Praise

by Andrew McGahan

  ‘I know. It’s all the doctors in the family. Between them they’ve gone through hundreds of vaginas. When they were interns it got so bad that they’d run screaming from any woman with vaginal problems. There’s a lot that can go wrong with vaginas. They bleed, they stink, they exude pus, they collapse, they grow tumours, they fall out.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks a lot. It’s what I need to know. It’s okay for men. Men have it all hanging out, ready to look at.’

  Which was true. There was only one risk with having exterior sexual organs — they could be chopped off, or crushed, or mangled. The family doctors had a lot of horror stories there, too.

  We reached Family Planning and I dropped Cynthia off at the door. I parked and waited. She came walking back along the footpath about half an hour later. She looked upset. She was holding some leaflets. When medical clinics or Social Security gave you leaflets, it was a bad sign.

  I opened the door. ‘What’d they say?’

  ‘They think I’ve got genital warts.’

  I started the car.

  Cynthia lit up. ‘I’m sick of this body. Pregnant. Diseased. Why the fuck do I bother?’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘They’ll burn the warts out.’

  ‘Burn them?’

  ‘With acid.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘It’s painless. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about cancer. Warts can cause cervical cancer. They took some tests. I have to go back in a week.’

  ‘Is it likely?’

  ‘They took one look at my sexual history and freaked.’

  ‘Well ...’

  ‘When I told them about that last period they really freaked.’

  ‘Yes, but ...’

  ‘And when I told them I smoked, and took the pill, and spent half my life on cortisone, they fucking screamed at me.’

  ‘Cynthia ...’

  ‘I’m gonna die.’

  ‘But what about me?’

  ‘You’ll have to get tested too, I suppose.’

  ‘What can happen to a man with genital warts?’

  ‘Cancer of the penis.’

  ‘Oh my God:

  ‘It’s a slim chance, I’ll admit.’

  We drove in silence.

  She said, ‘I don’t think you should get yourself tested.’

  ‘Why not? Cancer of the penis, Cynthia ...’

  ‘They’ll just tell you to start fucking with condoms. If I’m going to die I’m not gonna have my last few fucks with condoms. Wait till I’m gone. Wait till I’m dead.’

  ‘What if you don’t die?’

  ‘Then wait till I leave. I refuse to fuck rubber!’

  We got home and read the information. The virus was more or less harmless for men, as long as they kept an eye on it. Cancer of the penis was extremely rare. Women were the ones who had to worry. If Cynthia had been infected for long enough — several years — her chances of cervical cancer were pretty high.

  Not that she was alone. The Wart Virus had once been a Notifiable Disease. The authorities had hoped to eradicate it. The idea had only been abandoned after it was discovered that up to thirty per cent of the population were already infected.

  We waited for the week to pass. From time to time Cynthia got scared. She could feel the cancer breeding inside.

  ‘It’s no surprise, Cynthia,’ I said. ‘Look at your life. Even if you don’t have cervical cancer, you’ll end up with cancer of something. You smoke too much, you drink too much, you take the pill, you eat badly, you don’t exercise, you’ve fucked around all your life, you’ve taken too many of all the wrong drugs and far too many of the right ones ... what chance have you got? Cancer of the breast, the lung, the cervix, the bowel — you’re destined for them all. Not to mention heart disease, emphysema, liver collapse, renal failure and most certainly some sort of psychosis. Do you feel any better?’

  ‘At least I’m not an asthmatic who smokes. You’ll die long before I do.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ll go in the middle of the night and I’ll go quickly. It doesn’t take long to suffocate. You’re gonna suffer.’

  The big day rolled round.

  I said, ‘I’ll drive you down.’

  ‘I’d rather go alone.’

  ‘Okay. Fine.’

  She left. I prowled around the flat. I felt guilty. Fuck, maybe she did have cancer. They’d rip out her cervix. They’d tear out her ovaries. She’d never be able to have kids. And we’d just got rid of one. She might even be dying ...

  She came in. I was watching TV. I looked up. I could see the news was bad. She had a cigarette in her mouth. She walked straight past me into the bedroom. I followed her in.

  ‘What’d they say?

  It occurred to me that a high percentage of my conversations with Cynthia had been like this. Discussions about tests about her body. What’d they say? How’d it go? How bad is it this time?

  She pulled on her cigarette, stared at the ceiling.

  ‘It’s cancer.’

  I sat on the bed.

  ‘Cancer?’

  ‘Cancer. I have to have an operation. They want to burn it out.’

  ‘They can burn it out?’

  ‘Yes. They said it was in a very, very early stage. They said they were sure they can stop it.’

  ‘Well, that’s pretty good.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She was pulling on the cigarette, staring at the walls.

  I said, ‘How serious is the operation?’

  ‘I’ll be in for two or three days. They knock me out, go in with the lasers, then keep me for a while for observation.’

  ‘What about having kids? Did you ask them about that?’

  ‘I did. They said it shouldn’t affect it.’

  I thought about that.

  ‘Cynthia,’ I said, carefully, ‘I think that’s not too bad. Considering.’

  She lit up another cigarette.

  ‘Easy for you to say.’

  We lay there.

  ‘When do you go in?’

  ‘Two weeks time. The Royal Women’s Hospital.’

  ‘Public?’

  ‘Public’

  THIRTY-TWO

  For the next two weeks, Cynthia made me work. She was frightened. The knife was looming. Fucking was her only defence. It held back the fear. If she could fuck, she was still alive.

  I did my best.

  I appreciated the philosophy.

  The operation came and went.

  It was a moderate success.

  They went in with the lasers and left an open wound on her cervix. The cancer was gone. They were quite sure they’d got it all. But then they gave her the bad news. Nothing and no one was allowed near her vagina for a month.

  I found her sitting up in her hospital bed. She was angry.

  ‘A month,’ she said. ‘A whole fucking month.’

  ‘Cynthia, they saved your life ...’

  I, at least, was grateful.

  To the doctors, to the cancer.

  It was the break I’d been looking for.

  But it was hard on Cynthia.

  I was out of her reach and she knew it. She’d lost her grip, she’d been betrayed by her own body and there was nothing she could do. The cancer had scared her badly. She didn’t dare take any risks, she didn’t dare try to fuck me. The frustration drove her crazy. She counted down the days.

  We existed.

  It wasn’t good, it wasn’t bad. The luck was long gone, we were on our own. The times were quiet. We drank and played Scrabble. I could live with Cynthia this way. Possibly it was the only way I could keep living with her. All the problems were still there, but they were bearable. Sex was the thing that would kill us. It was only in bed that the balance fell apart, where it was all too naked and ugly to ignore. The possession and the hatred. The love and the manipulation.

  And the scheduled Resumption of Fucking Day was closing in. I insisted we keep it to a month. A month exactly. I was playing for time. I
had a taste of freedom. I knew, one way or the other, giving it up was going to be bad.

  THIRTY-THREE

  It was a Saturday night.

  It was the night.

  We were at a party at Molly’s house. Everyone was there.

  Cynthia was up, as up as she’d ever been. She’d come through, she’d lasted it out. It was a triumph. In a few hours time I’d be hers again. I’d be under control. She moved around, talked, yelled, laughed. She was wild and beautiful. She was drinking fast.

  So was I.I was depressed. I couldn’t break out of it. I sat on the lawn and watched the crowd. Watched Cynthia. I didn’t know what to do. The alcohol was bringing me down. I’d been drinking for the last three nights. Heavily. I was hungover and beaten.

  Frank was with me.

  There were still problems with Maree.

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ he said. ‘It’s over, but we keep ending up in bed. And it’s violent. It’s hatred.’

  I said, ‘It’s a lot to bear.’

  ‘I don’t know what she wants from me. She cries after the sex. But it goes on happening.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  I looked at him.

  Frank was a good man. I respected his opinion. He tried in a world where very few seemed to. But he was no better off than the rest of us. He was no closer to understanding.

  He said, ‘We don’t compare to them, do we?’

  ‘No.’

  We sat there.

  We drank. We watched the party.

  We waited for our women.

  Maree joined us. She was looking her age. Bony faced, tense. Then Leo came along. He produced a joint. It went round. I took a few deep pulls. It was good. It was strong. Cynthia came over. She sat down behind me and pulled me down into her lap. Her face hung over mine.

  ‘My beautiful boy,’ she said.

  I stared past her, up to the sky.

  I went upstairs to piss. I went in, shut the door, flipped up the lid, began. I looked around. The walls were covered with painting and writing. Circles and spirals and demonic signs. Poems. I read some of them. They were long and involved. They depressed me. Someone must have taken time to write them all up there. For a limited audience.

  After I’d finished I wandered into the kitchen. Sophie was there. I hadn’t seen her since the New Year’s Eve party. She was inhaling from a large golden hookah pipe. She had two of the hoses in her mouth. Her cheeks sucked in around them. The cone was packed.

  There were a few others around the table. One of them was Darren. He owned the pipe. I knew Darren. He was the supplier of most of the grass that I sometimes bought from Leo. Darren had his own plantation out in the mountains. He was a theology student. He had the shaman eyes.

  Sophie finished her cone. She coughed up the smoke.

  ‘Hello, Gordon,’ she said.

  I sat down. ‘Can I have one of those?’ I asked Darren.

  He beamed. ‘Certainly. Certainly.’ He took the cone out, blew it clean. Then he rolled his fingers round in the mull bowl. ‘Do you want it big or do you want it small?’

  ‘Make it big.’

  He nodded. He filled up the cone and packed it in.

  Sophie was leaning back and looking at me with cool, distant eyes. ‘How are you, Gordon?’

  I said I was fine.

  Darren was ready. He said, ‘Be careful. This stuff will burn.’

  I took the lighter. I slipped two of the hoses in my mouth, snapped the flint and held the flame over the cone. I began inhaling. The water bubbled. The smoke flowed through.

  I coughed. He was right. The stuff was ugly. I went back to it, got a better run, finished the cone.

  It swung into my head.

  Sophie was still watching me. ‘So, what d’you think?’ she said. Her eyes were getting emptier and emptier.

  ‘I think this was a mistake.’

  My head spun. I felt ill. The world shrunk to a cocoon.

  Sophie stood up. ‘Come with me.’

  I looked up at her. I went.

  She took me to one of the bedrooms. I didn’t know whose it was. Even with the light on it looked very dark. The windows were hung with heavy patterned curtains. There was a double bed secluded away in a cave between two wardrobes.

  She closed the door.

  I said, ‘Whose room is this?’

  She had hold of both my hands. She was pulling me over towards the bed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  She kissed me. I kissed back.

  ‘Do you want to make love to me, Gordon?’

  Did I want to make love to her?

  No. I didn’t want to make love to anyone.

  I wanted to go outside and lie on the lawn and wait until everything passed. Reality was slipping away. I wanted to go outside and lie on the lawn forever.

  But we were pulling at each other’s clothes. Someone turned on the stereo in the living room, turned it up loud. Then we were naked, kissing, rubbing. Sophie’s body had changed from what I remembered of it. It was round. She was getting fat. Her breasts were round, her stomach was round. Her nipples had vanished. She was tall and ugly. I was tall and ugly. We were tall ugly giants. She was down around my waist.

  I sat on the bed. She moved to the floor, knelt between my legs. I was already erect. Then I was in her mouth. I leaned back on the bed. My prick was miles away. It was a distant tower. She moved back up and we were kissing again. I felt sad. The kisses were cold. Our mouths were dry. I thought about heroin. I thought about the bathtub. It was all gone. I was never going to kiss like that again ...

  I found myself on top. I moved down. Sophie let her legs fall apart. I sank my face in. There was no hair. There was just naked skin and wetness. The slit was wide. I worked up to the clitoris and stroked it with my tongue. Sophie made noises. I didn’t know what they were. I was lost. It was a dream. I brought up my hand and slid in a finger, then two. I fucked her with my fingers and my mouth.

  She said, ‘I want you in me.’

  I remembered the wart virus. ‘No.’

  I stood up and went to one of the wardrobes. I opened it. I found a white tie. It was magical. Significant. A white tie. I went back to the bed. I looked at Sophie. I rolled her over. I gathered up her hands and bound them together behind her. I pulled it tight. Her shoulders arched. She closed her eyes. I rolled her back.

  I kissed her breasts, her stomach, her cunt.

  She was all flesh. It went on and on.

  I stood up. I went back to the wardrobe. I found a scarf. The scarf was black. I wrapped it around Sophie’s head, her eyes.

  I saw a roll of masking tape on the desk. I picked it up.

  I came back and sat across Sophie’s hips.

  Her head moved blindly.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find the edge of the tape. There was a long silent moment. The music had stopped. I found the edge, ripped a strip off. The sound was loud.

  Sophie tilted her head up.

  I took the strip and laid it down across her chest, in between her breasts. I pressed it flat.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. Quietly.

  I peeled it off.

  ‘Gordon ...’

  I took another strip. I laid it across her right breast. I pressed it down over the nipple.

  I peeled if off, slowly. The nipple tilted up, swelled.

  I unravelled yards of the tape. I wrapped her in it. Her breasts, her belly, her shoulders. I stretched it down her sides, onto her legs. Inside her thighs. Upwards.

  ‘Not too close,’ she said. ‘Not too close.’

  I tore off some more and covered her mouth.

  She grunted at me.

  Then I started peeling the tape away from her skin. I did it slowly. It pulled out hairs. She squirmed and made noises through the tape. I slid two fingers into her. Three fingers. I held them there. She started fucking my hand. Her cunt clutched and pushed. Her body rolled. She pum
ped and pumped. The breath whistled through her nose. The sounds in her throat got frantic.

  I took my fingers away.

  I peeled the tape away from her mouth.

  ‘Damn it,’ she said. ‘Christ.’

  I climbed on top of her. My head was between her legs, my prick over her face. I nudged her mouth with it. She held her lips closed. I pushed harder. She opened up. I began fucking her mouth. I drove it in. She choked and gagged. I moved my fingers into her cunt. I jammed them deep. She kicked, struggled. I was crushing her, I was lying flat on her body. My prick was in her throat. Her teeth grated into it. I heard animal sounds. I fucked on. My fingers plunged in and out of her cunt. She was wet. She was slop. She was mud.

  I came.

  I took the blindfold off and untied her.

  She didn’t speak.

  We dressed in silence.

  I went back downstairs and sat with Cynthia and Frank and the others. No one was talking much. The party was already dying.

  Maree was holding Frank’s hand.

  ‘Cynthia,’ I said. ‘Let’s call a cab.’

  We got home. Cynthia went off to the showers. I undressed. I lay in bed, feigning death. It was death. Cynthia came back. She took off the towel. She slid up next to me. Her arms went round my chest. She kissed me.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t do it, Cynthia. It has to stop. I don’t love you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t love me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re doing it now. I was so happy. All night I was so happy. All through the party I was thinking I could go home tonight and fuck you at last ... and you’re saying no?’

  ‘It’s wrong, Cynthia.’

  ‘Oh bullshit.’ She was choking back tears. ‘Christ. The only thing that kept me going through the operation was you. I sat there in hospital and thought it’d all be okay because at the end of the four weeks you’d be waiting there for me. And now you’re not, now you’re fucking not.’ The tears came.

  I lay there. I didn’t move to comfort her. I couldn’t. I was evil. I was lying when I said I didn’t love her. I did. She was the only person I loved, whatever love meant. But something somewhere was hugely wrong with me. I wanted her to go away.