scratch at my neck for a moment, saying nothing.
‘I mean you said she had an axe to grind…,’ Solomon continues musing. ‘When she approached you today she called you a whore –’
‘No,’ I interrupt, ‘she called me a pimp. Then she claimed that I was using Blaine to pimp for me…,’ I pause. ‘It was all a little confused, actually.’
‘Argh, pure semantics,’ he waves me away.
‘Although I suppose,’ I start off nervously, ‘I mean, I suppose she might’ve said it because…’
I clear my throat, ‘Because it was true.’
It takes Solomon a moment to catch up, but when he does, he starts, ‘What?! You got yourself cock rot, Massa?’
‘Leave off! I had an appointment. Amanda – three exes ago – got chlamydia. She said I needed to get a checkup. But I’m clear, thank you very much.’
Solomon’s still perplexed. ‘But how on earth did she know?’
As Solomon speaks, one of his three Dobermans stands up, stretches, sniffs the air, trots over to the bath, dips its head down and laps at my water.
‘The million dollar question,’ I say, trying to push the dog away with my toe. The dog lifts its head and growls at my foot.
Okay.
The foot rapidly retreats.
Solomon clicks his fingers and the dog, Jax (who completes the foul triumvirate with Bud and Ivor), trots mechanically back to his side again.
Man. How’d he do that?
‘You think she’s following you?’ he asks, glancing towards the window (Solomon’s had three girl stalkers in his time, one of whom subsequently had a successful career in children’s TV presenting. See? Even his freak-followers are interesting).
‘What else to think?’ I say.
‘You believe she actually had a migraine?’ he asks.
I pause for a second, mouth slightly ajar –
Uh-oh –
Head-fuck time…
‘She didn’t!’ Solomon jumps in, roaring with glee, slapping his thigh. ‘She just Ian McEwaned you, man, and you’re still none the wiser!’2
(He seems indecently delighted by this thought.)
But, fuck…
My mind is racing.
And the porter? Even the porter? Was he…?
Nah!
‘No,’ I say, ‘I really think she was sick. I honestly do. She seemed sick. She was sick. She smelled sick.’
I remember the smell. Like rotten milk mixed with cheap lager.
‘And so you get her home, and she’s sick, like you say. And then you leave the room, and she takes off her skirt…’
Yeah. Solomon’s recall seems disturbingly on point this evening.
‘Then the sister comes home, or the friend…’ he chortles.
I sit up, panicked.
‘What? You think they set me up? You think they’re planning to mess with me in some legitimately fucked-up, McEwan-like way?’
‘Blackmail,’ Solomon sniggers, ‘or worse.’
‘I gave her my phone number…’
Solomon throws up his hands, ecstatically. ‘But of course you did, Massa. Of course you did.’
I stare at him, in silence, while the genius McCoy Tyner hammers away discordantly on his crazy, plinky-plonk piano.
‘Karma.’ Solomon grins, taking a last, long draw on his spliff and then leaning forward and proffering it to me. ‘Pure, undiluted, genius karma.’
Wow. Thank God that album’s over.
No matter what your views happen to be on the subject (love him or loathe him etc), there’s still no escaping this one essential thing (no, I’m not evading the issue, because this is the issue, see?): it’s like a bloody 24-hour party down here. And everyone’s invited – the famous, the infamous, the rich, the poor, the pretty, the ugly, the lovers, the haters. Everybody’s invited. Seriously. And everybody’s equal; they simply wouldn’t dream of turning you away. Because they want you, no matter what, to be a part of the spectacle.
It’s an event. It’s a happening. It’s fluid – like an organism. It has integrity, it flows, it’s vital and screwed up, and ridiculous and ongoing…
It’s a pure, fucking blast (I mean let’s just shelve the moral whys and the wherefores for one moment, shall we?), because man, what a backdrop! Tower Bridge! The Pool of London! I know I keep harping on about it, but it really is astonishing – like a picture postcard suddenly come to life. Almost as though (and, yes, hyperbole is my middle name, but a person needs to get excited about this shit sometimes, don’t they?) something which was previously virtually entombed in its own history (and significance and tradition; conserved, mothballed, mummified) has suddenly been reinvested with this incredible immediacy.
The spectacle of Blaine (hanging there, quietly, on his workaday green crane) has made this bridge come alive again (and the water, even, damn him – although the water, in my opinion, was doing just fine on its own). Even the sunset. The fucking sunset. Even that.
This preposterous magician (Jesus Christ! How’d he do this trick?) has reanimated the vista.
Everybody’s feeling it. The lovers are loving it. The angry people are getting angrier (I mean he’s a foreigner, a fraud, an affront, a squatter, eh? How dare he take on this noble landmark – out of his depth? Out of his depth?! – and then casually twist it around him like it’s his own private ampitheatre?).
Fact is, it almost seems like the quieter he gets, the more vibrant his surroundings grow. His weakness (his ‘hunger’) kind of vivifies the whole area.
Yup.
So where’s this strange, new N-R-G coming from, exactly? Us? Him? Is it (God forgive me), could it possibly be: pure, undiluted, honest-to-goodness charisma?
Shhiiit!
Hat’s off to the geezer, I say. Because I didn’t think it could be done. No, seriously…I really didn’t (I mean what is this now? Day 10?).
How’d he do it (any clues out there?)?
Number 1 (in my opinion): Passivity. The dude just sits (this part comes from him). Number 2:
Raw emotion (and this is our contribution). Love and hatred. Empathy and bile. Fury and benevolence (a great, uncontrollable fucking wave of reaction), and all – so far as I can tell – in fairly equal measure. The stuff of life, no less. The stuff of art and cinema and fiction. The stuff of all great narrative – comedy, horror, farce, tragedy…
It’s the whole package (Blaine is merely the prompt, or the twist which makes the plot start moving).
And we’re bringing it along. We’re getting all Dickensian again, all Rabelaisian, all ‘how’s