Terra Incognita, page 6
I release an unsteady breath. “Then you understand. Not again.”
His finger continues to trace: up down, up down. Seconds pile up, pushing time along. The quiet stacks itself until I can nearly taste his words of farewell.
“I could change you over,” he says. “No longer human, your ills would be history.”
My throat closes as hope tries to rise.
“Only if you wanted, of course.”
Chill sweeps my skin.
He runs his palm up my bare arm, as if trying to iron out the goose flesh. “It would give you permanent freedom from the pain. Independence.”
My body goes still, warily watching his words collect on a mental table of choice, now challenging the grim reaper’s opaque promises.
Yet.
“Nothing is that simple,” I say. “There is always a cost.”
Hope lets out a small cry.
“Yes.” He lifts my palm to his lips—so close to those teeth that have scraped against my flesh, entered my veins.
A kiss.
“But you could handle the burden of time. You are not easily bored despite your circumstances. Your curiosity is one of depth. Unlike most, you are rather suited to this life. It is only the pain that has caused you to be so blasé over living life.”
I consider the pain, whose presence over the years has both plagued and tutored. It had taught me the consequence of hasty decisions. Revealed the ramifications of hope—the very one crying to be freed. But I have seen the dangers lurking behind the silky language of cures. So I give pain a poke, and inquire about our future. In reply it creates a vision of unending moments spinning outwards, twining itself into a rope of years, until it curled, wrapped around, morphing into a noose.
“I need to think about it,” I say.
Time he gives me. Three weeks, to be precise.
“Have you considered my offer?” he asks.
We are back in the coffee shop with the mismatched chairs, he cradling a mug of hot chocolate with a pale pink marshmallow bobbing in the milky brown.
I draw my mug of coffee closer, breathing deeply, as if gathering courage from the heat. “I don’t understand why you offer.”
He frowns. “You can’t see why I’d want you to be rid of the pain?”
I sigh. “It is more than that. What if I find I don’t suit such a change?”
“You’ve contemplated ending your life because of the pain. What’s to stop you doing from making the choice later?”
I wave him off. “Really, that’s a side issue.”
He leans in, jawline hardening. “Then what’s the issue?”
“I don’t understand if you have this ability then… it seems selfish to accept when… It isn’t like the condition is fatal. Frustrating, yes. But when there are so many people dying—tuberculosis, pneumonia, starvation—why not save one of them? To offer this to me seems unnecessary. Or that there is something else.”
He clucks his tongue. A muttered oath. “It isn’t about saving. Or a price. Yes, I am selfish. I want you to be free. To have a choice of being with me or not.”
“Like God, you want those that love you to have free will.”
“I am far from God!”
I rear back in my seat.
Quieter, he says, “I want companionship, not devotion.”
“And wouldn’t I be beholden to you?”
He raises a brow. “As you are to your ex?”
Touché—to bring up the man on whom I still depend for medical aid. I consider defending myself. Instead, I say: “You could help people.”
“No, I couldn’t. They’d cease to be people.”
“Still, you’d save them.”
“From what, exactly?” He shoves back his chair, placing ankle on knee. “What if they don’t want to be saved? What if they miss humanity? What, pray tell, am I to do if the endless years lead to boredom? When boredom leads to harm? Am I to be judge and executioner as well?”
“Isn’t that what you are doing now?”
His foot slams down. Leaning forward, he says, “Again, you are missing the point. It is natural for humans to die. Even what I’m offering would require your humanity to cease.”
“I still don’t—”
“I do. I’ve watched people. For years. Most claim that if they had more time they’d learn new languages, master an instrument, write that book supposedly dwelling inside. But that isn’t true. You are a rarity. You do not require being passively entertained.”
“No, I’m not. Most people are busy. Working. Raising families.”
“Nonsense. Time is there and instead of using it, they sit and watch the television, go to the next club, take the next bet, needing more and more of something they can’t even name until their search for the next rush has them creating havoc for no reason other than the spectacle it brings. Longevity rarely does the world favours.”
“So it is for the greater good you let most of world’s population suffer? I’m not sure if I can take such a stance. What then?”
“The greater good, eh?” Amusement crosses his face. “Now that is a different matter altogether. I welcome this debate. Go on, tell me how you’d use a set of fangs for the greater good.”
The conversation runs in circles. We chase it up and down. Frustration builds as he plays the devil’s advocate.
“It isn’t fair,” I blurt.
He folds his arms across his chest. Smug. “No, it isn’t, but you still eat while others starve. You still use private health care while others go without. You still sleep alone at night while others shiver on the street.”
“But this is bigger than that.”
“No, it isn’t. And you are missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“That the offer is there. You have a choice. Why not consider taking it?”
I leave.
He does not follow.
The next day he phones. “It’s your life. I’ll enjoy your company, human or otherwise,” he says.
Days go by until a flare-up sends me to bed. Now here I am, studying the ceiling while he watches me from the windowsill. And what exactly have I accomplished by indecision? In avoiding the obligation of sainthood have I, instead, been acting like a martyr clinging to a hair shirt?
He says, “Have you made a decision yet?”
Slowly, I shake my head.
He says nothing in reply.
Lying back in the pillows, I close my eyes. The pain slithers under the skin, tunnels through the delicate soft tissues, and leaves burning tracks in its wake. Tentacles burrow, questing for muscle and bone; tiny hooks latch onto the nervous system. Fighting only makes it worse, tensing the body, bunching and scrunching until every cell howls. Instead, the body must inhale. Long, deep breaths, stretching the lungs, rib cage and belly, welcoming in the unwelcome while refusing to panic. Acceptance is the only way to remain sane.
He says, “Why do you wait?”
“Is there a rush?”
“I only ask because it seems pointless to torture yourself.”
I open my eyes. He is frowning from his perch.
I ask, “Are you bored?”
“As I have said many times, I am not easily bored.”
“Good.” My eyes flutter close.
“But I do know when someone is avoiding confrontation.”
I flinch.
“If I didn’t know better, I would say you were waiting to die.”
I say nothing. I have already confessed to being tempted by death in moments of weakness. Seductive promises of peace, an airy lightness, floating outside the self. Or no self at all. A utopia most youth would not understand.
At one low point I became engrossed in a macabre study of methods to end my life. But not one book could promise that death would achieve the release I craved. Some, in fact, foretold eternal damnation.
An utter lack of afterlife I can handle. The end as dull as switching off the television. Circuits disconnected, wiring fried. Nothingness. But being infinitely doomed to remain in my current state, or worse, is too horrific to contemplate. So I wait.
“If it’s too much, I’m happy to provide a temporary reprieve,” he says.
“Thank you, but no. That would only cloud the issue.”
He drops audibly to the floor. Footsteps reveal his shift around the room. He is being courteous. A scrape across the wooden floors. A settling as denim meets leather. The piano bench.
“Would it be too much if I played?” he says.
“I would enjoy the music. Thank you.”
“No headache, then?”
“No, not tonight.”
The music begins—Chopin, one of my favourites. Inwardly, I smile as the nocturne spills into the melody. It is as if he is trying to woo tonight. Nobody has made so much effort to please in years. Not that I blame them. Even my ex-husband, selfish bastard though he may be, I understand. Being with a person with more woes than a hypochondriac is wearing, even for the most devoted optimist. This man is not an optimist, however. I intrigue, he has said. This is pleasing, apparently.
The composition shifts. Schubert.
I clear my throat. “I can tell the difference, you know.”
“I know,” he says, without disruption to the tempo. “I enjoy that about you.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
“It is. Now, hush. I like this part.”
I comply. Happily so.
“Why do you insist on keeping it?” my ex-husband asked, after I demanded he have my baby grand moved to my current studio flat.
“Because it is mine,” I said.
He had shaken his head, grumbling how the instrument consumed too much of the inarguably limited floor plan. I knew better than to explain my foolish hope.
The piano falls silent. “More, please,” I say.
“You could play, yourself, if you’d allow me to help.”
“I don’t want to have this discussion right now.”
“Why not?”
“I’m still weighing the costs.”
“You could weigh them as you play.”
“We’d only end up having sex,” I say.
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Nor would I.
Yet.
The piano goes quiet.
“Please,” I say. “Another piece.”
He replies with Handel’s mournful Sarabande.
I bite my lip. This impatient melancholy being displayed tonight is new. Then again, he has never seen me this bad before. I force my eyelids open and shift on the pillows so I can witness his hands in action. They move along the keys with precise, fluid grace.
The notes begin to beckon, then they argue for me to acquiesce.
So tempting to rid myself from pain, my constant companion. For even in slumber it stalks me. Shadows chase after the dreams while the medication swirls, sending the subconscious tumbling head over heels into the burning pit.
Except once.
Those moments we coupled were the first time I’d been liberated, free of those tentacles, those hooks, in years. Joy of being. Then he and I had created a different pleasure, revelling in mutual desire and sensual touch. Since then memories of us, his body inside mine, slip along my consciousness, leaving me longing.
Selfish.
True.
The notes reach out and taunt me. How I miss having the music under my command. It was once my life. For six years I’ve tried to enjoy it through the hands of others. Not the same. Akin to watching a steady stream of erotic films, with no hope of your own release.
I take a deep breath, exhaling a decision.
The piano halts.
There is a scrape as the bench is pushed back. His deliberate footsteps cross the floorboards, telling of his approach. His weight dips the bed. One of his talented fingers touches me behind the ear, wanders down my throat. My nipples tighten, heartbeat increases. He inhales sharply.
Lips brush my ear.
“Say yes,” he whispers.
Tiah Marie Beautement lives on the South African Garden Route with her husband, two kids, Orwell-the-dog and a small flock of chickens (four of which want to be house pets). Her second novel, This Day, was published by Modjaji Books in September 2014.
MARION’S MIRROR
Gail Dendy
I
It happened on a Friday morning. At 5.47am to be exact. Outside it was still dark. And it was winter—the sort of Highveld winter when the landscape appears to disintegrate into a powdery ash prior to the dawn.
Marion had been awake for almost an hour. That wasn’t in itself unusual, as this had been the pattern for more than two months, but now the lack of sleep was becoming chronic. She’d been concerned that, only the night before, she’d begun to hear things, a carthorse, for instance, lumbering through the private driveway of the block of flats where she lived. Of course there was no carthorse in Killarney, no leather strapping, no nosebag, no wooden side shafts. Yet the sound was absolutely distinctive with its clip-clop of hooves, proceeding somewhat unsteadily as though the horse was, in fact, slightly lame. And had she not heard a whinnying as of a horse? And a metallic pawing at the tarmac that covered the driveway like an oozing, black fleece?
She sat up and turned back the bedcovers. Her dark-brown hair fell below her shoulders in a disorderly tangle, partly covering her breasts and partly accentuating the ridges of her shoulder-blades. I must get it cut again, she reminded herself. She’d thought that for some time, but had done nothing about it. Somehow her life had got in the way of—well—her life. She was a receptionist in a busy office of architects. She answered the phones, placed calls, took messages, made tea and coffee for clients, organised everything necessary for meetings, and tidied the magazines on the enormous, square coffee table which dominated the reception’s entrance. In recent months, Marion had felt that if her life could be depicted as a movie, it would be short and uninteresting. As the weeks wore on, she’d harboured fears that the movie would soon be filled with a procession of flickering black and white—as intelligible to her as hieroglyphics—before snapping off into complete darkness.
This, more than anything else, was causing Marion’s careful façade of efficiency to evaporate. She went off to work determined to enjoy her day but, halfway through the morning, her hands would begin to shake and her head feel as though it was whirling. No amount of coffee or energy bars seemed to help. At home, even her flat reflected her state of mind, with dirty washing lying in an ever-growing mound in the laundry-basket, and dust accumulating to the point where the horizontal struts of the dining-room chairs were turning white.
Marion heaved a huge sigh, and reluctantly got out of bed. She noticed, as if for the first time, that her nails—once a great source of pride—were bitten and broken. The skin on her face was taut and dry, and she knew that there were faint beginnings of indigo half-moons defining her eyes. Her life had become burdensome to her. That was the bare truth.
Only the night before, Marion had tried to shake off her increasing lethargy.
Yes, she’d told herself, it’s my lousy sleep patterns. All I need is a good night’s sleep, and everything will be different. After all, she’d gone to bed between 10.30pm and 11 for years, and fallen asleep almost instantly. Every morning she’d rise at 5.30, brush her teeth, wash her face, and do twenty minutes of gentle yoga. After that she’d have breakfast, and dress for work in front of the mirror.
But this day, a Friday morning apparently no different from any other, was when it happened. Despite her intense drowsiness, she forced herself to perform her usual routine. Finally, she chose her clothes—a dark-blue two-piece suit with red piping round the edges—intending to match them with a creamy-white blouse and either red or navy shoes. The mirror, a full-length free-standing one mounted on tiny wheels, could be moved and re-angled with ease. She went over to it and straightened it. The bevelled edge, usually smooth as ice, appeared to have a slight chip in it so that she cut her finger. She flicked her hand to lessen the pain. Damn! That’s all I need! I can’t have a bloody stain on me. And of course the senior partner is going to be there before me, so I can’t avoid him. She sucked at the cut. The blood tasted salty, and she winced.
She adjusted her skirt and looked in the mirror. Startled, she looked again. There was nothing there. No image, no shape, no familiar face. Just a view of the wall behind her with an old wooden clock mounted next to a Diego Rivera poster. Marion treasured that clock, for it had belonged to her mother, who had died when Marion was seventeen. Similarly, she’d always loved the poster. It depicted a woman burdened by an enormous wicker basket chock-full of calla lilies which, with the aid of an almost-unseen man, she was endeavouring to heave on to her shoulders and secure in place with a broad, blue cloth.1
Marion blinked a few times and massaged her eyelids. The poster was there, as always, and the clock which, in contrast to the digital clock next to her bed, appeared to have stopped. But where was her reflection? She moved closer to the mirror. Surely she was mistaken? She placed her right hand on the glass and flinched at its coldness, its razor-smooth glaze. When she lifted her hand away she could briefly see the outline of her fingers and a palm print, but both of these soon evaporated, leaving little more than a smudge. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, she thought, although she could feel her heart rate quicken and her face blanch before becoming flushed. A cup of coffee, perhaps.
She entered the kitchen. Through the window she could see the sky with variegated streaks of pampas white, butter yellow and ballet-slipper pink which preceded its turning to a hard-edged, polished blue. The gardens of the flats across the road boasted a mixture of bleached grass patched with hoarfrost, while on the corner there was an oily clump of burnt charcoal left by a group of squatters who would regularly light a fire at night in a rusted half-barrel, leaning over the open flames for warmth. Marion turned on the kettle. It soon began its familiar thrum as the water heated up, followed by the eventual rush of steam from the spout and the friendly click of the switch as it turned itself off. She poured her coffee, and walked slowly back to her bedroom.
