by Jim Algie
“I don’t believe in the bourgeoisie means of controlling women through marriage, making babies, and monogamy,” she told one male art critic. “I’ve already had more than one hundred and fifty lovers. The top dozen were worth a painting or two each and all the others only a few dribbles of white.” She laughed and the critic blushed. “This is a new genre I have created, which encourages women to open up and express themselves in different ways. I call it ‘sexpressionism.’”
That interview, with all her thieving and ludicrous statements, would form the framework for many of their arguments over the next decade. He’d say, “I can’t believe you’d lie like that just to sell some paintings. Counting me, you’ve only had ten lovers so far. And I also can’t believe you’d take all the credit for my ideas and sell the imprints of our love life to the highest bidder. You are the worst sort of art whore there is.”
Zara’s counterpoints were just as malicious and precise. “You are jealous that I am more famous, rich, and successful than you are. You may pretend to be a feminist and female positive, but you are secretly embarrassed to have a woman who supports you and pays the rent and living expenses.”
During his compulsive daydreams, while living in the old wooden house in the dead rubber tree plantation, Yves did not rerun many of their old fights, the endless splinters and reconciliations. He wanted to remain in Barcelona during the summer of 1992, in the run-up to the Olympic Games and the Cultural Olympics, so he would not have to return to southern Thailand during the post-tsunami cleanup operations of 2005 because, where others saw the ruins of a resort or a mattress torn and gutted, he saw the fallout of an eleven-year, on-and-off-again marriage.
But his most precious recollections of their early days together had now been invaded and contaminated by a phantom presence. Lurking in the corner, just off stage, stood that little Quebecois daredevil, poetry professor, and pathological exaggerator.
In directing and stage-managing his memories, Yves could never control the flash-forward to a scene which had not happened yet, where he was sitting on Stephan’s chest with his hands around his throat, and Stephan was thrashing around like a hooked fish as Yves crushed his windpipe with his thumbs so he choked to death on his own blood, while Zara, gagged and tied to a chair, watched, her eyes almost a complete whiteout with fear. Then he went after her…
YVES HAD TOLD HIM that Zara was mean, petty, vain, that she talked about herself and her art all the time. But when they met at the resort, and now spoke regularly on the phone, Wade had found her both humble and approachable. She talked more about Yves and Stephan than herself, and when she did talk about the art world it was only to mocks its pretensions and the pretentiousness of her fellow artists.
“You sound to me very fortunate, Wade. You have spent your life around nice, normal people who behave in nice, normal ways, unless they get drunk and are bored of being so nice and normal all the time. But you have not been too much around artists, writers, musicians, photographers, film and theatre people, who are mostly egotistical jerks with an over-inflated sense of self-importance. I suppose the biggest difference between these two different mentalities is that a plumber or a cashier in a supermarket do not sit around talking about my work, my work, my work, all the time, and why the critics do not understand my work, and the public does not appreciate my work enough, and I do not make enough money from my work. So I must start rivalries with critics and other artists whose work is much worse than mine but they make so much more money, because I am great, I am a genius, I deserve to be treated very much more special than the plumber and cashier.” As she spoke, Wade could picture her smiling snidely and brushing back her long red hair. He also heard the ripples of laughter bubbling up under the words. By the time she got to the punch line of her diatribe, “The sad truth is I am no better than any of the other artists,” Wade’s stomach was quivering with suppressed laughter that he had to spout.
“Always wondered what those weirdos are like. Thanks for the inside scoop, Zorro. Hope you don’t mind the new nickname.”
“Then I hope you don’t mind if I call you Zoroaster.”
“Who’s that?”
“A Persian mystic who started his own religion.”
“Oh Christ, not an A-rab.”
“That is very sophisticated of you, Wade. I was quite sure you would call them ‘sand niggers.’”
“Hearty har har. Ya know somethin’, you’re quite a bit funnier and more sarcastic than Yves had led me to believe.”
“Why? What did he tell you?”
“Let’s not get into that. I ain’t no snitch or gossip, and I’m not taking sides, see? What you tell me is our business and what he tells me don’t go no farther than my eardrums.”
“Fair enough. I like a person with principles. You have integrity and that makes me know why Yves would trust you. He trusts very few people.”
“Tell me about it. Was he always so suspicious and paranoid?”
“Hmmm…” more of a thinker than a talker, Zara would often pause for twenty or thirty seconds in their conversations. Wade used the lapses to continue cleaning the scuba tanks in the back of his dive shop. “Do you think he was seriously damaged in the tsunami? I am talking on the subject of psychological damage.”
“For sure. He doesn’t leave his house for days on end, doesn’t answer the phone, doesn’t respond to emails. Far as I can tell, the only one he hangs out with on a regular basis is this mangy cat with fucked up fangs. When he comes into the town of Khao Lak once or twice a month and we get shitfaced, he talks some crazy talk, like how him and the cat are practicing telepathy together. I was ribbin’ him about it, eh? I said, what’s he saying now?” Wade did a meowing cat voice: ‘Gimme some tuna or I’ll shit on the floor.’”
Zara laughed easily and often. She especially liked jokes about sex and scatology. Her warbling laugh reminded him of the cry of the loon, those lake-dwelling birds on the one-dollar coins known as “loonies.”
Wade called out to one of the Thai dive-masters walking past in his wetsuit. “Did you check the BCDs yet? Remember, safety first. Let’s get a move on. Chop chop.” Wade let out a long sigh. The heat was making him drowsy and grumpy. During the hot season, he was taking four showers a day but, ten minutes after toweling off, he was sweating like a pig again. “Sorry, Zorro, but my patience is growing mighty thin with some of my slack-ass employees in this forty-degree Celsis weather we been havin’. Many Thai women are good workers, but most of the men are lazy, useless fucks who won’t exert much effort ‘cept if they’re in a bar or brothel. And, I hate to say it, but our grants are getting even thinner these days. Three years after the disaster and everyone has forgotten about us.”
“I could do a benefit exhibition for your NGO. The last show we did, if I could find the spreadsheet on my computer, yes, I am seeing it now. We raised almost eighty thousand euros to build that school and orphanage for all the children who lost their parents. The construction costs are far above the three estimates I got, but Thailand is still a Third World country in many ways, at least in terms of corruption and injustice. If we must lose thirty percent to corruption I think this is acceptable.”
“That’s sweet of you, and I might take you up on it in the next six months or so, but let’s see how we go.”
“Are you sure, Zoroaster? You don’t have to be so proud and manly all the time. Asking for help from a woman is not a sign of weakness.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I’m not completely fuckin’ incompetent, ya know.” Zara knew when to back off. He could say that for her. It was a trait he wished more women possessed.
After she got pregnant, their conversations mostly revolved around that and family matters.
“I am almost forty now and I could not wait anymore for Yves to grow up and become stable and responsible. The chance of a miscarriage increases when a woman is in her forties and many other problems can happen, birth defects, etcetera. I am worried, still very worried, yes, but tell me about your bo
ys and their mother.”
Zara’s command of English was strong but not when it came to the subtleties of politeness. Her requests came off as commands. Wade didn’t mind. He was tickled pink that she even bothered to ask him about his family.
“I thought I told you about that. My wife was an ex-biker chick who did five years in the slammer for dealing drugs. But I didn’t know any of that until quite a while after we met, back when I was the manager for this Canuck metal band called Satan’s Sledgehammer, which was a good name for us ‘cause we were heavy as fuck. The first few years I was with her were fine, even great. But when the boys were five and six my old lady relapsed into her old ways and left me for this other biker. So I had to stop working the oil rigs, which was fine by me. Being a rig pig is dirty, dangerous work, especially when those chains fly off. Christ, I seen guys lose fingers, arms, even a leg once. So I came back to Jasper, took the job in the ski resort and raised those boys up myself, with a lot of help from my mom and sister.”
“Tell me something more about the boys and your relationship.”
“I love kids and they’re full-on energy. They’re like chainsaws. Just before they run outta gas they get this last spurt of energy. But I’ll level with you. Here’s one of the things I love the most about having kids. When I’m dust, they’re still gonna be walkin’ around with my DNA, then passing it along to their kids. Before you know it it’s the year 2300, the spaceships are taking people to live on Mars and there’s a little piece of Wade Miranoski out there floatin’ around the Milky Way Galaxy. Amen and hallelujah. Like the good book says, be fruitful and multiply.”
“I did not know you are so religious.”
Wade flinched. He had to lie. “I ain’t really, but anything that justifies screwing a lot is fine by me, thank you very much.” Wade caught himself laughing and smiling in the mirror. He had never been much of a handsome stud but he liked the way his face had aged. Many more signs of amusement bracketed his mouth than frown lines worried his forehead. And his laughter still came from that same boyish place, ringing down the years like the happiest sound of his childhood, the bell on the ice-cream vendor’s bicycle that he rang as he pedaled down their block after school, not like some men of his age whose laughter got stuck in their bowels and came out of their mouths like they were passing gas.
“You must be very happy in Thailand with all those pretty young girls around.”
“Oh god, that’s what all the Western women say, with this real judgmental tone in their voices and a sour look on their faces, like they just got an enema with lime juice and vinegar. Scuse me, ladies, but you didn’t pay no attention to me back in the West for the past ten years, now you’re pissed ‘cause I’m havin’ some fun and don’t need you anymore? How hypocritical is that, eh? On this one I’m gonna go with Yves from that book of his and say that Thailand is not the sex capital of the world, but it might be the bedroom farce capital. All is not as it seems.”
Holding the cell phone to his ear, Wade walked out to the front of the dive shop to see if any customers needed help. Zara kept prattling on about sexism and exploitation, but he wasn’t listening. Those were theories not real life. Electing herself to be the spokes-woman for all these other gals, who supposedly didn’t know any better about their own country, was patronizing. Let them deal with their shit and let her deal with hers. That was his motto.
The foyer and front office resembled an aquarium in a state of suspended animation, with posters of whale sharks, scorpion fish, manta rays and psychedelic coral on the walls. His front-desk clerk was asleep in her chair. He suspected she’d been dipping her fingers in the cash box, too. This was quite the opposite of Zara’s rant about Western men exploiting women from Third World countries. But he couldn’t be bothered to bring it up. It sounded too petty and he was not going to play the blame-free saint card. “Tell you the truth, Zorro, all I been doin’ lately on that front is going over to watch some peelers in the go-go bars on Phuket—”
“Peelers?”
“Yeah, that’s what we call strippers back on the prairies, ‘cause they peel off their clothes. Clever, eh? So I drain a few beers, pick up a peeler, and get the pipes cleaned once a month.”
“Oh, you make it sound so romantic, much the same as a bowel movement.” He could see her smiling again—see that mischievous streak in her deep brown eyes. Zara loved pushing his buttons.
“Now you’re catchin’ on. We’re not talking morals or exploitation or feminism, we’re talking about bodily functions, plain and simple. It’s hard to legislate them, eh?”
“Yes, but how much does it cost to rent your mouth or asshole?”
“Now now. Let’s put the brakes on and not get into a potty-mouth contest. Truth is, I’d like to find a relationship that was more long term, but I had a very special gal before. Watermelon was one in six billion, or whatever the population of the earth is now, and damn near impossible to replace.”
Even across thousands of miles of fibreoptic cables, Zara’s intensity could be felt as a low electrical hum. Talking to her was like standing outside a power plant, close enough to see the “Danger High Voltage” sign. One minute she was throwing off sparks of anger and the next she was all sweet and considerate again. When Yves told him that their marriage had been tempestuous and full of upheavals, Wade did not doubt that that was the truth.
Zara asked, “Do you still miss her very much?”
“Yeah, I do actually. That’s one thing that keeps me here. See I set up the foundation for this training center in her name. She was really into making good karma and repenting for her sins. That’s what this operation is all about. So failure is not an option. Bailing out ain’t an option either. Come hell or high water, I’m anchored here for the time being, but if business doesn’t improve and some more grants come through then we’ll go belly up for sure.”
“I admire your stubbornness. But I hope you can admire mine when I say the offer of the benefit exhibition is still—how is it? In the pipeline or on the table?”
“On the table is fine. All righty. I appreciate that and I admire your stubbornness too. Wherever the cash comes from, it’s all for a good cause.”
Every time they spoke, it always concluded on the same hopeless and hopeful note. “Do you think he will ever talk to me and Stephan again? We want to make amends and not hold any grudges. Life is too short for all of this bitterness and nonsense.”
“I agree with you, but there’s no telling with that guy. He’s a stubborn, vindictive prick. Whenever I bring up your name, he still goes, ‘Please don’t talk about the dead. It’s blasphemous. By that I mean they’re dead to me.’”
“At least he stopped sending me death threats after the first two years. Stephan was very disturbed by his graphic description of how he was planning on breaking his windpipe so he would choke to death on his own blood.”
“Him and his writing, you and your art. You two were the perfect shock rock couple.”
Any references to them as a couple would choke her up. After that the conversation would falter and break down.
In the wake of Watermelon’s disappearance and Sophia’s snub, Wade was on familiar terms with that choking sensation, when the vocal cords get caught in a tug-of-war between the heart and the head.
BEFORE HE CLOSED DOWN the dive center and bailed out of Thailand for good, Wade thought he would stop by Yves’s haunted house to say goodbye and see if he could get him to make an appointment with a doctor or psychiatrist.
Yves didn’t look so bad, but he didn’t look so good either: a tall, lean figure dressed entirely in black. He’d cut his hair as short as a monk’s, but that was about the only difference Wade could see in his physical appearance.
His living room was a shambles. Stacks of books, newspapers and magazines dominated the debris. As the indigo twilight crept through the open windows, dousing a little of the tropical heat with a few hot breaths of wind, the only light came from a couple of candles on the coffee table and a
lamp made out of coral on the Buddhist altar. The room smelled like a cat’s litter box that needed emptying.
Clearing a place for himself to sit on the couch, Wade said, “Christ, this place is a pigsty. What do you say I send my maid over for an afternoon?”
“No, thanks. I find chaos quite conducive to the creative process.”
Wade’s opinions of him kept wavering. At times he seemed like he had his shit together. He had certainly retained his bookworm eloquence. But the worrying part was that he’d drift off into these long silences. Wade was not sure where he’d gone but he was not in that room anymore. His mind was elsewhere.
“Are you still studying with that spirit medium or ghost doctor?”
Yves, sitting with his legs crossed looking at the candles on the coffee table not Wade off to his left, said nothing.
Wade repeated the question. Yves said nothing.
After another long pause, Yves said, “No, I stopped those shamanistic and chemical explorations. They’re too much like short cuts. The true adept in the mystical arts needs to generate more psychic power and have more discipline. So Yai recommended a really good temple and meditation master to me, and I’m practicing with him now.”
“You still communicate a lot with the snake-handler, do ya?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Where is he?”
“In a different realm.”
“Could I talk to him?”
“Depends… probably not. Takes a lot of spiritual power to punch through into that next dimension.”
Wade had had enough. They had now been repeating variations on this conversation for the past two years. “Hey Yves, listen to me, okay?”
“What?”
“I want you to look at me and listen to me very closely. Okay, good. Yai and Watermelon and Kendall all died in the tsunami, okay?”