Night Fever

I felt like a criminal. In fact, now I think about it, I was. We snuck down narrow streets, ill-lit alleys, in the icy twilight; my jumper was stringy and thin, my head chilled without a beanie. The paper mask made breathing difficult and I felt faint; I couldn’t adapt to inhaling used hot air. How the hell did doctors and nurses work while wearing these things? Magda’s mask was rigid and high, her fringe low, her scarf wrapped like a heavy green snake around her neck. I couldn’t see her face, but under a streetlight I noticed one eye was purple, swollen, blinking like an owl’s.

A siren wailed and we crept behind a sagging bush. Magda pressed her finger to her lips as a police car hovered past like an alien spaceship. Rust-orange bats fluttered above and we giggled nervously, like schoolgirls. For a moment I wanted to scuttle home, to tell Magda that I couldn’t afford a fine for breaching lockdown, that even though my unbearable ex was still living with me, homeless due to the rigid pandemic laws, I was too afraid to break the law and go wherever she was dragging me. But I sensed her cat-smile, felt her arm through mine and I yielded. There was something thrilling about being a crim. Perhaps I was experiencing a day in the life of a Soviet Russian, the supposed realities of an historic curfew; or was that just a first-world conceit? She laughed her gossamer laugh again, a laugh that belied her wariness, and I knew I wouldn’t turn back.

We slipped into a dingy road as the sun set beneath a cluster of small factories or warehouses, mostly boarded up. No one was around; no cars, no residents, no lights. A no-man’s land. Magda knocked softly on a red rollerdoor, peeling and dusty, and again pressed her finger to her mask before I asked where the hell we were, what the hell were we doing. The street stunk of neglect; Magda shivered in her olive jacket, cold or fearsome, perhaps. It reminded me of arriving in Tunis, years ago, a whirlwind weekend away with a boyfriend when I’d worked abroad for a few months, and finding what was supposed to be a vibrant city a town shut down, corpse-like, the shops locked with heavy chains on boarded doors. We’d wandered the dusty roads, dismayed and unnerved, and didn’t realise we’d arrived during Ramadan until the stores and restaurants burst open at nine pm and the city sprang into being.

As I began to recount the memory a thin black hatch swung open beside the red rollerdoor; a man peered out, his eyes lighting as he saw us. ‘Magda!’ he cried softly. ‘Come in, come in.’ As she moved to kiss his cheek he shook his head dolefully and patted her shoulder. Jesus, I thought: we’re in a covid-conscious drug den.

Tall and wiry, bedecked with tattoos, his ear a line of glittery rings. He studied Magda’s black eye, raised an eyebrow. Glancing at me she shook her head, and he said nothing.

We followed him along a dark hallway then, behind a heavy burgundy velvet curtain, I missed a narrow step and almost tumbled into, well…I still don’t know how to describe it. Like I’d broken through a portal, into another dimension. Was it a harem; a Depression-era prohibition bar; a Weimar republic dance hall? The softly lit room’s corners were invisible. An orange curvy bar straight from the 1970s sprawled in a booth, its rubber arch wobbly; plastic chairs and upended wooden boxes surrounded Formica card tables. Amid the odour of diesel and dust, cigarette smoke swirled like torpid belly dancers above us, whirling against what were once stucco walls; a hint of lemongrass and lime wafted from diffusers and candles on the few tables. People sitting at card tables fell silent as we entered.

‘Now we’re inside may I introduce you to Kaspar,’ said Magda, her hand on the hairy forearm of the man who opened the door. ‘We’ve known each other for, oh, a very long time.’

A tattoo on his neck grimaced in the dull light. An assassin’s creed symbol beside a skull hovered above a huge pair of eyes on his chest; knives danced along his collar bone. Was he a gang member? A hitman? I felt watched.

‘What would you like to drink?’ said Kaspar, his accent as velvety as Magda’s. ‘Beer, red or white wine, vodka?’

Magda read my bewilderment. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought cash.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ I stared at her, then waved my hand at the room. ‘Is this legal?’ I laughed. ‘No, don’t tell me. It’s fantastic!’ then added stupidly, ‘No one’s wearing a mask.’

Magda and Kaspar grinned. ‘Just keep it down, okay?’ he said. ‘We don’t need the police hearing us.’ Kaspar headed to the bar as we settled in one of the murky corners on a rickety bench. The room was lit only by a few antiquated lamps frocked in old scarves. The floor was a dirty concrete, spattered with petrol stains and wood shavings, the walls rising high into a shadowy ceiling, wires and cables tangled above. It looked like an old workshop, or a mafia torture chamber, the light too slippery and unsettling, but it was warm, the place sold alcohol, music played and it was thrilling to be somewhere so off grid.

A tarnished mirror in a gold-gilt frame hung on one wall, and a huge LED metal light shaped in the letter ‘K’, one of its six globes twitching, shimmered above the bar: both radiated opulence to an otherwise shady room. From the corner of my eye the people were inanimate, like shadowy characters in a painting; I was reminded of an abandoned mis-en-scène, a lonely playhouse…like all the theatres in Sydney, the world, that year.

Two older men in overalls demolished a bag of hot chips with their fingers, their ashtray brimming with butts; a German shepherd slept at their feet beside a container of water. At another table a couple in their twenties, both in business suits, saluted with their cups of wine, snapping photos of each other with their phones.

‘What is this place?’ I asked, then shook my head. ‘No – what was this place?’

Magda shrugged. ‘No idea. A friend of Kaspar’s, perhaps. From those stains on the floor it may have been a mechanic’s. Or a dealer’s. Doesn’t matter, eh?’

‘How did you find it?’

She shrugged again and leaned into the flat round cushions propped along the bench.

Kaspar brought us each a plastic cup brimming with wine. ‘On your tab,’ he winked, and Magda smiled. Perhaps they were lovers; her husband was a real shit. I’d heard their arguments too many times through our terrace’s spindly walls. I jumped as a lamp bulb blew and the room was smogged a dark yellow, Magda’s face now a half-shadow. The wine was probably straight from a cask. Everything was illicit, scandalous; despite the selfish citizen within me hoping the six or so people in the room weren’t covid-affected, I laughed with Magda. I sculled my wine quickly, requested another.

‘I like coming here,’ Magda said as we toasted each other. ‘My house is so boring. Nothing to do.’ She swirled her wine.

‘How is your acting going?’ she asked.

I grimaced. ‘It’s not. A play I was starring in was due to start next month, but naturally that’s been put off again. The director mentioned we might perform it on zoom, you know, on tv or Youtube or something, but I can’t understand how that’d work. I can’t see me being Juliet and acting a love scene when Romeo is miles away.’

‘Better a man be too far than too close.’

‘Ha. I’ll drink to that,’ and we knocked our cups again. A few were dancing now, swaying to the soft disco hit; the room’s noise remained constant, but mute – everyone knew the rules. My spine slouched into the cushion as Kaspar filled our drinks and the Bee Gees whispered of boogie nights. We were silent for a time, surveying the dancers.

‘How did that happen?’ I said eventually. Gathering courage, I nodded my chin at her face. ‘Hurt your eye?’

‘A fall.’ She dragged on her cigarette, lit me one. The taste was still as bitter as I remembered.

‘Poor you! In the street?’

‘The stairs in our terrace are steep.’

‘It looks pretty swollen. Have you seen a doctor?’

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Doctor. He wouldn’t see me because I may be infected. Said I had to go to emergency. I went to a chemist instead. They helped me.’

‘What did your husband say about it? I haven’t seen him around much…I know he’s a pilot but aren’t they all grounded?’

She snorted. ‘He comes and goes as he pleases. Flies a plane for the government sometimes, something he’s not allowed to talk about. I never know when he’ll be home.’ Kaspar winked at her as he walked towards the entrance. ‘One day he might not even return.’ She crossed her fingers around her cigarette, grinned.

As the velvet curtains parted, everyone paused; even the music hesitated. Kaspar was bringing in another couple. We tipped our heads carefully, politely, at the newcomers, and they smiled back uncertainly, as if caught in an illegal gin joint.

‘This — this is living,’ Magda said. ‘Especially being allowed to smoke inside. To do whatever we want.’

We laughed, but Magda’s eyes roamed and I felt the familiar awkwardness of being a bore prickle my heart.

‘How’s your job?’ I asked desperately.

She snorted. ‘Job. I don’t have one now.’

‘Covid?’

She nodded. ‘The office is too small for all of us. One had to go. Out the window I went. Lucky me, eh?’

I knew she worked in an architect’s firm, but had no idea of her position there. Again, I had a foreboding the conversation was over, that she had no intention of discussing her life. I slurped more wine. A woman and man danced alone now, tripping over each other’s feet and tittering to a song spilling from the portable speaker. I hummed along, weaving my hands to the music’s rhythm. Magda watched me with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.

‘Sing along!’ I cried.

She laughed, but shook her head. ‘I need the bathroom. When I get back we will dance, yes?’

‘Tell me about your life, Magda. You’re from, um, Serbia, aren’t you? But were you born here?’

‘Bosnia. And no, I came here in the nineties. After the war.’

‘Oh. With your parents?’

‘No. The war…I don’t want to talk about that now. I want to dance!’

I noticed the men nearby gaping, the stench from their chips packet wrestling with the incense. I felt queasy. The tabletop, graffitied with scratched-in names, cigarette burns and wine stains, reared at me. I began to follow Magda to the toilets but vomit threatened when I rose. I sat down abruptly. I didn’t want to embarrass her. When I opened my eyes I scanned the loo area but saw her on the other side of the room talking closely with Kaspar. He shook his head, her mouth moved quickly; her black eyes were wide, her hands agitated, waving. He wiped the bar with a tea towel. She grasped his arm; appeared to be pleading, staggering. But he untied her hands and moved away, his head still shaking ruefully, almost in time to the music.

Magda stood alone, her arms crossed, her lips tight, then noticed me staring. Immediately she adjusted her body, her face rotated back into its wryness, and she paced the room and sunk confidently into her chair. Her eyes were resolute, as if daring me to question her.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Kaspar is doing a job for me. He’s just being a bit difficult.’

‘Oh? You’re getting work done on the house?’

She laughed, emptying the final cigarette from her packet. After a deep puff she handed it to me. I dragged the nicotine then handed it back. ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘Anyway, he just told me this place will be closing soon.’

I groaned. ‘I don’t want to go home.’

‘Your man is waiting.’

I glanced up quickly, caught the sarcasm in her eyes.

I tapped the table. ‘Fight, fight, fight,’ I said. ‘That’s all me and my ex do. I told you, didn’t I? I’m stuck with him.’ I waved at Kaspar for another drink. ‘No one’ll take him. He’s got nowhere to live – everyone’s too terrified or law-abiding to let him move in. So he still lives with me. And yes, the fucker probably is waiting for me. He likes sex. A lot. The weirder the better.’ I gulped back a surge of vomit. ‘This place, this – whatever it is – is great, Magda. I don’t have to think about him. Especially as I feel I can’t take anymore. I’m so over all this covid shit. And I’m so over him.’ I grinned sourly. ‘Mind you, some nights I’m tempted to jump in his bed. Not for him, just for me. Relationships are the most difficut thing in the universe, don’t you think?’

‘Men are difficult,’ she said. ‘Always. In every way.’ She glanced at Kaspar. ‘Makes you want to escape. Or kill them.’

One of the guys from the next table was suddenly at ours, teetering, swathed in stale whisky. ‘Ladies,’ he said, his smirk knobbly, ‘Wanna dance?’

Magda and I smiled at each other. Locks of curly blonde had fallen from her hair clip, and I saw she was quite beautiful, even with a bruised eye. I’d never really observed her before — her clothes were prudent, unremarkable, her curls usually tied tightly back — but that night I noticed her heavy eyelids, the pine-green line around her dark irises, her cheekbones.

‘I think we’re fine,’ I said in a faux-serious voice. ‘But we’re flattered, really.’

As the drunk opened his mouth Kaspar clapped his hands. ‘We’ve gotta close now, folks. Time to go.’

‘Why?’ the drunk yelled. ‘You’re usually open much later than this.’

‘Hear that siren?’ said Kaspar. ‘A little bird tells me it might be getting closer.’

We were soon back in our street; it was bizarre how close the illegal bar was to our homes. Magda’s shoulders had loosened, and I wrapped my arm through hers, giggling about how naughty we’d been, as we wound through the chilly, withdrawn suburb. The roads smelled of light rain and isolation and our wine.

‘Thanks, Magda,’ I grinned, whispering, despite our neighbouring terrace houses being unlit. ‘We must do that again some time.’ She was shivering; autumn was prodding. I paused a moment, then hugged her.

‘Oops,’ I said. ‘We’re not supposed to do that,’ and winked as I poked my elbow against hers.

‘Who gives a fuck.’

*

From my front door I called at her softly. ‘Can you hear that?’

Despite the moonless night she nodded, her eyes glistening.

‘It’s the neighbours behind us. That guy’s always fighting with his wife. They sound like hyenas. I’m scared he’s going to hurt her.’

‘I feel for the wife.’

‘Sounds like she gives as good as she gets though. Maybe more women should act that way. Hell, she’s a real bitch that one. Maybe she deserves it.’

As I said it I wanted to kick myself. ‘You know what I mean,’ I said dimly, and she shrugged coldly.

‘No one ever is deserving.’ Her hand wavered near her swollen eye.

‘You can tell me,’ I blurted, stepping over the tiny hedge into her yard. Something wet squelched under my foot; I swore apologetically when I realised I’d landed in her small rose garden.

‘You understand nothing,’ she said. ‘Go home.’

‘You should call the police if Archie…if he’s doing anything to you. That he shouldn’t.’

She grabbed the front of my jumper. ‘Just because I showed you something fun tonight doesn’t make us friends. It was just an…escape. You’re just a neighbour, you know nothing, let it stay that way.’ She turned the key in her door. ‘And I’ve got my own ideas for dealing with Archie, so mind your business.’ She ducked inside, slamming it as I trembled on her mat, the rain thickening, wishing I was pricked with just a splinter of tact.

Photo by Juan Ordonez via Unsplash