The Slap

by Christos Tsiolkas

  The phone seemed to ring for minutes, inexhaustible. When the noise finally ceased he realised he’d been holding in his breath. He exhaled.

  Koula stood up. ‘I’ll heat your dinner.’

  He nodded.

  From the kitchen he heard the sound of the buzzer lighting the oven, the clink of cutlery. Koula began to sing, and he leaned forward to hear better. It was an old popular song, a classic; he’d first heard it as a conscript getting drunk in Athens, drinking cheap ouzo with the workers and the soldiers in the square at Kaiseriani.

  ‘ We’ll learn to say that what is done is done

  And maybe in the future a bright day for us may come’

  He mouthed the words, then clasping his hand over his knee, winced, and lifted himself to his feet. He downed the cognac and placed the glass on the coffee table. He walked into the kitchen, and helped his wife set the table.

  AISHA

  She glanced down at her watch again, took a deep breath, and made her calculations. Hector’s plane would have departed from Melbourne an hour ago. Her own plane could possibly be delayed for another two hours, which meant he’d have to wait for her for at least three hours in the airport in Denpasar. He’d be in a bad mood. Should she leave him a message at the airport, send him a text, tell him to meet her at the hotel in Ubud? It was best to not panic—not yet anyway. The idiots should have some information for them all soon. Around her bored, frustrated tourists, most of them young men and women dressed in grimy singlets and shorts, were mutinously watching the information desk, ready to spring into action at an announcement. Aisha got up from her seat and slung her bag over her shoulder. She wanted to escape the whining and the stink of beer and perspiration. She walked back from the gate to the blaze of neon lights and dizzying movement at the end of the corridor. Bangkok airport never closed. She might as well shop.

  Not that she needed anything; but that was not, she mused, the purpose of duty-free shopping. Need was banished to outside the walls of Bangkok International Airport. Pure gratuitous desire was what was celebrated here. She walked into a small fashion boutique and a young Thai woman rushed towards her. Aisha bowed but raised her hand and firmly waved her away. The young girl quickly scampered back behind the counter and started to whisper and giggle with the other shopgirl. After a week in Thailand, Aisha was aware that the women here seemed to be giggling and whispering all the time, and that no disrespect or rudeness was meant by it. But she found it bloody irritating. It always seemed that they were laughing at her.

  She pulled a skirt off the rack and examined it. The fabric felt fine, soft and pleasing to her touch, but the pattern was a bizarre swirl of clashing rainbow colours. Christ, it was garish. She did prefer India, preferred the cheerful but resentful and sometimes downright obstructive demeanour of the Indian hawkers to the smiling, deferential giddiness of the Thais. Aisha looked down the aisle. The second salesgirl was coming towards her. She turned and walked quickly out of the shop. And the fabrics were certainly much better in India.

  The steady stream of bland, bloodless oriental music from the loudspeakers was interrupted by a loud crackle and a burst of Thai. An effeminate, almost vixenish male voice then translated the announcement into English, asking the travellers on the next United Airlines flight to San Francisco to proceed immediately to their gate for a further security check. The announcement finished with an apologetic giggle. Aisha smiled to herself. Was he simply being Thai, or had there been a gloating pleasure detectable in the request? Around her groups of grim-faced but accepting Americans gripped their hand-luggage and proceeded wearily towards their security check.

  ‘It has rather dulled the pleasure of air travel.’

  Art had said that to her, at their first dinner in Bangkok. One of the Italian veterinarians had been complaining about the indignity of today’s constant airport security. One of the Americans had replied combatively that if it stopped one terrorist then she was more than happy for the inconvenience of having to wait hours in queues to have her bags searched. The Italian had muttered a response in his own language, something about the Americans interfering in the world, and a rude Neopolitan exclamation that was the equivalent of ‘just desserts’. Unfortunately, a Danish veterinarian, whose Italian was faultless, was also sitting at the table and he denounced the Italian vet’s ‘moral idiocy’. Which only made the Italian more incensed; he looked up and down the table and asked in clear, unaccented English, ‘Is it any wonder that Danish women flock south to the Mediterranean every summer searching for a real man?’ The ensuing outcry was only tempered by the loud guffaws of a Chinese delegate who’d just had the furious exchange translated for him.

  Art had been sitting next to Aisha and it was at this point that he had leaned towards her and made his whispered observation. He had then glanced at the feuding veterinarians and in a breathless little boy’s voice asked, ‘Gee whiz, how do the United Nations ever get anything done?’ Aisha had laughed out loud, a laugh so genuine and clear that it had even stopped the insults flying between the Italian and the Dane. But only for a moment.

  ‘I know,’ Aisha whispered to Art. ‘We’re just the International Veterinary Association and we can’t get along. I don’t think there’s a future for this world.’ He had also laughed then, and in doing so, had lifted his hand and placed his arm across the back of her chair. It had seemed totally unconscious, an innocent gesture. But its intimacy seemed daring. And exciting.

  She had noticed him immediately. She assumed every woman at the conference had, for he was almost ridiculously handsome, Eurasian, with a delicate snub nose, a gym-trim body and the most pale-white skin she’d ever seen. At first she had thought he might be Spanish, but the surname on his name tag was unmistakably Chinese, Xing. Art Xing. It sounded like the name of one of the bands that Hector enjoyed listening to.

  At the first dinner, after their shared laugh, she had asked him where he was from.

  ‘I’m Canadian.’

  ‘Obviously,’ she snapped amiably, rolling her eyes and pointing to the red and white maple-leaf insignia at the end of his tag. ‘But what’s your ethnic background?’

  ‘I used to think that was a very Canadian question. But I’m discovering you Australians are exactly like us.’ He was smirking, his eyes teasing her. She found she had to force herself to look straight back at him. Her impulse was to look down at her empty plate. She felt absurd, but his beauty did make her swoon. Oh grow up, Aisha scolded herself, you’re not some teenage twit at a Beatles concert, you’re a forty-something mother of two.

  ‘My father is third-generation Chinese from Toronto. My mother is Czech.’

  ‘Goodness.’ She had been embarrassed by the inanity of her response, but his explanation had sounded so incongruous.

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘They met in Prague where my father was a diplomat. It was, as you can imagine back then, a bureaucratic nightmare to get both governments’ consent to the union, but true love did win out. By which I mean that Dad secreted my mother illegally on a diplomatic flight to Paris for which the service kicked him out on his arse. From that day on he was free to succeed outrageously in business and conform to the demands of being Number One Chinese Son.’

  ‘That was before the Prague Spring?’ It was a deplorable gambit but she was suddenly overwhelmed by the fear—Why should she be fearful? she angrily demanded of herself—that he was much younger than her.

  He chuckled. ‘Certainly, well before. I’m flattered. I’m forty-two.’ He looked pointedly at her. ‘And you?’

  ‘What?’ She was disconcerted. Did he expect her to blurt out her age at the table?

  ‘What’s your ethnic background?’ He deliberately extended the vowels in that phrase, teasing her.

  ‘My father was born in Lahore. His family fled to Bangalore after partition. My mother’s family was Anglo-Indian.’

  ‘You’re Hindu?’

  ‘Originally. I am an atheist.’ She smiled cheekily. ‘If you are allowed to say that t
hese days?’

  ‘Shh,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t tell our American cousins.’

  After that first dinner they sat together every day of the conference. It somehow became assumed that it would be the case—every morning she found herself waiting for him in the ostentatious cavern of the Hilton’s breakfast room. Of course, they were never alone. Yvonne was a curt, no-nonsense French veterinarian in her late forties and she and Aisha developed a quick, early rapport. Their table also included two Germans, Oskar and Sophie, both younger than Aisha, trained veterinarians who now worked for one of the large pharmaceutical companies. Art was courteous and charming to everyone but Aisha was aware that his eyes always strayed towards her. She herself deliberately avoided his gaze, but she could feel it. In part, she avoided it because she realised that the flirtation, though enjoyable, was also dangerously provocative and intense. His knowing smile, his dancing eyes, his gentle attentions, made her feel light-headed and girlish, an altogether astonishing sensation she had never expected to feel again. She could not stop thinking about him.

  It was that first morning at breakfast that she had noticed his hands, long fingers and broad, soft palms. His wedding ring was a simple curved band of pure gold. It was almost exactly like hers.

  Aisha bought the latest airmail editions of Vanity Fair and Marie Claire and a crime novel from an English writer she had enjoyed reading in the past, and walked back to the gate. The seats were still packed with the expectant passengers but their frustration and rage had turned into exhausted, resigned collapse. The young Thai woman behind the counter beamed at her, and gushed, ‘The plane departs in one hour and thirty minutes, thank you very much.’ Aisha stared, incredulous, at the girl. Why was the little fool smiling? She was tempted to make a scene but fought against the impulse. It would only alarm the girl, and—the thought made her smile—just confirm whatever prejudice she had towards Indians. Without acknowledging her, Aisha turned and walked away.

  She had noticed a café with internet connection and headed straight for it. She ordered a white wine, extravagantly priced but she didn’t give a damn at that moment, took it to a carousel and logged onto her server. Hector had sent her a short email confirming his flight to Bali. Adam and Melissa had also sent her messages, simple, lively and full of news about school. She missed them. She had looked forward to the trip, to time away from the obligations of her work and marriage, and, yes, time off from the demands of her children. The conference had provided a perfect excuse and opportunity. She had been able to step away from the role of mother for a week and it had indeed been a pleasure, had made her feel young again. She thought of Art. It had made her feel desirable as well. But looking at the clumsy, clipped sentences from her children, Aisha felt an overwhelming desire to step back into her real world, to be back home. She wished she hadn’t agreed to the extra week in Bali; all she wanted was to be sitting down to dinner with her children and with Hector. She wanted to cook, to be in her own house, to sleep in her own bed. But she’d said yes to a week away with Hector—she knew it was a good idea. She and her husband had not had a holiday alone for years, not since Melissa was born.

  She clicked open her husband’s email again. He had signed off with a kiss. Did he still love her? Did she love him? The holiday was indeed a good idea, was necessary, but she was now dreading the coming intimacy she would be sharing with Hector. It was so long since she and Hector had spent any decent time together, she was now childishly shy at the thought of being alone with him. She hoped that there were no expectations of thorough analytical talk about their lives and their relationship, their marriage and their family. She didn’t think she’d know what to say. They had been together so long that this life was the only one she knew.

  The conference itself had met all her expectations, which was to say that it had proved to be only moderately interesting. There were only two sessions she attended in which she felt she had learned anything new at all. The first had been on the opening day and the second on the last day: in between, spokespeople for pharmaceutical companies had spruiked and sold their wares. She could not begrudge them their efforts for she was aware that they were paying for her fine hotel room, for her breakfasts, lunches and dinners. The lecturer who had impressed her on the first day was a Swiss researcher in immunology who had presented a well-articulated report on immunisation and domestic cats, arguing that there appeared to be a demonstrable link between feline renal failure and what the researcher referred to as ‘over-immunisation’. Aisha had listened intently to the woman’s talk and felt it confirmed observations she herself had come to after years of practice. The immunologist had proposed that instead of annual vaccinations for adult cats, a booster shot be administered every two or three years. The representatives from the pharmaceutical companies had obviously opposed much of the findings, arguing vehemently for further studies on the long-term range of the vaccinations. Like most of the vets there, Aisha knew that the companies must have already begun conducting such longitudinal studies. It was also clear that if the immunologist had been allowed to deliver her lecture above what must surely have been strenuous complaints from the pharmaceutical representatives on the conference board, then her findings were solid. Aisha scrawled a quick reminder on her conference notebook. She would talk to Brendan as soon as she got home about their introducing a new vaccination regime.

  On the final day of the conference, in a session just before the plenary, a Thai veterinarian and academic had presented a straightforward clinical study on the bird-flu epidemic in his native country. The information was chilling, in particular the data on contagion and spread. Aisha, who was not a specialist in avian medicine, found the talk both frightening and stimulating. Because of the economics of food production and distribution, it was inevitable that such epidemics would reach even a relatively isolated continent like Australia. When the academic finished his talk, and humbly bowed to the audience, the applause was prolonged, genuine and effusive. Clapping firmly himself, Art had leaned across to her and whispered close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck, ‘We’re fucked.’ The obscenity had sounded delicious.

  She had been in her hotel bathroom, getting ready for the final conference dinner, when her phone rang. It was Art.

  ‘Can I come to your room?’

  She was flustered, she should say no, she should seem offended and tell him that it was inappropriate.

  He laughed at her silence.

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  She rushed back to the bathroom. The evening before she had sneaked out of a lecture early in order to catch the Skytrain to Gaysorn Plaza. Yvonne had assured her it was the best place in the city for lingerie. Straight after shopping she had gone to her appointment with the hotel hairdresser, and got a leg and bikini wax. All in preparation for Bali, she had told herself. Aisha slipped into her lingerie, then looked into the mirror, at her long brown limbs, their dark glow a startling contrast to the pure white of her new silk bra and pants. She pulled back her hair and arched her neck. Hector always teased her that her neck was that of a swan goddess. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, refusing to hide from herself. She was making herself beautiful for Art. But as aware as she was of the implications of her actions, she was not yet convinced that their flirting, their dance around each other, would be consummated. They were not adolescents, no matter how foolishly they were behaving. She was forty-one, for God’s sake, married, a parent, as was he. She let her hair drop down to her shoulders and began to apply mascara. God, it was so much fun to flirt.

  His calling her room shocked her—the audacity of it. For the first time that week the possibility of her sleeping with another man seemed more real than at any time since her marriage. It was now a decision she would have to make.

  She hadn’t touched the bar fridge in her room but after she had finished getting dressed, she fixed herself a gin and tonic.

  The knock on the door made her jump. She checked herself in the mirror, twist
ing to catch her image from behind. She was wearing her favourite dress; it was short-sleeved and fell just above her knees, a faint lemon-coloured silk with a motif of blood-red rose petals. The lightness of the silk, both the fabric and the colour, suited her skin, and the floral pattern added a hint of feminine chasteness. She looked good. She straightened her back. There was a second knock.

  Art was wearing a smoky grey, light cotton suit that fitted him perfectly. He was clean shaven, and she caught the hint of peppery spice in the fragrance. He stood back from the door, looking her up and down.

  ‘Lady, you look amazing.’

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She stood aside and let him in.

  ‘I’m not being silly. It’s a fact. You’re the best-looking woman at the conference.’

  She ignored the compliment, such as it was. ‘You want a drink?’

  He eyed the gin and tonic on the coffee table. ‘You hitting the mini bar?’

  For the first time she minded the accent. There was something too ordinary, too familiar in the North American drawl. This was not real, this was a fantasy. She wished his parents had never left Eastern Europe and that he could speak like a suave, handsome criminal in a James Bond film. He asked for a beer and she handed him one.

  He looked around the room, eyeing the bed. Oh God, she thought, don’t let him sit on the bed. But instead he took the sofa.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers. To a very successful conference.’

  She sat on the desk chair across from him. ‘Yes, it wasn’t bad, was it? It was so much better than I thought it would be.’

  She twirled her glass in her hand. Christ, Aish, she thought, could you sound any more insipid?

  He was smiling impudently at her.

  ‘I take it back, what I said about you being the most beautiful woman at the conference. I think you are the most beautiful woman in all Bangkok.’