Read Online The Autograph Man by Zadie Smith - Free Book Online Page B

I’m talking about a
proper
doctor, not some Chinatown con artist.
Alex
”—sighed Adam—“you let me down. That evening was meant to be . . . a religious experiment. You turned it into the Tandem road show. Not everything in the world has to turn into the Tandem road show. You are not the world. There are other people in this film we call life. Alex? Alex?”
    “I’m here. Listening.”
    “You scared me, mate. Joseph said when he went round to yours later you were behaving really weirdly, practically speaking in tongues. Hmm? Alex?”
    Alex maintained what he hoped was a dignified silence. He had read about them in novels; this was his first attempt.
    “Hello?
Hello?
Do you want to talk about the car?”
    Alex’s stomach turned over; he began to moan. Adam had paid for half of that car.
    “
Ug.
Not really.”
    “Good. Me neither.”
    “Uu-uug.
Uuug.
”
    Adam whistled. “Oh, Alex, I know, I know. Don’t worry, because I still love you. Though I’m alone in that, mate, at the moment. Fan club of one. Come round to the shop later. Promise, yes? You need to get out of the house at this point, I think. Promise? On your note?”
    Alex grunted. He resented these promises. Their unbreakability was restrictive. As a rule among them all, his father’s notes were to be invoked only with great caution. You had to earn your right to speak of them. Joseph very rarely mentioned them. Rubinfine knew not to refer to them at all.
    “Good. We’re open all day. Esther won’t be in. Which is probably for the best in the current climate. We need to talk seriously about something. You know what date it is today, right?”
    The phone went dead. Alex heaved his bag onto his shoulder and touched, in order, the things he always touched before leaving his bedroom: a small chipped Buddha on his desk, a signed Muhammad Ali poster, and an old pound note, Blu-Tacked to the top of the door frame.
    2.
    Reaching the kitchen, he clicked his heels together and bowed to Grace, who was standing on the sideboard, actually standing, on two legs, either stretching or making some last-ditch attempt to evolve. Alex put the kettle on to the boil and got a flask from the cupboard. He untied a little plastic bag of bitter-smelling herbs and Grace retreated, backing herself into a cupboard. Alex emptied the herbs into the flask. He added hot water. It was called Chia i, the Tea of Spring, supposedly, but black as all hell. Smelt bad. Looked bad. Oh, and, hello, tasted bloody awful, too. But it was for
widening and dispersing
heaviness in the lungs, according to his Dr. Huang of Soho. Alex’s lungs felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. He screwed on the cap and put the flask in the pocket of his bag.
    Opening the door of his living room, he now remembered quite clearly that under the prolonged influence of a hallucinogen he had swerved his car into a bus stop while his girlfriend, Esther, sat in the passenger seat. There were no words for how sorry he was about this. Nor was there anyone to tell. He was not a Catholic. He lived alone. Not for the first time he had the feeling that he lacked sufficient outlets. Instead of his life being shaped like a funnel, through which things passed and maybe refined themselves, it was more like—what do you call those things? Stress balls? Made all out of elastic bands and each day you add another elastic band? Tighter. Bigger. More involved. That’s how it was for him. And that’s how he imagined the life of a Catholic, anyway. As a sort of funnel. Poor Esther.
    He crossed the floor and knelt down before the television. He retrieved
The Girl from Peking
from the video recorder. He put it into its case and felt a soothing pulse of happiness. Prompted by beauty. On the cover were the two beautiful faces of his favorite actress, the musical star Kitty Alexander. In the picture on the right, she was dressed as a Peking girl, her eyes Sellotaped into an approximation of his own epicanthic fold, wearing her coolie hat