Essays and Stories by Marian Keyes Read online

  And that 's just how it would work in economy. Business-class passengers would be guaranteed a deluxe service where an ambulance-style vehicle would come to their home and give them their injection right there, so they'd be spared everything—the drive, the check-in, the groping, the delays. Same at the other end—still unconscious, a whole stack of them and their clicky pens could be wheeled through passport control, baggage, etc., and they need know nothing until they'd ARRIVED and everyone 's running around being lovely to them.

  I have seen the future and it 's sedated.

  A version of this was first published in Abroad, March 2004

  Thirty-six Hours in Jo'burg

  A few years ago I went on a book tour of South Africa. It was the beginning of my love affair with this magical continent. Before the work started, I had a day and a half in Johannesburg.

  The thing is, Johannesburg has a terrible reputation for violence, and certainly on the drive from the airport, all the houses looked like grim, blank-faced fortresses. So my publishers had installed Himself and myself in a cozy hotel in a safe suburb where we were less likely to get raped and shot. However, I'd been all geared up for African "otherness" and almost cried at our red swirly carpet and pink, flowery room. It looked like Surrey.

  Disconsolate, I switched on the telly looking for the South African Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (I was keen to add to my collection; I'd seen it in Japanese, Czech and German) and instead I found the pan-African news and I was shot through with a deep thrill at being on this vast continent.

  Because we 'd come in on an overnight flight, we slept for a lot of the day, which was lucky because we were under the strictest instruction to go nowhere on our own. Nowhere.

  Around seven that evening, just as the rose-covered walls were starting to close in, Karen, my publicity girl, sprung us and took us to an area full of bars, restaurants, music and throngs of tall, thin Xhosa and Zulu. Not a bit like Surrey. I cheered up a bit. But after Karen had parked her jeep, she foraged for a rand, to give to the guys minding the cars. She muttered something about how embarrassing all this need for security was, so I told her how we have the same situation in Ireland, how they're called lock-hard men . . . then I noticed something and abruptly, I shut up. Irish lock-hard men don't carry AK-47s.

  On Sunday morning I had a hair appointment. (And as the salon was actually in the hotel, Karen was prepared to let me go without an escort.) Now, a quick word about my hair. It 's thick, frizzy and unruly, and only a highly skilled professional can tame it. I had a week of publicity ahead of me, kicking off with South Africa's version of Ireland AM very early the following morning—too early to get my hair done before it—so Karen had arranged that the hotel's hairdresser come in specially.

  He was a prissy Swiss bloke and very narky about having to work on a Sunday. But he was one of those passive-aggressive types who told me he didn't mind, it 's just that Sunday is his only day off, and that if he doesn't get enough rest, he gets ill, he had a really bad throat infection there last month, he 's prone to throat infections when he doesn't get enough rest, but don't get him wrong, he doesn't mind. So when he "showed" me a phial of special expensive gear which mends split ends (as if !) and told me I was under no obligation to buy it, I felt obliged to buy it.

  When I returned to the room, Himself leaped to his feet and, in ragged tones, told me the rose-covered walls were moving in on him again. However, Karen had told us that if we wanted to go out, to call her. But I didn't want to bother her on a Sunday. (She might make me buy some stuff for my split ends.)

  A dilemma ensued. From our window we could see a shopping center only fifty yards up the road; it didn't look like the sort of place you'd get raped and shot. But then I thought of the men with the AK-47s—and they were the good guys.

  In the end we decided to chance it but, on the short walk, I felt as if I was in Sarajevo, in danger of being picked off by sniper fire.

  The gas thing was the place looked like Donaghmede shopping center, all small and ordinary but there was a market on, jammers with African carvings and metalwork, bizarre-looking vegetables, and smells of exotic cooking. It was intense, exciting, and crammed with Bantu, Indians, even one or two whites. Nothing like Donaghmede. Or Sarajevo.

  Everyone was lovely, no one tried to kill us and I bought an embroidered tablecloth—what was to become the inaugural tablecloth in my tablecloths-bought-on-book-tours collection. (Funny thing is, I'm not a tablecloth kind of person. Must have been the stress.) We even had our lunch before returning to the hotel.

  Giddy and elated with having cheated death, we got through a good portion of the afternoon before the walls began to close in again. We had to get out. Earlier we 'd noticed a small cinema in the shopping center, and after so successfully avoiding being murdered on our previous outing, we decided to give it a whirl. All that was on was Chocolat and under normal circumstances we might have made fun of its tweeness, but in our fragile, dislocated states, it was exactly what we needed.

  However, when we emerged from the cinema, it had started to rain. As an Irish woman, I thought I knew all there was to know about rain. But this African stuff took it to the next level: water tumbled from the sky and richocheted off the pavements in great bucketloads.

  Himself said, "We 'll be drenched."

  Drenched? We 'd be concussed. And worse again, if I went out in that deluge, the narky Swiss man's work would be entirely undone in two seconds and I'd have to go on telly the following morning looking like Krusty the Clown. We waited ten anxious minutes; it got noticeably worse. The roads had become fast-flowing torrents and not a car was about.

  Back in, looking for something to protect my hair. The only shop still open was the pick'n'mix and I explained my situation to the lovely Xhosa woman. From a sheet of plastic, she fashioned a cunning rain hat, like a hanky knotted at four corners that English men used to wear on the beach. (The cleaning staff had got wind that a human drama was unfolding in the Sweet Factory and had gathered to snigger.) Once my head was water-tight, I draped my denim jacket over it and tied the sleeves under my chin. I looked gorgeous. Not.

  We could have whitewater rafted home. So much rain was wrung out of our clothes, you'd swear they'd just been washed. But my hair? Well, my hair was perfect.

  First published in Abroad, September 2003

  Being Sent to Siberia

  News arrived! I was being sent to Russia! To someplace called Novosibirsk.

  I was extremely pleased as I'd always wanted to visit somewhere ending in "sk." I'd favored Omsk, Tomsk and Murmansk, but Novosibirsk would do nicely.

  But where in the vastness of Russia was Novosibirsk? "We 'll buy the city guide to it." Oh, how we laughed. The laughing stopped, however, when I looked it up on the Internet. Himself had left the room and I nearly shouted the house down for him to come and have a look. "Himself ! HIMSELF! I've found out where it is. Novosibirsk is the capital of SiBEEEERia."

  He nearly broke his neck running and in grim silence we stood before the screen and scrolled down through the details. Average temperature in February (which was when we were going) -16 C. Dropping as low as -35 C. "We 'll need gloves," we concluded.

  Then trying to establish the time difference was tricky. Eight hours ahead of GMT. "Unless they have daylight saving time?" "D'you think they have any daylight to save?" I countered bitterly.

  In the following weeks we wrung much hollow laughter from the situation by telling people at every opportunity that we were being sent to Siberia.

  How to keep warm became all we talked about. We shopped for thermal underwear—quartering the average age as soon as we walked into the super-warm-knickers emporium—and passionately we debated the rights and wrongs of fur coats, a debate abruptly abandoned once we discovered how much fur coats actually cost.

  Then word came! A change of plans! We weren't going to Siberia after all! Other parts of Russia instead, all quite cold too, just not as cold as Siberia. We were mortified as by then, we were
dining out nightly on our gulag story. Our credibility was in shreds.

  Day one

  Wearing an awful lot of clothes, we landed in Moscow. At immigration, I was quite annoyed at how quickly they processed us. Call itself Russia! I wanted to queue, I wanted the authentic experience.

  Outside in the perishing cold with sleet in the air and dirty slush underfoot, we met Valya, who would be our guide/minder for the trip. She was fresh-faced and blue-eyed, with blond hair swirled like two Danish pastries over her ears. As soon as we 'd said hello, she told us that her husband had just left her. God, I love Russians. Love them. They'd tell you anything. They do unhappiness with such verve, such style, such passion. As we lugged our suitcase to the car, Valya told me that she had nothing left to live for, but that she would still take care of us on the tour.

  We had a driver, Boris, to take us into the center of Moscow, and he looked so unhappy it was almost comical. He had a wide clown mouth that turned down at the corners. His girl had just left him, Valya told us. After a short conversation in Russian, she divulged it had been for a younger man. Another burst of chat. Who happened to be his brother.

  I sensed a matchmaking moment coming on. "You wouldn't consider your man as a replacement for your husband?" I asked her.

  She considered Boris, then curled her lip. "He is not good at making the sex."

  "But how do you know?"

  "It is why his girl left him. He drinks too much. He wets the bed."

  Ah, well . . .

  We only had four hours in Moscow before getting the overnight train east, just enough time to see there was a Chanel shop in Red Square (Lenin must be rotating in his grave like a great big oul kebab) and to be stopped twice by military police looking for our papers. Everyone always says how gray and grim Russia is, but in Red Square is Saint Basil's Cathederal, the most beautiful building I've ever seen. It 's what someone might dream up on a good acid trip: turrets and spires and onion domes, swirled like ice-cream cones, all decked out in magnificent carnival colors. Ivan the Terrible, who commissioned it, was so pleased with it that he poked out the architect 's eyes. (So he couldn't ever do a cathederal for anyone else—a real mark of respect, your man must 've been thrilled.)

  Over dinner, in a smoke-filled wannabe-brasserie, Valya tried to make herself heard over the ear-blistering techno, to tell us more about her husband doing a runner.

  "Maybe he 'll come back," I bellowed hopefully.

  "He will not," she said matter-of-factly, doing that lovely Russian honest pessimistic thing. Valya was fabulous. (And just a small bit mad, as befits a woman who has just been left by her husband.) I loved her. I am always at my happiest with slightly mad people.

  Then it was time to get the train. Moscow station was like a vision of hell: desperate-looking, unshaven men standing about in the perishing cold, looking for an unofficial portering gig. Everywhere were little kiosks selling drink; they were doing a brisk trade.

  But to my surprise, the train came on time and it was gorgeous. Our sleeper carriage was like a cottage on wheels—it had two little beds, with old-fashioned, patterned blankets and chintz curtains at the windows. Wood paneling lined the walls and it was all cozy and lovely. Just as soon as they turned off the deafening techno.

  We rattled though the snowy night, between two short points on this enormous landmass.

  Day two

  And then it was morning and we had arrived in the beautiful city of Nizhny Novgorod. (I love saying that. "I was in Nizzzhhhhhny Novgorod, you know." Even now, I still look for chances—however tenuous—to drop it into conversations. "So you like chocolate, do you? Funnily enough, I had some lovely chocolate in Nizzzhhhny Novgorod.")

  God it was cold, though, the kind of cold where it hurts to breathe. Although not by local standards—they were having a heat wave; normally at that time of year, it was thirty below. But this was a balmy, unseasonable minus ten.

  We were met by a wonderful young man called Artim, checked into our hotel, the dinkiest, coziest, most charming place. From our bedroom window we could see children ice-skating on a frozen football pitch. I felt very far from home. In a nice way.

  My first gig was a creative writing session with some university students. Artim, Valya, Himself and I descended into the bowels of a violet-walled nightclub, where said students slumped around, reassuringly surly and disenchanted. I beamed with pleasure. I can't be doing with those eager, puppy-eyed teenagers who are keen to learn. It 's not natural.

  My next engagement was a television interview. Off we all went in Artim's car, our numbers swelled further by a sweet if slightly smelly student called Pyotr, who'd developed a crush on me in the violet-walled nightclub. We were stopped twice by military police en route to the telly station.

  The interviewer was a skinny, super-intense bloke who called himself Ed and who wanted to talk about "art."

  "Would you die for your art?"

  Well, of course I wouldn't. But I didn't want to disappoint him, so I nodded yes, certainly, indeed 'n I would.

  But then he threw a curveball. "We have just heard the tragic news that your Princess Margaret has died. Would you like to say something?"

  Caught on the hop, I said the first thing that came into my head. "They should have let her marry the man she loved. The bastards."

  This caused confusion. "You do not love your royal family?"

  "Irish, see? Not mine."

  More confusion. When the interview ended, we decided to go for a drink, and Ed said he 'd come too. And so would his researcher. By now, my entourage had swelled to Jennifer Lopez–sized proportions.

  Back in the hotel, before we went out for dinner, myself and Himself were hit by a sudden longing for coffee. Luckily we had sachets—they'd been in our little welcome packs on the train—all we needed was boiling water, so I volunteered to try out my Russian on the hotel staff. Standing in front of the mirror, I practiced a few times: a gracious smile, then "Zdrastvuti." ("Hello.") "Voda, pazhalsta." ("Water, please.")

  Down I went, smiled at the lady and delivered the line.

  "Hmmm?" she went. "Oh! You want hot water? Would you like it here or in your room? Whichever you like, it 's up to you."

  "Er, right. Up in the room so."

  (Helpful hint for you here, which I discovered entirely by accident because I wanted to cool my coffee down so I could drink it: if you want a cappuccino but you don't have access to a machine, you could try adding carbonated Russian water to your coffee. It fizzes and froths like something in a scientific experiment. Funnily enough, it doesn't seem to work with non-Russian water.)

  Then we went out for dinner and were stopped about sixteen times by the military police on the way to the restaurant. I was starting to recognize some of them.

  We had a lovely evening, the people were so intelligent, warm and funny, tinging even their saddest stories with a very attractive irony. I LOVE Russians. I want to be one. The thing about them is, in an increasingly homogenous world, they're so Russian. And when the bill came, the Russians flung themselves at it, doing that thing that Irish people do, wrestling people to the ground, trying to pay for everything. See, I like that.

  Day three

  Met Valya on the way down for breakfast and made the mistake of asking, "How did you sleep?"

  Most people would just say, "Fine." But Valya rendered a blowby-blow account of her feelings. Clopping down the stairs to the breakfast room, she said, "I am thinking about him making the sex with his new one and I cannot sleep. I smoke all night and think of him making the sex with me instead."

  Still talking loudly about making the sex, we entered a neat little dining room with white linen embroidered tablecloths and napkins. Everything was charmingly twee, apart from the telly blasting out techno at a level that felt like a physical assault, and the fug of cigarette smoke obscuring the sideboard of food.

  That afternoon we proceeded to the town hall—Nizhny Novgorod was having an arts festival and I was the star exhibit! The pl
ace was jammers and the atmosphere was buoyant and lovely people kept appearing to practice their English on me, except Pyotr kept trying to shoo them away so he could have me to his (smelly) self.

  Then it was showtime and just as I mounted the stage to start my reading, the lights flickered, once, twice, then disappeared entirely. What the . . . ? It was the electricity! We were having a power cut. A lovely, authentic Russian power cut! Was it the real thing or were they just laying it on for us tourists?

  Oh, it seemed to be the real thing, all right. Everyone was rushing around and people kept promising me, "This never happens. Never!"

  Inquiries were made: was it a localized thing? Just the nightclub, perhaps? But no, the whole town was out. Even though it was only three in the afternoon, it was quite dark. A decision was made, I would do my reading by candlelight. But I couldn't read and hold my candle at the same time, in case I set my book on fire, so the lovestruck Pyotr was on his feet offering to hold my candle. As it were. So the show went on, with Pyotr taking every opportunity to stand far too close to me. But hey, I was facing forty and flattered.