Down Under

by Sonia Taitz

  “Well,” said Collum. “There’s no shortage of those in the land of Oz.”

  “Come along,” she needled. “I’m trying out for the girlfriend of the lead.”

  “I’m not a bender,” he objected, “and I won’t hold your bag.”

  Still, a few days later, he went along, just for a laugh. A casting director saw him and summoned him inward. In a simple room with a scuffed wooden floor, dirty windows, and dusty sills, heads nodded all around.

  Collum was surprised to win the role in a small Australian film of a drunk, poignantly conflicted young man. He had come to Lyndee’s audition straight from a brawl, blood trickling from his golden hair, matting the strands on his tanned forehead. His gaze, below, was blue and clear—a steady, daring gaze that seemed to say: “You can fall in love with me. Go ahead.”

  The casting director, female, took in his long frame, decked out in scruffy jeans, black T-shirt, and manure-caked work boots. In front of all the others, and long after Lyndee had dejectedly gone home in habitual defeat, she asked the young man only a few questions:

  Name:

  Collum Christian Whitsun.

  That your real name?

  Hmmm? Yeh.

  Collum is real and Whitsun is real?

  Yeh. And Christian is real, too, if you’re asking.

  Experience?

  The advert says I don’t need it.

  Life experience, then?

  All the bloody badness of life, and I love every minute of it.

  Sometimes this kind of thing—cockiness, cursing—gets you thrown out of a meeting. In Collum’s case, he won the part—a terse five minutes of screen time, true, but enough to be noticed. As a lad in Putnam County, he had been mealy faced and spotty, but in Australia, his skin had burnished to the color of caramel, and his blazing eyes echoed blue skies. In the coming years, the saturated colors of Hollywood films would flatter him more, but even in the dusty, drab sepia tones of the Australian product of the time, Collum Whitsun glowed. He was juicy and tactile. You could live between the bristles of his strong unshaven chin, and live happily.

  In his next movie, Collum played a wild man who hated his abuser father. Was life getting easier or what? This time they gave him a cheap prop gun to act with. He loved to shoot people, staring at them with that angel’s clear gaze as he took their lives. He seemed bravely moral. A man more sinned against than sinning, but definitely, forgivably, vicariously sinning. Men started to like his movies as much as women did, particularly when the guns got realer and bigger and the costumes more leathery and steel-studded, down to the heavy boots. Collum played this role over and over, the avenger, the punisher, the martyr who, shouting at epic volume, topples the pillars of the world. He became a star in New Zealand and Australia.

  In his last role before his fame exploded, Collum took his vendettas to a new level. He was not a victim, not an avenger of past wrongs. He was no longer coming from below, from down under. No, he was flying at his prey from above, from the top of a sailing ship with a maiden at the prow. Collum was now a Viking without conscience or reason. He was a wild man, a victor, a pitiless marauder with flying yellow hair. Only a woman could tame his crazy Wagnerian heart.

  And if she did not, she would be his prey—just like the men.

  Vikings had no time for the middle ground. Something in the pink roots of their hair, the blood-tinged scalps suggesting the hide of a boar, was utterly berserk and feral.

  Collum could access that part of himself very well. He could access a murderer’s heart. There was no getting even, only going beyond.

  In these films, of course, there were many beautiful women, all of them with heaving bosoms, all spirited as mustangs, nostrils flaring as their hair tossed in the wind. And Collum (and the hero he played) did seem tamed, from time to time. But no woman would ever fully capture him. By the end of the movie, back he would go, restlessly, to maraud some more. He would remember her, but—no, maybe he would not even remember her. Her breasts were but bubbles, her locks a flick of foam, hissing on the shore; gone. And on he would tread, a hero, a man alone.

  This passionate coldness, perfectly enacted for celluloid, made Collum a movie star all over the world. The archetype translated universally. He was a man without the burden of doubt. A creature, a force of conscience-free chaos. He changed his name from Collum to Colm and from Whitsun to Eriksen, the name of a true Norseman. The sound of the “X” in the middle of his name was the snap of Thor’s thunder.

  Whether or not they admitted it, women loved this persona. In the darkness of the world’s cinemas, they dreamed they alone could change this rogue with the cold blue eyes. Change him for good. Take him home and lock him up. Un-wild him, declaw him, keep him in a jar. Break him like a wild horse that would never run away.

  The Faithful Wife

  The one who succeeded longest in taming Collum was Gingerean O’Haire, a student nurse he had met when both were no older than twenty. Her pale skin and thin red hair (really countable hairs) had somehow touched his heart. Collum had been dating her much sexier roommate, Kiki, who knew how to wear three colors of eye makeup, who lined her lips with black. But one morning, Kiki (who was an ill-mannered slag) had remained in bed well past lunchtime, and Collum had trodden into the kitchen looking for food.

  Gingerean was cleaning up a mess in the sink. She was scrubbing a sticky spot with a coarse sponge. Her tiny bum jiggled as she labored virtuously.

  Collum slid next to her to open a cupboard and look for vanilla cream biscuits or a packet of digestives.

  “Oh, I’ll make you something,” Gingerean had chirped helpfully, as he stared into a gallery of tins, looking doubtful. She put down the sponge, wiped her hands on a flowered tea towel, and proceeded to serve him.

  It was only Vegemite and toasted white bread, but Gingerean’s little freckled hands had set the table with a pretty orange plate and a paper napkin with daisies on it. Collum had especially liked that touch of domesticity.

  “So nice,” he commented, sighing between hungry bites. Vegemite was a yeasty brown spread that Australian people loved. It had taken Collum years to stomach it (it was salty and concentrated, like beef bouillon), but as he approached the adult age of twenty-one it became a staple of his diet and a sign, to him, of a well-stocked life.

  Gingerean sat shyly, watching him gulp down the offering of her food. She liked how quickly he ate, how hungry and needy he seemed to be.

  “There’s more where that came from,” she said, blushing when he lifted his brow in an almost suggestive fashion.

  “More, Gingerean? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Oh, no, I meant more tucker, Vegemite and that, I didn’t mean—”

  Her blush was a true redhead’s blush and it overtook her totally, down to the top of her blouse. Though she was sitting stiffly next to Collum, drinking milky tea, her face had the look of a woman after vigorous, life-changing sex. It was very clear that this girl was a virgin, untouched and innocent. Eve before the apple, his father would have said.

  Collum was surprised to find himself blushing as well.

  “What’s your name, again?” he said, feeling unusually tender.

  “Gingerean. I know. It’s unusual. My parents—they were going to call me Gillian, which I think is much, much nicer, isn’t it, but they took one look at my gingery hair when I was born, and—”

  “And fell in love straightway?” said Collum, for once not glib. This girl was no Kiki, selfish and difficult and hard. She had the nurturing heart of a mother. And he loved her name, a name as sweetly vulnerable as she was. Gillian was a competent, closed door of a name. Gingerean was an invitation, an open palm that you took in your hand and accepted.

  As for Gingerean, something in Collum—an unconscious goodness, a remnant of innocence—touched her so much that she could overlook his handsomeness. His aggressive beauty was not his fault, and it was a shame that they attracted mean people like Kiki, who didn’t know what he needed.

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bsp; Before long, they were going steady. Collum grew to love Gingerean’s sweet, chaste kisses. He loved her cotton bras with the embroidered little flowers, the white Christian underpants. He loved the modest skirts she wore, loose and long, when all the other girls wore hip-huggers and showed off the obscene troughs of their navels. Most of all, he was moved by the way Gingerean eventually made love—with a frown of concentration on her face and a wish only to please and gladden. He knew she would not have given her body to him if she had not loved him. And he loved her generous heart in return.

  Gingerean was not only motherly in heart; she was blessed with an excess of fertility. Before he knew much more than the comforting feel her body gave him, Collum had impregnated the girl.

  “I’m—I’m carrying our baby,” she told him, standing in the doorway, arms reaching up to kiss him when he came home to her. In between small movies, he’d joined a local theatre company.

  “Oh! Oh, my darling,” said Collum, using the most tender, grown-up word he knew. As soon as he called her that, and despite the constant temptations of humid actresses, he knew that Gingerean would be his own precious wife. Catholic born and raised, Collum would let no child of his be snuffed, or born a bastard. Not while his father was alive. In any case, he cared about Gingerean. She was tender and loyal, more tender and far more loyal than any other girl had ever been. And if she now needed him, he was glad to step up and be her hero.

  This first child was a boy, and he was bonny and healthy. Despite his youth, Collum took eagerly to his new family, even as his acting roles got bigger. He felt snug and proud, thinking of the good mother he had in Gingerean. At the same time, and to his surprise, Gingerean grew into being his equal in bed. Over the years, as her hips spread and her breasts expanded, she became a hearty-hearted wench when he’d return from a theatre tour or film set. She’d leap at him, kisses all over, take him in all the way, welcome back, and here’s your home. All the way, with bouncing enthusiasm and no end of willingness. Like their firstborn son, she made Collum laugh with a deep delight he had never known before.

  During those years of joyous lovemaking came one child after the other, in the old-fashioned way. Boys and girls, redheads and blonds—hugs and piggyback-rides and shrieks of delight and discovery. Collum was truly happy for the first time in his life. He had a nest; there was a brood; it was all honest and kind and cozy and warm and hot.

  Collum’s career expanded alongside his family. Eventually, a husband and father called Collum Whitsun became the gargantuan star called Colm Eriksen. A war—first internal and then external—began to brew, as the star became more and more famous. His American manager, Sydney Koplin, took him all the way to the top. There, Collum found temptations of all kinds—salaries, luxuries, perks, and veneries. Collum tried to keep a level head, but no man can forever resist the luscious comforts of vanity. He dampened his guilt by buying bigger and bigger properties for his family (“Suitable for a star of your magnitude,” the estate agents had said), and hiring more help to take care of them (the family and the mansions).

  At first, Collum battled only with his own conscience, lying to protect his innocent wife. But then Gingerean, growing ever more knowing, would start shoveling for answers. A whinging note had entered her voice, turning her questions into complaints that annoyed him.

  “Why are you re-shooting? I thought you said it was a wrap!”

  “Why is she there? She’s not in your scenes!”

  “I thought you were done looping yesterday!”

  “Can’t we meet you somewhere on the weekend?”

  “Don’t you love me anymore?”

  It was just maddening. Was it not enough that he told her to spend as much money as she wanted? (But she never even wore high heels; cheap and sturdy sandals were good enough for her.) That she lived on the biggest estate in Bondi Beach? (She’d slipped on the marble too many times, and one of the little ones, toppled by jets of water, had almost drowned in the eight-seat Jacuzzi.) That he pounded her in much the same way when they lay together? That he tried to please her as often as she wanted, forcing himself to groan and moan as he summoned thoughts of studio-paid, subservient Asian call girls and delicious black stuntwomen? (He had never been stupid enough to actually fall in love with a film co-star, or even to seduce one; that way lay diva madness and tabloid hell.)

  But he should not have done that, Gingerean secretly thought. Not the whoring; he was a man, and men did that. But he should not have pretended to love her as he did, when he didn’t. Her own husband didn’t seem to care that their special bond was dying. Collum still made love to her as though he were the same man who had loved her and only her. That was a lie: he was not the same person—but he would not admit it. She could see in his eyes that she was not the girl who had once touched his heart. To him, she was no longer Gingerean, a young and innocent being whom he had once loved enough to bed, impregnate, marry. But begging him to see that she was still Gingerean would only come across as one more complaint.

  “’Course I know who you are!” he’d bellow. “How could I bloody forget?”

  Collum began to resent his wife’s encroachment on his own desires, which had grown and grown. Like so many married men before him, he was forced to reckon with the stringent emotional needs of the female. His appetites were satiable; hers were not. She wanted the past back, and that was impossible. She was screaming at him now, full-throated screams that reminded him of his crazy father’s fury. Another Neil Whitsun to poison his days?

  “Cut!” as they say in the movies.

  For the next few years, apart from child-rearing logistics and updates, they barely spoke. Collum and Gingerean were simply the management team of the Eriksen firm. Still, once in a while they lay together. Gingerean would be passionate sometimes; she would get pregnant again and seem proud to tell him that he had once more filled her with life.

  After the twenty-fifth year and twelfth child, Collum and Gingerean stopped sharing a bedroom. Gingerean, at last, could no longer endure another round of childbirth. Collum retreated to one of the better guestrooms, which had its own rainforest shower and two-tiered sauna. He had been finding it harder and harder to feign any desire for his wife. He collapsed at home after long flights (he was shooting in the States now, a real star); he had no energy for her or the boisterous kids. The children were shushed by their mother, whom they took for granted and even resented. Daddy was different. The younger ones squealed when he tossed them in the air between naps. The older ones admired him—he was the special visitor who made their lives shine again. They had learned to see him from afar, and from that distance, he was always perfect.

  In this retreat, Collum became more and more lonely. No one could see the real him anymore, and those that did just complained and complained. His very looks—People called him “the Sexiest Man Alive”—now offended his wife of decades. Why had she aged so much faster than he?

  It was simple. In the real world, spring and summer had turned to autumn. Gingerean was tired, heavy, worn-out despite the horde of servants—nannies, tutors, cooks, chauffeurs, and laundry women—they could now afford. No naps could restore her. The sexiest man alive had used her up good and proper. She had formed and carried twelve healthy, strong babies, nursing each one for over a year. Her stomach had loosened, and although her tidy breasts did not exactly sag, they flapped emptily, envelopes whose contents had been skimmed and tossed away. And there was still hard work to do.

  While “Colm Eriksen” flew off to location, often more than a dozen hours away, Mrs. Whitsun remained down under, shadowed by his jets, weighted by the mob he had bred into her and out of her and left her to raise. Yes, she loved the children, and was amazed that she and Collum had created this pack of healthy, active kids, vibrant as Kennedys. No one could ever doubt that their love had once glowed with life and shared purpose. But Gingerean herself was no longer vibrant. Heavy and slow, she plodded through her days, months, and years. Gravid with accumulated grudges.
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br />   In interviews, Collum always called Gingerean his “Rock of Gibraltar.”

  Gingerean felt hurt by this glib epithet, which actually compared her to a heavy piece of stone. I’m not a rock, she thought, from time to time. I’m a bloody volcano.

  She finally kicked him out.

  Collum was more shaken by this than he could ever admit. He was speechless, and when he talked the liquor slurred his pain and his words. There was often a grinning girl on his arm, now openly. Sometimes two, holding him up like a trophy between them. In his own hand, quite often, a bottle. After all these years, he thought. He felt homeless and hurt, and a little bit crazy. He felt hatred for all the people who had ever betrayed him. He was an orphan and an outcast and a lover too much scorned.

  Jude Had a Friend

  Jude had a friend in the vicinity whose name was Heidi. Despite the pleasantness of the name, which sounded like a greeting from the spruce-scented Alps, Heidi’s life was in certain ways unsound. Like many a marriage (Jude’s, Collum’s), Heidi’s had become shaky as the years and events piled on. Now, it wobbled like a too-tall column of blocks.

  Over the past few months, Heidi’s husband had started sporting a thin braid of straggly pewter-colored hair, the tonsorial equivalent of the pencil moustache. He was also, surreptitiously, a junk food addict. This was especially insulting to Heidi, who ran a gourmet, organic, and eco-friendly cooking service for her village and those adjacent to it. Even more insulting was the fact that Dan attempted to hide his eating vices from her. He did it ineptly—shoveling Ding Dongs down his throat and explaining the chocolate stains by claiming to have simply “tested the Valrhona.”