Songbirds(12)

I was envious. There he was, his life pretty much sorted, while mine was falling apart.

‘So, how are you, my friend?’ he said. ‘I heard you’re flying high in the financial world?’

I had been about to nod and simply agree with him, but then he added, ‘Or has this crisis been a blow?’

So, I told him, matter-of-factly, that yes, in fact, it had been a blow. I didn’t mention, however, that I’d been looking for work with zero success and wasn’t even sure how I was going to make next month’s rent payment to Petra.

He nodded, thoughtfully. ‘And I heard you got married . . . and so young!’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘she’s wonderful. Very supportive.’ I didn’t tell him that I’d lost her too.

The first loss had led to the second, and those two had in fact led to a third – the loss of my naivety, which in reality I should have outgrown already. It was only when we knew each other better that I confessed to him that she had, in fact, left me.

‘Do you live around here now?’

Yes, I had said, and told him the name of the street.

‘Great. We’re practically neighbours.’ He had hesitated for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you what . . . I have a proposal for you. I think you’ll like it. Will you meet me at eleven thirty tomorrow evening?’ From his pocket he took out a crumpled-up receipt, flattened it out on the grocery story counter, and wrote down the name of a street, the name of a bar and his mobile number. He also wanted to take mine – ‘Just to be sure,’ he said.

I wanted to go and meet him. There was something about him, some energy, that said: Follow me and I’ll show you a life that’s better. He had an infectious smile and his eyes always shone with possibilities.

When I looked at the scribbled address, it turned out to be Maria’s. I should have known from the time he wanted to meet – it ran until the early hours.

*

Maria’s bar was an open ground for sex workers, pimps and drunk old men. Just off the main street with dark windows and a wooden door. On the dance floor, an older woman threw tiny pieces of paper into the air as if she was showering herself with confetti.

Seraphim was sitting at the bar talking to the barmaid, who was dressed in her habitual tight black. He spotted me straightaway and waved. He had clearly been looking out for me.

I joined him. Without asking what I wanted, he ordered a couple of beers. He was grazing on some nuts. He pushed the bowl towards me. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

‘No, thank you.’

‘You must try them. Fresh from the trees. Lightly roasted. No added salt.’

I felt that I couldn’t refuse. It was the same when we were kids. One time, when I was thirteen and he was fifteen, he convinced me to climb a tree. He told me about a beautiful bird he had seen up there, a rare species that he’d never encountered before. Of course, I was excited, and I went up quite easily, as I was agile and strong. But coming down was a problem. Trees are notoriously difficult to climb down. I was stuck up there for a good hour before my grandad came up the hill carrying two bales of hay on his shoulders, which he placed on the ground below me so that they would break my fall.

The nuts did look good and I’d been anxious about meeting him, curious about what this proposal might be, so I’d hardly eaten. Now I took a handful of them and threw them in my mouth.

The barmaid placed two bottles on the bar and Seraphim reached for his wallet to pay. I was his guest, he said, he would be treating me. I drank the beer quickly. On the stool beside us, a man with grey hair was playing with the hair of a young woman, her arms hung around his neck. She was dark skinned and looked barely eighteen. A few seats down a bald man was trying to kiss the neck of another woman – she looked familiar, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen her. Seraphim ordered another couple of beers. This time the barmaid placed in front of us bowls of sliced apples, olives and crisps. This time he didn’t pay. We were drinking the beers at top speed and the barmaid kept replacing the empty ones.

On a table behind us, two beautiful women sat in the laps of two very old men. ‘Those are lovely Romanian girls,’ Seraphim said. ‘Not too expensive.’

The beer had started to go to my head. So far we’d spoken about nothing much. He had told me a bit more about his cars. A Porsche 911, in mint condition. ‘There’s magic in that car,’ he said. ‘You should come with me some time, we’ll go up to the mountains. You’ll see its power.’ He told me about his Mercedes SL 300 Gullwing. ‘One of the first sports cars of the post-war era. Silver. Doors open up like the wings of a bird. You can fly in that thing.’ He preferred not to drive that one around too much, he said. He kept it in tip-top condition in his garage, took it out for a spin once a week, to keep it alive and breathing.

Even slightly pissed, I had been struck by how shabby his clothes were. His T-shirt was old and worn, as were his jeans; his hair barely brushed, it flicked out in various directions. With all that money I wondered why he wore clothes that looked twenty years old.

The beers kept coming, and I was drinking more slowly now. Two Filipino women approached us: one younger, heavily made up; the other, slightly older woman, hardly wore a speck of makeup and her skin shone in the dim lights. Seraphim was well acquainted with them. There was a lot of small talk.

‘When shall I take you two out in my car? Seraphim had said.