anything I want to buy, anything I want to give Alice. Is there anything here she would like me to give her? I don’t know. All I know is, for Alice, objects are never just objects. She takes things in terms of their aura, their affect, their invisible, unguessable halo. In the end it doesn’t matter whether I give her a diamond ring or a lump of coal; it’ll still be all: How did you feel when you bought this? And: But what does it mean?
Then I have a brilliant idea. I stumble to the nearest stall and buy the first thing I see – a piece of wood about the size of a matchbox, carved into the shape of an elephant. I ask the trader what price he wants and I pay it – I don’t haggle. The trader doesn’t seem to be offended. He just takes my money, folds my purchase into a brown paper bag ands hands it to me. And I stumble on my way, well satisfied.
Obviously the elephant isn’t a present for Alice. It’s a present for Daniel, her brother. And it doesn’t matter what I give Daniel, because he’s seventeen and male and whatever I give him he’ll examine disdainfully before chucking it into a corner of his room and saying, ‘Cheers,’ then making some commentabout my hair loss. So no, it doesn’t matter what I give Daniel. Because the present for Daniel is really a present for Alice.
I’m still feeling fairly pleased with myself – thinking what a bizarre thing it is anyway, buying presents: you buy an object from one person, with money, then you give it to another person, for nothing – when a kid I’ve never seen before comes padding along next to me with the hot murmur, ‘Hash, hash, hash…’ When this happened yesterday, I freaked out somewhat. Today I smile, straighten my back, declare calmly and loudly, ‘No thank you,’ and stride away from the kid with blithe insouciance.
I feel so great about this that on my way back to the hotel I stop at a roadside cabin and buy a packet of cigarettes. Nodding to the doorman, who appears not to notice me but goes on talking with the group of men who stand round him at all times, more hotel employees or not, who can tell, I sit on the steps and smoke a celebratory cigarette. Arriving on the roof terrace for lunch, after nine flights of stairs, I smoke another one.
A little after twelve I take a cup of coffee and a plate of dal and rice down to Ess’s room. My cautious knock is met with his smart: ‘Come!’
Inside Ess is a different man. He’s sitting up in bed, smiling broadly in his reading glasses, a book in his lap. When he sees the cup and the plate, he puts his book aside and rubs his hands together.
‘Fabulous! Just what the doctor ordered. Do you think you could possibly open the curtains? I’ve been delaying the inevitable, but I think my poor peepers may finally be back up to snuff… Ah! That wasn’t so bad. And could you fetch my briefcase? It’s there. Yes, there. And my laptop, possibly? Just next to it. Yes, there.’
All at once feeling sick, I fetch his briefcase and laptop and place them next to him on the duvet while he gulps his coffee and stirs up his dal and rice. I stand there feeling sick.
‘Going to do some work, are you?’ I ask.
‘I may have a wee potter. I’m sure I’m past the worst of it, the exhaustion, the jetlag, but best to play safe. I want to be in tip-top condition for Asha when she joins us.’
‘That’s if she’s not delayed again.’
‘Banish the thought from your mind.’ He snorts. ‘No, I’ll just have another couple of hours in bed. Take it a bit easy, have a poke about, see what’s new.’
‘Oh yeah? Anything in particular?’
‘Not really. Just check in, see what’s afoot in the world.’ With a fingernail he taps the edge of his laptop. He smiles broadly. ‘Is that all right with you?’
‘Hey? Oh, sure. That’s fine. That’s fine with me.’
‘He’ll look.’
‘He won’t look.’
This was Martin Cantor, a week ago, in the Playpen.
‘He may be mad,’ I said, ‘but
Then I have a brilliant idea. I stumble to the nearest stall and buy the first thing I see – a piece of wood about the size of a matchbox, carved into the shape of an elephant. I ask the trader what price he wants and I pay it – I don’t haggle. The trader doesn’t seem to be offended. He just takes my money, folds my purchase into a brown paper bag ands hands it to me. And I stumble on my way, well satisfied.
Obviously the elephant isn’t a present for Alice. It’s a present for Daniel, her brother. And it doesn’t matter what I give Daniel, because he’s seventeen and male and whatever I give him he’ll examine disdainfully before chucking it into a corner of his room and saying, ‘Cheers,’ then making some commentabout my hair loss. So no, it doesn’t matter what I give Daniel. Because the present for Daniel is really a present for Alice.
I’m still feeling fairly pleased with myself – thinking what a bizarre thing it is anyway, buying presents: you buy an object from one person, with money, then you give it to another person, for nothing – when a kid I’ve never seen before comes padding along next to me with the hot murmur, ‘Hash, hash, hash…’ When this happened yesterday, I freaked out somewhat. Today I smile, straighten my back, declare calmly and loudly, ‘No thank you,’ and stride away from the kid with blithe insouciance.
I feel so great about this that on my way back to the hotel I stop at a roadside cabin and buy a packet of cigarettes. Nodding to the doorman, who appears not to notice me but goes on talking with the group of men who stand round him at all times, more hotel employees or not, who can tell, I sit on the steps and smoke a celebratory cigarette. Arriving on the roof terrace for lunch, after nine flights of stairs, I smoke another one.
A little after twelve I take a cup of coffee and a plate of dal and rice down to Ess’s room. My cautious knock is met with his smart: ‘Come!’
Inside Ess is a different man. He’s sitting up in bed, smiling broadly in his reading glasses, a book in his lap. When he sees the cup and the plate, he puts his book aside and rubs his hands together.
‘Fabulous! Just what the doctor ordered. Do you think you could possibly open the curtains? I’ve been delaying the inevitable, but I think my poor peepers may finally be back up to snuff… Ah! That wasn’t so bad. And could you fetch my briefcase? It’s there. Yes, there. And my laptop, possibly? Just next to it. Yes, there.’
All at once feeling sick, I fetch his briefcase and laptop and place them next to him on the duvet while he gulps his coffee and stirs up his dal and rice. I stand there feeling sick.
‘Going to do some work, are you?’ I ask.
‘I may have a wee potter. I’m sure I’m past the worst of it, the exhaustion, the jetlag, but best to play safe. I want to be in tip-top condition for Asha when she joins us.’
‘That’s if she’s not delayed again.’
‘Banish the thought from your mind.’ He snorts. ‘No, I’ll just have another couple of hours in bed. Take it a bit easy, have a poke about, see what’s new.’
‘Oh yeah? Anything in particular?’
‘Not really. Just check in, see what’s afoot in the world.’ With a fingernail he taps the edge of his laptop. He smiles broadly. ‘Is that all right with you?’
‘Hey? Oh, sure. That’s fine. That’s fine with me.’
‘He’ll look.’
‘He won’t look.’
This was Martin Cantor, a week ago, in the Playpen.
‘He may be mad,’ I said, ‘but
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