The Mountain Shadow

‘It’s alright,’ Kavita said, staring evenly at Concannon. ‘I believe in free speech. If you put a hand on me, I’ll cut it off. But if you just sit there, talking like an idiot, hey, you can do that all night long for all I care.’

‘Oh, so, you are a fuckin’ cunt-licker,’ Concannon grinned back at her.

‘As a matter of fact –’ she began.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Didier interrupted her, ‘it’s none of your business.’

Concannon’s grin hardened at the edges. His eyes glittered, sunlight on the back of a cobra’s hood. He turned to face Didier. The menace in his expression was clear. The rudeness to Kavita had been a ruse to provoke Didier.

It worked. Didier’s eyes were indigo flames.

‘You should powder your nose and put on your dress, sweetheart,’ Concannon growled. ‘All you fuckin’ homos should wear dresses. As a warning, like, for the rest of us. If you get fucked like a woman, you should dress like one.’

‘You should have the courage, if not the honour,’ Didier replied evenly, ‘to discuss this privately. Outside.’

‘You’re a fuckin’ unnatural thing,’ Concannon hissed, through barely parted lips.

We were all on our feet. Naveen reached out to grab Concannon’s shirt. Vinson and I separated the two men, as waiters rushed at us from all corners of the bar.

The waiters at Leopold’s had a unique internship in those years: if they put on boxing gloves and lasted two minutes in the back lane with the very big, very tough Sikh head waiter, they got the job. Six of those waiters, directed by the very big, very tough Sikh head waiter, surrounded our table.

Concannon looked around quickly, his hard smile widening to show an uneven set of yellowing teeth. For a few seconds he listened to the voice within, urging him to fight and die. In some men, that’s the sweetest voice that ever speaks to them. Then the viciousness softened into cunning, and he began to back away through the circle of waiters.

‘You know what?’ he said, stepping backwards. ‘Fuck yez! Fuck yez all!’

‘What the hell was that all about?’ Vinson gasped as Concannon stomped out into the street, pushing shoppers aside.

‘It is obvious, Stuart,’ Didier said as we slowly sat down again.

He was the only one of us who hadn’t stood, and the only one who seemed calm.

‘Not to me, man.’

‘I have seen this phenomenon many times, Stuart, in many countries. The man is almost uncontrollably attracted to me.’

Vinson spluttered beer foam across the table. Kavita howled with laughter.

‘Are you saying he’s gay?’ Naveen asked.

‘Does a man have to be gay,’ Didier asked, giving him a look to tan leather, ‘to be attracted to Didier?’

‘Okay, okay,’ Naveen grinned.

‘I don’t think he’s gay,’ Vinson said. ‘He goes to prostitutes. I think he’s just crazy.’

‘You got that right,’ Kavita said, waving her glass in front of his bewildered frown.

Sweetie, who’d been standing well away from the confrontation, slapped a filthy rag on our table as a sign that he was ready to take our order. He picked his crooked nose with his middle finger, wiped it on his jacket, and let out a sigh.

‘Aur kuch?’ he menaced. Anything else?

Didier was about to make an order, but I stopped him.

‘Not for me,’ I said, standing and collecting my keys.

‘But, no!’ Didier protested. ‘One more, surely?’

‘I didn’t finish the last one. I’m riding.’

‘I’m with you, cowboy,’ Kavita said, joining me. ‘I told Lisa I’d call around tonight. I’ll come home with you, if you don’t mind?’

‘Happy to have you along.’

‘But . . . can a gay man go to prostitutes, like, a lot?’ Vinson asked, leaning toward Didier.

Didier lit a cigarette, examined the glow for a moment, and then addressed Vinson, his eyes narrowing.

‘Have you not heard them say, Stuart, that a gay man can do everything that a man wants?’

‘What?’ Vinson asked, adrift as an iceberg.

‘They also say that ignorance is bliss,’ I said, exchanging a smile with Didier. ‘And I’m gonna follow my bliss home.’

We left the bar and made our way through the crush of shoppers to the parking area, where I’d left my bike.

As I put the key into the ignition, a very strong hand reached out and seized my forearm. It was Concannon.

‘Fuck him, eh?’ he said, smiling widely.

‘What?’

‘Fuck him. The French mincer.’

‘You’re crazier than you know, Concannon.’

‘I can’t argue with that. And I don’t want to argue. I’ve got that money. Ten grand. Let’s go and get drunk.’

‘I’m going home,’ I said, pulling my arm free to put the key in the ignition.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun! Let’s go out, you and me. Let’s go pick a fight. Let’s find some really tough bastards, and hurt them. Let’s have fun, man!’

‘Attractive and all as that –’

‘I’ve got this new Irish music,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s fuckin’ grand. The thing about Irish music, you know, is that it’s so good to fight to.’

‘No.’

‘Ah, come on! At least listen to it, and get drunk with me.’

‘No.’

‘That Frenchman’s a fuckin’ faggot!’

‘Concannon –’