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Boris doesn't get to New York much but when he does, he thinks of Theo.
On his first visit, an overnight stop running on pure adrenaline and a couple lines of coke on the back of a red-eye flight from London, Boris expected the city to smell like a swimming pool; the one they used to lie by at night, water luminous and green, chlorine burning their running eyes, stinging their nostrils. Or the one at his house, empty and full of sand though it was where the reek of pool cleaner never quite faded. He knew it wouldn't – but he thought it ought to. Instead, New York smelt like wet tarmac, dark smoke shooting out of vents and huge vats and the damp coats of people huddled under doorways passing a butt between them, and Boris couldn’t get over his disappointment.
He scoured the street for one of the yellow cabs he’d heard so much about, clawing at the backs of his hands in anticipation. The pills he’d taken before his flight had knocked him out clean for its duration and between the wail of sirens and the ache spreading behind his eyes, he was getting antsy. It’d been hours and he needed something but not knowing anyone, anyone who could help solve his dilemma, getting hold of something was going to be impossible. Soon enough one of his ear-piercing hails, a skill he’d harnessed wandering down dead-end blackout Alaskan streets as a child, drew a pair of taxi-drivers eyes and it squealed to a stop on the curb beside him.
Huddled in the backseat he looked down at his phone, flicking through familiar images on the screen. His bird, the engraving embossed in the corner of the painting. C. Fabritius. 1654. The colours didn’t come up so well in the glaring light the shots were taken in, but if he looked long enough, he could remember how it looked under his bedroom lamp all those years ago, fluorescent light from the school hallway flooding in when he opened his locker; the weight of it in his guilty hands. Bright black eyes staring back at him, motionless ochre wings, glittering golden chain at its feet. Newspaper tattered at his feet, headlines of a time far behind them, the people they concerned bankrupt or dead. The slight tackiness of its surface, rough wood of its underside.
A text from an unsaved number appeared, hovering above the thing he so longed to restore to its rightful owner.
pav. meet tmrw at 7. big bux for next 1.
He swiped it away with a heavy thumb, not wanting it to touch the photo, taint its subject. He instead turned his attention to the view out of his window, trying to think of anything but a bird trapped on its perch, a boy with stupid tortoiseshell glasses.
New York. As he watched the city pass by behind the window, he thought he saw it for what it was: all its coloured lights, shouting slogans and colossal heights. A great big distraction, a hub of entertainment, a playpark for those who could afford to cavort in its grounds. There was depressingly little of the glitter the songs spoke of, dull gum-splattered streets rather than the paved gold ones that New York, New York song they liked to play made it sound like there would be. If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere. But if anything, Boris realised, eyeing up the hooded figures in an alleyway with a look like an enquiring Soviet spy, it was exactly as Potter said it would be. Had he jumped in that taxi eight years previously – Boris brought his brows together thinking on it. It was a story that had manifested itself in his dreams over the years, hazy in smoke or lit up in bright colours, high as a kite, never quite the same when he woke up sluggish and sick. The two of them at Theo's fancy school, walking home together in the clean Oxford shirts he wore when they first met, letting Popchyk run wild in Central Park. He made it sound possible standing on the pavement, talking himself into a frenzy as if suddenly possessed – I have money for school – you can go to my school. No you totally can, I have a scholarship – and Boris came to believe it, swing band in his ears, tinkle of black and white keys. New York, New York.
The only problem was, he thought, throwing his face up to the sunroof in search of the sky as they did back then – there was no moon.
---
He was only there a matter of hours before the next ‘correspondence’ required him to be back in mainland Europe, but as he sprawled out under the tucked white sheets in his hotel room, air-conditioned air stuck in his throat like something out of his boyhood in the desert, he couldn’t help but think of the boy who shared it with him. Two ships passing, suddenly docked in the same port. It wasn’t fate, the furthest thing from it: this stopover in New York had been in the calendar for weeks, a necessary visit to organise their next deal – and yet hours passed in a strange sort of delirium, body hovering in the middle state between sleep and consciousness, pictures of winding cul-de-sacs blown in with sand and a canvas tied up in newspaper behind a headboard flickering like a broken film reel.
While it was still dark, he gave up on any hope of peace, riddled with an unplacable sickness. It wasn’t an itch for a drink, he knew that, but he raided the mini-bar anyway, swallowing back the tiny bottles of vodka on the shelf in greedy gulps. He was uneasy; everything, apart from the room fan blowing uselessly in the corner, was eerily quiet, the dead kind of silence that belonged in morgues and funeral parlours. He longed to hear the noise of the slumbering city muffled beneath thick glass, setting himself up on one of the uncomfortable chaise lounge chairs by the window. He propped open the window as far as it would go, only a few unrelenting inches, and lay bare-chested along the sofa, straining to hear a wailing siren or the whoosh of taxi on its way to some unknown destination. He wanted to push his head out in search of a light source that wasn’t a streetlight or the apartment block across the street, and then he saw it, peeking out from behind a thick wall of smog. Soft glow, milky white. Same everywhere. As he lay there, back to the sofa staring up at an unknown ceiling, paper blinds rattling and undulating in the breeze, he thought of the moon, out of sight for so long. Breathing hard, his arm fell over the side of the chaise, his last thought was: It was not so far away after all.
---
Over the next few visits, Boris found himself making excuses to get out of meetings, postpone phone calls, to walk along the narrow pavements he'd heard so much about, see the city he'd only ever imagined in the glare of Las Vegas sunlight. Yes, yes, very important - quick smoke break? - quick! Promise, hand on heart. See me swear it, yes? His crew had come to pretend they didn’t notice his timely walks, feigning belief when he appeared again claiming he’d been on an important phone call, gloomy and melancholic, quick to anger.
So like coming back from a high, pinwheels in the sky, coloured sparks falling and disappearing into mist, everything Theo told him about New York came together. He searched for the bench his mother liked to sit on in her college days, where the two of them sat after school, holy ground. He trawled along the gleaming pavements of Park Avenue, eyed up by doormen in pristine white gloves and all the while the same terrible string of questions jumped and started in his head: Where does he get his fix now? Does he have the nausea and terrible roaring when it has been too long? The gasp of new life and shooting pain that makes it all worth it in the end? Or is he clean now? Has he swept away all the dust and dirt and broken skin from the Vegas days? Is he big fancy businessman like he said he would be, doing well for himself with the old poofter? Boris didn't know. Boris doesn't know.
---
Hands shoved in his pockets, Boris takes a drag on a cigarette, fingers restless. He has never walked here at this hour. It is dark, avenues almost as desolate as the shithole he was stationed in in Alaska but there it is winter forever. Here it is a November evening and night is only just beginning to fall early. He is in unfamiliar territory, numbered apartments he doesn’t recognise, shop fronts he has never seen. Alleys and side streets that lead to nowhere but trash cans and fenced off private grounds. The sky above black and empty. No stars, no moon tonight, scuffing his boot on the curb in frustration. His feet begin to lead him down another unknown path and as he steps into another pool of light he suddenly struck by the image of Theo swept away to the desert, skin on his back burnt red like rust on an old penny, hair streaked with light. Cracks of laughter, a swing flying higher and higher, bloody noses, that same Radiohead song on his iPod pulling them to sleep, teeth jittering, skin clammy. For a minute there I lost myself, I lost myself.
Then like a car screeching to a halt, a screen of water spraying in his face, he sees him behind the glass, the swooping metallic gold letters on the front, the gilt and glossy cabinets littered in the window glowing in the light, something of the dreamy tone in Theo's voice when he spoke about this place in it. Hobart and Blackwell, a treasure trove that makes all the magic the songs and books spoke of come to life. Boris knows he has to turn away – he’s in full sight, exposed and his heart is in his mouth, cigarette dwindling between his fingers, he wants to kill you – but some foreign force has him chained to the pavement, basking in the warmth of the shop. He is taller. Well dressed. (When did he get so fancy? he thinks, taking in the tailored suit and neat shirt. All he can picture is bare arms and legs, shared t-shirts and ratty bracelets and he has to remind himself of the fat watch on his own wrist, ridiculous rings on his fingers). He notes with affection the same shitty glasses he needs to see still perched on the bridge of his nose.
He is wearing the biggest smile Boris has ever seen on him, appearing as if in intense conversation with an old lady with a cane and too much money, his arm slung over a chest of drawers. He laughs in a flash of teeth and there is something slightly unhinged in it, a wild quality from nights in the playground. He has her hooked Boris thinks, the smile of a con-artist. He knows because he wears it himself. Charming, personal, caring. She signs paperwork, they shake hands and Boris sees it all slide away as soon as the bell above the door rings out and the lady steps out into the street.
It is with that that Boris realises the danger he is in. The chain on his ankle trapping him under the streetlight is clipped and flits around the corner in a blur of black wool if he’d never been.
Back to the side of the shop, he collects his breath, heavy and laboured like he’s run for his life. All at once the gravity of his situation hits and he could collapse if it weren’t for the wall supporting the bulk of his weight. The guilt, that sick grey roll of nausea that used to keep him awake at night, returns with a vengeance, an all encompassing plunge into something he'd tried to forget. The same quick comforts he used to tell himself reappear too – Not your fault! He told you, trusted you! – and just like then, none of it does any good. He did not believe him when he revealed his weighted secret in the living room all those years ago. Hah Potter. Fucking funny joke. Very good. But when he pressed the package, a fair weight, into his chest and unwrapped it bare on the mattress, there was nothing left to doubt.
That is the worst part, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, desperately searching for something to cling to. What he told himself was true. He did trust him. Blackout drunk but nonetheless, he gave him his heart and he gave it away knowing what it meant to him.
He thinks back to the Theo he just saw in the yellow light of the shop. He hasn’t lost the look, he thinks. Haunted, completely. Too pale, thin chest hidden beneath a nice shirt – no colour in his face, none at all – and he wonders if he feels it too. The ache that no needle or pill can relieve, the sweat-drenched nightmares that come and go. He wonders if Theo hates him and could laugh at himself for questioning it, even for a moment. He knows he does and he knows he is deserving of it. One part of him, the part that would if he were doped up and seeing stars, wants to throw open the shop door - Surprise Potter! – and the other part of him, the one looking up at the sky like a convict just escaped prison breathing in the fresh air for the first time in years knows that is madness. Insanity. Not now, maybe not ever. He was a fool for ever thinking it, for letting the idea take up space in his mind, even in dreams.
And then with a shock to the heart - he sees it again, hidden but there all the same. White light, haloed and haunting in the dark. Same everywhere, and he wonders how he didn’t see it before. Closer than he thought too, and between great gasps of cold air he breathes out, shallow and shaky. Not now, but maybe not never. Boris allows himself a glance back towards the shop where the lights inside fade to black and Theo is lost to him again - but under the same moon, the same sky, he would snip the chain and set it right.