Lina Wolff - Bret Easton Ellis and the Other Dogs

It was Friday two weeks ago, Valentino told me on one of the days he drove me to school. Alba Camb and I met up at ten that morning and went for a spin in the car. They were playing Vivaldi on the radio. I had pushed the top back and it was a lovely day, the kind of day when the air smells of figs, salt water and sweet exhaust fumes. Alba was sitting in the same place you are now, her head against the neck-rest, looking up at the roofs as we drove through the streets and avenues. I recognised the music they were playing on the radio and hummed along to it while driving. I could never make love to Vivaldi, Alba said at that point. Vivaldis beautiful, dont you think, I said. Thats why, she said. Imagine making love to the Gloria. Only saints can do that, and saints arent supposed to make love. Saints should be saintly. I thought about what it would be like to make love to Vivaldi. Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasnt for people like us to make love to Vivaldi. Its the sort of thing some people are able to do while others cant. In any case it didnt matter in the slightest at that moment. I had no intention of asking her to make love to Vivaldi. I was planning to ask her something else entirely. I was wondering how I should put it. I wanted to say something really big, something really important, only no matter how I tried to word it, it sounded banal. Since the first time I saw you. On the beach in San Remo. It sounded banal. San Remo sounded banal. It is a banal town, but that was where we met. Ever since I met you, Alba, its as though a bird has lodged itself in my heart and built a nest. Its the bird of love. Its you. That sounded banal as well, only then it struck me that the banal is sometimes whats most true. I was going to tell the truth and even if the truth sounded banal, I was going to say it anyway. That was the price I was prepared to pay for telling the truth. I went over the different ways of putting it again and again. I kept thinking Im going to turn towards her and say it now. But when I had finally mustered the courage, I saw she had fallen asleep.

We parked near Pla del Born. She woke up and we walked around on the lookout for a good restaurant. We kept walking, and it felt as though Vivaldis notes were dancing in my ears. Could you make love to this? I thought. Maybe if you were very old or very young. We sat at a bar and ordered drinks. We raised our glasses to each other and drank. The alcohol filled us up and made us happy. We started teasing each other. Then all of a sudden she put on a serious face and said: Valentino, do you want to marry me? And I couldnt take it in. I really couldnt take it in at all. This wasnt how I had imagined it. It was meant to be my question. In my world, its the man who pops the question. In my world there are certain things the man has to ask and thats not because Im old-fashioned but because everything turns out better that way. Who wants a feminist woman in his bed? Who wants a feminist man in her bed? We should always endeavour to be someone else when we make love. Thats the only way out. She shouldnt have said it, I thought, and Vivaldi kept dancing in my ears; something about the situation would go wrong now. You see, Alba, I said, I wasnt expecting that. I really wasnt expecting that. Id imagined something different. Id pictured something else entirely. I understand, she answered. You were the one who was supposed to say it. I got in before you. Thats right, I said. You look so sad, she said and reached up to stroke my cheek. Wheres the champagne? I thought.

We went walking round again, without a plan and without any pleasure either. We did not return to the question. We simply pretended it didnt exist. We walked along little streets and there was ivy hanging here and there. We came to a dusty little shop selling old clothes and things. Lets go in, said Alba. As we opened the door, the smell of mildew hit us. Pots, pedestals, busts, stuffed birds, a boars head and fabrics in bold colours were scattered about indiscriminately. Behind the counter was an old lady with grey hair in a bun who looked at us suspiciously as we moseyed around. Alba opened a cupboard and a pile of clothes slid out onto the floor. She started lifting up one garment after the other. She picked up an antique shawl and a small jacket with gold embroidery. Whats this? she asked the woman behind the counter. From the estate of someone who just died, she answered dryly. They only came in an hour ago and I havent had time to put them on hangers yet. They belonged to an old aficionado and his wife. She added the last bit reluctantly as though she didnt consider us worthy of the information. She stepped behind a curtain and started fiddling with something and after a few seconds the sounds of Nisi Dominus issued from the loudspeakers. Alba looked up at me and smiled. Do you hear that? Yes, I said. So now we know what were not going to do, she said, and continued rooting through the pile of clothes. I just stood there. She asked me to come over. Put this on, she said, holding up the goldwork jacket. No, I said. I refuse to put on the clothes of someone whos just died. If you want to try them on, you can change behind the curtain, said the lady. I dont want to try them on, I replied. It felt as if drooping spiderwebs were entering my ears. There was itching all over my upper body. He died of a broken heart, the woman said. What a dull way to die, said Alba. Not everyone gets to choose how they die, the other woman replied. I just dont understand what you can do with all this, I said. Everything is old and dusty. It feels unhygienic. These are lovely garments, the woman said then, and her eyes seemed to glitter in the half-light. Aha! Alba laughed. There speaks the mighty Thor, who kills bulls with his bare hands but is scared of a few fleas. And the old girl behind the counter laughed as well, and I could see she didnt have any teeth. Her mouth was a black hole, a helter-skelter ride down to something that had no shape or form. Thats right, I said, the mighty Thor has spoken, and tried to laugh along with them. Alba was rummaging around behind the curtain. Then she drew it to one side and stood there wreathed in lace and with a hat on her head. She wasnt wearing anything on top and you could see her breasts. Alba, I said. Put something on. Just give it a rest, she said. You really should cheer up. I could feel something touching my arm and jerked away before realising that it was the woman who had crept up beside me. The smell of old age seemed to waft from her and I moved a step further. So lovely, she said and her toothless mouth smiled broadly. That scarf was just lying there waiting for a woman like you. It was then I noticed that she was holding a silver tray in her hands with liqueur glasses containing something transparent. Do try it, she said and offered the tray to me. No thank you, I said. Go on, she said as her smile vanished. Just take it, Alba said, standing there in the black lace. Bloody old cow, I thought, draining the contents of the glass and then slamming it back down on the tray with a bang. Bloody old cow and her smelly dead-people-clothes. Come on Alba, lets go, I said. Not until youve tried on the matador jacket and stood beside me for a photo, she replied. She crossed her arms and looked defiant. The old woman held out the tray to her and she took a glass. On one condition, I said then. That we leave afterwards. Immediately. Of course, said Alba. We shouldnt spend too long in the air in here in any case. The other woman nodded and didnt seem the slightest bit offended.

I took off my shirt and struggled into the gold jacket. The old ladys hands wove across me like the fingers of a spiderwoman, fastening buttons and adjusting loops. Then she and Alba stood in front of me and looked me over with a critical eye. Theres something missing, the old woman said and went over to root through the pile. She returned with a cape that she swept across my shoulders. Then she removed a sword from an umbrella stand and put it under my arm. Thats it, she said. Lets take the picture now. Alba handed her the camera and then came and stood next to me. Smile, she said. I tried out a tentative smile. The old woman took the picture. Alba got her camera back, and we looked at the image. I smiled when I saw us, despite the situation. And whenever I have looked at the picture since, I have noticed the assurance in my gaze, the indolent self-confidence in hers. Me as a matador and her as a prostitute. That was the way we were going to live. Full on, flat out and no teasing the brakes. Wholeheartedly. Otherwise why bother? We would live life even if it killed us. That was what we would do and that was the moment I realised it. Alba Camb and I would live life, even if it killed us.