Notorious

by Roberta Lowing

  As I write this now, I write knowing that he may read it – will read it – and I wonder how much I am censoring myself. I don’t think I am. I am writing everything I feel – everything I felt – at the moment. I am sure of it. I am not looking back, colouring it in for effect, trying to make us nicer people. The words will lose their power then. They won’t have any effect if they are burned and eaten. They won’t enrage. They won’t destroy.

  I wake in the hut, next to the fire. The flames play across my eyes, there is warmth all down my spine. I am at peace. It takes me a moment to realise he is lying behind me. His right arm curves across me, cupping my left shoulder. His breathing is steady in my hair.

  I wonder whether he is asleep. I know I should savour the moment. But I have to see his face. I start to turn, very slowly, trying to shrink myself in his grasp.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says.

  ‘I just – ’

  ‘Goddamn don’t move.’

  ‘That’s an invitation to rebel.’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Always,’ I say. His arm tenses, pulling away.

  I catch his hand, hold it between both of mine. ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ he says. ‘Then we should go.’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  His arm relaxes. ‘I need to know why there’s nothing in your diary about – you know . . . Did you rip those pages out?’

  ‘No.’

  I can almost feel him thinking. He’s wondering if there are other pages, what they say. He’s wondering whether I’m lying. Worse, he’s wondering whether I’m telling the truth. That is what really puzzles him.

  ‘I couldn’t write it,’ I say. ‘I didn’t have the words.’

  The afternoon is a white blanket against the small grimy window. He has pulled me tighter against him or maybe I have rolled closer. I turn my head. I see the hooked tips of the tattoos on his upper chest, his jaw, the lines on his neck, another scar I never noticed in Venice, near his sideburns. A scar I never had the time to find.

  He looks down at me, grips my shoulder. ‘You cannot tell Mitch what you saw at Koloshnovar. If you do, Mitch and his goons will fuck you every way they know. And I mean, every way.’

  ‘I’ll trade them,’ I say. ‘For what happened to my brother.’

  ‘You wouldn’t even last to the airport.’ He looks at his hand on my skin, he processes how close we are and he lets go. He rubs his eyes.

  ‘Have you been there?’ I say. ‘To Koloshnovar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you know what’s going on?’

  He doesn’t answer. I think about what I saw on his laptop and I wonder how much he is lying to me.

  ‘You know you’re going to do something,’ I say. ‘You know it’s burning you up.’

  ‘I thought that was you.’

  I lift my hand so it makes shadows against the roof beams. The firelight on my fingers is edged with black. Always the shadows pressing in. I say, ‘It’s ironic how much depends on a piece of paper.’

  He raises himself on one elbow. I feel it is the first time he has really looked at me. He says, ‘I didn’t realise you cared so much. About your brother.’

  ‘Would it have made a difference?’

  ‘I would have understood the guilt.’

  His mouth is just above mine. I can’t hear his breath above my own.

  ‘I need to know,’ he says, ‘if it was revenge . . . that night in Venice.’

  ‘Maybe I just wanted to save someone.’

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘I think I already knew,’ I say, ‘my brother was beyond saving.’

  ‘Well, then . . . ’ He wants to ask but he doesn’t want the answer. It’s too much for him. I wonder whether he believes he can walk away. I am afraid that he thinks he can.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dev. I’m not the clinging type.’

  I curl onto my side, away from him. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he says, slipping a hand under my neck, raising me to him. I put my hands to his chest to push him away but he shakes his head and pushes back.

  ‘I need to know,’ he says, ‘that you’re not angry with me.’

  ‘Frightened of a little female rage?’

  ‘You bloody bet. I’m not stupid.’

  We look at each other and laugh. He says, ‘There’s nothing like a love song for a good laugh.’

  ‘That’s right.’ I smile at him.

  His arm tightens, he brings me closer. Heat spirals against my stomach. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he says. ‘It’s not personal.’

  I spread my fingers on his chest, rubbing my thumbs against the black marks. He doesn’t move but his eyes narrow.

  I say, ‘You’ll show any girl your marks.’

  ‘No. It’s been years.’

  I place my hand against his cheek. The snowlight falls through the window, the thunderlight moves on the logs.

  I brush his lips with my finger. ‘You know I understand,’ I say. ‘You read my file.’

  Finally – finally – I feel the heat running up his body. ‘Bloody words,’ he says. He throws the blanket away, puts a hand under my back, lifts me to him, grips my hip. He bends his head, his mouth touches mine. His tongue slowly traces the inside of my bottom lip. The heat runs up him, up me, there are pinpoints of water on his upper lip, sweat running down my back. I put my arm around his neck, press myself closer to him. His leg tightens around me. I am shaking. He grips me, he comes closer.

  ‘Anything you want,’ I say against his mouth.

  He pauses. No, no, no, I think.

  ‘Anything.’ I am frantic.

  I see his eyes, black as thunderlight. ‘I want – ’ He stops.

  I brush my lips against his mouth but he is far away. He has climbed back inside his marks, he is leaving. The coldness serrates my skin. It is too much to bear. It is impossible to rescue him.

  I start to turn away, to give up, when he puts his mouth against mine and says, ‘I want Venice back.’

  I hold my breath. He stares at me, frowning. Then his face relaxes and he smiles and says, ‘I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.’

  And he kisses me.

  TUESDAY

  The next morning, Pietr looks up over his croissant and says, ‘Your Mr Devlin has been leading an exciting life.’

  ‘He’ll never be my Mr Devlin.’ I help myself to sausages and eggs on the sideboard, not turning around. I wonder whether Stefano had told him I had gone into Trepani the day before.

  ‘His car went into the lake,’ says Pietr. ‘Black ice – it is a problem this time of year.’

  My knuckles are white on the tongs. ‘I hope he’s okay.’

  Pietr laughs. ‘You should sound more concerned. He’s a fellow Australian.’

  I look at the washed-out sky. ‘That hasn’t helped me so far.’

  ‘No,’ says Pietr. ‘I suppose not.’ He stares down at his plate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Anything about the lake must bring back bad memories for you.’

  ‘It’s time I exorcised them,’ he says. ‘Like a grown-up.’

  ‘Exorcise what?’ says Rosza, as she enters.

  ‘Old ghosts,’ says Pietr. ‘Maybe at the party,’ he says to me. ‘A dance with you would do it.’

  ‘No point looking backwards,’ says Rosza firmly.

  Pietr gestures at me. ‘Our guest is a woman after your own heart. She doesn’t seem too concerned if Devlin went down with his car yesterday.’

  ‘Why should she?’ says Rosza. ‘He’s made her life a misery so far.’

  ‘You are both bloodthirsty women,’ says Pietr, picking up his coffee cup. ‘Heaven help the men who cross you.’

  ‘Don’t defy me today,’ says Rosza. ‘I need you to go to Palermo for the party.’

  Pietr looks at me. ‘Do you want a drive?’

  Streaks of light slant away to the horizon. ‘I might take photos here,’ I s
ay.

  ‘Some time soon,’ says Rosza, at the sideboard, ‘we’ll have to see your photos.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ll need boots with spikes,’ says Pietr. ‘It’s dangerous out there.’

  The snow has fallen all night and now the forest is covered in a thick layer which looks like sculpted cream until you are close enough to see the hard glitter of ice crystals.

  I descend through the trees. The blackened branches droop towards the ground and click their leaves of ice, a constant chime of splintering. Every few moments, snow falls to the ground in a slow stream of crystals.

  The air chills my lungs; I keep my scarf around my face, stopping occasionally to see if Devlin is waiting for me, hoping he is behind the next tree or slouching against the guard rail. I walk back and forth along the road, to see if he has hired another car, parked it around the next bend. But there is nothing: no tyre tracks, no idling engine, no warm interior.

  I hoist the camera bag over my shoulder, skirt the guard rail and follow the ridge above the lake. The surface is frozen. There is no trace of the car, where we had lain in the mud. Our footprints have gone and there are no new prints that I can see. I wonder whether they will leave the car there until summer, whether it will sink slowly into the lake’s muddy floor, become encrusted with algae and moss until the remains of my breath on the window harden into inexplicable patterns.

  From the ridge the hut is dark and desolate. No smoke shows in the chimney. I walk down slowly. Here and there, the snow gives way to water set into a clear frame, like a dark mirror. I see black smears, the suggestion of tired green far below, my face imprinted on the ground: frozen, trapped. Yearning.

  As I turn the heavy handle, I look over my shoulder. No-one is waiting, or watching. I let the handle drop with a bang against the wood. The door swings back.

  I go in.

  The floorboards creak under me, the gloom grows out from the corners. A small square of light falls across the fireplace but fails to pierce the murkiness. There is a faint smell of the burnt wood from yesterday. I can just make out the old blankets folded on the chair by the table. The other chair seems to be missing.

  I stand by the fireplace, staring down at the blackened embers, the dashes of silver in the carbon. I put my boot against the fireplace grille, close my eyes, remember certain scenes from the previous afternoon. My fingers dig into the mantel.

  Wood creaks behind me, the blackness stirs. A man is getting up out of the chair in the corner. With his bulky coat and thick trousers, for a moment I think it is Stefano. Wishing me ill.

  Devlin says, ‘You shouldn’t come into Trepani anymore. It’s getting too crowded.’

  I am having trouble breathing. I force my voice out. ‘People arriving for the party, I suppose.’

  He nods and shifts his weight as though he is about to step forward. But he stays where he is, a vast distance away.

  ‘They didn’t ask you,’ he says, ‘about yesterday?’

  ‘Everyone was out when I got back,’ I say. ‘Stefano doesn’t seem to have mentioned it. They know about your accident though.’

  He frowns. ‘Very good bush telegraph.’

  I am dizzy. I feel my way along the mantel to the wall, put my hands behind me to support myself.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘we shouldn’t meet again.’

  I nod.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘You’re leaving.’ It isn’t a question.

  ‘No.’ His words are cut by a cold anger like far-off lightning flashes on a dark horizon. ‘They won’t let me. They say I can de-tox here.’ He puts up a hand. It is steady. ‘Funny – I haven’t wanted a drink since the crash.’

  ‘But you want to go.’ The wall is trembling behind me.

  ‘Of course I bloody want to go.’

  I rub my temples.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘you agree – it’s not a good idea for us to meet again.’ His tone is light, throwaway, but I sense he is watching me closely. Then he says, and his voice is different somehow, ‘Privately.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Pietr could get suspicious.’

  ‘Pietr . . . ’ Now he moves. He is in front of me. ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘They’re distracted. He’s planning something for the party, I think.’

  ‘The party,’ says Devlin, as though he has just considered it. ‘You’d better get me an invite.’

  I raise my palm. ‘Sieg Heil.’

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘yesterday was – ’

  ‘I get it, okay?’ I shout. I am exhausted. My arm shudders.

  He stares down at me. ‘You’re not well.’ He puts a hand on my arm.

  I try to shake it off. ‘I’m sure Pietr will take care of me.’

  His fingers tighten. ‘Don’t play that card with me.’

  ‘Why not?’ I shout. ‘You don’t care.’

  He pushes me back, against the wall, puts his hands on the cold stone on either side of me. He is about to say something but as I look up at him his expression changes. He puts a hand behind my neck, his thumb against the pulse in my throat.

  We are both perfectly still, then he looks down. ‘You’re wearing a skirt,’ he says.

  ‘Easier access.’

  He stares at me. Without dropping his gaze, he runs his hand down, pulling at my skirt, moving his hand under and up, slowly, trying to rip through my stockings, his nails scratching me through the wool, digging in, trying to climb in under my skin. I hold my breath, press against him. He moves his hand, very slightly. I cry out, put my hands on his hips. I can feel the jut of bone and muscle. I begin to slide down, hard against him.

  He catches my hand, pins it against the wall. ‘No.’ He watches me without blinking.

  ‘But I want – ’ I can barely think – ‘to make you feel too – ’

  ‘No.’ He pulls me closer to him, so close I can’t slide my hands in. He holds me from behind, his fingers spread so that wherever I move there is exquisite pain. His other hand pulls at my jacket. He begins to run his mouth up and down my throat. There is a rhythm to it, a fixed robotic quality, that I find unbearably exciting. His concentration is ferocious. He is unstoppable.

  He pulls my shirt aside. I grip his head, my fingers deep in his thick hair as his mouth moves down my cold skin. I feel drugged. It is what I spent years trying to capture in a needle, trying to force this sensation, this supreme drowsiness, in under my skin. Total forgetfulness.

  His mouth moves lower. I try to free myself to touch him but he traps my wrists against the wall. His breathing is perfectly even but there is some force building – some anger, some need.

  I try to shift position, to lead his mouth to where I want it but he won’t change direction. He isn’t going to let me do anything that he doesn’t choose – we both know it – until that one perfect moment. When I break his control.

  ‘Kiss me,’ I say.

  He bites my skin. I can barely see his face, just a sliver of light down his jaw-line. The scar on his cheekbone is a miniature raised ridge, the lines at his eyes tiny rivers. The muscles shift, the shadows deepen.

  ‘You’re a haunted man,’ I say.

  ‘I’m a nothing man.’ He shakes his head. ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  He rests his cheek against mine as though he is suddenly weary. As though I have drained him.

  ‘We’re going to be really screwed if you start talking like me,’ I say.

  He grins. ‘No chance of that.’

  It is the thing I like most about him: his quicksilver moods. I want to say to him, It makes me think I can reach you. Control you. But I don’t. I pull my hands free and throw them around his neck, burying my face in the comforting warmth of his jacket. He is still for a moment then he grasps my shoulders and holds me away from him. He says slowly, ‘I could get obsessive about this. It wouldn’t be healthy.’

  ‘Who for?’

  He won’t meet my eyes.

  ‘All right,’ I say.

&nbs
p; ‘All right?’ His hands relax. He pulls me closer. I put my mouth over his mouth, run my hand down his body.

  I say, ‘Will you meet me tomorrow?’

  He kisses me, probing the roof of my mouth with his tongue, delicately at first, then insistent, harsher. Tremors are running up his body. Or maybe it is me. I move my hips a little. His breath breaks up, becomes uneven, finally.

  ‘Think of this as anaesthetic,’ I say.

  He stares at me, his eyes as dark as water in the well once the moon has left.

  I move my hand. He shudders and says, ‘Now.’

  SUNDAY

  I meet him every day that week. At first we are both circumspect, conscious of time, the need for secrecy, barely spending more than an hour together. But then he begins stopping me as I try to leave – or am I the one refusing to go? I begin staying until lunchtime, through lunchtime. I don’t care about food – I can barely eat breakfast, my stomach would be twisting in anticipation, the pulse climbing my throat, waiting, waiting until I could leave. Pietr looks at me curiously over the breakfast table and once he asks me if I have a fever again, but he says nothing until the day he tells me he has something he wants to give me before the party. I smile and thank him but I am miles away, across the ice, next to the fire.

  Devlin begins bringing food so he can stay longer. He says his appetite has come back with a vengeance, he is eating everything in sight. He refuses to talk about Mitch, implies the case has been put on hold, nothing is going to happen, nobody is coming down from Rome. I want to believe him so I don’t ask.

  He loses the dark shadows under his eyes. It seems to me his face is filling out, there is more weight on his chest when he presses down on me. He says that he has stopped drinking. I take him at his word.

  Sometimes, as I come through the door, he will hold me and not let go.

  ‘I’m ravenous,’ he says.

  When I look through my diary for that week, for those days before the party, before it all changed, there is almost nothing written. Is that because I was too busy living life or because it was impossible to describe?

  There are phrases: faint, scribbled, unfinished. At the beginning of the week, they are tinged with disbelief, a falling away of the pen under the dark mist that swirled around me in those first few days when he would often push me from him, tell me to go, not to come back. He only stopped doing that when he understood that he would always come after me.