Fishing for Tigers

by Emily Maguire

  Water began seeping through the awning, dripping loudly on my sun-hat. I glanced around for another shelter. Across the road was the government bookshop and under its canopy was Cal. He waved and stepped forward and I waved back with both hands, motioning to him to stay where he was. I pushed out into the stream and when I reached the other side he was holding out his hand.

  ‘We should get inside,’ I said.

  He dropped his outstretched arm to his side. ‘Okay.’

  ‘We can wait it out in the bookshop.’

  He looked at the glass door covered in official-looking logos and flaking Vietnamese words and shrugged.

  ‘Although,’ I said, ‘this could go on for a while. The Metropole is at the end of this block. My treat.’

  ‘Like this?’

  Cal was wearing board shorts and rubber thongs. The rain had turned his t-shirt transparent. They might let him in if I tipped the doorman heavily enough, but people would stare. Ordinarily I wouldn’t care.

  There were dozens of places we could have sheltered along that road. I ran through them in my mind while Cal watched me.

  I raised my arm and a green taxi swerved across three lanes and mounted the kerb in front of us. We climbed in and I gave the driver my address.

  ‘Are we going to your place?’ Cal asked once we were moving.

  ‘It’s dry and there’s no dress code.’

  ‘Dad’s place is closer.’ He jerked his head towards the back windscreen.

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell the driver to drop you there first.’

  ‘No. Don’t.’

  I couldn’t look at him. Watching the whirling colours through the rain-spattered window made me dizzy. I closed my eyes. The taxi smelt like a dentist’s office. The radio played barely audible Vietnamese folk tunes. The air was thick.

  When I opened my eyes, we were pulling into my street. Cal was texting, his thumbs flying over the keypad of his tiny silver phone. I paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. For a moment I felt I was in the wrong place. The walls of my building were dark with water and the neighbourhood women had dragged their plastic stools and washbasins and cooking pots behind shuttered doors. Cal made a shivering sound, although the water was warm.

  I was orphaned at eleven. For the first few years I had frequent nightmares about my parents. I saw them dying over and over, often in circumstances quite different from those that actually took them. I dreamt them decapitated by monstrous machinery, broken against cliffs, suffocated, drowned, stabbed through the throat. Sometimes I woke up without a memory of a dream but with the conviction that they were in pain. I worried they had been separated and each was terribly alone. Although my parents were cremated, images of my mother in a coffin, weeping inconsolably, would fill my head.

  Despite all that, my adolescent and teenage years were okay. My sisters worked hard to keep me with them, submitting willingly to departmental check-ups and calling on a large, enthusiastic army of relatives and friends to fill in the gaps. I did fine at school, had good friends and a few semi-serious boyfriends. I had an idea I’d become a librarian like my mother, but by the time my final marks came through I was a bride-to-be in the US, taking secretarial classes at the community college in the street behind Glen’s house.

  A couple of years after I married Glen, a friend of his got married and at the wedding I met Glen’s ex-girlfriend. She sought me out and pounced when Glen was at the bar drinking shots with the other groomsmen. ‘When I heard he’d brought a girl back from overseas I wasn’t surprised,’ she said. She was older than me and had TV-white teeth and shiny black hair. Her voice shook as she spoke. ‘He hated that I was close to my family. The idea that they might drop in any time drove him crazy. He was always bitching about my parents, about how much influence they had over me. Influence. Like they pointed out he treated me like dirt. Tell me – between us, honey – tell me, does he treat you badly?’

  I shook my head, no.

  ‘Because it kills me to think of him treating you badly and your mom and dad are too far away to help you.’

  ‘My parents visit all the time,’ I told her. ‘They love Glen.’

  She gave me a look of such pity I wanted to smash my glass in her face.

  I sound defensive. Like I need to prove I’m no longer a vulnerable youth but a sensible adult who did her utmost. Truth is, I did try, genuinely. Yet when I recall this time. I can’t help but look at it all backwards. When I remember pushing Cal upright that night outside the , I am simultaneously remembering our next encounter and the weeks that came in between. I try to figure out how it all happened but it’s impossible to remove the flare of later events from my picture of earlier ones. Events I thought of as final turned out to be the first steps in a drawn-out sequence.

  Is it possible to view your own past with clarity? And if it isn’t, then how can you learn from it? How can you hope to get better at life if every mistake is mis-remembered, every decision coloured by its outcome?

  There was no first move. I closed the door and then we were kissing against it. He began unbuttoning my shirt before I’d even dropped my bag. We kicked off shoes and peeled off wet, clinging clothes in fits of separation as we stumbled up the stairs. When he took his underpants off, his cock sprang up, straight and hard and I almost lost my nerve. But then we crashed against each other again and his hand was tugging at my underwear and I clutched his arse and pulled him down on to my bed.

  His fingers slid inside me easily and we both moaned. I reached out, fumbled in my top drawer for a condom, and when he saw what I was handing him he stopped his probing. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything.’

  If only those who judge me knew the tenderness I felt for him at that moment. I have never found another person so beautiful, so deserving of love.

  ‘I don’t feel pressured,’ I said, worried I would laugh and hurt his feelings. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ He ripped open the packet. ‘This is like Christmas, and my birthday all at once.’

  I did laugh then, for a second anyway. He started to fuck me. He thrust so hard that my head hit the wall. ‘Sorry,’ he panted, and dragged me half a foot down the bed while continuing to thrust, and in thirty seconds it was over. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I told him, though I was on the verge of tears.

  He pulled out, sat on the edge of my bed. ‘Give me a sec.’

  I wanted to hug him. I wanted him to leave. I couldn’t take my eyes off the curve of his arse. I was half-mad with desire. I didn’t know what I might do.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said and I thought I might scream, but then he turned around and pressed his face between my legs and began to work at me with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. I shifted my hips, pushing into his mouth, but he held me down with one arm and continued his gentle lapping. His cock waved stiffly, just out of my reach. I felt capable of terrible violence.

  ‘Stop,’ I said and he did, instantly. He looked at me with glassy, worried eyes. I rolled him over, pinned him down, rode him hard enough to break us both.

  Outside, the storm intensified. The windows shook as though someone was trying to get inside.

  Some time after the sun had gone down and the drumming on the roof had eased, I left Cal sleeping in my bed and went to take a shower. I didn’t think about anything. I dried, dressed and then picked our clothes up off the stairs. My phone rang and I followed the sound to my handbag on the hallway floor. It rang out before I reached it.

  I was dialling in for the message when Cal came downstairs. His nakedness punched the breath from me. I took in all the things I’d been too out of my mind to notice before: the way the toasted-cinnamon colour of his face and limbs faded into the palest honey on his chest and stomach; the darkness of the nipples I’d not yet kissed; the fine black trail leading from his navel to the improbably neat triangle above his beautiful cock.

  Another brea
thless moment as the recording played. I forced my gaze to Cal’s face and met his grin with a nod. I pointed to the lounge where I had folded his clothes. He watched me as he pulled on his underpants and shorts.

  ‘That was your dad.’

  He took an age to put on his t-shirt. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Don’t worry. He—’

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  ‘Okay. He was calling to invite me to brunch tomorrow. At your place.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘I suppose. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘No reason. I guess we’re having brunch together then. With my dad. How wonderful.’

  ‘Yes.’ I tried for a smile. ‘It’s getting late. You should go home.’

  Cal sniffed at himself. ‘I stink. Can I at least shower before you kick me out?’

  ‘I’m not kicking you out. I just don’t want Matthew to worry.’

  ‘As if. This is nothing. I’m out late every night.’

  ‘Are you? Doing what?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

  ‘Whatever, Cal. If you want a shower then go ahead. If not, then—’

  He moved fast, grabbed my forearms. ‘I’m being a dick. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to act around you now.’

  ‘You don’t need to act any differently around me. Around others . . . I don’t know. I haven’t thought about all that.’

  He put his head on my shoulder, his arms around my middle. ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go either. But your dad—’

  ‘You don’t want me to go either?’

  ‘No.’

  Cal pushed me onto the lounge. He smelt like the back of the bus on the way home from high school sport, like my first boyfriend’s car, like the starburst orgasms that would sometimes surprise me during inept but passionate poundings by adolescent lovers.

  There were no starbursts with Glen; he could make me come in five minutes flat. He could keep me in an oxytocin fog for days if he wanted to. After the first few years, he rarely did.

  ‘So how long have you been thinking about this?’ Cal asked, back in my bed, far too pleased with himself after causing me to kick the bedside table over.

  ‘I’ve never thought about this.’

  ‘Liar.’ He kissed my shoulder. ‘I don’t mind admitting it. I’ve been thinking about this since I met you. It’s made things very difficult. I’ve had to keep pretending to be interested in all this Vietnamese stuff, all this history and culture and food and all I’ve been thinking about is how to get this hot redhead into bed.’

  ‘Oh, if I’d known I would have slept with you much sooner. I’m appalled at the idea of a young traveller being so preoccupied with getting laid that he fails to enjoy the many wonders of Hanoi.’

  ‘You are the wonder of Hanoi,’ he said.

  ‘And you are a very, very sweet boy.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Man. A very, very sweet man.’

  ‘You’re bothered by my age.’

  ‘Do I seem bothered?’ I hooked my leg over his thigh and nuzzled his neck. I was exhausted but his skin was like caffeine. I licked his throat and wondered how long it would be until he was ready to make love again.

  ‘No, not now. But before. You kept knocking me back, treating me like a kid.’

  ‘You are a kid. Compared to me, you really are.’ His chest and abs tensed and I was slapped by a fresh wave of desire. ‘Hey, hey, relax, listen. It’s not an insult, it’s just how it is. When you’re my age you’ll think the same thing about eighteen year olds, I guarantee it. But, listen, Cal, the point is I don’t care. You’re young and sexy and very sweet and I don’t have a clue why you’re interested in me, but I’m thrilled that you are. I’m not bothered by anything about you. I’m amazed and grateful but, to be honest, I’m also desperate to finish this conversation so I can suck your dick.’

  ‘Jesus. You wonder why I’m crazy about you.’

  Next morning I woke feeling ravenous. Cal had left just hours ago. Although I would be eating brunch soon, I cracked three large eggs into a bowl and whipped them to a shiny pale gold. I scrambled them as my toast grilled and coffee dripped and CNN played in the background. Many things had happened overnight.

  I didn’t need to look outside to know that rain threatened. Rain would threaten, in between bucketing down, for the next twelve weeks. I dressed in pearl-grey fisherman pants and a loose, long-sleeved grey cotton top. I plaited my hair and applied just enough make-up to cover the fact I’d barely slept. I grabbed my rain poncho and bag and jogged to the corner to hail a .

  At his front door, Matthew placed a hand on my upper arm and pecked my cheek hello. It was an ordinary thing to do, but it sent a tremor through me. Fortunately he had already turned and was climbing the spiral stairs. ‘I wasn’t sure you were coming,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t hear back from you last night.’

  ‘Of course I’d come. When have I ever turned down an invitation from you?’

  ‘Or an invitation for a home-cooked meal. Right. Well, you’re the first one here, anyway. Actually . . .’ He squinted at me. We were in the kitchen now, where the light was garishly bright. ‘If I didn’t know you better I’d think you’d been out all night. You look shattered, Mish.’

  ‘I had trouble sleeping. Thought I’d scrubbed up okay, but apparently not.’

  ‘Oh, when I said shattered, I meant it in a good way. Like you look shatteringly gorgeous.’

  ‘I’m sure. Well, for the record, so do you.’

  ‘I was, in fact, up most of the night thanks to the inconsiderate, irresponsible, uncommunicative creature inhabiting the body of my child. Guess what time he got home?’ ­Matthew held up four fingers. ‘Four in the bloody morning, phone turned off all night. He’s an adult, he reminds me, but that’s no excuse. If it was anyone else staying with me – any other adult – then I’d expect a courtesy text, don’t wait up, see you in the morning, you know?’

  ‘Poor Papa. Where was he?’

  ‘That’s the best bit – Ah! That sounds like the stomp of the beast now.’

  Cal entered the kitchen, his long arms stretched over his head. His glance bounced off me as he passed. He opened the fridge and leant into it. ‘Fuckin’ starving.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse him,’ Matthew said. ‘A little known fact about teenaged boys is that they become more civilised as the day goes on. It’s best to steer clear before noon if you can help it. Close the fridge door and come out to the deck, mate. Everything’s out there already.’ The doorbell chimed and Matthew headed for the stairs. ‘Go on out, Mischa. Help yourself.’

  Cal’s singlet and footy shorts were crumpled, his hair a fuzzy mess. He looked sickeningly adolescent, but I knew if I smelt him I would dissolve.

  ‘Outside,’ I said, before he spoke or looked at me.

  ‘Dad thinks I was watching a DVD with some backpackers I met,’ he said, when we were on the deck. ‘Thor. I said that one because I’ve already seen it but I’m pretty sure I’ve never told him that, so if he asks anything I can talk about it without any trouble and he won’t, you know, suspect anything. But he suspects something anyway, because it was so late. I said I fell asleep, but I don’t think he believes me. I think he suspects I was with someone. A girl, you know? But it’s okay if he thinks that as long as he doesn’t work out who—’

  ‘Cal, stop.’ I watched the doorway. ‘You’re all wound-up. Relax, okay?’

  He grunted and collapsed onto the bench seat behind him. ‘Easy for you.’

  ‘No, it’s really not.’

  He looked at me for a second then frowned. ‘Give me your hands.’

  ‘Not now,’ I said, but I held them out to him. Of course I did.

  He pushed my sleeves up to my elbows. ‘Oh,’ he said, touching the splatter of bruises on my forearms. He smiled. ‘Guess I got a bit carried away.’

  He circled my left wrist with his fingers, pressed his thumb hard into the un
derside. I imagined telling him that these accidental markings of play and passion had not hurt and had not made me feel hurt until just now, when I’d seen the pride in his expression. I imagined the way his face would collapse, his grip would loosen, his eyes would cloud and he’d say, Oh, oh Mish and every woman he touched after this would feel the benefit of this lesson.

  Benefit? Oh, maybe. Who am I to say?

  Matthew’s laughter sounded out from down the hallway and Cal sucked in his breath and dropped my wrists. I stepped back fast and turned my head toward the door and said, ‘What’s so hilarious?’ as Matthew and Henry came out and Henry began to explain and I didn’t look at Cal even when his chair scraped across the tiles and his father told him to take it easy and a door slammed and then another.

  On the table was a stainless-steel coffee pot and a traditional blue glazed tea set. A jug of fresh milk and one of cream – expensive, hard to find delicacies. A platter of sliced dragonfruit, melon, tangerine and apple. A covered warmer under which there would be pancakes. A decanter of syrup and basket of cut lemons. A tray of sweet buns and a selection of jams. The centrepiece was a bouquet elaborate enough to have taken half a day to assemble, although the flowers looked freshly picked.

  All of this I noticed only after Cal had gone and Henry had said, ‘This looks fantastic. How did you get your girl to come in on a Sunday?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Matthew said, pouring coffee. ‘I did it all myself.’

  ‘What? Why? I mean – bravo – but . . .’ Henry looked genuinely confused.

  ‘I quite enjoy putting on a spread. I got out of the habit, I suppose, but with Cal here – when he’s here – it’s good for him to see his dad make the effort, I think.’

  ‘Let’s hope he sticks around then.’ Henry was smearing jam on a bun. ‘How long is he planning to stay?’

  Matthew chewed slowly. I helped myself to a pancake, smothered it in syrup and cut it into pieces to stop myself watching him as I waited for the answer.