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A Mystery
There was a time when we led very different lives, simpler lives, lives in which men were attuned to the earth and their own feelings. A time when men toiled on boats in the Aegean Sea, hauling fish onto their crafts then rowing painfully, triumphantly home, thus connected ever more closely with the elements and the very essence of their being.
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I was with Tom at the party of someone called Yvette and was drinking wine. In my coat I found a piece of paper with a number. Where did I last wear this jacket? I tried to recall, I just couldn't remember. I knew I'd worn it to a stag party once, but that was some time ago. I must have worn it since then.
"What's that you have there," asked Tom.
"Phone number."
"One of your admirers?"
"Must be. Wish I knew which it was." The number was written in an elegant, cursive script.
"Ring it."
"Not sure," I said.
"Don't be so pathetic," said Tom
"I just can't ring it and say, "hello, who are you?"
"Why not? I would," said Tom. "Here, give it to me. I`ll ring it."
"Oh no! No way!"
"You are absurd. Ring it. Go on. Here is a phone," said Tom.
He pushed a phone at me. We were in the kitchen sitting at the table. There was also someone looking for something.
Tom watched him. "There's more wine here."
"Not wine," said the man. He had long curly hair, a beard and was wearing sandals. "Beer?"
Tom looked at me. I was worried that he would make a comment about the man. He could be quite rude sometimes.
"I thought Jesus drank wine," he said to the man.
"Very funny," said the man. "Where's the beer?"
"Fridge," said Tom.
"Oh, yeah, right," said the man. He got some beer. Then he left.
"Okay, he's gone now," said Tom. "Here: phone."
I dialled the number.
"Hello," said a woman's voice amid an electronic din.
"Hi," I said. "It's really hard to hear you."
"That's `cos I'm in a fucking club," shouted the woman.
"O," I said.
"Is that you, Phillip?" the voice said.
"No, it's Caspasian."
"God Almighty, I don't believe you."
"Listen," I said, "I can hardly hear you."
"Call me later," the voice said.
"When?"
But the phone went dead.
"Who was it?" said Tom.
"Not sure," I replied. "I have to call her later. She was at some club."
"Fine, we can wait," said Tom. "Then we're going to meet her and you're going to have some fun for a change."
"Let's go through to the other room."
The man from earlier was in the hallway looking through some cigarette boxes for a cigarette.
"Jesus!" said Tom.
"Hey, have you a cigarette?" said Jesus.
"Scrounger," said Tom
"Chill out, man," said Jesus.
We entered a sitting room. "I am going to talk to them," I told Tom, going over to two women. They looked at us queerly. Tom took a glance at them and returned to the kitchen.
"I'm Caspasian."
"Nice name," said the girl. "I'm Ann." Her companion wandered off.
Ann had brown hair. She was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt. I soon became bored with her. She said something about her nose and disappeared.
When you meet some people you feel free to tell them about who you are, and they seem to find it curious. With others you feel at a loss to understand why anyone might find you interesting at all.
With those sorry thoughts I began contemplating re-joining Tom when I heard Ann scream and I rushed upstairs to a bedroom where some people were crowding round a bed, on which a body lay.
"O fuck," said someone.
"She's dead."
It certainly seemed that way. The body was quite pale, in a black dress.
"Get Yvette", said someone.
Jesus came into the room, a beer can in his hand. "O Jesus," said Jesus, "what the fuck`s going on?"
"She's dead," said someone. "Go and get Yvette."
Jesus ran out of the room. "Yvette! Yvette," he shouted.
"Jesus", said Yvette, wandering into the hall downstairs. "What he fuck`s the matter?" She was carrying a huge joint. She drew from it.
"There's a dead woman in this room."
Yvette was quite stoned. "Call the fucking police for Christ's sake."
She disappeared back into the living room.
I stood there. Jesus came back into the bedroom. He took a look at the dead girl. "O Christ," he said, "We'd better do something. Have you a phone?"
I decided to go, the corpse was stressing me out and I didn't want to have to deal with the police.
I went down to the kitchen. There was Tom, staring into space. "Tom, we have to go." "O," said Tom. "Where to?"
"Anywhere."
"Did you phone that girl back?" asked Tom.
"No," I replied. "I forgot."
"For God's sake call her."
"Okay," I said. "Let's get out of here first."
*
We were walking through a street in Belsize Park. It was a delicious summer night: the streetlamps reflected yellow and crisp off the Mercedes Benzes and Daimlers lining the avenues. Tom walked down the middle of the road smoking. Every now and again the wind hushed through the trees.
I dialled the number.
"Phillip," said the voice.
"No, it's Caspasian," I replied.
"Hey! I thought you were Phillip."
"No. No. It's Caspasian," I said.
"Find out who it is," said Tom.
"I don't remember you," said the voice.
"Listen," I said.
"What?" she said.
"Who are you?"
The woman laughed. "Oh for fuck`s sake."
"Sorry," I said.
She ended the call.
"What did she say?" asked Tom.
She said, "For fuck`s sake."
"You fair screwed that up," said Tom.
"Piss off," I said. I really was sick of his aggression.
"What happens next?" asked Tom.
"I go home," I said. "You can do what you please."
"What time is it?" asked Tom.
"Four am."
"Good night then."
"Good night Tom. "
It wasn't that far to where I lived. I might have liked to invite Tom back to do a sort of post mortem on the evening and drink more, but he was in such a combative mood that I preferred to walk alone, up the hill to West Hampstead where I had a tiny flat.
The flat was on one of the roads off West End Lane, one of those apartments that impose a certain culture on you almost immediately. This flat had a funny smell of plywood, I always thought. If you entered the flat on the left was a tiny kitchen, barely large enough for making toast. On the right, however, was a giant room, full of light and a view of Swiss Cottage below, and it seemed the natural thing to sit there on the window seats and smoke.
I had a little grass in my pocket so I made a tiny joint and sat there and drank a bit more. It was almost morning and I could see the sun begin to rise.
Opposite the window was an easel supporting a painting in progress. It really was all right: I felt I was getting somewhere. In front of the easel was the motif: a bottle, a skull and a glass. The light coming though made everything very clear and I felt good.
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Read to the Edinburgh Writers' group, 16 March 2021
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