1985 - Stars and bars (7 page)

He wondered if he should take a sleeping pill, but decided not to. They left him more tired the following day than his usual undrugged night on the rack. Once, in a fit of frustration, he had taken three of the particular brand he was prescribed. They made him go to sleep, after a fashion; but what was worse was that he stumbled around like a moron for the next day—heavy-lidded, rubber-lipped, senses all but shut down, barely able to string three words together. At times in any given night he did drift off but never, it seemed, for more than half an hour. It was a source of constant wonder to him how his body survived on such meagre rations. He had read somewhere that eight hours of sleep per day was a mythical requirement. He was living proof of the fallacy—if such a concept were possible. For a while he played around with the words: can you prove a fallacy, disprove a fallacy…

He woke up to a horrible grinding noise punctuated by shouts and clangs. He rubbed his eyes. Wearily, he went to the window and looked out. The back of his apartment block overlooked the rear of a large hotel. In the courtyard behind it two huge green garbage trucks were being filled with rubbish. Eight foot dustbins—the size of a steamer’s smoke-stacks—were rumbled out from the kitchen by gangs of men, attached to an hydraulic arm, and automatically tipped into the truck. Throughout this, the men engaged in constant shouted conversation, competing valiantly with the whining hydraulics, the rumbling cast iron wheels of the dustbins and the surging, churning noise that emanated from the viscera of the garbage trucks.

For the first week that he had lived in the apartment block, Henderson had hung out of his sixth floor window and had vainly issued requests for a little less noise. ‘Excuse me,’ he would call, ‘is there any chance of you men keeping the noise down?’ The men seemed to hear him and shouted back but he couldn’t make out their replies. It had no effect, in any event. The noise lasted for fifteen to twenty minutes and took place between four and five in the morning, every morning. When, outraged, he had raised the matter with other residents of the block they assured him he would get used to it very soon. To a man and a woman, it seemed, they now slept tranquilly through the infernal din.

But they weren’t insomniacs. Henderson turned away from his bedroom window, went through to his modem kitchenette and made himself a cup of tea. He took a sip and thought about his drive South with the charming Bryant. At least it would please Melissa. He thought fondly of her for a moment. She might not be as exciting as Irene but, under the current circumstances, that seemed like a huge asset. Perhaps, he thought, he should wind up the Irene affair. But that idea saddened him. But then perhaps it was already wound up. You could never tell with Irene.

To distract himself he went back into his sitting room and took out pen and paper. He had decided to write to Lance-corporal Drew and urge him to reply promptly with all the information he possessed about Captain Dores’s death.

‘Please do not worry about sparing my feelings,’ Hen-derson wrote. ‘I never knew my father and am consequently deeply concerned to learn as much as I can about him. I know the place and time of his death, but not the manner of it. If you can tell me anything—or provide me with the name and address of anyone who can—I will be eternally grateful.’

He wrote out an envelope addressed to himself and rummaged in the desk drawer for his supply of British stamps. As he did so, he uncovered an unmarked, age-yellowed envelope. He felt his face spontaneously screw up with disappointment and regret. It was a letter from his father, written on his last leave home, before he departed to the Far East, to his unborn child.

Henderson had learnt of its existence only a year and a half previously and it had been responsible for initiating this quest to discover the details of his father’s death in action.

One afternoon, in the middle of a desultory conversation, his mother had referred casually to ‘that old letter of your father’s’. After the incredulous and heated recriminations had died down (‘It’s taken forty years for you to deliver it!’) his mother had hurtfully handed it over.

‘Read it,’ she had said, a hint of tears in her voice. ‘You’ll understand why I never gave it to you.’

He unfolded it now, a curious taut expression on his face, and spread it carefully on the top.

My Darling Girl,

 

In case anything should happen to me I want you to keep and treasure this. All I have is at your disposal. My faith in you is as my affection for you and knows no bounds.

 

With all my love,

Your Old Dad.

Henderson had tears in his eyes as he read this, tears of frustration. Every time he read this letter he had to suppress a monstrous urge to tear it up.

‘He was absolutely convinced you were going to be a girl,’ his mother had said. ‘Utterly convinced. Nothing I said would change his mind. ‘Look after my little girl’ were his last words to me. I thought it would only upset you. It
has
upset you.’

Henderson sat back in his chair. There was a vague tremble running haphazardly through his body. He put the letter away and sat for a while tracing the contours of his nose with thumb and middle finger. The knowledge that letter contained represented his life’s greatest disappointment, all the more bitter because there was nothing he could do about it—could ever have done about it. It seemed absurd to worry about a father’s speculations on the sex of an unborn child in 1943…But if
you
were that unborn child…? Somehow by being born male he had let his father down, even though the man had never known.

He stood up. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said out loud. He must be cracking up. He forced himself to think of something else. Irene. There must be some way of getting Irene south. Perhaps a quick, contrite visit tomorrow. Work out some sort of compromise? He paused. Contrition, apologies, compromise, backslide. He watched his tea cool, its taste metallic in his mouth. He felt an old familiar anger at his indecisiveness. ‘
What
did he really want from his life? Melissa or Irene? Always assuming they’d have
him
…He was tired of his own company, he realized; he wanted to inflict it on somebody else, before he got too old and it all got too late.

H
enderson walked into the diner round the corner from his apartment. It was long and thin and tastelessly decorated in colours of maroon and brown. In a corner near the door two or three hat-stands crowded in on a blonde Latin-American woman who kept the till. Along one wall ranked booths filed back into the gloom. Opposite them was a high formica bar, with fixed bar stools. Behind the bar in the middle was the stainless steel kitchen.

The diner was staffed with the friendliest middle-aged ladies Henderson had ever met. By his third breakfast there he was thinking of them as favourite aunts, so overwhelming was their celebration of his arrival each morning. The women all had the same hard-curled perm in varying shades of grey. Their voices were harsh—cigarette harsh—but kind. When they weren’t telling Henderson how wonderful it was to see him again, they joked and grumbled loudly to each other, shouting unconcernedly the length of the diner or joshing with Ike. Ike was the short-order cook and enjoyed teasing the waitresses and laughing at them. He did this constantly (‘Martha, is that new shoes? What you old man do to you this weekend?’) regardless of the fact that the ‘girls’ never ceased bellowing their orders at him.

While he talked and traded insults he shimmied and swerved above the grills and toasters. He could crack three eggs in one hand, butter five muffins, scramble, poach, fry and slice without breaking into a sweat. At busy times the orders were coming in every three seconds. Henderson never saw him write anything down. And all the while he kept up the banter. ‘Hey, Joy, what you settin’ yo hair in now? Ceement?’ He found his own jokes intensely diverting; his face would screw up as if in pain, his knee would bang the door of a fridge, he’d buckle slightly to one side.

This morning, being a Saturday, the diner was less busy. Henderson still felt irritated and let down by his wasted night. His eyes were hot, his nasal passages dry and prickly. He nodded to the olive-skinned blonde at the till and allowed Martha to hang up his coat.

‘How are you today, Mr Dores? Feeling fine today?’

‘Not so good, I’m afraid, Martha.’

‘MR DORES AIN’T FEELIN’ SO GOOD, JOY!’

‘Did you sleep last night, Mr Dores?’

Henderson had confessed his insomnia in week one.

‘No, not very well.’

‘MR DORES DIN’T SLEEP LAST NIGHT, JOY!’

THAT’S TOO BAD. SORRY TO HEAR THAT, MR DORES!’

‘Looks like Joy din’t get too much sleepin’ done neither.’ Ike’s left leg gave way and he dug his elbow into his hip.

TWO EGGS OVER, BACON, TOASTED BAGEL,’ Joy bellowed from the recesses.

Two eggs hit the skillet as she spoke, a bagel slammed into a toaster, rashers fizzed under a grill.

‘Martha wisht she could be kep awake nights. Right, Martha?’

‘Not by you, that’s for sure.’

High-pitched wheezing from Ike.

‘What’s it gonna be this morning, Mr Dores?’

Henderson thought. ‘Poach one, scramble one on lightly toasted rye. Three rashers of bacon—burned—um, cottage fries. Orange juice and a toasted English, one side only.’

‘POACH ONE, SCRAMBLE ONE ON PALE RYE. CREMATE THE BACON, THREE. FRIES. TOASTED ENGLISH, ONE SIDE ONLY.’

‘Actually, could you make that poach two, no toast, hold the fries, some bacon and a bagel and lox?’

‘IKE, MAKE THAT LAST ONE POACH TWO, NO TOAST, HOLD THE FRIES, BAGEL AND LOX.’

Henderson smiled with guilty satisfaction. He had been trying for days to concoct an order that would thwart-Ike’s astonishing memory and co-ordination. This was anew and unfair ploy, changing the order after it had been delivered.

‘You comin’ out wit me tonight, Martha?’ Ike asked over his shoulder.

‘Not if you was the last man in the world!’

Ike ran on the spot for five seconds.

‘SCRAMBLE ONE ON A MUFFIN, TO GO. TWO EGGS UP, CREMATE THE BACON!’ Joy boomed.

Henderson tensed. Three orders at once, Ike and Martha were still shouting at each other. The juice came. About—it seemed—thirty seconds later his eggs were in front of him. Two poached, three perfect crisp rashers, a bagel and lox. He sighed and looked up. Ike was drinking ice-water.

‘Don’t get a breakfast like that in England, do you, Mr Dores?’ Martha asked.

Henderson had to concede the Tightness of this remark. The last time he’d ordered a cooked breakfast in England, the egg yolk nestled in a halo of transparent albumen, the grease in the fried bread furred up his palate for several hours and he had been unable to remove the bark-like rind from the floppy bacon.

The thought of England subdued him. He ate his breakfast quickly, silently resolving to make his peace with Irene before he picked up his hired car. Perhaps she could fly down and meet him later? He’d suggest it to her, make up some story about a colleague coming in the car at the last moment.

Outside, he stood for a while on the pavement. The sun shone, but it was cooler today after the rain. He breathed deeply, flexed his shoulders and summoned a cab from the slow moving stream of traffic. He got in and sat back on the wide seat. He was beginning to feel slightly better. The city in the morning always had that effect on him. The cab took him smoothly across town to Irene’s apartment on the upper west side.

Once there, he paced up and down for a moment or two rehearsing his apology before attempting to step into the lobby. Irene’s apartment was in an old brownstone that had been extensively renovated inside. There were heavy plate-glass doors at the entrance, through which he could see an expanse of tiled flooring leading to a stainless steel lift. A small man sat at a kind of lectern to one side.

The heavy glass doors would not open. Henderson pressed the buzzer beneath a loudspeaker on a slim pedestal.

‘Yeah?’ The little man spoke into a microphone at the side of a lectern.

‘I’ve come to see Ms Irene Stien.’

‘She expecting you?’

‘Well not exactly…’

‘Name?’

‘Dores.’

The man pressed some buttons on the console in front of him and spoke—inaudibly to Henderson—into the microphone.

‘She’s not in.’

Henderson pressed the entryphone button again. He detested these machines.

‘Could I speak to her, please?’

The little man ignored him. Henderson rapped loudly on the thick glass, hurting his knuckles. Wearily, the man got off his stool and approached the doors. Henderson recognized him. A small Slavonic-looking fellow with a waxy, heavily-pored skin. He had one of the most negligible foreheads Henderson had ever seen: his hairline began an inch above his eyebrows. On his nylon blazer was pinned a badge. ‘A. BRA.’ This was Adolf Bra, Irene’s doorman.

By leaning his weight against one door a half-inch gap could be created. Bra approached.

‘Could I speak with Ms Stien,’ Henderson repeated firmly. Speak ‘with’, he thought. Good God.

‘Ms Stien is not within her domicile.’

For some reason this pedantry made Henderson even angrier.

‘Did you learn that at doorman school? Look, you know me. And I saw you speaking to her, for Christ’s sake. I just want a word.’

Bra looked at his fingers. With the edge of one thumbnail he slid something from beneath the other.

‘I told you. Ms Stien is not within—’

‘Her domicile. I know.’ Henderson forced a smile. ‘I don’t believe you. I’m a friend of Ms Stien. If you can’t let me speak to her I shall report you to—‘ he couldn’t think to whom. ‘I shall report you.’

Bra waggled his forefinger and leant towards the gap. Reflexively, Henderson did the same.

‘Go suck your cock,’ Bra breathed. His breath had a pungent, pickled odour, as if he lived exclusively on a diet of capers.

Henderson recoiled, too surprised and nauseated to retort. If he had had his sabre he would have driven it-through the gap in the door and skewered Bra’s narrow body.