‘When are you leaving?’
‘You know when.’
‘Tell me. Tell me again.’
‘Two weeks.’ I heard her give another little sniff. She hugged me closer to her.
‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘Liana...’
‘Don’t go, Michael.’
‘You know I have no choice. Let’s not talk about it now. I’m not going just yet. We still have some time.’
She nodded, reluctantly, then started to cry again.
It’s always like this when it’s time for me to go. For five months Liana curses me. She screams at me, shouts at me, abuses me. Sometimes it all gets too much for her, and she’ll flail away at my head and chest with clenched fists. She’ll wake me in the middle of the night and accuse me of some heinous, trumped-up crime, and refuse to let me sleep until I admit my guilt. Once every three months she’ll grab a kitchen knife and lock herself in the bathroom and threaten to slash her wrists.
In the final month, before it’s time for me to leave, she becomes more aggressive still. She starts in on my “problem”, brings up incidents from the past - both real and imagined - and accuses me incessantly of infidelity. The fits become more frequent. She talks about how she wants to see me dead, would like to kill me. And then, in the final two weeks, she becomes contrite. Soon she will start begging me to stay.
I can cope with the rest of it; the death wishes, the suicide threats, the hammering fists, the uncontrollable rage. But when she starts to beg, when she literally goes down on her knees, prostrates herself before me, grabs hold of my ankles, promises anything, everything, that’s when I go to pieces.
The rest of the time when Liana isn’t being crazy, she’s as normal, as controlled, as relaxed as any person could be. Our friends adore her; they always have done. Liana is wonderful company; witty, charming, warm. Every man who has met Liana at these times falls in love with her. I am the focus of the most extreme envy. There’s Michael Montrose, they say; he has no proper job, no home, no money. He has a big nose, a weak chin, a straggly beard, and he’s married to the most beautiful woman in the world, a woman who is so evidently crazy about him that she’s prepared to let him wander off around the globe for half the year. That Michael is prepared to leave such a ravishing creature is proof, they say, of only one thing.
He must be mad.
If, as some people claim, we are what we eat, then I invite you to taste a slice of my life, and savour its bittersweet irony.
***
There is really only one reason why I must leave Liana behind. Money. As I have already mentioned, it is not easy making a living as a travel writer. It has taken me the best part of eight years to get to this stage, and frankly, for most of that time I have had to struggle to make ends meet. Even now I make less money than most of my contemporaries. I don’t like to harp on about it, after all, it was my choice; I chose to go into a profession that pays peanuts, and what’s more, pays them in arrears.
Currently I write for six magazines. Whilst officially freelance, I have a sort of implied contract with the editors of four of these magazines, each of whom agree to publish between ten and twelve of my articles a year. The other two will publish occasional pieces, only these articles must be accompanied by photographs or illustrations. None of these agreements are in writing; should any or all of them suddenly decide that they no longer require my pieces, I am - to use the vernacular - well and truly fucked.
Anyone who has ever had any dealings with the publishing world will know that as soon as one enters the waters they turn from warm, inviting pools into shark-infested seas. Or worse, murky, polluted cesspits, which are impervious to light and smell very unpleasant. Remuneration is usually the stumbling block; payment is not made until after publication. Officially, the time period is one month. In practice, it is anything from a few days to a year. As the time between acceptance of the article and its appearance on the shelves of your local newsagent may be of the same order, it can sometimes be as long as two years between when an article is completed and when the cheque floats through the letter box to land on the carpet with an anti-climactic slap.
To compound these problems, I am hopeless at keeping track of my financial affairs. All I know is that, at present, having paid the final month’s rent on the flat and bought my open return ticket to Indonesia, I am broke. Somewhere, in the ethereal twilight zone that exists between several magazine accounting departments and my bank account, there floats two or three thousand pounds that may one day find their way from the former to the latter, or as I see it, from the sublime to the ridiculous.
In the meantime, I cannot count on that money. To all intents and purposes, it exists only in my imagination. Consequently I must seek yet another appointment with Mister Horace Leach, my friendly, anal-retentive bank manager, and make - what Mr Bloodsucker likes to call - “suitable financial arrangements”. He already owns documents, appended with my signature, entitling him to possession of one arm and both legs in the event of my defaulting on payment, and as I have only one good limb left as collateral, securing a loan this time may well prove difficult.
Once again, Mr Leach will urge me to get into something “with greater stability”; after all, as he delights in pointing out, I’m not a “youngster” any more (this from a man who was born middle-aged) and I do have commitments. There is no point my arguing with Leach; there is no way I could make him understand the set of circumstances that have conspired against me to bring me to my present position.
Leach thinks that if you’re a writer, you can write anything. Why don’t I write for television, he says; there must be good money in that? Sure, I want to say; TV is crying out for travel articles; perhaps we could work my last piece on Cairo into next week’s Coronation Street? Of course, I don’t say this, or anything like it. I do not wish to offend Mr Horace Leach, because if I’m lucky, Mr Horace Leach is going to give me some of his precious, middle-class, greatly stable money. So I tell him that I am in the process of doing whatever it is he suggested last time I came a-grovelling: writing Mills & Boon romances, sitcoms, radio plays, television advertisements, backs of cornflake packets.
Yes, it’s demeaning, but I have no choice. I need cash to live on, money for Liana’s fare back to Devon, and must arrange standing order payments to The Sanctuary for the next six months.
At least I won’t have to worry about Liana; she’ll be safe at The Sanctuary, probably safer than I. She will not run the risks of viral infection, malaria, sunstroke and dehydration. She will not have to deal with filthy sheets, diseased water and transport systems that cannot guarantee to get you from A to B without damage to body and/or soul.
Mind you, I no longer take the sort of risks that circumscribed my travels five years ago. I don’t dare. After all, if anything were to happen to me, who would take care of Liana? No, I cannot risk anything any more; I must be there for her. I must earn money to keep her safe and sound. It is my duty, my purpose, my raison d’étre.
Welcome, folks, to the exciting world of travel writing.
Chapter 8
I walked Liana back to her guest house. She was staying just a few hundred yards away from my hotel, on a narrow alleyway leading down to the ghats. She had, she said, a balcony; we could sit for a while, if I wanted to.
Throughout the evening I had been wondering what would happen when it finally came time to say goodnight. I had decided early on that I could not invite her back to my hotel room, as this would seem a blatant, transparent move. I did not dare risk failure or rejection so soon after meeting her. I knew I was powerless beside this woman and that if anything was to happen it would be at her instigation, a situation that (bearing in mind my theories concerning sexual attraction and personal appearance) seemed so unlikely as to be laughable.
And yet, she had enjoyed my company. We had sat in the restaurant for several hours, enjoying the refreshing beers, talking about our respective lives. Liana had recently graduated from the U
niversity of Kent with a degree in Fine Art. Painting was her great love, she said, but thought it unlikely she would ever make a living from her work. For the time being, however, she didn’t worry about such things. It was more important for her to travel, to see some of the world, to experience something other than the insular worlds of university life and Surrey suburbia. She had felt stifled, she said; she needed freedom, a chance to be herself. She wanted to take risks; what was life without a little gamble now and then?
When she asked what I intended to do, I hesitated before answering. I had already told a dozen people that I was a travel writer, and had become so used to the idea that I almost believed it was true. But somehow, I could not look Liana in the eyes and tell her what was nothing better than a lie. She had this soulful, searching gaze which invited only honest exchanges. So I told her, quite simply, that I wanted to be a writer.
It was probably the only time I have been completely truthful in my entire life.
When Liana asked if I’d like to sit with her on her balcony, I did not dare to think it was a prelude to anything more than a final night-time conversation. We walked up the narrow staircase that led to her room, and then out on to the balcony. The balcony - just big enough for two cane chairs - overlooked the lake. It was a cool night with just the hint of a breeze coming off the lake. In the centre of the waters, the Lake Palace, outlined by a hundred flickering lamps, floated majestically whilst in the distance the easily identifiable shapes of the mountains provided a perfect backdrop.
We sat for some time in silence, just absorbing the stillness, the sense of the exotic that seemed to hang in the air like a rare perfume. The sky, crystal clear, crackled with the brilliance of a million points of light. We stared into the heavens and tried to identify the constellations, and having exhausted the ones we knew, searched for new patterns and devised names of our own.
Every now and then I would look across at Liana and marvel at her beauty. By starlight her loveliness was further enhanced, and she took on an almost mystic aura, as if she were not of this world at all. Once or twice she caught me staring at her and smiled. She seemed not the least embarrassed by my attentions. I presumed that she was used to such things; one cannot be blessed with such allure and expect to pass through the world unnoticed.
At some point during all of this, a shooting star scored its silver track across the skies, and Liana reached across and touched my arm.
‘Did you?’ she asked, her tone excited, expectant. I stared at her blankly. ‘Make a wish?’ she added.
‘Yes,’ I lied. I had barely noticed the star, preoccupied instead with the gentle touch of Liana’s fingers on my arm. Suddenly I longed to see another shooting star, so that I could have a second chance. I would wish only one thing: to have this woman invite me to her bed. I would sacrifice anything, offer anything, just for one night with her. I made swift, rash promises to a God I had previously addressed only rarely. I bargained away years of my life. I promised never to ask for anything again. For one night - one hour even - of total passion and pleasure, I would even give away any right I might otherwise have to be happy in the future. Grant me, I prayed, this single wish.
These days, when people ask me if I have a faith, if I believe in God, I say yes. If they question my reasons, I tell them I have proof; personal, irrefutable proof. What sort of God do I believe in, they ask. Is he cruel? Benevolent? Omnipotent?
No, I say. None of these things. He is honest, fair and, like most people I know, neither gives nor expects to receive something for nothing. He keeps his word.
He gave me what I wanted, what I asked for. He gave me my one hour, and in return - although I did not realise it at the time - I relinquished all further claims on him, including any right I might previously have had to a happy future.
Chapter 9
Richard had a theory about what constituted good sex. Good sex, said Richard - corrupting a well-known aphorism concerning creativity - was ninety per cent anticipation and ten per cent inspiration. The secret was always to maintain a sense of the unexpected. Sex became dull, he reckoned, because people fell into bad habits, became lazy and predictable. There were two ways of avoiding this unfortunate state of affairs. One: change partners regularly (as easy for Richard to do as to say) or two: use a little imagination.
The key to success was confidence. You could do anything you wanted, anything you desired, as long as you exuded a sense of knowingness. Most women, said Richard, felt inadequate in bed. Especially, he confided, the pretty ones. Women want to believe that they are free spirits, capable of engaging in all and any activities. They do not want to appear inhibited, as this suggests “problems”, neither do they want to appear either naive or unskilled. Consequently, one should never be hesitant or uncertain. Be precise but not unduly serious. Take control of the situation. Keep them guessing as this increases the excitement. Be positive and encouraging, and under these circumstances, a woman will do anything for you. Anything.
Richard made it all sound so easy. And perhaps, for him, it was. For the rest of us mere mortals, when it came to the pleasures of the flesh, a variation of catch-22 seemed to operate. How could you be confident until you’d had some experience, and how were you to increase your experience unless you were confident? When Jo and I made love, it was easy (once we got the hang of it). Neither of us had any expectations, nor could we make comparisons (favourable or otherwise) with anyone else. In a word, it was safe.
However, as soon as one finds oneself in bed with someone new, a different set of rules comes into play, and the questions, those questions, start popping up in rapid succession. Will I be any good? Will she be satisfied? How do I compare with her previous lover? How do I know what she’ll like? If we try straight sex, will she think me boring and pedestrian? If I attempt anything else, will she think me a pervert? Should I play rough or be gentle?
What about oral sex?
Even for those with a little experience behind them, these questions interlace to form a net suitable for trapping even the most confident of people. To someone like myself, they constituted nothing short of purgatory. The fact is, back in those early days, I simply did not know the answers.
That night in Udaipur I was, therefore, confronted with my first paradoxical feelings about sex. I wanted Liana with a desire and desperation that I had never previously thought possible. I wanted nothing other than to go to bed with her.
And I was scared shitless at the prospect that it might, just might, happen.
To compound the problem, as must now be evident, Liana was no ordinary woman. She made the Valeries and other film-star doppelgangers from my university days look like ugly ducklings. What was I doing even talking to this woman, never mind sitting alone with her on the balcony of her hotel room? What did I honestly think I was up to? Was I mad?
And a further problem. I had known this woman only a few hours, and already I had lied. Not to her; to myself. In my pact with God, I had asked for just one night. But I knew that, even if it were to happen, even if my wish were granted, it would not be enough. If the night was a disaster (and I had heard enough tales of such things to know that it was not an unlikely event) then I would be compelled to try again until I got it right, to prove to her that I was a great lover, a warm, wonderful human being, capable of bringing untold pleasures into someone else’s existence. Someone to spend a life with.
And if it was a success, then of course I would not be able to live the rest of my life without her.
These thoughts flashed through my head in just a few seconds, in the time it takes to walk ten feet, from a balcony overlooking a lake, to a bed in a darkened room. In those few moments I discovered something about myself that I had never before suspected. Far from being a normal, well-balanced young man, in charge of my feelings, my desires, my destiny, I was a cork on the ocean, a leaf in the breeze, totally at the mercy of factors completely outside my control. Yes, I would make the decision, but I did not have the choice.
&nb
sp; The revelation when it arrived, was both shocking and oddly reassuring: I was possessed by a demon, and the demon’s name was obsession.
Chapter 10
‘Michael, there’s something you should know.’
Liana bent over the mattress and lit a candle on the bedside table. I stood motionless, my heart in my mouth, Watching her perform this simple task with easy grace. Every movement she made was tinged with the erotic; whether this was deliberate, or merely my interpretation of what was, in truth, nothing but her natural ways, I could not say.
She stood and faced me, then, grabbing the hem of her dress, pulled it up over her head and discarded the dress to one side.
‘I’ve never done this before,’ she murmured. She was bare, save for those white cotton panties. Her breasts, like the rest of her, were perfect; smooth and rounded. One instinctively wished to reach across and touch them, not in any sexual way necessarily, but just to connect with the beauty, to discover if such perfection could be real.
‘I’ve never made love before,’ she said, aware that I had not understood. ‘But I want you. I want you to be the first.’
Kissing Through a Pane of Glass Page 4
