The Execution. Hugo Wilcken
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anyway. I should’ve left her there and then but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength.
‘Life went on. The only difference was that I knew everything now, I knew that when she wasn’t home with me she was fucking this other guy. In a way it made it much easier for Susan, everything being out in the open like that. She didn’t have to hide anything any more, she didn’t have to go through the hassle of secret rendezvous. She could even sleep over at this guy’s place now, when before she had to come home every night.
‘I should’ve left her as soon as I found out. If I’d left her then, she’d have come banging at my door. She’d have come back to me eventually and I could have made my choice. She wasn’t in love with this other guy. She thought she wanted me but when I didn’t dump her, when she saw what I was willing to put up with, she knew I was weak. Then near the end, I could see I’d lost her. Not because of the other guy, but I’d lost her anyway. She became dismissive of me. She’d grown stronger. I couldn’t contemplate her leaving me though. I couldn’t contemplate her being alive and not being with me …’
Christian was speaking in a low, robotic voice. I shook my head again: ‘I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t want to know these personal things.’ He stopped, looked quizzically up at me, then continued talking. I interrupted: ‘I said I didn’t want to hear. I don’t want to hear it!’ I was almost shouting. I was upset, I don’t know why. Christian just stared at me in amazement and there was an uneasy minute or two of silence.
Eventually I said: ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’d like to help out but I honestly can’t see what I can do.’
‘You do know what you can do.’ His stare was unnervingly direct: ‘You’re scared of me. Why are you scared of me?’
‘I’m not scared of you, for Christ’s sake.’ I looked away in irritation. ‘I’ll get a cab with you to the station.’
‘There aren’t any more trains tonight. They’re doing work on the line. The last one went at nine.’
‘To the coach station then.’
Christian put his hand to his chin and kind of slumped in his chair. In the intensity of the encounter I’d forgotten how drunk he actually was. Suddenly, whatever menace he might have posed to me seemed to vanish, to disappear so completely that I wondered just what it was that had upset me in the first place.
Outside, the drizzle had cleared and the wet city glistened in the street light. Christian seemed to have developed a stoop since I’d last seen him, or perhaps it was the drink. He kept up a wandering monologue as we walked down Camden High Street: ‘There’d been a chance maybe … we’d shared a bed but I couldn’t … I hadn’t …’
I’d changed my mind about the coach station. I remembered a hotel nearby. I’d once spent a night there with a Brazilian woman I’d met in a Soho bar, years ago. In the morning she’d packed her bags and I’d driven her to Heathrow to catch her plane to São Paulo. I could still remember her face and the nakedness of her smile, so different from an Englishwoman’s smile.
The reception area was grimly functional and deserted, except for an unshaven Indian-looking guy behind the desk, watching football on a tiny black-and-white television. I got out my wallet but Christian waved his hand: ‘Don’t be absurd.’ He went through his pockets and fished out a ten-pound note: ‘What the hell have I done with my Visa?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I paid for the room and gave Christian some money for breakfast and to get home with in the morning. Then just as I was about to leave, he seemed to sober up a bit and suddenly came over all apologetic. He said he was really sorry for doing this to me, that he felt humiliated. It’s all right, I said, ring me when you’ve sorted things out a bit.
‘Yes, I’ll ring you. I need to talk to you. I’ll send you a cheque.’ Then when I’d already left and was on the footpath he appeared at the hotel window and shouted out again: ‘I’ll ring you! I’ll ring you!’
People were spilling out of pubs, talking loudly about where they were going next or how they were getting home. In a way I felt bad about leaving Christian in a hotel, but then on the other hand I was also relieved to be rid of him. I remembered that I hadn’t eaten yet and I was still hungry: it was getting on though, and I wondered whether restaurant kitchens would still be open. Then I had another idea. Charlotte lived just around the corner.
I found the art deco block Charlotte’s flat is in and pressed her button on the intercom: the door buzzed open before I had time to say who I was. I could see her peering down at me as I climbed the stairs, sizing me up like a club bouncer: ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ She’d messily pulled a jumper over her underwear and a television blared in the background.
Charlotte let me in then disappeared into the bedroom. I poured some wine and helped myself to the cold pasta salad on the dinner table. As I ate, my mind drifted back to the meeting I’d had with the people from Renouveau National. I remembered one of the men smiling at me and saying: ‘Well you know, politics in our country is a dangerous business.’ I’d replied: ‘But what’s at issue is not the death of one man … not one man, do you see?’ It was only now that I realised I’d unconsciously used Christian’s words, from the day his wife had died.
Charlotte was talking to someone on the phone in the bedroom but I could only catch snippets of what she was saying: ‘… no, really, I’m tired tonight … I wouldn’t be any fun … yeah I’ll see you tomorrow night … you too.’ She threw open the bedroom door. She’d put on some make-up and a pretty pink shirt with a flower pattern: ‘It’s good to see you and everything but don’t ever just turn up here again unannounced. OK?’
We had some wine and a late supper and chatted idly. After a while we started kissing across the table, then we lay down on the sofa and continued talking, laughing, kissing, joking around. At the same time I was kind of playing with the buttons of her shirt, undoing them slowly, waiting for the conversation to dissolve.
We’d been talking about our jobs and at one point Charlotte said: ‘What’s your real ambition in life? What’s the one thing you want to do before you die?’
‘I’m aiming for immortality.’
‘No seriously, what’s your ambition? What do you want to do with your life?’
I stopped messing about for a moment and sat up. ‘I don’t know … an international posting … the UN, maybe Paris, maybe UNESCO … I want to move on, move up, pretty soon.’
‘So does everyone. What I mean is, isn’t there something that engrosses you, something you must achieve?’
‘I don’t have that kind of ambition.’ I thought again. ‘There are things … there’s the campaign I told you about …’
‘You mean the guy they’re going to execute?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So it’s your job after all. That’s your real interest, your job.’
‘No. I couldn’t give a damn about my job.’
We were silent for a moment. Somehow the atmosphere had changed.
Eventually I said: ‘I had this strange encounter just now,’ and then I found myself telling Charlotte about meeting up with Christian.
When I finished, Charlotte lit a cigarette and said: ‘Let me get this straight. A friend rings you up. He wants to talk to you about his wife’s death, presumably he wants a bit of emotional support. So you end up dumping him in a hotel round the corner?’
‘He’s not a friend. He’s just a colleague.’
‘So what? He’s a human being, isn’t he?’
‘I didn’t want the sordid details. I didn’t want to know about his wife screwing some other guy.’
‘Why