Speak Gigantular Page 4

  My God, these people were unbelievable. The cleaner with her lank black hair continued to look as though she had better things to do; the receptionist turned red with annoyance. The hotel manager, a short, chubby grey-haired patronizing bastard was called. I repeated my predicament and his response was: “This never happen in our hotel before! Your case is first, our staff are good people.”

  Yeah right. Motherfuckers!

  “Besides,” the hotel manager continued, smiling falsely with a kind of deadness in his eyes, “he said he didn’t like that you gave him the key and asked him to turn your room temperature up. To him, the room was warm enough.”

  “Yes,” the receptionist piped in. “To me the temperature was fine. If not for the cleaner being there I feel you would blame only me. I feel you are trying to frame me!”

  “This is absolutely ridiculous.” I was bordering on hysterical, afraid I would punch one of them any minute. “Who gives a shit whether you thought the room was warm enough or not? I’m a paying guest and it’s my preference. What would I gain by framing you?”

  They fiddled about, pointlessly checking my room again. Fed up, I promised myself I’d go to the police. I left and spent three hours trawling the streets looking for another hotel. The hotels fell into two brackets, upscale and out of my budget or dumps I couldn’t bear to subject myself to even for one night. By 8pm I gave up the search and went for dinner. I no longer wanted to see Lisbon. I knew it was childish but I blamed the city for my misfortune.

  I sent Balthazar a text, since he was in Portugal too. He responded quickly: Oh hon, sorry to hear that. Fuck ’em! Come and stay with us, plenty of room in this apartment and you don’t need money here. xx

  I went back to my hotel room afterwards. I slept with one eye open, just in case the staff attempted to kill me.

  I settled my account with the hotel the next morning and checked out. It was one of those bright hot days that made you grateful to be alive. I reported the crime to the policia. I was interviewed by an abrupt, strapping, bearded officer with a dented head. Throughout our exchange I fixated on how I could repair it for him.

  I caught the metro to Oriente after asking a lovely Angolan man for directions. He insisted on accompanying me, carried my bags and everything. I was touched. We struggled to understand each other but the journey sped by with his engaging company. He had a handsome open face and his smile made me want to reveal things to him. His brown skin was smooth and beautiful, it was impossible not to stare at it. We swapped contact details.

  At Oriente, I caught a coach to Faro; I was travelling to the back of beyond while lost segments of my life occupied the empty seats. In Faro, the train I took groaned down the track to Tavira. You could see green countryside lit with bright yellow flowers for miles.

  On arrival, the train delivered a good number of passengers. Balthazar and Alice were holding hands on the platform; each a larger or miniature extension of the other. Alice wore a smile and a bright blue scarf fashioned in a sarong style over her clothes. In one hand she clutched a worn teddy, Bear Bear, whose nose had been bitten off. I gave her a hug and Balthazar a cooler greeting.

  In the silver Yaris, I sat in the back with Alice, listening as she filled me in on their day at the beach. If Alice were a colour she’d be one that changed kaleidoscopically, first yellow, then blood red, then magenta. She was spirited, creative, intelligent and funny but also spoilt, snobbish, emotionally astute and manipulative. She had the uncanny ability to define people in that blunt, unpretentious way only children are capable of.

  “Dad had this girlfriend before, Laura. All she ever said was ‘fab’ and ‘brill’.” This was said with what I imagined was the correct intonation in her voice and it made me laugh out loud.

  Their apartment looked like an upscale granny flat, displays of china, weathered old-fashioned chairs, but it was spacious and comfortable. Alice turned the TV on; we watched the Hollywood channel which played terrible films on loop. Alice had me chuckling with her witty lines and funny antics. She did a perfect imitation of the Chipmunks and repeated fabricated conversations in song, Chipmunk-style. This drove Balthazar mad, but since she had an audience there was no stopping her. Watching his attempts to control his precocious child was amusing.

  By 8pm we were starving and wandered over to Balthazar’s favourite restaurant in Tavira. The streets were fairly empty; I pretended we were on a movie set made especially for us. At night, the quaint streets were shrouded in a burnished yellow-orange glow from the lamps. The restaurant was packed and looked like somebody’s bathroom without a tub. The walls were covered with blue and white plant-patterned tiles. Why do the Portuguese like tiles so much?

  The owner was on his own, an elderly, overwhelmed white-haired man in his sixties, rushing around attempting to serve everybody on time. We waited about an hour for our meal. In that time we kept ourselves busy. Alice liked to be entertained. If not there was hell to pay, followed by a huge strop or tantrum.

  “Let’s play hangman!

  “Let’s play parson’s parcel.

  “I know a game…

  “I’m bored, Daddy, I’m bored!”

  Alice let slip embarrassing revelations about Balthazar and some of his exes while he sat there, flushed and uncomfortable. Apparently Balthazar had had so many different types of girlfriends, he referred to them by country.

  Eventually our meal of cataplana arrived, a seafood stew served with rice and chips. It was delicious. I hate wine but gulped it down as though it was water.

  Upon our return to the apartment, Alice went to bed and, slightly tipsy, I grilled Balthazar. “So how long have you been fucking Tara behind my back?”

  He shifted in his seat, sipped from his glass of rum.

  “About a month,” he said.

  “That weekend at Brigette’s house when we were ironing out our issues, you’d slept with her before coming down.” My voice was calm but it sounded like a stranger’s, as though somebody else would walk into the room wanting to claim it.

  “Yes.” He held my gaze. I was reminded of a bug trapped under a glass, how it must feel both horror and wonder stuck in that tall object. The distance between “no” and “yes” is a gulf, with the ability to change outcomes.

  I slowly blew out a soundless breath wanting to blind him with invisible smoke from my mouth.

  “If you like sleeping with her so much why don’t you have a relationship and stop wasting my time?”

  He placed his hand on my thigh. “God you’re pretty,” he murmured. “and unusual.”

  I swatted his hand off. “Stop trying to touch me, you’re not entitled anymore.”

  He looked annoyed, moving restlessly. “I admit,” he began tentatively, “there is a sexual connection between Tara and I but not in any other way. She’s reckless and wild but…”

  “Oh bullshit, Balthazar, she’s exactly the kind of woman you like. All that nomad shit, it must be great for your ego to have a grown woman acting crazy over you, climbing through windows to get to you.” I took a sip from my glass of rum, letting the sweetness wash over my tongue.

  “Firstly, I don’t have a type. You and I have much more of a bond in different ways. I really fancy you but I knew I could have her whenever I wanted. I don’t feel the same way about her. Her bizarre behaviour doesn’t impress me. It doesn’t prove love. It just shows she’s nuts,” he said, pinning me with an earnest look, managing to seem sincere and regretful.

  “It didn’t stop you though, did it?” I said, slamming my empty glass on the table and then pulling it back as if ready to take aim. He winced, looking defeated.

  Our duel continued for about two hours, knowing how intellectually dexterous Balthazar was—he could run rings around people in an argument in the most laid back, non-aggressive way—seeing him swallow my disdain was comforting. Taking chunks out of him was the most fun I’d had since arriving in Portugal. Eventually, he slinked off to the bedroom.

  Later I joined him, slipping
into the opposite end of the bed; the space between us was enough to accommodate all our belongings. At one point on his return from the toilet, he stood in the doorway studying me. We watched each other warily. Bathed in that deceptive lamplight, groggy, I thought he was covered in pulsing, bloodied hearts. Then the hearts were morphing into another man, a Balthazar I didn’t know standing beside him. I couldn’t tell if the blood was his or mine. I wanted to ask him, looking at the uncooked meat covering his body, “Are you going to eat that?”

  It rained the following morning so we couldn’t have breakfast on the terrace. Instead, we sat in the kitchen eating croissants with strawberry jam and thick cold cuts of salami in white buns that threatened to spill more secrets as though they were tongues. Balthazar was unusually less chatty, studying me discreetly whilst attempting to control Alice. Instead of eating, her head was bent over a piece of paper she was filling with abstract shapes and squiggles.

  In the privacy of the bedroom, I confronted him. “You’re fairly subdued this morning,” I said on my feet, eyeing Balthazar who lay on the bed in a green and black checked shirt.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot, darling,” he said, “and it’s just not working out for me. Since you’ve come I’ve felt deflated, depressed and subdued. Your being here has completely changed the dynamic between Alice and me, she’s behaving differently.”

  I rocked back on my heels, steadied myself. “I’ve travelled for hours to get here, Balthazar. What exactly are you saying?”

  He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Look, you were in trouble and out of the kindness of my heart I offered to help but this is a special time for me and Alice. This isn’t a holiday for you to bond with her!”

  “I thought you’d be happy we were getting on. This is bullshit,” I roared.

  He swung his legs over the bed and stood up. “No! I have a right to express how I feel. It’s my holiday with my daughter and I very kindly offered to share it with you. I’m sorry you like my children more than you like me but frankly, you wouldn’t have that connection with them if not for me.”

  “Oh, so you’re throwing me out! Thanks for coming to the rescue, asshole. I can’t believe this.” I stormed around, circling him.

  “I’m not throwing you out. Why are you so stubborn? Listen to what I’m saying. Either we try to get along or I’m happy to pay for you to go back to Lisbon. You could stay here in Tavira but rent a room elsewhere; it’s just some options. You’ve been cold to me since you arrived, very prickly. You won’t let me touch you. I thought you came with forgiveness in your heart.” His face was flushed, he paced back and forth.

  “It’s been three days!” I spat. “What do you expect? I have a right to be angry, I’m not going to put that aside so you’re comfortable, no way. It’s not as if I’ve treated Alice any differently just because I can’t stand you right now.”

  “That’s exactly it.” His eyes narrowed. “Your behaviour is affecting her. I feel ganged up on and it’s feeding into my relationship with her. You could use my daughter against me,” he accused, throwing me a furious look.

  “You’re being an asshole, fine. I’ll be out of your hair soon, as if this fucking trip could get any worse.”

  How dare he try to out-victim me!

  “Darling, I’m just trying to resolve the situation,” he whined.

  I ignored him and grabbed my book, Banana Yoshimoto’s Kitchen. I stomped off into the tiny veranda off the bedroom. I sat in the chair watching the road swell with cars and people, kicking myself. What does quiet fury sound like? Balthazar walked in, rested his forehead against mine. I decided that for however long I was in his presence I’d be polite, agreeable, to make him look even more of a bastard. I knew I would stay in Tavira, it would gnaw away at Balthazar knowing I was in the same town he loved so much. We agreed I’d return in the evening to pick up my stuff.

  After they left, I sprang into action as though someone had slipped two Duracell batteries inside my back, slippers clicking on hot pavements. It didn’t take long to find another residencial on the opposite side of the bridge. The door to the reception area chimed, the owner had a warm welcoming smile and a face that could have been made from dough. He told me he liked Sade and the room was light, spacious, balancing on the murmurs of the building.

  Later, I walked the streets of Tavira. I sat on the bench next to an ice cream stand and watched the ripples of the river, wandering if loneliness could fill spaces. By evening, I returned to Balthazar’s to pick up my bag. I hugged Alice and said goodbye, Balthazar’s gaze a warm touch on my back. He offered me a lift, I refused.

  In the morning, I sent him a text saying I wished he was on his own so I could shove him off one of the bridges. His response came quickly: I thought you would understand. OK, then it’s a wrap. Our chemistry is a perfect reflection of our complete lack of ability to see each other’s point of view, shame. Maybe that’s what sex does, allows us to live on the same planet without throwing each other off bridges. Charming. x

  An image of him drowning in a dark sea flashed in my mind but I knew that bastard probably swam out of the womb, so death by drowning was unlikely. Ridiculously charming, resourceful and incredibly well-travelled, he had an uncanny ability to survive most situations.

  I turned down his offer for dinner and day trips two days in a row. By the third day, I was bored of my own company and walking everywhere. We called a temporary truce and decided to get along for the rest of our time in Portugal. We went bodyboarding at the beach, discovered an abandoned town on a boat trip to the border of Spain and ate greasy potatoes and chicken served by a pimply teenager at a beach restaurant. The volcanic ash disaster arrived just to make my holiday more uneventful, delivered by newsreaders in feverish tones. All over Europe it rendered people on holiday stranded, airports bursting with droves of erratic, flummoxed folk. We decided to keep moving, a band of three. On the overnight coach ride to Seville from Faro, we rode an endless tunnel, approaching a destination that may have shape-shifted by the time we arrived. Balthazar said, “I love you.” I laughed it off.

  In Seville it rained all day so we visited a gallery filled with Renaissance art. Balthazar was in his element, giving a breakdown of the artists and contexts to us. For dinner, we ate at a restaurant that looked like the inside of a giant wine barrel. There were huge slabs of smoked meat hanging from hooks in the visible kitchen. I forced myself to swallow some wine while Balthazar pacified Alice’s mum on the phone. By all accounts, she believed he had somehow orchestrated the volcanic ash disaster to stop her daughter returning home to her. I smiled at this.

  We caught a train to Madrid and in Madrid we caught another one to Barcelona. We were exhausted and tempers flared but Barcelona was unforgettable, vivid and vibrant. I bought Alice a straw hat which she placed on Bear Bear’s head because he was getting heatstroke. An artist drew a caricature of all three of us; I slipped it into my bag imagining our sketched mouths feeding on bits of sunlight. Balthazar surprised me by borrowing a musician’s harmonica and serenading me on the steps of Park Güell with his rendition of Little Walter’s “Key to the Highway”.

  From Barcelona we took a train to Port Bou. During the journey, Balthazar charmed a family sitting across from us on the other side. I watched him swap contact details; I fished out a book to lose myself in. He had arranged to pick up a car in Port Bou where we would drive to Lagrasse and stay with a friend of his. We still had no idea when we’d get home.

  We bolted out of Port Bou station, rumpled, crusty-eyed, slightly different versions of ourselves than we had been that morning. We didn’t see the small changes happening but they caught up, winding us unexpectedly. Somewhere molecules had shifted.

  Walking towards the blue Peugeot on that steep road, I realised I knew less about falling in love than I ever did and even less about knowing how to stay in love. And that honestly, I wasn’t entirely blameless in all this. I’d been treating Balthazar as if he were the least significant thing in
my life for months. It never occurred to me he would go elsewhere for comfort. Was I bad at letting people in? How do we reconcile between who we actually are and who our lovers imagine us to be? It was the possibility of knowing that drew us, that heady, seductive part of the process that made you look at the world through different eyes.

  Bone tired from constantly travelling, we piled into the car. The Balthazar made of bloody hearts was driving us to Lagrasse, he said. The Balthazar I knew gave him directions. The sea below shimmered. The steep winding road was a glimmering nerve suspended between vast blue sky and all-encompassing earth. The shrinking landscape became smaller in the side mirror, blown away by exhaust pipe breaths. Alice began to talk like a chipmunk. Balthazar and I started arguing about the jacket he’d left on the train with his and Alice’s passports inside, missing the lorry coming round a corner.

  He swerved but too late, too far out. My stomach clenched, the car shuddered. Alice screamed. Then we were tumbling, hurtling into the mountains at full speed. And there were no hands at the wheel. Balthazar fell upon Balthazar, growling.

  Fractures

  Michael had to keep going back to the café La Cabane de Lumière—a glass panelled hub of delicious indulgence nestled under a golden arched doorway.

  He made his way through the heaving streets of central London driven by his sweet tooth and a longing he felt growing inside. On Regent Street, the gold lettering etched on the building’s sign glowed seductively. He imagined the structure leaking syrup and edible crème glues. The glass window displayed rum soaked rectangular delights and pot-bellied custard tarts dusted lightly with cinnamon. There were cakes in all sorts of guises; as ghosts, ships, cars, pumpkins and Wonder Woman, reminding him of an anecdote he’d heard. An artist’s party had been thrown in the café. The artist arranged for a huge wedding cake, which took up the entire front section of the room. He arrived stark naked and proceeded to sit on the enormous confection, wallowing in the crumbling softness, feeling the intensity of gazes watching colours running on his pale skin and then serving fat globs of cake to the stunned guests. They’d swallowed, clapped and smiled thinly, all in the name of art.