Zero History

63. CURLY STAYS, SLOW FOOD
With Garreth and Pep, the Catalan car thief, deep in electric hub motors for bicycles,
she’d been glad of Inchmale’s call. She barely knew what hub motors were, but Pep
wanted two, for extra speed, while Garreth insisted that two were too many. If one of
them were to go out, Garreth argued, the extra weight, plus the generator drag, would
negate the advantage of the first one. But if there was only one, and it failed, Pep could
peddle as best he could, while not expending energy on the extra weight. The clarity with
which she retained this, while having no knowledge of what any of it was really about,
surprised her.
Pep looked as though someone had made an apple doll out of Gérard Depardieu,
soaking the apple in salted lemon juice and baking it, then leaving it in a cool, dark place
to harden, hoping it wouldn’t mold. He’d avoided molding, by the look of him, but had
gotten much smaller. Impossible to judge his age. From certain angles, the world’s most
weathered teenager; from others, shockingly old. There was a dragon tattooed on the back
of his right hand, bat-winged and suggestively phallic, that looked less like a tattoo than a
medieval woodcut. His fingernails, which were almost perfectly square, were freshly
manicured, polished to a high sheen. Garreth seemed glad to see him, but he made her
uncomfortable.
Inchmale had phoned from the sitting room, where she could hear, in the background,
the early phases of the evening’s drinking. “Are you pregnant?” he’d asked.
“Are you mad?”
“The doorman referred to you as ‘they.’ I noted the sudden plurality.”
“I’ll be down. In the singular.”
She’d left Garreth chiding Pep for having ordered something, called a Hetchins frame,
for a bike that might have to be tossed in the Thames after a few hours’ use. Pep’s
position, as she was closing the door behind her, was that it might not have to be tossed at
all, and that “curly stays” were in any case a lovely thing. She saw Pep look at his
fingernails, that gesture she associated with manicured men.
She found Heidi and Inchmale established beneath the narwhale tusks. Inchmale was
pouring tea from one of the vintage Bunnykins services that were a Cabinet trademark.
“Good evening,” he said. “We’re discussing the recent shit, a variety of possible fans,
your place in same, plus the possibility of your having found a viable and ongoing
relationship.”
“What would one of those constitute, for me, in your opinion?” she asked, taking a
seat.
“Having someone to have one with, to begin with,” said Inchmale, putting down the
teapot. “But you know I thought he was a good chap before.”