Eighty Days Blue (14 page)

I laughed. ‘OK, then. It sounds like fun.'

Marija and Baldo were nestled up on the couch together when I got home, watching old horror films. Marija had her hand over her eyes, opening her fingers every few seconds to peek at the screen and then shriek. Baldo had one arm draped over her, and with the other, he was dipping rice crackers into low-fat cottage cheese and grimacing after every mouthful.

‘Have you guys ever heard of bull-riding in Manhattan?'

‘You've got tickets for Friday?' Baldo said. ‘Lucky you – it's been sold out for months.'

‘Ah,' said Marija, taking her hand away from her face. ‘A date with Simón?'

‘It's not a date.'

‘Whatever,' she replied, staring back at the screen and huddling into Baldo as a woman on the television emitted a piercing scream.

Friday rolled around so quickly that I barely had time to get nervous about the prospect of spending a full afternoon and evening with Simón. Every time I looked at him now, I worried that he could somehow pick the thoughts out of my brain and know that, just days before, I had masturbated breathing in the scent of his scarf.

I'd only ever once been on a sporting date before, with a boyfriend in New Zealand, to watch the Kiwis play Samoa in the Rugby Sevens at the Westpac Stadium in Wellington. The game was fast-moving, and I'd been surprised by how much I enjoyed it considering that I don't watch any sport at all, though I had spent most of the match
fantasising
about being let loose on the players in the locker room afterwards. They were insanely thick-limbed, with bodies like gods and shorts so short I was surprised that someone hadn't complained the game wasn't suitable for younger viewers. We'd had sex after the game and I had closed my eyes and dreamed that I was being taken by first one muscled player and then another – men from both teams, though if I'd been pressed to make a choice between the two, I would have taken the Samoan side. They were better-looking.

Deciding what to wear for these sorts of dates was always impossible. I'd look a fool if I wore high heels to a sports match, but if I was too casual, then I'd feel underdressed at dinner. I opted for a rust-red woollen shift dress, worn with hold-ups, flat lace-up leather boots and my faux-snakeskin handbag.

Simón had come as a proper cowboy, in a white shirt and jeans, with a brown leather stetson perched on top of his curly hair. He wore a black belt with a large silver buckle in the shape of a skull, and a pair of deep-maroon boots with pointed toes and a skull motif on each ankle, as if he had tried to match the flamboyancy of his hair with that of his feet. On anyone else the outfit might have been ridiculous, but Simón was the sort of man who dressed with such aplomb you would never question his taste.

He took my hand and led me through the stadium, down the steps to seats just a few rows back from the front, where we would have a perfect view of the action. Half of the crowd at least were wearing cowboy hats; most of the women were in blue and red checked shirts and jeans. I was the only person that I had seen so far wearing a dress. It was warm inside, with the heat of the crowd, bright lights
and
the excitement of a show about to start. I could smell the dirt floor where the riders and bulls would soon be bucking in front of us; it had a dusty, coppery scent that reminded me of Northern Australia, where I had worked briefly before moving to the UK.

‘You'll have to tell me the rules,' I said. ‘I really don't know anything about bull-riding.'

‘Forget the rules, just watch. Each ride won't take more than eight seconds, and that's if the rider is good, so there's not much time to explain.'

Simón was right: some of the riders were only on the backs of the bulls for three or four seconds. I imagined, though, that on the back of an animal like that, a few seconds would last a lifetime. The bull never had all four feet on the ground at once, and one bull jumped about four feet into the air, carrying his rider with him, before hitting the ground again and not even pausing for a moment before continuing to buck. They behaved as though the ground were electric, snorting and leaping and heaving like 1,800 pounds of beef on Ritalin.

The riders weren't what I expected. Most of them were short, with bodies like gymnasts. They responded to each move of the bull with an equal and opposite reaction, moving back or forward, left or right with perfect speed and precision, more like a wind-up toy than a man. Several times the rider was thrown and pulled out of reach of the bull's stomping hooves in the nick of time, a hair's breadth from being trampled to death.

Simón watched with shining eyes, hollering and jumping to his feet when a rider managed to hold his ground for more than a few seconds.

‘Imagine having an animal like that between your legs,' he sighed.

‘Mmm,' I replied, sucking up the last of my Coke through a straw.

‘In Venezuela, the riders chase the bulls on horseback and race to be the first to take the animal down by pulling its tail. We call it coleo.'

‘That sounds easier than this.'

‘That's a very dangerous thing to say to a Venezuelan!'

‘I don't mind a little danger, else I wouldn't be here.'

‘I guessed that about you. It's not every girl that you can invite to a bull-riding show.' He bent his head towards me as he spoke.

I put my mouth back to the straw.

‘Mind if I have a drink?' he said.

‘Sorry . . . I've finished it.'

‘Never mind. The show is almost over. We can get another drink somewhere else.'

We went to Caracas Arepa Bar on 7th Street in the East Village. It was still fairly early, but the queue to get in snaked out through the door.

‘It's worth it, I promise.'

‘Don't worry. I can be very patient when the need calls for it.'

‘I'm sure you can. You know, I've been thinking . . .'

‘A dangerous habit.'

‘I know I've been a bit of a slave driver lately, but I think you should go for that solo gig. You're good enough. I can speak to some promoters. I think we can fill a house.'

‘I thought you said that I was playing with my mind.'

‘Don't be like that. There's always room for improvement. What do you say? I know the rehearsal space you're
using
is a bit of a hole. You can use my basement. It's sound-proofed. I had the place renovated when I moved in, so it's very comfortable. I can give you some extra lessons.'

‘That's very good of you, but . . .'

‘No buts. You're talented. Trust yourself. This could be your big break, you know. I'll make sure a few agents get on the guest list.'

‘OK.'

‘OK?'

‘Yeah. OK.'

He threw his arms round me and lifted me straight off my feet, planting a wet kiss on each of my cheeks. His stetson fell to the ground.

‘Probably best I take that off now, anyway,' he said, smiling as he bent down to fetch it.

We squeezed onto the end of a table with four others. They were halfway through their meals, and if the expressions on their faces was anything to go by, then the food must be divine.

‘Guacamole and chips to start,' said Simón, ‘and margaritas – we're celebrating.'

‘Please feel free to order the rest,' I said. ‘I haven't a clue what any of these things are, and I trust you.'

‘You might regret that.'

‘I doubt it.'

We ate until I felt as though I would need to be rolled home.

‘Did you order everything that was on the menu?' I asked, eyeing the last of the tajadas, fried sweet plantains with salty cheese, and patting my stomach regretfully. No doubt about it, dating is not good for the waistline.

‘Not quite,' he laughed.

He walked me back to my apartment. We'd both downed four or five margaritas and were unmistakeably tipsy. I was, truthfully, closer to drunk. It made a nice change not being the only one drinking.

I fumbled in my handbag for the keys to the apartment, leaning against the wall for support.

‘I can't be locked out,' I said. ‘The front door locks from the outside.'

‘May I?' he said. ‘I think I'm more sober than you.'

I held the bag open as he tentatively snaked a hand inside.

‘Do you actually need to carry around this much stuff?' he asked.

‘You never know when you might need a spare pair of shoes.'

He pulled out the length of rope that Cherry had given me after her show. It had been buried at the bottom of my bag ever since.

‘Were you planning to kidnap me?' he said, dangling the rope in front of my face.

‘I'm a girl scout,' I replied blithely.

‘You're certainly full of surprises.' He slung the rope loosely round my waist and, holding each end, pulled me against him. ‘Now I've got you trapped,' he said.

Then he kissed me.

His kiss was warm, rougher than Dominik's kisses, probably because he was drunk. He tasted of tequila, and when I breathed in, all I could smell was the lingering spice of the perfume that he wore, like the smell of a kitchen after baking a batch of gingerbread biscuits.

He dropped the rope and buried his hands in my hair, holding my head tightly.

I held my breath, hoping that he would pull my hair the way that Dominik did and kiss me again. I was beginning to feel a familiar warmth running through my body and was tempted for a moment to invite him inside.

Instead he broke away, holding his hands against his sides stiffly.

‘I'm sorry – I shouldn't have.'

‘It's OK. We have to work together.'

‘I know. It's a bad idea.'

‘Definitely a bad idea.'

I picked up the rope and returned it to my bag. My keys were gleaming in the side pocket, exactly where I always left them.

‘I'm sure I saw you put your hand in that bit,' I said accusatorily.

‘I did. I was just trying to stall you.'

‘Thank you for dinner and the bull-riding.'

‘Thank you for joining me.'

He was back to his usual persona, friendly, professional, flirting but as if he didn't really mean it. Though, if his kiss was anything to go by, he really had meant it after all.

‘I'm going inside now.'

‘And I should be getting my beauty sleep. Rehearsals tomorrow. And we can start planning your solo show.'

‘Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight.'

I left him standing on the doorstep and shut the door.

I still hadn't heard from Dominik, but I could feel the weight of his disapproval from across the ocean.

6

An Island on Spring Street

The formal offer of the fellowship arrived through Dominik's letterbox a fortnight after his return from New York. Having been given the initial impression the answer would reach him earlier, he had spent an awkward week moving between anticipation and a curious form of mild depression, waiting for the trustees' decision.

It was, as he had fervently hoped, a positive response and he had been granted the fellowship and attendant stipend, and was expected to begin his period in Manhattan after the Easter break. He was being supplied with a small office within the New York Public Library precinct and electronic and physical access to all its materials, against which he would be required to give a monthly talk of no more than an hour on a subject of his choice. How long he spent on actual research in the imposing building on Fifth and 42nd with the stone lions was up to his discretion.

Dominik now had under three months to make all the necessary arrangements: organise for his sabbatical from the London job, assist in finding someone to stand in for him in his absence and, most importantly, find accommodation in New York, as the library was unable to assist in the matter.

He rang Summer.

‘It's finally come through. I have the fellowship.'

‘That's great. Really wonderful.'

‘I will arrive straight after Easter.'

‘Oh . . .'

‘What is it?'

‘I'll be in full rehearsals for the solo gig.'

‘No problem. I'll find somewhere, a place, where you can play the Bailly at all hours of day and night, without fear of disturbing neighbours.'

‘That would be so nice,' Summer remarked. ‘Until then, I'm mostly restricted to a small room in the bowels of the Symphonia's locale. Not a very inspirational bolthole. Plus it has to be booked days in advance, as so many of the other musicians require extra rehearsal time. Simón has offered me the use of his apartment on the Upper West Side, but I'd feel uncomfortable taking advantage of him.'

‘You're right.'

‘Anyway, I like to be alone when I'm preparing,' Summer added.

‘What about me? No more private recitals?'

‘Ah, that's another matter altogether,' she said.

Finding rentals in Manhattan, even with the most generous of budgets, is always an uphill task, particularly at a distance. Online searches were an initial waste of time, so Dominik finally went through a local property broker and found a loft space in SoHo on the fifth floor of a building on Spring Street near the corner of West Broadway.

Summer surveyed the place for him and declared it absolutely perfect. It was vast, she reported, fabulously lit, and the acoustics were incredible. Although it was furnished in a particularly minimalistic style, she was confident that Dominik's books, and the way he so quickly accumulated them, would soon provide the loft with some extra warmth and personality.

The rental contract was for a whole twelve-month period and it was arranged for Summer to move in a full month ahead of Dominik's arrival in New York, to take advantage of the place. She was initially reluctant to abandon her Croatian friends, but soon began to look forward to escaping their joyful rutting sounds and its insistent distraction at night.

She would describe their exploits to Dominik when she spoke to him on the phone; hearing about the adventures of the lusty Croatians always made him laugh heartily. Later, a pensive Summer invariably reflected that she had seldom seen Dominik laugh in the flesh. She wondered why.