Barracuda

by Christos Tsiolkas

  ‘Come on, mate, come into the water.’

  Dan peeked, squinted, from under his book.

  ‘Nah, I’m enjoying myself. I’m happy just sitting here.’

  ‘Don’t be a dick, man, it’s fantastic out there, come on.’ Clyde was holding out his hand, waiting.

  ‘Nah, I’m fine.’

  ‘Come on.’ The pleading in Clyde’s voice had been replaced by irritation.

  ‘I said I’m fine.’

  ‘Come. On.’

  ‘I. Don’t. Fucking. Want. To.’

  ‘Just leave him, Clyde. You know he doesn’t like to swim.’

  Even with the sun in his eyes Dan could see Clyde’s face change, see how his body stiffened at Demet’s words. It had been the wrong thing for her to say—it claimed an ownership that Clyde would not be able to forgive. They’d been the wrong words, but then any words of Demet’s would have been the wrong words for Clyde.

  Clyde walked back into the surf.

  Demet spread her towel next to Dan and plonked herself down on it. ‘You OK?’ she asked, teasingly flicking water on his bare arm.

  ‘Yeah, ’course I am.’

  ‘Things alright between you and Clyde?’ She asked it lazily but he was immediately wary. He was cautious when talking about Clyde to Demet, and also when Clyde asked him about her. ‘I’m OK, Clyde and I are OK.’ He picked up his book and started reading over the same damn paragraph, the words refusing to settle.

  ‘Cool.’ Demet was looking out to the water, where Margarita and Clyde were splashing and dunking each other. ‘She’s having such a good time. She really likes Clyde—they have fun together.’

  There was affection and warmth in the way Demet spoke of her girlfriend. That lightness wasn’t there between him and Clyde, only the ferocious rush of desire. The lightness and warmth only came to them just after their bodies were spent, the glow of their orgasms depleted. Only then, maybe, was there light between them.

  Dan told himself to be kind. He’d promised himself that he would be kind that weekend, that he would be tender with Clyde.

  That afternoon, at the café on the esplanade, Clyde had laughed and joked and camped it up with Margarita, and was even teasing and gentle with Demet. The surly adolescent waitress with the nose ring and pink streaks in her hair brightened visibly on hearing Clyde’s accent; afterwards, when Clyde went up to pay, Dan looked through to where his lover was charming the cashier. But to Dan, from that moment back on the beach, Clyde hadn’t spoken a word.

  He didn’t know how to answer that question: ‘Why can’t you swim?’ To answer it honestly would be akin to telling Clyde that he didn’t know Dan at all. To answer would be to reveal himself completely to his lover. The risk of it was unimaginable.

  He breathed out and made sure his words were offhand. ‘I’ve told you, I spent most of my teenage years training for four hours a day in the bloody pool. I’ve had enough of swimming to last me a lifetime.’

  Clyde’s fingers were wavering over his tobacco pouch, itching to roll another. But he pushed it away. ‘And you really don’t miss it?’

  ‘I fucking hated it, do you understand? I fucking hated swimming!’

  Clyde sighed loudly.

  Dan looked down at the slow roll of traffic on the esplanade, he was watching the sun spill into the mouth of the ocean. All the vehicles were BMWs, Volvos, massive SUVs. He and Clyde shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have accepted the invitation. The ocean was splendid here, the coldest blue in the world, the sea rising to kiss the undulating green hills was spectacular—but he had no right to be here. This was the world that belonged to the boys from school—they owned that stretch of the coast. It was a world the other Danny could visit, the Danny that Clyde had never met, must never know. They should never have come.

  The thought of seeing someone from that world transformed into something solid that filled his throat, threatening to choke him. They’re not here, he told himself desperately. They’d be in Europe or in expensive Asian resorts. Tourist season would be too crowded for them, too plebeian.

  He swallowed, and could breathe again.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Clyde was looking concerned.

  His words came out as a plea: ‘Fuck me.’

  The men fucked like animals, Dan’s face squashed against the harsh acrylic of the cheap carpet. He forced himself to mentally outline the green and yellow floret patterns on the rug, he needed to fixate on that, but the lines blurred because his teeth were grinding together so hard he was sure they would crack, but he couldn’t open his mouth; to open his mouth would be to let out a howl from the lacerating pain, the buckling and tearing of his bowels, he was convinced he was tearing. Look at the pattern on the carpet, concentrate on that, only on that, he thought, clamping down on his teeth, telling himself, Don’t shit, don’t shit, as Clyde plunged into him with ferocity and fury. It was violent and savage, and within minutes Clyde was bellowing, with such force and exhilaration that Dan could finally relax. Clyde was spasming, grunting as he came, falling on top of him; the room was a furnace from the heat of the day so when their wet skin slid together it sounded like farting. Dan pushed Clyde off him onto his back on the carpet, then straddled him, jerking his cock violently for only a couple of seconds, feverishly chasing that brief moment of light, and three spurts of semen landed on Clyde’s chest and neck.

  The men lay next to each other on the floor. Dan’s skin was stinging from carpet burn. He slid his hand over the wet clumps of hair on Clyde’s chest and belly, flicking off a glob of drying ejaculate from Clyde’s crucifix. Their combined breathing slowed and separated. The sound of crashing waves and the slow rumble of the traffic re-entered his consciousness. Dan peeled the condom off Clyde’s prick and got up to go to the bathroom. He chucked the mess of plastic and semen into the toilet bowl, then sat down and immediately allowed himself the relief he had craved from the moment Clyde’s cock had pierced him: his shit, wet and putrid, slid seamlessly out of his bowel. He could smell the previous night’s dinner in it, lamb, garlic and wine. He flushed the toilet and went back into the living room.

  Clyde was still spread naked on the floor. He raised his hand, examining his fingers, pursing his lips in distaste. ‘I need a shower, I’m like a mangy dog.’ He wiped his hand disdainfully on the carpet, his nose wrinkling in revulsion. ‘Your cum,’ he blurted out jokingly.

  Dan could relax. It had worked. Clyde had forgotten all about the water and why Dan didn’t want to swim.

  Dan checked his phone again. It was seven twenty-five and Clyde was still in the bathroom. They were meeting the girls next door at seven-thirty—they were going to be late. Dan couldn’t fathom how Clyde was not capable of managing time. It was simple, time was allotted in discrete units, it was logical—the day was measured by it. How could Clyde not get it? He looked again. Seven twenty-six. He couldn’t stop himself; he opened the bathroom door, about to say they were going to be late, but then stopped in amazement.

  Clyde was smiling at him in the bathroom mirror. He was standing there naked, a razor in one hand, his chest, belly, the skin of his pubis blotchy and red. Dan was transfixed.

  Clyde frowned. ‘Don’t you like it?’ He rubbed at his shaved chest. ‘I know it’s going to itch like hell, but I’ve always wanted to try it. I was sick of all that sand scratching at me all day. Don’t you like it?’

  A memory he had to stifle, a joke from that other world: You look like a skinned rabbit.

  Dan didn’t know what to say. It was Clyde’s face but it wasn’t his body. It was the body of a youth, a glimpse of the past, the change rooms after a meet. It was pale white smooth skin. It was Clyde’s face, but it was Martin’s body.

  And for the first time, looking at his lover, it wasn’t just lust that was a bolt of radiance through his body. It was falling through the earth, and at the same time it was flight. It was swooning. Was it love?

  Clyde watched quietly as Dan found a tube of sorbolene cream in his toilet bag. The
men were silent as Dan carefully, lovingly applied the cream all over Clyde’s freshly shaven body.

  ‘It’s going to be itchy for days,’ he counselled softly, his hands cupping Clyde’s balls. ‘You’ll have to stop yourself scratching.’

  He continued soothing his partner’s skin. He had forgotten that Demet and Margarita were waiting. Time had been stalled, it had been vanquished.

  Margarita had booked a table at a Greek restaurant by the jetty. Their table was at the far end of the deck, overlooking the water. A young waitress briskly handed them their menus, took their drinks order and was about to launch into a recital of the night’s specials when Clyde held up his hand. ‘We’ll settle on food after our drink.’ But there was charm in his smile and he’d put an extra lilt into his accent, softening the brogue. It worked, as it usually did. The girl returned his smile and poured out water for each of them.

  When she left them, Clyde grabbed a menu and started fanning himself with it. ‘Oh my God,’ his voice an exaggerated mince, ‘it is so furcken hot.’

  Demet poked out her tongue. ‘It’s perfect weather. Just shut the fuck up, you whining Scottish poofter.’

  At the next table, an elderly woman scowled and said something to the old man across from her. He looked over, caught Dan’s eye and quickly looked away.

  Just don’t be so loud, don’t swear so much, he silently begged of his friends.

  The drinks arrived and Clyde raised his glass. ‘Well, happy Australia Day.’

  ‘Happy Invasion Day, you mean,’ Demet said loudly, making sure that the couple at the next table had heard. Dan knew that she wanted everyone around them to hear.

  ‘Happy Invasion Day,’ repeated Clyde as they clinked their glasses, but he couldn’t help adding, ‘I see that you aren’t too outraged to accept the public holiday?’

  Demet’s eyes flashed but then she shrugged and chuckled. ‘Well spotted, Scotsman,’ she said as she took a sip from her champagne. ‘I am a hypocrite.’

  Dan saw Clyde’s brief bristle of irritation. It was the inflection she gave the word, Scotsman, the stress on the second syllable. I don’t know how she does it, Clyde had complained to him, how she makes it sound like an insult every time.

  ‘Hypocrisy is inevitable.’

  They all looked at Margarita. She was holding her cool glass to her cheek.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Margarita touched her lover’s forearm. ‘I don’t mean to be heavy about it, mate, I just meant that it is hard not to be conscious of how hypocritical we all are. You know, we all believe in reconciliation, we all believe in Aboriginal statehood, we all believe in social justice, but here we are on the day that should be about acknowledging how this land was stolen from its original owners and we’re living it up on one of the most expensive coastal strips in Australia. That’s all.’ She wasn’t like Demet—she didn’t have to announce it to the world. She’d said it softly, a statement just for them to hear.

  ‘I mean,’ she added even more quietly, as if ashamed of what she was about to say, ‘is there even one Aboriginal person in this whole fucking town?’

  Clyde patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry too much about it, sweetheart. You’re the darkest person here.’ He made a gesture that took in the whole restaurant. ‘I mean, they all probably think you are Aboriginal.’

  Demet’s laugh was a roar, a crack of thunder that made the couple next to them flinch. But Dan didn’t mind. He just felt relief every time Clyde said something that got a laugh out of Demet. I can relax, thought Dan, as Clyde lit a cigarette. It’s going to be alright.

  The waitress rushed over, exclaiming, ‘Sorry, sir, but it’s no smoking here.’

  Demet jumped in. ‘But we’re outside.’

  The young woman looked serious. ‘Yes, but we serve food in this area and so there is a no-smoking policy till eleven o’clock.’ She pointed across to a boat landing a few metres from the restaurant. ‘If you like you can smoke out there. As long as you’re at least nine metres from the eating area.’

  Dan felt that they were all being given a reprimand.

  Demet had pulled out her pack of cigarettes. ‘Come on, Clyde, I’ll come with you.’ But as she left the table, she called back over her shoulder, ‘I mean, for fuck’s sake, it is a Greek restaurant.’

  The waitress looked mortified. ‘Right,’ she declared, turning on her heel, ‘I’ll come back with the specials when they return, shall I?’

  Dan watched Clyde get drunk. There was the first gin and tonic, and then the second when Clyde and Demet had returned from their smoke. Not that Dan was counting; he was just glad that Demet and Clyde had found common ground and bonhomie in their shared outrage at the pettiness of Australians. He could tell that Margarita was also relieved that the night hadn’t turned into another sparring match between their respective partners. Dan had heard the mantras before; Clyde’s dissection of Australia had become both more bitter and more resigned the more his frustration with the country grew.

  So Dan sat and listened while Clyde listed all the things he found perplexing and annoying about Australia. ‘You all think you’re so egalitarian, but you’re the most status-seeking people I’ve met. You call yourselves laid-back but you’re angry and resentful all the time. You say there is no class system here, but you’re terrified of the poor, and you say you’re anti-authoritarian but all there is here are rules, from the moment I fucken landed here, rules about doing this and not doing that, don’t climb there, don’t go here, don’t smoke and don’t drink here and don’t play there and don’t drink and drive and don’t go over the speed limit and don’t do anything fucken human. You’re all so scared of dying you can’t let yourselves live—fuck that: we’re human, we die, that’s part of life. That’s just life.’

  And Demet was his chorus; Demet answered every insult, every jibe with her own litany of complaints that Dan knew off by heart—he could have recited it along with her. We are parochial and narrow-minded and we are racist and ungenerous and we occupy this land illegitimately and we’re toadies to the Poms and servile to the Yanks; it was an antiphony between Demet and Clyde.

  The elderly couple at the next table had fallen silent and Dan wanted to say sorry to them, to explain that Demet and Clyde didn’t know they were insulting them, they just didn’t see them, and the young waitress wasn’t smiling anymore; she refilled their water glasses and brought out more drinks without glancing at any of them, she no longer found Clyde’s accent charming. As both of them finished with a flourish, Clyde saying, ‘It’s soulless here,’ and Demet instantly echoing him: ‘You’re right, mate, it is soulless here,’ Dan kept his mouth shut because he knew he could say to his lover that that was because it wasn’t home for him—that was what people meant when they said a place was soulless, it meant it wasn’t home to them and they didn’t know it—but what could he say to his friend? Where are you going to go? Where are you going to find peace? Where will you have to go to find soul? This is the only home we have.

  It was just after the plates had been cleared away, after the waitress had asked if they wanted dessert. Margarita had smiled, shaken her head, and asked her to bring the bill. Dan was looking up at the moon straining to reach its full brilliance, and listening to the waves slapping against the posts of the jetty. The tables around them had been cleared and on the foreshore a group of teenagers were playing loud thumping dance music. That was when it all started to go wrong.

  The bill arrived at the table and Demet leaned forward to say, ‘This is on us.’

  ‘No, you don’t have to do that,’ said Clyde, shaking his head in protest.

  Margarita took Demet’s hand and held it to her chest, as if the two women were about to make a vow. ‘No, it’s our shout because we wanted this weekend together to ask you both a favour.’

  Demet was nodding, encouraging Margarita to continue; and stumbling at first, then gaining courage, she blurted out the words: ‘Demet and I want to have a baby, we want to become
parents, and we can’t think of two men we’d rather have as fathers to our child. Are you interested? Will you think about it?’

  Dan barely had time to absorb the meaning of the words when Demet added, ‘Of course, it would be totally up to you how much or how little responsibility you want to have in rasing the child.’

  That made the words break through and Dan thought, No, I want to know her, I want to know my daughter, because his very first thought was of Regan and how a child of his and Demet’s might look like Regan. His next thought was that Clyde, next to him, had stiffened. And that made Dan unable to answer. That made him unable to speak.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Margarita was searching Dan’s face, clearly shaken and dismayed by Clyde’s resolute silence.

  Clyde was also looking at him and Dan couldn’t speak or look in his direction. The moon was reflected brilliantly and solidly on the surface of the calm water. The spears of light were paths to a future. Demet and Margarita were offering him a future. But he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t bridge the in-between of Clyde and Demet.

  Margarita turned to Clyde. ‘What do you think?’

  Clyde cleared his throat. He no longer sounded drunk. ‘I don’t think that is for me to answer,’ he said, chillingly polite. ‘You’re not asking me to be the father, you’re asking Dan.’