The Book of the Film of the Story of My Life

by William Brandt

  “The venom acts on the nervous system. First it immobilizes the voluntary muscles: the limbs, the speech organs. Then, as the poison spreads, it starts to affect the autonomic system, which includes the respiratory system. Imagine. You’re lying there, fully conscious, unable to speak, unable to move, in mind-boggling pain. Gradually it gets harder and harder to breathe, until finally you suffocate to death.” He leans forward. “And get this—guess how many spines the stonefish has.” He pauses dramatically. “Thirteen.”

  “Wow,” says Melissa. “How do you know all this?”

  “I was reading about it on the plane.”

  “Is there an antidote?”

  Russell shakes his head. “But you do have a chance. The poison is thermolabile. That means it’s destroyed by exposure to heat. You have to heat the wound straightaway. I mean, boiling water, a lighted cigarette, anything, jam it straight on the wound. If you’re quick enough the heat will destroy enough of the venom before it has time to propagate from the wound to the bloodstream. Once it makes it to your bloodstream, forget it, you’re finished. You have maybe two or three minutes from the time the poison first enters your system.” He sips his fruit juice. “You know what really gets me? Most poisonous animals are brightly colored, to warn off predators. With the stonefish it’s the opposite. It’s like they want you to step on them.”

  “And you’ve just been swimming?”

  “But I haven’t finished. There’s also Conus geographus.”

  “There’s . . . what?”

  “It’s a type of underwater snail with a very beautiful cone-shaped shell. It has the strongest venom in the natural world. There is nothing to match it. It captures its prey by firing a tiny poison-tipped dart out of the front of its head. So if you see one, whatever you do, keep away from the thin end. Always pick it up by the thick end.”

  “Pick it up? You have to be kidding.”

  “They’re sought-after by collectors the world over. The shells are very beautiful.”

  “And what do you do if you’re stung by one of those?”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Jellyfish, stingrays, moray eels. The eels aren’t poisonous but they can take your hand off. There’s a lot of them about here. I saw one snorkeling just now. I guess there’ll probably be scorpions in the bush somewhere. Maybe funnel-webs, but I wouldn’t really know. Giant centipedes, a strong possibility. They grow to about thirty or forty centimeters, they have a shiny dark-brown carapace, are difficult to distinguish amongst fallen leaves and branches on the forest floor and are, naturally, highly venomous. I guess that’s it, as long as we don’t get an eruption.”

  “But hey, we haven’t talked about sharks!” says Melissa.

  Sophie stands up. “I don’t feel so good. I’m going to go and lie down.” She stalks off to her tent. Matt follows her.

  “Well,” says Russell.

  “Indeed,” says Ella.

  “Duh,” says Brian.

  “She seems nice,” says Melissa.

  “Oh, she is,” says Russell.

  Ella sighs.

  I dislodge Melissa, not an easy feat, and stand up. “Excuse me,” I say. I head for the ablutions block.

  I need to think. I need to formulate a clear, robust policy. I run a basin of cold water. I wash my face. Then I make the usual blunder. I stop to look in the mirror. There’s an entirely new wrinkle on my forehead. It’s the stupidest forehead wrinkle I’ve ever seen. It cuts right across the middle of my forehead like I’m wearing a hairnet. I’m sure I didn’t have it when I left London.

  I have to think clearly. There is a real chance that the child is mine. A paternity test will have to be carried out, but now that I know for sure that there really is a concrete possibility that I am the father of Sophie’s child, I’m reeling. One thing I know: it can’t be bad news. It just can’t be. I don’t care about anything else. The child is mine. I’ve got that feeling, that gambler’s hunch, when you just know. I just know it.

  I have to admit I’m disappointed by Sophie’s reaction. I had a vague, unrealistic hope that she might be a little more positive about it. Still, it would be a shock, naturally. She’s shocked. She’s reeling. She could yet come around. And of course you never can tell. The way she’s clamming up and shutting down and refusing to look at me, it might be that she’s wrestling with feelings of rekindled love. It could be. She could be secretly, desperately hoping that I’m right and the baby is mine, but unable to face her own feelings, or unable to admit them for fear of the implications and consequences. It’s possible. She could be in her tent right now, fervently hoping against hope that I am, in fact, the father of this child—even though she doesn’t realize it. She must at the very least have some misgivings about the thought of bearing a child to Matt Chalmers. It only stands to reason. I’m pretty sure I detected at least some ambivalence there. Anyway, the thing to do for now is to stay calm, do nothing to enrage her, and to watch for opportunities to widen the gap between them. It’s a terrible thing, hope.

  A beautiful gay boy walks past with a towel over one shoulder and a glass of champagne in his hand. He’s probably about twenty-five. He’s an inch and a half taller than me and half my weight. He’s exactly the right color. He’s got exactly the right hair and exactly the right shorts. He’s got the right earring, the right measurements and the right sunglasses. It’s official. Looks are everything. He catches my eye as he passes. “Amazing, eh?”

  “Sure.”

  He fills the basin next to me and splashes his face. “Just shows what you can achieve.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “They brought half of it out by helicopter.” He dries his face and sticks out a hand. “I’m Joe.”

  “Hi Joe, Frederick.”

  “Oh, you’re Sophie Carlisle’s husband?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I saw Shag City.” He looks at me with a little too much interest. “That was all about you guys, wasn’t it?”

  “Not remotely.”

  He nods. “Anyway, I’m the entertainment officer. It’s my job to ensure that people don’t behave themselves too much.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “You aren’t behaving yourself, are you, Frederick?”

  “As little as possible.”

  “Good man. Got your activities sorted?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  He ticks off on his fingers. “Volleyball, parasailing, water-skiing, Hawaiian massage—that’s booking up fast, get in early—snorkeling, you name it. You dive?”

  “Well, I do have a license.”

  “Do the wreck dive, mate. It’s brilliant. There’s a whole ship down there. It’s unreal.”

  “You’ve done it yourself?”

  “Oh yeah, I come out here every year. With Charles.” He gets curious. “Have you known Charles for long?”

  “He’s more a friend of a friend.”

  He nods, glances left and right, leans close. His skin is so perfect it’s like plastic. The whites of his eyes are like porcelain. “Mate, let me tell you, when I met Charles, I was a mess. I mean, I was going the wrong direction. You know what I mean?”

  “You know what, Joe? I do know what you mean. I happen to be going the wrong direction myself. And have been for some time.”

  Joe nods. My sincerity has obviously made an impression. “Okay,” he says, “I hear you. So just you let me tell you this. You know what turned it around for me?”

  “Dietary fiber?”

  He doesn’t even blink. “Charles. He turned it around for me. He really turned it around for me.” He glances over his shoulder and shifts back to the original leg. “You know, a lot of people they only see the exterior of Charles, you know what I mean?”

  “You mean, like, the outside?”

  “Exactly! What’s on the outside. The party animal. That’s all some people see. The wealth, the success, the flash boats, the charter jets, the huge parties,
the fun, the mind games, the drugs, the wild orgies, the mindless unending hedonistic insanity of it all . . .” He pauses for breath. His eyes cross and uncross. He stares into the middle distance.

  “Hedonistic insanity . . .” I prompt gently.

  “Oh, yeah. But there’s a whole other side to Charles. This is what people don’t realize. This guy is deep. You know what I mean? I mean, I love this guy, and it’s not just because of the wealth, the parties, the . . .”

  “The other stuff.”

  “Yeah. All that. It’s because if you need someone to turn to, he is the guy to turn to. I mean”—he glances over his shoulder again—“if it wasn’t for Charles, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “I guess none of us would.”

  “No, I mean I wouldn’t be here.” He shakes his head. “No bullshit. And look at me now.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Mate, talk to Charles. Talk to him. Nothing ever happens by chance. Whatever happens, and I mean whatever, there’s always a reason, eh. There’s always a reason. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Always?”

  “Always.”

  “Promise?”

  “One hundred percent guaranteed.” He punches my arm. “Wreck dive. Put your name down. Whiteboard, in the bar.”

  He’s gone. I turn back to the mirror. Look at those eyes. These are the eyes of a father. Someone small and defenseless and not even born yet depends on those eyes. The essence of fatherhood has already become clear to me. Fatherhood is not a matter of opinion or choice. It’s a simple matter of fact. By God. I straighten my back. I square my shoulders. It takes a while, but I manage it. I am the father of a child, and if I have to, I’m going to fight. Whatever Sophie thinks. Whatever it takes. Pleading, begging, letter-writing, lawyers, gossip columnists, DNA tests of fecal matter stolen from rubbish bins in the wee small hours, anything.

  Anything? An evil, insane and totally idiotic scheme has just occurred to me. Business as usual, in other words.

  When I get back to the table, Melissa has gone back to the tent but she left instructions with Ella for me to join her there with a margarita. I trudge across to the bar. They never mention this in the travel brochures, by the way. Trudging is the only way you can walk across fine white tropical sand. It’s very photogenic but it’s a pain in the arse to walk on, plus it’s way too bright. You can’t see a thing. Yellow is a much more practical color.

  The enormously fat woman and a few more beautiful gay boys, one of whom turns out to be Drunken Denise, have staged a coup d’état and barricaded themselves inside the bar. There’s no sign of the barman. The fat woman, whose name, I think, is Sharon, leans on the bar top. “You wanna drink?”

  “A margarita and a Perrier and lime, please.”

  “Sorry, no alcohol-free beverages served before six p.m.”

  “Okay, make it a bloody Mary.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “But hold the vodka.”

  I take my drinks and go over to check out the whiteboard. I run my eye down the list of activities. With horror, I note there are no slots left for the Hawaiian massage, although Melissa has booked herself for a twelve o’clock session. Failing the massage I put myself down for the wreck dive. I note that the Irish Brothers are down too. I didn’t know they dived. Then I get a shock. Down the bottom of the whiteboard, in red marker with double underlining, is a special item. BY SPECIAL REQUEST, TUESDAY NIGHT SOUTH PACIFIC PREMIERE SCREENING OF AWARD-WINNING FILM SHAG CITY. I make a mental note to be hidden in undergrowth around that time.

  Crossing Central Square, I notice the Irish Brothers sprawled in recliners, both reading scripts. I wave cheerily. Sean/Seamus looks up, waves back, and hastily ducks his head again. I veer left, skirt the compound and head for the tent. On the way I pass Sophie and Matt’s tent. I know it’s their tent, by the way, because all the tents have numbers and names and little letterboxes outside. Quite cute. Sort of Robinson Crusoe meets the suburbs. I wonder what’s going on in there. I’m sure I can hear voices. If I was a little closer I could probably even hear what they were saying. I look around. No one is watching. I turn and stare out to sea, still holding Melissa’s margarita, and edge a few steps backward, toward the tent. This isn’t spying. It’s information gathering. I can definitely hear voices. I edge another step backward. They sound tense. Possibly they’re arguing. There’s something wrong between them, I can feel it. That’s Matt’s voice, there, the deeper one. Is that a sarcastic inflection? If I could just get a little closer . . .

  That’s Sophie’s voice. She sounds so sad. It cuts me. Matt is saying something, but his voice is too deep, it’s just an undifferentiated rumble. I edge backward another step, then two more. More rumbling. It sounds irritable. Goddamnit. Enunciate!

  Something is tickling my ankle. I kick out irritably and glance down. It’s about two inches from my left heel and I’m just about to step on it. It’s black with purple stripes. Hard to tell how long, all coiled up like that. It’s staring at me, I guess, with its tiny black beady eyes. I’m so close I can see its eyelids. It has too many of them, and they come from below and sideways. The tongue flickers in and out, then it slips away into the undergrowth, no visible means of locomotion, just like somebody’s crouching in the bushes reeling it in with a piece of invisible string.

  I scream. I jump a foot in the air. I can’t help it. The voices in the tent stop. Matt sticks his head out of the flap. “Snake,” I say. “I saw a snake. I was just coming over to warn you. It was trying to get in. I think I scared it off.”

  Matt grins. “Thanks, buddy.” He disappears. I really wish he could be a little less good-humored. It’s quite irritating.

  It’s very orange inside the tent and it smells of hot plastic. Melissa is rummaging in her bag.

  “Your margarita.”

  “The ice has melted.”

  “It’s hot out there. You may have noticed.”

  She sighs. “Just put it on the table.”

  “I’ve been looking at the whiteboard. I notice you have a Hawaiian massage booked for tomorrow at mid-day.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t you book for me?”

  “Sorry, it was the only slot left.”

  “You took the last slot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “As your employer, I actually think I’m entitled to take that slot.”

  “So sue me. Have you seen my sunblock?”

  “No, I haven’t seen your sunblock.”

  “Green tube, about so long, with a pump-action dispenser?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, can I borrow yours?”

  “It’s in my bag.”

  She bends over my bag.

  I sit on the bed. “I’d like to discuss a change to your terms of employment.”

  She chuckles. “I was wondering how long it’d take you.”

  “Not for me.”

  She looks up from the bag. She looks suspicious.

  “How did you get on with Matt? This morning?”

  “He’s okay. He’s funny.”

  “Do you think he’s interested in you?”

  “Sexually?” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “He hasn’t tried anything?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing flirtatious in his manner?”

  “Sure, but for a guy like that to stop flirting he’d have to stop breathing first. What’s on your mind?”

  “Do you think you could seduce him?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “If I asked you to. I mean if I paid you to.”

  “You’re asking me to seduce him?”

  “If you think you can.”

  “Of course I could. But I’m not going to.” She turns back to my bag.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not going to do a crummy thing like that. He’s with somebody.”

  “The somebody he’s with happens to be my wife.”

  “Who left you, and hap
pens to be having his child.”

  “Correction. My child.”

  “You’re kidding.” She straightens up, holding a tube of sunblock.

  “I have good reason to believe—no, I have very good reason to believe that the child Sophie is carrying is mine. That’s why I had to come here. I had to find out the truth. And I’ve found it.”

  “I still don’t see where I come into it.”

  “Sophie isn’t actually what Matt wants at all.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “What he wants—what he thought Sophie was—is someone altogether more like . . . well, like you.”

  “How so?”

  “Someone young, attractive, available. Not pregnant.”

  “He told you all this, did he?”

  “He doesn’t realize it yet himself. But it’s obvious. He doesn’t want domesticity. He doesn’t want to settle down. He doesn’t want children. He’s got three already and he’s just deserted them. From his point of view this whole pregnancy thing is an unplanned disaster.”

  “I see.” She holds up the sunblock. “This is mine, by the way.”

  “That isn’t green.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Color-blind as well.”

  “That is red. Ask anyone.”

  “Whatever. Do my back?” She hands me the sunblock, takes off her T-shirt and lies facedown on the bed.

  I hesitate.

  “Hey. Come on, it’s just sunblock. Relax.”

  Feeling slightly sweaty, I kneel down. Her skin is smooth and the color of weak tea. I drop a coin of lotion in the dip between her shoulder blades. I brace myself, and start to smooth it outward from the center. “So, as I was saying . . . he doesn’t want Sophie. And Sophie, although she doesn’t realize it yet, what Sophie really needs—is me. Someone who will be loyal and caring. Someone who will do the dishes. Change nappies. You know. Someone motivated. Interested. So really, you’d be doing a good thing.”

  She sighs and closes her eyes. “A little lower.”

  “Besides which, if he really cares about Sophie, he won’t let you seduce him, will he? It’ll be a sort of a test. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”