Beautiful World, Where Are You Read online

  Felix: Hey sorry im not at home tonight . Might give u a buzz tomorrow

  Within seconds a reply arrived.

  Damian: It’s been nearly 3 weeks. Where are you?

  Felix screwed his features up in a frown and began to type his response, deleting and retyping several words as he went along.

  Felix: I was away the week before last and this week been at work as I said, im off tomorrow so I will give u a ring then

  He sent the message, locked his phone and sat staring into the fire. Alice came back into the room carrying two empty glasses and a bottle of red wine. He watched her while she opened the bottle and filled both the glasses.

  Are we going to have one of our deep life conversations now? he said.

  She handed him a glass and sat down on the other end of the sofa. Hm, she said. I think I’m still getting my bearings. I’m not sure I feel ready for a deep conversation.

  He nodded and looked down into his drink. Fair enough, he said. What do you want to do, watch a film or something?

  We can if you like.

  She suggested he could look through her Netflix account, and after keying in her password she handed him the laptop. He opened a web browser while she sipped her drink and watched the fire. With two fingers he scrolled aimlessly through a series of thumbnails, glancing up at her now and then as if distracted. Finally he said: Here, I don’t know what kind of films you like, you pick something. As long as it doesn’t have subtitles, I’ll watch it. He handed her the laptop and she took it from him without speaking. He closed his eyes and let his head tip back against the upper part of the sofa. Christ I’m tired, he said. If I drink that now I probably shouldn’t drive. She went on scrolling and said: You can stay the night here if you like. He said nothing. The screen displayed a list of category titles like ‘Critically Acclaimed Emotional Movies’, ‘Dark Suspenseful Movies’, ‘Dramas Adapted from Books’. A dead branch cracked in the fireplace and sent out a shower of sparks, hissing. Alice looked around at Felix, who was sitting very still with his eyes closed. She watched him for a few seconds, and then closed her laptop. He didn’t stir. For some time she sat cross-legged on the couch, watching the play of flames in the grate, finishing her glass of wine, and then she left the room, turning out the ceiling light.

  Two and a half hours later, seated in the same position, Felix woke up. The room was dark except for the remains of the fire. Running water was audible from somewhere inside the house. He sat up straight, wiped his mouth and took his phone out of his pocket. It was almost eleven at night, and he had received a single new message.

  Damian: Cop on to yourself Felix. Where are you now that you can’t ring me?

  Felix began composing a response, typing How is it and then deleting How and typing Is it your, and then he stopped. For a time he sat staring into the low burning embers in the grate, which cast a deep burnished glow over his face and clothes. Eventually he rose from the couch and left the room. The hallway outside was bright and he stood at the staircase with his brow knitted, as if letting his eyes adjust. In the kitchen, Alice was laughing, and saying aloud: Oh, I wouldn’t let a little detail like that bother me. He walked down the hall and stopped in the open doorway. Inside, Alice was looking in the fridge, her back turned to him. The light of the fridge formed a white rectangular frame around her body. She was holding her phone to her ear with one hand and propping the door of the fridge open with the other. Perhaps unconsciously imitating her gesture, Felix placed his right hand on the jamb of the kitchen doorway, watching her, saying nothing. She continued laughing. Send pictures, will you? she said. She let the fridge door swing shut and walked over to the sink. In front of her, the black kitchen window reflected the lighted interior of the room. Glancing up then, she caught sight of Felix standing behind her. Without surprise, she said into the phone: I’m going to hang up on you now because someone’s just come in, but I’ll see you next week, won’t I? Felix stood there, no longer watching her but staring down at the floor. I like to keep you guessing, Alice said into the phone. Talk to you soon, goodnight. She left her phone down on the countertop and turned to face Felix. Without looking up, he cleared his throat and said: Sorry about that. I’ve been working weird hours, obviously I was more tired than I thought. She told him not to worry about it. He moved his jaw a little, nodding. She faced him a moment longer and then, when he still did not look at her, she turned away, wrapping up a loaf of bread.

  Did you have a long day at work? she asked.

  As if straining to sound amused, he replied: They all feel long in that place.

  Now that her back was turned, he had started to watch her again. She emptied some crusts of bread from a small white plate into the pedal bin.

  Who was that on the phone? he asked.

  Oh, just a friend of mine.

  Your friend Eileen?

  No, she said. It’s funny, Eileen and I never talk on the phone. No, it was a friend of mine called Daniel, I don’t think I’ve mentioned him before. He lives in London, he’s a writer.

  Felix went on nodding to himself. I’d say you have a lot of writer friends, do you? he asked.

  A few.

  He lingered in the doorway, rubbing his left eyelid roughly with his fingertips. Alice took a cloth from the sink and wiped down the surface of the kitchen table.

  Sorry I never texted you back during the week there, he said.

  It’s alright, don’t worry about it.

  I had a good time with you in Italy, I feel bad if you thought I didn’t.

  That’s okay, she said. I had a good time too.

  He swallowed and put his hand back down into his pocket. Can I stay the night here? he asked. I think I’m actually too out of it to drive home. I can sleep on the couch if you want.

  Putting the cloth back in the sink, she said she would make up one of the beds. He looked down at the floor. She came to stand in front of him, and said in a kindly tone of voice: Felix, are you okay? He gave a half-smile. Yeah, I’m sound, he said. Just tired. Finally he met her eyes and said: You don’t want to sleep together, do you? It’s alright if you’ve gone off the idea, I know I was a bit of a prick about it. She looked back at him, her eyes moving over his face. I did feel foolish when I didn’t hear from you, she said. Can you understand why I felt that way or do you think I’m being crazy? Apparently uncomfortable now, he said he didn’t think she was being crazy, and that he had meant to reply to her message, but time had passed and he had started to feel awkward about it. He was kneading his shoulder under his hand. Look, I’ll go, he said. I can drive, I’m grand. I never had that glass of wine in the end anyway. Sorry I interrupted your phone call there, you can ring your friend back if you want.

  I’d prefer if you stayed, she said. With me, if that’s what you’d like. I don’t mind.

  You don’t mind, or you want me to?

  I want you to. Although if you ghost me again afterwards, I might start to suspect you actually hate me.

  He looked pleased then, and released his shoulder from under the grip of his hand. No, I’ll remember my manners, he said. You’ll get a nice normal message tomorrow saying I enjoyed myself.

  With an arch look, she replied: Oh, is that the normal thing?

  Well, the last person I was with, I never did message her. I think she might be annoyed with me about it, I’m not sure.

  Maybe you should try showing up at her house out of the blue and then falling asleep on her couch for two hours.

  He put his hand on his chest, as if wounded. Alice, he said. Don’t savage me. I’m embarrassed about that. Come here.

  She went to him and he kissed her. He moved his hands over her body and she sighed softly. His phone started to vibrate in his pocket, the droning noise of an incoming call. Do you want to get that? she said. No, he replied, it’s alright, I’ll knock it off. Removing his phone from his pocket, he tapped a button to reject a phone call from Damian’s number, and went on: Do you know what I really feel like doing? I want t
o go up and lie on your bed and you tell me all what you did during the week. Alice said that sounded very innocent. Well, I can take your clothes off while you’re talking, he said, how about that? She flushed then, touched her lip, and said: If you like. He watched her with a kind of mischievous amusement. Am I making you blush saying that? he asked. I wouldn’t mind, but you’re the one who writes filthy books for a living. She said her books were not filthy, and he said he had read on the internet that they were. And I know you don’t get embarrassed talking about sex in public, because I’ve seen you, he said. Up there onstage when we were in Rome, you were talking about it. Alice said that was different, because it was not personal, only abstract. He studied her for a moment. Can I ask, he said, are you going over to London this week, or is your friend coming over here? Not to be nosy, but I heard you saying you’d see him next week. Smiling, she said she had to go to London for work. Such a jet-setter, he replied. Although London’s a bit of a kip so I won’t be jealous. I used to live there. His phone started to vibrate again and he sighed, removing it from his pocket once more. I won’t ask who’s calling, Alice said. Holding down the button, Felix answered distractedly: Ah, it’s just my brother. I’m not going behind your back falling asleep on anyone else’s couches, don’t worry. She laughed then, which seemed to please him. Pocketing the phone again, he said: Can we head upstairs? If we stay up much later I won’t be any good to you, I’m wrecked.

  They went up to Alice’s bedroom and sat on her bed together. She took his hand and kissed it, making a line of kisses up from his knuckle along his fingers, and then put the tip of his index finger in her mouth. At first he said nothing and then after a few seconds he said: Ah, fuck. He put his middle finger into her mouth and she ran her tongue along its underside. Alice, he said. Can I ask, do you like giving head at all? It’s alright if you don’t. Taking his fingers out of her mouth, she said yes. Can we do that now, what do you think? he said. With her mouth open and relaxed-looking, she reached under the waistband of his sweatpants. He lay down on his back with his head propped up on the pillows, and she went down on him. He watched her. A lock of her light hair falling forward, covering part of her face. And her lips wet, her eyes half-closed. She asked him if it was okay. Yeah, it’s good, he said. Come here for a second. She moved up beside him and he put his hand under her skirt. Closing her eyes, she held on to the headboard behind him. Do you want to get on top of me? he said. She nodded her head. Clothes on or off? she asked. He frowned thoughtfully. Off, he said. But I’ll leave mine on if it’s the same to you. Taking her jumper off, she grinned and said: Is that a power play? He put a hand behind his head, watching her undoing the buttons of her blouse. No, I’m just lazy, he said. She took the blouse off and unhooked her bra. Do I look nice with my clothes off? she asked. He was touching his cock slowly while watching her. Yeah, you do, he said. Did I not tell you that before? Pulling her skirt and underwear off over her ankles, she said: I think as a teenager I did, but not anymore. Leaving her clothes hanging over the end of the bed, she got on top of him. I liked having you in my mouth, she said. Her eyes were closed, he was looking up her. That’s nice of you to say, he said. What did you like about it? She was breathing deeply. I was afraid you were going to be rough with me, she said, but you were very gentle. I don’t even mean rough, I just mean, I was afraid you would want me to try and take more of it when I knew I couldn’t. He had his left hand on her hip. You mean like the people in porn, he said. She said yes. Yeah, but I think that’s a fairly specialised skill they have, he said. I wouldn’t expect your average person to be able to do that. With her eyes closed, Alice said that if he wanted her to learn how to do it, she would want to try. Still watching her face attentively he said: Don’t worry about that. You give very good head the way it is. Is that what you prefer to call it, by the way? Or something else? She was smiling, she said she wasn’t fussy. But there must be some words that turn you off a bit, he said. Would there not be? Like if I said, I want you to suck my cock, you probably wouldn’t like it. She laughed and said she wouldn’t mind, but she thought it sounded more funny than sexy. He agreed it was funny, and said it sounded like something from a film. Do you hate the word ‘fuck’? he said. Some people do, I don’t mind it. But if I said, can we fuck now, would that put you off? She said it would not put her off. Alright, he said, let me fuck you, then. He withdrew his hand, his fingers glistening wet and leaving wet prints on her skin where he touched her. When the head of his cock entered her she took a deep breath and gripped his shoulder under her hand. He was still fully dressed, wearing the same green sweatshirt with the little embroidered logo. You’re very small with your clothes off, he said. I don’t think I noticed you so small before. She made a moaning noise, shook her head, and said nothing. He sat up a little more and surveyed her. Do you need a second? he asked. She was taking long breaths and releasing them slowly, eyes closed. I’m okay, she said. Is that all of it? Perhaps because she wasn’t looking, he allowed himself to smile. Well, nearly, he said. Are you alright? Her face and neck were red. It is a lot, she said. He ran his hand down her side affectionately. Mm, he said. But it doesn’t hurt, does it? Still with her eyes held shut she replied: I think it did hurt a little bit the first time. He was touching her breast softly. The first time we were together? he said. You didn’t tell me. She shook her head, frowning as if with concentration. No, she said, but I didn’t want you to stop, it was nice. It makes me feel very full. He licked his upper lip, still watching her. Ah, I love making you feel like that, he said. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He put his hands on her hips and pulled her down a little, gently, until he was all the way inside her. She drew in one long breath and then nodded, still looking at him. For a couple of minutes they fucked and said nothing. She shut her eyes tightly and he asked again if she was okay. Do you find it really intense, she said. He was looking up at her with an open expression on his face. Yeah, he said. I don’t think you could have looked better when you were a teenager than you do now, by the way. You look unbelievable now. And I have one more thought about it. A lot of what’s so sexy about you is the way you talk, and the little things you do. And I bet you couldn’t behave so nicely when you were younger, could you? And even if you could, not to be soft about it, but I’d still rather have you the way you are. Her breath was ragged then and she reached for his hand, which he gave to her. I’m coming, she said. She was holding his hand very tight. Quietly he said: Look at me for a second. She looked at him. Her mouth was open and she was crying out, her chest and neck pink. He looked back at her, and he was breathing hard. Finally she lay down against his chest, her knees drawn up around him. He ran his hand down over her spine. A minute went by, then five minutes. Here, don’t fall asleep like that, he said. Let’s lie down properly. She rubbed her eye with the back of her hand, and got up off him. He rearranged his clothes while she lay down naked on the mattress beside him. Then he took her hand and kissed it. That was alright, he said, wasn’t it? She nestled her head back on the pillow and laughed. I didn’t know you used to live in London, she said. He smiled to himself, still holding her hand. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, he said. She rolled her shoulders luxuriously against the bedsheets.

  Tell me everything, she said.

  18.

  Friend of my heart! Sorry for the delay—I write to you from Paris, having just arrived here from London, where I had to go and pick up an award. They never tire of giving me awards, do they? It’s a shame I’ve tired so quickly of receiving them, or my life would be endless fun. Anyway, I miss you. I was sitting in the Musée d’Orsay this morning looking at sweet little Marcel Proust’s portrait, and wishing John Singer Sargent had painted him instead. He’s quite ugly in the painting, but despite this unfortunate fact (and I do mean despite!) something in his eyes reminded me of you. Probably just the glow of brilliance. ‘Perhaps indeed there exists but a single intelligence, in which everyone in the world participates, towards which each of us from the position of
his own separate body turns his eyes, as in a theatre where, if everyone has his own separate seat, there is on the other hand but a single stage.’ Reading those words I feel terribly happy—to think that I might share an intelligence with you.

  On the top floor of the museum today, I noticed there were several portraits of Berthe Morisot, all painted by Edouard Manet. In every painting Morisot looks a little bit different, so it’s hard to imagine how she really looked—how she combined each different shade of her likeness into one full and recognisable human face. I searched for a photograph afterwards and was surprised by the solidity of her features, which in Manet’s work often look cloudy or delicate. In one of the paintings she’s handsome, dark, statuesque in a white dress; she sits on a balcony alongside two other figures, her forearm relaxed against the parapet, her hand holding a closed fan; she’s looking away, almost frowning, her face is complex and expressive, she’s deep in thought. In another painting she’s soft-featured, pretty, gazing out at the viewer in a tall black hat and black shawl, her gaze at once uncertain and revealing. She was the model Manet painted more often than any other, more often than his own wife. But when I look at the paintings I don’t always recognise her as beautiful right away. Her beauty is something I have to search for, requiring some interpretive work, some intellectual or abstract work, and maybe that’s what Manet found so fascinating about it—but then again maybe not. For six years Morisot came to his studio, chaperoned by her mother, and he painted her, always clothed. Several of her own paintings hang in the museum too. Two girls sharing a park bench in the Bois de Boulogne, one in a white dress, wearing a broad straw hat, bending her head forward over her lap, maybe she’s reading, the other girl in a dark dress, her long fair hair tied back with a black ribbon, showing to the viewer her white neck and ear. Behind them all the lush vague greenery of the public park. But Morisot never painted Manet. Six years after she met him, and apparently at his suggestion, she married his brother. He painted her just once more, wedding ring glittering dark on her delicate hand, and then never again. Don’t you think that’s a love story? It reminds me of you and Simon. And to give myself away even further, I duly add: thank God he has no brothers!