Absolute Beginners Read Free Page B

Vespa?’
    ‘Can’t they allot you anything with four wheels?’ I said. ‘You must come from one of those very corrupt, small countries.’
    Mr Mickey P. was naturally not pleased. ‘I smashed it up,’ he said. ‘It was a Pontiac convertible.’
    ‘This rule of the left we have,’ I said, ‘is so confusing.’
    ‘I understand the rules,’ said Mr P., ‘but got run into, just.’
    ‘You always do,’ I said.
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘Keep still, please, and smile if you like that kind of snap.’ I clicked a few. He stood by his motor scooter as if it was an Arab pony. ‘You always get run into,’ I explained. ‘It’s always the other feller.’
    Mr Pondoroso leant his scooter against the Wayne Mews wall.
    ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but there are a lot of very bad drivers in your country.’
    I wound my spool. ‘And what are they like in yours?’ I asked him.
    ‘In mine,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter, because the roads are wide, and there are fewer autos.’
    I looked up at him. I was curious to find where he came from, but didn’t like asking direct questions, which seems to me a crude way of finding out things that, with a little patience, they’ll tell you anyway. Besides, we were still at the sparring stage that always seems necessary with the seniors, whatever their race may be.
    ‘You’re a Latin American?’ I asked him.
    ‘I come from these parts, yes, but I live in the United States.’
    ‘Oh, yes. You’re representing both?’
    He smiled his diplomatic smile. ‘I’m in a UNO job,’ he said, ‘attached. Press officer to the delegation.’
    I didn’t ask which one it was. ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘if I could step inside out of this glare to change my spool?’
    ‘To …?’
    ‘Recharge my camera. As a matter of fact,’ I said, eyeing him under the portico, ‘I believe I have to talk about photography to you. Suzette sent me, you met her at Henley’s place.’
    He looked cautious and blank a moment, then turned on the diplomatic grin again and battered me on the shoulder. ‘Come right in,’ he cried, ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
    Inside it looked cool and costly – you know, with glass-topped white metal furniture, oatmeal-stained woodwork, Yank mags and indoor plants and siphons, but as if none of it belonged to him, as in fact I don’t suppose it did. ‘You have a drink?’ he said.
    ‘Thank you, no, I won’t,’ I told him.
    ‘You don’t drink?’
    ‘No, sir, never.’
    He stared at me, holding a bottle and a glass, and genuinely interested in me for the first time, so it seemed. ‘Then how do you get by?’ he asked me.
    I’ve had to explain this so often before to elder brethren, that it’s now almost a routine. ‘I don’t use the liquor kick,’ I said, ‘because I get all the kicks I need from me.’
    ‘You don’t drink at all?’
    ‘Either you drink a lot,’ I told him, ‘or else, like me, you don’t drink anything at all. Liquor’s not made for zips, but for orgies or total abstinence. Those are the only wise weddings between man and bottle.’
    He shook his head, and poured himself some deadly brew. ‘So you’re the photographer,’ he said.
    I saw I’d have to be very patient with this character. ‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘What kind of print might you be needing?’ I went on, not sure yet what kinkiness I had to cater for.
    He drew himself up and flexed his torso. ‘Oh, I would want you to photograph me.’
    ‘You?’
    ‘Yes. Is that unusual?’
    ‘Well, it is, a-bit-a-little. My clients usually want photographs of models doing this and that …’
    I was trying to make it easier for the cat. But he said, ‘Me, I want no models – only me.’
    ‘Yes, I see. And you doing exactly what?’
    ‘In athletic poses,’ he replied.
    ‘Just you alone?’
    ‘Of course.’ He saw I was still puzzled. ‘In my gymnastic uniform,’ he explained.
    He put down his glass and bottle, and stepped into the next room while I flicked