Myself and the linen-suited man sit in the lobby. The lobby is constructed of smoked glass and it keeps out the worst of the tropical heat, the tropical heat which is blowing in from the open door, along the polished floor. The linen-suited man is sitting opposite me. We were having a discussion about the merits of horse-racing. He finds it distasteful when the horses topple during the big races, their legs snapping out at all kind of curious angles. Even from that distance you can see the glassiness of their eyes on the screen, as their eyes roll back into the skulls and they scream. They are shot then. They tried so hard, mouths foaming, flecked with sweat and that is what they get. They get shot.
I nod at his points. They are acceptable but the manner in which he delivers them is ugly. My drink has had sand blown into the foam. We are in the lobby of a large villa on a small island. This small island, part of a chain. Some distance from the mainland. There are some horses tethered outside, facing another outbuilding. Through the smoked glass they are all dark grey, treading in dark grey sand. They are not screaming. They are enjoying a drink from a moorish fountain set into the sand. Their tails flick.
There’s sand in your drink, he says, flicking at it with his hand, so that now there is sand and cigarette ash in my drink. Let me fix you another one. It’s fine, I say. Truthfully I am drunk, made drunker by the tropical heat, the burning whiteness outside of the white sand and the white horses filtered to grey, in here, in the lobby. My suit is sticking to me. It is not linen. It is wool. I have travelled very far.
We are both waiting for me to say something, I realise. We are waiting for me to start talking about what I want from the linen-suited man, which in reality is what I want from his employers, men more powerful than himself. The man in the linen suit, looking out from above his smoky sunglasses perched at the tip of his nose. I know what he wants me to say, and I begin to say it. I begin to talk of unusual tastes and the finer things in life. I talk of foibles, of quirks. Of jouissance. Of ugly things made acceptable, filtered. I am concerned that he will not believe me when I say this and so I do not look at him but from the corner of my eye he is nodding, hands clasped under his chin.
Eventually, I run out of permutations on this theme, and, after a polite pause, the linen suited man raises his drink as if he wishes to interrupt me. I am not talking, I say, and he interrupts me.
Yes, he says. You are like all of us here. There is a hint of an accent. We try so hard, and still we are considered distasteful. This is what we get. We get tethered. No matter. I look at him then and he smiles, revealing grey teeth.
I am a professional, he says. I can tell he enjoys thinking of himself as a professional. His skin beneath his linen suit is leathery, the product of the tropical heat. He leans over, to the point where I am worried he will topple through the glass coffee table. His face is completely dry. My face is slick as those of the horses outside, those faces in the moorish fountain. Sand and ash would stick to my face, were they blown onto it.
You don’t have anything to be concerned about, he says. I know, I reply, it’s just this suit. This damn suit. So hot. It’s getting to me.
I take a deep breath. He is watching me closely now. There is something smoked about his eyes, like they are glass eyes, but I know they are not. Perhaps he thinks I am the kind to be wracked by guilt. By the guilt. He is filtering me through those eyes, filtered through the sunglasses.
There are a few things you need to sign. He pushes a binder across the glass coffee table that separates us. Through the table I can see the floor. It has an animal skin pooling beneath it, sweating leather on those spindly limbs.I move my eyes over the documents in the binder. I do not understand the language. It talks of permutations. I have seen it before. It is the language of power and it seems to bear almost no relation to the reality, not on the paper, on this island of grey sand. A small island with a dock and moorish fountains. Part of a chain.
I am the CLIENT in this scenario, this island of words sitting on an island of paper. There are smaller islands, too, where I deposit my name in neat loops alongside. Despite my efforts, the ink blows out across the thick paper, soaking into the fibres, forming little runny legs of black, beachheads and spits.
Okay, I say. But the linen-suited man is not looking at me. His eyes have rolled back in his head, behind his sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose. It is important, anyway, that my name is on here, so I continue.
Is that it? I ask. His eyes roll back down onto me. They are two dried-out moorish fountains with grey tiles.
Yes. Congratulations. He pulls the binder towards himself. I expect him to say something like, we don’t just let anyone in, but he doesn’t. He is a professional.
They don’t just let anyone in. I know this is true. I am considered rich and powerful by many. I have spent my entire life as a rich and powerful man. Not as rich or as powerful as some. But richer, more powerful than most, including the linen-suited man who sits before me, still pulling the binder in, slowly. I suspect that he has not spent his entire life like this. After all, he is in the employ of someone, albeit someone far richer and more powerful than myself. He is a professional, and does not appear discomforted by his role, by the screams, and by the eyes rolling back, on this chain of islands. I’d wager he enjoys it, as one would enjoy a foible, or a quirk.
My hands are dry. I reach inside my suit.
We were having a discussion about horse racing. The door has blown open. The sand is getting stuck in a widening pool. The air smells of smoked glass.
He did not scream like a horse, nor did his limbs buckle and snap. His eyes may have rolled back beneath his closed eyelids but I cannot be sure. He tried very hard, I believe. He enjoyed being a professional about it, showing that it did not get to him, whatever that means. Did it get to me?
The heat has got to me. I can feel the heat emanating from the linen-suited man, now open. Blown in.
A boat is coming tomorrow to pick us up, from another island in this chain of islands. They are associates of the linen-suited man. They are rich and powerful men in service of men richer and more powerful than themselves. I am rich and hold some measure of power, more than the linen-suited man, yes, much more, but our differential is not wide enough, I am not rich or powerful enough to make my actions acceptable.
My actions will not be considered acceptable. The linen-suited man is moderately famous in certain circles. Were he a horse he would be considered a moderate success. Those who condemn the treatment of horses who fall, those will condemn me for what I did to this man. But he had already tumbled, I will argue, onto the sand and the leather, and I was performing an act of mercy. But our differential is not so great as the differential between a man and an animal, or between a rich and powerful man and one less so.
I like to entertain these unacceptable ideas. I know there will not be an act of mercy. My drink is soaking into the sand, mixing with all the pools, a fountain with no end. A certain kind of jouissance will fill my life*.* My mouth will foam and my muscles will fleck with sweat. I am sweating. The suit is made from wool. I should have worn linen. Ah, the great race, men and beasts toppling over one another in a blur…My suit smells of smoke. There are rivulets and islands on my collar. Sand is blowing in and sticking to them. I have tried so hard all my life not to hurt anyone. I’m not just anyone. And this is what I get.
If they do not see him on the dock they will be suspicious. Even from that distance they will see. They will enter through the lobby of smoked glass and stride through the dunes that will have gathered there, carried by the warm air. They will see myself sitting opposite the linen-suited man. My jacket will be open like his. Later they will say it was because of the guilt, because I’m drunk, because I’m not a professional. There will be permutations on a theme. It’s too hot. My eyes will be closed or they will be open. I haven’t decided yet. I’m not sure I have a choice in the matter.
Alexander James 