by Nikki Stern
I was livid that I hadn’t been consulted. ‘Why didn’t you discuss it with me first instead of presenting me with a fait accompli?’ I was being bullied, my sense of powerlessness compounding my anger. ‘I thought our separation was temporary. What kind of a marriage is this where an international move isn’t discussed between spouses?’
But Paul wasn’t listening to me. ‘Mom and Vlad are going to enrol me in a Swiss hotel school, and you can live in Amsterdam and visit me on weekends. It’s a fantastic offer,’ he said.
‘Hotel school? You’ve never mentioned a career in hotel management before—you’ve only ever talked about wanting to do art.’ I was really confused. ‘It seems totally insane. And Switzerland?’
Paul was animated as he explained how his parents would pay for his tuition fees and our accommodation. ‘Shoshanna will love it there and Mom will help you look after her,’ he said. ‘You don’t want that hateful witch, Dory, getting her hands on our daughter.’
‘Even if I wanted to go, I can’t imagine how I could pack up the house with an active toddler. What about our two cars? And where would I put all our stuff? I have no-one to help me.’ I told him I needed to be near Dory; she’d bought the house for us to live in. ‘We can’t just leave; I can’t just pack up my life here.’
Paul often spoke of his mother’s broken promises and her pathological neglect of him, yet now he was proposing we trust her in an undertaking of massive proportions, when things between us were at an all-time low. I didn’t want to be at her mercy.
For the next two days, Paul hounded me. His parents came for a meeting with Dory, who said that, if I left, she’d be forced to sell the house. My heart ached for my mother; I couldn’t desert her. Still, I felt trapped in what felt like a tug of war: my marriage or my mother.
Finally, I told Paul to get himself settled and I would re-assess matters then. Maybe I’d go for a few months. He continued to pressure me mercilessly, reassuring me this decision was best for all concerned and that I could trust Saskia.
‘Promise me you’ll book your ticket,’ he said, telling me that Vlad would lose his money if I didn’t confirm a date. As he saw it, all that was left to do was to dob Francine into the authorities. ‘They’ll deport her, so she’ll be no more threat to your inheritance.’
I told him emphatically that there was no way I’d stoop that low. If he wanted he could call them, but I found it disgusting; I wasn’t a dobber—it wasn’t my style. ‘Anyway, Dory’s money is no concern of yours,’ I reminded him.
So with a heavy heart, I drove Paul and his family to the airport two days after his announcement. I felt empty and angry: how dare he put me in the position of having to move continents again, and on such short notice. He was talking as if I’d undertaken to go, but I doubted I could leave.
I called in to see Dory on my way home.
‘Good riddance—you’re better off without him,’ she proclaimed, barely masking her joy. She described Saskia as an unbelievably selfish woman, saying that, if she really wanted to help, she should pay for Paul’s tuition in Melbourne. I agreed.
‘Can’t you see how bad he is for you?’ she asked. ‘You become like a different person. He manipulates you constantly. Just forget about him.’
I supposed I would have to try to; I knew I didn’t want to live in Holland again.
Slowly I set about getting my life back on track. I’d been earning reasonable, but irregular, money modelling for the various camera clubs, and knew I could survive financially. Dory, who of course had no idea of my activities, had also generously offered to help me. But the problem was that I was missing Paul. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was craving—certainly not the pressure he put me under or his mess—but he had a gentle, intelligent side. And his wit—it had been ages since I’d laughed. Wasn’t all that what I’d fallen in love with?
He phoned me after a few weeks. Apparently, things hadn’t quite panned out as planned. On their return to Holland, his parents discovered their car wash was going through a rough patch and they didn’t have the money for hotel school in Switzerland after all.
‘What a surprise,’ I said sarcastically, as my fears were confirmed. Nevertheless, his parents were funding his apartment in Amsterdam and his enrolment in a programming course.
‘Computers?’ I queried. ‘But you don’t have a mathematical brain.’
‘I’ve done aptitude tests and apparently I do,’ said Paul arrogantly. ‘Plus I’m getting a modelling folio together . . . And I’m seeing a shrink.’
I was thrilled. Finally, Paul had heeded my advice about getting professional help.
Saskia had also bought him a whole new wardrobe; I was pleased, remembering how Paul had a propensity to look unkempt.
‘Oh, and you’ll never guess who I saw at my optometrist in Amstelveen . . . Xaviera Hollander . . . you know, The Happy Hooker.’
‘Wow. Of course I know of her.’ I’d read her book when I was seventeen—everyone had been reading it. ‘She’s iconic.’
‘Yeah, she’s a national treasure,’ he said.
He then began pressuring me to book my ticket, saying how much he was missing Shoshanna and me. But I insisted that things were still too uncertain for me to relocate to Amsterdam. He badgered me, arguing that I had to come: Saskia had leased a three-bedroom furnished apartment and bought baby items.
Then he flew into a rage, rebuking me for allegedly breaking my promise. ‘You selfish witch—I knew I couldn’t trust you!’ he screamed, accusing me of doing ‘this’ deliberately, just to hurt him; I assured him I was just being rational. He asked if I’d dobbed in Francine yet, but I told him again that I wasn’t going to.
‘You’ll see—she’ll inherit Dory’s money, and it will be your fucking fault,’ he railed.
I’d had enough. I told Paul to stop verbally abusing me and hung up.
As the months passed, I carried around a sadness; I felt bereft. I saw virtually no-one except Dory, visiting her twice a week with Shoshanna.
‘Don’t you think I know that Paul wants me dead?’ she asked. ‘I’m not stupid. Any fool can see he’s only after money. Nikki-le, you’re such an intelligent girl—can’t you see what a terrible person he is?’
‘It’s not that simple. I know he’s not perfect, but he has many good traits.’ I reminded her of his tragic life and how I couldn’t just desert him: he could be so tender and loving. ‘You should see Paul and Shoshanna together—they adore each other. It would break his heart to lose her . . . Besides, I just feel sorry for him.’
‘Exactly!’ she said. ‘That’s his modus operandi. He works on sympathy, taking advantage of your good nature. He’s controlling and manipulative.’
Dory was close to tears as she recounted how she and Egon had raised me with so much love and such decent morals. ‘We came to Australia with a suitcase, after surviving Hitler. We’ve worked so hard, and Paul has the chutzpah to think he has a right to my hard-earned money. I have scrimped and saved so that we can be comfortable. Anyway, one day it’ll all be yours. He’s a psychopath—there’s no other word for him,’ she said. ‘You’ve done psychology . . .’
I was trying to remember my lectures on psychopathy. I would have to look up my old textbooks when I got home.
‘Was the sex really so good that you’re prepared to overlook everything else?’ she asked.
She and I had never discussed my sex life before, but I answered her honestly. ‘Maybe to begin with . . . but lately, we hardly ever sleep together, let alone have sex,’ I confided. ‘Anyway, it’s never really been about the sex.’
‘I would have picked him as gay,’ she said abruptly.
‘Well, he says he’s not. Maybe he’s confused—he dresses up when he’s stressed.’
‘What, he’s a cross-dresser?’ asked Dory in her forthright manner.
‘Well, not all the time.’
‘Oy. That my daughter should marry a transvestite. He’s not going to have The Operation, is he?’
‘It’s not so crazy,’ she said. ‘Plenty of faigeles do.’
At home, I went straight to my third-year psychology textbook on abnormal behaviour. I read the definition of psychopath and my jaw dropped—for all intents and purposes, it was describing Paul: the disregard for others, the lying, the ignoring of society’s rules, the lack of empathy, the need for immediate gratification, the charm and empty promises . . . Paul was, it seemed, a textbook psychopath.
With the house now tidy, I had begun extending luncheon invitations. The few female friends I saw let it be known that they disliked Paul. I wasn’t sure how to explain what was happening with our relationship—I didn’t really know. Around this time, I received a call from an American woman, Susan Ginsberg. She was answering one of Paul’s old ads in Readings bookshop for share accommodation. The quirky nature of the text had attracted her. After I asked her if she was related to the famous beat poet, Allen Ginsberg, which she wasn’t, we began chatting; soon afterwards, we arranged to meet.
Over the next few months, Susan and I developed a strong friendship. I liked her enormously. She was a Jewish psychotherapist from New York and we discussed Paul on occasion.
‘He sounds like a really interesting guy with a narcissistic personality disorder,’ she said. ‘He’s clearly bad for you.’
I agreed. ‘But I feel like I’d be deserting him if I stayed in Melbourne.’
‘Hang on, hasn’t he left you?’
I didn’t know any more. I related how he desperately wanted me to move to Holland; how I couldn’t let go of him, even though he said the most horrible things about Dory and had developed an obsessive hatred of her.
She theorised that Paul was trying to create a schism between Dory and me. ‘She’s the voice of reason. But if he isolates you, he can manipulate you to his heart’s content.’
I couldn’t deny she was right. I could see him doing it, but I couldn’t stop myself—I was weak. I had fallen in love with Paul’s potential—his ‘nice’ side. ‘He’s just not the person I thought I married . . .’
‘It’s obvious,’ she stated with finality. ‘He’s your addiction.’
Even though I’d never been addicted to anything, Susan’s explanation was that he’d got under my skin. She cautioned me not to make the mistake of thinking he’d reform. ‘Psychopaths never change.’ I filed that thought away for later.
I explained that, whatever I did, it was never enough. I told her how miserable I was without him; how sorry I felt for him and how everyone had abandoned him. I wanted to do the right thing by Shoshanna, but I didn’t know if I could give him up. She theorised I had a need to ‘rescue’ him—like a stray cat. At her prompting, I made an appointment with a family law specialist. As he saw it, Paul had deserted us, so my custody of Shoshanna would be assured if we got divorced.
Coincidentally, Susan moved around the corner from Dory and the two of them formed a friendship after I suggested a meeting. Dory and I were also developing a new closeness. She took me out constantly—trying to help me fill the void left by Paul—to the theatre and galleries, or arranging visits with her friends, mostly musicians, dancers and artists. True to her word, she also helped me buy a new car—a white Volvo station wagon.
Francine invited us to dinner one night. Here I saw a new side to Dory: we sat on floor cushions with Francine’s dreadlocked Ethiopian boyfriend as he played bongos and smoked dope. He and Dory discussed music—African rhythms and instruments, about which she was well informed from her many tours there with the Bodenwieser Ballet.
It saddened me that Dory seemed so accepting of Francine’s unconventional lifestyle, and yet she was so critical of mine: I assumed she simply applied higher standards to my behaviour than that of others. I wished I could share more of myself with her.
I was still feeling Paul’s absence acutely. He began calling regularly from Amsterdam, distraught and in tears. ‘I miss you and Shoshanna so much—the pain is indescribable.’ Apparently Saskia and Vlad had ‘dumped’ Paul in an apartment; he hardly saw them and had no friends. He’d started his computer course, but admitted I was right. ‘It’s not my thing. I want to do art . . . I want to come home.’
‘You need to figure out where home is,’ I said.
‘It’s any country—so long as you and Shoshanna are there. We belong together . . . but Mom won’t pay for a return ticket.’
I told Paul he couldn’t keep chopping and changing countries and careers. He begged me, promising that, if I paid for his ticket, he’d get counselling. He’d also work on his folio and go to night school. I believed him.
I knew that if Paul stayed away, Shoshanna, now a two-year-old toddler, would have no conscious memory of her father. I didn’t think I could do that to her, so I bought Paul’s ticket, hoping desperately that I had made the right decision.
8
And so Paul returned to Australia with high hopes of a new beginning. We had a joyful reunion and he moved straight back to Warrandyte with Shoshanna and me. I was determined to make things work; we began seeing a marriage counsellor and intimacy between us resumed. The counsellor talked of the need to spend quality time together, and we attempted to follow her advice.
Paul instantly reconnected with Shoshanna. He spoke of his pain at having been apart from her and I revelled in the notion that we were all together again. I was sure my adoption had intensified my need for family.
However, my relationship with Dory started to suffer. I didn’t want to have to choose; I thought it perfectly natural that I could have both of them in my life, but Paul had resumed his constant criticism of her. He was also not comfortable with my friendship with Susan, misconstruing her as a man-hating ‘rad les fem’. I had anticipated Paul’s aversion to her, but realised I couldn’t maintain my closeness with her and stay married. Unfortunately, I let my friendship with this wonderful woman lapse.
Paul seemed enthusiastic about his prospective art career and I was thrilled that he wanted to pursue this. But, despite his many promises to work on his art portfolio, I was having to push him. Tension started to appear again as he spent his days stoned.
Unfortunately, he had failed to gain entry into any of the graphic design courses he’d applied for. The advice was unanimous: studying would be futile as he was obviously gifted and should be able to get a job as a cartoonist. I came to the conclusion, however, that Paul was unlikely to ever be able to hold down a regular nine-to-five job working for a boss. If we were to make a go of things, I would have to accept an unconventional lifestyle.
Although I was trying to stay positive about Paul, I missed Susan’s companionship. Most of my other female friends had stopped seeing me—Warrandyte was a fair way out of Melbourne. Dory had been right about that, too. I was resenting Paul for the loss of my friends. I felt alone: not lonely—because I’d always been comfortable with my own company plus I had my darling daughter—but alone.
Paul began talking about a career in acting; according to him, Sydney was the place to be. He reasoned that he was at the peak of his physical prowess, having spent so much time working out. He’d only been back a month and I thought it too soon to move yet again, but he accused me of being an unsupportive wife. I felt he should knuckle down and find a job here, rather than chasing pipe dreams. Finally, after he convinced me there was no work in Melbourne, we agreed he’d trial going to Sydney for a few months; it would be costly and mean being alone again, but I was prepared to make the sacrifice.
Paul called me soon after he arrived, saying he’d found somewhere to live. ‘I’m staying on Oxford Street with some gay guys. It’s the heart of “Vaseline Valley”.’
I was well aware of its reputation and asked him if they knew he had a wife and child.
‘Not exactly . . .’ He hesitated. ‘But I’m getting lots of interviews and have a photo shoot booked with a magazine called Campaign Australia. I’m gonna be a gay centrefold.’
I was annoyed: he
didn’t seem to be able to make up his mind about his sexuality. I thought he should tell them he was married, but Paul refused.
‘Don’t worry—I’m not gay and I’m not fucking anyone, male or female, although there’s a considerable casting-couch culture here.’ He told me how ‘they’ all fancied him, so Sydney was where he was most likely to get employment. He thought he might get some cartoon work, too—he’d already designed an invitation for one of their parties. ‘They’re all into wine enemas,’ he explained.
‘What, they put wine up their arse?’
‘Yeah—it’s absorbed quicker through the anus than the stomach.’
I reflected ruefully after hanging up that Paul being ensconced in the gay community was the total antithesis of Shoshanna and me in Warrandyte; we were going to kiddie birthday parties with two-year-olds, while he was going to wine-enema parties with leather boys.
Within a few months Paul had made a hasty retreat home when he ran out of money and goodwill, the latter after mentioning his wife and daughter. I wondered how many more times he’d leave, and how many more times I’d take him back.
He showered me with expensive presents of leather lingerie, which angered me. ‘You know we can’t afford this shit.’ He had spent two weeks’ worth of income on lingerie he knew I didn’t even like. ‘This stuff barely fits me—it’s size 10.’ I could only conclude it was for his benefit. I was feeling pressured again to be someone I wasn’t. I wanted to be the devoted mother, not a leather-clad vamp.
‘Humour me—it’ll look great on you,’ he said, blaming my alleged penny-pinching on my Jewish upbringing. But that had nothing to do with it; I just had different priorities to him—our child, for starters.
However, Paul couldn’t forgo instant gratification for any long-term goals and I was getting increasingly frustrated. I’d anticipated that, living rent free, we’d finally get ahead, but his spending was compulsive. We argued about money and he accused me of being controlling. I knew that wasn’t true; I just wasn’t instantly acceding to all his wishes. There always seemed to be something—bigger, better, newer—he desired, whereas I was prepared to make do.
