Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  It feels as though only a few minutes have passed before he hears the key in the door. Startled, he sits up. Patricia walks past the living room, bottles clink, water runs, something is plunked heavily on the table. He lies down again, closing his eyes. Wafting from the coffee table is the scent of oranges. Soon she enters the room carrying a bouquet of purple tulips in a vase, casual, relaxed, wearing a tight-fitting dress, her eyes are dark with makeup. She looks stately, mature, formidable. She sets the vase down on the low shelf, rearranges the flowers a bit, and then admires them. She stands stock-still, as if lost in thought. When he shifts slightly on the couch she turns, surprised. “Oh, you’re on the couch? I didn’t realize you were there.” Thomas takes a shower and gets dressed. Pulls a sweater over a white T-shirt. He slumps on the kitchen chair while Patricia prepares the fish and washes the lettuce. The radio plays pop music and commercials. They share a ham and mustard sandwich. Staring at him from the cornice is a dove. He runs his hand through his hair. Patricia sets the table in the living room and uncorks the wine. He promises to mix the drinks when the guests arrive. But he doesn’t want drinks. He gets to his feet, restless. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. Patricia shakes her head. “Just sit down and relax.” Not long after that he removes his sweater, puts on a blue shirt, and thrusts his socked feet into a pair of black shoes. There’s still that crawling sensation under his skin, as if the rustle of the money has moved directly into his body; it’s unpleasant, a sweet tingling that makes him short of breath and hyper alert. His short nap has put the wheels in motion again, the swirl of his thoughts, the trembling, that feeling of the clear divide between himself and the room he’s in, hysterical joy, suddenly, but also a thick clump in his throat that he wishes he could spit out. The guests will be arriving any minute.

  Back in the kitchen he pulls out the vodka and the cranberry-grapefruit juice. He removes some limes from the fruit drawer in the fridge. He prepares Sea Breezes. “But it’s not summer,” Patricia says. “Exactly,” he replies. The fish is in the oven, everything’s ready. Patricia pours him a glass of red wine, and it occurs to him that it’s been a long time since he had a smoke. Maybe he can get in a quick trip to the street before Tina and Jules arrive with their pampered tot. Patricia seems happier now. He kisses her neck (and hates himself for thinking: I’m kissing Patricia’s neck, it’s a gesture); she squeezes his arm with one hand while removing her apron with the other. “I’m going to put some music on,” she says. “But not Schubert,” he says. “No, not Schubert,” she says, smiling and disappearing into the living room. On the street the wind continues to blow, but not as strongly. The darkness is charcoal-gray, dense. It’s drizzling. The humidity’s rising again. He leans against the wall, sucking smoke deep into his lungs. The sharp, bitter taste of tobacco fills his throat. A couple leaves the building on the opposite side of the street; they seem to be in love, clinging to each other, laughing. Jules’s car rolls up to him. “You standing there poisoning yourself?” Tina waves from the backseat. And then they begin to unpack, the kid and all the things that are, apparently, needed to take a toddler out for a few hours: some kind of device that can be put on a chair so that the kid can reach the table, a diaper bag, another with baby bottles, a little blanket, another bag, an apron made of oil cloth. Thomas tosses his cigarette butt into the gutter.

  Up in the apartment, they toast and converse and chase down Stella, who’s drawn to the bathroom, though her mother won’t allow her in there because the “floor is slippery, you could fall and hurt yourself.” They sit at the table and the guests praise the fish. “It’s just right, not at all dry. I love the herbs you used. Is it marjoram? Chili? Ginger?” and the wine is nice, and the big white plates, the silverware—“Is it new?”—and Patricia’s good taste when it comes to furnishing the apartment. “It’s impossible to keep the place in order when you have a child in the house,” Tina says, almost apologetically. “We pick up all the time and still it doesn’t help.” And Jules adds: “Hell, we might as well let it stay messy.” But Tina doesn’t agree. “Then you’re just giving up.” Patricia nods and smiles and takes a sip of wine, while Thomas drains his sea breeze.

  “We can never find anything. She’s got this compulsion to move things around. Recently it was the car keys. She can reach the top of the cabinet in the foyer now . . .”

  “Right,” Jules breaks in, “that’s where I usually put the keys.”

  “Now he keeps them in his pocket,” Tina goes on. “But when I have to use the car and he’s not home, it’s a problem.”

  “Why don’t you have a spare set?” Patricia asks.

  “That’s a good question. We did, but we think Stella tossed them in the trash,” Tina chuckles.

  “In the trash?” Patricia says, shocked, giggling. “What a little scoundrel!” Thomas is truly bored. Jules grumbles off and on. Then Stella howls, alarmingly loud, and they all get to their feet and run in separate directions. “Where are you?” Tina shouts nervously, and of course Stella’s in the bathroom. She’s lying in the bathtub, her legs splayed along the sides of the tub, red-faced, screaming piercingly. Evidently she’d crawled up onto the edge and slipped in head-first. They console her and babble. Stella bawls heartrendingly on her mother’s lap and they all look only at her. Chubby red cheeks, bright shiny eyes, a sweep of curls and ears fine as tiny, rose-pink shells. They wipe away her tears—even the tears seem cleaner than an adult’s tears. A large bump has begun to form on her forehead. She rubs her eyes and suddenly stops howling. She’s caught sight of some candles on a low shelf, and decides she absolutely has to go investigate; her little body squirms and fidgets to get down. Tina lets go of her only to stand up immediately and follow her. “No, no, no. You’ll burn yourself. Hot. Stella will burn her fingers.” Then Patricia rushes in with ladles and plastic bowls and energetically shows her how she can drum on the bowls. “Music!” Instantly and eagerly Stella’s absorbed in a new activity, but only for a moment. Thomas glances at Jules, who fills his wine glass to the rim and chugs it down greedily. “Great wine,” he mumbles. His eyebrows have grown bushier. He has gray hairs. But his eyes are the same, ice-blue and insistent. He’s a few years older than Thomas.

  They eat fruit and drink coffee. Tina takes Stella into the bedroom to put her to bed. It takes a long time. Meanwhile Jules talks, not surprisingly about literature, his voice gravelly and sloshed. “The biggest problem at the moment must be this tendency to write autobiographies purporting to be novels. It bores me more than words can say.” Jules is an incarnate fan of the Big Story. How a younger man can be so conservative is beyond comprehension. He’s not really old-fashioned in any other way. For many years he was an editor at a large publishing house, but he lost his job when Stella was a baby, and now he earns his living teaching at a couple of universities. Is he bitter? Old fashioned? No, Thomas thinks, and observes Jules, now withdrawn, rubbing his nose. He stayed home with Stella when she was a baby, for seven months. It’s only when it comes to literature that he’s conservative. But is he? Or does he just not buy into all the fads? In the exact same way that he himself insists on selling paper in a virtually paperless era, even displaying his wares in the old dark cases? Does it make him conservative? Is he conservative? Jules has stopped rubbing his nose. Tina returns, blinking at the light, an almost victorious expression on her face. “She’s asleep!” It’s now 9:30. With a sigh, she sits.

  “You truly belong to the old world, Jules,” Patricia laughs.

  “You can say that again,” Tina says, draining the last drop of her coffee. “What are you all talking about?” She’s an economist with a full-time job; she earns a lot of money, much more than Jules. Jules was fired because he was too selective. Too passionate, but his “passion” wasn’t the kind that brought the publisher a lot of revenue—he rejected nearly all of the manuscripts that fell into his hands. It was said that he worked against his own self-interest. But, as he slumps across the table now, he appears gentle and nearly tr
ansparent. Patricia says something about poetry and images. Then she talks about a novel she read that made a lasting impression on her. It was both autobiographical and very moving. Jules shakes his head. “Not my thing.”

  “But have you read it?”

  “Certainly not. Nor will I ever . . .”

  He turns toward Thomas, his eyes swimming: “Tell us a funny story, Thomas. How’s it going at the store? Do you and Maloney get drinks after you close? Do you make good money?” Thomas begins loudly rattling off all sorts of stuff. He grins hysterically at things that aren’t especially funny. He gets to his feet to illustrate how Peter and Annie walk. He’s filled with an energy he can’t control, and now he mimics Annie’s voice. Patricia looks at him, aghast. Thomas is standing in the center of the room. Then, just as quickly as the mania had come over him, his bubble bursts; exhausted, he sinks into his chair. I’m myself again, he thinks, relieved. And then: Myself? Who? Patricia continues to stare at him. Thomas figures that they’ve gotten past the literature portion of the evening amazingly fast, which means they’ll soon be talking about recipes. But in this he’s wrong. Because Patricia says: “Thomas’s father just died.” And Jules and Tina turn and gaze at him quizzically. “Oh, no,” Tina says, covering her mouth with her hand.

  Later, Jules nevertheless returns to the subject of autobiographical literature. “People have got to stop their naval-gazing bullshit and write real stories. What the hell is wrong with fiction? The idea that it’s truer and more real to write about yourself is nothing but the unreflective extension of individualism and the childish self-centeredness of our stunted generation. We’ve let ourselves be stunted. There’s no will, rebellion, or idealism in us. No solidarity. And now, apparently, we feel the need to spew our self-absorbed, narcissistic, self-pity over literature as well. It’s enough to make you vomit!”

  “What do you mean by ‘self-absorbed, narcissistic, self-pity’?” Tina asks, glancing at Thomas, who shrugs. But before they get an explanation from Jules, Patricia begins to speak. “Maybe fiction is old-fashioned, maybe the novel as a form isn’t especially interesting anymore. We see the same thing happening in the visual arts. The personal vision, the private story, the individual finds a greater truth, and so does the recipient—”

  “The recipient? Oh, SPARE ME! I’ve just answered your question! It’s not at all true, and those goddamn private stories belong in a fucking diary or on some tasteless reality TV show!”

  “But Jules, at least listen to what she’s saying . . .” Tina looks tired.

  “Besides,” Jules continues, undaunted, “everything you’re saying was disproven long ago. I’m talking about the novel as a form of art. As a concept. The great novel. The autobiographical tendency shows that today’s ‘literati’ don’t dare trust fiction, don’t dare trust art as a creative power, they don’t understand it and so don’t bother with it. They just say it’s unusable because it’s not ‘true’! It’s too damn dull, narrow, and populistic! And completely spineless!”

  “Autobiographical works can also be great literature. You’re the one who’s old school. Why this focus on the great story? What kind of crap is that?” Patricia raises her voice. “How can you rule out the possibility that the novels you love include autobiographical elements? Of course they do! And those writers who say they’re writing autobiographical stories can be lying. No one knows that. But does it even matter? Anything that’s presented in an interesting way is valid. What matters is the form. The way the material is shaped. How it’s used. That’s what makes art! For example, the book I read,” Patricia says, pointing angrily at Jules, who immediately interrupts her: “Obviously novelists can draw on their life experiences, but to insist on it as if it were a fucking hallmark! No, you’re confusing things, believing it’s so fucking modern.” Swaying in his seat, Jules reaches for his glass. “You’re a lemming, Patricia!”

  “C’mon, Jules. You can’t say that,” Tina says feebly. She lowers her head in shame and picks at her napkin. Patricia shakes her head obstinately and drains her glass. Thomas admonishes himself: You’ve got to say something. Your silence is painful.

  “How can you teach literature to young people when you have that attitude?” he asks. “Do they put up with it? Don’t they just sit there staring at their electronic doodads and each other while you lecture?”

  “Shit, I’m teaching them what’s worth knowing. The great classics of world literature, and by that I mean proper books, and it’s completely irrelevant when they were written. And luckily not all contemporary writers are shit. On the contrary, Patricia! This is just some kind of pathetic tendency that we’ll all have forgotten about in fifty years. The problem isn’t the autobiographical part. The problem is calling it literature, to put it ahead of fucking literature! That’s how stories are being reduced for God’s sake!” Shouting now, Jules gets to his feet.

  “No, they don’t!” Patricia tries to talk over him. “Polyphonies arise. Multiple voices! It’s an investigation into what a narrator can do. A narrator isn’t necessarily one voice. This is about new ways of understanding identity. It’s also happening with visual art!”

  “STORIES ARE BEING REDUCED!” Jules throws his arms in the air.

  Tina shushes him. Then she addresses him sternly, as if to a dog: “Sit.” And Jules sits.

  Patricia sighs. “But it is literature, Jules. You can’t deny that.”

  Jules shakes his head, cursing. Thomas can still hear Jules’s and Patricia’s voices, their rising and falling; they sound more subdued now, but he can no longer make out what they’re saying. It’s just sound. He’s gliding through the darkened basement. He can feel the money against his belly. His heart hammers hard and irregularly, and on his way through the darkness he bumps into something. A body. A large, warm body blocking his way. And then, as if bellowing from some deep cave, a voice booms right in his ear: “Who’s there?” There’s a choking embrace. Flesh, damp skin, matted hair. He’s trapped by bones and flesh. He’s held in this embrace, this strong and living thing that won’t let him go. But is it alive? Or is it a zombie? He starts, frightened, and is yanked brutally from his seat of his own volition and tumbles to the floor. The others stare at him curiously. “What happened?” Patricia asks.

  He shakes his head. “I just need to go to the bathroom.”

  He splashes water on his face and washes his hands. He breathes deeply, tries to suck the air all the way to his diaphragm. But the presence of the overwhelming body hangs inescapably on him. There was nothing human about it, and yet: Who’s there? And what is it? What was it? He’s tipsy, but not drunk. Or is he? Did he fall asleep? Was he dreaming? He returns to the others, who’ve apparently not changed topics. Jules shouts: “Pass me a smoke, Thomas!” and impatiently extends his hand. “If they don’t want to learn anything, then they can just piss off!” He looks up, a wild expression in his eyes. Tina glances apologetically at Patricia, and Thomas lets Jules have a cigarette, though smoking is forbidden in the apartment. Tina glowers in dismay as the two men smoke, no doubt thinking about her daughter, the pure, unblemished body in the bedroom.

  “There’s a lot written about the body,” Patricia says. “We also see it in the visual arts. Gender, the body, a new understanding of the biological condition. It’s quite different from the theory observing gender and body as something learned, something one bears on you. Now you bear it in you. It’s really interesting. And . . .” “I completely disagree,” Jules coughs. “It doesn’t have jack shit to do with gender and body. Let’s have more gender and body, but not if one has to hear some fucking narcissist or other befouling one’s brain with his ridiculous life story.”

  “You’re hopeless,” Patricia grins, setting down her coffee mug. “Yes, he is,” Tina smiles, relieved. No, he’s not hopeless, Thomas thinks. And now you can go home. I can’t take any more. But they make no motion to leave. Jules looks as though he needs to cool off. He smokes and stares out the window.

  Tina hurriedly as
ks how Patricia’s doing, and she explains a little about her work with the next big exhibition at the museum. She’s the director of the museum store. They’re about to order related art books. She’s having trouble getting the exhibition’s poster ready, and the catalog’s still unfinished, the graphic designer is impossible. Chitchat. Something about a yoga teacher. Vacation plans. A few spiteful remarks about a mutual girlfriend’s divorce. Jules has zoned out, disheartened, tired. He’s dropped ashes onto the floor. Finally Tina stands. “We should go home now. Stella gets up at 6:00 A.M.” Reluctantly, Jules rises. They gather Stella’s things, which are scattered around the apartment. It takes an eternity. At last Tina scoops up the sleeping girl. Patricia tucks the blanket tightly around her. Jules is already out in the hallway. “I’m sorry,” Tina whispers. “I don’t know what got into him.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” Patricia says, caressing Stella’s cheek. “We’re friends.” Thomas follows them down and helps them pack the trunk. Stella whimpers sleepily in her car seat. Jules gives Thomas a long, firm hug. “Good to see you,” he breathes, “and stay away from that book Patricia read. Not only does it sully the reader, it sullies itself. It’s unbearable, Thomas.” He seems genuinely unhappy. Then they drive slowly, as though in search of something, down the street. He shouldn’t be driving, Thomas thinks, the man’s drunk. But it’s too late now. He lights a cigarette and walks around the block. The streetlights are orange. The light forms soft, particulate clusters under the lamps. Everything seems surreal. As though the law of gravity has been abolished, and at any moment he could float up into the night sky. It’s not windy anymore. The feeling of the animal or the body, or whatever it was, has finally left him. He feels completely empty. Like being surrounded by some other species, he thinks, that’s what it’s like. Upper class snobs. I’m still only just barely a part of that world. I’m playing myself. But I’m not anything more than what I’m playing. Never ever. It’s disgraceful. He grinds his cigarette with his foot. Then it starts to rain. A fine, insistent rain.