Noah's Heart

by Neil Rowland

  “That would spoil it,” she says.

  This has a stunning effect on my grin. “How? How would it?”

  “If we got together more regularly, it would...”

  “There’s nothing wrong with meeting on a Sunday, like this. Weekends are always cool with me.”

  “Weekends are difficult for me,” she replies, evasively.

  “How? What’s difficult about them?”

  She pushes hair back off her forehead. “Oh, I’m so terribly busy at Whig Wham at the moment.”

  I stare back at her. Busy with what? Carrying crates of Paul Jacob’s plonk? “Don’t you ever wake up with a free day?” I wonder.

  “Not if I want to succeed. Do you have many free days?” she returns.

  I felt regret, induced by that global rock star’s vintage, remembering how we talked about sharing a place once: my house together. Maybe she’d just been fantasising about the future, but she’d been fantasising in earnest. She’d made me feel fit and viable again; years still left on the clock; even though I was secretly breaking into pieces. She’d made me feel like Peter Fonda - even pillion on the back of her machine - but at the end of that holiday I felt more like Henry Fonda.

  “There’s a future in your kites? Why don’t you convince me?” Corrina says, knife and fork crossed.

  “Certainly there’s a future. I’m really optimistic. About balloon travel. You see, when the skies are knotted with dirty jet planes.” Our summer trip had definitely added to this sharp aversion.

  “Who’s going to fly away on a silly balloon?” she challenges.

  “One day soon trans-Atlantic airships will return. Sure, because we have safer fuels... with higher speeds... Sure they’ll be very hi-tech.”

  “You make them sound like space shuttles.”

  “Do I?”

  So our conversation progressed. I was happy to rarely provoke her interest in the subject. After the meal we found ourselves standing back in the hallway; flirting evasively; both wondering which direction I should take next. A game of sexual snakes and ladders was on offer.

  Movie dialogue is seeping around the living room door. Her flatmates are watching a rom com; determined to play hard to get with the most attractive young men in Bristol. Or is this another insecure older guy kind of paranoid episode?

  As Corrina and I tramp upstairs - the apartment is split-level - I’m thinking why she bothered to look me up and down again. Do I suddenly look good on her CV? Can she be seduced by my new life situation? The tubes and stitches have hardly been jerked out of my body. Even if she assumes I’m repaired and patched - which I have been - she has to be more aware of my frailties. I’ve been through a bad trip; and there are consequences and effects that I can’t hide. Except that Corrina isn’t repelled by my operational scars - as far as she’s been exposed. I’ve noticed that. She’s seen the beginnings of those wounds; asked me about them and touched them; and she must know they’re serious; she knows that the scars don’t end there. She couldn’t feign that. She’s cool with that. In the most basic way Corrina isn’t disgusted by those shiny worms down my arms and along the inside of my legs; as I assumed she would be. The prehistoric arrow shape that’s cut down my chest. She overlooks them more easily than I do.

  To me those scars are repugnant. They mark me out from mankind. I have that plague sign daubed on my body. I don’t know how she can still find me physically attractive. I assume that she doesn’t. Corrina herself has those scars along her belly, after she missed a bend in the Alps a few years ago; a teen making her first Continental biking tour. Against parental or even peer advice, of course. Sewn up and patched herself, she climbed back on to her motor bike, the day she was released from a French hospital. It made me jolt back when I first saw those scars: when we first made love that hot afternoon at the Whig Wham HQ. I have to admit that it didn’t put me off.

  She told me the story of how she’d ended up on the ledge of that mountain; trapped on that sill of rock for hours, over-night, in agony from a dislocated shoulder, with gashed thighs as well. She was afraid of passing out in case she fell. She was bleeding from a gashed torso. The next morning she was spotted, by the occupants of a car approaching on a facing hairpin. Huntsmen and their dogs. But they were unable to reach her or to help. She had to be lifted off the mountain by a helicopter. Only her appetite for motorbikes and adventure was left unscathed. She doesn’t like to hear people moan or complain. If she is indifferent to me, then scars are all that we share.

  Liz has a gash, over her eyebrow, from where I released a sprung branch, by mistake, during a woodland hike. The mark was merely a cosmetic nuisance to her, not anything more serious. I was not to blame in any imaginable way for Corrina Farlane’s injuries or disfigurements. I have always been able to kiss and caress her along there - as if they are tracks to love or bliss: I’m not pulled up short, either from disgust or because these wounds provoke bad personal memories or associations. Her scars are entirely blameless, even innocent to me: they don’t relate to me. If anything they are attractive and mysterious.

  Corrina strolls towards her bedroom window and gazes out in a distracted way. As she gazes towards the dark hills she raises her arms to stretch. Before she looks at me quickly and wanders back towards the bed, finding one of those smiles, like a river getting born from the rocks.

  Lately her comparative youth is a scurrilous satire on my looks. We could have been an item, if it hadn’t been for the damn coronary. I can’t keep up with her life style any more, or with her friends. It’s hard to live without an impossible vision of the future.

  She pushes a forefinger into my belly. “Are you getting back into shape?”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Badminton?”

  “Not sure,” I consider.

  “You can’t walk about like a lumpy potato,” she insists.

  “Apart from the slight spare tyre, I’ve lost a lot of weight, you know, since...”

  Sweated on the beach and sliced off on a Spitalfields’ slab.

  “You’ve definitely developed a bit of a paunch,” she confirms.

  “I’m taking up yoga.”

  “Yoga? You need to burn off the calories,” she argues. “Start running again.”

  “I’m developing a new fitness routine,” I reply. Running didn’t feature strongly.

  “I can offer you a game of tennis next summer.”

  “Thanks for the offer. Let’s see how it develops, shall we?”

  “You have to draw up your fitness programme for the winter.”

  “Do you fancy coming out with me tomorrow night?” I ask - straight out.

  Suspicion stalls her gaze. “What are you thinking of?”

  “I’m going to catch some jazz. Over at the Old Duke Pub. Do you know?”

  “That’s too slow for me,” she says.

  I feel her muscles stiffen. How can I ever understand this woman?

  “Too slow?” I protest.

  “That really isn’t to my taste,” she explains. “I’m more hard core.”

  “Don’t you think my musical tastes are hard core as well? You saying that my music is soft core, or something like that? Is Blonde on Blonde out of fashion, all of a sudden?” I object - stung.

  “Thanks anyway.” She taps together the ends of her fingers.

  “Why don’t we make it another day? Another venue or event?”

  “Lets!” She gazes back towards the window, where she is unable to see anything.

  “Classics never age. Next Tuesday they’re promoting that American sax player? Did you see him mentioned in the media? He’s a brilliant musician. He’s got a tremendous reputation. What do you say about that?”

  “I’ll have a look through my organiser,” she promises.

  “All right, then, have a thumb thr
ough your diary.” All the pages must be falling out by now. “Let me know.”

  “Let’s see.”

  “Right. So am I as loathsome as all that?” I ask. If I’m really the Elephant Man then she should put that bag over my head. Not even Kate Moss could do anything with that.

  “Don’t be a pain. You’re not the only guy I know here in Bristol,” she rebukes me.

  “Do you work in the global music industry? Can you remind me?” I comment.

  “You don’t yet have exclusive rights.”

  “Why don’t you invite them too? Or you can invite me?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Are you ashamed to be seen with me, or what?” This was upsetting to a Sixties peacock. “Who are these trendy guys? That you hang out with?” I enquire.

  Corrina doesn’t like going around in circles. She prefers straight lines at high velocity, like a rocket propelled Roman. Time is a jet plane - it goes too fast, in Dylan’s emphatic words. “Why don’t you stop grouching at me, Noah? Just love me,” she implores.

  I stare back at her, uneasy and disconcerted as Caesar with a dull sensation between his shoulder-blades.

  “Just love me,” she repeats. “Why scold the little cat when she’s sitting in your lap?”

  “You think you’re the bowl of cream,” I say.

  She wrinkles her nose. “I want to feel your big rough hands on me.”

  I stare at them; at these hands; suddenly outsized as if they never belonged to me.

  “You work very hard don’t you, with those clumsy fists.”

  “You know I’m crazy about you. From the beginning.”

  “Don’t start to get all icky,” she warns.

  “Icky? Why don’t you go out with me tomorrow? My invitation not good enough for you?” I prod.

  “I’ll never be your drinking buddy, Noah.”

  “You’re special to me.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m not sure. But you’re a very sweet woman.”

  “I suppose that I am. The last time I tasted myself,” she teases.

  “You’re important,” I blab.

  “You’re important to me.” She smiles at me lopsidedly.

  “I wanted to talk about us,” I point out.

  “It’s more fun when you’re talking about me.”

  “Can’t we have a serious conversation?”

  “I thought we’d come up to my little bedroom to have a lovely fuck.”

  “All right, but you mean more to me than that.”

  “Will you say that afterwards? Is that a promise?”

  Her voice had dropped to a husky timbre, causing her extremely generous bosom to rise and fall - as violently when she first landed on that Pyrenean ridge. She tosses her thick hair in a characteristic way. We’re not sitting on the end of her bed to discuss our future together.

  “You silly man, I don’t believe you’re not in the mood.”

  “Most women enjoy the art of conversation,” I argue.

  “This isn’t the time for a little chat,” she corrects.

  “No?”

  Her aroused breath bursts like an opium pod and intoxicates me. “Don’t you want to get your workman’s hands all over my delicious body?”

  Her eyes, dusky blue as the dust on purple plums, consume me. I search their depths. Can I read a sincere expression? Or are they simply passionate? If we’re back on that last minute break then I’m dead in the water. I observe myself floating upside down in the black dilated pupils.

  “Don’t you think I’m a complete dish?” she remarks, breathily. “Wouldn’t you like to lick every sweet drop from the plate?”

  I can’t find the answers I’m looking for, but the answer is clear and simple. By now self-respect and intelligence are taking a drink in the lounge bar.

  “You’re a lovely woman,” I tell her. “The loveliest.”

  “You can’t turn me down, can you?”

  I recognise the aggressive hunger of her kisses. What dissatisfactions or unhappy needs are sublimated there? I can only keep guessing. She’s never going to confide in me.

  “You’re the most fantastic, lovely girl. You’re the spring of life,” I babble.

  “What’s the matter, Noah?”

  “Love is all you need.” I feel the need to say this.

  “Oh god, just be quiet and love me up, will you.”

  “This is going to be the supreme moment....between us,” I explain, freeing my lips for a moment. “Expression...of eternal love.”

  “Oh, such nonsense, Noah. Just bonk.”

  “Be careful. I’ve only just returned home from hospital.”

  “What’s it to be? Relax and turn over on your back. There’s a good boy. Let me do the hard exercise, if you’re still fragile.”

  “When did I say that?” I object.

  “How’s your stiffy?”

  I’m trapped between her thighs like one of her motorcycles. Just one strong flick of the wrist it took and we got from one end of the street to the other.

  My desires embellish with these thoughts. Passion is trapped and howls inside me like a wolf. There can be no peace until we’ve savaged each other. I should be all right, so long as I stay on my back. That’s the way she normally plays it, so I can keep out of trouble.

  Straddled naked above me, she’s cool and silvery as a fairy princess, tosses aside her bra, torn out of her glittery wings, heavy bosoms springing from the centre of her chest, with the fat lips of her nipples pouting.

  I’ve always believed, since our radical hippie days, that sex has a quasi-religious power. Not even quasi, in fact, but the real McCoy. The McCoy Tyner of the life force. The spiritual powerhouse rhythm.

  We’re not just having a bit of fun, we’re falling into the eternal rhythm. We’re on a spiritual journey along the ancient path. I’m the chivalrous knight of yore setting off into the dense shadowy forest. Thick branches fall before me until I hack them away with my sword. I push deeper into the forest undergrowth; fighting for a clear view of the shining castle, that I know lies at the centre. My princess is imprisoned in her turret peak and I make my final assault on the gloomy tower. She is calling to me desperately from her high window, beckoning me with her wails and delicate outstretched arms. If only I can find the strength to climb up the snaking vines to reach her, where I have the power to conquer her oppressor and gallop away with her on my horse.

  This entire concept album, worthy of Yes, in the original line up, or maybe ELP is flitting through my head. But these erotic ideas only show I’m Thick As A Brick and still a member of the Lonely Hearts’ Club Band, despite my romantic heroism.

  “I’m getting there. I’m getting real close, Corrina, darling.”

  “Not yet awhile, Noah, you’re not.”

  “Lay off a bit then. Relax. I can’t rescue you, otherwise. I’m climbing up the tower. I’m reaching you. We can escape.”

  “Save your energy. Don’t chatter.”

  A very moving scene between us. Who’s screwing who? I watch her sliding away above me, provoking pleasure from her folds. Her eyes are rolling, her mouth is open, building gradually to the last act and, she may hope, an encore. Perspiration sheens over her exquisite shoulders. She looks pretty adorable. She’s going through her breathing routines. These are different to mine.

  “You’re going to save my soul, Corrina. You’re really saving my soul now, darling. I’m not afraid of anything with you...I have no fear...here with you.”

  But I might check out with a hard on.

  At the end she drags herself back up and grins. She rests her entire weight on me, dipping her damp hair into my face. The smell is fresh and flowery. She holds that distant, cynical smile, as she leans forward. I love the
gorgeous sticky weight of her body on me. I could stay here for hours holding her close. There’s a still peaceful centre to this crazy spinning world. But we know that nothing lasts forever - particularly this.

  Recovered, Corrina disentangles herself and clambers away from the bed. She is pacing around like a golfer on the green. Keeping me guessing. Looking for her knickers, as a matter of fact. They’re in a corner. How the hell did they get there? Before she pulls the scanty silk back up her legs and hides away her tender spot again. But how tender it is.

  “You’re still a great lay, Noah,” she declares.

  “Right, thanks Corrina.” I’m stretched back with my hands behind my head, disregarding the momentary shock of finding bare scalp.

  She strides back to her side of the bed, shakes my shoulder and grins slyly at me. “You’re great value for a lazy Sunday evening,” she enthuses.

  “And you’re the delight of my life,” I reply.

  “Do you know what I would most like to do now?” she says.

  “No, Corrina, what would you most like?”

  “I’d like to twist off your cock and stick it on the wall as a trophy.”

  Chapter 21

  A few weeks later I decide to make a long overdue visit to my mother. I was returning from the doctors’ surgery, after locking horns with Voerdung again, the South African prop-forward with sensitive hands. This well-meaning, massive GP offered me earnest sympathy and baffled consideration. As for a rock star on methadone he refilled my prescription and promised to draft a letter to Wickham in London. Apparently he’d beg them to unstitch the dicey heart valve, regardless of risk. The thought came to me that Mum had been neglected by us for too long. I took comfort in the past, as the present has my balls in a vise. After Corinna had effectively shoved me off the rear of her Triumph, this was the moment to trundle down memory lane. That chick gives a whole new spin to the experience of getting dumped.

  The plan was for Angela to join us for tea, after she finishes work at the café. There was a bit of fantasy involved with this invitation. It was like asking Andy Warhol to your party by off-chance, offering your exact time and address. I should write something about Mum and our early family life, before I depict myself turning along her street. To be honest, Grandma - to refer to her as the kids do - lives less than half an hour’s walk from Big Pink: or that’s how long it should take our kids, adding an extra five for Tim. Obviously following my coronary I could barely shuffle to the front gate - that’s our front gate. Just a few years ago I decided to stump up extra cash and move my mother into an apartment purpose-built for the elderly. As I think about it, in my current state, I could move into the flat next door. I definitely imagined cosy family tea times, but never considered being her neighbour.