Robert replayed the conversation he had with the boy. How many Jasons did Robert know? And why, if he could call it that, the ‘gift’? Did the boy treat the whole affair as an experiment? Testing for reactions, getting a cheap kick out of people’s surprise because he himself, like his friends, were jaded to the point of having lost all the capacity to be surprised any more? Or did he take pity on Robert, ill-dressed, dispossessed, hands in pockets as if nursing sparrow eggs like a child who had found them on a field trip? The easiest way to look at it was as a form of barter trade, the cap for the sofa, a peace offering so to speak, but why a cap? It was as if they knew that without that sofa spot, the way for Robert to go was outside, and hence he would need something to protect him from the caprice of a night drizzle or maybe falling leaves. Suddenly Robert felt that the landscape had turned to autumn, despite having experienced the season only once, with his ex-wife (the word ‘ex’ had such a biting sound to Robert, he could imagine telling people that “That woman was my axe.”) in Wisconsin. They had gone there to visit her aunt. The trees had held up their thinning crowns like fires in suspended motion. At the door to her aunt’s apartment, the woman had remarked, “So this is your dashing husband?” It was something he usually thought about when he adjusted his hair in the mirror. But then again, he also believed that the aunt was simply being nice in her American way, that hospitality that just fell short of hypocrisy.
He had used the word ‘disco’ with the boy. “Do you go to the disco often?” How long ago did he last hear that word? He thought suddenly of his mother who used to nag at him and say things like, “Children nowadays, boy and girl hold hands, touch here touch there, everyone also see. You, like that or not Robert? Ha? Go out, come home late, drink beer, gamble, go disco.” It wasn’t a disco that he had walked out from,
Robert reminded himself, it was a club. He had just gone clubbing. Disco was John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, disco was flared pants and glitter make-up and sadness. You did not wear caps to discos. In discos, your hands were free. Why did he use that word? Robert felt as if his tongue was a fossil that he could not spit out of his mouth. In the deathly silence of his car, deathly only because the radio was off and this destroyed the illusion of being connected not only to a deejay but thousands of others listening to the same wavelength, Robert called home. Robert reminded himself that if it was going to be the husband who picked up the phone, he would have to put it down immediately. Not from jealousy, he knew he was not capable of that, but shame. His wife’s (ex-wife, he kept reminding himself ) new man would be one of the people who would certainly know. Robert could imagine the man putting down the phone if they were to have a short exchange to ask his wife (‘his’ here not referring to Robert), “His voice was so soft! Almost like a woman! How could you have married someone like that? Wow, did he have some operation down there or something, that’s a really high voice.” Robert wondered if his ex-wife (finally getting used to the term) would actually defend him in such a situation, or whether she would give her new husband a smile, that tired and defeated smile of a victim to her saviour, the grateful light of love in the dark-ringed eyes.
The telephone rang about 15 times before Robert realised that the time was two a.m. What was he doing, calling people up at that hour? Just as he was about to cut the call he heard a click and a woman’s voice on the other line.
“Hello?” the voice went.
“Wendy?” Robert asked.
“Sorry.”
“Wendy, is that you?”
“Sorry, ma’am sleeping.”
It was the maid. But Robert still held on to the phone and changed the tone in his voice, softer.
“Are you the maid?”
“Yes.”
“Are they all sleeping?”
“Yes, all sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping,” Robert told the woman. “I’m still awake, I can’t sleep. Can I talk to you?”
“This is who?”
“My name is Robert.”
Robert realised that it was the second time he told someone his name in one night. He felt exhausted.
“Robert.”
“Yes. I used to live in the house. Has anyone ever said my name in the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you still up?”
“Iron clothes.”
“So late at night?”
“Yes.”
“You like working there?”
“Yes.”
“They treat you well? Good?”
“Yes.”
“She’s fussy with cooking right? Did she teach you to cook?”
“Spaghetti.”
“Oh, yes, she liked to make that. She made her own sauce. Right? She didn’t use the ones from bottles. Hey, do you want to come down to my place one day and cook for me? Some spaghetti? How about that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what do you know? Why am I
