blank page he understands is human skin.
Tuna
A woman stands behind the counter in a dusty shop that sells books on African themes. Her skin is smooth and pale. A cigarette dangles from generous lips. She has short silver-blonde hair and grey eyes. Her ring and index fingers are stained by tobacco, particularly the flesh on either side of the large middle knuckle. There are five small gold rings in the upper rim of her right ear. She stares at me silently, as if I have not spoken to her.
I explain the problem that confronts me, and request her assistance.
She remains silent, refusing either to speak or hear. The silence between us – bear in mind that we have known each other for ninety seconds – reminds me of certain beaches. Long stretches of white sand, rimmed with biting cold water, scored by wind. Whiteness hurts your eyes, the muscles of your calves ache as you walk for miles, getting nowhere in soft, abrasive material.
I repeat my problem.
Behind her, books are stacked up to the ceiling, thousands of them, extending down this long, narrow bookshop, this ark of words. Millions of words, probably billions, arranged with infinite flexibility and intelligence. Her eyes widen slightly as she begins to acknowledge my existence, they focus, the irises engage: I could swear that they begin to dilate, and then halt their progress, as if I have been successfully calibrated.
She takes the cigarette out of her mouth. It descends with her hand to the glass counter, where it sticks up fuming between ring and forefinger, an obscene chimney. The silver ring on her thumb flashes. Her mouth is attractive, I note that, mobile, interesting, the flesh naturally dark in a pale face. She bites her lower lip – she has uneven teeth – and lets go. Her mouth opens, and a single word falls out: ‘What?’
Later, I begin to understand that she has heard only what a cat would hear as feline speech, the flex and slide of vowels, but not all of them. My voice, in her ears, is a flat trombone of feeling, a murky jazz organised around one double question of desire: do I want her, and if so, how much?
* * *
We stand in the small space next door to the bookshop where she works. It is a tattoo shop in Long Street, a cupboard hollowed out between more significant spaces. I have fetched her here. She kneels down beside the old man lying on the floor, unconscious. I crouch above them, curious about what she will do. Her odour rises as I stoop over her – nutmeg, tobacco, mildly sour almond milk – from her neck, hands, arms, the hollows where they join her body. And then a natural bergamot rising from her hair. I inhale and concentrate, confused by rich disorder, knowing I can enter her soul this way.
She bends over the supine man and puts her ear to his mouth, listening to his breathing. Her torso lifts as she takes his wrist, absently stroking parched brown skin. It is obvious she doesn’t know anything about first aid.
She straightens his head, and looks up at me. ‘He’s fucked,’ she says. ‘Serious, we’ll have to call an ambulance.’
‘There is no phone here. That’s why I came to your shop.’
‘Stay with him then, I’ll go back and phone.’
I straighten up as she rises, step back, out of her way. She looks at me – her expression strangely helpless – and leaves.
Her name is Ana Cocked, can you believe it?
* * *
Talking of which, she lies spread-eagled on her kitchen table. Shins dangling over the edge, limp with satisfaction, though the position flexes her thigh muscles, increasing their tension and curvature. I stand above her, half-clothed, my upper half. Her head is turned to the side, her eyes track me.
They narrow suspiciously as I ask, ‘Do you have a pair of scissors?’
She decides eventually – bear in mind that our life together has been roughly ninety minutes – to risk giving me such dangerous information. ‘In the drawer, Lucas. The top one, below the kettle.’
She begins to rise.
‘Stay there,’ I command. She subsides, though anxiety invades her body, stiffening her visibly. I step out of the crumpled ring of my trousers, find the pair of scissors, and return. Her alarm increases as I bring the implement down between her legs. She lifts her head, eyes widening.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ I reassure her.
It is a mistake to imply that I might. Her fear increases. She begins to struggle upwards again. I lean forward and press firmly down on her forehead, which is pleasantly damp.
‘Trust me,’ I insist. The cliché, the fact that I have used one, its banality, reassures her. We are arrested in that position, her head lifted against the pressure of my hand. Then she gives over, allowing me to do what I must. I snip off a tight curl of her pubic hair – it is more densely white than the hair on her crown – and carefully place it in my breast pocket. I thank her solemnly. Later, it will go into my collection.
Laughter gurgles from her, relief escaping, ‘You are a pervert, do you always do this?’
‘I always do this.’
‘You are a snatch.’
‘Byron did it too.’
‘Who is Byron?’
‘A poet. He was a lord, an English lord who wrote poetry.’
‘This Byron was a snatch. Are you an English lord?’
‘No, I am an ordinary South African peasant like you.’
‘I am an ordinary Flemish peasant. You talk like an English lord.’
‘I wonder how many English lords you’ve heard talk.’
‘You are too brown to be a lord of England. You could only be a lord of chocolate.’
I bow mockingly, bend down, and kiss her where it matters most: in the centre of the universe.
* * *
I coat the griddle pan very lightly with olive oil and wait till it begins to smoke. Then I place a thick tuna steak on it, giving each side a few minutes. Orthodoxy has it that the fish should be seared outside, and left raw inside. My own observation confirms that raw tuna is bland. Heat releases the flavour, but not too much heat – just enough for the lightest touch of pink – otherwise, of course, it will taste canned. I add black-bean sauce and rice wine to the vegetables in the wok, which by now are perfectly al dente, turn down the gas, and stir for a minute or two. The meal is ready.
Ana cuts through her steak, stares at it aghast. ‘This fish is raw,’ she complains. ‘You haven’t cooked it long enough.’
‘It’s supposed to be raw.’
Her expression is indescribable.
‘You’re not supposed to eat raw fish. You can get worms, you know.’
‘You’re not supposed to eat raw haddock. You’re not supposed to eat raw pilchards, or hake or sole. You are supposed to eat raw tuna.’
She ignores my tantrum:
