Xstabeth, page 5
When I tell you it like that it sounds like a dream. Doesn’t it. Like a dream full of symbols. We have been taught that dreams are populated by symbols. Which makes it hard to see dreams as they are. We are always asking what did my father stand for. What did the ladder down my throat mean. Had they come to take my baby. Did I really not want my baby. I imagined it being carried up the ladder from my stomach and out of my throat. Like Moses in a basket. What about the teeth. Don’t they always say that teeth mean sex. Or what. But where does it end. If a symbol reveals a symbol. I mean where does it stop. I think it is trying to say there is no solid ground. But in a world of ghosts I had found my solid ground. It was my father. He had become the new man. Like he had predicted. But not exactly. He had believed that the new man would be bloody. Do you remember. He had boasted about that before he became the new man. Or the new woman. But really the new man was dependable and light. He went back to Snork’s and he bought a copy of the LP. It’s selling like crazy. The Snork told him. This guy is a cult hero. My father would sit in the living room. With the dust tinkling in the candlelight. He would pick up his guitar and try to play along. He couldn’t do it. He was relieved. This is singular. He said. This is music that cannot be repeated. This is music that can never be toured. This is music that can never be applauded. I pointed out to him that there was applause on the record. Muted applause. Awkward applause. Uncomprehending applause. But still. Applause. What is the sound of one audience member clapping. I asked him. He laughed. Yes. He said. Yes. Yes. There is no mechanic in the world for this music. He said. I really don’t know if I understood him. But I had to let him speak. Did he mean that this music could never be repaired. Did he mean it could never be rationalised. Did he mean it was so wounded it could never be made whole. Or did he mean there was no system. No culture. No means. Did he mean we were right back at the end of symbols.
* * *
And with that my father stopped. He stopped making music. He stopped worrying about art. And his place in art. He had come through art. I realised. Was what he said. Or he might have said. I am realised. Or I have realised. Either way. He had come to the end. The point of art is to be done with it. He said. With a sigh. Of relief. Or maybe just a sigh. The point of art is to get you to the place where you have no need of it. Art is a neurotic activity. He said. That’s why there is so much more of it in the city. The end of art is at the end of the world. He said. I thought he might take up gardening or something. But really he cultivated doing nothing. He just sat there for hours.
Still he kept up with Xstabeth. What she was up to. He kept up with the reviews. The way you keep up with your daughter’s exam results. We entered a period of great calm. Which coincided with my pregnancy. Which I still hadn’t revealed to my father. I’m old enough to have my own apartment. I said to him. Brashly. Besides. I told him. Besides I got a job in a florist. It’s time for me to support myself. He didn’t argue. Previously he would never have let me go. But we went looking for flats together. We agreed on one that overlooked a river. This was in the winter and the river was frozen. But rivers freeze in the winter. It was no more than that I tell myself now.
EQUILIBRIUM IN XSTABETH
by Maureen (indecipherable) (Dx(e))
* (indecipherable) strategy (indecipherable) equilibrium for (missing)
This model was the concept of (missing)
equilibrium. That is, in the case of three (missing)
over a uniformly distributed set of entries, (missing)
(missing) converge in the middle and succeed with a (missing)
(missing) the parties separating infinitesimally
(missing) piece.
(missing) one piece is who
(missing)d it will be (missing)
The sound of the trees at night. When I was pregnant and lived all alone. The sound of the forest at night. An elegant woman fussing over a grave. Then a shuffling of cards. The soft shuffling of a deck of cards. Then the river cracking. The frozen river cracking in the warmth of the stars. Then the bats. Tunnelling. Digging round tunnels through the air. Then my baby. My baby kicking. Backwards. My baby kicking backwards. Heeling. Soft heeling. Then the reflux. Terrible acid reflux. The sight of my father. Asleep on the couch. Curled up asleep with his long hair and his socks. His shoes. His little shoes tucked under the couch. Tiny toes.
My father would stay over. He would take me to the supermarket. Buy me sliced ham and coffee and white bread. And yoghurt. He would insist on yoghurt. And a cucumber. For the sandwich. And he would turn up at odd hours. He would call through the letterbox. Little one. He would say. Little one I brought you a wooden banister from the old house. I brought you a memento. And I would have to sneak Jaco out. Through the window. Through the window in full sight of the whispering forest. And across the frozen river. Which would crack as he went. It was a season of DIY. Of my father building bookcases for me. Bookcases where the shelves ran this way and that. And a desk. A desk that was too high. A desk that was too high so he built a chair on a raised platform so I could reach it. He was resourceful that way. Then he would go back to sitting. Sitting by the window and staring out. Yawning and stretching and staring out contentedly. Content with the way things had worked out. I would say. Content with how his dreams had come true but in an unusual way.
My father was becoming emotional too. Secret tears. He would cry easily. At the sight of a deaf boy pointing at a toy on a high shelf. At the sight of two young lovers moving in across the road. The sight of them carrying boxes with all their possessions in them. The sight of The Snork. Stood on his own behind the bar. Cueing up God knows what lonely racket. Has he entered his dotage. I asked myself. At night he would stay over and he would read to me. The Lives of the Saints was a big favourite. St. Camillus was grieving. Athanasius sought refuge. People offered songs to the guardian angels.
We ate out often. My father liked to wine and dine me. Why not. He would say. He had a favourite fish restaurant where they began to get to know him. The usual table. They would say. We made a point of getting dressed up. Tuesday was date night. That’s what we called it. The usual dish was lemon sole. Buttery lemon sole in the French style. With stewed cucumbers. My father had started reading cookbooks as a hobby. Things were as peaceful as that. I thought this could go on forever. My father and me. With love on the side. But my baby was ticking down inside me. Things would have to change. I would get teary myself. When I was on my own. And once I even cursed the baby inside of me. Do you think they can feel it. Do you think they know.
Then the unthinkable happened. A new Xstabeth record was released. My father had been drinking at Snork’s. Fighting back secret tears no doubt. The bomb just dropped. The Snork announced. What do you mean. My father went to say. But before he could say anything The Snork handed him an LP. It’s Xstabeth. The Snork said. He’s back. Before he could correct him and say she’s back The Snork started playing the LP. It was similar to the first one. But the guitar playing was slicker. This is a fake. My father insisted. This isn’t Xstabeth. Then a voice came in. Deeper and more affected than his own. It was singing about rivers. About crossing frozen rivers. And about a forest. A forest that spoke in a low voice. I’m not buying this. My father told The Snork. This is mere poetry. He said. This doesn’t have the feel of the first. This is genius. The Snork maintained. This is the best yet. Then he scratched his strange face.
It’s not even the same singer. My father maintained. The Snork shrugged. The rumour is that Xstabeth is a group. He said. Ridiculous. My father said. The music of Xstabeth is not the kind of music that is made by committee. What do you think this is. Band Aid.
He called on me through the letterbox. Little one. He said. He sat on the edge of the couch that he had bought me. More tears. The muse isn’t loyal to just one man. I tried to say. The muse isn’t faithful. But she was mine. He said. I was her. That’s what he said. The trees stood motionless. The river had begun to melt. I held my breath. The frozen trees and the talking river. I thought. I got it the wrong way round. Then I thought.
I’m mirroringOgnirorrim m’I.
Who knew about the trees and about the river and about the forest. And about Xstabeth too. Jaco knew. Jaco knew for sure. The only other one was my unborn baby. Who was kicking backwards again and again. The only other one who knew hadn’t even been born yet. And would it ever be. That’s how you feel when a secret baby is inside you.
* * *
For a week it was peaceful. Then my father returned late one night. I’ve spoken with Xstabeth. He said. I’ve heard from the source. What did she say. I asked him. As I made him a ham and cucumber sandwich. With the crusts cut off. His favourite. She says I can’t reveal that it is me. That would go against it all. That would be a betrayal. She said. I had done the right thing. She said. Up till now. I asked her about the other Xstabeth. The new recording. What did she say. I asked him. It was awkward. He said. I asked her to deny it. To disown it. To make an example of it. She let me talk. Sure. She let me talk. But she just sort of listened. Listen to yourself. I think that was the lesson. Then she said one simple thing. One simple thing before she went. What was the one simple thing she said. I asked him. Prove your love for me. He said.
* * *
I invited Jaco around on a Thursday night. Which was the night my father took his cookery class. Maybe he’ll meet someone and give us all peace. Jaco said. You’ll regret saying that when he’s dead. I told him. But Jaco just lit a cigarette and stared at me as if to say he would burn up much faster. Then he lifted me up and positioned me on the stairs. Did I tell you he had a thing for stairs. He said you got much better positions that way. That there was more scope for limbs and curves and for vistas. That’s what he called them. Vistas. He would position me on the stairs in my underwear with the red heart and with my heels on. Then he would stand above me and beneath me and to the side. Then he would ask me to push up on one hand. Or raise my butt in the air. Or turn my head back. Or move my foot to a different stair. This would go on for some time. And the stairs were draughty. But I knew I was driving him crazy. Who is it that is dancing at the beginning of the world. And the end too. Is it Shiva.
Afterwards I brought up the new Xstabeth. It was you wasn’t it. I said. You’re in competition. Why can’t you admit it. It was you all along. I said. And by that I hinted at darker things. I have done so much for your father. He said. So much that he will never know. So much that he could never thank me for. Did you know my mother. I asked him. Oh I knew her. He said. I knew her. But you’re not ready for that now. For some reason I let him say that and I accepted it. Now I don’t know why. Maybe it was the baby talking. What will we do about the baby. I asked him. I’ll stand by you. He said. I’ll stand by you if you want to have it. But he never once said the word we. It’s my father I’m worried about. I said. But of course it was me and the baby I was worried about. But I wanted to seem strong. But I was worried about my father too. Would it be the final straw. I felt like I was being batted about like a little ball. Between these two men like a little tennis ball. Jaco was already drunk. I had bought him a bottle of vodka. And he had started in on it. You can’t stay the night tonight. I told him. My father is coming early in the morning. To take me to the supermarket. My father my father my father. He said. In a mocking voice. Get over here and suck me off. He said. We had already done it once. But I kneeled down in front of him on the couch and did it anyway. But he went soft in my mouth and passed out like a deflated balloon. I wondered if my mother had done the same. If my mother had kneeled before him and sucked him off until he passed out. It was a terrible thought. Blowing the same balloon. How pointless. Even so I sat next to him on the couch with his head rolled back. With his trousers around his ankles. And with a little juice coming from the head of his penis. And making it stick to his hairy leg. And I stroked his hair and his forehead while he snored. There is no mechanic. I said to myself. Things just carry on. Regardless.
* * *
Jaco was on TV. My father and I watched it at my flat. He said he believed in the unspeakable visions of the individual. He said utopia was totalitarian. He said immorality was a programme of self-liberation. He said suffering was a gift. Then he moved on to praising God. But first we watched the golf.
Of course they showed golf in Russia. Everyone was crazy about it. Because everyone was an armchair athlete. For Russians the pace was right. Outdoor sports are not our thing. That’s why we like gymnastics and boxing and ice hockey. But if we have to go out we like to walk on grass. Slowly. And take our time. And stare at the horizon with a meaningful look. And put our hand up to our forehead. Then shake our head and walk on. Walk on with a hunted look. Trying to read the landscape. Trying to decode everything. For a Russian everything’s symbolic. That’s why we come alive in books. And why we like golf so much.
Then the talk show came on. Jaco was wearing a suit with large lapels. And a rust-coloured tie. And a stained yellow shirt. His hair was unwashed. And he hadn’t shaved. He looked sexy and out of control. The topic was utopia. The building of a socialist utopia. How close were we. How far had we come. Where were we going. And why. There were other guests too. It was what they call a round-table discussion. There was a science-fiction author. There was a politician. There was an actor. And the moderator was Anatole Brezhnev. Jesus Jaco is drunk. My father said. It’s obvious. He was laughing at the science-fiction writer while he spoke. While he spoke about the goal as being out there. While he prophesied utopian colonies in space. Where technology would render work pointless. And everyone equal. Where leisure was a birthright. We can seed our own garden of Eden on the barren surface of the moon. He said. Or something. The universe is ours. Or something. Hand in hand with technology. Or something like that. Jaco spluttered and lit a flagrant cigarette. He called the science-fiction writer a crypto-hippy and a fascist. What. Do you intend to legislate death out of existence. He mocked him. The idea that there is somewhere to go and something to do is a fallacy. A fallacy that humankind has been in thrall to now for centuries. He took a great glug of water and almost choked on it. Then he said. This is it. He said. This is it. And he slammed the water jug down on the table. My father said it was like a Zen master caning a pupil. He still admired Jaco. That much was clear. Wake the fuck up and see where we are right now. Jaco said. There was consternation in the studio. Language please. Brezhnev said. You’re drunk. The actor said. You’ve been drinking. Jaco sat there and stared at him with his mad red eyes. That’s right I’ve been drinking. He said. Because I’m alive. Because I’m alive I’ve been drinking to God’s health. He said. God is dead. The politician mocked him. We buried God in 1917. But the heart would not believe. Jaco replied. My father nodded at that one. Then the actor piped in. How can you praise immorality and toast God at the same time. God makes everything possible. Jaco said. Thank God. What of the devil. Brezhnev quizzed him. Why wasn’t the devil buried in 1917. Jaco said. There is no devil that’s why. He continued. There is one God only. Everything is holy. He said. Suffering is holy. Drunkenness is holy. Birth and death are holy. Only we need a new word for death. He said. Birth and birth again. He said. Birth and birth eternal. Isappearing. He said. Then he took a can of beer that he had secreted in his pocket and opened it with a spray. What a performance. My father marvelled. This is a real Russian performance. Anyone care to drink to that. Jaco said. No one moved. Despite your disbelief. Jaco said. God never gave up on any of you. What a guy. He said. And with that he drained his can in one go. Then he crushed it with relish. Then he let out a burp. Then he tossed it over his shoulder and walked off on live television. He’s in for it. My father said. What a guy.
