The Three of U.S.: A New Life in New York. Peter Godwin

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СКАЧАТЬ me are the uneven Belgian cobbles of Gansevoort Street, which, the real estate agent forgot to mention, is a main night-time drag for transvestite prostitutes. They patrol up and down among the warehouses, conforming precisely to the meat-market metaphor.

      All of them are black and tall, even taller as they totter on their high heels up and down the broken sidewalk, sashaying for the headlights of potential customers who drive by, often twice or three times, checking out the goods before pulling over. The deed is usually done right there, behind a skip of offal, under a fire escape or between parked meat-delivery vans. This might obscure them from casual passers-by (there are none), but it leaves them totally exposed to my gaze. Curiosity about the details of who does what to whom has overcome my initial distaste at the scene below and I remain in position, a voyeur from our own home.

      It is a strange business. Oral sex plays a prominent role, but so do masturbation and other variations which remain irritatingly just out of sight, behind jiggling bodies. What occurs to me is how brief it is, spectacularly so. I suppose this is because of the furtive nature of the transaction.

      Surprisingly soon it has lost its capacity to shock us, it has become mundane, just part of the local scene. We now recognize the different ‘girls’. Tonight I have spotted Ru. We have nicknamed her Ru, partly because she is the most diligent streetwalker, and partly after the black transvestite celebrity Ru Paul, who now has her own television talk show.

      We find that we have started to worry about the girls’ safety, fearing that one may be beaten up or killed. We have become invisible guardians, ready to dial 911 at the first sign of trouble. But all goes smoothly; there is a well-worn ritual to the transaction. Even the price appears to be pre-set, with a quick transfer of notes before business is initiated.

      Joanna emerges sleepily from the bedroom.

      ‘What you doing?’ she slurs.

      ‘Being a peeping Tom,’ I reply dryly.

      Just then a yellow cab stops beneath us, and its Sikh driver gets out and walks round to check one of his tyres. He kicks it a couple of times and then has a leisurely piss against the wall. As he is waggling to a finish, Ru strolls nonchalantly past him. We can see them having a conversation, but we cannot hear it. It is very brief, he utters four or five words, and she gives a similarly terse reply.

      Then the Sikh reaches out and very deliberately squeezes Ru’s left breast, like a farmer at a livestock market checking the consistency of a dairy cow he’s considering purchasing. He climbs back in his cab and drives away, and Ru continues her lonely patrol. Whatever has occurred was clearly consensual.

      ‘What do you think they said to each other?’ asks Joanna.

      I imagine he asked her, ‘What are they made of?’ or even, ‘Are they real?’

      And Ru replied, ‘Check ’em out for yourself, darling. On the house.’

      Monday, 11 May Joanna

      The gynaecologist’s office recommended by Dr Falzone is far smarter than anything I have encountered in the British Health Service. With black-leather seating and the latest editions of Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, National Geographic, the New Yorker and Time, the reception is more like a discreet hotel lobby. The walls are quietly green, decorated with soothing scenes from Yosemite, each framed in black; thundering waterfalls and proud snow-capped mountains. Each one is accompanied by a motivational slogan: ‘The bend in the road is not the end of the road – unless you fail to make the turn’; ‘Some people dream of success – others wake up and work at it.’

      Indeed, there is nothing in our surroundings to suggest we are in a doctor’s waiting room at all, until I notice a discreet plastic box of leaflets dispensing advice on how to avoid genital herpes: ‘Genital herpes. One in four American adults suffers. There is no cure!’

      ‘Ms Coles?’ one of a troika of receptionists calls, beckoning with a silver-polished nail so long it has curled round on itself like a miniature dough hook.

      ‘Your insurance card?’ I hand over the blue plastic card which I have learned to keep alongside my credit and social security cards at all times in case of emergency. ‘Please fill these forms out and give them back to me before you see the doctor.’

      There are four pages of intricate forms demanding my entire medical history, that of my immediate family, and then another sheet demanding my signature to take full responsibility for payment should there prove to be a problem with my insurance.

      ‘Ms Coles,’ a bouncy-haired woman in a white coat with a badge on indicating she is Beth, and whom I assume to be a doctor, waves a clipboard at me and I follow her into a large wooden-panelled office, where several impressively framed certificates compete for wall space with more motivational photos of Yosemite.

      ‘So, Joanna, I’m Beth. This is the first time you’ve been to us?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you’ve filled in all the forms and we’ve seen your insurance card, right?’

      I nod.

      ‘Great. So, what can I do you for today?’

      ‘Well, I’m ten days late and I’m never normally late. So I did a home pregnancy test, but that was negative. But I think I’m pregnant anyway.’

      ‘Why do you think that, Joanna?’

      ‘Well, I just sort of feel it. You know, painful breasts, prolonged period pain …’

      ‘You know what, I’m gonna give you a blood test, but it doesn’t sound to me as if you’re pregnant. Those shop tests are pretty accurate. How old are you?’ She glances down at one of the sheets I’ve filled in.

      ‘Thirty-six.’

      She pulls a face, then shrugs. ‘Thirty-six? The female body starts winding down, hun. Tell you what I’m gonna do …’ And she takes a deep breath. ‘I’m gonna prescribe you Provera which you gotta take for seven full days, that’ll bring your period on, but don’t take it until we have the results of the blood test, just to be sure, OK? Go down the corridor and ask for Donna, the lab technician, she’ll take your blood and then call me on Thursday between 12.30 p.m. and 1.30 p.m., and we’ll give you the results, OK, oh and leave a urine sample too, if it’s negative, your system’s probably adjusting itself to being thirty-six; sorry but that’s the way the cookie crumbles, and you take the Provera.’ Another breath: ‘If it’s positive, well, you make another appointment to see an obstetrician.’

      Down the corridor, Donna, the technician, snaps on skintight cream rubber gloves, ties a rubber tube round my left arm and flicks at my veins like I’ve seen junkies do in movies. ‘You do look a little peaky,’ she observes, withdrawing the needle with one hand and skilfully unpeeling a Band-Aid with the other. ‘Could be a sign. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for ya.’

      Tuesday, 12 May Peter

      Our curiosity piqued by the outsize V sign in our view, Joanna has asked me to phone the Vault, which, she suggests, we should visit. I refuse. S&M is not really my scene. I am a coward. I treat pain as an enemy and go to great lengths to avoid humiliation.

      ‘But СКАЧАТЬ