A Beggar's Kingdom Page 30

  “I could’ve told you that.”

  “There is a lot you could’ve told me and didn’t, and there is a lot you can’t tell me because you don’t know yourself.” Devi pushed Julian off the stool and to the door. “The truth is hidden from you, Julian, like light from the blind and the insane. You can’t imagine the scope of your ignorance, just as a blind man can’t imagine darkness—until he can see.” They were at the door. “Can’t you see that you’re being given a chance to make a tempest out of your love for her?” Devi said. “Drop by drop, your love has been falling upon her soul. One of these blessed days, maybe it will be enough.”

  “And maybe it won’t,” Julian said as he left Quatrang.

  26

  Best Shakes in London

  ALL SORTS OF THINGS HAPPENED IN LONDON ON SUNDAY afternoons around the solstices and equinoxes. It was a Sunday, third week in September, around the autumnal equinox. Lost in his own head, Julian was out by himself after mass, he didn’t quite know where, maybe Sloane Square, the White Tower, or Mayfair. On one of the streets crowded with shops and early evening tourists, could’ve been Poultry or Jubilee, he was almost sure it wasn’t Bloomsbury or Gloucester Road, he sighted the black curly-haired mane and the petite generous frame of a black woman who looked a surprising lot like Zakiyyah Job.

  It was incongruous, like time travel.

  Julian blinked, came to, looked around. Where the hell was he? Oh, yeah, on Bedford Road. In Clapham. Walking past the palm trees in the front garden of a yellow stucco pub called the Falcon. Down the block, by the clapboard façade of a burger and shake place called Red Dog South, that’s where she stood, the waiting woman.

  Julian ducked into the street garden at the Falcon and hid under a black umbrella between a palm tree and a picnic table. That couldn’t be Zakiyyah! He was imagining things.

  Chestnut trees grew wild on Clapham Common, Victorian mansions lined the streets. There was a Holy Trinity Georgian church and a Venn Street Food Market every weekend. Nearby was a place called Rookery Road. Caffè Nero on Clapham High Street sported golden awnings and had floor-to-ceiling windows, and even tables outside. Perhaps that’s why Julian was in Clapham. Examining Caffè Nero’s awnings. Why else would he find himself here?

  But at the moment, he was hiding outside the Falcon, studying a young black woman with a surplus of wild curls, standing half-perched against a short wooden fence. She was in profile to Julian, in phone pose, sipping a vanilla shake, occasionally raising her eyes to Red Dog’s door. Red Dog was famous for its vanilla shakes. Many people traveled from miles around to buy one. Many said they were the best in London.

  The door to the joint opened, and out walked Ashton, carrying a paper bag and another shake. He smiled at the woman. The woman beamed back. Ashton was unshaven and dressed super casual in jeans and a T-shirt. She was in a summer dress. He walked up to her, and she straightened out, lifting her head to him. He said something. She laughed. His arm slipped around the small of her back. He pulled her to him, her large breasts flattening against his chest. Her head tipped up, his head tipped sideways, he leaned in and kissed her.

  Ashton didn’t kiss the woman as if they had just met. The hand on her back, pressing her to him, her arms apart holding her drink, his mouth licking the vanilla from her lips, Ashton kissed her as if they had been together long enough for him to know how he felt, and how she felt.

  Julian was not one hundred percent certain the black girl was Zakiyyah. But he was one hundred percent certain that the tall blond guy with the shake, gazing down on the beauty queen as if she hung the moon, was Ashton.

  ∞

  Julian watched them run across the street and into the chestnut trees of the Common. He sank down at a picnic table under a palm and ordered a much-needed beer. After downing the pint, he pulled out his phone and called Zakiyyah. She picked up on the second ring.

  “Julian?”

  “Hey, Z.”

  Hey, Z? Pretty friendly for months between conversations.

  There was silence, barely audible whispering. Sounded like ask if everything’s okay.

  “Uh, is everything okay?” she said.

  “Yes, it’s great. Just calling to say hi. Haven’t spoken to you in a few months. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been…well. Thank you for asking. How have you been?”

  “I have also,” Julian said, “been well.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Why? What have you heard? Have you heard otherwise?”

  “Um, no.”

  More whispers.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Funny thing, though, you’ll never guess who called me last week.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Mia’s mother, Ava,” Julian continued. “From Brooklyn. And she said some odd things to me. Quite peculiar.”

  “Well, she’s an odd duck, Julian. I’ve been telling you this. I really want to hear all about it, but now, uh, is not a good time.”

  “No?”

  There was a police siren on Clapham High Street, quick high-decibel blares rushing by. He waited for the cop car to pass before he spoke again.

  “Where is that siren coming from?” Zakiyyah said.

  “The London Metropolitan Police siren?” said Julian. “Probably on my end, Zakiyyah, no?”

  “Yes. Um, our connection is excellent.”

  ∞

  Ashton didn’t come home that Sunday night, and wasn’t at work Monday.

  Is that where he’d been vanishing all this time, to Clapham with Zakiyyah? Julian couldn’t process it, couldn’t believe it. After work he went to the gym, sparred with three different partners, killed the speed bag, slaughtered the punching bag, came home late and exhausted, waited up for as long as he could, and then fell asleep on the couch.

  He was stiff when Ashton finally came home after two in the morning, looking disheveled and not sober. His tie was askew, his shirt unbuttoned.

  “As they say, you’re in your cups, Ash.”

  “Who says this?” He threw off his black leather jacket, his shoes, threw down his keys and wallet and fell onto the couch across from Julian. “What are you doing up?”

  “I wasn’t up,” Julian said. “I was sleeping. Until you woke me.”

  Ashton closed his eyes. “I had too much to drink,” he said. “And if I say this, then believe me, it was too much.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Bankside with Nigel. They have some late-closing pubs there. I can’t keep up with him. Man, can that guy put it away.”

  Julian went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. Tripping over his feet, Ashton followed. Standing over the island, they didn’t speak until Julian said, “You’ll never guess who I saw yesterday at Red Dog.”

  Ashton palmed his water. “Go to bed, Jules.” He didn’t look up. “I told you, one crisis at a time. You got plenty of your own shit to worry about.”

  “You’re not going to ask me who I saw?”

  “Why?” Ashton said. “You know I know.”

  Julian stood quietly. The apartment was dark. Only the light above the stove was on, that, and the faint cold glow from the streetlight.

  “What the hell were you doing in Clapham?” Ashton said. “Who goes there?”

  “Me. I go everywhere.”

  “Clapham?”

  “You went to Clapham.”

  “To hide from you!”

  “You told me you don’t do south of the river.”

  “It was to hide from you!”

  They fell silent.

  “How long has it been going on?” Julian asked.

  “What, Clapham?”

  “No, Ashton. Not Clapham. The whole damn thing.”

  Ashton was quiet. “A long time. Since before I left L.A.”

  A stunned exhale escaped Julian. “You hid this from me for four years?”

  “With remarkably little effort. Like hid in plain sight.”

/>   “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Didn’t want to put you in an awkward spot, my man,” Ashton said. “I know how close you are with Riley. Plus I was a little afraid you’d slip, frankly. Sorry, dude. I didn’t mean to go behind your back.”

  “My back?”

  “See, that’s another reason I didn’t tell you. You can be such a judgmental bastard.”

  Julian didn’t know what to say. Sometimes your friends fucked up. It wasn’t your job to condemn or forgive them. Your job was to catch them when they fell. It was your only job.

  “Is that why you moved to London? You told everybody it was to help me. But was it to hide your own hot mess?”

  “First of all, after watching you suffer smoke inhalation from the Great Fire and get stitches in your head from being stoned in the pillory, I fear you may be beyond help.” Bleary-eyed but intense, Ashton stared at Julian. “And second of all, it’s not my hot mess. But third of all, even if it was, so what? Your own hot mess has followed you to London. Why can’t I be just like you, walk like you, talk like you?” Ashton smiled, wobbling slightly.

  Julian took a breath. “How are you juggling this?”

  “You know how. Riley comes once a month. We have a great time. Z comes once a month. We have a great time. If it’s one thing I know and can do is show my girls a great time. Every two months I fly back home. A few days with Riley, a few days with Z. Everybody’s happy.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes.” Ashton smiled. “And I’m happy. And now that you know, it’ll be easier. Certainly cheaper. The fucking Windmill in Clapham is costing me nearly seven hundred quid a weekend.”

  “Easier? Me lying to Riley when she comes here—next week—will be easier?”

  “Not lying. Saying nothing. You’re good at that,” Ashton said. “You’ve been saying nothing most of your adult life.”

  Julian said nothing.

  “Why did you blab about my shit to Zakiyyah?” Julian asked. “She went and told Ava. Who now wants to come to London, God help me, to fix things. Why did you do it?”

  “Why?” Ashton said. “Because what’s going on with you is so unprecedented, so unbelievable, so upsetting, so extraordinary that it demands to be gnawed over. How do you think I could’ve kept it to myself?”

  “I don’t know, Ashton, the way I keep things to myself. I swear to God, if that woman sets one foot in London…”

  “What are you gonna do, tough guy, hm?” Ashton gulped down his water. They retreated to their couches, slumping across from each other.

  “I thought you hated Z,” Julian said, cracking his knuckles in confusion.

  “Less than I thought, it turns out.”

  “And she’s okay with this, flying out here once a month? I thought she had a job she couldn’t get away from?”

  “Oh, she’s quit that a while ago. Works for herself now, consulting. Still does the same thing, travels around training teachers in art therapy, but on her own time. It’s better.”

  “Oh, I’m sure—for you.”

  “The other day I was thinking about it,” Ashton said, “and it occurred to me that I see Z about as many days a year as you say you see Mia.”

  “I don’t say I see her. I actually see her.”

  “Okay, fine. Except you see her all at once, and I spread my trysts around. But over twelve months, the sum of our days with our women is about the same.”

  “Your math is for shit,” Julian said. “First of all, you need to double that number by Riley, and two, let’s see, oh, yeah—your women still live.”

  “They live, but they grumble.”

  “You’re giving them a lot to grumble about.”

  Ashton sighed. “I like love, Jules,” he said, “you know I do. But I like life more. Love makes life so serious. Do you know what I wish sometimes? It’s perverse, I know, but sometimes, I actually wish I could have what you have. There’s no fighting, no drudgery, no everydayness, nothing but falling in love. Nothing but magic. Every minute is a thrill, you’re both with your best foot forward, you haven’t said the three dreaded words yet, you’re pursuing and romancing and seducing and laughing and playing and drinking and eating and traveling and fucking and having the most amazing time. Right before everything turns to shit, you know what I mean?”

  “No,” Julian said.

  They looked at each other full in the face.

  “You do,” Ashton said. “You know what I mean.”

  Ashton didn’t understand that all Julian wanted was what Ashton was rejecting. All he wanted was the easy intimacy of old love. “Tell me,” Julian said, “what happens when you get your weekends screwed up? You’re juggling fireballs, and one weekend both your fireballs drop into your lap?”

  Ashton waved around his phone. “Will never happen. Infallible smartphone.”

  “Pride before a fall, my man,” said Julian. “Phones can break.” Like hearts.

  They draped over their dueling sofas. It was the dead of night.

  “Ash, I don’t get it,” Julian said. “If you want to be with Zakiyyah, why don’t you just break up with Riley and be with her?”

  Ashton stared at the ceiling. “The other day I was having my weekly meal with dear old dad, and do you know what he said to me? I want you to know, Ashton, ho-ho-ho, I loved your mother. I loved her very much. But she was driving me mental. I couldn’t live with her. I said to him, thanks, Pops, appreciate it. Thanks for teaching your only son what love looks like—abandonment.” Ashton took a pained breath, slowly sobering up. “I adore Zakiyyah,” he said, his glazed eyes closing. “But you know I can’t stomach the bond. Plus I can’t leave you.”

  “For God’s sake, Ashton, make your own life right,” Julian said. “Leave me. Move back to L.A. Go with Z.”

  “Also,” Ashton continued, “Riley allows me to keep myself at a slight distance.”

  “You mean, a slight distance of five thousand miles?”

  “Precisely. I’m afraid if I become uncoupled from Riley, inevitable conflict will follow. Why can’t I move back to L.A.? Why can’t we be together all the time? Why can’t we get married? I love Z too much to allow her to drive me mental. So I hide her to protect her, but to protect me, too. I keep Riley close,” Ashton said, “so I can keep Z, who I want to be closest to, a little farther.”

  Julian rubbed his temples. He opened his mouth to tell Ashton that he was not being fair to two women, whose best years were flying by while they wasted their time on him. He opened his mouth to ask Ashton what would happen to both Riley and Zakiyyah when he found himself another girl to entertain in Clapham Junction. Then he closed his mouth. “Dude,” was all Julian said.

  “I know,” Ashton said. “Everything you’re thinking of, I know.”

  “Do you still love Riley?”

  “I do,” Ashton said.

  Julian breathed out. Could he help it if he felt envy?

  No. He could only help how he acted, what he said. So he acted remote and said nothing. But what Julian blackly felt was: here is Ashton, who can walk out of their white apartment into a pristine street, meet Z or Riley at the tube station, and never leave their side. Instead, the love of Ashton’s life was kept deliberately at a distance, down the street on the Circle Line, riding round and round because Ashton didn’t want her to get off until the third weekend in October.

  “What a jam-packed life you lead,” Julian said. “You’re so lucky.” Devi’s face flashed in front of him. When he would complain to Devi about the rank injustice of his brief joyful days followed by a year of sorrow, Devi would say to him, you are so lucky, with the same shade of black envy Julian’s tone was colored with now.

  How little Julian understood the men closest to him.

  “I guess I am pretty lucky,” Ashton said, his face relaxing into his worn-out casual killer smile. Mr. Fantastic. Mr. Razzle-Dazzle. Pressed but stained wool trousers, wrinkled white shirt, four-day-old stubble, bushy dark blond like his eyebrows. Beer-soaked liquid b
lue eyes. Couldn’t last two seconds without everybody around him loving him.

  “Is this how you want to continue to live?” Julian asked. “Getting drunk with Nigel and lying to two women? It is just two, isn’t it?”

  “Look at you, ringmaster, asking that question,” said Ashton. “My life is superb.”

  “Have you thought about what would happen if one of them got pregnant?”

  “Oh, I have—and impossible.” Ashton made a scissor motion through the air. “Taking no chances with that accidental baby bullshit.”

  Julian sat up. Suddenly he wasn’t remote. Suddenly he could not say nothing. Something in his chest dropped. “You’re—you’re joking, right? Please, tell me you’re joking.”

  “Why would I joke about that? You know I can’t have a baby.” Ashton’s head fell back on the couch. “I’m a baby myself. The original lost boy.”

  “Oh, Ashton…” Julian slumped forward, his head over his knees. Why did he feel so knocked out as if something devastating had happened? Not all actions in your life were irreversible like this. He felt dread. It felt like death. Like standing on Normandie.

  “Aside from other things,” Ashton said, “it’s entrapment. It’s how my mother trapped my father, with the unlucky accident that was moi. And how did that work out? She was making him nuts, you heard. So when I’m six, Dad splits and keeps getting paternity tests through my twenties, hoping I’m not his, while stuck with me, Mom rides the heroin highway another six years, conveniently ODing at the table in our dining room where I can find her when I come home from school.”