The Slap

by Christos Tsiolkas

  Art’s whiteness had surprised her. His face, neck and arms were tanned from the unrelenting Asian heat, but the rest of his body was the hue of Arcadian marble. Her body had seemed almost obscenely dark next to his. She had allowed him to lead their lovemaking, had submitted to the sureness of his desire. At first, she was afraid that the amphetamines in her body would make her detached from the experience. Her own pleasure seemed muted, she could not give herself over to the rush of lust. Art’s body felt strange, foreign; she could not help comparing him to her husband. Hector was a better kisser. Art’s litheness, so attractive when he was dressed in his suit or his expertly chosen shirts and jackets, seemed almost too slight for her. She did not know how to hold him, where to put her hands. The smoothness of his body was distracting, so different from the carnality of Hector’s hirsute flesh. She closed her eyes and gave in, dropping her hands to her side. She allowed Art to explore her body. And then, as his hand moved between her legs, her body jolted, and she pressed herself against him. She was now part of the sex, not outside it, no longer remote but aroused by the unfamiliarity of him, his body, his smell, his cock, his breath, his hands, his skin. She opened her eyes and pushed him off her. His eyes expressed a momentary confusion until she straddled him and began to kiss his chest, his nipples, his neck, his chest again, tracing her tongue down his navel to his crotch. She took his penis into her mouth, heard his moan of pleasure. It felt slutty, dangerous. His salty masculine taste was in her mouth, on her face, she was enveloped in it.

  She lifted her head. ‘Have you got a condom?’

  ‘In my pocket,’ he whispered. Still teasing him with her tongue, she felt for his trousers which were around his ankles. She found the condom and then pulled his trousers and underwear off him. Not moving her eyes from his, she tore open the packet and slipped the thin rubber over his cock.

  He pulled her towards him, lifted her dress over her head and then expertly unhooked her bra. ‘Let me look at you.’

  She put her hands behind her head, stretched back on the bed. He touched her face, her lips, her nipples, her cunt.

  ‘Magnifique.’ His eyes wandered over her whole body. He repeated the word, his voice dazed, almost breaking from his desire.

  He was a better fuck than Hector. At first, as he pushed himself inside, it had seemed strange. Hector’s cock was larger, thicker; sometimes, if she was not ready or aroused, it hurt. Once intercourse had been initiated, Hector could not control his passion. His thrustings were almost violent and over time she had allowed herself to slip into fantasies of assault to accommodate his zeal. In the beginning, Art’s slow, gentle fucking of her seemed timid, disconcerting. But very soon she began to respond to his rhythm and she pushed her body hard into him to meet his thrusts, until all that remained was the glint in Art’s adoring eyes as he watched her, the feel of his mouth against hers when they kissed, his cock filling her cunt as they fucked. There came a moment when his body began to buck, to resist the urge for release. She felt him tense and falter. She gripped his thighs and whispered an appeal in his ear: come. He pushed into her, held her body against his, his hips spasming. He groaned, orgasmed, let out a cry and pushed his face into her neck. Then abruptly he was kissing her. Spread your legs, he ordered, and she obeyed. He was kissing her again, his fingers furiously working, filling her. Their mouths could not let each other go. A rush of delirious pleasure flooded through her. Slowly, very slowly, the world came back in.

  The brevity of the flight, as always, came as a surprise. It took at least six hours to fly across the length of Australia but in less than half that time they had begun their descent into Denpasar. After the metropolitan sprawl of the airport in Bangkok, Bali’s international airport seemed provincial, easily navigable and not at all daunting. She paid her arrival tax and confidently followed the bilingual signs to the baggage carousel. Customs proved efficient. She was glad for the abrasive manners and countenance of the mainly Javanese security staff. She smiled to herself. It was a welcome to allow herself to be brisk, methodical, straightforward, after the suffocating politeness of the Thais. She had heard enough to know that she would expect similar courtesy from the Balinese. But at least, till she cleared customs, entered the street, she could be herself.

  Hector was sitting on a bench, arms outstretched, waiting for her. He was dressed casually but she noted the good taste of his new short-sleeved shirt, the fine cut of his loose cotton trousers. She was glad he was in long pants, a stylish contrast to the unshaven, longhaired backpackers swarming around her. He had just had a haircut, as she knew he would have. He broke into a wide grin as she approached and embraced her warmly. He smelt of her life, of her home and of her kids, and she slipped happily, relieved, into his strong arms. Art had been too thin. With that thought the decision was made. Art disappeared out of her life.

  She kissed her husband and asked about Adam and Melissa.

  ‘They’re fine. They miss you but Giagia and Pappou are going to spoil them rotten. And they know it. They’ve been looking forward to it all week.’

  ‘Have you been waiting ages?’ she asked apologetically.

  ‘A few hours.’ He shrugged good-naturedly. ‘What you gonna do? I’ve been taking in the local colour.’

  She could not smell nicotine on him. He said he had not smoked for three or four months, but she thought he’d probably sneaked a few when he was out drinking with Dedj or his cousin. Secretly she hoped he would smoke during the holiday; he could be a moody shit otherwise. He did not smell of tobacco and he seemed relaxed and happy, even after what must have been a tedious, fretful wait for her. A group of young Australian women passed by, wheeling ridiculously enormous luggage, all sheafed in rolls of shrink-wrap. Aisha noticed that two of them had glanced back at Hector. Smiling, she linked arms with her husband.

  ‘Well, I hope you haven’t been flirting with the local colour while you were waiting for me.’

  Hector winked. ‘The locals aren’t interested in my pasty white arse. And the tourists all seem to be cashed-up bogans with plenty of money and no bloody taste or brains.’ He indicated the doors. ‘You ready to brave getting a driver?’

  The pleasant, sterile chill of the long hours she had spent in the sealed air-conditioned world of airports and aeroplanes was immediately shattered once they stepped through the doors into the moist, viscid air of Asia. She let Hector guide her through the mob of tourists haggling diffidently and inexpertly with the beaming Balinese drivers who formed shouting, gesticulating circles around them. Hector bowled through the crowd, ignoring both the tourists and the Balinese and he led her to a bench where two old men were smoking. They sat down. One of the old men went to say something but Hector rudely held up his hand and silenced him. He put his arm around her and though it was almost unbearably hot, even with the intensity of the noise and the smells and the light, she was glad for the weight of him, the warmth and wetness of his skin against hers.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Just let the madness die down for a moment.’ He massaged her neck. ‘It’s an old smoker’s trick. You go off to a corner, have a cigarette, wait for the non-smokers to deal with the riff-raff.’ He beamed at her. ‘Except I’m no longer a smoker.’

  The strategy seemed to work. Anytime someone approached them, Hector would start whispering in her ear and the hawkers would wander off. An old man, with close-cropped white hair, his skin tough, lined with savage deep wrinkles, sat down beside them, his back straight, dignified. He nodded, smiled, and took a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

  ‘You go Kuta?’

  Hector shook his head. ‘We’re going to Ubud.’

  The old man slapped his chest. ‘I go Ubud. I take you. I am very cheap.’ He smiled an almost toothless grin.

  She let Hector negotiate a price. He was more generous than she would have been, but she didn’t care. She had enjoyed her week of independence, but she preferred the security of coupledom, the knowledge that there was someone there to
share responsibility, someone there all the time. The week in Thailand, Art and her infidelity, all that was evaporating.

  She had seen nothing of the countryside in Thailand and she was intoxicated by the lush colours and smells of the jungle as the car drove away from the congested city and up into the central mountains. Not that there was any stretch of land free from the presence of human settlement. Stalls lined both sides of the road selling a dizzying array of jewellery, ceramics, Hindu and Buddhist idols, trinkets and clothes. Dogs, hens and roosters darted out across the street and every few minutes their driver would furiously beep the horn to avoid hitting them. The air-conditioning was on full blast in the car but Aisha had wound down her window and was breathing in the rich, foetid aroma of the world outside. Hector and the driver were discussing Ubud but she was only half-paying attention. She was aware that the driver had started some harangue about Muslims. She caught his eye looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘You Christian?’

  Hector answered before she had time to formulate a response. ‘I’m a Christian. My wife is Hindu.’

  Flinching, she moved away from Hector. She knew the island was largely Hindu, it was obvious in the overwhelming number of domestic and public shrines. But just as obviously she did not belong to that world. She was tempted to clarify Hector’s comment, to announce her atheism, but she knew that would be rude. The driver’s eye was on her again, it seemed he was about to speak, but he remained silent. Hector, unaware of his faux pas, grabbed her hand. She fought the urge to pull it away from him.

  When the driver did speak again it was not of religion. ‘You go beach?’

  Hector shook his head. ‘We’re not interested in seeing Kuta at all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too many Australians.’

  The driver laughed out loud. Then he turned and patted Hector on the arm. ‘Australians very good people. Balinese like Australians very much. Only stupid Muslim pigs not like Australians.’

  Aisha wondered if he would begin another tirade.

  ‘You go north for swimming. You go Amed. Amed is beautiful and quiet.’ He sighed. ‘No good since bombing. Bad for people in Amed.’ His voice brightened and he turned back round to face them. Watch the road, Aisha wanted to scream at him.

  ‘This week is full moon, very special the full moon in Amed. Very beautiful. Very good beaches. Very good fishing.’

  ‘Are you from there?’

  ‘No. My wife from Amed.’

  Aisha leaned forward. ‘Is she very beautiful as well?’

  The old man chuckled. ‘She grandmother. She old.’

  For the rest of the drive he and Hector discussed children and family while she sunk back in her seat, stared out the window and was engulfed by the breath of Asia.

  The first thing she did after they were shown to their room was to ask Hector to fuck her. Hector responded to the urgency of her request; he kissed her roughly, biting her lip, exactly what she wanted from him. Moaning, she turned around and lay on her stomach on the bed. He pulled her underpants off, forced her legs apart, she heard him unzip, the tearing open of a condom packet, and then his cock was entering her. She gritted her teeth, choked back a cry as he pushed hard inside her, the pain slicing her, the sensation exactly what she wanted, needed, what she deserved. She took one, two, three, four shallow gulps of air, winced, and then she was above the pain. Hector was now a jackhammer, slamming into her, she was full of him, as much in her belly as in her cunt, she buried her face into the coverlet, her outstretched hands were clutching at the sheets, the fabric coiled around her fingers: she wanted him to fill her completely. He was smashing into her, tearing her apart, destroying her and putting her back together. She was crying from the pain and from the relief. She was still nowhere near arousal when he climaxed—he came with a roar, not touching her—but she let out a loud, grateful moan. He fell on top of her and she savoured the heaviness of his wet body over hers. He had made her his again.

  Hector rolled off her, flicked off the condom and chucked it on the floor. His shorts dangled from his left foot, his shirt was open to his midriff and he rubbed the moist thick hair on his chest. He hadn’t taken off his sandals. She raised herself on her elbow and took his red, still half-erect cock in her palm. Droplets of watery semen oozed out of the top of his foreskin.

  He shuddered, pushed her hand away. ‘It’s too tender,’ he complained. She wiped her hand across the bedding. He softly kissed her on the lips.

  ‘Do you want to come?’ he asked.

  She shook her head and returned his kiss. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘I don’t need to. I’m happy.’

  Over the next few days she fell in love with Ubud. The town itself consisted of a cluster of villages and she and Hector immediately fell into a routine that consisted of having a tropical breakfast served on the balcony of their room, then taking a long walk through the forests or the villages, before coming back at noon for a swim in the art deco pool at the hotel. The water was fresh and clean, and Aisha loved standing underneath the tall battered stone statue of a laughing, reclining Buddha which poured water into the pool. After their swim they would have a drink by the pool, read, and then stroll into town for lunch. After lunch there would be more exploration of the countryside, or the crowded market where freshly slaughtered meat and plump fruit and vegetables were sold to the villagers while the tourists strolled through the walkways above, bartering for fake designer watches, rolls of cheap fabrics, and small faux-silver and bronze icons. In the late afternoon they would return to their hotel, have another swim to refresh themselves, and then wander the main street for a place to eat. The stroll returning home in the afternoon became her favourite time of day. They would take a zigzag path, follow the tiny alleys that took them past courtyards where, in the cooling shade of evening, young women would light incense and proffer offerings to the shrines of their ancestors. In the back streets they were not bothered by touts, or the surly desperate drivers. They would be largely ignored except for a shy smile from the young women, a polite grin from workmen and the pealing laughter of the old women and children. Hello, hello, the children would call out to them in their sing-song English, Where you from? They would fall about laughing when told they were Australian and a boy would invariably call out a mangled, Goodday, while another would mime the hops of a kangaroo.

  The outrageous poverty of the island, the all-too-obvious reliance on a faltering tourist trade was something she and Hector had discussed on their first night, and from them on he refused to barter, simply handing over the amount of Rupiah first requested by a hawker or a stall owner. She had to stand away from him when he went to buy something, a shirt, presents for the children and his family, because she was embarrassed that the Balinese mistook his extravagance for him being a dupe. She had to stop herself reprimanding him, You could have got it for half the price, because she knew he would answer, I’m not going to haggle for something worth less than a coffee back home. She could not bring herself to be like him. She was her father’s daughter and believed that negotiation and bartering were integral to trade. But in Ubud, uncharacteristically, she favoured the seller in bargaining, and she tipped generously.

  The leisurely pace of village life was attractive to both of them, but Aisha was also conscious that everyone, man, woman and child, worked hard. It was obvious in the bowed bodies of the old women in the rice paddies, in the weathered, leathery hands of the workmen rebuilding the bridge over the river, or the drenched skin of the young stonemasons they passed on the way back from the Monkey Forest. The calm, dutiful morning and evening offerings to the ancestors, the gentle smiles, the intense organic smells of the tropics, the submission to work and family, the sharp light and constant shine of the Asian sun, the cheer and fearlessness of the children who ran and roamed the streets freely—an abandonment lost to her children; Aisha fell in love with Ubud.

  The peace was shattered on their third night with their first argument. The day had begun b
adly. Hector had woken her before breakfast with a silly, lascivious grin on his face and his fat erection poking in her thigh. She had submitted to his lovemaking—penance for her adultery, the thought wickedly and shamefully crossing her mind as her husband mounted her—but she resisted his roughness. She could see his puzzlement: delighted by her animal hunger on that first day, he had no doubt assumed that she was willing to indulge what she found the most prurient of his appetites—to dominate her, to get off on the aggression in sex. But she felt unable to be reckless and realised that she resented his assumption. She felt like a whore; after Art Hector was now fucking her like a whore. With her consent, yes, even with her encouragement. But as he slobbered over her while she attempted to bring herself fully into consciousness, all she felt was a repulsion for the absurd theatrics of his lust. They were not newly-weds, adolescents embarking on a new affair. They were husband and wife, parents. She rolled out from underneath him as soon as he had climaxed and left him lying naked on the bed, embarrassed and resentful while she went into the openair bathroom, splashed water on her face and looked into the mirror. She felt lousy. And her period was coming.

  Hector had been snarly all through breakfast, and snappy and uncommunicative on their walk. She was happy with the slowness of the pace in Ubud and happy to remain in the mountains for the duration of the week. Hector, she knew, would prefer to spend a few days at the beach, his argument being that it was not a real holiday unless it involved lying on the sand somewhere by the sea. Aisha, who had been raised on the edge of the nurturing solitude of the Indian Ocean, did not agree. Western Australia probably had the best beaches in the world. She had been to the Mediterranean, and indeed, the azure waters were breathtaking, the joy of life on the Greek islands was intoxicating, but she had detested sharing a beach with scores of other humans. Her upbringing had spoiled her. She felt no need to visit Balinese tourist beaches.