‘Ain’t you gonna wash me? I’m dirtier than a sweat hog,’ Blake teases.
I grin at him.
Water is precious. We wash each other with wrung out washcloths.
When we come out of our tent, hours later, the men are huddled around the fire eating a sort of mutton stew, olive bread cooked on hot stones, and drinking date spirit. Abdul brings us our food on lovely blue glass plates. Hard to imagine they have saved these pretty pieces just for us. Such beautiful manners, these wild desert travelers. I smile my thanks.
‘The desert mushrooms,’ the interpreter tells us in his distinctly mannered accent, bowing his head politely, ‘are for later. Desert luxuries.’
I nod. There is a world of difference between him and the cameleers. He is sly and gallant, and they are as noble and heroic as warhorses.
I work the tough, fatty chunks of meat with my teeth while I watch the warhorses enthusiastically lick their fingers, their wooden plates. Afterwards Abdul brings us delicately perfumed tea in dainty gold-rimmed glasses.
The desert makes no sound unless we make it. And so the men make their sounds, they chant their holy invocations to their God. The resonating sounds become part of the timeless desert landscape. I imagine the sound moving through the endless expanses of sand. Where does it go? Who catches it eventually?
It is when we stop for morning prayers the next day that the radio message comes through. At first I don’t bother to listen, but the immediate stiffening of Blake’s body alerts me. I turn to watch him curiously. The hardening of his eyes, the thinning of his mouth as he listens… Until he is a stranger.
‘No,’ he says finally. ‘Give me two minutes then call me back.’ He meets my eyes.
‘What is it?’ I whisper, my feet shifting nervously from side to side on the burning sand, my heart thudding in my chest.
‘My mother is in Bangkok.’
Whatever I had expected, I had not expected that. I pull my hand away from my mouth, and, baffled, demand, ‘Why?’
‘She wants to meet Sorab.’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Without us being there?’
‘You decide. We can either stay and keep to the schedule or we can leave today.’
I don’t have to think. Even if he had stiffened and become hard and cold I would not have trusted my son with her. His family give me the creeps. I want to leave at that very moment. ‘Can we leave now, please?’
To his eternal credit he does not attempt to talk me out of my decision or placate me. Simply nods and lapses into a tense, thinking silence. When the radio goes again, he says, ‘Arrange for us to be picked up now.’ He pauses and I hear him say. ‘Really?… Good.’
‘What was that about?’
‘My mother cornered Billie and insisted she be allowed to spend time with Sorab.’
‘Oh yeah? What did Billie say?’
‘Told my dear mother to fuck off.’ He smiles reluctantly.
We wait for the helicopter in the glare of the sun in our city clothes.
‘What will happen to the men?’
‘They will return to their homes.’
In twenty minutes our ride creates a veritable sandstorm as it lands. Abdul kisses my hand and the cameleers turn to stare me in the eye for the first time. I am no longer a woman, but a curiosity. A woman who would bare her hair, the shape of her body, and her legs. Their eyes are like the desert. Timeless and full of secrets. I commit them to memory, knowing we will never meet again.
Five
Victoria Jane Montgomery
When the lunch bell rings I make my way to the canteen. Despite the restraints of that first night, it is not like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest here.
In fact the first day was relatively simple Once they established to their satisfaction that temperature, pulse, blood pressure, EKG and blood values were all normal, and I did not harbor a desire to hurt myself or anyone else, they let me loose upon their premises and their ‘experts’.
The experts’ job is to get to ‘know’ me through lengthy interviews to excavate my full life history, my family background, and my criminal and psychiatric history. The assessments include personality tests, neuropsychological tests, tests for malingering (the technical term for faking a mental illness) and general cognitive tests from intelligence to memory.
You see, here, they believe in progressive and compassionate care.
The building I am imprisoned in is incredibly beautiful. It was erected in the nineteenth century by a baron for his mad wife. The interior is high ceilinged, and ornate, with long, rambling, sunlit wings. Apparently his wife had loved playing the piano so he had a grand piano installed in every room. After the servants found him stabbed to death—his face gruesomely contorted with horror—while she sat calmly playing the piano, the building was closed and abandoned for many years.
Now the ceilings are still full of intricate moldings to rival the Baccarat Gallery Museum in Paris, and the walls retain their original warm pinkish shade of off-white, but the pianos are gone, the windows have bars over them, and the sun-filled corridors are populated by over-medicated, dazed patients shuffling aimlessly up and down them.
And the large room where the Baroness played to her audience of one corpse has been designated the common room. It is dimly lit: the curtains remain drawn at all times. A huge television is mounted on one wall and patients wander in and slump in armchairs and rocking chairs to stare numbly at the flickering screen: cartoons playing on a loop.
I avoid it like the plague.
The dining area is full of natural light and rather pleasant, other than the unidentified brown smears and stains on the walls. There are no decorations except for a poster listing banned items—nail clippers, razors, tweezers, lighters, medication, belts, shoelaces, spiral-bound notebooks, jewelry and under-wired bras.
Of course, there are other things that are not on the poster that are banned too, like physical contact with other patients, food in the rooms. The only rule that concerns me is inpatients not being allowed to make calls, only to receive them. But I think I have the solution. She walked into my room this morning, keys jangling on her belt. The name tag pinned on her uniform, appropriately enough, said ‘Angel’.
I walk along the aisle and a large, dozy cow in a blue apron slaps a huge mound of macaroni cheese on my tray. I stare at the thick, lumpy concoction with a sort of culture shock. This is what passes for food. Another uniformed staff in a hairnet dishes out the vegetables: green beans, carrots and a graying sludge that she calls mashed potato. I thank her politely, and, moving along, pick a bun from a basket of bread rolls. These would come in handy in Palestine when those kids run out of rocks and stones to throw.
Dessert is a wedge of something brown and crusty that they daringly pass off as chocolate fudge cake. Only the truly mad can eat it. I pass by the drinks dispenser and fill my Styrofoam cup with chilled fizzy orange and pick up some cutlery, plastic obviously.
With my tray of exciting cuisine I make for a table that is empty, and sit down. On the next table a woman in a white gown is drooling into her food. She looks like a zombie. I turn away from the sight with a flash of anger, at what they have done to me. I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be here.
My eyes collide with another’s—a woman at another table who stares at me murderously. My first reaction is to walk up to her and slap her hard in her face, but, of course, that would be contrary to what is expected of a model patient. I pick up my plastic knife and, never taking my eyes off her, slowly lick the plastic blade. She flinches and averts her eyes. That’s bullies for you. Always cowardly in the face of true power.
I fork the ‘food’ into my mouth. It is horrendous, but I have already learned that those who don’t eat are put on special watch. My plastic knife slices through the overcooked carrot. I spear it, slip it between my lips and swallow the watery mush.
A woman comes and perches timidly on the empty chair beside me. I turn and look at her. She has a wild, haunted
look about her startlingly large, light eyes. I sigh inwardly.
‘Be very careful,’ she warns in a frightened whisper. ‘There are spirits in this place. They are restless in their misery and waiting to attach themselves to humans.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ I say, and turn resolutely away.
She floats away, a ghost herself.
‘Everybody’s curious about you,’ someone says from the left of me. I look up. She is young, terribly common obviously, but not chronically mad. Probably just depressed or something. Her clothes are terrifically unfashionable, but her fingernails are beautifully done in baby blue. Hmm… They didn’t cut her fingernails, which means she must be a model patient. She plonks herself in the chair vacated by the ghost.
‘Are you really a lady? Most of the people who call themselves lord or lady around here are just barmy?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Cooool,’ she crows brightly. ‘I’ve never met a real lady before. It’s sooooo boring in here.’ She quickly makes herself more comfortable in the chair.
Inwardly, I am seething at the indignities I am being subjected to, but I smile politely and take a sip of the awful coffee. I never imagined coffee could taste so bad.
A man marches up to me. He is wearing a brown sweater and golfing trousers and his cheeks are so red it looks as though he is about to have a heart attack at any time.
‘Why are you here?’ he demands in a loud voice, his cheeks flushing even brighter red.
‘I’m minding my own business. You should do the same,’ I tell him.
Apparently that is the right answer. He nods as if impressed and walks away.
‘Way to go, girl,’ my unwelcome companion approves.
I turn towards her. She holds her hand out. Her nails, beautifully manicured, strike me as the most civilized thing in that place. ‘Welcome to the mad house. It’s a treat to find someone who has the guts not to be floating around on their mind-fuck pills all day. I’m Molly Moss, by the way.’
Six
Lana Barrington
We fly into Thailand in the afternoon heat. Thailand, let me tell you, is not just hot, it is like a giant sauna. The humidity is such that my clothes start sticking to me during the short walk from the plane to the air-conditioned airport. In the car, I realize that I am nervous, and as soon as we arrive at the Banyan Tree, I leave Blake to check in and go up to our suite, while I make my way up to Billie’s room.
‘Hey,’ she says, quite nicely brown and grinning.
At the sight of her relaxed, happy face, my tension fades. I was just being overdramatic and paranoid. Maybe it was being in the desert, where it did not feel like we were only a few hours away, but as if we had traveled back in time or to a different world.
Billie throws her arms around me. ‘Sorry I ruined your monumentally epic fucks, but am I fucking glad to see you.’
I grin. ‘So am I. So glad to see you. Look at you. You’re already as brown as a berry.’
‘Zero SPF always does the trick. Come on in,’ she invites, and closes the door.
‘Where is he?’
‘Having his beauty nap. Jerry has gone to one of the hotel’s gourmet cooking classes,’ she explains, as she takes me to his cot.
My heart swells. ‘It feels as if he has grown,’ I whisper, and, picking up his warm, fat body, hold him close to mine. I breathe in the familiar scent of him and his newly shampooed hair. I don’t know what I thought when Blake said his mother was in Thailand, but a cold hand had come into my body and clutched at my belly. I squeeze him harder against me. But now that he is in my arms again it is clear that my worries were unfounded.
‘I usually just prick him with a pin when I want to wake him up,’ Billie says.
I laugh, and the last remaining shadow of tension slips away. Sorab does not wake up and after a while I put him back into the cot.
Billie and I are chatting when Blake comes to the door. He greets Billie quickly and perfunctorily, his mind obviously preoccupied with other matters. He turns towards me—his mother wants us to meet her downstairs in the coffee lounge in an hour. Then he looks at Billie. ‘Brian will knock on your door in an hour. Will you bring Sorab down then?’ he asks with a frown.
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks, Billie,’ Blake says.
‘No problems.’
He takes my hand and turns to go, and then turns back. ‘You did well to stand up to my mother.’
Billie flushes deep red with the compliment.
I only have time for a quick shower and a change of clothes before it is time to go downstairs. Unsure how I should dress and not really mentally prepared to meet my mother-in-law, I nervously slip on a shift dress over my bikini. I am on holiday after all, and it would be silly to get all dressed up.
Blake leans in and tells me I look a million dollars, but I am unable to stop the feverish and horrid sensation that I have been summoned to the headmistress’s room.
As we enter the lounge I spot her instantly—blonde, blue-eyed, pale, and so carefully preserved she seems an ageless mannequin. There is not a single wrinkle on her face. Why, she could have been Blake’s sister!
She is dressed in a dusky pink jacket that reminds me of the tooth powder that used to sit in my grandmother’s bathroom cabinet. The most distinctive part of her appearance is the large piece of jewelry around her throat. It looks like the horned head of a bull. I have never seen anything like it. It is strange but beautiful, too. She does not rise as we approach.
As we near her Blake lets go of my hand, and goes around the low table to kiss her on both her cheeks. She lifts her chin and angles her head delicately to receive his kisses.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says quietly.
Blake straightens and regards her with an expression I cannot decipher. It is a mixture between exasperation and resignation.
‘Why are you here, mother?’
‘If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain,’ she murmurs.
Blake comes around and, putting his arm around my waist, says, ‘Lana, meet my mother, Helena.’
‘Hello, Lana.’ Her voice is cool and slightly aloof, but not unfriendly. Her tone says ‘approach, but come with caution’.
‘Hello, Mrs. Barrington,’ I say, overawed by her considerable presence.
‘Helena,’ she corrects with a nearly friendly smile.
‘Helena,’ I agree softly.
Blake gestures towards the sofa and I sink into it. He lowers himself beside me. She seems to be drinking still mineral water. A glass is half full with clear liquid and a bottle of it is on the table.
‘Will you have something to drink?’ she offers.
‘Feel like some coffee?’ Blake directs his question to me.
‘Something cold.’ My throat feels dry and scratchy.
A uniformed, smiling waiter stands beside Blake with a menu. Blake passes it to me and orders himself a short espresso.
I take the menu and feel Helena’s eyes on me. I don’t try to meet her eyes. Instead, I open the menu and bury myself in it. I look up at the waiter and order watermelon juice. The waiter moves away with a bow.
‘Well,’ Helena says.
‘Whoever heard of a mother who interrupts her son’s honeymoon?’
‘Whoever heard of a son who doesn’t invite his own mother to his wedding?’
‘We saved some cake for you.’ His voice is even, without provocation.
‘I don’t eat cake.’
Blake sighs. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t invite you, but I didn’t want any trouble.’
‘From what I heard, you had plenty anyway,’ she retorts.
‘Don’t start,’ Blake warns her.
‘Well, it’s the talk of the town. My best friends can’t wait to call me up and tell me the big gossip.’ She affects a hurt tone.
I bite my lip. Neither of them even seem aware of my presence. Really, Blake should have met her without me.
‘Is that what you came all the way here to discuss?’ Blake a
sks, the first sign of impatience edging his voice.
‘No, as a matter of fact I came to see my grandson.’
‘I can go get him,’ I volunteer quickly.
Blake looks like he is about to protest.
But Helena turns to me with a smile. ‘That’ll be wonderful. Thank you, Lana.’
Smiling broadly I start edging away from them and sidling out from behind the table. In my haste I hit my knee on the edge of the table, and just about stop myself from crying out.
‘Are you all right?’ Blake asks, concerned.
I bob my head brightly and escape. When I get to the entrance I can’t help it. I glance back quickly. Blake is watching me and his mother is watching him. I slip out quickly and meet Billie coming out of the lift. Brian is behind her. Brian nods unobtrusively at me and waits a few feet away.
Sorab squeals with unconcealed delight and excitement when he spots me. He holds his arms out and waves them impatiently at me. I take him from her and rain kisses on his face. He hugs my neck tightly and laughs.
‘You look pale. You must have met the mutton dressed in dragon, then,’ Billie says.
‘Disconcertingly posh, isn’t she?’ I whisper.
‘Yes, vomit-inducingly grand. What’s it like so far?’
‘Alien vs. Predator.’
She laughs. ‘Which one’s your husband?’
‘Who wins?’
‘Predator, I think.’
‘That’ll be him, then.’
‘Don’t let her bite you, duckie.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Right, then, I’m off to do some sunbathing by the pool. Come and see me when you are finished,’ she says and leaves, her flip-flops slapping the gleaming granite floor.
‘See you later,’ I call out after her, and, gazing adoringly at Sorab, drop more kisses on his face. He grins widely at me. ‘So you missed your mummy, then?’ I ask, and as if he has understood me, he grabs my neck and plants a very wet kiss on my lips.
Love's Sacrifice Page 3
