Another Country. Anjali Joseph

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      The hand smoothed the side of her upper arm.

      ‘Lisbon for a bit – a long time ago. South America for a while.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘Rio … Here.’ They turned up the rue Vieille du Temple. It was late, a weekday evening, and the bars and cafés whose life bloomed onto the narrow street in the day were shut now, pulled into themselves. The pavements were clear, only lamplight shattering on damp macadam. She followed its Deco starbursts. They passed the café called Les Philosophes, and another place she and Nina had once gone, an odd little bar with sun lamps, where Belgian white beer was served in litre tankards.

      ‘You’re quiet,’ Simon said. ‘Here, we should take another right. I’ll show you where I live, then you can drop in if you’re passing.’

      Up a silent street, where old buildings leaned into the darkened road. They passed massive doors. Simon paused outside one. A traffic sign, a white circle ringed in red, said ACCÈS with a red diagonal crossing it.

      Simon wasn’t holding her arm any more. He stood in the street, not far away, his face more than half in shadow, and his voice slightly nervous. ‘Come in for a drink?’ he said. ‘See the flat?’

      She hesitated, but the next day was a respite without classes; she always timed a weekly adventure or crisis for this night, and slept half the free day away, as though from nerves, or loneliness. ‘Sure,’ she said.

      He grinned, she thought, in the dark, and turned to put in the digicode. The lock clicked, and he pushed one of the great doors. Leela stepped over the threshold.

      The stone stairway was cold and damp; the flat was on the second floor, with a burgundy door. Simon used his key, and Leela went in. A dark crowded hallway – a small wooden table, boots near a closet with a half-open door, and, ‘Here,’ said Simon, ‘come into the main room.’

      It was very large, with two big sofas, and a white wall of shelving, in which were neatly arranged paperbacks, and various other objects: cigarettes, a road map of the Île-de-France, a glass ashtray, a box of mints, black and grey plastic film canisters, keys, coins, and a scuffed copy of In Cold Blood, splayed open on its front. The room reminded Leela of a larger, airier version of an Oxbridge fellow’s study, and she felt impersonally indulged, welcomed in the way students always were in those rooms – seated on a sofa and given coffee or a drink to sip.

      ‘Beautiful room,’ she said. She looked up at the high ceiling.

      ‘Isn’t it great?’ Simon’s hand rested briefly on her shoulder. He walked past, to the coffee table, and removed a mug, piled up a few large books, flicked at a cushion. ‘This room is really why I took the flat. Well, that and the upstairs. Come with me, I’m going to the kitchen to get us a drink.’

      He walked out, and Leela followed him, into the hallway and then a small, plant-filled kitchen. ‘The lady whose house it is asked if I’d be willing to look after the plants,’ he said, smiling at Leela. She brushed gingerly past a large spider plant, whose leggy babies, each on a long stalk, were reaching for the floor tiles.

      Simon was opening a cupboard. ‘Would you like a drink-drink? A gin and tonic, or a vodka?’

      Leela hesitated. He grinned, his hand on the cupboard door. ‘You can have anything you like. Even if it’s non-alcoholic.’

      ‘Do you – can I have some tea?’

      ‘Tea?’ His grin was wide, but not without warmth. ‘Sure you can. With milk and sugar? Real tea?’

      She nodded. He smiled to himself as he filled up the kettle. ‘A cup of tea.’ While it was boiling, he got out tea bags – Assam, she noted sadly – a jar of sugar, and a tall glass. She watched him move around the kitchen, and, looking at the red melamine counter, scored in places, she felt a fleeting affection for the family life that might have gone on here earlier.

      Simon worked methodically, unhurried: he took tonic out of the fridge, and a lime, sliced it, got the ice cubes and so on as he made his drink. Leela watched. She was aware that he didn’t really care whether or not she had been there, and this made her relax and warm to him in a way she would have found difficult to explain.

      He took out the tea bag, smiled at her, put in milk, and – which also made her warm to him – two and a half spoons of sugar without comment, stirred it, gave her the mug. He picked up his own glass.

      ‘Let’s go through to the other room.’

      Leela followed him, and he put on a floor lamp near the back sofa and sat down. The room was dim, hospitable. The enormous windows gave onto a damp, dark blue night.

      Leela sat on the same sofa, and sipped her tea. It was too hot. She put it down.

      ‘Just a second.’ Simon got up and went towards the kitchen. He was gone for a little while, and she reached for the heavy art book in front of her, a collection of photographs entitled Doorways. She leafed through it randomly: entrances in what looked like Mexico, some that seemed to be here in Paris, London, she thought …

      Simon returned, smoking, carrying another ashtray. He stood looking down at her. ‘Like the book?’

      She smiled at him. ‘It’s interesting. Lots of, well, doorways.’

      He laughed, and ruffled his hair. It made him look older, and slightly wild. ‘Yeah, it’s always good to have an eye at the exit, isn’t it?’ He put the cigarette in the ashtray, put the ashtray down, eyed Leela with a quick calculating glance that the quiet part of her consciousness noted – but wait and see what happens, urged the rest of her mind – sat down, leaned quickly over and kissed her. He took one shoulder to keep her steady, and she cooperatively kissed him back, noticing that his lips were soft, that he pushed his tongue into her mouth too soon but withdrew it as quickly, that he was good at this, that it wasn’t having any effect on her beyond the most automatic physical arousal, and that he tasted of both cigarettes and mint.

      He pulled back, smiled at her, a smile of elation with himself. ‘Stay here tonight?’

      Leela, the eternal wanderer with no destination to aim for, said, ‘Okay.’

      ‘Come and see the bedroom.’ He jumped up, pulled her with him, raised his eyebrows, mocking the moment. She laughed. He came back for his drink. The cigarette had gone out. Leela followed him, turning at the door to look at her abandoned mug of tea.

      The staircase was narrow, the carpet plush and thick; she followed Simon up it, looking at his bum and wondering with the usual self-amusement if she was really about to become better acquainted with it. His trousers looked vaguely dad-like, she worried. Atop the stairs was an opening. She stepped into a large attic, with two skylights and pale blue walls. The bed was a white, messy island.

      ‘It’s a lovely room,’ she said, but Simon was bending to kiss her again, more intent, and his expression – she kept her eyes open, alarmed at herself – was completely serious, admitting of no humour. She felt self-conscious, she wanted to make a joke; she put up her arms to hold his upper arms, and he put a hand up her top, moved aside her bra to rub her nipple, a gesture that made her flinch, or shiver, she wasn’t sure.

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