by Thordis Elva
Now it’s Tom’s turn to be speechless. ‘We? As in both of us, together? Seriously?’
‘Of course together! How else to go about it?’
‘So you’d be willing to tell our story — with me?’ he asks hopefully.
I’m confused. ‘What do you mean? It’s the only thing that makes sense. We’re much stronger together.’
‘Without a doubt,’ he says with relief. ‘That changes everything.’
We smile at one another and this time, the moment is reinforced with mutual trust. We did it! The load that’s off my shoulders practically lifts me out of my seat. Within the realm of trust, there’s no limit to what we can accomplish.
Tom is visibly relieved. ‘So, what would be our format?’ he wonders, smiling into his beer. ‘Film? I know a great filmmaker …’
‘Too glamorous,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘And besides, they’d edit out my skillful post-partum vagina impression from yesterday,’ I add, sticking out my chin and contorting my face.
‘Yeah, truth,’ he says with a laugh. The smile on his face fades and he starts to fiddle with the label on his beer bottle. ‘I can’t help but imagine the response if I were to announce to my circles that I once raped my girlfriend. Thinking of individuals around me, taking a rough stab at their values, and postulating who would shun me and who would think of me as being more than my choices. I also wonder if anyone I know would come out of the dark and admit that they too have abused loved ones. Purely by the statistics, I’m certain I know men who have been sexually violent, although nobody comes to mind as the kind of person who would be abusive. But then again, I know the vast majority of people who know me would be in utter shock and disbelief to learn of what I’ve done.’
‘I did that too, for years,’ I admit. ‘Asking myself how life would be different if it were public knowledge that I’d been raped. I dated men who confirmed my fears and men who weren’t fazed in the least. Some of them used it against me. If I didn’t want to have sex with them, they’d say I was frigid because I’d been raped. Wanting to prove them wrong sometimes led to me having sex against my will. The emotional manipulation was worse, though. If I disagreed or questioned their behavior, they’d say my feelings couldn’t be trusted because the rape had left me unstable and irrational. It was obviously a load of crap and a form of abuse, in itself. So I know what it is like to be defined by a single incident.’
‘Sounds awful,’ he says.
‘But that’s also why it’s important to set an example. To show the world that people who’ve been both ends of this scale, whether they’re receivers or perpetrators of sexual violence, aren’t soulless monsters or damaged goods. They’re people; imperfect, fallible, unmistakably human beings like you and me with all kinds of thoughts, jobs, backgrounds, life-styles, and beliefs. People who pay their taxes and love their families and make mistakes and live right next door. Who collect trash on the beach,’ I say, and poke him in the shoulder. Checking the time on my phone, I add: ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go. I have a Skype date in five minutes.’
Across the hall is an internet café, where I put on a pair of worn headphones and log onto a desktop computer.
Vidir answers straight away. ‘Hi, honey,’ he says, his eyes glowing with tenderness. He adjusts the webcam to reveal Haflidi, who is sitting in his lap. Despite my best efforts to have a conversation with my three-year-old son, he’s less than enthused about this digital version of his mother. He tries repeatedly to climb out of his father’s lap to see what his half-sister Julia is doing, who’s at least there in the flesh one room over.
When Haflidi is gone, Vidir closes the door behind him.
‘How are you?’ I ask, trying to sound upbeat.
He sighs and shrugs.
‘How are the kids?’
‘They’re watching TV. Haflidi finished his chocolate Easter egg in ten minutes yesterday.’
‘Well done! Was he foaming at the mouth and swinging from the chandelier?’
Vidir smiles faintly. ‘Something like that, yes …’
I smile a little too broadly, nodding my head a little too eagerly before Vidir states the obvious. ‘This is so weird, Thordis.’
‘I know,’ I whisper, lowering the mask.
‘Do you know how weird it is that you’re in South Africa? With a man I’ve never met? That you … share that past with? It’s only dawning on me now. How … ridiculous it feels.’
‘I would’ve regretted it for the rest of my life if I hadn’t—’
He cuts me off. ‘You don’t have to explain anything; you know I support you. I just had to express how weirded out I am that you’re there, that you guys are there together.’
‘If it’s any consolation, this won’t happen again.’
He looks away and doesn’t answer.
Instinctively, I lean closer to the screen. ‘I don’t have any other unfinished business that calls for a trip across the planet, Vidir.’
Finally, he looks into the camera with a boyish smile that makes me catch my breath. ‘Well, that’s a relief …’
And just like that, my heart melts.
It’s almost 9pm. The wet streets of the Waterfront glisten under the streetlamps, and the rain drips from nearby roof gutters as a hungry Tom and I wander into a restaurant. After we fought and made up, the atmosphere is different. It’s almost chummy, for lack of a better word.
‘Your turn, Stranger,’ I say as I sit down on a bolstered bench with red leather upholstery.
‘Wait, let me see. I was up to twenty, right?’ he says, frowning. ‘At twenty, I was at the University of Newcastle up the coast from Sydney with some twenty thousand other students, studying social science. I lived close to the campus and would sometimes go to class in bare feet. Long hair, no shoes, quite the look I was going for. I didn’t do so well in my final high school exams, mostly because they were two months after I got back from Iceland, and I was a bit of a disjointed wreck after trying to settle back into life at home. This meant that my university entrance score was pretty low and my options were kind of limited. I didn’t pick the hardest degree, and I managed to fit in a fair amount of partying and surfing — most of the time they went hand in hand. In my first year, I failed two subjects just on bloody attendance.’
I can’t help but think about all the troubled youngsters he’s supported through his youth work, after making what he describes as a haphazard decision about his studies. ‘Do you believe in fate, Tom?’
‘I’d like to, but no. I think the idea of fate undermines the power of choice and agency. And rids people of responsibility for their actions.’
‘Do you think life could be a mix, somehow? You know, that some things are consequences of the choices we make, but other things are simply meant to happen?’
‘Possibly, but it … doesn’t make complete sense to me,’ he says, wrinkling his forehead.
I lean back into the bolstered leather. Perhaps it’s the wine, perhaps it’s the new level of trust that came from working our way through a disagreement, but the question is on my lips before I know it.
‘Tom?’
‘Yes?’
‘That night all those years ago … was there any part of you that thought that what you were doing was pleasurable for me?’
‘No,’ he replies without hesitation. His frankness feels like a kick to the stomach. Yet there’s something comforting about his answer. We’ve come too far to sugarcoat things.
‘Was there any part of you that thought that what you were doing was painful for me?’ I ask, unsure whether I crave the answer or dread it.
‘I don’t think I was thinking about you, Thordis,’ he says. His face is expressionless; his voice matter of fact.
Relieved, I straighten my back. No justifications, no bullshit. His actions were driven by selfishness all those years ago, and somehow it’s comforting to
hear it said out loud.
‘Carry on with your story,’ I say, looking him in the eye. ‘You decided to come back to Iceland in 2000 …’
He puts down his utensils and resumes his story. ‘Right. During my second year of university in Newcastle, in which I was faring OK, for one of our subjects we went “camping” in an eco-tourism resort in a national park on the coast. A couple of us were offered jobs at the resort for the summer and I ended up getting the position of Head Guide. It wasn’t just guiding. For more than six months I cleaned foul toilets, ran the kids’ club, mowed lawns, did the garbage runs, managed the restaurant, surfed and drank way too much, and left only twice to visit friends and family. Hard work, but I saved money quickly, and decided to defer university and return to Iceland with my A$6000. The ticket cost me over A$4000, but that was no issue. I wanted to see my Icelandic family, and, as I acknowledged, I also wanted to see you.’
He pauses momentarily.
‘The drive and motivation to see you is … clouded. I remember calling you, and for some reason I can remember fumbling for coins when standing on the timber decking where the public phone was, nervously dialing your number.’
‘I remember that phone call,’ I say in a quiet voice.
‘Like I’ve said, I was on an island of denial, disconnected completely from the fact that I had raped you four years earlier. The memory was sunk so deep, in such a dark place. I remember a feeling of being very unsettled, entirely unfulfilled, and wanting to always be moving. And when I returned to Iceland … this strange relationship developed between you and me.’
He hesitates, as if he’s trying to pick out the right words. After a fraught moment, I realize I’m holding my breath.
‘We first met up in that place downtown, Café Paris. The “hello” was awkward and it was a pretty rigid first meeting, being that we essentially just spoke about superficial things. Your manner was different — more confident and almost intimidating. And you seemed older with your black hair and cigarette in hand … there was an intensity, I remember. We caught up a few more times and I eventually met some of your friends. I wouldn’t define it as a friendship, as it wasn’t that simple or reliable. After a drive downtown one night, you dropped me home. The farewell kiss on the cheek shifted into something more. We moved into the laundry room and you surprised me with how pushy you were. Afterwards, you didn’t talk to me, which confused me entirely. The next time we were alone again, you wasted no time. Ordered me around. I didn’t even have the imagination for some of the things you had me do. Some of it was … well, humiliating. Took me way out of my comfort zone. And it felt at times uncomfortably cold and impersonal. Mechanical, almost. Or … rough. Like you were trying to shock me.’
I correct him: ‘Rob you of control.’
‘And in between, you were rarely in touch. We didn’t hang out much and when we did, it was usually on your terms.’
‘That was the whole point, Tom,’ I say, tiredly rubbing my forehead. ‘When the opportunity arose to make you feel like a piece of meat, I seized it. The alternative would’ve been to lower my defenses, bare my wounds, and confront you with what you’d done, at the risk that you’d deny it. Which would’ve driven me over the edge. I wasn’t strong enough to give you that kind of control over me, again. So I chose the option that allowed me to take back some of the power you’d robbed me of, all the while hiding how scarred and vulnerable I really was. When I didn’t have the strength to confront you, attempting revenge was another way to channel my hurt.’
‘If that was revenge, it all makes sense, finally. It was a confusing time … sometimes feeling close but never being let in. Hearing you explain it though, it helps untangle things a bit. It felt like I was chasing after you at times, which of course fits.’
‘Is the food to your liking?’ a smiling waiter asks, suddenly appearing next to our table. I glance down involuntarily at the piece of meat on my plate.
‘Very good,’ we answer in unison, and the waiter leaves.
I look out the window at the street lamps on the harbor, evenly spaced and rising proudly out of the concrete. Each one of them becomes a milestone in the past Tom and I share. His betrayal when he raped me in 1996. Our mutual escape from the truth. My misguided attempts in 2000 to take back the power he robbed me of. The tension and chaos that brewed during the summer, boiling over in the Westman Islands. The years of silence that ensued. The letter about wanting to find forgiveness in 2005. Eight years of correspondence and confrontations now reaching a peak in a strange city halfway between Reykjavík and Sydney in 2013. The milestones form a glittering chain in the dark and the context lights up my mind.
‘I’m not proud of my behavior that summer, which is probably part of the reason why it’s been so neatly erased from my memory,’ I tell Tom. ‘But I believe you. I understand the reasons behind it and I assume responsibility for my actions.’
I want to add something, something that acknowledges the confusion I caused him. The words ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you’ are on the tip of my tongue, but I quickly swallow them. Hurting him was my intention exactly.
‘After the fiasco in the Westman Islands, I started running again, thick and heavy with brand-new guilt. I remember a confusing last meeting at my host-family’s house, a walk to the bus stop with you, and a dramatic, tearful farewell. I jumped on the first flight to Australia. It had many detours and stopovers, but I didn’t care. I thought it was worth sleeping in five different airports and spending days without a shower or a bed just to get the hell away from Iceland. And you.’
‘Can I offer you dessert or coffee?’ asks the waiter, again appearing without warning. Tom and I look at one another and shake our heads, rising to our feet simultaneously.
When we step out into the dark night, the Ferris wheel towers over us like a phosphorescent circle. Music pulsates through the air, echoing from a place called Mitchell’s Waterfront Brewery. The outside tables are empty beneath wet, heavy sunshades, but the pub itself is crawling with people. ‘Scottish and Irish pubs,’ I say with a grin. ‘You can always count on them to be buzzing.’
‘Like most of the people in there,’ Tom says, glancing inside with apparent interest. ‘What do you say we have a drink here? It may not be live music, but at least it’s good.’
‘Let’s do it.’
On all sides of the bar, people are happily chatting amongst themselves. Tom turns to me with a question in his eyes.
I shrug. ‘Whatever you’re having.’
He nods and turns back to the bartender. I catch myself staring at his hands on the table. Golden hairs are sprinkled across the tanned skin. It’s strange to think that I’ve held those hands … but also dug my nails into them and bitten the fingers …
‘Here you go.’ I snap out of it as he hands me a draught beer. We exchange a few jokes, which is like scratching something that’s been itchy for days. It’s nice — no, straight up necessary — to talk about something for a moment that isn’t directly linked to our most painful secrets. Leftover tension from the argument and accumulated fatigue results in a silliness that we only seem to encourage in one another.
‘Some soul searching we’ve done these past few days,’ I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
‘You can say that again,’ he says, leaning an elbow on the table. ‘It’s not every day that you tell your life story to someone.’
I hesitate. ‘I have an idea of how my relationships were affected by our past. How it affected intimacy, sex. But I’ve not dared to ask how you were affected.’
He stares at me in surprise.
‘Well, until now.’
He realizes that I’m serious, raising his brow. ‘How sex …?’
‘How the past we share shaped that part of your life, yes. I’m not going to pretend that sexual health doesn’t affect one’s overall wellbeing. Love. Happiness. Intimacy. The whole shebang.’
/> ‘I see.’ He buys himself time by sipping on his beer before shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t know how to answer that …’ he says awkwardly.
‘Oh come on, Stranger. We’ve traveled all the way to South Africa to confront an incident that profoundly shaped our lives. And because this incident was of a sexual nature, it’s only natural that it would affect us in that area. I’m not trying to pry about your sex life. I’m just trying to locate the damage.’
Looking unsure, he twists his glass between his hands. ‘A few years ago, my brother and I were out at a bar and we were approached by a girl wearing glasses. She sat on the stool next to me and then fell off. “I’ve just fallen for you.” We ended up going to another pub and dancing together. After some enthusiastic kissing, she and I ended up in an alleyway behind the bar. All of a sudden, she leaned across the hood of the nearest car and pulled her skirt down. I was instantly uncomfortable and felt … sorry for her. As if I would be taking advantage of her if I went any further. I stumbled through an explanation of why I couldn’t do anything more. She seemed initially embarrassed, but we went back inside, to my relief.’
She may just have wanted a quickie, I reason, but the reasons could also have been darker. ‘Did you know that people who act out sexually are more likely to have been abused or raped?’
Tom looks down at his hands, flushed. ‘Yeah, I’d learned about that in my work. Which is why my alarm bell was ringing. I can’t stand the notion of exploiting someone’s vulnerability like that. I have to take it slow and be very careful. Sometimes, I get very anxious and start to sweat. Get panic attacks, honestly. There have been times where I had to stop in the middle of things, incapable of explaining my way out. My partner has to take the lead so there’s no question about what she wants.’
So you’ll never again be responsible for crossing another person’s boundaries, I silently conclude.
Tom exhales. ‘Again, this week’s honesty is pretty extraordinary,’ he exclaims with an awkward smile.