Paint kicked off his sandals and lay down on his back with his elbows under his head.
‘Goodnight,’ he said, and was asleep with the light still on.
Persia turned off the light, which was accomplished by pulling a dirty cord with a knot in the end, which was frayed. She lay for a very long time. A street light came in through the window, which had only a net curtain, and no blind. At last when it was beginning to be the morning, and the profile of Paint, exhausted on his back, had solved no mystery and never would, she became asleep herself, which was perhaps one of the greatest efforts of her life.
When she woke up it was a bright full morning. She was stuck to her clothes, adhered by sweat. In Paint’s neck there was glistening. He was reading.
‘You were tired,’ he said, and rolled on his side so that he could look at Persia.
‘I was not used to this room. And I thought.’
They lay some more. But Paint kept within himself, although he put down his book and did not read.
‘I might get up,’ Persia said.
‘Why do you want to get up for?’
‘Because people do.’
‘Then it is a reason not to.’
‘The sheets are hot and crushed and wet.’
‘I can change the sheets.’
‘Do you have more?’
After they had lain for some more time it became important for Persia to touch Paint. It would have been impossible to find the courage if the curiosity and the need to discover had not suddenly grown so urgent. But at that moment with the traffic outside and the shapes of people passing the window there was only one way to continue along the same line, and that was to find or not find. To be inactive would have been an end.
So Persia looked at him and said to herself that he was quite close, and all she needed to do was lean over, because there was only a narrow space of air between where they lay. But then the closeness became hopelessly far to reach across, because it had never been reached across before, and had no established route, and had not yet been surfaced. So she sat, almost reaching, and then deciding she could never reach until at last it was the most simple thing to lean across and kiss his lips softly, and for only a short moment, so that she could draw back to know her effect.
And the effect was nothing. Paint continued squeezing and releasing a pair of old nail scissors he was fiddling with. His face was as still as it had been before the kiss, except that it closed a little more. It retreated until it was quite retrenched. The kiss had shrivelled it. It could not take the kiss, so that Persia felt like a siren who had lain on rocks and done some terrible perversion. And they were both set back so that they had further to struggle before they caught up again to where they had been before.
When Paint was finally persuaded to get up, there was trouble with the gas heater over the bath. The bathroom was very bright. The tiles were chipped and embedded with black. Where the taps came out there was sediment in old washers. To be in a naked morning face to face with this boy who could never be a stranger was not in itself an embarrassment, but to be raw and exposed so that there was no covering not even a tinting on the face to hide its true structure, this was an over-exposure of even the closest friendship. Each crack and flaw of skin was too big; the red fissures and folds of his bare chest, for he wore only jeans; the freckles, the occasional mole; these pocks and mistakes of making which were present in every being, yet mostly were hidden by common agreement, could only be accepted after months of familiar love, as in the mother and child when they had come naked together and grown naked through life.
So although it was necessary to stand there while he wrestled with systems and knobs, at least Persia could back into a corner of the most darkness so that distance made his shoulders less white, and the darkness under his arms became more of a shadow.
At breakfast the toast was too crisp owing to the gas griller. The jam was crystallized and the butter was oil which soaked right through. They left the crumbs on the sink and table, and the dirty dishes not even stacked, and went in yesterday’s clothes clattering down the wooden stairway out again into the world.
The sun was real and true, and put there by God to be of use, and arranged in meditated fashion, for men, who were spoilt. From the footpath came trees which told of the friable soil beneath, and even weeds challenged in cracks. There was living along the streets, falling from lace verandahs, open windows and doors ajar, with corridors winding into dwellings and functions and intimacies.
‘Are we just walking?’ Persia asked, and the air washed away the night and how it had been taken illegally with her own indulgence.
‘We are going to a place,’ Paint said, but not because of claims. He was open, and of explorations, with torches and rope pushing into the new space of earth.
‘What I have been thinking,’ he said, ‘is that you shouldn’t have a job in town.’
‘But I have one.’
‘It’s a waste of time. I don’t want you shared.’
‘But you haven’t got any money.’
‘I have some in a tin. I was keeping it for emergencies.’
‘A holiday is not an emergency.’
‘I was thinking of writing. A holiday would lead to that.’
Persia did not say anything. ‘You can’t create on demand,’ Paint said, after a block of walking.
They came to the bus-stop and stood at the bus-stop, and traffic went by which they did not know about because of their talking which was on all matters and of great importance, because they had whole lives to catch up and put together, and they knew there would never be enough time to completely exchange all their discoveries and experiences, but at least they could try for as much as they could.
‘Where does this bus go?’ Persia asked when it came and they climbed on it.
‘Do you like finding the city is there?’
‘I mostly forget about it.’
‘Yes. But it still goes on.’
So they sat in the front seat and ploughed the world flat underneath them, and women scuttled from their rocking path, and cars verred and cringed, and they were in a great building of travelling which did not know boundaries or laws. And merely being upon a world which was pinned so uncertainly was such a great honour, you had to forget the confusion of your heart.
The bus stopped at the museum and Paint took Persia’s shadow into his shadow so that they could adjust his flow to her flow, and they could move in the same circumference. They went in through the glass and stone onto the wide flat floors, and found skeletons encased behind windows.
There was a man’s skeleton which still had movement, for he squatted on his heels. The moving had not gone but the living had gone. That he lacked eyes or brains was not significant. His plated pelvis could have harboured flickering livers which were merely invisible. But he was so dried and crackling like old paper, all signs of the equipment having ever been necessary, had long since vanished.
‘You have that in you,’ Persia said, and could not believe it.
‘But mine are wet and meaty.’
‘It is better not to think about them,’ Persia said.
There were other remnants, suitable only for cabinets.
They went up steps and onto the roof-top where they ate tomato sandwiches and cordial and Persia hoped she would not have malnutrition. There was at another table a tourist couple in grey hair.
‘I would like to take you away to a place,’ Paint said.
‘I have a job.’
‘We could be in the same location in the same particular time.’
Persia looked at Paint across the stale sandwiches. ‘Everything you say I would have said myself if I had been clever enough,’ she said. They watched each other. They did not have any smile, not even to share between them in halves, because of the serious discovery. So they went on eating the sandwiches which were all bread, with hardly any filling, and considered from their own private embankments, the importance of the roof-top and the lack of fill
ings, which had provided the catalyst for the realization.
*
Back at the house they sat among the smelling tins in the back courtyard where tomato sauce had dried and fermented into the metal and flies exploited cavities.
‘May I pick them up?’ Persia asked. They were on the step outside the kitchen door with beer cans in their hands.
‘I’d rather you didn’t. I think a thought is coming out of them.’
They were close, and the sun was close to their skin and their noses almost touched sometimes. It was a serene evening with no breeze to ruffle and they said insignificant things into it, which ended as soon as they had been uttered, and left no stain for contemplation.
Then when they had finished the beer Paint said they would read and he selected some of his favorite poems for Persia, and they lay together on his bed, and read in separate capsules. And now and then they looked up from their reading to tell each other the new discovery they had found, so that they learnt double, and all that they acquired was twice known, and therefore more relevant.
After a while, when it was quite dark and Paint had turned on the light, he said, you are making a thought, because Persia was staring at the ceiling and gone from her face.
‘Most people make thoughts mostly,’ she answered.
‘But you went away with it hand in hand.’
‘That’s alright. You can have all parts of my mind.’
But Paint did not offer to give his mind, although Persia waited for the suggestion for over ten pages of reading.
At last she said, ‘If people are good friends they should not have secrets.’
‘That’s not true,’ Paint answered. ‘I never ask friends whether they are Jewish or not.’
‘But if they were your friends, you would know.’
‘One should have privacy in certain areas.’
‘But if you like someone, you want to know all about them.’
‘You should respect their secrets.’
There was a small angry silence.
‘Are you a homosexual?’ Persia asked. The words lived and died in a moment but they went on demanding and invading long after cremation. She was both ashamed for her possessiveness, and proud for her bravery. She wanted to make the words never said, and to say them all over again, for they were, after all, merely words.
‘I don’t like labels,’ Paint said after a long time. Neither of them were looking at each other. They each lay flat on their backs hidden behind their books, which were also full of words, but not related to the present. He was cold now, and tight, and a stranger with strange customs, far away.
Then Persia knew she had probed too far.
*
‘I will have to go and get my clothes,’ Persia said at last.
‘Would you like me to help?’ Paint asked.
‘No. I would not want you to come,’ Persia answered.
His cheek was intricate like great books which lie in un-promoted corners, not for touching, only for reading. It was under where his eye had been put, and his eyes pulled up the skin in scorn of themselves.
‘I will go now,’ Persia said, ‘Although it is dark.’
‘Alright then,’ Paint said. He did not stop watching.
So she took trains and buses and joined complicated joints of transport, and marked positions on roads and intersections, and was going from one to another, wishing Paint and Adrian and she could have all been put together in the same house to be shared and loved equally, for at that moment she knew if she had owned a shred of Adrian’s hair or even a match he had struck for some other woman, she would have fondled it and held it against her cheek.
She knocked on Adrian’s door which had for a time belonged to her also. There was only the silence of the corridor and her own terror. For she wanted more than all things that he should go on wanting her, and that the sharing should not matter.
At last he did come to the door. He stood there, and was Adrian, and looked down from a long height onto Persia. He had no expression. He was without love or hate or reprimand. He was like typewriters who only conveyed and did not claim the rights of their own thoughts. He was so hard and strong and savage you could only be afraid.
‘Yes?’ he said. He filled up the doorway. His hair was very black. He had shadows where whiskers were threatening. His eyes had gone into caves and stared out with clubs, ready for any offensive. It was vain to search for signs of torment. If he had suffered, the suffering had been put away privately.
‘I wanted to speak with you,’ Persia said, and looked at the floor.
‘You may speak,’ he answered, and went on standing, and stared down at her, folding back her eyes so that he could see behind them.
‘I would like to take some of my things.’
If he fell inside, he was quick to bracket off his face and make it sheer again.
‘Come in,’ he said, and motioned. He stood back and Persia was a creeping thing that slipped through cracks, and was ashamed, and found sanctuary in burrows of moss and piled earth.
‘Sit down,’ he said, and his face was still and grave. He remained standing himself, but indicated to the couch with his hand. Persia sat on the couch. They were like confronting generals, and she represented the defeated.
He made no effort to speak. He simply stood with his hands clasped behind his back and stared intently at Persia so that all she could do was grovel with her eyes round the floorboards.
At last she was forced to make some words or else the day would have shrivelled and died and vanished, leaving them still sitting, confronted.
‘I am obliged to stay with him for a while,’ Persia said.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You have broken your promise.’ He glowered like judges with wooden hammers. ‘You are unfaithful to me.’
‘How I am with him does not change how I am with you.’
‘I cannot accept that,’ he said, and swung round on his heel like neat admirals, and paced once the room and stopped and marked time, and stood at attention, and continued demolishing with exhaustive eyes.
‘You lack understanding,’ Persia said, but very softly because she was afraid to accuse, being herself the accused. ‘Too many people you could like.’
‘That’s only another way of saying you’re a whore.’
Persia burst into tears then, and Adrian stood and watched, tapping one toe slightly, his eyes very cold like flanks of ships.
‘You may come back to me,’ he said eventually. ‘But it must be now.’
‘But I am obliged to him.’
‘You had better explain why.’
‘I don’t know.’
If only he could have forgotten formality and pride. Persia fumbled with her handkerchief.
‘You’re just a muddled child,’ Adrian said.
‘I have to find out.’
‘I am willing to forget about your indiscretion if you are prepared to stay here now and never go back.’
‘I don’t know whether that is what I want.’
‘Then you had better leave.’
‘Yes I will.’
‘Then pack your clothes quickly will you.’
‘I haven’t anything to put them in.’
‘Take my suitcase.’
‘But . . .’
‘Take it as payment.’
Persia fled from the room. She would have liked to sit on his bed and regain herself, but he would not allow it, and followed her into the room, and flung his suitcase onto the bed beside her, and stood leaning against the door, his arms folded, as though she was a stranger, not to be trusted, who was apt to make off with valuables if not watched.
‘Don’t forget your toothbrush,’ he said, when she had stuffed the clothing in crushed heaps into the suitcase and jammed it shut.
‘No I was getting it next,’ she answered, and undid the locks again so that sleeves and belts fell out of the flooded cracks. He followed her into the bathroom which was cool
and clean with shining taps without grime. And if you turned them on they would have worked.
‘I have everything,’ Persia said, collecting her handful of makeup.
‘Goodbye then,’ Adrian said as she stuffed that also into the suitcase, and pushed the lid shut.
He went to the front door and opened it, then turned round to watch Persia struggle through with her suitcase. She began to make her way down the corridor, glancing at Smithey’s door.
‘She’s not there,’ Adrian said.
Then he stood watching some more as Persia made progression slowly and the suitcase knocked against her ankle and put her sideways.
‘I’ll drive you home. It’s too dark,’ Adrian said. He vanished inside to get his keys. Persia stood at the lift door and pressed the lift button and could not see anything, and hated him for how he had humiliated and despised all people who were not himself.
Just as the doors opened and she might have escaped him, he reappeared, jiggling his keys in his pocket. He took up the case and held open the door for Persia, and then stepped in himself. The lift closed on them, and they reached the foyer which was stuffy and silent, with night outside.
‘I do not want to be driven,’ Persia said.
‘I shall drive you.’
‘I wish you would leave me.’
‘Unfortunately you are still my responsibility. I owe it to your mother.’
‘I belong to myself.’
‘Besides I do not want my suitcase to be damaged.’
He took her arm and held it so that it pulsed and swelled and wanted to burst from the pressure of his invasion.
‘I hate you,’ Persia said as he pulled her.
‘That’s quite alright.’
‘You don’t know how pompous and boring you are.’
‘I have every idea.’
‘You are so self-opinionated.’
‘I know. Now get in.’
Having pulled, he now pushed, and might also have kicked had it not been beneath his dignity.
She allowed herself to be driven. They did not speak one word although there were many congestions and traffic lights, and although her head was full of many sentences. But Adrian forbad any talking, and was despising her weakness and was above her, so that it was not her right to suggest speaking.
The Beginning of Everything and the End of Everything Else Page 9
