94
Drum: FICTION
He would give it to his wife on his return. She
would ask how much it cost and where he’d got the
money from. The Italian lady in Prada didn’t ask any
awkward questions when he handed over his AmEx.
He thanked her for dealing so efficiently with his
purchases. She told him that he was welcome.
He walked west onto Fifth Avenue and found
himself smiling at the trees growing out of Trump
Tower. At the entrance to Central Park, his head
began to throb again and he wondered whether he
mightn’t be hungry. He bought a crepe and ate it
disconsolately on a bench. Beside him, a woman
sketched the horses badly. Peter was five minutes’
walk away. Had it been a Sunday he could have
spent the two remaining hours reading the Times
surrounded by everyone else reading the Times. The
woman held the sketch at arms length then brought
it slowly back to her lap.
“I know there’s something wrong”, she said “ but I
don’t know what it is”
James glanced over. “Perspective,” observed James,
“the buildings in the background are the same size
as the horses and they’re only a matter of yards
away”
She nodded and laughed. James laughed. She was
taking some sort of Art course but it wasn’t going
so good on account of she couldn’t draw. But she
loved it anyway: meeting new people, getting to visit
tons of galleries, not talking about work the whole
time. Talking of which, she wanted to get to the
Frick before it closed. You live somewhere your
whole life and you’re so busy you never get to take
time out to see what’s right in front of you.
James massaged his temple. He hoped that Peter
was OK. Mark – the other partner in their erstwhile
venture – had instructed James to give Peter a good
kicking from him. James didn’t want to give Peter a
good kicking. Everything that had happened had
already happened. And before what had happened
there had been the accident. Between the accident
and Peter’s disappearance, there had been Peter’s
wife’s retreat first into wordless horror and then
home to her mum. Establishing the chronology hurt
James’ head but he thought that Patsy’s retreat was
followed by Peter’s first trip to New York where he
knew no one and knew nothing but the grid of
streets and avenues. They had all been relieved
when he embarked on his trips; it was a sign that he
was looking outwards and putting the past where it
belonged. Each of Peter’s friends had tried to
convince the other that though you couldn’t replace
the girls, you couldn’t bring them back either. You
had to move on. They were glad when everything
Peter did or said could be viewed through this prism.
A guy in a silver tutu, silver head dress and sandals
walked purposefully towards the horses and offered
one an apple. An elderly lady with the gossamer
skin of someone close to death creaked past and
greeted a lipless gentleman in grey worsted. My dear,
he seemed to say. A middle aged woman in a T- shirt
emblazoned with something worthy strode ahead of
a small group of cameras, pointing and telling the
camera-bearers what to see. The land, she pronounced,
was purchased in 1856. One eight five six.
Do you have a reservation? the man asked. He had
a reservation. His room would be overlooking the
interior park. James had glimpsed the park and was
glad that his room would be overlooking it. He asked
if it mightn’t be possible to let Mr Jamieson know
that he had arrived; he realised that he was early and
would be glad to wait in the park. James retreated to
the park, selected a chaise longue and ordered a
vodka martini. He thanked the waitress. She told
him that he was welcome. He rehearsed telling Peter
how he understood why he always came back here.
How he understood why being alone enabled you to
see and hear more acutely and how anonymity
placed you at the centre of things.
At the appointed hour, the guy from check in
approached J ames. Mr Jamieson, he informed him,
had checked out yesterday. Was there anything else
he could help him with?