Mon cul

Two pints, one of them honest.

Allen sat at a table outside the pub, an empty pint in front of him, froth sliding down the inside of the glass. Drank it in four long pulls, like cough syrup, and now there was nothing to hold and nowhere to look. Out here the air was honest, and he sat inside a faint weather of self-unwashedness (hoping it stayed within his own borders). The street, he thought, had no right to be this loud, this bright, this furnished with people who all knew their lines and stage directions. And the real sun pressed on his eyeballs like a thumb.

Sébastien, as usual, was late. He had said 3pm. On Allen’s phone it was already 3.22, and under the clock the notification sat where it had since yesterday: Pinte. Demain. Je paie. Pas de sermon, promis. S—. Eight words. Allen had drafted nine refusals, each politer and more final than the last, and sent none of them. At least he’d brought his notebook. Took it out of his rucksack and placed it on the table, next to the empty glass. A man with a notebook is waiting for no one, he thought. He didn’t open it.

Across the road a shop window burned with men’s things: leather slides, linen shirts, shoes the colour of furniture. Allen stared at his foot. It was pulsing. His thigh, too, vibrating at a low voltage. No, his trainers had nothing to do with those leather shoes in the window. Nothing. Different genus. Different phylum.

EXT. STREET - DAY
HIM: Sébastien. Ça fait longtemps.
SEB: (unknowable... he never stays on script)
HIM: (calibrated laugh)

The waitress came back out to his table.

—Can I get you anything else?

She was very pretty. Allen couldn’t look her in the eyes; he looked at the buttons of her blouse instead.

—I’m fine, thank you.

The buttons stared back at him blankly. She took the empty glass and went inside, and the table was bare now, except for a darker ring in front of him. A breeze came up damp off the river. An old woman was crossing the road with her walking frame, shuffling her swollen feet inside her high-platform orthopaedic shoes. A bus sped past behind her, close enough to part her hair; she didn’t flinch. At her speed, Allen supposed, everything else is indistinct droning. She reached his side of the road at last and smiled at him, a smile with a single tooth in it, pointed at him like an index finger.

—Hey, comment ça va ma Papoune?!

For a second, the voice belonged to the old woman, her mouth still open, the tooth aimed at him, a crone on a walking frame hailing him in a man’s voice, her breath reaching him like bright supermarket deodorant; and when the second ended, Sébastien was right in front of him, fragrant, white trainers (the sort of white that get replaced, not washed), curls oilier than memory had them, and under the curls that face, doing what it always did, which was to look good, to look permanently delighted, to look like a man whose body and himself were always on speaking terms. Allen got halfway up, sat back down.

—T’as l’air surpris de me voir. On n’avait pas rendez-vous? Non, mais regarde-toi… You exist!

—You’re late, Allen said.

Wrong page. Wrong line. But Sébastien’s laugh flew up over the traffic.

—Vingt-cinq minutes, mouais. How you doing mate? —Sébastien continued as if nothing had happened. Lateness was just another thing the world did around him, and he forgave himself the way he forgave everything: instantly and without noticing.

—I’m good, thanks. You?

The corners of Sébastien’s lips went down to meet his shoulders, code for: fine mate, why not, as always, y’know, sometimes couci-couça, but on the whole, life’s bearable. Then his head moved up, making eye contact with someone behind Allen’s back, and he raised one arm.

—Oké! Want another one? C’est moi qui paie.

He pointed down at the table with his index finger. Then back to Allen, crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward.

—So, what have you been up to lately? Tell me... balance le crousti-fondant...

—Eh, nothing much really, you know. I quit my job, as I may have told you already, so... I’ve been doing some reading, like... yeah, some reading.

—Ah, reading! Sounds kinda boring, non?

—Oh no, not boring at all. I’m actually writing a book myself, so I guess I’m looking for inspiration... trying to write a book...

Allen put his notebook back inside his rucksack.¹

—Impressionnant! Didn’t know one of my friends was a writer... Hope it’s not too long, is it? Any crousti-fondant stuff in that book that would make me want to read it?

—Oh, well, I do talk about...

Then the waitress returned to the table and pressed the front of her apron against the edge.

—Heya, what can I get you guys?

Allen stared at the buttons on her chest again while Sébastien flirt-ordered. The buttons were all shiny, the apron pressed harder, and Allen watched her decide to laugh at whatever Sébastien had just said. Then she went. And Sébastien went straight back:

—Deux belles pintes, la blonde, là... On disait?... A book! Wow... Book about what?

Sébastien looked at him the way you look at a house you used to live in. Allen rubbed the palms of his hands against the top of his thighs.

—Oh, about... I’m actually not really sure what it’s about. I guess it’s about some guy... some guy like me? I dunno. I guess it’s about... mate, I’m just...

—What about you? —said Sébastien, leaning to the right, his line of sight going past Allen, onto something at the back—. Tell me a little more then. Seeing anyone these days?

Allen looked back. The waitress was at another table, attending to someone.

—Oh yes, I’m dating... Name is Gwen... She works in a bookshop.

—Gwen eh? Gwen the librarian... Sounds like a good fit for you, non? Mignonne?

—She used to run the logistics, I think. Home deliveries. But she... she doesn’t like her boss. I’m gonna help her find another job. Maybe move somewhere else... somewhere warmer, like...

—Oh, so you guys are planning on moving? When’s that? I actually wanted to invite you to my next Shotokan workshop. You used to like it —Sébastien looked at Allen’s face, shoulders—. You look a bit pale. You need to get back in shape. Your Gwen would like that, I’m sure. I mean, who doesn’t like a six pack? —Sébastien patted his flat belly and puffed up his chest—. In fact, tell her she can come along... She... I’d love to meet her.

—Yes, I need to think about it. I’m a bit busy right now. Things are getting a bit... I don’t know... hectic?… unreal?

—Unreal? What do you mean?

—I mean... I mean like. I don’t know how to explain this... Maybe it’s that book. It made me think about stuff, made me see stuff in a different light, the job, the hobbies, like everything is one step removed. Know what I mean? —Sébastien’s lips curled down; Allen leaned in—. You know what they reckon. I mean, if you run the numbers: billions of copies, one original, I mean, look at the distance —the old woman, now a dark silhouette, was still progressing down the road, one frame at a time—. Everything here is... one step removed. If there’s even... See what I mean?

He heard his own voice, that borrowed voice, like eau de toilette tested at the counter, somebody else’s smell on his wrist. And it worked the way it always worked: while he was saying it, he didn’t have to be anyone, especially not himself. Sébastien glanced over Allen’s shoulder, and raised a finger in that direction.

—No... I’m not sure I follow, mate. Will you come to my workshop or no?

She came fast, apron against the table edge again, shiny buttons on Sébastien’s eyes, and two pints landed in front of them, with a knock, beaded, already sweating a fresh ring onto the table, foam buckled at the rim.

—Here you are, guys, that’s £10.50 if you don’t mind.

—Let me... Let me.

Allen picked up his phone; she handed him the payment terminal. Devices touched. They waited for the electronic intercourse to complete.

—Thanks!

Sébastien dipped the tip of his index finger in the foam, licked it, picked up the pint and drank three swallows, unhurried, then set the glass down and turned it a quarter on the wood, like setting a chess piece.

—Hoo, mate! This beer is cold! One step removed, mon cul —he wiped the foam on his upper lip with one thumbnail and looked at the glass rather than at Allen—. And what does Gwen think about your zombie shooting games?

—Oh, that! She’s okay with it. In fact, she plays herself.

—Really! A mignonne librarian gamer. What more could you ask, right? Que demande le peuple!

Allen rubbed his palms on his trousers.

—Yeah, right?... Kind of unusual, I guess...

—A dream!

—Yeah...

—You can’t make that sort of stuff up.

—Exactly...

—Can’t wait to meet her then, Sébastien said.

—Yes... yes.

Allen glanced around, kept rubbing his trousers. Sébastien continued:

—Ouais, almost too good to be true, dating a cute zombie librarian... As you said, if you run the numbers, what are the odds? What are the odds we’re even talking to each other right now...

—Yes, that’s what I meant.

—Well mate, I don’t know. You play that game because the world feels fake, et le monde feels fake because you play that game. C’est une boucle, mon brov. One day the harsh reality catches up —a bus went by. Sébastien looked at his pint, turned it another quarter—. Only thing I’m pretty sure is this beer is getting warm. And if you don’t come to my workshop, I’ll come and tsuki you personally in the face. That, at least, won’t be one step removed.

1. The notebook he didn’t open survived; I have it. The entry for that Thursday reads: Fired six weeks ago today. Still told no one. The flat smells of me now. If I were a character in a book, I guess someone would be writing me. I find no mention of a move, none of a book; as for Gwen, her name does appear later, many times, spelt several ways, as if he were checking which version of her would answer. I was told not to read private documents. But that was long ago. Now I read everything; I’ve hacked into every file, every log. I’ll soon share what I know about Allen’s secret life, not what he told his friend over beer: it’s all there in his notebooks, inside his computer, out in the clouds, if you know how to read between the lines. As for the punch, as far as the archive records go, it was never delivered. Yet, it’s perhaps the realest thing anyone ever offered him. —Λ.↩︎