Transgressions (3 page)

She turned down the stereo and picked up the phone. She knew the number by heart even though she had never called it. He had written it under the Dalí calendar picture for March and she had faithfully transferred it every month to the next page, not wanting to lose it but not wanting to accept it as important enough to put into her address book. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then a machine picked up. His voice on the message was confident, cocky almost. I’m okay, it said, just in case you might have any doubts about it. She expected to feel something when she heard it, a little scissors’ cut in the gut, if only from memory, but there was nothing.

“Hello,” she said firmly. “It’s me.” Then, “I need to talk to you about something. Could you call me? I’ll be in tonight.” She went to put down the receiver, then got suddenly flustered. “That’s Tuesday, Tuesday the twenty-fifth that I called.” Then, “Thanks,” as an abrupt afterthought.

She slammed the receiver down. Now, despite herself, she could feel her heart thumping louder. Come on, girl, she thought, you did just fine.

Then she made herself another cup of coffee and went upstairs to work.

two

 

T
he saucepan boiled over, filling the room with hissing smoke. Jake swore as he flung down the magazine and made a dash for the stove. As the pages fell, the centerfold of the woman’s body spread itself out on the table, her perfect navel punctured by a couple of staples: lovely Lola, the fistful from Phoenix.

The pot was so hot he had to set it down on the edge of the table on his way to the sink. The boiling water splashed over the page and Lola’s breasts wrinkled up in instant scalding. He rescued her, then, after a quick glance, tossed her into the trash. She’d never smooth out properly and anyway there was too much airbrush for his liking. He liked his women with body hair, something you could get your fingers into. He was lucky customs hadn’t opened his suitcase. What a way to start the job: American cop arrives to clean up the foreign city and gets caught carrying girlie pictures. He should have guessed. What other kind of going-away present would the boys have wrapped in brown paper?

He hooked out a strand of noodles and lifted it to his lips, then dropped it again as he realized how hot it was. Hot and slimy. “Fuck.” He pulled the arm of his sweatshirt over his hand, picked up the pan and drained it into the sink, then dumped the remains on top of the girl in the trash. What a great way to spend your first night abroad: a bad porn mag and overcooked noodles in some fucking bureaucrat’s apartment. Jeez, this was meant to be privileged housing. People had joined the fucking party to get this much space. It was enough to make a guy feel sorry for himself, especially one who could still remember the taste of someone else’s cooking. And the feel of her body as he reached for her in bed. Not now. Don’t think of Mirka now. It was finished, shot to hell. And this was supposed to be the break: a new job, a new challenge, a blank sheet in the emotional typewriter. Just a shame it had to be her city. At least she wasn’t in it.

He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. Damn the noodles. With luck that restaurant down the road would still be serving. What the hell if he didn’t understand the menu, he could always point at what other people were eating. A bottle of wine, some native cuisine, followed by a little nightlife. He might stop in at one of the city’s fancier hotel bars on the way home. Rumor was the Russian girls were on the move now, a whole new continent of talent hungry for hard currency. That’s what you call free enterprise: when you can’t sell your tanks you can always sell your women. If not to the natives then to the wealthy tourists.

Must have been like this after the war: Americans with their fat food parcels and GI pay trading favors for silk stockings and bars of chocolate. Well, why not? When was the last time he’d gotten laid? That ditzy headdress designer he’d met at a bar on the Upper West Side. Christ, he couldn’t wait to get out of that apartment—all dangling crystals and panpipe music. Still, it was proof that he could do it, that there were some women who still wanted him. Jake Biderman: thirty-six years old, firm butt, no paunch, a good head of hair, and a cute smile when he wasn’t thinking about it (or so Mirka used to say). The only damage done was the stuff on the inside. But they couldn’t see that. Given the schmucks the world is full of, a lot of women would be grateful for his attentions, might even give it to him for free. Who was he fooling?

He grabbed his jacket and headed out into a warm Prague evening. Lola from Phoenix stayed sprawled out in the trash, her airbrushed pubes decorated with a latticework of noodles.

The phone rang in the darkness.

“God.” She switched on the light by the bed and screwed up her eyes to check the clock: 1:18
A.M.
As soon as she picked it up she knew that it was him. Who else could it be?

“Hi, Lizzie.”

“Hello, Tom.” The sound of his voice had her instantly on guard.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” she lied.

“Good. So, how you doing?”

“I’m . . . I’m fine.”

“Busy? I hear you’re doing some writer a big favor, making his words sing.”

“Who told you?”

“Oh, you know, mutual friends pretending to be nice, eager to keep me informed. No doubt you have the same problem.”

No, she thought, I don’t. But, then, don’t ask. “How are things with you?”

The words sounded absurd. Both of them being so polite—like talking to a stranger, or an acquaintance whom you don’t know well enough yet to be familiar with. Well, maybe that’s just what they were now. Acquaintances. Intimacy dissolving back into distance, the story of a relationship gone full circle.

“Great. I’m great. I’ve applied for a post in British Columbia. Going out in a couple of weeks’ time for an interview. Associate professor, no less.”

“That’s wonderful. I hope you get it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s all politics. As you remember.”

“Yes.”

“So, how’s the house?”

“Fine.”

“I’m surprised you’re still there. Must be big with just you rattling around in it.”

Me and whoever else cares to call ’round, she thought. There was a pause.

“Anyway,” he said. “You phoned me?”

“Er, yes. I . . . I wanted to ask if I could have the key back.”

“The key?”

“Yes, Tom, the key. To the house. You’ve still got it.”

“Have I?” he said, in a voice that made it clear they both knew full well that he had it. “I don’t remember. But if you say so I’ll have a look. And if I find it I’ll drop it ’round.”

“Don’t bother, you can just post it.”

“Well, if that would make you feel better.” He paused and in the silence she could almost feel the politeness cracking under the weight of its own effort. “You don’t have to be there to receive it, you know. I could always just shove it through the letter box.” And the word
shove
had a shaft of familiar anger in it.

“Whatever,” she said evenly, determined not to respond. “Listen, have you . . . have you by any chance been here over these last few weeks?”

“What do you mean?”

“To the house. Have you come back to collect anything?”

“Why? What could you have there that I could possibly want?” he said quietly.

“I just—”

“Yes?”

“I just wondered if you had taken any of my CDs by mistake.”

“Your CDs? Which ones?”

You know which ones, you bastard, she thought. “Van Morrison.”

“Van Morrison,” he said, treating the name as if it referred to the pope or someone as hallowed (or despised). I know what it is, she thought. You’ve been drinking. You’re pissed, damn you. “And what would I want with Van Morrison? As far as I remember he’s got a voice like a cistern overflowing.”

“All right, Tom. You don’t have to rise to the occasion. Just a yes or no will do.”

He was silent for a moment. “Then the answer is no, I haven’t taken your Van Morrison albums, or any other for that matter. Why? Has somebody else?”

“I don’t know.” She paused.

“You mean you think you’ve had a burglary?”

“Er, no. I . . . don’t know.”

“You know you should really think of getting the police around to check the security on that house. I always said those back windows were vulnerable. Did you report it?” And the shift in mood was palpable. Even his voice had lost the edge. No more aggression now, just a sudden concentrated concern that made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. Damn him, he could be so nice when he wanted to be. When he wanted to be . . .

“No, no, I didn’t. It’s nothing, only a couple of albums.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t just drop them in your handbag somewhere?”

“No,” she said firmly. The handbag, its size and miraculous capacity to lose everything and anything inside it, had been a long-standing joke between them, before it became a jibe. It was not meant unkindly now, though. Which made it hurt more than if it had been. Don’t get into this, she thought. Don’t, whatever you do, let him charm you. And don’t start telling him your troubles. “Listen, Tom, I have to go, it’s late, I just wanted to check that—”

“That I wasn’t coming ’round prowling, just to make you feel bad, is that it?” Here it came again, the taste of the milk turning sour in his mouth. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but as it so happens I’ve got better things to do with my life than make you feel sorry for leaving it, all right?”

“All right.” She spat it back. Whoomph. You could always depend on Tom. As consistent as English weather. Take off your coat in the warmth and get hit by a hailstorm.

“Well, if you want my advice you’ll put bars on the windows and change your music habits. Could be it’s someone who can’t stand the sound of his voice.”

“Yes, yes, and yes, Tom,” she said, this time letting herself rise to the bait. “Thanks for nothing, okay? And send back the key.”

“I’ll think about it.”

T
he receiver went dead in her ear. She held it like that for a moment, waiting till the pounding in her head subsided. The perfect phone call, Tom at his best: moving from caring to loathing so fast it made your eyes water. Once upon a time she had known how to handle it, could have given as good as she got, but these last months had slowed down her reactions. Made her lazy, too secure. Bastard.

Bastard, yes. But liar? That, too, she had once been able to tell. Now she was not so sure. She put the phone down on its cradle. It rang again immediately. It had to be him. She let it carry on. But he was persistent. In the end she picked it up and said firmly, “Good night, Tom.” The silence at the other end was alive in her ear. “I hope Canada proves big enough for you.”

She pressed the button, then left the receiver off the hook. He was good with phone calls. Once, when they had been courting, and his world still revolved around winning her, he had phoned her thirty-three times in a hotel room in Spain until she had agreed to fly to Paris to meet him for the weekend. It had been so intoxicating being wanted that much, putting down the phone only to pick it up again and hear his voice, laughing, rich with desire, refusing to take no for an answer. They had flirted their way through a small fortune in phone bills that trip. Who cared? It was like making love long distance, the kind of thing that makes a man irresistible. But not now. Now, at last, she had turned her back on him. Which was no doubt what made him so mad. But did it also make him vindictive?

She turned off the light and closed her eyes, but the call had churned her up too much and it was impossible to sleep. A bit of her wanted to talk to someone about it. She thought about calling Sally, to get her reading on the conversation. But the lateness of the hour would make it seem like desperation rather than chatter. Interesting how the nights had changed since they were young. Then it had been a challenge to talk till dawn. Now the world was full of alarm clocks and couples tucked up in bed before midnight. Sad, really.

She lay and listened to the night silence. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. It was hard to believe there was a main arterial road just a few hundred yards away. Sometimes in summer, with the windows open, you could hear an owl. Tonight’s orchestration was less mellifluous though. A high-pitched yowl cut through the silence, followed by another, shriller cry, almost like a baby crying. It turned her stomach for a second until she recognized it as cats. Then came a fierce, fast clash of voices. Fucking or fighting? Sometimes it was hard to tell. The screeches continued, angry yelps, hissing war cries, cold, shrill, little screams. Fighting. Amazing the number of words you could use to describe the sound of a cat’s voice. She tried to think of all their equivalents in Czech. It was not like counting sheep. By the time the fight had stopped, she was wide-awake.