A Beggar’s Kingdom

“There isn’t going to be.”

“I mean, next time for Quatrang, fool.”

“Oh.”

As they got off at Bank, Ashton asked Julian if Devi was right. Was his skepticism a burden?

Julian admitted it was. “But it’s fine, Ash, it’s no longer an issue. It’s in the past. And the past is done.”

They strode quickly down the long length of the Bank of England’s windowless marble wall, and as they turned the corner on Lothbury, Ashton said, “Then why do I keep feeling as Faulkner did, that if the past was truly done, there would be less grief and sorrow? Seems to me that not only is the past not done, it’s not even the fucking past.”

Faulkner was right. There was no was. There was only is.

But Julian was done. To prove to his friend there was nothing to worry about, the next time they had lunch at Devi’s, Julian announced he wasn’t going back.

“That’s fine,” Devi said.

“I mean it.”

“I hope so. As you know, I think that’s best—for many reasons.”

Julian gave Devi a shut-the-hell-up glare and Ashton an I-told-you-so one. Both men rolled their eyes.

“Sometimes, Ashton, I argue with your friend,” Devi said, “because in arguing back, Julian defines for himself what he is. When I agree with him too much, it unsettles him, makes him cantankerous. Like now.”

“That’s not true!” That was Julian.

Ashton said nothing.

“All things being equal, Julian will always choose a fight,” Devi said. “He prefers it to almost anything—inside and outside the ring. He needs combat to survive. The easy life suffocates him. The easy answer is the last thing he wants. Contact and combat is your friend’s motto.”

Ashton said nothing, looking upset that Devi figured out in five minutes what had taken him much longer.

“How is your father, Ashton?” Devi said. “Have you seen him this week? What did you two talk about?”

“I can’t stand that man,” Ashton said to Julian after they left.

Julian smirked. “What’s with you two? He’s not crazy about you either. The other week he called you a born wanderer.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, his insufferability,” Ashton said, full of pique. “I’m not the born wanderer. That’s how you know the guy’s a fraud. He can’t even see what’s in front of him. You’re the born wanderer.”

Julian continued to see Devi but on his own. Devi cooked for Julian. Often they had cha ca, sizzling chunks of fried fish with garlic, ginger, turmeric and dill. Julian could’ve eaten it every day for a year, it was that good. When he told the cook what Ashton had said, Devi smiled condescendingly. “Ask your friend if he knows the meaning of the word wander. You’re only a wanderer if you travel alone. When there are two of you, it’s not called wandering. It’s called an adventure. And you and your girl are on an extraordinary adventure.”

“Were on an adventure.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“And Ashton is not alone. He’s with Riley.”

“Tell me more about this Riley,” Devi said. “Is she living here in London with him?”

Damn that Devi! “Even so, he’s still not alone. I’m here with him.”

“Are you, Julian?”

It was really time to go.

“When is he moving back to L.A.?” Devi asked. “I don’t see the harp or the lamb with him. I see the smoke of torment. I see woe in the street.”

“Can you stop it? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you see?”

“Not much. I told you, I feel things. Things that aren’t good.”

“How many more things that aren’t good can happen to me, Devi?”

“Not to you,” Devi said. “To him.”

Grimly Julian stared at the shaman. Julian hated to be reminded of their conversation the previous year. What are you prepared to give up, Julian, to live as you want? Julian hated to have been proven wrong, hated to have failed. His blood was boiling. “Well, I’m never going back again,” he said, grabbing his coat. “So we’re good.”

After that day, he stopped visiting Devi.

Almost all Julian did until the end of the year was work and box and swim.

Except for the weekends when Ashton was away either back in L.A. or somewhere unspecified, or when Julian was at the pool or the gym, the two men hardly left each other’s side. They shopped together, went to work together, drank together, sparred together, played video games together. On rainy Notting Hill weekend afternoons, they scoped the streets, checking out garage sales, open markets, art galleries, pretty girls. They rode bikes through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, they hiked through Holland Park, they had long liquid brunches at quaint London pubs—like the Silver Cross—and got dressed up in fitted bespoke suits to go out on Saturday nights, when the class of women they chatted up increased geometrically with the price of their silk ties from Jermyn Street. Ashton tried, you had to give him that. No matter what Devi said, Ashton did his best.

Julian, too.

“Let me ask you a question, Jules,” Ashton said one night, late on the Central Line, as they were heading home thoroughly inebriated after last rounds at the Counting House.

“You’re in no state to question me, especially in that tone of voice,” Julian said, “and I’m certainly in no state to answer you.”

“In other words, the perfect time to have a serious conversation—when we’re both three sheets to the wind. Let me ask you: when you meet this girl, does she know who you are?”

“Why would she? How could she?”

“Uh-huh. But at the very least her name is Josephine, right?”

“No—because it wasn’t her name,” Julian said. “Her name was Mia.”

“Wait, so, a derivative of the most common name in the English language?”

“She falls in love with me!”

“Don’t shout, we’re on the tube,” Ashton said. “People will think we’re drunk.”

“We are drunk.”

After they got off at Notting Hill Gate and were staggering home, Ashton resumed. “Jules, have you considered the possibility that it’s just a random girl?”