The Road to Woop Woop and Other Stories

by Eugen Bacon

  “Clearly it works,” she says softly. “It works very well.” He stares at her. “You bring her back each day . . . Apple, she is right here.” She presses his hand to her chest.

  “I missed you.” He nestles his head against her breast.

  “And I you. Dreadfully.”

  Their coupling is . . . animal.

  Later, Trinity showers his face and throat with kisses that cool and burn. Wrapped in her arms, Ralph speaks against her wet skin, bedraggled hair. “I thought . . . maybe . . . Marble and Dane . . . I thought maybe we could go and see the Normans tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  THE ANIMAL I AM

  “Millet brew?”

  “Thank you, Nisa. Mmmhh—sweet water from the gods. Makes everything else taste like hyena piss.”

  “I told you about champagne and all that, Freya. You and the high life.”

  “When in Rome . . . ?”

  “Stupid saying, and it’s Melbourne we’re in.”

  “It’s the concept, Nisa. It’s how we enter stories.”

  “Concept or not, how is that daughter of yours? She and the white man she married.”

  “K and C? They are separated.”

  “Ayah? It was raining goals at the stadium, the day they married. Though the good team was winning, I knew it wasn’t a good sign when K tore out of the house in that ivory gown of hers and started digging holes in the backyard. Do you remember what she said?”

  “She said, How do you last years with a lunatic in your face? She cried inside her veil as she clawed. He will Peter Pan me to death! she said. But you and I both knew C was no Peter Pan. But that didn’t make him a no-good husband, Nisa.”

  “Do you remember what you said to your daughter as she cried and dug with her nails?”

  “I said, Bend your fucking knees when you dig. It’s called tough love. The astrocenter assured compatibility. There they were: Aries and Gemini. A great match, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Mmhhh—this millet brew is something else. Why don’t you pour some more? Stop squeezing it from that calabash like it will kill you to serve it.”

  “Freya. You tell me where to get fresh millet in Hawthorn, then maybe I’ll get more generous.”

  “Have you been to Footscray?”

  “And let myself get mugged? These ancient bones will not survive a tackle to the ground.”

  “Nonsense. I was lollipop woman to little urchins in Footscray like forever, and none of those rascals ever attacked me.”

  “It’s the big ones I’m worried about. I’m not in a hurry to cast a spell and zombify some idiot with an idea to rape me. So this thing with K and C. You should have listened to her tears. They fed stories to the soil. What you thought was a great match was nothing but trouble. That’s what you get when you go with white-people thinking.”

  “You call Western astrology white-people thinking? Don’t you know Aries and Geminis are made for each other?”

  “Then their marriage should have worked. For all those wonderful horoscope prognostications, I could have told you already: your daughter and her husband had never been unhappier! You should have matched her on the Chinese zodiac instead.”

  “Ayah! I thought you’d say I should have consulted the gods of the baobab tree.”

  “You believe in that rubbish?”

  “Better than Chinese witchery!”

  “Let me tell you, my dear Freya—I have known you a lifetime. And I know a good thing when I see it. Not you. Of course I love you. But this Chinese calendar is a gold mine.”

  “Nisa. Our ancestors are turning in their graves.”

  “Turn your mind to accept this truth. Had you looked at the Chinese horoscope, it would instantly have said K and C possessed differences that did not complement one another. Conflict and tension were to be expected. Together was not meant to be.”

  “Hrrmph!”

  “I should have told you about the twelve signs—the Horse, Ox, Goat, Tiger, Rabbit, Dog, Dragon, Monkey, Rooster, Rat, Snake and Pig; and the five cosmic elements—Fire, Water, Wood, Metal and Earth . . .”

  “Horses and snakes? If you weren’t my blood sister—we rode on crocodiles to travel oceans and find ourselves in this pale land—I would have cursed you today already!”

  “I should have told you about affinities between the elements. Like how fire generates earth; and earth generates metal; and metal generates water; and water generates wood; and wood generates fire.”

  “Spit quickly, Nisa, and wash your mouth from blasphemy. Venerating Chinese charts!”

  “I should have told you about resisting relationships between the elements. Like how fire dislikes metal; and metal dislikes wood; and wood dislikes earth; and earth dislikes water; and water dislikes fire. K is a Water Pig, you see. And C is a Fire Rooster. Overall compatibility: 50 percent.”

  “Can you just tell me how you know all this?”

  “My blood sister, Freya. Not so many years ago, right here in Melbourne, I set out on a quest. The lions and the leopards of the Savannah having failed me—there are no lions or leopards: the black men I met were hyenas and wild dogs. Pack animals with no heart. Legged it from their own shadows. Tails between their legs when there was no pack to muscle for them.”

  “I won’t argue with that, the banana heads you picked. A bunch of phone checkers sitting on the bones of their bums. What happened to your second sight?”

  “It slipped into old habits. Goes silly when it sees a third leg. Completely blind when the pestle pounds the mortar.”

  “Hehe! Tell me about this quest of yours.”

  “I was curious: would the animal I am find compatibility (or not) with others?”

  “Animal?”

  “Will you just listen—I’m telling the story. As it goes, I turned on my sixth sense and went gallivanting for love—in Chinese astrology.”

  “Go figure!”

  “Well. I found a few bastards. And some good folk. I made some notes—can you read tea leaves?”

  “You wrote in a teacup?”

  “So easy to fool you, my Freya. I didn’t bloody write in a fucking teacup. Here’s my diary.”

  ~

  The Spirited Horse

  Colt was a Water Horse. He was his own person, independent. Galloped into my day when all I wanted was a simple trot. The Water Horse, he flowed like a current: adaptable yet indecisive. Got stuck in a loop deciding whether to go out with me for a Japanese or Italian dinner.

  When I saw a hint of cunning, reckless or impatience in him, “There goes the horse,” I mused. The tantrum that exploded every now and then, like when he lost a footie tip, that was definitely the stallion. Our compatibility: sixty percent.

  The Serious Ox

  I found Nandi—he was a Metallic Ox. A policeman Ox. It wasn’t the uniform or the boots that wooed me, or was it? All he had to do was quip, “You have the right to remain silent!” and whip out a pair of handcuffs . . . I’d have mellowed in rapture.

  That never happened. The Ox’s approach to tasks was methodical, most productive when he worked alone. Conservative, I liked that. Chauvinistic, didn’t like that. He was more obstinate than a mule. Passionless too: kissing him was like kissing a hearse. And he wasn’t reliable as Oxen are meant to be—he left. But I didn’t chase. Not a shred of emotion in that Ox. Should have gone for a Water Ox—he’d have understood what I felt. Our compatibility: seventy percent.

  The Dreamer Goat

  Billy was the Fire Goat. Oh, how he threw me. Fire-balled straight into my life, ninety percent compatibility—that’s what the charts said. He was curious, a dreamer—loved theater. I watched Pan with him, and he gobbled all the chocolates. “Are there—baaaaaa!—more?”

  Didn’t fare well with that one. Pumped, stoked, incredibly high-strung. He was an anomaly. Mus
t have been the elements. Ninety percent flop was more like it. Nowhere near sensitive as Goats ought to be!

  The Charismatic Tiger

  Cait was a she-Tiger. Expressive, vibrant, a Fire Tiger. Unpredictable, a touch eccentric, oh what a girl! When she loved, she loved with all her soul. Hot-headed, competitive—there was always a new challenge.

  Like when she just upped and offed, went backpacking in Bocas Del Toro, found herself in the Galapagos, and then somehow in Zanzibar. A need to be independent fueled her restless feet, and she explored sometimes dangerous worlds. We were kinda lovers; not the best ones though. Our compatibility: seventy percent.

  The Sentimental Rabbit

  Jackalope was a Wood Rabbit. Affectionate, obliging—the sweetest thing. So quiet and unselfish, not a fighting bone in his body. Spent half his time doing stuff for others—lent you a hand and donated a kidney, just in case you might need it.

  But the Rabbit has a quiet love for daring that caught me off guard. Out the window flew timid and he shacked up with a woman more than twice his age. Our compatibility: ninety percent.

  The Steadfast Dog

  Adlet was a Metallic Dog. Threw himself into work and our relationship, unlike the Water Dog I once knew, whose commitment to relationship was incomparable to her attitude toward work. That Water Dog stayed close to love, was a most relaxed sort with her colleagues, never delivered a milestone on time! But it could have worked with either. Our compatibility—both Adlet and the She-Dog: seventy percent.

  The Leader Dragon

  Morse was an Earth Dragon. He came from yesterday and was a natural leader. Rooted, level-headed, gave personalized cards to people on their birthdays. He was powerful, lucky too—did I tell you about that lottery ticket? Our compatibility: eighty percent.

  The Hedonistic Monkey

  Satori was an Earth Monkey. Held a PhD in metaphysics, teemed with magnetism and lived a life full of turmoil. Our tryst dithered for loss of trust—mine in him. I had no time for smokescreen loyalty. Riotous ardor soiled his odds of commitment to one person. Our compatibility: seventy percent.

  The Shrewd Rooster

  K’s husband the Fire Rooster, oh, what an ego! His image of himself was flawless. He held priority in his own eyes and the self-aggrandizing tales he crowed should remind you why you are not fond of pride. Our compatibility: fifty percent.

  The Charming Rat

  Freya is a Water Rat. I understood from the onset she holds a prominent position in the Chinese zodiac. She symbolizes curiosity and wit. She’s charismatic, mysterious. No drama, practical too. Quietly full of feeling, loyal and attentive—yes, she listens. Our compatibility: eighty percent.

  The Seducer Snake

  Monty was a Snake, that mysterious shadow on the moon. Snakes I am wary of be they Fire, Water, Wood, Metal or Earth. “Snakes eat Pigs,” the Zodiac says. Our compatibility: forty percent.

  The Earnest Pig

  Now you know. I am a Metallic Pig. Enthusiastic about love. I fall in love quickly and deeply, maudlin to the core. Don’t let my tough shell deceive you, because I am tolerant—judging by the frogs I’ve kissed! I will trust you straight up and ask questions later—merely to reaffirm our relationship.

  But if you think to pull one over me, my sixth sense will read you, miles before you see me. Might just be the Pig, sniffing for truffles.

  ~

  “Ayah, Nisa. It reads like a fiction. How is this a diary? It says who we are. A Rat and a Pig.”

  “True sisters. Eighty percent compatibility. No wonder I put up with all your rubbish.”

  “Then give me your recipe for that millet brew. I don’t care that you never found a husband—or a wife—in that Chinese zodiac gallivant of yours! Who can live with you if you’re so stingy with your wine?”

  “Go away with your complaining, Freya. I still love you.”

  “And I you. Have you ever thought of friends with benefits?”

  “Woman. You can’t hold your wine. Without millet in this godforsaken place that has no yams or proper maize, corn, my foot, I used a chant—”

  “Ooo-weee! You want to kill me? A chant!”

  “Stop it now, you hysterical cow.”

  “RAT. Not a cow. Never a cow!”

  “Don’t get hysterical, that’s all. Just remember what I’ve told you about K and C. It didn’t matter that C was a Gemini.”

  “Might well have been a Virgo or a Piscean?”

  “That’s right. K’s ideal partner was a Rabbit or a Goat; a Rat, Pig or Dragon; even possibly an Ox, Dog or Horse. The Tiger or Monkey might have needed some adjustment, like a sprinkle of the juju I poured into the wine.”

  “But most definitely not a Rooster or a Snake. In particular, NOT Fire ones! My Nisa—did you just say juju?!”

  ACE ZONE

  Showers. Lightning. The night is momentous. She flirts with it: dusk. Drizzle joins forces with the black sky. Nightfall transfigures her. She is Ace Zone. Beautiful . . . in a subterranean way.

  Her arrival into the land of Meteor is seismic, as is the downpour she commands. Rain: she loves rain. Step . . . swish . . . step . . . swish. She walks in its curtain. She has beckoned winter; a night so dark, it chases poltergeist. She cannot tolerate summer. Not since the battle in Sanz, when Ur butchered his own brother Opac, her husband.

  Ur’s cruelty has urged Ace Zone to respond. She remembers the good judgment of Opac, may the gods rest his spirit. But she also knows that to triumph in her war, to depose Ur and his iniquity, she must fight blackness with blackness.

  A tongue of lightning. Wind spits a wet spray from the tip of Ace’s hat. Moisture finds her nose inside a veil. Splash! A slipshod road shuttle swerves. Rain like flecks of silver. She crosses Kings Plaza. Step . . . swish . . . Step . . . swish. She comes to a Y-junction. Traffic, shuttles headed to the city, to the mountain, to the marina. On the other side of the intersection she follows the Bridge Ahead sign. She goes up a lone alley. Her hips sashay to the music of fat rain.

  She waves a hand, and rain fades. A purple cloud swells on the horizon. It draws near, nearer still, pushes the last droplets of drizzle away. Bats drift across the firmament. Twin moons peek off the cloud; tentative honey-gold eyes in a lilac spread above.

  Ace walks under a banshee tree with foliage that twists into the sky. Remnants of rain whisper in the dark leaves. Lowermost branches hang leafy fringes to the ground. The bough trembles. A lost spray slides down Ace’s forehead. Puddles, more puddles. A baby cries in the distance. A hinge groans. The lane is fogged, deserted. North-east, a group of girls is bunched around a streetlamp. Bohemian tops; pencil shorts. They quit talking, stare at her. A door slams. Step . . . swish . . . step . . . swish. Ace skirts around the hoarfrost women.

  She finds him at the end of the road, at the corner of Little Boulevard and Stellar Street. He is standing outside Saturn Inn. His eyes are loud. They shout interest.

  “What are you, sixteen?” he says.

  “Ace,” she says. “Ace Zone.”

  He is visually pleasing: fine height, muscle and focus. Marks of a soldier. His burgundy waves are drenched. His smile is bold.

  He does not understand her kind. His eyes seek only pleasure.

  She loosens her hat, removes her veil.

  He sizes her toe to lip, takes in the ankle-length boots; the dark cloak. Her tourmaline eyes are the color of watermelon; they shift between rubicund and jade. She knows he is stunned by the rubellite in her hair: how it casts light from tresses that fall to her hips. She opens her cloak.

  “You are wet,” he says.

  She is beautiful . . . in a subterranean way.

  She rubs her hands. “Take me somewhere.”

  “Saturn . . . ” he glances at the inn. “It has . . . rooms.” He licks his lip.

  The inn’s rowdiness explodes behind the doors. A shout of ri
bald laughter.

  “The river crossing,” he says quickly. “There’s Maunder. It’s 7-star.”

  She smiles. “Show me.”

  He leads in silence. Squish. Squish. Squish. His wet shoes.

  Step . . . swish . . . Step . . . swish.

  “Do you have a name?” Her voice is like an oboe.

  “Selenius.”

  “Good,” she says.

  Selenius finds the foot of a tunnel. Down stone steps, then up, up in a twist into a gust of fresh air. Hotel Maunder is like a castle: it climbs. Vultures emboss its marble walls. A velvet carpet stretches long.

  ***

  Up a gilded balustrade, dragons crown the parallel pillars in the suite. A bronzed effigy, naked, glorious, holds a chalice.

  “Drink?” says Ace.

  She digests his youth, his magnificence in the play of chandelier light. A careless fringe sprays down one side of his forehead. His nose is fragile. His mouth can be mean.

  She steps out of her gown. His lust for her: the energy of its score fills her with chaos. Creation. Chaos.

  Later, much later, she holds out a hand. “Dance,” she says.

  “I can’t.”

  “Wagner.”

  “Please—”

  “Imagine Wagner. Tchaikovsky. Brahms. Chopin. Verdi. Einaudi.” They dance to Earth music.

  Complete strangers. Or are they?

  She glides in and out of his arms. She twirls, twirls, twirls . . . His face is softer now, the meanness in his lip gone. He sees a future: his and hers. He caresses the rise of her cheekbone; the flute of her nose . . . She glides in and out of his reach.

  “Pharaoh,” she whispers. “You look like a Pharaoh.”

  He is hesitant with her play. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”