If This Is Home Page 7

  It is a delicate balance to strike, being at once in control of the group, while also allowing the dominant member to feel that he is in charge. O’Neil and I had role-played this endlessly when we’d first arrived, night after night with Edith, working at strategy and systems. The best we found was a variance on the éminence grise: letting the dominant member rely upon you for information and insight, while appearing just as obsequious to the others. Brooks had already subverted this strategy and his meeting with me earlier had given him the upper hand.

  He beat me by a matter of moments in suggesting that we sit, and, when seated, firmly, if subtly, began to lead the conversation. He was careful to involve everyone, letting anecdotes and stories meander before cutting them off at their natural downturn and besting his companions with his own tales.

  On the prior occasions when I had lost control, I had found the Valhalla itself the best possible corrective. It didn’t take much to silence a group when you could describe the East Wing as the pleasure centre: fifty-five floors of desires and dreams. But letting Brooks take control allowed me some welcome respite from hosting.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, stubbing out his cigar and blowing a smoke ring. ‘I would like to propose another toast. To success.’ We clinked glasses again. ‘Success is what, after all, has brought us to this most exclusive of places. I am often asked by people what is the secret of my success, as I’m sure you have been too, many times.’

  Boulder nodded his head with a weariness that suggested he wished he’d been asked this even once.

  ‘I never tell those people the truth. Not because I am secretive, but because it is so staringly obvious that anyone who asks must lack the critical acumen to become a success. America, and to a lesser extent Mr Jones’s Britain, understands success. America understands success’s DNA. America understands that to be successful you simply have not to fail. Or perhaps more pertinently, you have to give the impression of not having failed. Success is not built upon a strange kind of eugenics, or gene pool. Unless you’re a black athlete, obviously. It is not down to luck or fate or karma or any other kind of quaint belief system. Success is simply the power to project success. It is believing in it even when the evidence suggests the contrary. Power and belief, that’s all. Everything else is just noise.’

  He put his arms on the table and leaned in closer.

  ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, for an indulgence, a little potted autobiography. I grew up in a small milling town in Washington state. My father worked fourteen-hour shifts at the saw mill. Fourteen-hour shifts, six days a week. At night he would sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes and drink whisky. That was his life. He saw a purity and honesty in hard work, in physical toil. And when I was about nine, I asked him if he was good at his job. He scratched his beard and looked me up and down and then said: “I’m the best damned saw-mill operative in the county. Probably the best in the state. Probably the whole damned world. Doesn’t matter a damn though, does it, boy?”

  ‘That day changed me. I studied hard at school and watched him come home, the greatest saw-mill operative in the whole world. And all I saw was a loser. No one knew if they passed him on the street that he was the best saw-mill operative in the world.

  ‘When I got to high school I dressed well and started selling dope. There was a guy just up the road who grew it for his hippy friends. I researched the market, looked out for competition and exploited the opportunity. Entrepreneurship 101, gentlemen. I used the money to start a stock portfolio using my father’s name. I left for college in a Pontiac. My father never saw it; he unfortunately passed away before I had a chance to make the real money.

  ‘My mother always said that my father would be disappointed at the way I turned out. I say bullshit, gentlemen. If he were alive, he’d be too busy buying hot tubs and Jaguars and drinking good Scotch to find a second to be disappointed. His ethics would just be so much sand falling through his fingers. Because he would be a success. It’s a shame he missed out on that. It’s a shame he never got to see what it’s really like.’

  *

  My father looks uneasy. He has smoked more cigarettes than usual and is on to his sixth can. It is a Wednesday, which is not a night when he normally drinks. We are watching television and it is just before nine o’clock. The news is about to start and he looks at me then turns off the television set.

  ‘We need to have a little chat, Mark,’ he says.

  He looks nervous, slightly pink at the cheeks.

  ‘Dad, it’s okay,’ I say. ‘I know all about all that.’

  I smile, but he does not look as relieved as I had hoped, instead he hitches up his trousers and shakes his head.

  ‘You know that I love you. I don’t tell you much, but you know that, don’t you, son?’

  I nod. I want to say that I love him too, but I don’t ever say that.

  ‘The thing is, Mark. What I want to talk about. Well, it’s difficult, really. It’s complicated. It’s about Bethany. Well, I suppose it’s really about you, but it’s just that I’m concerned about you both. You know. It’s not that I don’t like her, I do. She’s a lovely girl, but …’

  I look at him and his face says that he wishes he’d never started this.

  ‘You’re just so young. Both of you. I mean you’re eighteen, but you’re just babies really. Too young to be carrying on like this, anyway.’

  ‘Carrying on like what, Dad? We’re not carrying on at all,’ I say and laugh. He slams his hand down hard on the arm of his chair.

  ‘Just for once, will you shut up and listen to me? Just for once, can you at least pretend that you’re listening?’

  It wasn’t like him to speak that way; we didn’t do much in the way of conflict. Mum had said that’s why she left: that a quiet life was one that wasn’t living at all.

  ‘Listen, Mark, when I met your mother I was twenty-one and she was nineteen. She was so pretty then; so clever, and we couldn’t help falling in love. But even then I knew that we were … I don’t know, kidding ourselves. It’s not real, none of it is. The romance and all that. None of it. What you think you know, you don’t know at all.’

  He’s angry, I notice. Perhaps a little drunk, and I shake my head at him, like I pity him. It is a cruel thing to do.

  ‘You think you do, though, son, don’t you? You think you know it all, don’t you?’ he says, laughing. ‘You wait, my lad, you just wait. You think you know everything, but you know bugger all. Bugger all.’

  The angrier Dad gets, the more Scouse he sounds, and now he sounds like he’s never left Liverpool.

  ‘I’m going out,’ I say. ‘I don’t have to listen to this. It’s not my fault she left.’

  I get up and walk past him.

  ‘And you’re sure about that are you, son? You’re sure?’

  The door slams hard on his words and I walk down the driveway. It is warm still and a tear catches on the coal of my cigarette. In half an hour’s time I am in Bethany Wilder’s arms, looking at the poster of Grand Central Station. We are never coming back. Never.

  *

  If they noticed my zoning out, not one of them commented; by that point I had become selectively invisible. While they were happy, they wouldn’t need me; when they wanted something new, then that would change.

  Kimya set down fresh drinks with as much erotic charge as she could muster. Her breasts were hoisted, her mouth close to each man as she laid down the paper napkins, then the glasses. I lit a cigarette and looked over at the bar. The image of my father came again. His widow’s peak, his wet lips and threadbare slippers. I felt sweat drip down the hollow of my back to the waistband of my underwear. I put the cigarette in an ashtray.

  ‘Would you gentlemen please excuse me for a moment?’ They nodded and I headed for the bathrooms feeling like I was burning from the inside out.

  I sat in the stall studying my notebook, repeating phrases, sentences. I had been gone for over five minutes and knew that there was no time left to hide. I turned to the last p
age, the last line which for so long had given me comfort: My name is Josef Pietr Novak.

  I washed my face and hands, then dried myself with a soft towel. I spent a moment staring at my reflection in the low-lit mirror. I did not look different. There was no betrayal there; my face remained impassive, a little darker under the eyes perhaps, but nothing that anyone would attribute to anything other than a few too many late nights. I wondered whether my father might still recognize me; Hannah even: faces that just a few days before I would not have recognized myself.

  ‘It seems a little anti-social, Mr Jones, to be visiting the bathroom for so long alone. Are you such an only child that you don’t like to share?’

  He smiled. I thought of my sister, Josef’s sister, but could not see her face, not even quite remember her name. I threw the towel in the laundry basket.

  ‘Some things that people do in bathrooms are simply not for sharing,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t use the second cubicle for a while, Mr Brooks, unless you want some compelling evidence to that effect. But if there are any other requirements you might have, I’m sure I can accommodate them.’

  I took the baggie from my pocket and he nodded, still smiling, still enjoying himself. I cut out four plump lines and watched him take two. He urinated as I dusted the remaining cocaine to the floor.

  ‘You are a strange man, Mr Jones,’ he said as he urinated. ‘Most people would ask how I knew you were an only child.’

  ‘I don’t much go in for parlour tricks, Mr Brooks. My sister, on the other hand, is very fond of them.’

  He zipped himself up.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I felt sure you were an only child. The way you are in conversation suggests that you are more comfortable on your own, rather than in company. In my experience, this is the preserve of the only child.’

  ‘I was simply listening to your story. It was very … convincing.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ve told that story many times. There are a few wrinkles in it. They will believe it because they want to. And why would I lie?’

  The tiled floor shone as the door opened again. It was Miller, his face red and his shirt already unbuttoned. He went straight to the urinal and let out a long splashing piss.

  ‘That cocktail waitress has the best tits in the world. No word of a fucking lie. The fucking best.’

  He turned and saw the bag of cocaine on the side and his eyes widened.

  ‘I’ll see you in a moment,’ I said clapping him on the back. ‘And you might like to reserve judgement on the peerless stature of Kimya’s breasts until later.’ I opened the door. ‘The night is yet young.’

  *

  The East Wing of the Valhalla was non-residential, and access to each of its fifty-five floors was restricted by codes, issued only upon request. Most of the floors were empty, however; plastic sacking and litter strewn across bare concrete expanses. No one had the imagination to populate such spaces: it was the impression that was important, the suggestion that only a closed, locked door can imply. The more the residents became comfortable with the place, the more we adapted. An architect, for example, had provided sketches of his old Chicago tenement, which had been reproduced on one of the floors to his exact specifications; on another a scaled-down version of a nightclub that had briefly been popular in Ibiza. For the most part, the residents were happy with the places we had created: the bars modelled on famous drinking establishments, the restaurants that aped haute cuisine or felt like a hometown diner. We even had McDonald’s, Pizza Hut and KFC concessions in an approximation of a food court at a Los Angeles mall. It was a place you would never need to leave – everything to all men.

  I looked at my watch. We were just about on time, the five of us still sitting at the same booth. I banged my hand on the table to get their attention. Miller jumped slightly, Hooper and Boulder looked alarmed. Brooks smiled.

  ‘Gentlemen. We are about to explore the Valhalla. Our first stop will be dinner. The thirty-seventh-floor restaurant was the first of the twenty to be completed in the East Wing, and the one that remains the most popular with our residents.’

  The three men looked at me, then turned to Brooks, who was already standing.

  ‘I don’t know about anyone else,’ he said. ‘But I am hungry like the wolf.’

  We took the elevator down eighteen floors in silence. It took seconds. The doors opened into a small reception area, where a woman was sitting at a small kidney-shaped desk. The door behind her was solid black wood with the word OSCURO etched on it in diamanté. She stood and bowed, then pushed a button on her desk.

  ‘Your server will be with you in one moment,’ she said. ‘Can I just confirm that everyone wishes for the mixed menu of both fish and meat?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ I said. ‘Unless anyone has suddenly become vegetarian since entering the elevator.’

  The men laughed, even Brooks, and the woman nodded again.

  ‘Your server tonight will be Miguel. Please listen to his instructions when he arrives. Enjoy your meal. And the experience.’

  She sat back behind her desk and picked up her headset. She talked quickly into it and began to type. I’d had the same conversation with her for over six months and still didn’t know her name.

  The door opened and Miguel stood in the half light. I went to shake his hand and he smiled.

  ‘Mr Jones, it’s been a while.’

  ‘Miguel, I was beginning to wonder whether you’d left us.’

  ‘Where would I go, Mr Jones? Where would I go?’ he said. ‘Are they all here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He raised his arms and asked for silence. ‘Gentlemen, would you please form a line and place your left hand on the left-hand shoulder of the gentleman in front of you?’

  After some muted conversation I felt fingers on my shoulder; light and almost apologetic. Hooper was at the rear, Boulder in front of him, then Miller then, behind me, Brooks.

  ‘Mr Jones, is it all done?’

  ‘Yes, Miguel, we’re all in.’

  ‘Good. This evening, gentlemen,’ Miguel said, not turning his head in our direction. ‘I will be both your server and your eyes. Everyone you’ll meet at OSCURO is blind, which is useful as they know their way around the restaurant. You, however, will not and as the dining area is pitch black, you will be thankful for their help. There is no light at all. You will not adjust to it, you will be as blind as I am. And please, I have heard the one about the blind leading the blind too many times, so please spare me.’

  We laughed as we walked in a loose chain gang, careful foot after careful foot. There were red drapes on the walls and a thick red carpet; the corridor dimming into the distance, the yardage to the dining room difficult to gauge. With clients this was always the most enjoyable point of the evening; the darkness could not help but unsettle and humble even the most bullish of characters. And it was a chance to relax, to leave everything in Miguel’s huge and reassuring hands.

  ‘You will be served five courses,’ Miguel continued, ‘all of which can be eaten with your hands, though to gain the full experience, I recommend you attempt to use the cutlery provided. You will be asked at the end of each course if you can correctly identify what you have eaten. There is no prize, just the satisfaction that your taste buds are as sharp without visual stimuli as with.’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ Boulder said.

  ‘Blind men don’t joke,’ Miguel said. ‘Well, at least not to your face.’

  At the entrance it was almost totally dark and the men had become silent. We stood there for a moment, Miguel ever the showman – before the accident he had been a magician’s assistant – tapping his foot quietly on the nap of the carpet.

  ‘Gentlemen, there is a heavy-set door in front of me. I shall push it open and to ensure it stays open please extend your right arm as you pass through. When we are through we will soon be turning sharply to our right, so please be mindful of that. Are there any questions before we proceed?’

  ‘Are the
chefs blind too?’ Miller said.

  ‘No, sir,’ Miguel said. ‘That would be something of a fire hazard, don’t you think?’

  Everyone laughed and Miguel heaved open the door. I brushed my hand along its wood. Everything went a pale shade of grey.

  *

  It is a Saturday night and the door to the Queen’s gives grudgingly, a group of women leaning against it, their attention diverted by two men who want to buy them drinks. The ceilings are low, the air late-night smoky, thick with perfume and body odour. The jukebox is playing something by Thin Lizzy and the bar is three deep. I almost knock a pint from someone’s hand and he tells me to watch out, kidder, and I smile and apologize. The man has a crew-cut and an earring and he is talking to a couple of blokes with the same haircuts and the same kind of earrings and the same kind of clothes: a kind of town uniform. I push past them along the narrow passageway and through into the back room. It is a brown-tiled space with a pinball table and a fruit machine. Hannah waves at me from a small circular table by the women’s toilets. She is sitting with two people I don’t know.

  ‘What kept you?’ she says. ‘Thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Sorry, I got held up,’ I say, sitting down.

  ‘This is Rob and Beth,’ she says. ‘Rob and Beth, this is Mark. He’s on my German course up at Kelmscott.’

  I say hi and they say hi back. Rob has thick hair, the texture of wire wool, and unfashionable glasses. He wears a long trench coat, a dark blue shirt and denims. Beth has a sleek black bob, red lipstick, dark kohlled eyes and a cigarette in her mouth. She’s wearing a Cramps T-shirt and is drinking what I assume is Jack Daniel’s and Coke. She looks at me with a vague, disinterested smile. I light a cigarette and ask if anyone wants a drink. No one does. I pause for a moment, not sure where to look, then push myself up and move to the bar.

  I don’t immediately know what to order. With my father I’d have a pint of Pedigree, but in the presence of the girl with the Cramps T-shirt it looks a bit common: a bit townie. I try to think what would be acceptable, but I am at a loss. The older barman points at me and I ask for a pint anyway. He pours it and lets it foam on a Foster’s beer mat. I hand him some coins and he wanders off. I look at the pint and know I’ve made the wrong decision.