She said, ‘Are you gonna fuck me, then?’
‘Christ, Cynthia, no.’
We watched TV. She reached out and took my hand, put it between her legs. I didn’t move it. I was tired of it all. I was full of hate. Not necessarily for her. She wasn’t even conscious, the Cynthia I knew was miles away. But the hate was still there. I couldn’t bring myself to help her. After a while she took my fingers and placed them against her cunt. She started moving them. I didn’t pull them away. I kept my eyes on the screen. She rubbed my hand up and down. She jammed it against her clitoris. She grunted, worked. Then she quickened, pumped, came. I took my hand back.
I didn’t look at her. I was still watching TV. Eventually she got up and went back into the bedroom. An hour or so later I did the same. She was asleep. I undressed, climbed in carefully and curled up beside her. She stirred. ‘Gordon?’ she whispered.
‘It’s me. It’s okay. I’m here.’
She sighed, leaned into me.
God, I thought. Jesus fucking Christ.
I kissed her.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Someone was knocking on the door. It was morning. I got up, wrapped a towel around my waist and answered it. It was Maree.
‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘Leo called me this morning and told me what happened.’
‘I’m okay. It’s only a bit of a lump.’
‘I’m worried about you, Gordon. Cynthia might’ve killed you.’
‘I know ... but it’s not her, it’s the alcohol and the cortisone, they drive her crazy. It’s my own fault. I should’ve kept my distance last night.’
‘You can always stay at my place if things are that bad.’
‘Thanks. But she goes tomorrow anyway.’
‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘I will be. Really.’
We sat down. Cynthia came out. She looked terrible. Red-eyed and raw-skinned. ‘Good morning,’ she said. Her voice faint and whispery. ‘Hello Maree.’
‘Hello Cynthia,’ Maree said. ‘You okay?’
‘No. I feel lousy. I think my voice is going.’
We made tea, drank it. Maree left.
Cynthia winced when she tried to speak, but she got it out. What was Maree doing here?’
‘She was worried about what you did last night.’
‘Why? What did I do last night?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No?’
‘You threw a Coke bottle at me. It split my head open. See? Joe had to come over and check it.’
She looked at my head. ‘Oh ... I did that? God. I’m sorry, Gordon. I don’t remember.’
‘It’s okay. It’s my fault anyway.’
‘Yes. It is. But I am sorry.’
‘I know.’
I felt as much love for Cynthia in that moment as I ever had, even in the good times. It was strange and confusing. But when a woman loved you enough to want you to die, it was hard not to love her back.
The day passed quietly. Cynthia’s voice faded away. We did the rounds of all our friends so that Cynthia could say goodbye. It was a gloomy progression. Cynthia could barely talk. None of us were drinking. There was no joy. We came home and went to bed early. We couldn’t sleep, and we couldn’t talk. We held each other. Around dawn, we fucked, just the once, very softly. Then we got up, dressed, and drove out to the airport.
THIRTY-NINE
Cynthia was on a standby ticket. She would only get a seat if one of the booked passengers failed to show up. Cynthia wasn’t worried. She said that there were always a few that didn’t make it. But she had had to arrive about an hour and a half early and check in at the desk. We were faced with all that time of saying goodbye, when there was no certainty that she was even leaving.
We checked in, then moved to the bar. We had a beer each. Cynthia was very quiet. She wasn’t interested in drinking. We went and sat in a couch in the departure lounge.
She started crying.
‘I don’t want to go.’
‘I know.’
‘How can you let me go?’
‘I have to, Cynthia. We’ll kill each other if you don’t.’
‘I know, I know. But I’ll be so lonely.’
‘I’ll call. I’ll call you tonight.’
‘You’d better write to me. I want at least one letter a week, Gordon. You owe me that.’
‘I know. I will.’
‘I don’t care what you write. Anything. Just do it, okay?’
‘I will, honestly.’
‘I thought it was going to go so well. I really did.’
‘It was, Cynthia. For a while there.’
‘Then what went wrong?’
‘It was me, not you.’
‘You were so nice to me. I know I’ve been a bitch lately, but you were nice to me. You never tried to hurt me. And even in bed. You don’t have any talent there but you tried, you really tried, I love you for that. I love your little penis, the way you poke it around. I love your eyelashes ...’
I held her. I was struggling with tears. Please God, I thought, let her leave today.
Ten minutes before departure time we moved to a seat near the desk. The attendants called her name. She went up, talked to them, came back. ‘I’m on,’ she said.
They started calling the flight. We went over to the gate. Two hostesses were taking tickets. We stood there, not knowing what to do. It was over, it was really over.
Cynthia was crying again ‘Goodbye. I love you.’
I was numb.
I said, ‘I love you too.’
We kissed, held each other.
‘You’re going to let me go, aren’t you? You really aren’t going to stop me.’
‘No. I’m sorry. I’m not.’
She dug her head into my shoulder. ‘Oh God, oh God.’ I held on. ‘I wish I’d had the baby,’ she said. The only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to lose you, and now I’m losing you anyway and I’ve got nothing to remember you by. What am I going to do?’
There was nothing I could say.
They called her flight again. It wasn’t the final call. We could’ve stayed there longer. Another ten minutes. But she pulled away. She picked up the bag she was carrying on. It was full of books.
She looked up at me. Lost. Betrayed. I felt pain come howling up from somewhere deep inside. She turned away. The hostesses took her ticket. They looked at it, passed her on. She went to the door. She looked back one more time. Then she was gone.
I choked, I started to cry. I sat down. I couldn’t stop the crying. It got worse. I put my hands over my face and sobbed. I was helpless. I didn’t know what it was. Relief. Horror. Love. It went on and on, getting louder and more agonising. This is it, I thought. This is the breakdown, you’ve fucked things up completely this time.
Finally it stopped. I took my hands away. I sucked in the air and looked up. The two hostesses were watching me. They lowered their eyes. I stood up. Started walking. I thought — this doesn’t make sense, this doesn’t make any sense. A man and a woman come to the departure gate, they cling to each other, they kiss, they cry, they say they love each other ... and then she goes. And he lets her. Where was the reason in that? Where was the understanding?
I found the car park, found the car. I sat in it and started crying again. Painful, noisy crying. A plane roared, flew over, turned across the city. It might’ve been hers. I didn’t know. I stopped crying. I put the keys in the ignition. The car wasn’t the same. There was a great empty space in the passenger seat where Cynthia had been. I started up and drove. I was alone again.
FORTY
I didn’t go home. I went to Molly’s place. Darren was there. I purchased another tab of acid. Then I went home.
I opened up the flat and took the tab. It came on quickly, the room swung in. I sat in the flat for the rest of the day, watching television and drinking cask wine and letting the acid run. Then I dialled Cynthia. After ten, when the long distance charges had dropped. It rang. Then
it was picked up.
‘Cynthia?’
She said, ‘My love.’
Next day it was time to face some realities. I went down to the STD clinic. It was in an old building on the quieter end of Adelaide Street in the City. The sign outside said Special Clinic. I went inside, walked up the stairs and gave my name at the desk. Then I sat down to wait.
There were three other men there. My fellow diseased. My fellow male diseased. The women’s waiting room was somewhere else. It made sense. The sexes were embattled enough as it was.
I read some leaflets, some magazines. I thought about the warts. There were no growths on my penis, but I was sure to have the virus. It was my first sexual disease. If that wasn’t a sign of manhood, what was? I should’ve felt good. The waiting room was an initiation chamber for men.
I didn’t feel good. I was sad. I felt like a fool. They called my name and I got up and followed the doctor in.
My doctor was a woman. She sat me down and asked me what the problem was. I told her about Cynthia and the warts.
‘Okay,’ she said, pulling out a form, ‘I’ll just get some details.
‘Fine.’
‘How many sexual partners have you had over the last twelve months?’
‘Three.’
‘Use condoms?’
‘No. Not with Cynthia.’
‘Uh-huh. Ever used intravenous drugs?’
‘A couple of times. Not lately.’
‘Did you share syringes?’
‘No.’
‘Any homosexual experiences?’
‘Barely. Just the once.’
‘Any anal intercourse?’
‘No.’
‘Any anal intercourse with your female partners?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any idea about their sexual history?’
‘In some cases, prolific.’
‘Had any sexually transmitted diseases in the past?’
‘No.’
‘Any current symptoms that you might think are due to a sexual disease?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want an AIDS test?’
‘Should I?’
‘You could be at risk. It couldn’t hurt.’
‘Okay.’
And there it was. My life.
‘Okay. Take off your pants and lie on the table.’
The doctor turned away to a table of instruments. I pulled down my jeans. There it was, the organ in question, my penis. Retracted and wrinkled and tiny and pink. I tweaked it a couple of times. It didn’t relax. It knew what was coming.
I lay down.
She came over, pulling on a pair of thin plastic gloves. She took my prick in one hand, bent down over me and scrutinised it. The gloves felt cool. I put my arms behind my head, stared at the ceiling.
She was twisting it around, looking from all the angles. Then she started on my balls, rolling them, squeezing them, lifting the sac. ‘Have you always had this mole?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Has it changed shape lately?’
‘Well, I don’t really see it that much.’
‘You should keep an eye on it. Use a mirror.’
She stood up. ‘I can’t see any warts. What I’ll do now is douse your penis with vinegar and then look at it under a UV light. That should show up any warts that are too small for me to see. They’re like that sometimes.’
She went over to the table and came back with some strips of tissue soaked in vinegar. ‘This’ll feel cold,’ she said. She wrapped them round. She was right about the cold.
‘I’ll have to leave it like that for a while.’
We waited.
‘So what do you do with yourself, Gordon?’
‘Nothing. I’m unemployed.’
Silence.
I said, ‘This must be thrilling for you, day after day.’
‘Well, at least I’m on men today. Men are a lot easier.’
‘That makes sense. Does it get busy?’
‘Sometimes. Not today. Mondays and Fridays are the big days. Friday everyone comes in to make sure they’re okay for the weekend, then Monday they all come in again to make sure they’re okay after the weekend. They don’t have a clue.’
We waited again.
Then she took the wrapping off. She pulled the lamp down over my hips and switched it on. The plastic fingers took me again. Probed, pulled.
‘Ah-ha.’
I looked down. ‘What?’
‘Here’s a little one. See?’
I looked. My penis had grown a bit. She was pointing to an area about halfway down the shaft.
‘I can’t see anything.’
She peered at it again. ‘It is only a small one.’
‘What now?’
‘We’ll get rid of it. I’ll dab it with some acid. It’ll turn black after a couple of days, then drop off.’
‘Drop off?’
‘It won’t hurt.’
She went off, came back with a small bottle and a cotton bud. She dabbed the wart with a clear cold liquid. It didn’t sizzle, it didn’t burn.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘this one will fall off, but you’ll have to come back regularly for check-ups. You’ll be infectious for about a year, so if you do have sex with anyone, you must use condoms.’
‘I don’t think it’s likely to happen.’
‘Even so, don’t forget.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Okay. Now we’ll test for all the other diseases. Syphilis, gonorrhoea, herpes, a few more of the regular ones. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
She went back to the table, picked up a scalpel and a small, sharp hook.
She held them up. She looked at me.
This might hurt a little.’
‘Hey. No one told me there’d be hooks.’
‘Ah. Well, there has to be some pain for the men. We have to be fair, don’t you think?’
She pried open the eye of my penis, and sank the hook in.
After she was finished I went back into the waiting room to wait for the results. My prick was stinging. Cynthia’s revenge. The doctor hadn’t even noticed the tattoo, right on the head: ‘Property of Cynthia Lamonde. NO TRESPASSING.’
It was an unworthy thought. I deserved more than a stinging penis. A stinging penis was something to be amused by. I thought about Cynthia’s cramps after the abortion, about the black clotted blood. There was nothing funny there. I read some more magazines. After about twenty minutes the doctor called me back in.
‘All clear,’ she said. ‘Nothing but the warts.’
‘Good.’
‘Of course the AIDS results will be a couple of weeks yet. You have to come back then for your first check-up anyway.’
‘Fine.’
I went back into the street.
FORTY-ONE
I walked back home, sat down. Vass came in. ‘You hear what happened to Bill?’
Bill lived in the room next to Vass, across the hall from me.
‘I was drinking with him up at the Brunswick. Just sitting there, drinking. Then I could smell shit. I said, “Bill, can you smell shit?” And he was white as a ghost. It was him. His arsehole had ripped open, just ripped right open! There was shit all through his pants. I called up an ambulance. The manager threw us out. Told us never to come back.’
So much for a warty penis.
‘I didn’t think that was possible,’ I said, ‘to just rip open. How is he now?’
‘Dunno. The ambulance took him off. The poor bastard stank.’
‘So why’d it happen?’
‘He said he hadn’t had a shit for weeks. I think he must’ve just burst.’
‘Jesus.’
Vass was looking around the flat. ‘Where’s the little lady?’
‘She’s gone. Gone for good. She flew to Darwin yesterday.’
‘Aaah. That’s a terrible thing ...
‘Yes, it is.’
‘You okay?’
‘I’m okay.’
Later
that afternoon I called up Rachel.
‘Has Cynthia gone?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday.’
‘How are you?’
‘Not too good. I think I had a nervous breakdown at the airport.’
‘I heard about the Coke bottle. Cynthia was crazy, Gordon. She had to go.’
‘I know. But it wasn’t really her fault. I mean, I was fucking up her life, she had to do something. Love isn’t rational. Listen, are you doing anything tonight? Could I come over?’
She hesitated. ‘I really should be studying, but okay.’
I hung up and drove over. I picked up a cask of red on the way. She looked at it when I arrived. ‘Planning a big night?’
‘I have to celebrate. I went to the STD clinic today. I’ve got genital warts.’
I filled up her glass, filled up my own. I sat on the couch, Rachel sat on the floor.
‘Genital warts?’
‘Cynthia gave them to me. She’d had them so long she developed cervical cancer. They cut it out in hospital.’
We drank and talked. It was a stable, sane conversation. Rachel was good for that. And I liked watching her, listening to her, hearing what she thought about the world. We talked about men and women. About what went wrong between them. Rachel traced all her own disasters with relationships back to a lack of understanding. She wanted to understand people, she thought it was important. I wasn’t so sure. In the end I preferred to be mystified.
Rachel herself still mystified me. She wasn’t like Cynthia. Cynthia had impressed me, amazed me, but on a certain level I understood what she was doing.
We turned on the TV. Rachel stopped drinking after four or five glasses. I drank on till one or two in the morning. Then Rachel said she was going to bed. She asked me what I was going to do.
‘I can’t drive home. Can I crash here?’
‘I’ll get you a mattress.’
‘Thanks.’
She produced the mattress, set it up on the floor with some sheets and a pillow. I was drunk. I stood up and said goodnight. I kissed her on the forehead. It was the first time in my life that I’d kissed her anywhere.
‘Rach,’ I said, ‘do you ever get lonely?’
‘All the time.’
‘Look, if you ever want someone to sleep with, I mean, just to sleep with, to lie in bed with, I’m available. It’s nice to sleep with someone, and wake up with someone. People should do it more often. You know what I mean?’
Praise Page 18
