Jolts Read online

  _________

  It’s three p.m. and still very sunny. I cross the road and walk towards St Leonard’s churchyard. When I’m halfway there I feel I need to go for a piss. So I backtrack and head to the public toilets on the corner of Columbia and Hackney roads, some hundred metres up. There aren’t many people around save for some hipsters carrying flowers and plants from the flower market. Perhaps I should go and buy a plant or just walk to the market, see people, maybe bump into someone I know, have a coffee, get some clean air.

  A couple of minutes pass and the door remains locked. I look at a couple passing by, a girl and a guy; the girl with skinny legs, flat ass and huge tits, the guy very tall and pale, quite good looking, but he’s wearing flip-flops and has huge bony feet. They stare at me when they pass — it must be my plastic bag. And then they’re gone. Some more people carrying plants, the phone booth; I start to get bored. I remember when I called Guido from this phone booth soon after I arrived. I called him crying, paying for the phone call with pound coins, saying that I was freaking out because I was feeling suicidal and was missing Rosario, if that is even possible — it was a very expensive phone call. Why do you say that? I don’t really know; it’s just this horrible idea I can’t get out of my head: I think I’ll kill myself. Have you been using drugs? No. Since when do you have this in your head? Since I arrived, I said, London is a shithole. I don’t know why I called him, of all the people back home. I guess I needed to speak to someone and his was the only number I remembered at the time. Suddenly I ran out of coins and the call ended. It must have been a disturbing phone call, because he started emailing me like mad afterward, saying that I was very selfish calling him out of the blue like that, that he had to ask around to find out if I was still alive, that I should have at least called him back to tell him I hadn’t killed myself. I never replied to his emails but he kept sending them. I thought he would just let it go but he didn’t give up. So I blocked him. He changed his email and I blocked him again and he changed the email address and so on: the whole process went on for a while. Until I tired and changed my email and gave it only to my mother and father. But he got hold of my phone number and started calling me until I changed my number too. I should never have called him that day: he’s fucking insane.

  The door finally opens and one of the local crackheads leaves. He bows in a friendly way and I say hi. He’s high and looks very happy. The door closes behind him and there’s a sound of water; the word ‘cleaning’ starts flashing in red on the door and we both stare at it and it’s fascinating. Until he gets bored and walks away. When he’s walked some twenty metres he turns around and waves with a broad smile. I wave back at him, just about the same time the word ‘cleaning’ stops flashing. I put 20p in the slot and the door opens and I walk in. It looks pretty clean: no sign of drug paraphernalia, no weird smells, no small pieces of cotton. Perhaps he was really in need of a toilet.

  I struggle for a bit first but then manage to piss with my plastic bag in one hand. A nice piss, longer than expected, but a bit dark, perhaps from having my kidneys crushed during my last few days in bed. It feels great to piss in a different toilet — I can see things are beginning to move. When I finish I leave without washing my hands because my dick must be cleaner than the faucet. The door opens and I leave. The door closes behind me and the flushing sound starts once more.

  _________

  Sunny, so sunny. The traffic as a background mantra and traces of fumes in the air. I’m sitting on a bench in the middle of the churchyard, checking out the tombstones in the distance and drinking my Supermalt. There are a couple of crackheads — others — loitering about. A guy, around thirty, and a girl, who could be anything from seventeen to fifty-five. They’ve been around the yard, picking up cigarette butts and putting them in their pockets and scavenging who knows what from the trash bins.

  Now they’re arguing by the church entrance. I can’t hear what they say, but she shouts louder than him. She moves her hands like a Neapolitan; a lot of hands being thrown into the air in all directions — crack makes people very expressive. Or she must be communicating something very important, or maybe she just talks like that, like a Neapolitan; or maybe she is a Neapolitan. I’ve seen this couple before many times since I moved to Waterson Street. They hang around with the public toilet crackhead, mostly around the churchyard, although I’ve seen them walking up and down Old Street, begging for money and tobacco from the wankers late on Fridays and Saturdays. Crackheads are always in fast forward, always in a rush to get somewhere. Many times I’ve thought I should stop one of them and ask what’s the rush?

  It’s getting hot and humid now; it’s getting dark; it’ll rain. I light up one of my counterfeit Polish Marlboro. Smoking feels funny: smoke gets denser and the cigarettes smokier. The fag doesn’t taste right, and it smells weird, and I can’t tell whether it’s the humidity or this is the taste of Eastern Europe.

  _________

  Back in the off-licence I buy a new lighter, a can of tuna, mozzarella, baked beans and crisps. I ask the guy to swap my cans for cold ones. He agrees but he checks that the cans haven’t been opened. I know he thinks I’m a lazy fuck and that he doesn’t trust me; I don’t trust him either. He’s always checking the CCTV screen when I walk to the back of the shop and I’m always checking the expiry date on the products. He tells me once more to remind Leo about his twenty pounds. I say I will, and think to myself that he’s bound to live out his days behind the counter of his tiny shop, until he gets his throat cut from ear to ear by one of the churchyard bums.

  Things are better next door. No need for CCTV when you have a large kebab knife behind the counter. I buy three more packs of cigarettes from Little Eye. Palenia Zabija. Palenia Zabija, I say, reading the writing on the pack, chcesz papierosa. Eight pounds my friend, he says. Three for eight pounds. Even if they taste like shit: long live the EU, long live Poland and continental pulmonary conditions.

  _________

  Soon I get home. I open the door. Leo is still tucked under the sheets. He looks at me when I enter the flat. Hi, I say, I got us food. Morning, he says. It’s four thirty, I answer. He doesn’t reply and I’m starting to get tired of his self-pity. I’ll cook some food, I say. More silence.

  I walk towards the kitchen area and open a drawer and get the tin opener. I open the can of tuna and empty it into a medium-sized bowl. I open the baked beans and mix the beans with the tuna. I put the mix in the microwave oven, set it for three minutes. While the tuna and the beans are turning I put the beers in the fridge. Then I get the mozzarella out of the pack and lay it on a plate. I watch the bowl turn in the oven and soon the thing beeps a couple of times. I cut the mozzarella in two and then open the oven and get the bowl out and empty some of the tuna and beans from the bowl into the plate; then I put one of the halves of mozzarella in the bowl. There you go, you need to eat something, I say, holding a plate to Leo’s face. I’m not hungry, he says. Eat anyway; I’ve got cigarettes, a lot of them; but no ciggies until you’ve eaten. Which ones? George’s or the cabbies’? George’s. Lights or reds? Lights. I like reds, he says. I don’t, I say. I leave the plate next to Leo’s bed and go to my side of the room. I’m hungry and I eat fast. Before I finish my plate I see Leo grabbing his. He starts eating, slowly.

  It’ll rain, I say. Yes, he answers. It’s very muggy out there. Yes, it feels muggy in here too. I got us some beers; I thought we could go to the roof, drink beer, smoke, listen to music. It’ll rain, he says. We can hide under the water tank. I’m not sure I want to go all the way up, he says, sorry. No worries, I say, I’ll go by myself.

  I finish eating from my bowl and leave it by the side of the bed. I move my clothes around until I find my small CD player. I press play to see if the batteries are still good — it would seem so, at least the CD seems to be moving: THESUNDAYSTHESUNDAYS. The letters become one large white lump and I press stop. I can feel Leo staring at me but I don’t look back. I get my cigarettes and keys, grab the beers from
the fridge and leave. I’ll be on the roof, I say before I close the door.

  _________

  The parking lot and the flats all around. Three blocks in a square of which the fourth side leads to an alley, some more workshops, or the end of the world for all I know. And here four floors of huge windows, converted workshops, tall ceilings and cold lofty spaces — places never meant to be lived in, and yet here we are. There are traces of fabrics being scattered by the wind and some weird cylindrical props rolling on the floor. A huge cardboard palm tree lays next to the overfilled garbage skip. A flash flares in one of the few flats with curtains. Someone shouts in Italian in one of the flats below me. A girl laughs somewhere. Five cool-looking people are barbecuing something on the roof to my right. People are going about their lives in their flats and the sky is bright yellow. I haven’t opened a can yet, I haven’t lit up yet, I haven’t even pressed play. I’m just sitting here, under the water tank, looking around, not thinking much.

  Thunder, finally, and Leo’s hand resting on my shoulder. He sits by my side, wrapped inside one of his sheets — a stinking greasy-haired Jesus Christ. I pass him the Polish Marlboros and he lights up. I’m glad you came, I say. It’s windy, he says.

  Beers are opened — no need for a toast.

  We drink in silence and smoke.

  We both look at the sky.

  It can’t be long before the clouds fall down like sacks of potatoes. But the barbecue people on the other roof don’t seem to care. Perhaps they haven’t even realised or perhaps they’ve reached an ideal state of unawareness of the things around them. Shit, Leo says, it will rain like in the Bible. Yes, I say. I’ve left the windows open, he says. Don’t worry Leo, we’re only up here. He nods and I press play.

  TURKISH DELIGHT

  At vos quo lubet hinc abite, lymphae, vini pernicies, et ad severos migrate.

  Catullus

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Nick asked as soon as I crossed the door. I said yes and three minutes into my visit I was sipping a Long Island Ice Tea while listening to Astor Piazzolla, who Nick had perhaps chosen to make me feel welcome.

  His place was this huge conversion overlooking Leinster Square, second floor, a lovely flat. He was working on the food in the kitchen, occasionally shouting some of his impressions about the music. Nothing of what he said was really interesting or avoided the commonplace, but he had cooked a Sunday roast, with Yorkshire pudding and all the trimmings. This was the first time an Englishman had invited me to his house since moving to London. And this is something that, as I would discover since then, doesn’t happen that often.

  ‘This is sublime,’ he said, referring to the music, one of the times he showed up in the lounge to top up my glass with Diet Coke.

  ‘Yes, it’s fine,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s not "just fine" — it’s sublime,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it’s sublime,’ I said and he seemed pleased with my reply and went back into the kitchen.

  Nick always had Turkish Delight at hand. Second-or third-rate London Turkish Delight, but Turkish Delight nevertheless. And he looked as if he had already done some. He seemed overexcited. Or maybe it was just my imagination, my own craving. In any case I thought it wouldn’t have been appropriate to force a conversation about this topic, not so soon and with him being so generous as to have me over, so I decided to give him until after lunch. Then I would get my own out and invite him. I was, of course, hoping he would feel pity and let me have his instead, because I didn’t have much left at all.

  Nick had nice furniture but the flat looked cold. It could have passed for one of those showrooms they have in new buildings. Everything was too perfect, too anal, too clean, shiny, uninhabited. And the screen on his TV set was covered with text. Nick had once mentioned that he used to spend his weekends watching football teletext but I hadn’t taken him seriously. Yet here it was, this constant parade of letters on the screen, never-ending. No volume, no image, just letters. No doubt he could have afforded cable but I guess it had to do with his work as a stockbroker and a fetish for data displayed on screens, not that I cared much about telly at that moment. I was just sitting there, observing, mentally calculating how much the rent for this kind of pad would cost, whether he owned. I was inclined towards the latter: he looked like the kind of person who owns; he looked like the kind of person who buys at the right moment, sells at the right moment, and retires somewhere sunny to live off his savings and spends all his remaining days and most of his pension doing Turkish Delight.

  ‘The food is ready!’ shouted Nick from the kitchen and I walked over there. A nice kitchen too, as shiny and clean as the lounge. There were two or three cooking books on a table and a centrepiece with fake fruits. We ate sitting at a bar. The food was OK; the wine was better.

  And soon we were snorting my Turkish Delight from a metallic tray with an advert for Bacardi in the middle, using a rolled-up five-pound note. The stuff was enough for two shots each and I made it clear that I didn’t have any more left.

  ‘We should go and buy some more,’ he said. ‘Turkish Delight goes really well with Sunday afternoons. We should go, get some more, and then hit the road, have something to drink down Portobello Road, hit the record shops, stop here and there to top up every half an hour or so, and then come back home, listen to some new records and maybe call a couple of whores in to finish the weekend with full colours!’ — apparently, Turkish Delight made him talkative.

  ‘OK,’ I replied — Turkish Delight always makes me quiet.

  ‘Yes. These are good plans. I like them, yes. Very good plans. I think this is the way to go today, tonight. Get properly turked up, get laid, have a nice party. You know the deal!’

  ‘Sure. But I’m skint Nick. I’ve got only twenty pounds left until I get paid next week.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll sort you out and sort the Turkish Delight and the girls out. No worries, mate. Money is not an issue, mate. You would do the same for me, wouldn’t you? If you weren’t a poor and stingy piece of shit, ha, ha!’

  ‘Sure. I’d do the same if I could. Where can we get Turkish Delight, then?’

  ‘I was hoping that was something you could sort out…’

  ‘My pusher lives in East London.’

  ‘I see… Not to worry… Not to worry. We’ll sort something out. Notting Hill is Turkeyland on Sundays.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Have another Long Island Ice Tea, mate. Ha ha! We’ll have a smashing afternoon. Ha ha! I love good plans. I love it, mate. Love it! Fucking great. A plus. You are a good lad!’

  He started to fix two more drinks while I went to the toilet. Every time Turkish Delight is discussed and/or snorted I need to go empty my bowels. I don’t know why but that’s the way it is.

  The toilet was a nice, clean one. I didn’t have to juggle shitting standing up. There was a magazine rack by the toilet seat and I picked up a copy of Men’s Health. Seeing all these beefed-up guys with six packs and veiny necks helped me finish quite fast. And soon, after cleaning myself with good quality toilet paper, I was washing my hands and face with a delicious lavender soap, from L’Occitane. It was a nice day. Yes, it was turning out fine.

  _________

  The Turkish Delight started to wear off at the exact moment we were passing by a kitchenware shop in Londsdale Road, where everything seemed unbearably shiny and expensive. I figured out the impending crisis when I tried to speak to Nick and felt my tongue tied. I think he felt it too because he made a passing remark about how soon we would reach that pub in Portobello Road and look for Dennis Ahmed, this estate agent he knew, who would surely sort out some Turkish Delight for us. It was sunny but there were dark clouds lingering up above. It was clear it was going to rain. It was just a matter of time — it’s always a matter of time.

  Portobello Road was packed with tourists checking out stalls; they were all dressed in beige and wearing gigantic white trainers and had massive cameras — it was harrowing. We walked on the sidewalk, as far
as we could from the crowd, almost crushing ourselves against the walls, and we walked fast, as fast as we could.

  And soon we reached the pub. It was packed as well. We walked in and went straight to the bar. Nick gave me a tenner and asked me to buy a couple of beers. He said he was going to look for Dennis Ahmed in the back room. I elbowed my way to the front of the bar and stayed there, holding the ten-pound note with my arm outstretched. I didn’t make any attempt to make eye contact with the barman but somehow I ended up ordering two pints of Red Stripe. And after paying I made my way out of the crowd and outside. I rested the drinks on the windowpane and lit a cigarette. A couple of minutes later Nick showed up, with a grave expression on his face.