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Oh
shit
.

Oh SHIT!

It’s 2 a.m. I’m stewing in the bath having just briefly recounted–to a slightly-stoned Solomon–the perplexing tale of Aphra’s pudenda, when it comes back to me in a flash–I suddenly
remember
.

I remember where I
saw
her. I actually
remember Aphra!

Now hold on a second…
hold on
…

So it’s a ludicrously huge bathroom (to set the scene), made up, in essence, of the entire attic area. There’s a sloping roof, a wooden floor, a free-standing bath and a free-standing shower. Solomon is sitting in his favourite, ancient, red leather armchair, tapping his boot to the erratic beats of Wayne Shorter’s post-bebop masterpiece,
Juju
, smoking weed, sipping Rooibos tea, encircled by Dobermans (I’m uncertain of the collective noun here–Dobermen? Dobermens?–but suffice to say, that there are three of these viciously angular, prick-eared bastards, which–in my humble opinion–is three too-damn-
many
. Especially when I’m in the buff and they haven’t actually eaten since 8 a.m. yesterday).

Solomon is currently (but of course) holding royally forth on his current subject of choice: David Blaine (seems like this canny illusionist is cheerfully perching on the tip of everybody’s tongue in this town right now).

‘You honestly think Blaine wants to be
Christ
?’ he asks, snorting derisively (in caustic response to something utterly uncontentious which I just idly tossed into the discussion-pot), ‘but you’re barking up the wrong tree
entirely
, Adie. Blaine doesn’t want to be Christ, he wants to be
black
.’

‘But what about…?’

‘He wants to be a
brother
.’ Solomon marches defiantly on, ‘
That’s
why he invented “street magic”, don’t you see? He wants to be “down”, yeah? He wants to be…’ (Solomon performs a satirical hand gesture) ‘where it’s
at
. Most fundamentally,’ he continues, ‘he wants to be the stranger in the room, the “unknown quantity”. He wants to be the mystery, the alien, the
refugee
…Because that’s what blackness denotes in this country,
and
in America, for that matter…’

Even I (full as my mind is of Aphra,
and
Shorter’s maddeningly persistent sax, which is rather like having an irate wasp lodged inside your alimentary canal) can’t let this pass.

‘Well I’ve rarely seen,’ I state provocatively, ‘so many people, from such diverse ethnic backgrounds, in such constant attendance at a single, live event,
ever
. (Even En Vogue at the Hammersmith Apollo, 1993.) ‘And I think–by and large–that they’ve mostly come to show their support, not to mock or to denigrate. If
they
sense a fraud or a wannabe, then they’re certainly not making any big
fuss
about it…’

Solomon waves me away. ‘We natives
love
a spectacle,’ he opines grandly. ‘We aren’t threatened by the theatre of life. Or by the pain of it, either. We
embrace
all that. Only Whitey shies away from the essentials. Whitey needs to live in his box, see? To make his point- to feel secure- he builds his own prison. And he fashions it with such apparent
care
, such
deliberation
- so fucking
painstakingly
- but then he forgets to include the windows, he forgets to include the
doors
. He builds these constructs out of
fear
, Adie, and then tries to make everybody
else
live inside of them. We Melanic
*
Peoples are different. We build our palaces out of language and music, sex and chaos. These palaces have no ceilings and they have no walls. The White Man may’ve
caged
our bodies, ruined our economies and appropriated our
cultures
, but our souls remain unencumbered and our spirits, vibrant. More than almost anything, the White Man
loathes
vibrancy…’

‘Guff,’ I say, and fart in the water. A neat row of bubbles rises to the surface.

‘Why so needlessly
oppositional
, Massa?’ Solomon enquires tenderly. ‘I mean why allow yourself to be
restricted
by that intellectually reductive configuration of either/or? It’s so pale, so obvious, so horribly
predictable
…’

‘Fuck
off
!’ I glug (over a frantic Elvin Jones drum solo), then sink down even lower in the water and drape my face with a flannel.

Five seconds ‘silence’.

Solomon inhales on his spliff, then exhales, with a little cough.

I pull the facecloth off.

‘I remembered,’ I said, ‘while you were talking just now, where it was that I saw Aphra before…’

‘Aphra,’ Solomon muses, ‘
Aphrah
. “Declare ye it not at Gath, Weep ye not at all; In the House of Aphrah, roll thyself in the dust.” ’

I sit up (the water sloshes), ‘
What
?!’

Solomon remains impassive, ‘Micah, 1:10.’

‘The
House
of Aphrah?’

He nods, ‘In Hebrew, the House of Dust, no less.’ (Does this dude have a well-manicured afro-cockney finger in
every
pie?)

He sips his tea. ‘So where?’ he asks.

I lie back down, musing, spreading the flannel across my chest. ‘Remember Day Five or Six,’ I say, ‘when I met that angry girl with the miniskirt and the terrible hair?’

‘No,’ Solomon says.

‘The girl,’ I continue, ‘with the corkscrew perm, who slipped on a stray tomato and nearly twisted her ankle?’

‘
Ah
,’ Solomon exhales.

‘Monday night. About twelve o’clock. There’s this nasty half-riot under way and we’re
right
in the middle of it. The police have just turned up…’

‘I remember.’ Solomon sounds very bored.

‘And I grab this girl and take her up the back exit…’

Solomon snorts.

‘Of the
bridge
, you
twat
. The stairs out the back. And we got to that cosy little corner, halfway up…’

‘Spare me the gory details,’ Solomon groans.

‘But that’s the
point
,’ I expostulate crossly. ‘There
were
none. Things were just starting to get nice and steamy, up against that wall- she had her tongue down my throat, I had my hands up her skirt…when suddenly the girl freezes on me.’

Solomon doesn’t look nearly as astonished by this revelation as I think he perhaps should. ‘Halitosis?’ he ponders ruminatively.

I scowl.

‘Faulty
technique?
’

‘Thanks,’ I deadpan.

‘Someone’s
coming?
’ he finally offers (rather more helpfully), then ruins the effect by gently adding, ‘Prematurely?’

‘Yes,’ I nod (pointedly ignoring the ejaculatory slur). ‘Another woman. And instead of just walking by, like most people would, this other woman pauses and then whispers…’

I pause myself, as I recollect (
then
I digress), ‘I mean
obviously
I have my back to her, and the girl has
hers
against the wall, so she can see her better. But we’re in a clinch…’

Solomon slowly rotates his hand to move me on.

‘But when she hears a
voice
,’ I continue (ignoring him), ‘she pulls away slightly, opens her eyes, and she sees this other girl. This woman. And this woman in standing there, smiling, like something from
Fatal Attraction
…’

‘And she says?’ (Solomon obviously finds the film reference a step too far.)

‘And she taps me on the shoulder and she says, “
You
. In Bow. The VD Clinic. Six o’clock. Last Tuesday evening.”’

Solomon snorts so hard that he spills ash on his trousers.

‘Fuck,’
he curses, and quickly taps it off.

‘But that was
her
,’ I say, ‘that was
Aphra
. I turned round and I saw her, from the back, retreating. But it was definitely her. I remember her hair, and her shoes. These strange green
shoes
. The noise they made…’

Even Solomon is perplexed by this story. ‘But why’d she want to do that?’ he asks. ‘Out of sheer mischief, you think?’

I scratch at my neck for a moment, saying nothing.

‘I mean you said she had an axe to grind…,’ Solomon continues musing. ‘When she approached you today she called you a
whore
-’

‘No,’ I interrupt, ‘she called me a
pimp
. Then she claimed that I was using Blaine to pimp
for
me…,’ I pause. ‘It was all a little confused, actually.’

‘
Argh
, pure
semantics
,’ he waves me away.

‘Although I suppose,’ I start off nervously, ‘I mean, I suppose she
might’ve
said it because…’

I clear my throat, ‘Because it was true.’

It takes Solomon a moment to catch up, but when he does, he starts,
‘What?!
You got yourself cock rot, Massa?’

‘Leave
off
! I had an appointment. Amanda–three exes ago–got chlamydia. She said I needed to get a checkup. But I’m
clear
, thank you very much.’

Solomon’s still perplexed. ‘But how on earth did she
know
?’

As Solomon speaks, one of his three Dobermans stands up, stretches, sniffs the air, trots over to the bath, dips its head down and laps at my water.

‘The million dollar question,’ I say, trying to push the dog away with my toe. The dog lifts its head and growls at my foot.

Okay
.

The foot rapidly retreats.

Solomon clicks his fingers and the dog, Jax (who completes the foul triumvirate with Bud and Ivor), trots mechanically back to his side again.

Man
. How’d he
do
that?

‘You think she’s following you?’ he asks, glancing towards the window (Solomon’s had three girl stalkers in his time, one of whom subsequently had a successful career in children’s TV presenting.
See?
Even his
freak-
followers are interesting).

‘What else to think?’ I say.

‘You believe she actually
had
a migraine?’ he asks.

I pause for a second, mouth slightly ajar–

Uh-oh
–

Head-fuck time…

‘She
didn’t
!’ Solomon jumps in, roaring with glee, slapping his thigh. ‘She just Ian McEwaned you,
man
, and you’re
still
none the wiser!’
*

(He seems indecently delighted by this thought.)

But, fuck…

My mind is racing.

And the porter? Even the
porter
? Was
he
…?

Nah!

‘No,’ I say, ‘I really think she was sick. I honestly do. She
seemed
sick. She
was
sick. She
smelled
sick.’

I remember the smell. Like rotten milk mixed with cheap lager.

‘And so you get her home, and she’s
sick
, like you say. And then you leave the room, and she takes off her skirt…’

Yeah
. Solomon’s recall seems disturbingly
on point
this evening.

‘Then the sister comes home, or the
friend
…’ he chortles.

I sit up, panicked.

‘
What?
You think they set me up? You think they’re planning to
mess
with me in some legitimately fucked-up, McEwan-like way?’

‘Blackmail,’ Solomon sniggers, ‘or
worse
.’

‘I gave her my phone number…’

Solomon throws up his hands, ecstatically. ‘But of
course
you did, Massa. Of
course
you did.’

I stare at him, in silence, while the genius McCoy Tyner hammers away discordantly on his crazy, plinky-plonk piano.

‘Karma.’ Solomon grins, taking a last, long draw on his spliff and then leaning forward and proffering it to me. ‘Pure, undiluted,
genius
karma.’

Wow. Thank God
that
album’s over.