Xstabeth, page 9
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You know how you have places in your mind. Do you. Do you have places in your mind. Aren’t you haunted by places. By places you have never been to. I mean. By places that you come upon. Places that have been there. Inside you. All along. For instance. There is a seashore inside me. A seashore that I have never visited. But that I expect to visit one day. A seashore with clifftop houses. With tall coloured clifftop houses. And with a wide expanse of green grass. A wide expanse of green grass that runs from the houses to the top of the cliffs. Where there are walkways. Wide walkways. Where gentlemen escort ladies in the late afternoon. It’s an old-fashioned seashore. Perfectly preserved. I almost said pickled. Pickled inside of me. But not quite. Although it does wait there. Perfectly preserved. The grass is untrodden. And perfectly green. The houses are painted in pastel shades. In peach and baby blue. And all the men wear hats. That’s still somewhere in my future. I think. Though it’s inside me right at this moment. Right at this moment. On the promenade. Gentlemen are walking their sweethearts. As the evening draws in. They’re walking arm in arm. And making delightful small talk. In front of the tall happy houses. In full view of the sea.
When I first saw the Dutch Village. When I first saw the Dutch Village at Craigtoun Park. In the middle of the lake. With the small boats. With the small boats and the swans all around it. I recognised it as something that was inside me already. The single bridge leading in and out. The overgrown children’s play area. The deep water all around and the reeds that grew up. The high white turrets against the blue of the sky. The quiet of the crumbling brickwork. The low arcs beneath the single bridge. The small boats passing through. The secret overgrown island. Father. I said. We have to take a boat out. My father and I hired a pedal boat. Sheila and the famous golfer took another. We were already splitting up. Going back. It was obvious. We pedalled slowly. Past the families and the children that circled the Dutch Village in the sun. Stop pedalling. I said to my father. Let go and stop pedalling. I said. And we began to spin in a tiny circle. Without a sound. Down below the silent water was thick with plants. With reeds and with grass that sighed in the water. That sighed and that fluttered and that waved in the water. Look father. I said. Look. It’s the changing forest. Beneath us. Look. We are flying over the changing forest. Together. Will we ever remember. I thought. And I held my father’s hand. I held my father’s hand as Sheila and the famous golfer floated towards us. Across the changing forest. I smelled his smell. The smell of my father. As the famous golfer took out a camera. As he took out a camera and told us to smile. To smile for the camera. As he went to capture the moment. I thought. I thought what is there to hold onto. Even as I held my father’s hand. His big hand. Even as I held on tight. Then the famous golfer fell over. He lost his footing as he went to stand up. And fell into the water. At first there was a panic. Someone jumped in to save him. But the water wasn’t deep. The famous golfer reappeared stood on the bottom of the lake. It only came up to his chest. He stood there in the water for all to see. In front of the Dutch Village. And people began to recognise him. People began to applaud. It’s the famous golfer. They said. And people laughed and made jokes. I looked round at the scene. At the crazy scene all around us. It’s so delicate. My father had said. So intricate.
The famous golfer went to change in the public toilets. When he came back he was topless. His chest had short blond hairs on it. I hope that doesn’t give too much away. He stood there in the sunshine and he signed autographs. While he was topless. A young reporter was there. And he filed a story. About the famous golfer’s good-natured response to falling in the lake. He also mentioned me in the article. He called me his girlfriend. He said I looked like Olivia Newton-John in Grease. But it was poor reporting. Because he failed to say whether it was like Olivia Newton-John at the start of the movie. Or at the end. So it left people guessing. But of course it was the end. With the black leather trousers. And the heels. Then the famous golfer clapped his hands. He clapped his hands and asked for mercy. Have mercy. He said. I’m here for a picnic with my friends. And to relax. He said. He took control of the situation very effectively. I’m going to love you and leave you. He said. Then he took my arm. And he motioned to Sheila and my father. Let’s go. He said. And we made our way over to the other side of the park where we could be undisturbed. Fame must be a real burden. My father said. Who wants to be famous. Oh. It has its moments. The famous golfer said. I’ll bet. Sheila said. Then we spread out a blanket and had lunch. We sat in some trees across the fence from an old haunted house that used to be a maternity hospital. The famous golfer told us. Now it’s haunted. He said. Or so they say. It wouldn’t surprise me. Sheila said. When traumatic things happen they leave psychic imprints. Imprints that are hard to erase. She said. You know like a stillborn child. She said. And of course. She looked at me. She knew. I’m convinced. She knew. Women do. We’ll be ghosts soon enough. The famous golfer said. I don’t think he understood Sheila’s concept. But for now let’s get drunk. He said. Sheila had brought a Frisbee. It was funny to see my father in his black blazer and black shirt. With a cigarette in his mouth. Jumping up in the air. And throwing the Frisbee back and forth. Throwing it back and forth with Sheila. Who was wearing cut-off denims. And a bikini top. Did Leonard Cohen ever play Frisbee. The famous golfer and I lay there and watched them. Their voices were muffled. Like when you are young. And all the adults are talking downstairs. And it’s late. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I lay with my head on the golfer’s chest. His soft barrel chest with the blond hairs. Do you remember your mum and dad. I asked the famous golfer. It’s getting harder. He said. It’s getting harder to recall them. I remember remembering them. He said. I recall something about them that I once recalled. He said. It’s getting more precarious all the time. He said. Like it was a tower that would eventually topple. Occasionally people would walk by. They would walk by and point from a distance. That’s them. I heard some people say. They meant the famous golfer and me. That’s us. I thought. What about your mother. He asked me. Where is she now. Oh. She’s dead. I told him. My father was doing that thing where you throw a Frisbee under your leg. They looked hazy in the sun. She got murdered. I told him. I don’t know why I said it. She got murdered on her honeymoon. I said. I was twisting the facts for no reason. Her partner put his foot on her head. I told the famous golfer. And drowned her. I said. Geez oh. The famous golfer said. What happened to him. Where is he now. Who knows. I said. You’re kidding me. The famous golfer said. But I just shrugged. That’s Russia. I said. Anyway. He said. Sorry. Let’s talk about the future. He said. The near future. He said. For instance. He said. What toppings are you going to get on your pizza pie this evening. He called it a pizza pie. I could have swooned. I’m going to get tomatoes and mozzarella. I said. Counting it out on my fingers. I’m going to get tomatoes and mozzarella and then anchovies. Anchovies and capers on top. And then black olives. Black olives. The famous golfer said. Now we’re talking. That’s what’s called a puttanesca pizza. I told him. Is that right. He said. Wow. He said. Then I’m going to have your arse for dessert. He said. Then he rolled me over and ravished me in the grass. It’s all yours daddy. I said to him.
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My father had insisted on taking everyone out for a meal. At the Old Course Hotel. Even though he couldn’t really afford it. A slap-up meal. He said. You only live once. Etc. Even though we were already drunk we went for more drinks beforehand. Then we showed up twenty minutes late. The concierge looked at his watch. As if to chastise us. But then he recognised the famous golfer and became extremely fawning. He gave us a table with a view. Then came the free wine. My father ordered fish. A fancy fish. His favourite French-style dish. With cream and white wine. And what have you. Are you going to order your pizza pie. The famous golfer asked me. Of course. I said. We already planned what’s on the menu. I said. He slipped his hand down the back of my leather trousers. And pinged the elastic of my panties. Sheila ordered a prawn cocktail. That was all. She was too cute. But my father wanted to smoke. Excuse me. The concierge said. Excuse me but this is a non-smoking restaurant. Excuse me. My father said. Excuse me but we’re with ___ _____. He said the famous golfer’s name. Even though he was sitting right there. We’re with ___ _____. He said. And he nodded at the famous golfer. I’m sorry sir. The concierge said. There are no exceptions. But my father insisted. He was becoming belligerent. You want to smoke Sheila. Don’t you. He said. I wouldn’t say no. She said. See. My father said. As if that proved something. Then he leaned over to the people at the next table. Do you mind if we smoke. He asked them. I’d rather you didn’t. A gruff old boy replied. Then he got up. My father got up and began going from table to table. Asking people if they minded us smoking. By this point he was staggering. Staggering from table to table. Pointing at the famous golfer. Arguing with the diners and the servers. Then I remembered Jaco. I remembered Jaco at the strip club. When the lights came up. Staggering from one stripper to the next. The look of contempt on the faces of the strippers. The look of contempt and incomprehension. The same look on all the faces at the tables. I collect naivety. I told myself. But I couldn’t deny it. It was pathetic. Father. I said. Please sit down. I didn’t want to say it. I felt disloyal. It doesn’t matter father. I said. We’re all fine. We’re okay with it. Isn’t that right Sheila. It’s all fine Tommy. She said. Thanks for trying. She said. It doesn’t matter Tommy. It’s okay. No. My father said. It does matter. This was supposed to be our big meal. He said. But when the concierge took his arm he didn’t resist. I saw the servers apologising to people for the scene. As my father was led back to the table. No worries Tommy. The famous golfer said. It was worth a shot. But my father just sat there. He sat there and stared at the table. Then the food arrived. It was the worst thing ever. It pierced my heart. To this day it’s the worst thing I can remember. Maybe you won’t think so. But there was just something about it. They put the fish down in front of my father. His favourite French dish. This dish that he could barely afford. And he picked up the fish. He picked up the fish and he tore it in two. He tore it in two and he threw it back down on his plate. I looked at it. Torn up on the plate. Torn up and with the sauce gone everywhere. And that was when I realised. That was when I finally realised that no one will ever love me as much as I loved my father. Not even my baby girl. Who at that moment was alive inside me. But please. Let’s not talk about it any longer. Because I can’t stand to think of that fish even for a second.
ENNUI IN XSTABETH
by Patricia Waters (SR|SIF)
Although sad, Ennui is the most beautiful concept of all. It is melancholy fallen from grace. It has been trivialised in the modern world because people have come to believe there is simply no time for it. Precisely because of its scale. It combines an epic world-weariness that could almost be German with a fleet, barely there quality that makes it feel like you’re experiencing the interstices of the world, the waste ground of the world, the abandoned car parks of the world, the dirty windows of the world, the moment between moments of the world, the mindlessly-walking-towards- something-from-something of the world and that something—that space between one island of experience and the next, that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wasteland, that desert space—is a land known as Ennui.
Melancholy requires a vista, an aspect or, better still, a retrospect, a lovely retrospect. Ennui is a Western take on what intrepid Buddhist explorers term the Pure Land. They call the Pure Land Sunyata. In the West, Sunyata is most commonly experienced not in nature, not in isolation per se, but in desolation, more properly. Lucky for us—well, lucky for any intrepid spiritual explorers—the great towns and cities of the Western world are the equivalent of spiritual assault courses for warrior monks. Beneath great concrete motorways where abandoned mattresses lie next to rusting shopping trollies and pointless abandoned shoes, in the smell of burning tires, the land of Ennui greets you, brave voyager. But in the Western world the practice has become so serious, so all-pervading, that it has made monks of us all. City-centre bars and restaurants often function as portals into Ennui, the Pure Land, Sunyata. Raise a glass in company, brave seeker, raise a glass and drain it, but continue to hold it up to your mouth. Gaze through the dirty glass, listen to the incessant babble of your pointless friends, inhale the rotten odour of the old men on the stools, observe the empty cheer of the football supporters, run a finger along the dusty bar top, cast an eye over the couple that hasn’t exchanged a word all evening, examine the dead animals wilting for life on the white plates, the sad confectionary, the condition of the peas, catch the eye of the woman sitting opposite, smell the toilets, watch the insects feed on the crumbs of pickled onion Monster Munch on the floor, listen to the TV, talk about sport, pick out the stains on the carpet. Ennui, brave soul, is just another word for heaven.
PS: Except vague, post-modern Ennui, which is just another word for hell.
Afterwards we went back to the famous golfer’s apartment. An apartment he had rented with a small garden in Baker Lane. We drank some more. And everyone began to tell tales. Tales of their childhood. Which of course I didn’t have so many. As everyone else. But when Sheila went to talk. When Sheila went to talk she was playing with a comb. She was playing with a comb and holding it up in front of her face. And rubbing it on her chin. While she spoke. She was really drunk. And telling some tale about her brother. About how her brother and a friend had coerced people into lying down on the ground and then tied them up. So that they could take turns leaping over them on a motorbike. They had dragged them up the fields. Sheila said. No one could believe it. Everyone was killing themselves laughing. What. It’s true. She said. Then the friend tied them up and my brother Peter. My brother Peter leapt over them on his junior motorcycle. No. Yes. He built a ramp to leap over them. Then they had to go get some more. To increase the distance. Wait. The famous golfer said. You have to speak into the comb. He said. What. The comb. He said. When you talk you have to speak into the comb. Like a microphone. Okay. Sheila said. By now I was crying with laughter. Even my father was slapping his legs. Sheila stood up and held the comb up to her face. So. They had to go and get some more victims. Everyone cracked up. She swayed back and forth as she spoke into the comb. Like she was on a junior talent show. They made one of the captives watch that the others didn’t run away. This was up in the fields. Then they came back. They grabbed some kid off the street and dragged him down a lane. Then they tied his hands and marched him across the field. Of course everyone could see them from the back windows of their houses. The windows that looked onto the fields. And someone saw these kids leading this other kid across the field. Across the field with his hands tied behind his back. And they thought they were seeing an execution. It’s a gangland execution. They said. When they called the police. They could only see them from a distance. But even so. Even so they were so small. What kind of gangland was this. Bugsy Malone. The famous golfer cracked up at that one. And we went along with it. We hadn’t got Bugsy Malone in Russia at that point. But we knew it was funny. Then Peter is leaping over more and more people. In front of the ramp are eight victims. Were they scared. I asked my brother. No. He said. They seemed like they were into it. Actually. He said. Then our dad came. He came running across the field. Just in time to see Peter leap over eight helpless children. He ran up to my brother. And grabbed him by the shoulder. The kids on the ground just lay there. And my dad says to him. That was some leap. By the way. Do you think so. My brother says. Yes. He says. Now give me your bike. Peter shrugs. He’s getting his bike impounded. But then my dad says. Tie him up. And he points to Peter. Tie him up and add him to the pile. That’s exactly what he said. No way. Yes. No way. Yes. And my dad gets on the motorbike. The mini motorbike. No. Now there are nine children behind the ramp. Sheila leaned back. And she held onto the curtains. While she spoke into the comb. Now there are nine children behind the ramp. She said. And my dad takes a big wide circle. Before he approaches. He drives off into the distance and comes back again at full speed. And he shoots over all the children like a rocket. He overshoots and makes an amazing leap. All the children get up and are cheering. All the victims are pogoing up and down with their hands and their feet tied in the field. Cheering my dad. And before the police come. Before the police come he releases them. He releases them and they all run off. Not a single person grassed them up. Sheila said. And my father turns to my brother. And he says. Let that be a lesson to you. And then he walks off like John Wayne in a cowboy movie.
