“Hell, yeah. Why, you don’t think she does?”
I don’t want to give Fortner the impression that I’ve given too much time to thinking about his wife.
“I dunno. But it’s interesting. Kate seemed so perfect to me that by the end I just worshiped her. That had a lot to do with the fact that she was so kind. It didn’t seem proper, or possible, that someone could be as good and as pure as she was. I was in awe of her beauty. It got to such a point that I felt I could no longer touch her. She actually made me feel unworthy of her. Perverted, even. She was too good for me.”
“But you still see her?” he asks quickly, aware of an emerging contradiction. I’d forgotten that I’d lied about that.
“Yeah. But it’s just sex now. Sex and the occasional chat. Nostalgia.”
“If you could take her back, would you?” he asks. “Go back to having a full relationship, living together and all that?”
“Straightaway.”
“Why?”
It feels so good to be telling him even a semblance of truth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly took out a notebook and began taking shorthand.
“This is what I truly believe,” I tell him, and this will be my last word on the subject. “I believe that people spend years looking for the right person to be with. They try on different personalities, different bodies, different neuroses, until they find one that fits. I just happened to find the right girl when I was nineteen years old.”
“That the only time you cheated on her, in Costa Rica?”
“Yes.”
No one knows about Anna. Only Kate and Saul, and the people at CEBDO.
“Truth?”
“Course it’s the truth. Why? Do you ever contemplate screwing around on Katharine?”
“Do I ever contemplate it?” Fortner appears to examine the word for its various meanings, like a lawyer checking small print. Then he says, “No,” with tremendous firmness.
“But you think about it?”
“Oh, sure, I think about it. Does Rose Kennedy have a black dress? Sure, I think about it. I’d been messin’ around for years before I met Kathy, and it’s been hard givin’ all that up. But you know what I finally realized?”
“No. What?”
“I realized that there’s a lot of attractive women out there, but you can’t fuck ’em all. It just ain’t possible. The problem with screwing around is you get yourself a taste for it. You fuck one woman, you start developing this lucky feelin’, start thinking you can fuck the next one that comes along, and the next one after that. What you have to learn is how to prefer looking at women instead of touching them. You see what I’m saying? It’s like giving up cigarettes. You might love to have a smoke, the smell of the tobacco on the air, but you know it’ll kill you if you do. You can never let that filter touch your lips again. Same with women. You gotta let ’em go.”
He takes another slug of scotch, as if anticipating applause, and lets the alcohol sloosh and sting around his mouth.
“It’s like gettin’ older.” Fortner’s hand ducks down below the table and he gives his balls a good, ill-disguised scratching. “When you’re a young kid, you think you can change the world, right? You see a problem and you can articulate it to your college friends and suddenly the world’s a much better fuckin’ place to live. But then you start gettin’ older, and you get yourself a whole new bunch of experiences. You’re aware of a lot more points of view. So now it’s not so easy sounding convinced about what you’re thinkin’ about, ’cos you know too many of the angles. You followin’ me?”
I have been distracted by the gradual exodus of people in the pub, the clatter and wipe of closing. But I know I can drift out of the conversation and still come back in to follow Fortner’s train of thought.
“Oh, yeah,” I tell him. “That makes a lot of sense.”
“Jeez, I’m hammered,” he says suddenly, wiping his brow with his forearm. He had noticed that my attention was wandering. “We oughta be going, I guess. Hope my jacket’s still here.”
“It should be,” I tell him.
Both of us finish our drinks and stand up. I take my pack of cigarettes off the table and check that the lighter is still in my trousers. As we head for the exit, Fortner pulls his jacket off the hook by the bar-it’s the last one there-and flips it over his shoulder. He barks a friendly farewell to the Kiwi, who is busy emptying ashtrays into a blue plastic bucket. The barman looks up at us and says, “Night, guys, see y’again,” and then goes back to work.
Out on the street, a few paces up the road, Fortner turns to me.
“Well, young man,” he says, slapping me on the back. “It’s been a pleasure as always. Stay in touch. I’m gonna go home, wake up Kathy, take a fistful of aspirin, and try to get some sleep. You gonna be okay gettin’ back to your apartment? You wanna come up for a beer, a coffee or somethin’?”
“No. I’d better be off. Got work tomorrow.”
“Sure. Okay, I’ll see ya. Gimme a call in the next few days.”
“Will do.”
And he ambles up the street, a lost, faintly disheveled figure gradually moving out of focus. I have this sense that the evening has ended oddly, too quickly, but it’s a barely registered concern.
I head up the hill as far as Holland Park Avenue, but there isn’t a taxi in sight. Passing the underground station, my mobile phone goes off and I take it out of my jacket.
“Alec?”
“Yes.”
It’s Cohen.
“Harry. Hi. How are you?”
“I’m at the office.”
I look at my watch.
“But it’s past eleven.”
“Do you think I’m not aware of that?”
“No, I simply-”
He interrupts me, his voice bullish and proud.
“Look. When did you speak to Raymond Mackenzie?”
“Off the top of my head I can’t remember. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Given that he’s leaving for Turkmenistan in seven hours, no it can’t.”
“I think I spoke to him yesterday. In the afternoon. I had everything he needs faxed over to him. He’s not going there with his trousers down.”
The connection falters here, dead noise and then broken words.
“Harry, I can’t hear you.”
Cohen is raising his voice, but it’s impossible to make out what he is saying.
“I can’t hear you. Harry? My battery’s dead. Listen, I’ll call you from a landline-”
He is cut off.
There is a phone booth nearby, decorated with a patchwork quilt of whore cards. A man is standing inside, a worn-out husband wearing a raincoat and training shoes. I look straight at him and our eyes briefly meet, but with no regard for this he just rocks back on his heels and has a good look at what’s on offer. He pans left and right, studying the cards, taking his time. Traffic sweeps by and suddenly I feel cold.
After a minute or so he makes up his mind, scribbling a number on a pad that rests on the thin metal shelf to the right of the phone. Then he drops a ten-pence piece into the slot.
I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want to be waiting to make a phone call to Cohen at half past eleven at night. I tap on the glass, fast with the hard edge of my knuckle, but the man just ignores me, turning his back.
A cab drives past and I flag it down, riding back to Uxbridge Road. But when I try Cohen’s number from home, there is no reply. Just the smug disdain of his voice mail and a low-pitched beep.
I hang up.
