Etiquette and Vitriol by Nicky Silver (classic fiction .txt) 📗

Where do you work?” . . . And his deep voice stoked mine, not with words, which I’d worry about later, but with sound and breath and music. . . . And he was gone. He worked in one of those Angus Steak Houses that are everywhere in London.

The next day, the next night—mind you I knew this was bad, I knew I was in the throes of something—the next night I didn’t go to work. Didn’t care. I was obviously better than selling cookies anyway. I went there! I went to his restaurant. I didn’t go in! I couldn’t! People kept passing me, looking at me. This was a busy street and people kept bumping into me and the fat morons eating dinner could see me! They could see me looking at them! FUCK THEM!! I was waiting for a friend! And I waited! And I waited! And I still couldn’t find him! And I was freezing cold, but I simply could not leave—DO YOU UNDERSTAND? WHERE WAS HE! Was he lying to me? Maybe he could tell I was insane and he lied to me to get away—just said the first thing that came into his head and he didn’t work in a restaurant and he could tell I was insane all along!

Then I saw him! He was there! He didn’t lie! HE WAS THERE! Same person, boy, child, man, woman, smudged eyes. Same person. He came out the front door. I wanted to run up to him! I wanted to. I couldn’t. I followed him. I walked behind, about fifteen feet. I didn’t know where I was going. The streets are old and curve in on themselves and I was lost. And it was cold and snowing now, and I was sneezing and shivering and suddenly very tired, BUT I KEPT GOING!! We were headed downtown, down to Fleet Street, the financial district. Very deserted. Very quiet. No cars. I thought I would faint, or die. I didn’t know what time it was. The street lights are far apart and even though the snow reflected in them, it was very dark. And I was sure I would die, lost in the financial district, alone in the snow. And so I ran ahead!! I ran ahead! I ran forward and called out “HEY!! HEY!!”

(Pause)

And he turned around. . . . He turned around and looked at me. And I knew, he knew who I was.

(Pause)

It was very quiet, and very still. There was nothing. The snow made our breath echo. There were no cars. We were in the snow, by a building they were building.

He asked what I was doing down there. I was out for a walk, enjoying the snow—can’t let him know. He said he lived nearby. . . . “Oh.” Hours passed between our words.

“I was wondering, I was curious, I was thinking. I was wondering would you like, would you care to, maybe sometime, some night after work, sometime when you’re free, would you like to have a drink, have a drink, join me for a drink?”

“What?”

And I explained that I didn’t mean anything, that I wasn’t gay, but I wasn’t bothered if he was, because, I said, hearing myself not hearing myself, I found him very attractive, which was absurd and really not the point.

(Remorseful, still) And he explained, that he lived with a man. And a woman. That they had an understanding. And that. He didn’t think it was a good idea. And that. Etc. Etc. . . . etc. His words just filled up the space and I said I had to go . . . because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And he turned around . . . AND I DID NOT PLAN IT!! THERE WAS NO PLAN!!—He turned around, and I picked up a brick, from the building they were building, and as he stepped away from me, I threw it. I threw it with all my might. I threw it at him. I think it hit his head, although he didn’t make a sound, when it hit him. Or when he fell, into the snow, which was quiet and white and very pretty. And I ran in the other direction and continued running, until I came to a tube station . . . where I stayed until morning.

(After a moment, more composed) I’m sure he was fine. I’m sure he didn’t die or anything. And no one ever came around to ask me about it: the police or anything. And I never saw anything about it. On the news or anything. So I’m sure he was fine.

(After a moment, completely composed) I met Vivian about two weeks later. When I had long forgotten about that night. And the person whose name I never did learn.

(He has a severe twinge in his stomach) I CAN WILL THIS PAIN IN MY STOMACH TO LEAVE ME! I CAN DO THIS! AND I CHOOSE TO!!

(He spins around abruptly and rips the burlap curtain down, revealing Claire’s bedroom. Claire is seated at her vanity. Amy is seated in the shadows, with a liquor bottle.)

SCENE 3

Immediately following Scene 2. The scene is as described. Claire is gaily finishing her makeup. Amy lurks in the shadows. Philip is where he was. As the scene begins, Claire maintains her Act I “style.” Philip is agitated, progressing naturally from the last scene.

PHILIP: Mother.

CLAIRE: Oh, Philip, I didn’t see you come in. I can’t talk right now. I have to fix myself. By the way, is that what you’re wearing? Not that I don’t like it. I do. It’s cunning. But, don’t you think, a little dreary? Black, black, black?

PHILIP: What difference does it make?

CLAIRE: It makes all the difference. We must always look our best. We are what we wear. Besides, we’re going to dinner, not a state funeral.

PHILIP: I’m not going.

CLAIRE (Modeling): Do you like these earrings? Or something simpler?

PHILIP: Listen to me!

CLAIRE: Oh, I’m sorry. What is it?

PHILIP: Vivian’s gone!

CLAIRE: