Read Online Midnight All Day by Hanif Kureishi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hanif Kureishi
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perplexity. Wouldn’t that be more accurate?’
He tried to look at her evenly. She had never come at him like this. She had been confused and tolerant and afraid of losing him. They had parted suddenly, abruptly. But for over a year they had spoken on the phone several times a day, and seen one another in the most excessive situations. He had often wondered why they had not been able to continue; he had even considered seeing her again, if she wanted to. They had got along.
If Natasha was clumsy and felt that her elbows protruded; if she walked with her feet turned out, despite having tried to correct this during her childhood, she brought this to his attention. If she was quick and well read, whatever she knew was inadequate. There was always a spot, blemish, new line, sagging eyelid or patch of dry skin on her cheek which it was impossible for her not to draw attention to. She lacked confidence, to say the least, but had attacks of impassioned self-belief, gaiety and determination which she later condemned. After laughing loudly she clapped her hand over her open mouth. But she wouldn’t be suppressed; when she had a fearor phobia, she made a note of it, and fought. Perhaps when she was in her fifties she would reach a cooler equilibrium.
As he looked, her outline seemed to blur. It wasn’t only that past and present were merging to form a new picture of her, it was that a third person was sitting with them. This had happened before. Natasha had seemed to place between them another woman, a fiction, who resembled Natasha but was her denial and her Platonic ideal. This Natasha, the pop star, was cool, certain, smart. Photographed in a different light, in better clothes, good at ballet, cooking and conversation, this figure dragged Natasha along to better things, while undermining and mocking her. They had both fallen in love with this desirable prevailing woman who haunted them as a living presence, but would never let them possess her. Compared with her, Natasha could only fail. They had had to find others – strangers – to witness and worship the ideal Natasha; and, when the illusion failed, like a cinema projector breaking down, they had to get rid of them.
‘You wrote a bit‚’ he said. ‘You know how diverse and complex the sources of inspiration are.’
‘I still write‚’ she said. ‘Despite your laughing at me.’
‘It was justice you were interested in, and how to live. Literature makes no recommendations. It’s not a guidebook but you did learn that the imagination lifts something up and takes it somewhere else, altering it as it flies. The original idea is only an excuse.’
She pretended to choke. ‘The magic carpet of your imaginationdidn’t fly you very far, baby. Why did you take parts of me and put them in a book? Nick, you were savage about me. I’ve asked people about this.’
‘They agree with you?’ She nodded. He said, ‘What are you doing these days?’
‘I finished my training. Now I work as a therapist. I have credit card debts up to here. They took the car. Once you start sinking you really go fast. You couldn’t –’ She shook her head. ‘No, no. I’m not going to degrade myself.’
‘Not more than you usually like to‚’ he said.
‘No. That’s right. Hey. Look.’
She threw her cigarette down and pushed up her sleeve. Drawing a breath, she pushed. There was an appreciable swelling. ‘I’ve been going to the gym.’
He wondered if she required him to squeeze the muscle. ‘Popeye’s been eating her spinach‚’ he said.
‘It makes me feel good‚’ she said.
‘That’s all that matters.’
‘I’ve got into young men.’
‘Good.’
He noticed that her ears were pierced in several places. Perhaps she had violated herself all over. It would be like going to bed with a cactus. He wouldn’t mention it. The less he said, the sooner it would be over. He saw he was only there to listen. However, something came to him.
‘My mind hasn’t
He tried to look at her evenly. She had never come at him like this. She had been confused and tolerant and afraid of losing him. They had parted suddenly, abruptly. But for over a year they had spoken on the phone several times a day, and seen one another in the most excessive situations. He had often wondered why they had not been able to continue; he had even considered seeing her again, if she wanted to. They had got along.
If Natasha was clumsy and felt that her elbows protruded; if she walked with her feet turned out, despite having tried to correct this during her childhood, she brought this to his attention. If she was quick and well read, whatever she knew was inadequate. There was always a spot, blemish, new line, sagging eyelid or patch of dry skin on her cheek which it was impossible for her not to draw attention to. She lacked confidence, to say the least, but had attacks of impassioned self-belief, gaiety and determination which she later condemned. After laughing loudly she clapped her hand over her open mouth. But she wouldn’t be suppressed; when she had a fearor phobia, she made a note of it, and fought. Perhaps when she was in her fifties she would reach a cooler equilibrium.
As he looked, her outline seemed to blur. It wasn’t only that past and present were merging to form a new picture of her, it was that a third person was sitting with them. This had happened before. Natasha had seemed to place between them another woman, a fiction, who resembled Natasha but was her denial and her Platonic ideal. This Natasha, the pop star, was cool, certain, smart. Photographed in a different light, in better clothes, good at ballet, cooking and conversation, this figure dragged Natasha along to better things, while undermining and mocking her. They had both fallen in love with this desirable prevailing woman who haunted them as a living presence, but would never let them possess her. Compared with her, Natasha could only fail. They had had to find others – strangers – to witness and worship the ideal Natasha; and, when the illusion failed, like a cinema projector breaking down, they had to get rid of them.
‘You wrote a bit‚’ he said. ‘You know how diverse and complex the sources of inspiration are.’
‘I still write‚’ she said. ‘Despite your laughing at me.’
‘It was justice you were interested in, and how to live. Literature makes no recommendations. It’s not a guidebook but you did learn that the imagination lifts something up and takes it somewhere else, altering it as it flies. The original idea is only an excuse.’
She pretended to choke. ‘The magic carpet of your imaginationdidn’t fly you very far, baby. Why did you take parts of me and put them in a book? Nick, you were savage about me. I’ve asked people about this.’
‘They agree with you?’ She nodded. He said, ‘What are you doing these days?’
‘I finished my training. Now I work as a therapist. I have credit card debts up to here. They took the car. Once you start sinking you really go fast. You couldn’t –’ She shook her head. ‘No, no. I’m not going to degrade myself.’
‘Not more than you usually like to‚’ he said.
‘No. That’s right. Hey. Look.’
She threw her cigarette down and pushed up her sleeve. Drawing a breath, she pushed. There was an appreciable swelling. ‘I’ve been going to the gym.’
He wondered if she required him to squeeze the muscle. ‘Popeye’s been eating her spinach‚’ he said.
‘It makes me feel good‚’ she said.
‘That’s all that matters.’
‘I’ve got into young men.’
‘Good.’
He noticed that her ears were pierced in several places. Perhaps she had violated herself all over. It would be like going to bed with a cactus. He wouldn’t mention it. The less he said, the sooner it would be over. He saw he was only there to listen. However, something came to him.
‘My mind hasn’t
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