And what of the walk. The walk afterwards. There is no victory walk in golf. It is always part resigned. Part resigned and part nonchalant. The walk is part of the performance. It must have style. Even when walking into the invisible. The impossible to predict. This isn’t chess. This is more like writing. Always starting from scratch. On the blank sheet. Always beginning again. Even when you think you’ve cracked it.

  But maybe not. Because we went to a reception afterwards. In the Old Course Hotel. My father got us tickets. There we met a famous golfer. Is it blank. I asked him. Is it invisible up ahead. You can see it. He said. You can see it when you follow through. He said. What does that mean. When you go through the ball. He said. Once you hit it and you have followed through you know where the ball will be. What it will do. You mean you can tell the future in the present. Almost. He said. But not quite. You read your own body. It’s like. And that implies a place up ahead. A position. Can you read the other bodies. That’s irrelevant. He said. In golf you are playing against yourself. My father asked him a question. Are you always in command. Do you not have to let go. There is only so much. He said. Only so much positioning. Only so much thought. Then it’s in the lap of the gods. My father nodded at me. This is art. He said. Can you play golf at night. Of course not. The famous golfer said. That’s ridiculous. But after what he said why. Then the famous golfer invited us to a party. There is a party at our hotel in The Scores. He told us. Why not join us later. Why not.

  Afterwards. After the golf was over. But before the party had started. We walked round the links. Why do they call golf courses links. Links in a great chain. One invisible shot into the future. One random position. Never to be repeated. And then the next. How do you link them together. How do you make sense. At the hotel there were men. And there were women. Mostly dowdy women. Golfers get groupies. My father said. Just like a rock show. Only with less make- up. The party had spilled out onto the street. The golfers and the women and the fans were standing around tables outside the hotel. At the bandstand across from the hotel a Scottish pipe band were performing. In full Scottish regalia. Some golfers began to sing along. Some Scottish golfers. No doubt. And some Americans. About a flower that bloomed in Scotland. Once. The sun was orange. And luxurious. And smouldery. It was an evening for romance. And for drunken nostalgia. The famous golfer saw us and made his way over. I played bagpipe music to my unborn baby. He said. Why did he tell us that. It’s good for them. He said. Drone music makes brains grow in peace. He said. Drone music. My father said. Do you like The Velvet Underground. He said. Lou Reed. Never heard of them. The famous golfer said. Golfers have poor taste in music. I learned. Except when it’s pre-natal. Then expect anything. The only thing my father and the famous golfer could agree on was Steely Dan. What do you think of St. Andrews. My father asked the famous golfer. There are whores everywhere. He said. It’s unexpected. I mean in a place like St. Andrews. He said. This was a surprising comment. He was famous enough to be able to steer the conversation. I realised. Famous enough to steer it somewhere else without question. Plus. He was drunk. There are streetwalkers everywhere. At night. He said. Haven’t you noticed. Where. My father asked him. We were new to town. He explained. On The Scores. He said. They don’t call it The Scores for nothing. He said. Do you like whores. The famous golfer asked my father. Oh yes. He said. My father who was also drunk by this point. I love whores. He said. I felt like I might as well not be there. But then I felt like the whole conversation was directed towards me. I felt like a tennis ball between two men again. But this time like a golf ball. Russian whores are the most beautiful in the world. My father said. It’s hard to disagree. The famous golfer agreed. They fly whores in for the golf in St. Andrews. The famous golfer said. There are opportunities for everyone. That was obviously aimed at me. I thought. Anyway. He said. Who likes vodka. We laughed and said of course. Even though inside we rolled our eyes. Some more famous golfers got so drunk that they danced on a table. Another one pulled up a woman’s dress while he was dancing with her. To reveal black stockings. Do you believe in the saints. The famous golfer asked me. We were sat at a table on our own. My father was with another drunken golfer. Like St. Andrew. He said. Do you believe in reincarnation. I laughed then. This is a typical Russian chat-up line. You mean like St. Peter. I said. But the golfer creased his nose. His small plain nose. I mean it. He said. I think you go on and on forever. He said. I think that at some point you get to live every life. But how will you know it is you that is doing it. I asked him. Doesn’t matter. He said. You is you. Always. Then he shrugged. Let’s ask your father. He said. Father. He shouted. That’s what he called him then. Father. He said. Do you believe in the saints coming back forever. He said. My father came over drunk. I’ll tell you about the saints. He said. Does anyone have a guitar. He asked the room. Now we’re talking. A drunken golfer said. Someone produced an acoustic guitar from behind the bar. My father sat down on a stool. The room became silent except for some women and men who picked up their drinks and moved outside. My father began to pick at the strings. In a hypnotic style. One bass string. Up and down. One bass string. Then he began to sing. He began to sing like an old man. From out of the past. The lives of the saints. He sang. E minor. They’re awful funny. E minor. They’re awful funny. He sang. They’re awful funny. Take the saint that hung on. He sang. E minor. Take the saint that let go. E minor (droning). They’re awful funny. In their way. He sang. E minor. Take the saint that woke up. He sang. That woke up to himself. One day. He sang. E minor. Now isn’t that funny. He sang. E minor. And he looked around himself while he sang. The lives of the saints are awful funny. He sang. They’re awful funny. They’re awful funny. Then he played an unaccompanied solo. On the high strings. An unaccompanied solo that sounded like ascending a high tower. On a spiral staircase. Then throwing yourself off the top. The sun sinks into the quiet sea. He sang. E minor. The sun sinks into the quiet sea. E minor. The lives of the saints are awful funny. He sang. They’re awful funny. They’re awful funny. Some people applauded. Some people laughed. Awkwardly. Some people stared out of the window. Into the thin air. Into the last of the sun. Into the sea. Then everyone went back to talking and drinking. She’s with me tonight. My father said. As he handed the guitar back. She’s with me tonight. He said. Inevitably he found a knife somewhere. He suggested a game. But no one wanted to play. This isn’t Russia. I told him. This is St. Andrews. Exactly. He said. It’s the home of the saints. What’s wrong with these people. He said. Don’t they have any belief. Besides. The famous golfer said. We all have to play again on Monday. He said. We need to keep the head. You call yourself artists. My father spat. Then he went outside and smoked a cigar on the steps. The famous golfer. Who smelled of old aftershave and of sun cream. The famous golfer who wore a short-sleeved two- button shirt. The famous golfer who had sandy hair. I don’t want to give too much away. You would know him. He’s a famous golfer. The famous golfer who I could see had a semi-erection through his slacks. He came up to me. He whispered in my ear. I want to fuck you up the arse. He said. I want to do you up the shitter. That’s what he said. I thought about how golfers sense the lay of the land. I thought about how flowers send out electric signals. Follow me. I said. I instantly took command of the situation. Once more. I took his hand and led him up The Scores. I led him past the castle. I might as well have led him by his big erection. Through his slacks. I led him down the stone steps. I led him down to the small beach next to the castle. I led him over to where there were the remains of a fire. Still smouldering. Then I dropped to my knees in front of him. I dropped to my knees and looked up. With an expectant expression. Call me daddy. He said. Okay daddy. I said. Okay big daddy. I said. What are you going to use on me. I said. I was making a joke about golf clubs. But he didn’t get it. I’m going to use my big dick. He said. You’ll end up in the bunker. I said. That’s the plan. He said. He got that one. Then he just stood there. He’s nervous. I thought to myself. He can’t take it out on his own. Allow me. I said. He stood with his hands held behind his back. Like a prisoner. Or like an admiral on the deck of a ship. While I undid him. I want that big dick daddy. I told him. You’re such a big man. I said. I want that big rod. I told him. I wasn’t sure if I really did want it. But I was responding to the situation. On top of that I was driving him wild. You’re a little whore. He said. As I licked him with my tongue on the beach. On the beach next to the smouldering fire. Looking up. Then he said. Now’s the time. Now’s the time you little bitch. But he had no finesse. Not so fast daddy. I said. You need to warm me up. Don’t you know. Don’t you know. I said. And I stroked his face. But he pushed my hand away. I know what little bitches like you need. He said. I know you do daddy. I said. I know you do. I kneeled on a rock and pulled my panties down. Watch me daddy. I said. Look at me daddy. I said. Then I inserted one finger in there. One slow finger. And then eventually two. Okay daddy. I said. I’m ready for you big daddy. Go in slow daddy. I said. Go in slow and come out fast daddy. That’s it daddy. You’re the first daddy. I said. You’re the first to take me in the arse. I said. It’s all yours daddy. I used the word arse. The arse with the hard r. Normally I would have said ass. But I was echoing. Mirroring. He started mumbling under his breath. Talking fast to himself. Words I couldn’t make out. Like a prayer or an incantation. A Latin incantation. Then he said. You won’t walk for a week. He said. For a week you will be walking on tiptoes. He said. My little arse on tiptoes. I said. I’ll wear my stilettos daddy. I said. I’ll walk on my toes in my stilettos daddy. I said. He bent over me. He put his arms beneath me. Round my belly. Round my swollen belly. Secretly he held my unborn baby in his arms. He bent over and without knowing. He bent over and without knowing what he was doing. He held my little baby in his arms. My little baby who for all I knew might have been my mother. My little baby who might have been my mother coming back. Like the saints. Coming back from across the sea. And of course then I remembered. Who knows what happens on a beach in the dark. You know nothing. I remembered Jaco saying. You know nothing. I said. I said it out loud. You know nothing. That’s right you little bitch. The famous golfer said. That’s right. He said. As he whispered in my ear. While he finished me off. As he whispered in my ear while he held my unborn baby in his arms. You’re nothing to me. You little bitch. He said. You’re nothing to me. That’s right daddy. I said. You know nothing. You know nothing. You know nothing. Then I came. I came like the girl in the strip club came. Like I never knew you could come. Like a huge echo inside me. Like a huge echo that comes from all the way in the beginning. And then spills over you like the sea. As the famous golfer held us both in his arms and took us right back to the beginning.

  Afterwards it was hard to explain. I knew without knowing that we would have a holiday romance. That we would fall into it. I had numbers in my head. Vague numbers. Like fourteen days. Twelve nights. Sixteen lovemakings. I felt it all up ahead like a birth or a premonition. I was being kicked backwards again. That’s how it felt. I was being put in position again. I realised it was like there was something in the future. Something in the future that had to take place. And that needed me in the past to do certain things.

  You talked about the saints. I said. I said this to the golfer on our second date. Which my father knew about. But said why not. Why not. After all he is a famous golfer. You talked about the saints. Do you think they are as alive as ever. I’m not a religious man on the whole. The famous golfer said. I can see that. I said. And we both laughed. On the beach in St. Andrews. We laughed hard at that. But the saints are approachable. He said. Well. What exactly do you mean. Approachable. I mean you can come to them easily. I mean they are as alive as they ever were. They made the decision to stand out. As an example to others. An example of what. Though. An example of seriousness. He said. An example of reverence. An example of honouring life. He said. Is that what we were doing last night. I said. On the beach. In the dark. There are saints for everything. He said. Saints for flies. Saints for slugs and snails. Saints for gulls. He said. Saints for gulls on their lonely flights across the sea. Saints for arseholes. I said. Saints for arseholes that walk on tiptoes. That’s me. He said. I’m the saint of arseholes in heels. What about whores. I said. You love them too. That’s right. He said. That’s right. I’m the saint of whores’ arseholes in heels. If only I could tell you his name. He really said all this stuff. You would be amazed. But sorry I’m faithful.

  My father and I are haunted by a saint. I told the famous golfer. A saint called Xstabeth. But what is she the saint of. The famous golfer asked me. Mmhh. I said. Fathers and daughters maybe. I said. Girls maybe. But also songs. St. Andrews is the home of the saints. The famous golfer said. You came to the right place. That’s for certain. Listen. He said. I have my own sainthood to think of. Do you fancy a game. He said. Not if it involves knives guns or golf clubs. I said. It’s okay. He said. I’m not the saint of those. The game was to whore me out. It’s a dream of mine. He said. It’s my sainthood speaking. He said. Well. I told you about positions. About vague numbers and shapes in my head. Now I could see it coming together. Now I could imagine my memories before I had even had them. Like in golf. It will be perfectly safe. He said. We will dress you up. He said. Then have you walk The Scores at night. I will be there the whole time. In secret. Watching. If anything happens I can break it up. But if not I will follow you. I will follow you with your John. I hate that word. I told him. Okay. He said. What will we call them. Well. Why couldn’t they be saints too. I said. No. He said. Not yet. They might end up that way. Who knows. He said. But not yet. I’ll pick up worshippers. I said. How about I pick up disciples. Okay. He said. You take your disciples down to the beach. And let them have their way with you. Holy Christ. He said. The thought of it is driving me crazy. But not in the arse. He said. That’s the rule. I get the arse afterwards. The arse is the point. He said. This is a real holiday romance. I told myself. This is really free. I said to the famous golfer. I feel so free. He said to me. I walked around St. Andrews in my high strappy heels. With my arm in his. He bought me all sorts of new clothes. Short skirts. And lingerie. And expensive nylons. Everyone was looking at us. While we shopped. I’ve always wanted to do this. He said. This is a dream to me. He said. I just never met the right person. He said. Nothing lasts forever. I knew that. So give me two weeks of a crazy dream. I said to myself. We’re co-conspirators. I told him. We’re Bonnie and Clyde. You’re a perfect Russian whore. He said to me.

  A RAINBOW IN XSTABETH

  by Dorothea Wiggin (Dx(e))

  A rainbow requires of us three things, three aspects, three perfect alignments. It requires of us the precise atmospheric conditions. Furthermore, it requires the presence of the sun, up in the sky. Finally, it requires the presence of ourselves, as observers, without which it has no one to present itself to. Without us, rainbows would be all aghast and forlorn, instead of presenting us with the marvellous sight of every colour hidden deep within the world in a triumphal arch whose endings are in fairy-tales and in lost kingdoms. But it also relies on precisely the right angle, precisely the perfect relationship, between atmospheric conditions, the lucky old sun in the sky, and dear old livelong us. It is true that rainbows have associations with the bow, and with archery, and with hunting, and with the hitting of a target. Because outside of the specific angle necessary to enter into communion with ourselves, well, where is it? Someone who is not in my position may doubt the reality of what I have seen. But I have seen this world and in its (missing) I have witnessed it disappeared of all but its colour. A rainbow requires of us three things.

  By day my father worked on his notes. Which like I say were mostly drawings of birds. He would sit on a bench at the beach for hours. Looking out. And he would sketch and draw. Everyone who has ever come here. He said. Everyone who has ever come here thinks they see the same birds every time. In the same places. He said. The same bird is replaced by the same bird. He said.

 

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