Featured Fiction: Louis Harnett O’Meara
Louis Harnett O’Meara is a British writer living in Brooklyn, where he edits for A Public Space. His work has been published in The London Magazine, Peripheries, and has aired on BBC Radio 4. A collection of his short fiction is forthcoming with Staircase Books, a small press based in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
An Introduction from John Fulton
It’s my pleasure to present the fiction of Louis Harnett O’Meara to the readers of Arrowsmith Journal. In “Old Friends,” Harnett O’Meara tells a subtle and achingly tense story about two school friends meeting up after some years apart in Mexico City. The dialogue here is sharp, funny, and often full of subtext that allows the reader to see into the secret lives of these characters. Harnett O’Meara is a master of what Charles Baxter calls counterpointed characterization: namely, underscoring differences between characters that create energy and tension in a relationship and that give off a light that can reveal layers we, and sometimes the characters themselves, would not otherwise see. While the language here is understated, it’s also precise and charged with a Jamesian suggestiveness that rewards the careful reader. Harnett O’Meara’s craft is honed and impressive and allows him to convey to the reader his considerable insights about friendship, desire, and the small tragedy of those who choose to live dishonestly.
Old Friends
By his ninth month in Mexico City, Ollie had almost forgotten that life continued in the UK. His separation from things had begun to seem settled, even, now that the initial difficulties of making a life abroad were behind him. He’d found a small apartment in the city’s northeast, which he paid for in cash upfront each month. He made his salary as a freelance writer and photographer, an occupation he’d dreamed of during those years prior, spent working in PR. He ate well, exercised more than ever, and went to Spanish classes three times a week. The friends Ollie had missed at first had been replaced by expats and city natives who were also in their twenty-somethings, and whose fresh conceptions of his character permitted him some flexibility in his conceptions of himself.
So, news from Gabriel came as a surprise. He’d written to Ollie a week ago to say he was visiting the city on a business trip. Or in Gabriel’s own words: “Thought I’d shoot you a quick one as a CDMX meet with the IADB means I’ll be very much in town.” Ollie put off responding for a couple of days. He’d put off responding to Gabriel’s other messages before that, both privately and in the group chats he’d muted. His distaste for those English schoolboy affectations had only grown as his distance from them had become more secure. But there was something inexorable about his friend’s presence in the city. Ollie got back eventually, as both of them knew he would, suggesting they go for lunch nearby. While Gabriel’s first messages were numerous and verbose, the next came alone and was telegraphic: “Tomorrow, 1500, Semilla on Parqué Mexico.”
The restaurant was a twenty-minute walk from Ollie’s apartment, provided he didn’t keep tripping on the roots that broke through the paving stones. He swore to himself, stubbing his toe on one for the second time. He was rushing. But why? Out of nervousness, in part, he supposed. Certain changes to his way of life would need explaining. It wasn’t only that, though: he felt a sense of duty. Gabriel had been Ollie’s first and only friend when he’d started boarding at Banlowe. He’d arrived shortly after his parents’ divorce, sixteen years old and straight from a state academy, his self-esteem lower than ever and his northern accent sounding out of place in those old Georgian halls. Gabriel put an end to the initial lonely weeks: he invited Ollie on walks around the grounds, included him in the dinners at restaurants in town. It meant being among the wealthier, better-looking lot in school, so Ollie had accepted it as a blessing at the time.
Still, it was strange, Ollie had since thought, that Gabriel had taken him in. Gabriel had always played the ringmaster and rarely showed that same charitable impulse to the other boys. He had no problem singling others out for minor social indiscretions or for their failures courting girls. And they loved him for it. Whenever Gabriel came back from family holidays, discussions would erupt over who’d discovered gifts, tokens of his favour, left beneath their pillows. But no one ever questioned Ollie. It went without saying that he’d received that carton of Swiss cigarettes or one of those demis of Côtes du Rhône. Ollie, who’d always stood outside things and never felt the pressure to act the big man or chase the girls. Whose presence, for Gabriel, had always seemed to be enough.
Ollie recognised the street that the restaurant Semilla was on: crumbling Art Nouveau-style townhouses stood behind tall trees whose leaves freckled shadows onto the curve of the road. The park the restaurant faced was ideal for street photography, abundant in fountains and dark foliage, and Ollie had come out a number of times to shoot the dancers who gathered on its square. “TANGO CLASSES—SUNDAY, 1700—PARQUÉ MEXICO,” announced a flyer on Semilla’s facade. The outdoor seating area was full, a babble of Spanish and American-accented English rising from the crowd. A busker’s reedy voice cut through. He was standing at the street corner beyond the planters at the terrace’s periphery, a guitar slung over one shoulder, the sun tracing his face’s rivets as his mouth drew out each note. A love song.
Ollie knocked into a man’s chair as he approached the entrance. He apologised, doing his best to skirt around, but the man was already getting up.
“Ollie!” he said, placing a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “It’s me—me, you bloody idiot! How the hell are you?”
Ollie had rarely seen Gabriel in a suit and tie before. He had a beard too, a short black one, which was thick for twenty-seven. And his face and body had filled out. Gabriel had always put on the airs of someone much older, but now, for the first time, Ollie could picture him in his middle-age.
“Sorry, Gabriel—”
“No need for apologies!” Gabriel said, pulling Ollie into an embrace. “I imagine it’s the suit, have just been in a meeting I’m afraid to say. I’ve been growing this thing out as well. Feel like a damn imposter, but there you are! Seems to go down better with the clients when they don’t quite know my age. But sit down for god’s sake. Sit down! And help yourself to the bread; I can’t eat it all myself. It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Ollie said, taking a chair. “It was the suit, you’re right. And the beard. They look good on you.”
Gabriel laughed, an easy whoop that reminded Ollie why people liked him. “I do my best. And you—head shaved, I see. Very utilitarian, very handsome. You’ve even put on a shirt.”
Ollie brought a furtive hand to his button-down. “Thought I’d make an effort.”
“Good of you,” Gabriel said. “Awfully good. I’m glad you did. We look dressed the part for a couple of cocktails later on. The two amigos! And for now—Señor. Señor! Dos cervezas, por favor. And some of that—what’s that, that cactus juice? Señor! And dos mezcal! Yes, dos! Por favor!” He turned back to Ollie. “On the company card.”
Ollie smiled, reclining in his chair and crossing his legs. “Glad to see things are going well. You’re Mr. Dinero now.”
Gabriel whooped again. “You said it, my boy! You bloody well said it. The head ponchos are toying with putting me on the Latin America brief, and I must say, I wouldn’t be at all opposed. Markets here going haywire. London, you know how it is: all shiny offices, familiar faces, easy living. Nothing like this—this grit. Depends on Grace though. She might not be too keen on us making the move to—well, Rio, or Santiago, or here.”
“You’re still with her?”
“Eight years, for my sins. But let’s not talk about Grace now. Tell me, my boy, what’s happening with you?”
Ollie shrugged, then gestured at the scene around them. “This. A little photography here and there. A little writing. I’m learning Spanish.”
“I’ve seen some of the photographs you posted, read some of the pieces. Damn fine, if you’ll take me as any judge on the matter. You really do seem to have the knack.” Gabriel tore a piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth.
“Published a piece with a New York magazine lately. Nothing you’d know, but it’s a good one. Burned through the savings, though.”
Gabriel wagged a finger as he swallowed. “Do you know,” he said, “I always thought you had it in you. For anything. Not this banking nonsense, of course. But for something you really care about. The money’s the least of your worries. Do as I say and not as I do: follow your heart and the money will come. Oh, look!” Gabriel nodded over Ollie’s shoulder: the waiter was back with their drinks. “Gracias muchas,” he said. “Hablar inglés?”
“I do, my friend.”
“Excellent stuff. And your name?”
“Miguel.”
Ollie couldn’t help but notice the waiter was attractive: white teeth, high cheekbones, an easy posture and dark eyes. Was that a feminine tenor to his voice? Ollie tugged again at the hem of his shirt.
“And could you tell us, Miguel,” Gabriel went on, “in your humble opinion, which tacos might be best?”
“If you haven’t tried los tacos al pastor, you must. They are pork and pineapple.”
“Pineapple! Bloody pineapple. Priceless. We’ll have—what? Five of them good for you, Ollie? Ten of those tacos, por favor! And Miguel, I must say: your English is awfully good.”
__
Maybe it was down to familiarity, or maybe it was the time that had passed, but Gabriel’s manner didn’t irritate Ollie as much as he’d expected. Each time his pretensions were about to become unbearable, he’d deliver a statement with just enough irony to draw it back: half a smile after “bottoms up,” a hammy accent behind each “awfully.” Gabriel’s cultural ignorance was, on the face of it, well-meaning, and Ollie even gained a sort of thrill at his being so comfortably out of place. They toasted to “old friends,” and it struck Ollie that this was really what they were, and that their meeting wasn’t only one of obligation.
The food was good, and they ordered a couple more rounds of drinks. Little Timmy was writing for the finance papers these days, Gabriel told Ollie—the same Timmy who’d pissed himself on the dance floor at Banlowe in their final year. He slapped his knee when Ollie reminded him of Jamie Goldsmith, working for MI5 now, who’d brought a gun-shaped lighter on the history trip to Uzbekistan.
“Pillock!” Gabriel said between wheezes, joining Ollie’s own uproar. “Once border security was through with him, we said he’d never walk the same!”
As the pair settled down, a new busker piped through. He was singing something abrasive, a ballad, the strumming loud and his voice insistent over the café’s music.
“Sometimes I’d rather pay them to stop,” Ollie said, nodding to the singer.
“Oh?”
“Not that I’d be without them, overall. But you don’t get a say in who’s playing.”
“No,” Gabriel said. “I see what you mean.”
Ollie took a cigarette from his shirt pocket once he’d finished eating. “You don’t mind?” he asked, and Gabriel shook his head.
Coiling from Ollie’s cigarette, the smoke caught in the restaurant’s lighting, which bled dimly now onto the street. Ollie’s eyes drifted to Gabriel, who was peering beyond the terrace. His friend had done so much to compose his face, but he couldn’t disguise a boyish anxiety that now played across it: tension strained his bottom lip, plucked at the corners of his eyes. Ollie followed Gabriel’s line of vision to the park where, among the bushes and the palm fronds, the evening’s shadows were gathering.
“Did you hear about George?” Gabriel said.
“Lanchester?”
“Supposed to be getting married last Autumn.”
“To—Polly?”
“Never happened. Never had it in him.”
“I never knew her, really.”
Gabriel continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “Two days before the wedding he phoned me. Wanted to talk it through. God only knows why me; I hadn’t spoken to him since the stag. He said he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. They’d been together—what? Since university. Second year, at least. What was I meant to say? I asked him why he’d proposed in the first place, and he told me everything he’d said already: how he felt they were a good match, how he thought he loved her, how he didn’t know if anyone else would put up with the way he goes on. And he does go on. Remember how he’d take one of us aside when we were out, try to go down the heart-to-heart route? Well, Polly helped him keep a lid on all of that. That’s what I told him. I told him he’d be daft to duck out now. A nice-looking girl like her. Good head on her shoulders. Good family, too. The venue had been hired, food paid for, everyone invited. Christ. A man has to get on with a thing if he commits to it, I said.”
Ollie tapped his cigarette-end into the ashtray.
“He didn’t,” Gabriel said. “Get on with it, that is. Cue the theatrics. Kept saying he hadn’t experienced enough, hadn’t seen enough. He said that he didn’t know himself yet, that it was like a rope was tightening around his neck—the usual bollocks. I said he’d have plenty of time to figure out all of that once they were married. He agreed with me, eventually. He’d even finished with the blubbing by the time we got off the phone. But lo and behold, next week an email arrives.” Gabriel splayed his hands. “The marriage was off.”
“That’s tough.”
“Tough for Polly. You’ll think me crude, but I haven’t spoken to George since. I haven’t the time for people like that.”
Ollie stubbed out his cigarette. The busker had finished singing. He walked between the tables, holding out his hat. Ollie dropped in a twenty-peso note, Gabriel a two-hundred.
“But you’ll have to forgive me,” Gabriel said. “I’m getting rather dour. Tell me, how are things with you—any chicas you’ve been seeing? Sampling the local cuisine?”
“The local cuisine.” Ollie frowned, resting an elbow on the table.
“Go on. Numbers, names—faces too, assuming there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Not ashamed, no. Let’s see.” He was surprised to find the nervousness he’d felt earlier had vanished. He counted them off on one hand. “The first was Ricardo. Then there was José. Jeronimo. And Rodrigo. That’s four.”
Gabriel stared at Ollie, eyebrows raised. He drank deeply from his beer, then asked, “What’s brought this on?”
“New country. New people. Hard to say.”
“And you’re—happy?”
“Yes. Happy.”
“God!” Gabriel leaned back in his chair. Then, as if he’d made up his mind, he slapped his hands together and sat forward, whooping as he did so. “Then I’m happy for you. Great news, Ollie! It really is. And brave of you, I must say. Most blokes wouldn’t—well, do any of that.”
“I suppose not.”
“And when you—do you—” Gabriel shook his head. “Sorry. A gentleman doesn’t tell, and nor should one enquire. A celebration is in order!” He opened his wallet and threw down a black credit card. “Clear the tab and order a couple of cocktails—a negroni for me, if they have it, and whatever you fancy, anything at all.” Standing, he looked toward the navy sky then down again at Ollie. “Brave of you,” he repeated. “Really. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pay a visit to the little boys’ room.”
__
The alcohol mixed with a sense of new ease in Ollie. He realised now that he’d been anxious about coming out, and was pleased to see the fear had been misplaced. When the waiter, Miguel, came to the table, Ollie delayed him with idle talk in Spanish, first apologising for his friend’s English-ness, then complimenting him on his smile. Guided by that same instinctual confidence that had led him to four other men, Ollie said he thought Miguel would shoot well and asked him if he’d ever modelled. Miguel laughed, pretending to be embarrassed, and said he hadn’t. He said that he wouldn’t mind modelling, but he didn’t think it would be right for Ollie to hide his face behind a camera. Ollie insisted on buying Miguel a drink before he left, a mezcal. He paid the tab off, leaving an excessive tip.
Another busker started up before Gabriel returned, playing an accordion this time, wearing brown suede trousers and a gallon hat. The instrument squeaked. His voice was tuneless. As Gabriel sat back down, he whooped and nodded the musician’s way.
“Not this one either then?” he said, rubbing his nose. He was bright-eyed and spoke loudly.
“Not this one either.”
Gabriel took his card back, sliding it into his wallet as Ollie lit another cigarette, before he held out his hand and asked, “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“I thought you’d quit?”
“You’re a gent. And I did—I have.” Gabriel drew deeply, then exhaled a slim bouquet of smoke. “We must take certain little liberties.”
“I ordered negronis for both of us,” Ollie said. “And a mezcal for the waiter. I hope that’s all right.”
“All right?” Gabriel grinned. “Of course, Ollie. Of course it’s all right. That’s only what the money’s there for. What else do you think I’m going to do with it? Hm—?”
Realising the question wasn’t merely rhetorical, Ollie answered, “Whatever you like, I suppose.”
“Whatever I like.” Gabriel took another drag, then coughed convulsively until it turned into a laugh. “Whatever I like! If only, my boy!” He handed the cigarette back to Ollie. Midway through passing it, though, he extended one finger and pressed it into Ollie’s palm, making him pause. “But tell me,” he said, his voice low. “The waiter. You like him, don’t you?”
Ollie shook his head, smiling.
“It’s okay. I’d like to talk about these things. I don’t want us to be, well. You know. But look—” Gabriel took his finger away, then stood and opened his arms. “Here he comes. Manuel! Como estas?”
“Bien, amigo,” Miguel said, placing down their drinks. “How are you?”
“Not bad at all, my boy! I am tres bien. We were just talking about you—only good things, I promise. Oliver here tells me the two of you are getting on famously. You’re to join us for a nightcap, I hear? One to wet the whistle, if you see what I mean. Sit with us, please. Sit!”
“I cannot stay long,” he said, without sitting. “My boss does not like it.”
“Well, then we can bloody well stand.” Gabriel flicked the cigarette into a planter and pulled Ollie up, pushing a negroni into his palm. Gabriel took a deep draught of his own and smacked his lips. “We should toast,” he went on. “A toast! Pick up your mezcal, Manuel. And don’t look so bloody stiff, the pair of you!”
Miguel lifted his mezcal, though seemed eager to leave.
“Now, I want to tell you a story, Manuel,” Gabriel began, putting an arm around Ollie’s shoulder. “The two of us are old pals. Yes: I took him in. And when this boy started at my school, he used to hang around, looking all moody at breaks. We all thought him a miserable fuck, if you’ll pardon my español. And in class—in class he didn’t seem to have a clue what he was saying. Not that—” Gabriel turned to Ollie. “Mr. Dowden, remember him? Bald prick, mad as a bull. You didn’t answer back to Mr. Dowden, that was just the way of it. Now, in one of this boy’s first classes with him, maybe two weeks in, Dowden gives out the definition of a word—I can’t remember what—but you, Ollie here, quick as anything, corrects him. He says you’re wrong and you say you’re not. You ask him to look it up and he says he won’t. He just kept saying his definition over and over, looked like his eyes were going to pop out. Put you in detention. Of course, you’d done nothing. We all knew it. But you just smiled. You didn’t care.” Gabriel rubbed his nose. “You simply didn’t care.”
“The toast, Gabriel,” Ollie prompted.
“That’s right!” Gabriel said, turning back to Miguel. “A final toast! We toasted before, Manuel, to old friends. Well, I know I probably won’t see you again, but here’s to hoping Ollie does. You couldn’t do better than this chap.” Gabriel took Ollie’s hand in his own and squeezed. “So,” he said, raising his voice above the busker. “To new friends, then! And new adventures.”
The three of them drank, Gabriel spilling negroni down his shirt. Ollie tried to loosen his fingers, but Gabriel wouldn’t let go.
“I have to work,” Miguel said to Ollie in Spanish, his tone abrupt.
“Don’t worry,” Ollie replied, also in Spanish. “We’re leaving now.”
“It was too much, wasn’t it,” Gabriel said to Ollie. “The speech. Oh, I know you’re talking about me. Talking that mumbo jumbo!” He whooped, then pulled his wallet back out, extracting a five-hundred-peso note. “Here, Manuel, take this and clear off!”
Miguel took the note and placed it on the table, his movements now void of effeminacy, his face darkened and masklike.
“Don’t,” Ollie said, taking Gabriel’s arm.
“Don’t what? Nothing between you, that’s what you said! No need of him. Manuel—another for your trouble.”
“Stop it, Gabriel.”
“Say it in español, why don’t you? Put it to some use.”
“Basta,” Ollie said.
Miguel said, “It is enough.”
“Basta,” Gabriel repeated, then laughed. “Enough, is it?”
Ollie raised his hand to Gabriel’s shoulder and Miguel took the other, so they were set to drag him away. Then, the two of them about to pull together, the busker struck a long, discordant note, and Ollie flinched, making Gabriel laugh louder.
“Basta!” Gabriel said, smiling at his friend, shaking free of both hands. “There we go! Basta! That’s enough!” Then he turned to face the busker. “Basta!” he continued to shout, starting forward through the terrace, skirting the tables and the planters, his wallet still open in his hand. “Basta!” he said, repeating the same word again and again: “Basta! Basta! Basta, señor! Basta!” He arrived at the busker and held a note up to his face. “Basta!” He threw it on the ground. “Basta! Basta, señor! Basta!” He threw down another note, then another. The busker stopped playing. “Basta!” The diners on the terrace had gone quiet now, all of them watching. “Basta!” Gabriel’s voice went up an octave, like Speedy Gonzalez. “Arriba, arriba! Basta! Comprende? Basta! Arriba, señor!” He skipped on the spot, laughing, and threw down three more notes. He whooped, clapped his hands, then waved them, as if shooing the accordion player away. “Arriba, señor! Comprende? Basta!”
The busker looked from Gabriel to the terrace, then back to Gabriel, and spat on the floor at his feet. He bent down to take the money, stuffing the bills into the side-pocket of his accordion. Then he turned and walked away.
Gabriel whooped again. “Gracias!” he shouted. “Gracias, amigo! Gracias! Adiós!”
Not waiting for Miguel’s response, Ollie came from behind and took Gabriel by an arm, dragging him away. The two crossed the road and walked quickly along a pathway through Parque México, passing a fountain and beneath a pergola overgrown with flowered vines, until they came out on the park’s far side. They stopped at the side of the road, Gabriel with one hand against a lamp post and Ollie leaning on the park railing. Two cars drove by.
When Ollie regained his breath, he looked up to see Gabriel still panting. Ollie approached, uncertain of his own intentions as he paused above his friend, bent double, before he pressed two hands against his back and shoved him hard toward the paving stones.
Gabriel laughed loudly, catching himself.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Ollie said.
“Just having some fun, my boy.”
Ollie pushed him again, enjoying the contact, the anger, expressing himself as he hadn't for longer than he could say. Gabriel whooped again, again catching himself from falling. He stumbled at the third shove, one knee falling to the ground, but was ready for the fourth: he caught Ollie’s arm to spin him around, taking his head to his chest before pinning his hands behind his back. He brought Ollie down and brought him to the pavement, still out of breath but seemingly no weaker for it.
“Basta,” Gabriel let out weakly, whooping a final time.
Held there, with no hope of resistance, Ollie felt suddenly at ease. He let his body soften and smiled to himself as he watched the cars continue to pass them by. He spotted a bag of white powder, presumably dropped by Gabriel during the scuffle, glowing orange in the light, fallen on the floor. Then, still looking at the powder, Ollie started laughing. Though his chest was pressed against the pavement, he laughed harder than he had all night, and as Gabriel loosened his grip, he let out thick belly laughs that soon turned sharp and forceful, his stomach curling against the concrete beneath him, laughter coming harder and harder until he was retching out each fresh wave. Gabriel had stood by the time the fit had ended, and Ollie turned to see his friend, silhouetted before the streetlamp.
“Gabriel,” Ollie said from where he lay. “Do you want to know something?”
“Hm?”
“I remembered the word.”
“The word?” The shadow’s voice betrayed no emotion.
“The word Mr. Dowden said,” Ollie went on. “The one you mentioned. It was lest. He thought it meant ‘unless.’”
“Lest? I see. Lest. Well. What does it mean?”
“It means ‘in case.’ Like, ‘Don’t act, lest you fail.’ Or, ‘Don’t do that, lest they don’t like it.’ Or, ‘Don’t come toward me, lest I—lest—’”
The two of them remained still and silent for anywhere between three and thirty seconds. Then Gabriel stepped forward and held his hand out, pulling Ollie up, scooping up the fallen powder after and tucking it into his inside jacket pocket. Looking away from his friend and toward the road, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m getting married, Ollie.”
He stated it so matter-of-factly that Ollie didn’t register the words right away. Another wave of laughter ran through him, again ending with a retch.
“Grace and I,” Gabriel continued. “The family know, of course, but we’re yet to mention it to friends. Thought I’d tell you first. We’ll be tying the knot in Spring.”
“When did you decide?”
“Oh, you know. These things need to happen at some stage or another. Proposed to her last week.” He stepped away, as if disinterested in what he had to say, and he thumbed a taxi that continued by.
“Gabriel—congratulations.” Ollie stepped after him, taking his shoulder.
Gabriel nodded but moved away again. “I’d love to see you at the wedding, but I understand you have a life to attend to.”
“I’ll come,” Ollie said. “Of course I’ll come.”
“Good of you,” Gabriel said, though looking away again; he had more luck with a passing cab this time. He signalled for the driver to wait a second, then turned to Ollie. They embraced long enough to feel each other’s warmth. He ran his hands down Ollie’s sides and stepped back.
“As you were, my boy. You’ll let me know how things go? Any big commissions. I want to know about these things. And—anything else.”
“Of course.”
Stepping off the pavement and opening the car door, Gabriel continued, “And Ollie, I’d rather you didn’t mention this evening to anyone.”
“This evening?”
Gabriel’s expression was businesslike now, and touched with sympathy, as if Ollie were somehow deluded. “The silliness,” he said. “It wouldn’t do.”
“The silliness. No. I see.”
Gabriel nodded at a deal done. “Knew I could count on you.”
The door slammed, the shadow of the cab’s interior obscuring Gabriel completely. Ollie waved anyway. As the car pulled away, Ollie laughed once to himself; it came more easily this time, but still was pained. He stayed where he was and watched the red lights of the bumper recede, until they disappeared around a bend.