When I was younger, twenty or thereabouts, I pictured a very different future to the one I find myself in. It was not a world I imagined would simply fall into my lap. I, until my fingers bled, clawed my way up treacherous mountains of this thing called life. If I had, in that climb for a view from the very top, lost my footing and fallen, there would never have been anyone to avert the calamity. I, as I climbed, knew it would be a treacherous slope, that every step and blind flailing of desperate hands intent on grabbing onto something were all there was to an otherwise unforgiving fall, a fall that would render me deformed and lifeless. I climbed hundreds of precarious rocks, up heart-stopping boulders, unstable and deceptive, only to find thousands of others that seemed to stretch as high as the heavens, as far as eternity.
My long waltz with whisky has left me with a predisposition to urinary tract infections, something doctors cannot convincingly diagnose or explain. I have spent more time than the average man in front of urinals, something of a mild embarrassment. But there are unexpected distractions. Take this morning. As I stood there, appreciating the slightest spurts, my clammed bladder emptied with delayed pleasure and relief, hosing a lone pubic hair around the urinal, moulding it into impressions of letters of the alphabet: a crooked C, an L covered in foam, and as the tool dripped to a halt, something of a confused small letter G. I wondered whose piece of hair that could be. At the same time I was thinking about Rusty.
I think a lot about her these days, that she could in fact be innocent, that it was perhaps too harsh a conclusion to blame her for the depraved, empty and unstable wretch I have become. Yet a crime was committed, a crime she admitted to. I admit, I am damaged. Yet I can be so very charming. If I didn’t say, if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t suspect that a cynic lurked inside of me. You would be forgiven for thinking I was simply an awkward workaholic, with costly nightlife tendencies.
The trick is simple: I am very charming, likeable in a very understated, pleasant way. It is not an accident that Rusty manufactures stories about burst geysers, that Abdul volunteers keys to the Arabic language, that I have been given the catchy pet name of Sir Marvin, the free lap dances Simone commits to on stage, those prompt hugs from fellow sufferers at Alcoholics Anonymous, the Saudis and the Swedes entrusting me with their billions, and Clementine, my brilliant PA, who swears my Arabic endeavours have steered her thoughts to alternative African history, and Michael Junior, who though a promising composer, is giving serious thought to my request that he not marry young, and to, in case something happens to me, love his mother a little more than is ample – a request I am doing my best to live by.
It is the second Friday of the month. Dr West and I wasted the first hour of the session disagreeing about the difference between hardened hookers, lap dancers and pole dancers. He, in his religious ways, and with his own selective moral compass, said the very thought of such activities filled him with ‘moral apprehensions’. I, on the other hand, told him that I very much wished to be normal, to steer clear of activities so frowned upon, only I was unable to do so because of certain historic mishaps. Though I cannot explain it, or provide details and weighty arguments, I said to him, it felt to me that I needed exposure to the ‘apprehensions’ for a part of me that was wrecked at the tender age of fourteen. This addiction – an ‘annoying delinquency’, as Dr West also calls it – is a strange but real need to start again, to, on my own terms, properly introduce myself to women and their bodies – sweet-scented bodies without beer belches, away from the trauma of floor-polish smells.
‘But you are going about it the wrong way,’ he said today.
I thought, and answered: ‘No. Life went around me the wrong way. I am simply effecting corrections. That’s all.’
‘How are you going to effect corrections to a reputation in tatters?’
‘I am 48, Doctor. What if people think me a freak? All I wanted was to find a deeper life. That’s all. This very life hung me out to dry. I did not choose any of this. What do you expect me to do? Pretend it didn’t happen?’
‘No. I expect you to grow up.’
‘Easy for you to say. You were not there in that room. You don’t know what happened, how dirty I still feel. I am telling you I cannot simply wish this thing away. I am trying – can’t you see? I did not choose to be born this way; oversensitive. Life chose that for me. What do you expect me to do? Die? It is an innocent lap dance. That’s it. That’s where it ends. It’s a dance, a “lewd display”, as you say, but a dance nevertheless.
‘Don’t you understand I don’t want to be running around this damn country like a horny hound during mating season? I cannot ask my wife to strip dance for me every second day – she’s my wife, for God’s sake, not a pedlar of “moral apprehensions”! How the hell d’you think she’ll feel, with that kind of disrespect? So it’s the strip club. Wrong as it looks and sounds, this is the safer, more responsible option. I took it! Deal with it.’
He jotted a few remarks down, and said: ‘Okay, calm down. I hear you. I suggest we continue in our next session. Better if we can do one earlier, to diffuse some of the tension. How goes the Arabic?’
‘It goes, interesting discoveries.’
‘That’s good to hear. Very good indeed.’
My visits to Desirable Horses are sanctioned by the highest authority: my wife. I took her into my confidence months before pursuance of such liberties. I feel very bad, ashamed, and wish there was another way around my predicament. I could have chosen selected deceptions, misled her without being totally rotten, if such a thing is possible or permissible. She was appalled, outraged and, as she was supposed to be, terribly insulted by the fact that I had, first, the nerve to think about such depraved fantasies, and secondly the temerity to think she would find my indiscretions amusing.
But it was she who on two occasions pleaded that I put the gun down, when I thought I had reached the end of the line. Technically, she is the sole reason I am still alive, the only living soul who understands the gloom that can suddenly befall me, that led to many relapses when I had all but beaten the whisky taunts.
There are times when I cannot understand why she stayed at all, why she punished herself by fighting alongside me, when it was clear the battle was probably already lost. You can understand, therefore, how it feels to let someone of this class down, to propose vile and unsavoury prospects to her. She cried in secret; eyes don’t lie.
She was outraged – the tension palpable – then like a judge pondering a life sentence, said: ‘I know you have demons, but strip clubs, Michael? What am I supposed to tell your son, if he finds out? What about me? What is my role in this house, in your life, if these are the kind of things you think about? Can’t you find something else? Race cars, bungee jumps, learn an instrument; do you have to ogle naked strangers, Michael? I appreciate your honesty. I do. But how do you think I feel? What about me?’
I had no answer. I saw the anger build, disbelief mount, and then that hot smack that left my nose bleeding. She started her car and left, switched off her cellphone, disappeared for hours. She returned after midnight, angry but conciliatory: ‘Okay, Boo Boo. I don’t agree with your mad antics, but you can go. You can go. At least I would know where you are. Don’t breathe a word to me about your rendezvous, because if you do that will be your last. Keep it in your pants, your hands to yourself. Be home by no later than 10 pm. Surrender all your bank cards, except a reasonable cash amount. This cannot go on forever, of course. It has to end in less than a week; I’m serious, failing which no deal. I’m your wife, what do you take me for! Oh, I might also consider an unscheduled inspection, and pray that you observe the spirit and letter of the contract. You’re unbelievable. Unbelievable.’
I reached out, kissed her, squeezed those hips of hers, tried to unzip her skirt. A second smack caught me across my right ear, leaving strange whistles blaring: ‘Don’t do that!’ she charged. Some rules will never change: you cannot bed an angry woman. Well, you can, depending on certain variables,
but it is bound to be a dreary, solitary affair – mechanical, without grace, devoid of beauty. This is why forgiveness from a woman is such an elaborate affair, cautious and unpredictable – until she feels safe, believes you have paid dearly for your indiscretions.
I never had to endure extended tortures. The reason is simple: I never lied to my Rusty Bell. Not once. I, in at least one other extreme case, got my smacks in advance, did whatever with the purest of conscience. I think I had called her father some unpleasant word; I was promptly smacked, dismissed. Come to think of it, she is not completely innocent, but a brilliant, brilliant tactician – the loveliest of wives. I sometimes think I don’t deserve her. I overhear her brag to her friends, when they think I am out of earshot, hear her say: ‘My Marvin is a very good man. Wonderful. Trainable.’
South Africa? Well, things have changed, that’s for sure. Even I can see that. It is an increasingly young country, not so chained to its past, a past that, like a distant cousin of the holocaust, seems like a bad dream from a long time ago. We have a woman president. She has a few character blots here and there, but she’s very good. The older generation is dying off, you see – with their knowledge and baggage – making way for an unknown future. But such is life. My college contemporaries have done very well for themselves; some are in jail, some barely make ends meet. Those were the useless ones, the party animals, who now face the wall, look away or cast their eyes down, whenever I bump into them at the mall. Like I would ask them, ‘So, how did you become such a delinquent?’
Some have become lawyers, so a name on some law firm letterhead suddenly rings a bell, and at meetings I meet some, really mediocre yet pompous freaks. But that is no surprise: mediocrity is the new disease in these times. The older folk, busy dying off, prided themselves with vocational matters, with quality and diligence. Not any more. The Michael Junior generation is all about money, money at all costs. There will come a time, I fear, when you cannot trust your lawyer, a surgeon, your financial adviser. Lawyers are supposed to strive to protect and ensure freedom, surgeons to safeguard life itself, advisers to help manage people’s money. But the Michael Junior generation seems reckless with these concepts – and not only here, but the world over. What are oaths, standards and rules for if people piss on them?
My son calls himself a composer, yet he cannot play a single piano tune. He feeds numbers into a computer, it spews junk out the other side, and with the help of ecstasy or whatever they sniff or drink these days, sweaty bodies hit the dance floor. The girls don’t even bother to wear underwear any more. It’s a life without restrictions, freedom without limits. That is why I nearly had a heart attack, when Simone told me she is eighteen. But how, with those full hips, that delightful bust, those eyes and frown that can squeeze money out of a stone? Eighteen? I rest my case.
Desirable Horses. Quite a name. I understand ‘Desirable’ – but ‘Horses’? Or is it how the club owner sees these young women, as horses, each with a number, running a race? It is clear that a lot of money was invested in the club: its low-hanging floodlights in variations of sensual reds and warm yellows, its comfortable leather couches, the live orchestra that rises from the orchestra pit promptly at 8 pm, serenading clients with low-key Vivaldi and Mendelssohn favourites. Themed around waterfalls, water tumbles from behind the main stage, where pole dancers perform daring midair splits and somersaults. The club offers head and foot massages on the go, and the dining menu is nothing short of sublime. Simone is in demand, always secured at a hefty premium. That frown of hers, drilling for more banknotes. I am on my hundredth week now, on a first-name basis with girls here. Koreans. Swedes. Mauritanians. Sudanese empresses. South Africans. Brisbane’s finest.
I am trying, God knows I am. But I cannot stop. Rusty has gone back to her parents. It has been three weeks now. I am very sad about that. This is why I am drinking again. I was apparently impossible with Mr Hakeem, called him a ‘pint-sized Saudi tyrant’ – something I don’t remember. Mr Hakeem has fired the firm as transaction advisers and, with his back to the wall, Bernard called an emergency staff meeting, and publicly fired me.
I returned home to find a court messenger patiently waiting at the front door. I signed a delivery note, confirming I received the documents. Divorce papers. There was, with the messenger gone, a small envelope on the dining table. I prayed it was not a suicide note; it wasn’t. Just my bank cards. Nothing else. I locked the front door, and headed for the shower. I noticed only when it was too late that I was standing under the jets in the shower in my three-piece suit, shoes still on; dripping water, I walked out, collapsed on the bed and wept.
I woke with a pounding headache, shivering in the still-wet suit. I was about to get ready for work when I remembered that Thompson Buthelezi & Brook Inc. had no use for me any more. I swallowed migraine tablets, showered (again), changed into pyjamas, replaced the wet bedding, and slept for three days straight. I woke on a Sunday afternoon, confused and wobbly. This is the life I lived for 90 days, if not more, until I woke from one of my night binges and found I was still holding a gun against my temple. I had either been too drunk to pull the trigger or lacked the courage to bloody the walls. I smelled eggs, muted kitchen sounds, but dismissed them as hallucinations. With renewed conviction, I held the Beretta 92 – death by Italian pistol design – against my head and begun pumping the trigger. A voice said: ‘Breakfast’s ready. Come, let’s eat and talk, since you’re now unemployed.’ So my ultimate cure was perhaps written in the stars, preordained.
I had missed Rusty terribly; I tried to kiss her, but she was not amused: ‘Stop that!’ she warned. Maybe it was Rusty Bell who had been my cure all along. Not Dad. Not Dr West. Not Simone. But again, 48 years is a long time to be alive, two years to half a century. One does not live to be almost five decades without a history of sorts, no matter how bizarre, how incomplete. I wish to, therefore, re-examine The History of Sir Marvin, trace its minutest throbs, its surprisingly desolate landscapes, strewn with carcasses of all kinds.
Sir Marvin at 24
Some cravings are, by their nature, reckless: prone to blunders and obscure sorrows, to spine-tingling charms. If you look beyond the surface, pay attention, examine the smallest of details, you would understand an opaque but liberating fact: that nothing can be done about sex, the most unyielding of human hungers.
The campus swarmed with beauties: too varied to allow proper selection, intimate encounters. Of the many fishes in the sea, yet so few, it seemed girls could not be pulled with a net, no matter what waters (dorm parties, cafeterias) burst at the seams, swirling with radiant would-be lovers. They required not a fishing boat, but solitary reflection on river banks: fishing rod in hand, in the company of mosquitoes, boredom and expectation, of patience, waiting for that line to twitch.
Known and generally accepted as a recluse, it was amusing – and, I imagine, shocking – when selected girls learnt there were mild perversities perpetuated in their name by my direct questions: ‘Tell me something, Rusty Bell, what colour are your nipples?’ or the flammable, ‘Hello, Monica …’ then that long oppressive pause, that cool and penetrating gaze, right palm on the heart, as if stopping it from leaping out of the body, then: ‘Did you know how painfully beautiful those knees of yours are?’
I got stares. Admonishing. Chuckles. Winks. Embraces. Covert invitations. Gazes of unfiltered admiration. There was some name calling, vehement protests, trivial judgements – at the end of which I calmly and gallantly restated my question or statement, with pleading puppy eyes, to which a Rusty Bell would, charmed, hesitantly respond: ‘Honey-brown. Why do you ask?’ or a besotted Monica who would, with a beaming smile, say: ‘Knees? Oh thank you, Michael, thanks for noticing.’
I would nod, double down in a theatrical bow to Monica, and to Rusty Bell, eagerly awaiting a profound or perverted explanation, and discharge the most speculative of reasons: ‘I mentally mistook them to be black, owing to your loveliest of eyes, the tint of precious rubies. I felt obliged to
confirm, and in so doing lay to rest mischievous thoughts that could arise, if such curiosities are left unchecked, to bloom. In brief then, it is out of duty and my loathing for the secret perversions some men inflict on honey-brown-nippled treasures of your ilk, Ms Bell.’
‘Maybe you should kiss me sometime,’ she said, her head slightly tilted.
‘Tempting,’ said I. ‘But I don’t do rushed kisses. I much prefer kisses slow, so they linger for at least three years after the fact.’
‘Explain,’ she said, frowning.
I told her that my real area of interest was first and foremost perfectly architectured collarbones. That there was nothing more beautiful than feminine collarbones that complement a longish neck, even more so if such a neck is adorned with pearls. Skilled fashionistas run one or two circles of the pearl gem around the neck, ending the tapestry with a knot, a constellation of pearls that rests halfway down the chest, in the middle somewhere, before the mammary estates begin. Beautiful collarbones, I continued, perfectly aligned to contours of the jaw line and the bottom tips of ears, are the most erotic of things – not like breasts, things grabbed by lesser mortals at the slightest hint of desire, without the faintest thought. Collarbones, on the other hand, are delicate and neutral places of worship, subtle yet potentially explosive, if nibbled with the right measure of teasing. Rampant skirt chasers would not know this, I assured her, for the skill rested on inquisitorial preoccupations: what are the effects of kisses on collarbones? Which are the routes a kiss should travel, even with a predetermined destination to the lips? Surely the ear lobes are worth a nibble or two? And what are jaw lines for if not boulevards to flow kisses onto twitchy, magnetic lips? Now the answers: with great patience and true mastery, a kiss should begin at the shoulder blades, work its way over the shoulders, the ears, the jaw lines (yes, both), a dip under the chin, a sprint to between the eyes, another drop to the left collarbone, then the right, a U-turn to the left cheek, before a cautious and intense approach to a quivering and parted mouth, just as skilled pilots direct giant aircraft onto runways.
Rusty Bell Page 2
