Xstabeth, page 8
Then at night I would have my rendezvous. I have a rendezvous with my famous golfer. I would tell my father. I would get dressed up. Like an overwhelming Russian whore. Then I would walk The Scores. I would walk The Scores in the strange blue half-light. Which is St. Andrews at night. In the summertime. And I would know that somewhere. Somewhere. My famous golfer was watching me. In secret. I would feel his eyes ravish me. I would feel his pulse race. As I stood under the light of an old streetlamp. As I made myself available to strangers. But first I realised that the famous golfer was wrong. There were no whores in St. Andrews. I walked from the hotels across from the bandstand. All the way along to the castle. Then from there down past the ruins. And around the harbour. Then all the way back again. And I never once saw a fellow whore. At first. At first I felt robbed. Then I felt relieved. I’m walking through a fantasy. I told myself. I am walking through a man’s fantasy. The first night nothing happened. I walked for hours. I sat on a bench next to a cannon. And smoked a cigarette. Then I pulled up my skirt. And stroked my panties. I thought he might be there. Behind the walls of the ruins. In the shadows of the lane. Watching me. If a Russian whore gets herself off in the dark of St. Andrews and there’s no one there to see her what sound does she make. Miaow. I can tell you that she miaows. Then I kneeled up on the bench. And I began to writhe. Like I was being taken by an invisible being. I put my fingers in my mouth. I slid them down the back of my panties. I pictured the night growing eyes. Growing eyes through lust. I pictured an eye coming out of the sky. On a great stalk. Then another. And another. Then I imagined I was copulating. I imagined I was copulating with the air itself (the denizens of the air). I felt like I was possessed. Who is there when we can’t see anyone. And when we disappear to ourselves. I felt like I was going crazy. Going crazy with self-love. With no-self-love. I felt the air turn inside out. I felt my own eye grow out of the sky. Until I was looking with looking. I was looking with what I looked at. That’s it. I was seeing myself. But from someone else. Which was also myself. Is this making sense. I was outside myself and deep beyond myself. And inside myself too. Which is to say I felt like a sign. A sign that means forever. And I felt a strange certainty. A strange certainty that every one of us is watched over. Is watched over by ourselves. Which is out there. As much as in here. And there’s nothing that isn’t part of us. That isn’t part of God. And that’s when I heard the footsteps. I heard the footsteps approach from out of the shadows. It was the famous golfer. Thank Christ you’re all right. He said. I’m sorry I was late. He said. Then he saw me all unravelled. All ruffled up and in disarray on a bench. I had the most wonderful evening. I told him. I had the most wonderful evening with a disciple. I said. A gentleman disciple roughed me up. I told him. You little bitch. He said. You filthy Russian whore. He said. And he took me right there and then.
My father noticed the change right away. You’re so perky. He said. The whole world is after me. I said. I can’t help it. The whole world is out to seduce me. I told him. I’m such a little tramp daddy. I said. What are you on about little one. He said to me. The universe is in love with itself all the time. I told him. Otherwise no more babies would be born. Babies. I said.
By day we took trips. My father and I. We took a trip to Anstruther. Which if you want to know does have the best “fish suppers” in the world. We took a trip out to an island. An island that was like a boil in the sea. An island with steep cliffs that we climbed up. And with birds. Odd birds that didn’t react to humans. Birds that just sat and stared. And acted nonplussed. About the arrival of other creatures. My dad said they are probably not used to seeing humans. That’s what happened to the woolly mammoths. He said. When humans crossed the Bering Strait. He said. That’s between Russia and America. He said. For the benefit of the rest of the party. When humans crossed from Russia into America that is. The woolly mammoths barely looked up from their breakfast. He said. They had no experience of man. And of being hunted down for food. There were no men in America at this point. And for clothes. You could feed a family. Or more. On a woolly mammoth. But the mammoths just stood there. They didn’t even stop eating. There was no need to. They thought. And of course they were right. At first. The humans didn’t simply run in charging. They took note. They observed. Then they went off and talked about it. The mammoths just shrugged. And looked at each other as if to say I guess there’s more to this wonderful world than any of us knew. What next. They shrugged. Then the humans came back with a plan. And some spears. And killed a mammoth. Even then the other mammoths must have thought. Well. That was weird. But they had no concept of types. They thought that everything only happened once. Everything that was new. That is. Of course they knew the grass kept growing again and again. They knew that trees sprung up into forests. And that small animals given a chance would hitch a ride on your back. But they thought new things were one-offs. By nature.
By this time people were standing around my father. On top of this strange boil in the sea. Even the tour leader was interested. They all stood there listening. I said to myself. That’s a natural father. Right there. That’s someone who teaches things. No matter what. I felt so proud of my father then. My father and his knowledge. But the mammoths didn’t have knowledge. My father said. As if he could read my mind. Like lovers and family members and autistic people can. Or so they say. And I felt as if I was on display. Through my father. Reflected glory was everywhere. In other words. The mammoths didn’t recognise a killer. A predator. He said. They didn’t realise that this killing was going to be repeated. So even at first when the humans began regularly hunting the mammoths. At first they thought they were just like annoying flies. To be batted off. When you are trying to graze with your family.
And at this point the birds too. The birds too were standing round my father. With vacant expressions on their faces. They had no idea of type either. No concept of friendly fathers explaining them. The birds just sat there and looked at us like that. What. And when one got killed the others ran away. My father said. They ran away but they drew no conclusions. So the next time they saw humans they didn’t react by running off in terror. And the humans moved so fast. Before the species had time to evolve. Before the species had time to evolve an instinctive reaction to marauding humans. They were all wiped out. All of the mammoths in America. Wiped out faster than evolution could keep up. You see with human beings evolution had outpaced itself. My father explained. A woman named Sheila. A woman with cute oversized glasses and long hair down to her waist. Sheila stood and took it all in. We will return to Sheila. After I take a look at the birds. After I take a look at the birds and I say to myself. No. I don’t know if father is right after all. These birds look nonplussed. But in a different way. It’s not that they’re not used to humans. It’s that they have seen it all before. Between humans and birds. I thought. Between humans and birds we’ve seen it all before. Thinking and flying. I decided right there. Thinking and flying are equal with each other. When it comes to evolution. Thinking and flying are the same thing. Then there was Sheila like I promised.
MEMORY IN XSTABETH (2)
by Frances McKee (Dx(e))
But there’s more to be said about what makes significance. Significance is the ghost in the (soft) machine. Some might say God is the ghostly significance in the heart of the (soft) machine. Some might say that “we,” i.e. “us,” i.e. “the self” is simply an agglomeration of memories, which makes the self more like a moth-eaten sheet if you think about it. What about all that is never remembered? Which, if you think about it, is most of it. How much of yesterday do we even have today? Are we less than ourselves as a result? Or is the self by definition something that is diminished, something that can only exist as a shadow of a totality?
We have named many of the body’s processes but what of the significance particle? Why do certain memories stick with us for life? What set the synaptic fire? These are the building blocks of what we call the little self, what we come to regard as us, which is what remains. Perhaps rather than see the self as diminished we must recalibrate our understanding of ourselves as being everything that we let go of. But it makes no sense, or little sense, more appropriately, to say that the self is the sum of everything we let go of and everything that remains. Rather the self is what we are able to extract from all that we let go of and all that remains. But all that we are able to extract is all that remains. So, again, all that we let go of cannot contribute to all that we are, except, perhaps, in an empty, symbolic way, which is the domain of certain bad poets and not scientists, though I confess that sometimes the line does blur, ha ha (insert more jokes about science and poetry here).
Sheila like I promised was five foot two. With cute white heels. And tight bleached denims. And cute oversized glasses. And long blonde hair hanging down to her waist. Just about. And with men’s shirts. Like checked shirts on. Too big and tied at the waist in a knot. My father’s name was Tomasz. But she called him Tommy. I had never heard that before. Which made him strange and sexy and personable to another woman. Oh Tommy. She said. That’s amazing. She said that several times on the boat coming back. My father is becoming Tommy. I thought. He is regressing back to a life before me. Then I thought. That’s what holidays are for. After all. Oh Tommy. I heard her say. You’re mean. This was on the boat back as well. Which meant he had told her one of his mean jokes. I think.
Then we became four. We both met people on holiday. That was convenient. We would sit around a table and have adult discussions in the sun. Then we would go off and do crazy terrible things to each other. I maintained my night walks. My secret displays for my lover with a thousand eyes. Sometimes I would meet people. People would walk past me. And they would hesitate and stop and look back. A Russian whore in St. Andrews. Who would have thought. Who would have fantasised about it and made it real more like. That’s the difference. We did. At this point in my life everything was coming true because it had to. I was in a great romance. And I was in a normal romance. And my father was in a normal romance too. And we were in the home of the saints. How pretty it all was. How serene a holiday. We took Sheila to the golf. The famous golfer got us an extra ticket. This time we were in the exclusive stand. There were other golfers all around us. Seated in the stands. Sheila took off her shirt on the stand and underneath she had on a bikini top. It wasn’t correct behaviour. My father looked around all proud. I’ve got some wild women here. I could see he was thinking. The famous golfer was doing well. It looked like he could win. He was neck-and-neck with another golfer. Who was more famouser still. Sheila stood up. In her bikini top. And shouted out his name. This was as he walked up the fairway. She shouted his name and then she shouted go go go. She had no idea that this was the most ridiculous behaviour at a golf tournament. This girl is naive. I said to myself. I’m a collector of naivety. Afterwards we had a meal at a restaurant on North Street. The famous golfer had to attend some kind of event. So it was just the three of us. My father was trying to get Sheila into good music. You need to get into the classics. He said. Don’t you know Leonard Cohen. He said. It just sounds depressing to me Tommy. Sheila said. It’s not depressing. My father said. It’s deep. You’ve spent too much time in the shallows. He said. Besides I don’t really like music Tommy. Sheila said. You don’t like music. My father was amazed. Is she for real. What do you like. He said. Sheila sat there for a moment. Like she had never really thought about it. Then she said. I like squid. That’s what she said. I like squid. I could see that my father was head over heels. Then she said that she liked fairies. I like fairies. She said. What. We both said. You know. She said. The little people. The little people that dance at the bottom of gardens. Or in secret spots. And get up to all sorts of mischief. You’ve seen fairies. My father asked her. Oh yes. She said. Ever since I was a little girl. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve had a relationship with them. That’s the word she used. She said she had a relationship with fairies. I think I was given to my parents by the fairies. She said. Because I was too big. I think I might be half fairy myself. She said. And then she laughed. That’s impossible. My father said. There are no half fairies. What. I said to my father. What are you saying there are only full fairies. There are no full fairies and there are certainly no half fairies. My father said. This is childish superstition. Sheila just laughed. And then she burped. And then we all laughed together. There’s a fairy tree not far from here. She said. There’s a fairy tree in Craigtoun Park. We could all go and see it together. She said. All four of us. And if the fairies aren’t around at least we can have a picnic. She said. Which resulted in the best day ever. But also the worst thing ever. Which meant the last of the best days. As you’ll see when I tell you.
But the night before I went for my night walk. And nearly got picked up by a man. We all said our goodbyes. Then I got dolled up and sneaked out of the hotel. I headed for my usual route. Along The Scores. I scanned all around me as usual. Where was he. Where was my secret witness. Where was my famous golfer. I walked slowly. I liked the way my heels echoed up the lanes. And in through the gardens of the old houses like a sexy cat burglar. At points I caught my silhouette on the high walls. Like a weird old movie. Why does everything fantastic seem unreal. And that includes the past. Which gets more fantastic by the day.
As I was approaching the castle. As I was approaching the castle I spotted someone. Someone late at night. In the empty streets. He was walking as if to exactly intercept me. Is it my golfer. But no. We came closer. But the feeling was crazy. It was like two magnets fighting to stay apart. There was energy there. It was like when they say you are not supposed to meet your doppelgänger. Until the end. Even though from what I could see. Which wasn’t much. From what I could see he looked nothing like me. He was a man for a start. But he was nervous too. He began to slow down. I imagined the famous golfer. Crouching down. Somewhere out there. This is what we had waited for. I was the bait. I was the delicious bait. I moved closer. He pretended to read the sign. The sign about the execution of martyrs. On that exact same spot. The past is getting weirder. I thought. Are we out of time. I thought. It felt like there was a force field between us. Or an invisible fence. He looked at me from the side. He read me like a book. I felt. I took a cigarette out of my handbag. I went to light it. But first I put my finger out into the air. I put my finger out and I touched the air between us. And it rippled. It sent ripples out through the air like water. Then the ripples froze. The ripples froze like a sign in the air. Like circles within circles. So that it appeared almost as if I was looking down a tunnel. A tunnel that linked one moment to the next. A futile tunnel. I thought. And I felt wretched and terrible. There was a tunnel between us. A tunnel through the air. I began to shake. My feet wanted to take off on their own. This isn’t supposed to happen. I told myself. Or is it. But it could. I forced myself to stand my ground. The man’s head began to turn. To turn towards the tunnel. He moved closer. We were next to each other. We were in each other’s space. We were far too close. How could we be so close but still say nothing. How could we be so close without touching. I felt like any closer and we would shoot off like supernovas away from each other. Like we were charges. Like we were forces. Forces opposed to each other. The tunnel began to vibrate. The moment was closing. I turned away and began to walk. As calmly and as forcefully as I could. Away from the moment. From the strange vortex. The man didn’t move. At first. Then he turned and walked straight through the tunnel. The tunnel that had separated me from him. Now he seemed more solid. More real. He began to pursue me. Where are you my famous golfer. He began to pick up pace. He was fast approaching me. The stranger was fast approaching me. With a sense of decision. His walk was decisive. He thought I was leading him somewhere. No. This is the wrong rendezvous. I knew it. I cut through a gate into the university buildings. But before I did. Before I did I leaned over and took off my heels. And then I ran. I ran through the mist in my stockinged soles. Through the mist that was lying low over the grass. I ran through the grass that was damp with dew. And I never left a footprint. I looked behind me and I could see that I was leaving no trace. I ran up and up. As if I was climbing into the air. And then I saw the scene from above. I saw the scene from above like in childhood when you have the ability to fly. I floated up above the buildings of the university. I floated up over St. Salvator’s Chapel. Then I hung there. Suspended in space. In the silence of St. Andrews. In the deep blue sky. I saw my pursuer. He came to a stop below me. He came to a stop and began to look all around him. He looked in the bushes and beneath the fire escapes. But he never once thought to look up. And I could see the famous golfer. The famous golfer as a black shadow. Making its way down The Scores. In pursuit of my pursuer. I watched them like two tiny pulses. Like two sluggish heartbeats. Sending blood through the veins. One after the other. Two tiny pulses. Before the lights go out.
* * *
At the park in St. Andrews. At the park in St. Andrews we couldn’t find the fairy tree. The fairy tree was on a map. An old painted map. But in reality it was long gone. Your fairies have moved out. The famous golfer said. He was with us that day. All four of us were there. They chopped down the fairy tree. Sheila said. Oh my. But then we found something else. I’ve no idea how we found it. Is it even there today. We found a fairy den. It was in the trees. Hidden among the trees. It was the famous golfer who found it. The famous golfer who today smelled of sweat. The famous golfer who had sweat stains under the arms. Under the arms of a short-sleeved striped yellow shirt. You’ll like this. He said. As he emerged from the trees. After looking for a place to go. You’ll like this a lot. He said. Do you like toadstools. He said. I’m guessing you do. He said. Do you like toadstools all gathered under tents made up of wild witchy branches. He said. Toadstools that fairies use to sit on. He said. Then he took Sheila’s hand. Yes please. She said. In a delicious voice. He took her hand and they disappeared into the trees. My father and I looked at each other. Is it another tunnel. From one moment to another. Then we followed after them. It was a true fairy den. Hidden among the trees. There were ceramic painted toadstools. Painted red with white spots. Gathered in circles here and there. Big enough to sit on like stools. There were witchy dwellings all made up of twisted branches. There were tall trees with bare limbs stretched out and with bark like old women’s faces. And there were smaller toadstools. All gathered together. Smaller hand-painted ceramic toadstools. That looked as if they had been painted by someone who was half blind. And the light was coming through the branches. The light was coming through the branches and the leaves like the bottom of the sea. Anyone want a can. My father said. Then we all sat on a toadstool in the strange light. Hidden in the trees. We sat there and we drank beer. We were silent for a while. A blackbird landed on a branch and stared at us. This is magical. The famous golfer said. Eventually. What do you do back home. He asked me. He meant in Russia. Oh nothing. I said. I’m just a florist. Ah. He said. The weary flowers of time. I think the fairy den was going to his head. I didn’t think a flower could get tired. Sheila said. Have you never seen a flower sighing in a breeze. The famous golfer said. My father was strangely quiet. That’s the breeze that’s making it sigh. Sheila said. That’s not it sighing. That’s like saying that’s the sadness that is making you sigh. The famous golfer said. So you’re not sighing. No. Sheila said. And she took off her sunglasses and put the tip of them in her mouth. Like an attractive librarian in a dumb movie. No. Sadness is not a physical thing that you can pass through like the wind. She said. Is sadness contagious. The famous golfer said. Can you catch sadness. Oh yes. If you’re around it so much. Sheila said. I noticed my father then. In another world. Perched on a toadstool. Do they think they can catch sadness from my father. What star sign are you Tommy. Sheila asked him. As if she knew too. I’m a Scorpio. He said. I’m all Scorpio. He said. I’m triple Scorpio. He said. That’s some heavy water. Sheila said. The scorpion that stings itself. The famous golfer said. You’re good in bed. Sheila said to my father. But I knew that already. My father blushed at that. He was cute as he looked at me. How come astrology is true. Sheila said. How come it is so true but no one can explain it. Then my dad spoke up. Finally. It’s something coming down from the stars. It’s a quality of light. He said. It’s the quality of starlight and all that it passes through and picks up on its way. At the moment of birth our thin little skins are no protection against it. Our thin little skins are no protection against fate. I put my hand on my little baby. Do you think it is all written. The famous golfer asked him. Do you think even the golf tournament is written already. Do you think God has fixed it. He said. And everyone laughed. I think it’s intricate. My father said. I think it’s delicate. I think it’s as delicate as a woolly mammoth falling to its knees in the Holocene. Is a Holocene like a hologram. Sheila asked him. Kind of. Do you think I’ve already won. The famous golfer said. Only if right now I crown you with a can of beer. My father said. In the kingdom of the fairies. He said. That’s vital to your success. Then he shook up a can of beer. He balanced it on the famous golfer’s head. Then he cracked it open. The famous golfer stood up slowly. He stood up and walked around with the can of beer balanced on his head. Foaming all over his face. And with his arms out wide. And we all sang “We Are the Champions.”
