Love Doesn't Work Page 6

  “So you really knew?”

  “Kind of.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Who cares? It’s all old hat now.”

  Nothing had changed, in fact. There was still me in my moleskin trousers and scuffed brogues, and there was Jimmy, the great glittering pretend-shark, with a bloodless wound somewhere about his person.

  “Were you very disappointed when it all messed up?”

  He looked at me, an astonished smile on his face. “Me? Of course not! I was fucking relieved, man! I was sick of all the games, the whole mental sex thing. Women are players. They analyze the game stats. Men just want to win and get it over with. I’m no different from all the rest.”

  “How is Archie?”

  “Oh. Fucking crazy, of course! The divorce has been a hell of a ride.”

  “Must have cost you a bit?”

  “It did. I had to give her the house in Sardinia. She’s living there now. I’m still picking up the tab. She’s pretty well going nuts, I reckon.”

  “Poor Archie,” I said, surprising myself. “So do you miss your life there in Sardinia?”

  “To be honest I couldn’t stand the place. All that stinky old cheese, peasants on mopeds. Fucking creepy, wasn’t it?” I sensed his wound again, carefully hidden under his crumpled linen Armani suit. “What about you? Any last thoughts about Archie?”

  His question set me off. At once I was back in that bed by the window, the low sunlight pouring in: Archie, her honey-colored skin, the little soft hairs round her belly-button. I felt myself quickening at the very thought of her.

  “I’d like to see Archie some time. I grew to like Archie very much.”

  He smirked, distinctly ill-at-ease. “She told me you didn’t like her very much at all, actually.”

  “She did?”

  “You were relieved to get the hell out of there. That’s what she said.”

  “Yeah, but given the situation. I was racked with guilt, Jimmy.”

  He came in closer, his pale eyebrows beetling. He said, “So you felt you did wrong, did you?”

  “Of course I did. But she threw herself at me. I…”

  “Stop!” He nodded at a good-looking blonde making her way towards us, a ferocious grin on her fake-tan face. “There’s my new wife right there. You want to meet her?”

  “No offense, Jimmy, but I’ve got to go, if you know what I mean.”

  “Don’t worry, Chuck. This one likes fucking. Physically.”

  Before I could slip away, she’d pulled up in front of us. She was Californian, with a good body, a frightening level of earnestness and an interest in yoga and macrobiotics. All this came out in the first two minutes.

  “I feel we’ve met somewhere before,” I said.

  “No, no, no!” she cried, grasping my arm fiercely as if to show me what a tactile person she was. “You’re getting me confused with someone else out there. And I’m very typically Californian. I mean this is actually real blonde hair!”

  “Oh yeah, that’s real blonde hair all right!” Jimmy confirmed, with a grin.

  “But apart from that there’s not so much that stands out about me.”

  “Oh I don’t know about that,” said Jimmy, giving her rump a little playful slap. She shrieked with delight, baring her teeth in a way that would have provoked an attack among chimpanzees. Then said to me, without irony: “He’s so cute! I just love Danny de Vito types. Short, overweight professionals.” Pecking him on the cheek, she confided further: “You know he’s the kind of guy who can’t leave the airport without buying you a pair of diamond studs.”

  Jimmy looked at me. “So, where are you off to in such a hurry? Can’t you stay and have dinner with us at least?”

  “Yeah!” his wife cried. “Come On! Have Dinner With Us!”

  I glanced at Jimmy, and it occurred to me that he looked old, tired, gone to seed, with thrombotic cheeks and watering eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get home and pack.”

  “Oh yeah, where you going?” his wife asked.

  Their faces dropped like blinds when I told them. “It’s been on my mind for a while. I think it’s time I went back to Sardinia.”

  X

  I never expected to go back to the Cathar pavilion, but what one expects is largely worthless, in my experience.

  After the plane had touched down, as I crossed the tarmac into the terminal building I was already feeling the island’s powerful enchantment. The low-slung hills seemed to brood against the evening sky, and the air was pungent with wild herbs. A flock of mysterious birds arrowed through the fading light.

  Standing in line by the passport control, I noticed a series of swallows’ nests—encrusted, homely balls under the eaves of the main building. One of the nests had fallen and dashed itself against the ground. It lay in smithereens all round our feet, covered in crawling insects. On the wall I counted a straight line of seven green moths, like a motif taken from a Carey Mortimer fresco. Beneath them lurked a tiny lizard, but indecision marred its progress, and it did not move.

  By the time I had picked up my suitcase, rented a car and stopped off for a snack it was approaching midnight. I had not told Archie I was coming. In fact I had specifically not told Archie I was coming, otherwise I could of course have telephoned. When you forewarn people, you give them the chance of acting the hypocrite. Or of saying no.

  But it was a bit much arriving unannounced at two in the morning. Wasn’t it?

  In the end, that was precisely how it turned out.

  I left the luggage in the boot and walked through a jumble of tiny, dark lanes under a yellow, oversized moon. Thousands of moths were bombarding the metal covers of the streetlights with a sickeningly insistent sound, like tiny fingers against drums.

  The abandoned piazzas, the shuttered houses, all seemed to be under the spell of this infernal sound. I erupted in goose bumps, then forced myself to stand there and watch the moths. They traced concentric circles in the air, like a Paul Nash painting of dogfights over Kent.

  I realized what it all reminded me of. Chimes. Buddhist gongs. Archie in a white toga on the terrace—the sexualization of enlightenment?

  I stood on a corner, gazing up and muttering to myself until I noticed a man in a singlet smoking out of a window. He did not acknowledge me, but must have found me strange. I walked on, embarrassed.

  Towards the top of the town I saw the white dome of Jimmy’s house, now Archie’s. It glowed under the moon. Her window was lit, or at least there was a lit window and I assumed it must be hers. This cheered me greatly, as I had not wanted to make my entrance as a sort of Walter de la Mare traveller beating on the door of an empty, preternatural house.

  There was a bell but it seemed rude to use it at that late hour. Instead I picked up some pebbles and began to throw them at the window. After a couple of direct hits, a figure appeared on the edge of one of the terraces. Archie, with her hair unkempt, like Cassandra on the battlements.

  “I told you, clear off! Scram! Got it?”

  “Archie. It’s me! Chuck!”

  “Chuck! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not quite sure at the moment. Can I come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Why didn’t you call?”

  “I didn’t have time,” I said somewhat illogically. “Can I come in please? I’m shattered.”

  It took five minutes for her to come down. “Sorry,” she said. “Bloody stairs.” As she walked into the lit-up hall I realized something had changed about her. She looked tired and sad, in a slightly grotty dressing gown. Gone was the femme fatale, but then what woman can keep it up round the clock?

  “How are you, Archie?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to see how you were.”

  “Is that all? I hope Jimmy didn’t send you.”

  “Where can I sleep?”

  “Not with me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “What do you mean, of course not? We used to sleep together, didn’t we?”


  “Yes, but only for a week. And that was a year ago.”

  A weary expression crossed her face. “I’m actually quite glad you’re here. Do you know that?”

  “Who did you think I was?”

  “Oh some Australian berk who keeps pestering me.”

  I didn’t ask her anything else for the time being. She led me into one of the guest rooms, then, after a bit of idle conversation, said good night.

  The bed was gritty with breadcrumbs or sand or both, and the sheets had been drenched in sweat on a few occasions. They smelled of feet, but I was too tired to care. It felt absolutely right that I should be there. I lay there for a while, wiggling my toes under those unclean sheets with a real sense of achievement. As yet I didn’t know why.

  All I could say with certainty was that I was here to do good.

  XI

  I was woken up at a quarter past seven by Archie standing at the foot of the bed.

  “Do you want coffee?” she said.

  My eyelids opened like lead coffin-lids. “Coffee?” Her question seemed absurd, as if she’d offered me some roast chicken.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting toast and jam, being a bit of an English chap. Oh but of course, how could I forget? You like a cooked breakfast. You’re a bacon man, aren’t you? With poached eggs and devilled kidneys?”

  “Archie! What are you doing?”

  She blinked. “Oh I don’t know. I’m bored. I couldn’t sleep.” She sat down on the bed with a sigh. “Everything is so difficult now.”

  I looked round, taking in the cobwebs and dust everywhere. An abandoned, half-filled cup of tea in a corner had gone rank, covered in a film of green mold. This tendency was replicated on the terrace, which had grown a covering of moss. The once-pristine plunge-pool now looked more like a garden pond suitable for goldfish.

  “I suppose the cleaners have gone?”

  “Yes. Jimmy won’t pay the alimony. He’s bitter about things. His new wife is an heiress. They’re loaded.”

  “He did give you the house, though.”

  “Only because he didn’t want it. He hates this place. Anyway, what’s a house? It’s just a pile of stone, with a roof on top. Somewhere you can put your things. A house isn’t food or money. Speaking of which, do you mind doing some shopping? I’m flat broke.”

  “Yes, in a minute.” I refocused on the problem. “It’s a big house, though. You could sell it.”

  “This pile of shit? It leaks, and the municipality is challenging the planning permission. They say it was obtained illegally. I suppose Jimmy greased someone’s palm. That’s what he always does. No one would ever buy it. The trouble with you and all English people is that you think too much about houses. You think I’m fine because I’ve got a house, don’t you? Meanwhile I could be hanging myself, but at least I’ve got a house to leave to my children. Except I don’t even have any bloody children thanks to fucking Jimmy. Bastard.” At this point her lips began to quiver.

  “Well, mental sex was hardly going to prove very useful in that respect, was it? Although by the time we have children most of us are already going mental, it’s got to be admitted.”

  Archie closed her eyes in exasperation. “Oh shut up, Chuck, you talk like a bloody queer sometimes! You’d never get a woman pregnant, would you? You’d never lose control, and you’d never fuck anyone unless you were wearing a triple-glazed fucking condom. You’re not passionate, you’re derivative. That’s why you never got anywhere in the arts! I suppose you’re some kind of editor.”

  “I haven’t been as unsuccessful as some!” I threw back. “And I did come here to see you, which counts for something, doesn’t it?”

  There was a pause, then, with much rolling of eyes, she said, “Oh Chuck! What do you know about children anyway?”

  “Not much, thank God,” I said.

  “So spare me your wisdom. Can I tell you something about Jimmy instead? Can I?”

  “If you like.”

  “Don’t get sniffy just because I say what I think. That’s why you came, isn’t it? To find out the truth?”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh balls! I’m going to tell you about Jimmy whether you like or not.” She dropped her voice, as if what she were saying were shameful. “Jimmy was impotent. Completely. There was something wrong with his you know what. It just hung there. It took a bloody miracle to get it up. No wonder my cheekbones looked slightly hollow back then. My cheek-muscles were bloody buff.”

  “Let’s stay off the subject of sex and try to be constructive,” I said.

  “Oh stop it you old fag! Why is it better?”

  “I’m not a fag, Archie. And by the way, I’m not an editor either. I’m a publisher.”

  “Who cares, Chuck? Who except you in this world actually cares what job you do? We were talking about sex. We only ever talk about sex. I’m not available for that sort of thing any more. I’m not into it.”

  “You never were, as far as I can see, apart from some histrionics.”

  “Fuck you, Chuck. You’re a real bitch.”

  “It’s just the way I talk.”

  “No, it’s the way you think and it’s the way you feel about people, and it’s really sad to see a man in his best years all twisted up like this. It’s boarding school, isn’t it? Being held down and fucked up the arse at thirteen. Not a good start, right?”

  We sat in silence. I was awake now, looking out at the terrace. Funny, now that the place was crumbling I actually preferred it. It had taken on some soul.

  “So why didn’t he just take Viagra?”

  “He did sometimes.”

  “And?”

  “Oh it was bloody awful. Like going to bed with a broomstick.”

  “His new wife seemed happy enough.”

  “How do you know? Did you fuck her as well?”

  “No, Jimmy said he’d never let me near her.”

  She paused, rubbed her eyes, and said, “So in the end we gave up sex. I wanted to save the marriage so I came up with mental sex. Jimmy went for it, or played along with it, more likely.”

  “Shame. I thought it was an interesting concept.”

  “It would have been interesting if it had worked. I guess Jimmy felt divorce would have been too expensive. Anyway we only saw each other for a few days now and then. He must have been seeing other women.” She nodded to herself. “He probably just found me totally repugnant.”

  “I doubt that, Archie. You’re gorgeous.”

  “I don’t need bolstering,” she said. “But thanks all the same.”

  “Then I came along. And I liked you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, that’s when I saw my chance to stir things up.”

  “Did it?”

  “You’ve no idea. Jimmy was more or less deranged. Poor guy, it must be hard not to be able to get your cock up. It’s the revenge of all women, isn’t it? First no orgasms, then childbirth.”

  I stood up, and started putting on yesterday’s clothes. “Think I’ll go and buy some breakfast things.”

  “Nothing’s open yet. Come and have stale bread. We can toast it. And I think there’s tea. No fresh milk though, only UHT.”

  “Delicious.”

  “When you do go out, if you see a scruffy guy with a beard following you, don’t speak to him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Some guy I met in India at the ashram.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “No, just mad. And he loves me. Avoid him, please.”

  She stood up and left the room. I shuffled along behind her, slightly disgruntled and wondering why I had come. Why had I come, why had I come? Was it just the sex we’d had, the intimacy? If so, I had been an utter fool. This woman was so over me she might as well be a cloud drifting above, oblivious to my pathetic longings.

  XII

  Archie’s warning was apt. When I got to the place known locally as the supermarket, which was about the size of a London tobacconist’s, there was a man following me, or
at least watching me from the deli counter: a bearded, emaciated ginger-nut with dirty long hair and anxious, pale-blue eyes. He looked like a nervous stork in a wig and sandals.

  I confronted him politely. “May I help you?”

  He stepped back, as if I’d assaulted him. Then said, in a Pythonesque manner, “What? Help me? Do you want to help me?”

  “I asked you a question. I said, may I help you?”

  “That’s just Pom for fuck off. I know that much.” His eyes were watering so profusely they looked in danger of dissolving.

  “Who are you? Why are you following Archie?”

  “Why do you care? And what’s it got to do with you?” He was puffing himself up now, hostile and self-righteous.

  “I’m her friend and I am here to help her.”

  “Oh, that sounds like me! She needs help, conniving bitch! You’ll see for yourself.” His unwashed face loomed close, whispering, “If I run into you again I won’t be so understanding, old chap!”

  “Is that a threat?”

  He smiled, showing a set of yellow fangs. “Oh dear, not so big now, are you! Want me to get you some nappies?” Then he walked out.

  Nervously I bought eggs, prosciutto, pecorino cheese, green tomatoes, olives, espresso coffee, tea, semi-skimmed milk, cheap table wine, a bottle of good Grappa, three loaves of bread, pasta, biscuits, toilet rolls, sponges and a few other items, then, keeping my eyes open for assailants with blunt weapons, headed back to the Bond pod.

  Archie was waiting by the front door when I walked in.

  “He was there, wasn’t he?” she said. “You spoke to him.”

  “How did you know?”

  “He came steaming down the road about ten minutes ago, stood below in the lane shouting obscenities, then threw a stone.”

  “Something about this house makes people want to throw stones at it.”

  “He broke a window. I told you not to speak to him! He’s mad.”

  “You said he wasn’t dangerous, remember! By the way, he said you were a conniving bitch, and I’d find out soon enough.”

  Archie closed the door and bolted it. We threaded our way through a bewildering sequence of open-plan rooms as she spoke over her shoulder: “Of course he did. Men always say that sort of thing when you leave them.”