Read Online Love Doesn't Work by Henning Koch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Henning Koch
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a jumble of tiny, dark lanes under a yellow, oversized moon. Thousands of moths were bombarding the metal covers of the streetlights with a sickeningly insistent sound, like tiny fingers against drums.
The abandoned piazzas, the shuttered houses, all seemed to be under the spell of this infernal sound. I erupted in goose bumps, then forced myself to stand there and watch the moths. They traced concentric circles in the air, like a Paul Nash painting of dogfights over Kent.
I realized what it all reminded me of. Chimes. Buddhist gongs. Archie in a white toga on the terrace—the sexualization of enlightenment?
I stood on a corner, gazing up and muttering to myself until I noticed a man in a singlet smoking out of a window. He did not acknowledge me, but must have found me strange. I walked on, embarrassed.
Towards the top of the town I saw the white dome of Jimmy’s house, now Archie’s. It glowed under the moon. Her window was lit, or at least there was a lit window and I assumed it must be hers. This cheered me greatly, as I had not wanted to make my entrance as a sort of Walter de la Mare traveller beating on the door of an empty, preternatural house.
There was a bell but it seemed rude to use it at that late hour. Instead I picked up some pebbles and began to throw them at the window. After a couple of direct hits, a figure appeared on the edge of one of the terraces. Archie, with her hair unkempt, like Cassandra on the battlements.
“I told you, clear off! Scram! Got it?”
“Archie. It’s me! Chuck!”
“Chuck! What are you doing here?”
“I’m not quite sure at the moment. Can I come in?”
“Yes, of course. Why didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t have time,” I said somewhat illogically. “Can I come in please? I’m shattered.”
It took five minutes for her to come down. “Sorry,” she said. “Bloody stairs.” As she walked into the lit-up hall I realized something had changed about her. She looked tired and sad, in a slightly grotty dressing gown. Gone was the femme fatale, but then what woman can keep it up round the clock?
“How are you, Archie?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to see how you were.”
“Is that all? I hope Jimmy didn’t send you.”
“Where can I sleep?”
“Not with me.”
“Of course not.”
“What do you mean, of course not? We used to sleep together, didn’t we?”
“Yes, but only for a week. And that was a year ago.”
A weary expression crossed her face. “I’m actually quite glad you’re here. Do you know that?”
“Who did you think I was?”
“Oh some Australian berk who keeps pestering me.”
I didn’t ask her anything else for the time being. She led me into one of the guest rooms, then, after a bit of idle conversation, said good night.
The bed was gritty with breadcrumbs or sand or both, and the sheets had been drenched in sweat on a few occasions. They smelled of feet, but I was too tired to care. It felt absolutely right that I should be there. I lay there for a while, wiggling my toes under those unclean sheets with a real sense of achievement. As yet I didn’t know why.
All I could say with certainty was that I was here to do good.
XI
I was woken up at a quarter past seven by Archie standing at the foot of the bed.
“Do you want coffee?” she said.
My eyelids opened like lead coffin-lids. “Coffee?” Her question seemed absurd, as if she’d offered me some roast chicken.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting toast and jam, being a bit of an English chap. Oh but of course, how could I forget? You like a cooked breakfast. You’re a bacon man, aren’t you? With poached eggs and devilled kidneys?”
“Archie! What are you doing?”
She blinked. “Oh I don’t know. I’m bored. I couldn’t sleep.” She sat down on the bed with a sigh. “Everything is so difficult now.”
I looked round, taking in the cobwebs and dust everywhere. An abandoned, half-filled cup of tea in a corner had gone rank,
The abandoned piazzas, the shuttered houses, all seemed to be under the spell of this infernal sound. I erupted in goose bumps, then forced myself to stand there and watch the moths. They traced concentric circles in the air, like a Paul Nash painting of dogfights over Kent.
I realized what it all reminded me of. Chimes. Buddhist gongs. Archie in a white toga on the terrace—the sexualization of enlightenment?
I stood on a corner, gazing up and muttering to myself until I noticed a man in a singlet smoking out of a window. He did not acknowledge me, but must have found me strange. I walked on, embarrassed.
Towards the top of the town I saw the white dome of Jimmy’s house, now Archie’s. It glowed under the moon. Her window was lit, or at least there was a lit window and I assumed it must be hers. This cheered me greatly, as I had not wanted to make my entrance as a sort of Walter de la Mare traveller beating on the door of an empty, preternatural house.
There was a bell but it seemed rude to use it at that late hour. Instead I picked up some pebbles and began to throw them at the window. After a couple of direct hits, a figure appeared on the edge of one of the terraces. Archie, with her hair unkempt, like Cassandra on the battlements.
“I told you, clear off! Scram! Got it?”
“Archie. It’s me! Chuck!”
“Chuck! What are you doing here?”
“I’m not quite sure at the moment. Can I come in?”
“Yes, of course. Why didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t have time,” I said somewhat illogically. “Can I come in please? I’m shattered.”
It took five minutes for her to come down. “Sorry,” she said. “Bloody stairs.” As she walked into the lit-up hall I realized something had changed about her. She looked tired and sad, in a slightly grotty dressing gown. Gone was the femme fatale, but then what woman can keep it up round the clock?
“How are you, Archie?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to see how you were.”
“Is that all? I hope Jimmy didn’t send you.”
“Where can I sleep?”
“Not with me.”
“Of course not.”
“What do you mean, of course not? We used to sleep together, didn’t we?”
“Yes, but only for a week. And that was a year ago.”
A weary expression crossed her face. “I’m actually quite glad you’re here. Do you know that?”
“Who did you think I was?”
“Oh some Australian berk who keeps pestering me.”
I didn’t ask her anything else for the time being. She led me into one of the guest rooms, then, after a bit of idle conversation, said good night.
The bed was gritty with breadcrumbs or sand or both, and the sheets had been drenched in sweat on a few occasions. They smelled of feet, but I was too tired to care. It felt absolutely right that I should be there. I lay there for a while, wiggling my toes under those unclean sheets with a real sense of achievement. As yet I didn’t know why.
All I could say with certainty was that I was here to do good.
XI
I was woken up at a quarter past seven by Archie standing at the foot of the bed.
“Do you want coffee?” she said.
My eyelids opened like lead coffin-lids. “Coffee?” Her question seemed absurd, as if she’d offered me some roast chicken.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting toast and jam, being a bit of an English chap. Oh but of course, how could I forget? You like a cooked breakfast. You’re a bacon man, aren’t you? With poached eggs and devilled kidneys?”
“Archie! What are you doing?”
She blinked. “Oh I don’t know. I’m bored. I couldn’t sleep.” She sat down on the bed with a sigh. “Everything is so difficult now.”
I looked round, taking in the cobwebs and dust everywhere. An abandoned, half-filled cup of tea in a corner had gone rank,
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