cheto Simon, Sowenwell, Terence, Alsatian dogs, Blatteriblax records, depots at Panalquin, Amadeo Cresci. The list was intriguing. With his pen, he drew the two versions of the cat at the foot of the page. My signature, he thought. These drawings belonged to him. They were his marks, but the meaning of the words, like the shops in Salonika Street, whose thresholds he had never crossed, whose arcane secrets he had never breached, remained out of reach, both opaque and unyielding.

  ‘Let me see.’

  He had been about to crumple the lot up and toss them in the litter bin when Sylvia spoke. He handed her the final page and then the others.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like these. I mean with this detail. You did them all?’ She seemed to be only interested in the drawings, ignoring the surrounding text.

  Sonny nodded. ‘Since I was a boy. It’s been a weakness of mine.’

  ‘Well I think they’re fine,’ she said, handing them back as she moved off to serve another customer.

  Sonny and Sylvia, he thought, Sylvia and Sonny. They sounded like a forgotten adagio twosome; a relic from the era of cheap dance halls, long since knocked down or converted into second-hand furniture salerooms.

  He had known her name from their first encounter. Each Sunrise employee was required to wear their badge whilst on duty. Sylvia’s was pinned just above her right breast. A breast he had looked at a moment too long as he imagined it unsupported and free from the encumbrance of her bra and the folds of her blue and white striped smock. She, on the other hand, had had to wait to know his until the day when, inadvertently, he had forgotten to take off his identity clearance. Leaning forward towards him, so that he had been able to smell her perfume, a kind of faint honeysuckle, and feel the softness of her breath on his face, she had deciphered and read out Roberto Ayza from under his security photo. ‘You’re Mirandan?’ she had said, and when he nodded she had added, ‘Me too.’ Whereupon she had stuck out her hand and had clumsily shaken his. ‘Call me Sonny,’ he had said. ‘Everyone does.’ From then on they had never mentioned Miranda again, but had always confined their chat to life in Greenlea.

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’ Sylvia was back in front of him. She began to hum a tune he did not recognise.

  ‘No. I’m in no hurry. There’ll be other trams.’

  ‘Okay then, let me help you pass the time. There doesn’t seem to be anyone heading our way. I know, let me do something I’m good at. Let me tell you a story a customer told me yesterday. Would you mind?’

  ‘No. I don’t mind,’ Sonny replied. The jar of pills and the bottle of brandy would still be there even if he was later home than he had intended.

  ‘You might not like it. It’s a woman’s story.’

  ‘Go on. Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Very well.’ Sylvia paused, drew breath, then started on her tale.

  ‘It had been dark all day. The rain had begun in a half-hearted drizzle, but by lunchtime a gusting wind was drenching the city in unremitting squalls.

  ‘Inside the electrical goods shop on Lower Market Street, Victor Larries, the owner, debated for several minutes whether to miss his scheduled appointment before deciding he would brave the elements and dash to the Pheasant Bar and Grill on the corner of Trevern and Williams Street. As it proved impossible to hoist an umbrella in the high wind, he was soaked through his green loden coat and brown leather shoes by the time he reached his destination.

  ‘Monica Randell, his shop assistant, was glad to see the back of him, and, because the rainstorm deterred customers, she was soon able to slip into an uninterrupted reverie in which, buoyed up by pleasurable anticipation, she saw herself and her new-found lover, Ivo, undressing one another, garment by garment, in a room on the second floor of the Old Russia Hotel.

  ‘In her vision, the rain was still pattering against the window when Ivo closed the curtains and joined her on the bed. The sound of voices in the corridor outside only emphasised the depth of their own tender silence, which they prolonged and nurtured, even when it was assailed by a burst of angry shouting from the adjoining room.

  ‘Ivo raised his arm above her head. She snuggled against him, rubbing her lips along its underside. She squeezed his penis gently and lowered her head to kiss his balls. How young he was, she thought. How oblivious to the meaning of their being together. His flesh was firm beneath her fingers. The hairs at the base of his enlarged cock, which throbbed and stiffened against the encouragement of her palm, were golden. He was, as yet, untainted by the weariness of self, the erosion caused by all the nights and days, which imperceptibly made you not quite yourself, not quite someone else. “Not a word,” she would say as she put her hand to his lips and then laughing softly, “not another word.”

  ‘When Victor returned at 1.30, grumbling on and on about the accursed weather and the lousy state of trade, Monica withdrew to the sanctuary of the storeroom to eat a tub of cold beans and rice. Once there, within its dingy confines, she lovingly ran back future time so that now she was on the point of coming out of the lift and catching sight
of Ivo, who was already waiting expectantly for her on the fourth floor of the multi-storey car park by All Saints Station. Just as we planned, she thought. Exactly as it was meant to be.

  ‘Once beside him in his car, as its tyres threw up water from the road and the steady to and fro of the windscreen wipers fought in vain against the deluge, she felt they were both enclosed in an aquarium of love, where their mutual desire plunged them deeper and deeper, never regretting, in the charged intimacies of their bodies, the light they had abandoned at the surface. His face was so close to hers as he switched off the ignition and turned towards her. His kiss, oh his kiss—was interrupted by Victor standing in the doorway.

  ‘After she had answered his query and he had gone, she turned on the tap and rinsed then dried her fork. She sipped a second glass of water, secure in the knowledge that the afternoon would pass. The mundane work hours would give way to the rapture to come.

  ‘The evening, night and early morning she had connived to spend with Ivo had only been made possible by the announcement of the proposed strike by the Ferry and Tram Workers on the following Tuesday. On hearing the announcement on television, she had not hesitated in seizing the opportunity to say to her husband, as they cleared away their evening meal, that she would spend that night in the city. She had been ready to argue with him that the alternative bus journey over the bridge and the subsequent train were too long and fatiguing, but he had merely nodded okay. “I’ll stop with Elena,” she had explained. “We haven’t had a chance for a real get together for ages. You know how rare it is nowadays for me to go out on the town with friends.”

  ‘Whatever his thoughts might have been she never knew because at that juncture they had been interrupted by loud cries from Henry, their eight-year-old son. Rushing upstairs to his bedroom, they found him writhing on the carpet, clutching his stomach and complaining of terrible pains. After they had called the doctor and he had assured them that it was only a bout of colic, they had spent a restless night trying to get the invalid off to sleep before, in the small hours of the morning, giving way and letting him settle in the haven of their own bed. When he awoke, he seemed recovered, and, in spite of his long protestations, Monica decided to send him to school.

  ‘Now in the shop, she began to wish the remainder of the afternoon away, but time refused to pass. She felt more and more marooned between each slow, desultory shudder of the minute hand of the large oval clock on the wall behind the microwave cookers. The few customers who did turn up were soon dealt with and gone. Victor, meanwhile, was closeted with a rep and then with the half bottle of whisky she knew he always kept in his left-hand desk drawer. The continuous rain, she sensed, was holding the hours in abeyance, pitching time a little forward, but then driving it back like a never-ending cycle on a faulty washing machine. A minute seemed to arrive then stick, devoid of progress. In this wearisome hiatus, the sustaining thought of Ivo’s body, the ardour of his breath on her cheek, began to evaporate as soon as it came. She tried to resuscitate how he would look, what he would be wearing, what he would say, but instead images of Henry last night and this morning crept in to displace Ivo’s touch, Ivo’s smell, Ivo’s face and then they, too, faded away, only to be replaced by another barren round of clock watching.

  ‘Of course, as is the nature of the world, her deliverance came at last. Out in the street, she waited impatiently at Victor’s side as he stooped to lock the door. First, he fumbled with the key, then he pushed twice against it to make certain before finally lowering and securing the metal shutter. They embraced perfunctorily. His breath smelt of booze. She watched him hurry off round the corner, noting to her surprise that the rain had stopped. By now, the strikers, she reckoned, would be at their rally at the Red Windmill on Central Avenue after their march from City Hall. With an uplifted heart, she at last set off on her unaccustomed route.

  ‘She had only turned into Upper Market Street and walked half its length when the realisation that something was wrong seeped ominously into her happiness. A low, steady grumble of clanking and grinding was getting louder and louder. To her horror, the front of a tram came into view as it laboured and protested towards her up the steep incline. Two more had passed by the time she got to All Saints Station where headlines on news vendors’ boards mockingly confirmed what she already knew: “Industrial Peace Ferry & Tram”.

  ‘She had to see Ivo desperately. She had to tell him she could not stay all night. He was not waiting for her on the fourth floor of the car park. His car was nowhere to be seen. She watched and watched the upward ramp, but the sound of ascending vehicles grew more and more infrequent. She would phone from the hotel, say that the chance to meet Elena for the evening had been too good to miss, and catch the last ferry home. A man was looking at her as he unlocked his car. He seemed on the verge of coming over and saying something. She turned away towards the lifts. This was a bad place to be alone. Moments later, she went back to the ramp. He had gone. Time began to race like the twitch of the warning pulse on the back of her hand. Nausea beckoned. Most of the parked cars had left.

  ‘She called Ivo’s flat from the station. There was no answer. She returned to the car park, but he still was not there. She phoned again. No reply. At the concierge desk at the Old Russia Hotel, no reservation in his name, her name, or any of the jokey pseudonyms they had laughed over, was held. She left the lobby; her face flushed as though the man had leaned casually over his counter and slapped her hard.

  ‘The fo’c’s’le of the eight o’clock ferry was almost deserted in marked contrast to the shoving, bustling throng of commuters and the perennial kaluki players fighting for their customary tables, which she suffered evening by evening. Through the windows, the waters of the estuary ran pitch black. Renewed rain trickled in rivulets down the glass. The harbour lights of home were more than an hour away.

  ‘Her husband was sitting in the dark in Henry’s room when she got in. He reached for her hand and put his head against her thigh. “He’s had a slight temperature. Nothing to worry about. He’s better now. Look,” he whispered, “see for yourself. He’s sleeping peacefully.”

  ‘Two months later, the three of them took a picnic in the woods below the Belvedere. They glanced up when an exuberant band of young people spilled along the path towards them. Ivo was amongst them. He had not changed. His every movement exuded vigour and beauty. The sun was glistening through the trees, and, in mid-exclamation, raising his hand to shield his eyes, he momentarily turned and caught sight of Monica. His already upraised hand sketched a kind of salutation before it dropped to his side then he was gone.

  ‘She listened as their mingled shouts and the thump of their ghetto blaster died away. Birds called. At her feet, Henry was busily playing his new Game Boy console. Her husband, his back supported by the slender trunk of a silver birch, read his newspaper. Time progressed on an even keel, letting those alive live, aiding those who, weary of the city streets, sought an hour’s respite in the woods and walkways of the Belvedere’s environs.’

  Sylvia had reached the end of her story, but her concluding words were half lost as she left Sonny in order to serve two impatient new customers. Laying their orders down, she smiled over at him, encouraging him to say something, to comment on what she had just related. The bell of a departing tram provided a timely footnote to her theme.

  ‘Don’t waste your youth,’ Sonny managed at last.

  Sylvia laughed. ‘There’s no point in not wasting it.’

  ‘You can go where you want. Do what you want. It needn’t be this.’

  ‘But I like it here, Sonny. Just as well as I like it back in Miranda.’

  It was his turn to smile as he watched the sugar wrapper from his second coffee revert to its original shape of a black cat’s head. ‘Naturally. You see Miranda full of living people. People you knew only a short time ago. I see it populated by ghosts.’ He got up. ‘Goodnight, Sylvia, and thanks.’ He had nearly blurted out goodbye.

  ‘Goodnight, Sonny. Till
I see you.’

  He heard her laugh ring out once more as he quickened his stride to board a number 11 tram, whose driver he had seen stowing his knapsack under the control panel.

  *

  Electricians were busy testing the display lighting when Harvard Smith pushed through the doors of the Lorelei Suite at the Berengaria Inn, home next day to an exhibition celebrating Chance Company’s twenty years in business.

  He had ring-fenced the funding six months ago, but was now only too aware that, in the recent climate of disappointing out-turns, he and it faced possible challenges at national level. At the best of times, overt publicity was likely to discomfort the vocal rump who preferred the clandestine route; at the worst of times, well, he would not dwell on it, he simply hoped that the generally anodyne style of presentation would deflect any overzealous scrutiny, especially now he had agreed to involve Cresci Foundation money.

  A series of large mounted photographs depicting Joe May, Chance Company’s founder, at various stages of his career, signposted the visitors’ path through the show. The first, which had achieved cult status, was a full-length portrait from the early sixties. It showed May sheltering from a snowstorm in the entrance of a pawnshop on Columbus Circle, New York City. The clothes he wore looked as though they had been assembled from the remnants of the scummiest kind of yard sale. A neon dollar sign floated above his head. This mise en scène had been meticulously reconstructed by the super-realist painter and photographer, Isa Karlowski. As the accompanying rubric explained, it had been one of her Twenty Great Ironic Pictures.

  Harvard leant forward to study some of the late-period Madcap Enterprise adverts displayed in the cabinet below Joe’s feet. He had always enjoyed them.

  ‘Tired of the Tarot?’

  ‘Ideologically opposed to I Ching?’

  ‘Face down your anxieties through rigged events.’