Aftermath Read online

  “Who’s a lovely dog then, hm, who’s a lovely dog?” I coo, nuzzling his warm coat, stay like that for a moment, then straighten up again. Rex raises his head sharply and eyes me expectantly, he thinks he can come out now, I know. “No, no, you have to stay here,” I say, stand there smiling and looking at him for a second or two, then turn and leave the bedroom.

  “Susanne,” I hear someone say behind me. I turn around and see Tone over by the kitchen door with Antony and the tall Cuban guy from the Latin American Group. I wander over to them. “Aren’t we going into town?” Tone asks. She smiles at me and I smile back, I’m not really in the party mood and it would suit me fine if people gradually took themselves off, but I can’t bring myself to say so, not when it’s Tone who’s asking at any rate, it’s like there’s some part of me that wants to humor her. I tend to feel like that when I’m with people as fabulous looking as her. I don’t want to be this way, it reminds me a bit of when I was a little girl, doing all I could to please the most popular girl in the class, even though I knew she wouldn’t like me any better for it.

  “Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, though, don’t you think?” I ask. Everyone is obviously enjoying themselves, but I ask anyway, part of me wants Tone to agree and say what a great party it is and how much everyone is enjoying themselves.

  “Oh, absolutely. We’re having a great time. Aren’t we?” she says, tucking her long blond hair behind one ear and turning to Antony and the Cuban guy, but they don’t catch it, they’re too busy inspecting Antony’s wristwatch.

  “Of course it’s genuine,” Antony cries, eyes wide, as if he’s never heard the like.

  “No fucking way is that a genuine Rolex,” the Cuban says laughing. “You picked that up for a few cedi on the street back home in Ghana.”

  Antony manages to look indignant for a few seconds longer, then he gives up and laughs as well.

  “Yeah, okay,” he says. “But nobody can tell.”

  “I could tell,” the Cuban guy says.

  “Yeah, but—aw … Christ, what a fucking nitpicker,” Antony mutters to Tone, shaking his head and making his dreadlocks sway gently back and forth, then he laughs again. And the Cuban guy laughs too, clearly happy to be called a nitpicker.

  “Cheers, here’s to a great party,” Tone says, raising a bottle of Sol.

  “Cheers,” say Antony and the Cuban guy.

  “I’m just going to mix myself a drink,” I say with a smile and stroll off into the kitchen. The two women from International Socialists are sitting at the table, eating empanadas off red paper plates and listening to Nina going on about African dance, it sounds like she’s trying to recruit them. I find it hard not to laugh, these two are the last people I could ever imagine shaking their butts to African drums, they seem so touchy and uptight, I can’t see them being able to let themselves go in any way, not when sober at any rate. But Nina is like most converts, she’s never done a day’s exercise in her life, as far as I know, but now she’s taken up African dance and she’s on at everybody and their grandmother to try it too. I cross to the kitchen counter, make myself a gin and tonic, and go back to Tone, Antony, and the Cuban guy, flash them a smile as I take a sip. Then I realize that that damned earring is about to fall out again, there must be something wrong with the catch. I set my glass down on the bureau, put my head on one side, and take out the earring to check it, but I drop it and it lands on the floor. I turn away and bend down to pick it up, but it’s so small I can’t get hold of it, it slips between my finger and thumb, once, then again.

  “Mmm, I like that position,” I hear Antony say.

  At first I don’t understand what he’s talking about, but then it dawns on me that I’m bent over with my backside in the air, wiggling it about just in front of his crotch. I turn my head and look up at him without straightening up, he makes some little thrusting movements with his hips and grins, his eyes flicking between my rear end and the other two. What the fuck does he think he’s doing, what the fuck does he mean by it, standing there pretending to take me from behind, is he insinuating that I’m flaunting myself at him? I grope about a bit more and finally manage to pick up the earring, then I straighten up, cheeks flaming, and turn around, seething inside, but he’s no longer there, he’s heading down the hall, making for the bathroom it looks like, he glances back at us, grinning, as he puts his hand on the door handle, his white teeth gleaming in his dark brown face. He opens the door and disappears into the bathroom. I don’t say anything, just look at Tone and swallow as I pick up my glass and take a sip of my drink. She thinks it’s funny, but she can see I’m angry so she presses her lips together to stop herself from laughing. The Cuban guy, on the other hand, doesn’t try to hide that he thinks it was funny, he gives a low chuckle, eyes on his rum and cola. Silence for a moment or two, then Tone giggles as well, she can’t help it. But I’m not laughing, although I probably should, if I’d laughed right away the whole thing would have been forgotten by now. What Antony said and did wasn’t particularly funny, it’s the fact that I let it get to me, that’s why they’re laughing, the fact that I’ve allowed myself to be forced into playing the humorless, pompous feminist.

  “Aw, c’mon, Susanne,” Tone says. “You should take it as a compliment.”

  “A compliment?”

  “He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t find you attractive.”

  “Has he ever said anything like that to you, Tone?” I say, I need to control my temper now, need to try to stay cool. I look at her, try to smile.

  “No. Not really.”

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  She looks at me and shrugs.

  “Well, maybe he doesn’t find me particularly attractive,” she says, taking a swig of her beer.

  I don’t answer right away, put my head on one side, and give her a look that says what a stupid remark that was; she looks so good she could have anyone she wanted and she knows it too. A moment and then she smiles, a smile that seems to say yes, she knows it was a stupid thing to say, admitting that she knows how good she looks. And maybe that’s what she was after when she suggested that Antony might not find her attractive, she knew I would dismiss such an idea as ridiculous, thus confirming for her how much better looking she is than the rest of us. I almost say this to her, but I don’t, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “He doesn’t say things like that to you, because you’ve got a boyfriend, Tone,” I say. I’m burning with rage, but I keep smiling, speaking as calmly as I can. “As far as Antony is concerned, you belong to another man and he doesn’t say things like that to you because it would be like insulting your boyfriend. You’re another man’s property and that he respects. But when he treats me the way he does, there’s no man to insult. I’m single and I’m no one’s property, so he thinks he can say and do pretty much whatever he likes to me—as long as he doesn’t break any rules, of course. And that, Tone, is what gets to me.”

  She smiles at me indulgently.

  “You shouldn’t … you shouldn’t take everything so seriously, Susanne.”

  “So seriously? We’re talking about the right to be treated as an individual who’s worth something in their own right … regardless of whether she happens to be living with a man or not. Are you saying I shouldn’t take that seriously?” I say, incandescent with rage, but still smiling, doing everything I can to make this sound like a perfectly normal discussion and not an argument. I take a sip of my gin and tonic, feel an ice cube bump gently against my front teeth.

  “No, of course not. What I mean is that you read too much into what he says. For God’s sake, Susanne, it was just a joke,” she says. “You don’t have to be so … you’re so … so outraged.”

  “So I’m an outraged feminist, is that it?” I say, letting out a little laugh. “Outraged, resentful, and bitter, needs a good lay and all that.”

  “Oh, come on, Susanne. Now you’re doing the same to me as you did to Antony.”

  “Doing w
hat?”

  “You’re twisting my words.”

  “No, I’m not, Tone,” I say. “I’m just trying to show you the effect your words can have.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, it seems to me you don’t totally disagree that what Antony just said and did is unacceptable. You simply think I should take it a little less to heart. That I should put up with it. That I shouldn’t get so outraged, as you put it. But don’t you see that that’s exactly the sort of remark that makes it even more difficult to protest when we women are subjected to harassment? I mean, who wants to be thought of as resentful and bitter and humorless? Better to give the impression of always being perfectly happy and contented and let the harassment continue, right?” I say, finding it harder and harder not to show how angered I am by her, I still have a smile on my face, but it’s gradually turning into a sneer.

  She stands there looking at me for a moment, not saying a word, then she raises her eyebrows, heaves a little sigh, and gives a faint shake of her head.

  “I can’t help it,” she says. “I did actually think it was quite funny.” She sends me a rather apologetic smile. “Okay, so maybe I’m a little naïve, but …”

  The smile I give her is a little too sweet.

  “But … ?” I say.

  Suddenly she looks confused.

  “What? Do you want me to tell you you’re not naïve, is that it?” I ask, feeling a stab of remorse as soon as I hear myself say it, I can’t talk to her like this, I can’t be so spiteful and rude, especially not when I’m the hostess and it’s up to me to make sure that people have a good time. This isn’t right. I look at Tone and swallow, I’ll have to apologize now. I believe and I stand by everything I’ve said, except for that last part, not only was it a mean thing to say, it was also untrue and I ought to say something to that effect, but I don’t get the chance. Tone’s mouth falls open and she glares at me as if to say “Oh, well, excuse me.” She stays like that for a moment, then arches her eyebrows, turns her back on me with a teen-like sniff, and stalks off into the kitchen. I turn and watch her go, then make to follow her only to be stopped by Nina.

  “The bathroom, where is it?” she asks.

  “Down the hall, second door on the left, the one with the Sandino poster on it,” I say. I’m about to tell her there’s someone in there when Antony comes swanning over, he looks at me and smiles, totally unfazed by what just happened, there’s nothing in his face to indicate that he thinks he’s done anything wrong, he truly believes he has the right to treat a single woman like that, it’s so offensive, the fact that he simply assumes we’ll put up with being treated this way, it offends the hell out of me. I look at him, seething inside, but with an artless, almost sweet smile on my face.

  “Cool watch,” I say as he walks past me and into the kitchen. He stops and wheels around, dreadlocks swaying gently as he does so.

  “Thanks,” he says, sounding almost pleased.

  “What do you call that, ghetto chic?” I blurt. Hear myself say it, can’t believe I said it, but I did.

  The kitchen goes very quiet, as if all the babble and chatter around the table has been swallowed up by what I just said. One of the International Socialist women stops munching and stares at me openmouthed, I can see the food in her mouth glistening in the glow of the candles.

  “What did you say?” Antony says. He looks as though he can’t quite believe his ears. His eyes narrow and he stands there kind of squinting at me.

  “I said that fake Rolex is real ghetto chic,” I say, but this is so out of line, I can’t say things like that, I’ll have to try to make a joke of it, either that or excuse myself by saying it was just a bad joke, but I don’t, I won’t put up with being treated the way he just treated me and I can’t contain my anger. I look straight at him and give him that sweet smile again. “You seem so well integrated in other ways,” I go on. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But all it takes is a bit of cheap bling and suddenly you look … how can I put it … you start to look like a real black dude. And I mean that as a compliment,” I say, then I take a sip of gin and tonic, oh, but this really is so out of line, I’m not just being a bad hostess now, I’m going to ruin my own party, this is absolutely outrageous, I have to get a grip now.

  Antony simply stares at me. He draws breath, about to say something, but nothing comes out, probably because he doesn’t know what to say, he’s utterly speechless. He looks around at the others, as if to check whether they heard it too, then he turns back to me. I just stand there, leaning against the doorpost, giving him that sweet smile, I should maybe apologize, but I don’t, I try to look as if every thing is absolutely fine, try to do the same to him as he just did to me: try to act as if I’ve every right to talk to him like that. It’s not something I planned, but that’s what I’m doing, I feel more cheerful as soon as this thought strikes me, feel relieved as soon as I realize that I’m perfectly entitled to do what I’m doing.

  “You may think that’s funny, Susanne,” he says, “but I’m not laughing.”

  “I didn’t laugh either when you implied that I was coming on to you just a few minutes ago,” I say, still smiling sweetly. “Even though I’m sure you’d say that that was just a joke,” I add, trying to keep my voice as light and ingenuous as I can. I pause, take another sip of gin and tonic. Then: “Mmm, really good gin and tonic,” I say. I don’t know where that came from, it just slipped out, but it accentuates the airy tone I’m trying to strike, this rather ingenuous tone designed to let him know that I have a perfect right to speak to him the way I’m doing. “Much better with lime than with lemon,” I add, still smiling and running my eye around the others in the kitchen, I can see how disconcerted they are, they’ve no idea what’s going on here and I get a little kick out of that. Then Nina returns from the bathroom, she smiles as she walks past me and over to the counter again, she doesn’t seem to notice how quiet it is, doesn’t notice how bewildered, how stunned everyone is, she simply sits down, takes a sip from a half-full plastic glass of red wine, and carries on where she left off, apparently responding to a question on African dance that she hadn’t got around to answering before she went to the bathroom. And then the talk starts up again, softly and hesitantly to begin with but gradually growing louder and more animated. I don’t say a word, simply stand there, leaning against the doorpost, drinking my gin and tonic. Every now and again someone shoots a little glance at me and I feel my cheeks start to burn, they all find my remarks incomprehensible and offensive, I can see it in their eyes and suddenly I feel a surge of embarrassment, I feel embarrassed and ashamed, but I don’t want to feel like that, I refuse to, what I said and did was no worse than what Antony said and did, and if he has no reason to feel embarrassed, then neither do I.

  “You should come along too, Susanne,” Nina says out of the blue, she has dipped the tip of her finger in the little pool of molten wax that’s gathered around the wick of the candle and is now picking it off. She smiles at me, she probably thinks I’m looking a little lost and alone and wants to include me in the conversation, she hasn’t registered anything of what’s been going on, so there’s nothing to stop her from doing that. “To African dance,” she adds.

  “No, I don’t think so, Nina,” I say.

  “Why not?” she goes on, as positive and enthusiastic as ever, and now I’m going to have to pull myself together and be equally positive in return. She looks at me, smiles as she brushes the congealed flakes of wax off the edge of the table and into the palm of her left hand and I try to smile back, not too successfully. I’m feeling hurt and angry and ashamed, so it’s more of a pained grin than a smile. “You love to dance. It’s great fun, the company’s good, and, not least, it’s an excellent way to lose a few pounds,” Nina says, giving me a knowing little smile, a smile that says this last was meant as a word from one fatty to another. As if either of us was fat. Okay, we may not be exactly sylphlike, but we’re not fat either, we both look perfec
tly normal, and yet she’s talking as though it goes without saying that we both need to lose weight, it’s such a typical female thing, this self-loathing, all these demands we make on ourselves and are always trying to impose on other women, there’s nothing worse.

  “Oh, so you think I need to lose weight?” I say, I really shouldn’t call her on this right now, not when I’m already so close to exploding, it’ll only make matters worse if I get into an argument about this as well. I regard her, try to smile and look as if I was just being facetious, but it doesn’t quite work this time either, it comes out as a wry smirk.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, smiling uncertainly at me as she drops the flakes of wax onto the tea tray under the candle.

  “Oh, yes you did, Nina,” I say.

  The kitchen falls silent again. I don’t say a word, I can’t carry on like this, it’s totally out of line, I can’t invite people to a party and then go around picking fights with them, one after another, but that’s what I’m doing, I look straight at Nina, still with that wry smirk on my face, she gazes at me in bewilderment for a moment, then glances to one side, then the other, she knows something is wrong, but she clearly doesn’t know exactly what.