The Americans, Baby

by Frank Moorhouse

  At his place he took her in his arms in the clean kitchen and with her backside against the stainless steel sink, kissed her very seriously.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for some days,’ he said, with some satisfaction, and having got that out of the way, went about getting her a drink and putting out black bread and cheese – two types – on a cheese board.

  He showed her around. Showed her his study with its carved pipe rack, Steelbilt filing cabinets and Tensor reading lamp.

  Besides his doctorate from MIT and his pharmacy degree from the University of Nebraska, Lincoln, framed on the wall, she saw a cup for canoeing and a silver chess piece from some American competition.

  ‘Spacious,’ she commented.

  ‘I prefer it to my office at the university,’ he said. She mentally corrected it to ‘room at the university’.

  Back in the living room she ran her fingers along the keyboard of his piano.

  ‘Do you play?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. A little.’ Sitting down, he played.

  ‘Schoenberg – discordant? You find it discordant? Twelve-tone system – a rigid intellectual exercise – say, like a sonnet.’

  ‘You seem to have a wide range of interests – chess, canoeing, piano …’

  ‘There’s a reason,’ he said quietly, stopping playing. ‘I had a marriage break up on me – years ago – when I was young.’ He shrugged, looked at her, and then seemed to decide not to go on.

  She felt unable to inquire further.

  He swivelled on the piano stool, looking fit and spruce.

  She was frightened then for a second that the conversation had lapsed and the situation would become physical. She wasn’t ready.

  ‘Do you cook?’ she said, looking through at the shadow board and the shelves holding the kitchen utensils – the natural colourings of the handmade wood and pottery and the machined brightness of the duralumin and stainless steel. She could see a cutlet bat, a red casserole dish, brownware dishes, wooden cutting board with inset blades, a crescent-shaped double-handed chopping knife, and a mortar and pestle.

  ‘A playboy cook.’ He chuckled. ‘Get the woman to do the vegetables and set the table.’ He chuckled some more. ‘Yes, I cook, I cook a passable coq au vin – provincial style – actually I’m a peasant cook – love the primitive. You must let me cook dinner for you one night.’

  Whatever sort of cook you are, she thought, you’re not a playboy.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘here I am at twenty-eight and have never cooked coq au vin in my life.’

  They sat there, he talked about cooking. She heard Bearnaise, Bordelaise, and vaguely listened while thinking about him, trying to get a feel for him. She was brought back to the conversation by him showing her a hand-written recipe book which she riffled through but could not concentrate on. A book, he told her, begun by his pioneer grandmother, which he had continued. It was in his handwriting, with great clarity – like one of his experiment reports. She saw the headings, Corn Fritter, Rye Bread, Wheat Cake.

  ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, looking at her glass, wanting another drink all right, ‘yes please.’

  Coming back from the kitchen, smiling, the host, ‘Would you like to hear a record or tape?’

  He opened a large cabinet containing records and tapes.

  ‘I’m a hi-fi fanatic,’ he said. ‘Constructed this set-up myself.’ And burbled on about sound reproduction as though switched on by the opening of the cabinet.

  She went over and knelt beside him in front of the cabinet. ‘About five hundred records and as many tapes.’ He handed her a catalogue.

  ‘Done by your last research assistant?’ she said playfully – it was indexed under title, composer, and musician.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘myself – all my own work.’

  ‘How impressive.’

  ‘Not really – clerical, simply clerical.’

  She couldn’t think of a record – the choice was too great. ‘I can’t think,’ she said. ‘You select something.’

  ‘A tape?’ he said. ‘Let’s see – Aboriginal music – actual field recording, how’s that?’

  ‘Field recording?’

  ‘I was cook on a dig once.’

  ‘Dig? Cook?’

  Her queries seemed imbecilic.

  ‘Cook – sound recordist – pharmacist.’ He smiled at her. ‘I went with some of the Anthrop people – up North – fascinating – actually managed to get a superb collection.’

  He put on a tape.

  They settled back in their chairs. She didn’t know whether one talked during the field recordings. ‘May I talk?’ she whispered, childlike, above the scrape and clack of the music.

  Although there seemed plenty to talk about she had nothing to say

  ‘When’s your book coming out?’ she said after a longish pause.

  ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought there was only one – Drugs and Body Chemistry.’

  ‘Oh, August,’ he said, ‘but I have another book – poems – a slim volume.’

  ‘You write poems?’ she said, almost disbelieving.

  ‘Yes, I’m no Holub, but I have two slim volumes.’

  He went to the bookcase and pulled out a couple of books. He handed them to her, Neutrons and Neurones – Poetic Explorations I – XII, and In Praise of the Epigamic – Collected Poems. She opened them but her mind was still preoccupied with him and his atmosphere and she found she couldn’t read. ‘I can’t concentrate now,’ she said. ‘May I borrow them?’

  ‘By all means,’ he said. ‘Better still,’ he jumped up, ‘let me present you with a copy of Praise of Epigamic.’

  ‘I love the title,’ she said, as he left the room.

  He came back with a copy, autographed. He must have a stock of autographed copies for his lady visitors.

  ‘But this one is different,’ she said, comparing it with the other, ‘it’s a thicker and richer kind of paper.’

  ‘Yes, if you look closely you’ll see the binding’s different too.’

  She examined it.

  ‘I hand-printed it, hand-cut the paper, and hand-bound it.’

  ‘You did it yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said without boast, ‘I have a friend who has a printery – he taught me the rudiments.’

  ‘But it’s beautifully done,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Fancy writing your own poems and then setting about printing and binding the book!’

  He laughed. ‘This will amuse you too,’ he said. ‘I mix my own inks.’

  ‘No!’ she said, marvelling. She looked again at the ink and saw that it was a delicate strange brown. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘too much,’ and then felt that not enough and added, ‘I’m impressed once again.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be,’ he said. ‘It’s simply a matter of following a recipe – as it happens a fifteenth-century recipe.’

  ‘Fifteenth century!’

  ‘Little more than lampblack, iron, manganese oxides, linseed oil – the early inks are fairly stable – although modern inks probably have greater longevity – we don’t know of course,’ he grinned, ‘superior compounding. I had most of the copies done with modern inks.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Want another little surprise?’ he said, boyishly.

  ‘I don’t know whether I can stand it.’

  ‘The paper – I made it – even pulped my own wood – sulphite – although it’s mainly macerated old rags.’

  ‘I’m flabbergasted.’

  They sat there for a few seconds in silence. She could think of a hundred banal questions about how and why but stubbornly resisted asking them, perversely – she didn’t want to be an interviewer. To further compliment him would be embarrassing for both of them. For one thing she was running out of natural compliments.

  He mended the conversation by saying, ‘Have some cheese.’ She took a piece.

  ‘I suppose you
made the cheese too,’ she said, chomping hard as she caught the sound of it – worried that it carried the implication he was a tiresome boaster or that she resented his accomplishments. She willed that it didn’t sound that way. He didn’t show any offence.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said; hesitated and smiled and said, ‘I do make cheese – it just so happens that it isn’t mine.’

  Under her breath she said, oh no. She thought he might be joking and looked again at his face. He wasn’t joking. He went to a board in his study containing carefully labelled keys and took down a key. ‘Come with me – I have some cheeses ripening.’

  He opened a three-quarter door under the stairway, switched on a light and, taking her hand, led her down the stone steps to the cellar.

  ‘I hope I didn’t sound offensive just then,’ she said, ‘about the cheese.’

  ‘About the cheese?’ he said, puzzled.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

  She loved the cellar. ‘This is a really authentic cellar – just how a cellar should be – stone steps, stone walls, cheeses ripening – oh, and racks of wine.’

  She didn’t have to ask about the wine because she could see the bottling equipment and the wine press and stainless steel vats in a section at the far end.

  ‘They’re not cheeses,’ she said hesitantly, pointing at cylindrical moulds hanging from a frame.

  ‘No, they’re candles,’ he said, ‘I turn out my own – God knows why – both paraffin – stearic acid and tallow – I suppose it makes dinner party conversation.’

  ‘Here are my cheeses,’ he said, taking her to another part of the cellar, ‘still fairly green – that’s Brick, sweetish type of cheese – and the rest are dull cheddars.’

  She didn’t hear his description of the manufacture of cheese – she kept looking around and thinking, my God, he’s buried his wife down here.

  ‘I worry about tyrotoxicon – aptomaine – so far I’m still alive.’

  ‘It’s rather cool down here,’ she said, moving towards the stairs. ‘Could we go up?’ She didn’t want to hear about the candles or the tyrotoxicon – she didn’t want to be buried with his wife either. But she wasn’t really scared; it was simply a game of nerves.

  They went up the steps. He closed the cellar door, locked it, and switched off the light.

  He still held her hand. How sweet, he liked it.

  ‘I’d love a drink.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Any other hobbies?’ She wondered if ‘hobbies’ was the correct word.

  ‘Oh, I do a few other things to fill in the time,’ he said humorously.

  Like strangling women. She laughed at herself.

  He didn’t offer to tell her what they were. But she knew she was obliged to ask although she felt she didn’t really want to know. She might even enjoy saying something about herself – but there didn’t seem anything to say – he was a hard act to follow. What else could she do?

  She asked.

  ‘For instance,’ he said, ‘I make my own furniture.’ She looked around and could see now that it was not factory furniture.

  ‘How unobservant of me. Do you design it?’

  ‘I design it – and also make the glues and the nails – I take the fact you didn’t notice it as a compliment.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Did you say “nails”?’

  ‘The nails I make from iron ore – at a small foundry not far from here – a very low grade steel – but my own.’

  She must have had a why-for-Godsake look on her face.

  He seemed to rush to tell her, ‘You see I like to follow a process right the way through – if it’s a thing I eat, I want to grow it, harvest it, cure it or whatever. Usually it’s not possible,’ he said disappointedly. ‘I have actually cut the timber for furniture – not this furniture – other pieces I’ve made …’ He was scrutinising her and his voice was trailing as though he needed to be reassured that he didn’t sound nutty.

  ‘You don’t think I’m …’ He tapped his head.

  She shook her head. ‘You made the mat then,’ she said, looking down at the coarse weave.

  ‘Yes – that’s a good case in point.’ He gathered new impetus. ‘I actually shore the sheep, spun the wool, dyed the wool, made the dyes.’

  ‘What about the machines – the tools – and so on that you use to make things – do you make those too?’ It sounded as though she were trying to catch him out.

  ‘Ha! Now you’ve got me – but I have made some simple tools – and I made a spinning wheel – but lathes, no, electric drills, no, saws, no.’

  ‘You didn’t build the house,’ she said looking around, laughing, almost out of control, almost rudely.

  ‘No, I didn’t build the house, but …’

  She interrupted him. ‘Let me guess – you could if you wanted to – you know how.’

  Modestly, quietly, as though he’d gone too far, he said, ‘Back in the States I built a four-room sod cabin using the techniques of the pioneers – up in the Pine Cat Range. It leaked.’

  His first joke. She laughed and let herself fall back on the settee. ‘Another drink, please,’ she said, holding out her glass – noting that she was drinking quickly.

  ‘I didn’t make the whisky,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘But you did back in the States – in the sod cabin.’

  ‘No,’ he chuckled, obviously pleased with his humour, ‘it’s illegal – all the same I do have a corn mash still under construction – out the back in the workshop.’

  She giggled and giggled, shaking her head. ‘No – please – excuse me,’ she said, choking, ‘I can’t help laughing – with admiration.’

  He knelt in front of her in quick unexpected movement. She stopped laughing instantly. Holding their empty glasses still in his hands he put his head on her lap. She had stiffened. ‘You’re a very attractive woman,’ he said. ‘I want very much to impress you.’

  ‘You have,’ she said, embarrassed, wanting him to get up, unsettled by his sudden seriousness, ‘you have impressed me – and you’re a very attractive man,’ she said, wondering if in fact he was, and sorry she couldn’t do better than directly return his compliment, ‘a very attractive man.’

  She sensed he felt it time to make advances and to move towards sex.

  ‘Will we take our drinks into the bedroom?’ she said softly, trying to make it smooth – and in a way, to get it over with. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

  He looked into her eyes. ‘I want to make a request.’

  She readied herself.

  ‘I hope you have no objections,’ he said, perhaps fearfully but certainly determined to ask it, ‘and I hope you don’t find it insulting.’

  ‘What is it?’ she almost shouted.

  Still staring into her eyes he said, ‘Would you take a bath with me?’

  The request wasn’t as odd as she’d feared. It was his possible motive which perturbed her – he was going to drown her and bury her with his wife.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she answered, a little unsteadily. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m glad you will,’ he said, relieved. ‘I know it sounds a queer deal – but – I like to begin from the beginning.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you with me?’

  ‘More or less.’ Less than more.

  He began to talk very quickly, trying to convince. ‘A bath is a symbolic beginning – a rebirth, so as to speak – we remove all connection with the everyday world – our clothes – and we wash away the traces.’

  He looked intently at her. ‘Odd?’

  ‘I can follow you,’ she said, noncommittally.

  He coloured. ‘I know it sounds odd.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, lying, but emotionally spellbound by the gregarious pipe-smoking associate professor from MIT on his knees struggling to gain her approval, captured briefly by his mesh of theories and practices. ‘It’s just different,’ she added, for honesty.

  ‘Good
,’ he said, rising to his feet and guiding her up. ‘First, a taste of my wine – light red.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the equipment down in the cellar.’

  ‘I don’t grow my own grapes – I buy them.’ They went to the kitchen. ‘I like to finish the evening with something of my own. Simple vanity.’

  In the kitchen he took down two wine glasses and took a bottle of red wine from a rack.

  ‘The glasses!’ she exclaimed, ‘of course – the glasses – they’re home made – you made them.’

  ‘Yes, I blew them,’ he said.

  He led her then into the bathroom. It was large with a large almost square, almost Roman, bath – which could hold at least two people. ‘Why, this bathroom is fantastic,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t make the tiles but I did design it,’ he said. ‘I very much wanted to build it – but really the only thing of mine is the towels.’ He turned on the taps.

  He coughed. ‘Could I take your clothes?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, swallowing the unnaturalness. She stripped. He stripped along with her.

  He took her clothes and his and went out. He was going to burn them and keep her prisoner, she thought – or more likely he was going to fumigate them. Or do something kinky with her underwear,

  He came back. ‘I use the tallow for both candles and soap,’ he said handing her a cake of yellow-brown soap, almost larger than her hand, ‘coconut oil – resin – the usual phosphates – and the rest – common household formula. I faintly odourised it with lavender and cassia.’

  She smelt it. ‘It smells positively caustic,’ she said, the cavernous bathroom making her sound like a small girl.

  She felt bizarre standing beside the nude forty-year-old American professor, his hand on her arse, holding a cake of handmade soap. It made her think of Nazi prison camps.

  ‘Shall we bathe?’ He tried the water. ‘It’s OK.’ They both went into the bath. He began to scrub her with the soap, quite hard. She simply sat there in a half slump. She did as she was told. He washed her as though she were a little girl – between the legs and under the armpits.

  ‘Your hair, too,’ he said.

  ‘My hair?’

  ‘Just put it under the water, the soap makes an excellent shampoo.’ She wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t so sure about putting her head under the water with his hand on her neck.