Free Significance by Jo Mazelis Page B

No one acknowledges his departure. She senses his loneliness; it hangs over him like a shabby miasma, presses his thin shoulders down, hunching his neck.
    Behind her in the next booth, the young men are playing cards. She can hear, but not see, the way the cards are slapped down on the table top and the accompanying shouts.
    The young black man walks toward her then stands just beyond her table. He looks nervously at the other men, but only the patron is paying any attention.
    â€˜Anglais?’ the young man asks.
    â€˜Oui,’ she says.
    The bartender lifts his chin and turns the corners of his mouth down as if to ask her if she wants to be saved. She ignores his signal and smiles brightly at the young man with his gleaming black skin.
    â€˜You are English?’ he says. His smile is wide; his teeth are even and very white. His track suit is bright red with crisp white stripes. Very new, she thinks.
    Lucy nods.
    â€˜I am Joseph. I am learning to speak English,’ he says proudly.
    â€˜Really,’ she says, uncertain what else to say.
    â€˜You are here on vacation?’ he asks. His pronunciation is good, the accent slightly American.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I am visiting here with my aunt’s son,’ he says. ‘He is a paediatric surgeon. He has an emergeny now.’
    â€˜Ah,’ she says.
    â€˜My other cousin is at the Royal Holloway Hospital. She is a gynaecologist and lives in Camden Town. Her father, my uncle, is a doctor in Paris.’
    He does not make any move to sit at the table with her. Lucy can’t think of anything to say but smiles in a slightly glazed way. She is aware that they are being watched and this makes her feel awkward, as if she were in a play and hasn’t learned her lines.
    â€˜I am going to London to study medicine soon, I hope,’ he says. Then abruptly, he adds, ‘Goodbye. So long,’ and returns to a booth near the back of the bar.
    Perhaps she should have invited him to sit, or made a better attempt at conversation. She hopes he doesn’t feel rebuffed. Hopes particularly that he doesn’t feel rebuffed because he is black.
    She swallows the espresso in three sips. It’s thick and sweet. Takes another sip of brandy, doesn’t shudder this time. Lights a cigarette. Thinks about the walk back to the hotel. Looks at her watch. It’s almost midnight. She is surprised; she had thought it would only be ten or perhaps eleven. She should go.
    She drinks the last of the brandy, finishes her cigarette, stubbing it out in the Cinzano ashtray. Then just as she uncrosses her legs in readiness to rise from the table, another brandy is placed before her by the patron. She frowns at him in confusion and he gestures towards the three older men at the bar. One of them has turned towards her; he lifts his glass as in a toast.
    â€˜Oh,’ she says, embarrassed, but lifts the drink, nods and murmurs. ‘ Merci .’
    Behind her the younger men suddenly roar at the result of their card game. One swears, then laughs and gets up and walks past her. His pockets jangle with loose change. His body is long, but his legs are short and slightly bandy. As he nears her she can smell earth and putty.
    One more brandy will not kill her, but she must refuse if another is offered.
    She feels safe here amongst these working men. Feels a little ashamed of that frisson of fear she’d felt as she first entered. One should never make assumptions, or jump to conclusions. She should remember that.
    Lights another cigarette. Looks at her watch again. Twelve - twenty.

Underwater
    When Marilyn was four years old she’d almost died.
    She thought she could remember it, but wasn’t certain if she had embroidered the memory – if part of it was what her mother had told her and the rest was a sort of flotsam and jetsam garnered from other sources: films and books. She seemed to remember moving or running awkwardly with her arms outstretched and