On Beauty (7 page)

The man folded his arms across his narrow filleted chest, every rib as visible as it is upon a cat's belly. ‘Where do you
think
I am from? You are African – no?'

‘No, noooo, I'm from
here
– but of course . . .' said Kiki. She wiped some sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, waiting for him to finish the sentence as she knew it would be finished.

‘We are all from Africa,' said the man obligingly. He made a double outward fan of his hands over the jewellery. ‘All of this, from Africa. You know where I am from?'

Kiki was trying to fix something to her wrist, unsuccessfully. Now she looked up as the man took a half step back to give her a fuller view of him. She found she wanted very much
to be right
, and struggled for a minute between a few places she recalled having French history, unsure if she was right about any of them. She wondered about her own boredom. She must be very bored indeed to want to be right before this man.

‘Ivory . . .' began Kiki cautiously, but his face repelled this, so she switched to Martinique.

‘
Haiti
,' he said.

‘
Right
. My –' began Kiki, but realized she did not want to say the word ‘cleaner' in this context. She began again, ‘There're so many Haitians here . . .' She dared a little further: ‘And of course it's so difficult, in Haiti, right now.'

The man put the hub of each hand firmly on the table between them and engaged her eyes. ‘
Yes
. Terrible.
So terrible
. Now, every day –
terror
.'

The solemnity of this reply forced Kiki to turn her attention back to the bracelet sliding off her wrist. She had only the most vague sense of the difficulty she had made reference to (it had slid off the radar under the stress of other, more pressing difficulties, national and personal) and felt ashamed now to be caught under the pretence of having more knowledge than she possessed.

‘This is not for here – for
here
.' he said, suddenly coming around the table and pointing at Kiki's ankle.

‘
Oh
 . . . it's like a . . . what do you call that, an
anklet
?'

‘Put here – put up here – please.'

Kiki released Murdoch to the floor and allowed this man to lift her foot on to the small bamboo stool. She had to rest her hand on his shoulder for balance. Kiki's sarong opened a little and some of her thigh was revealed. Moisture sprang from the chubby crease behind her knee. The man did not seem to notice but remained purposeful, catching one sweaty loose end of the chain and bringing it round to meet the other. It was in this unorthodox position that Kiki found herself ambushed from behind. Two masculine hands grabbed her round her middle, squeezed – and then a hot red face materialized next to her own like the Cheshire Cat's, kissing her damp cheek.

‘Jay – don't be crazy –'

‘Keeks,
wow
– you're all leg. What're you trying to do, kill me?'

‘Oh, my
God
– Warren –
Hi
 . . . You almost killed
me
–
Jesus
– creeping like a
fox
– I thought it was Jerome, he's around here someplace . . . God, I didn't even know you guys were back. How was Italy? Where's –'

Kiki spotted the subject of her question, Claire Malcolm, turning away from a stall selling massage oils. Claire looked confused for a moment, panicked almost, but then raised a hand, smiling. In response Kiki gave Claire the long-distance look of surprise and swept her hand up and down to signify the change in Claire, a little green sundress instead of her winter staples of black leather jacket, black polo neck and black jeans. Thinking about it, she hadn't seen Claire Malcolm since the winter. Now she was speckled a toasty Mediterranean brown, the pale blue of her eyes intensified by the contrast. Kiki signalled to her to come over. The Haitian man, having fastened Kiki's anklet, dropped his hands and looked anxiously at her.

‘Warren, just wait one minute – let me just do this – how much again?'

‘Fifteen. For this fifteen.'

‘I thought you said
ten
for a bracelet – Warren, sorry about this, just one minute – didn't you say ten?'

‘This one fifteen, please, fifteen.'

Kiki hunted in her purse for her wallet. Warren Crane stood beside her, with his hefty head, too large for that neatly muscular blue-collar New Jersey body, his beefy sailor arms crossed and a whimsical look on his face, like that of an audience member waiting for the comedian to get on stage. When you are no longer in the sexual universe – when you are supposedly too old, or too big, or simply no longer thought of in that way – apparently a whole new range of male reactions to you come into play. One of them is humour. They find you funny. But then, thought Kiki, they were brought up that way, these white American boys: I'm the Aunt Jemima on the cookie boxes of their childhoods, the pair of thick ankles Tom and Jerry played around. Of course they find me funny. And yet I could cross the river to Boston and barely be left alone for five minutes at a time. Only last week a young brother half her age had trailed Kiki up and down Newbury for an hour and would not relent until she said he could take her out some time; she gave him a fake number.

‘You need a loan, Keeks?' asked Warren. ‘Sister, I could spare you a dime.'

Kiki laughed. She found her wallet at last. Money dealt with, she said goodbye to the trader.

‘That's pretty,' said Warren, looking down her and then up her again. ‘As if you needed to get any prettier.'

And this is another thing they do. They flirt with you violently because there is no possibility of it being taken seriously.

‘What did she get – something lovely? Oh, that
is
lovely,' said Claire as she approached, peering down at Kiki's ankle. She tucked her tiny body into a cleft of Warren's. Photographs elongated her, making her appear long and wiry, but in life this American poet was only five foot one and physically prepubescent, even now, at fifty-four. She was neatly made with the minimum of material. When she moved a finger, you could trace the motion through pulleys of veins that went all the way up her slender arms and shoulders to her neck, itself elegantly creased like the lungs of an accordion. Her elfin head with its inch of closely cropped brown
hair fitted neatly into her lover's hand. To Kiki they looked very happy – but what did that mean? Wellington couples had a talent for looking happy.

‘Incredible day, isn't it? We got back a week ago and it's hotter here than it was there. The sun is a
lemon
today, it
is
. It's like a huge lemon-drop.
God
, it's incredible,' said Claire, as Warren softly palpated the back of her skull. She was babbling a little; it always took her a minute or two to settle. Claire had been at graduate school with Howard, and Kiki had known her thirty years, but never had she felt that they knew each other well. They did not quite gel as friends. There was a part of Kiki that felt every meeting with Claire was like the first time all over again. ‘And you look marvellous!' cried Claire now. ‘It's so good to
see
you. What an outfit! It's like a sunset – the red, the yellow, the orangey-brown – Keeks, you're
setting
.'

‘Honey,' said Kiki, moving her head from side to side in a manner she understood white people enjoyed, ‘I done
set already
.'

Claire made the jangle sound of laughter. Not for the first time, Kiki noted the implacable intelligence of her eyes, the way they did not indulge in the natural release of the act.

‘Come on, walk with us,' said Claire plaintively, putting Warren between herself and Kiki, as if he were their child. It was a strange way to walk – it meant they had to talk to each other over Warren's body.

‘OK – we got to keep an eye out for Jerome, though – he's about. So how was Italy?' asked Kiki.

‘
Amazing
. Wasn't it incredible?' said Claire, looking to Warren with an intensity that fulfilled Kiki's hazy idea of how an artist should be: passionate, attentive, bringing her native enthusiasm to the smallest matters.

‘Was it just a vacation?' asked Kiki. ‘Weren't you collecting a prize or –?'

‘Oh, a silly . . . nothing, the Dante thing – but that's not interesting –
Warren
spent the whole time in this rape field going crazy over this new theory about airborne pollutants from fields, GM fields – Kiki, my
God
 . . . unbelievable ideas he was having out there
– he's basically going to be able to prove
definitively
that there's cross – cross – oh, God, cross-dissemination – insemination – you know what I mean – which is what this damn government has been
lying
through its
teeth
about – but it's really the science that's just –' Here Claire made a noise and a gesture to signify the top of one's head coming off, revealing the inner cranium to the universe. ‘Warren, tell Kiki about it – I get it all mixed up, but it's absolutely
phenomenal
science – Warren?'

‘It's not really so fascinating,' said Warren flatly. ‘We're trying to find a way to pin down the government regarding these crops – a lot of the lab work has already been done, but it hasn't been put together – just needs someone to harness the solid evidence – Oh, Claire, it's too damn hot – boring subject . . .'

‘Oh, no . . .' protested Kiki faintly.

‘It is
not
boring –' cried Claire. ‘I had no
idea
about the extent of this technology and what it's actually
doing to the biosphere
. I don't mean in ten years or fifty years, I mean
right now
 . . . It's so vile, so vile. “Infernal” is the word I keep getting
caught
on, do you know what I mean? We've reached a new ring somehow. A very low infernal ring. The planet is finished with us, at this point –'

‘Right, right,' Kiki kept saying through all of this, as Claire kept talking. Kiki was impressed by her but also slightly wearied – there was no subject she could not enthusiastically dissect or embroider. Kiki was reminded of that famous poem of Claire's about an orgasm that seemed to take apart all the different elements of an orgasm and lay them out along the page, the way a mechanic dismantles an engine. It was one of the few poems by Claire that Kiki had felt she understood without having to be talked through it by her husband or her daughter.

‘Honey,' said Warren. He touched Claire's hand lightly but with intent. ‘So where's Howard?'

‘Missing in action,' said Kiki, and smiled at Warren warmly. ‘Probably in a bar with Erskine.'

‘God – I haven't seen Howard in
for ever
,' said Claire.

‘Working on the Rembrandt still, though?' persisted Warren. He was the son of a fireman, and Kiki liked this best about him,
although she knew all the other ideas she connected with this one were romantic notions on her part, not relevant to the real lived existence of a busy biochemist. He asked questions, he was interested and interesting, he rarely spoke of himself. He had a calm voice for the worst accidents and emergencies.

‘Uh-huh,' said Kiki, and nodded and smiled but found she could go no further than this without betraying more than she wanted to.

‘We saw
The Shipbuilder and His Wife
in London – the Queen lent it out to the National Gallery – nice of her, huh, right? It was fabulous . . . the working up of the paint,' said Claire urgently, and yet practically to herself, ‘the
physicality
of it, like he's digging
in
to the canvas to get what's really
in
those faces, in that marriage – that's the thing, I think. It's almost
anti
-portraiture: he doesn't want you to look at the faces; he wants you to look at the
souls
. The faces are just a way
in
. It's the purest kind of genius.'

A tricky silence followed this, not necessarily noticeable to Claire herself. She had a way of saying things that couldn't be answered. Kiki was still smiling, looking down at the rough, hardy skin of her own black toes. And if it were not for the bedside charm of my mother, thought Kiki dreamily, there would have been no inherited house; and if it were not for the house, there would have been no money to send me to New York – would I have met Howard, would I
know
people like this?

‘Except I think Howard's actually coming from a contrary position, darling – when he's discussed it, if you remember – he's weighing in against – would we say the culture myth of Rembrandt, his genius, etcetera?' said Warren doubtfully, with the scientist's reticence when using the language of artists.

‘Oh, of course that's right,' said Claire tightly – she seemed not to want to discuss the subject. ‘He doesn't like.'

‘No,' said Kiki, equally glad to pass on to other topics. ‘He doesn't like.'

‘What
does
Howard like?' asked Warren wryly.

‘Therein lies the mystery.'

Just then Murdoch began to yap furiously, and yank on the lead
that Warren held in his hand. The three of them tried both cooing and chastising, but Murdoch was moving purposefully towards a toddler who was waddling along with a stuffed frog, held high above his head like a standard. Murdoch cornered the boy between his mother's legs. The child wept. The woman knelt down by the child and hugged him to her, glaring at Murdoch and his handlers.

‘That's my husband's fault – sorry about that,' said Claire, without enough contrition to satisfy. ‘My husband's not used to dogs. It's not actually
his
dog.'

‘It's a
dachshund
, it's not going to kill anybody,' said Kiki crossly, as the woman marched off. Kiki crouched to pet Murdoch on his flat head. She looked up again to find Claire and Warren squabbling, using only their eyes, each trying to impel the other to speak. Claire lost.