She knew when she began to love this man that the condition would be that she would live in another country. A country she had never seen, touched the earth, felt the wind or sun, rain, heard in its expression by its inhabitants, except through him, touch of his skin, sound of his voice; a country landscaped by his words. Love goes wherever the beloved must. The prospect of going home with him to Africa: her friends saw that she was – first time since they’d all grown up together – exalted. The anticipation actually showed in the burnish of the shine over her fine cheekbones and the eagerness in her readied eyes. She ceased to see the Bauhaus façade of the building where the lawyer’s offices were, the familiar tower of the ancient church that had survived the bombs of the parents’ war, the beer stube where she was among those friends. Her parents: how did that church’s marriage ceremony put it? An old biblical injunction along with many of the good precepts she had learnt at the Lutheran Sunday school they had sent her to as a child. ‘Leave thy father and thy mother and cleave only…’ Something like that. The emotional parting with the parents, handed from the arms of one to the other, each jealous to have the last embrace of the daughter, was not a parting but an arrival in the embrace of a beloved man.
They were in Africa. His Africa, now defined out of a continent. Further defined: his city there. The property market, he was told by his friends who wanted to bring him up-to-date with what was happening while he was away ‘doing the disappearing act into the married man’, was ‘flat on its arse’ and this was the time to do what married men did, quit the bachelor pad and buy a house. So they spent only a month in his apartment that was to her a hotel room vacated by a previous occupant. She didn’t know any of the objects in it which must have been personal to the man she had not known while he lived there. She looked through his books, took down one here and there as if she were in a library expecting to find some particular subject, but even when he was absent did not touch letters she saw lying in a drawer she had pulled out to find a ballpoint likely to be at hand in the unit of desk, computer, fax and photocopier. When they bought a house and he decided the only furniture worth taking along was the complex of his communications outfit, he cleared into a garbage bin the bundle of letters along with other papers, outlived.
The house new to them was in fact an old house, as age is measured in a city founded as a gold-mining camp 120 years ago. His white parents’ generation were all for steel and glass or fake Californian-Spanish, didn’t want to live with wooden verandah rails and coal-burning fire-places. To their offspring generation the Frank Lloyd Wright and Hispano-Californian look-alikes were symbolic of people looking to take on an identity outside the one they weren’t sure of. Even if they didn’t think in this way of their impulse to be worldly-fashionable, the assumed shell was also another shelter in their chosen isolation from the places, the manner in which the black people who surrounded, outnumbered them, lived: in hovels and shacks. Young whites on an economic level of choice found the old high-ceilinged, corrugated-iron-roofed houses more interestingly built, spacious for adaptation to ways of a life open to the unexpected. Everyone was doing it; fixing up old places. Blacks too, the professionals, media people and civil servants in what was called the new dispensation – civic term for what used to be called freedom. The houses were short of bathrooms, but those were easily installed, just as the kitchen, in the house he bought, was at once renovated with the equipment she knew – as the model of her mother’s in Germany – was essential.
Home. A real his-and-hers. Friends came to help him thin overgrown trees, she had the beer chilled and the snacks ready for this male camaraderie. She planted flowers she had never seen before, didn’t bloom where she came from. She hadn’t found work yet – that wasn’t urgent, anyway, her share in the creation of the house was a new and fulfilling occupation, as anything in the service of devotion is, centred by the big bed where they made love. There was the suggestion that she might find part-time employment to interest her at the local Goethe Institute. But she didn’t want to be speaking German – English was her language now. She was introduced to, plunged into immersion in his circle. She talked little, although back in her own country, her circle where he’d made a place for himself so easily, she was rather animated. Here, she listened; it seemed to be her place. She was happy to feel she was understanding everything said in his language, even if she couldn’t use it confidently enough to speak up.
There were many parties. Even without any special occasion, his friends black and white clustered instinctively in this or that apartment, house or bar, like agents of some cross-pollination of lives.
On a terrace the sunken sun sends pale searchlights to touch a valance of clouds here and there, the darkness seems to rise from damp grass as the drinking ignites animation in his friends. She has asked him to stop the car on the way, where there’s a flower-seller on a corner. – What for? No-one’s birthday, far as I know. – He forgets it’s the rule, in her country, to take flowers or chocolates- – some gift – to a party. – Wine’d have been a better idea, my sweet. – And it happens that the host or one of the hosts – it’s a combined get-together – dumps the bunch of lilies on a table where they are soon pushed aside by glasses and ashtrays.
When they arrived she sat beside him. At these gatherings married people don’t sit together, it’s not what one does, bringing a cosy domesticity into a good-time atmosphere. But she’s still a newcomer, innocent of the protocol and he’s too fond to tell her she should – well, circulate. She’s one of the prettiest women there: looks fresh-picked; while the flowers she brought wilt. She’s younger than most of the women. She sits, with the contradiction of knees and feet primly aligned and the lovely foothills of breasts showing above the neckline of her gauzy dress. Perhaps the difference between her and the others is she’s prepared herself to look her best to honour him, not to attract other men.
He gets up to go over and greet someone he thinks has forgotten him – he’s been away in Europe a whole year – and when the shoulder-grasping embrace, the huge laughter, is over, comes back, but by chance in the meantime someone has been waved to the seat next to his wife. So he pulls up a chair on the woman’s other side. He hasn’t deserted – it’s a three-some. His newly imported wife happens to have already met this woman on some other occasion within the circle. The woman is very attractive, not really young any more but still wild, riling the company with barbed remarks, running hands up through her red-streaked plumage as if in a switch to despair at herself. People are distracted from their own talk by her spectacle. More wine is tilted into glasses as they come up to laugh, interject. The husband is one of her butts. He’s challenging a reminiscence of an incident in the friends’ circle his neighbour is recounting, flourishing loudly. All around the wife are references back and forth, a personal lingo – every clique has this, out of common experience. It was the same among her friends in that past life in Germany. Jokes you don’t understand even if you know the words; understand only if you’re aware what, who’s being sent up. She doesn’t know, either, the affectionate, patronising words, phrases, that are the means of expression of people who adapt and mix languages, exclamations, word-combinations in some sort of English that isn’t the usage of educated people like themselves. There are so many languages in this country of theirs that his friends don’t speak, but find it amusing to bring the flavours of into their own with the odd word or expression; so much more earthy, claiming an identity with their country as it is, now. Anecdotes are being argued – interruptions flying back and forth as voices amplify over re-filled glasses.
…so they threw him with a stone, right? – the director’s office, nogal…
…In your face. That’s her always… Hai! Hamba kahle…
…Awesome! Something to do with a sports event or, once, a dessert someone made? They use the word often in talk of many different kinds; she’s looked it up in a dictionary but there it means ‘inspiring awe, an emotion of mingled reverence, dread and
wonder’. And there are forms of address within the circle borrowed from other groups, other situations and experiences they now share. Someone calls out – Chief, I want to ask you something – when neither the speaker nor the pal hailed, white or black (for the party is mixed), is tribal – as she knows the title to be, whether in Indonesia, Central America, Africa, anywhere she could think of. Some address one another as My China. How is she to know this is some comradely endearment, cockney rhyming slang – ‘my mate, my china plate’ – somehow appropriated during the days of apartheid’s army camps.
Smiling, silent; to be there with him is enough.
The party becomes a contest between him and the woman who sits between them. Each remembers, insists on a different version of what the incident was.
– You’re confounding it with that time everyone was shagging in the bushes! –
– Well, you would be reliable about that –
– listen, listen, listen to me! – He slaps his arm round the back of her neck, under the hair she’s flung up, laughing emphasis. She puts a hand on his thigh: – You never listen –
It’s a wrestling match of words that come from the past, with touch that comes from the past. The hand stays on him. Then he snatches it up palm to palm, shaking it to contradict what she’s jeering, laughing close to his face and drowning our the calls of others. – O-O-O you were still in kort broek, My China! Loverboy – you remember Isabella that time water skiing? Kama Sutra warns against games under water—
– No ways! You’re the one to talk – also did some deep-diving in search of marine life, ek sê. No-oo, kahle-kahle was my line! –
– And what happened to your great fancy from where was it, Finland? That Easter. Well, why not – whatever you did’s politically correct with me, they say the grave’s a fine and private place but no okes do there embrace – Among the well-read of the friends this adaptation of Marvell was uproariously appreciated.
She was alone and laughed – she did not know what at. She sat beside the woman and her husband who were hugging, celebrating each other in the easy way of those who have old connections of intimacy encoded in exchanges of a mother tongue, released by wine and a good time had by all. She laughed when everyone else did. And then sat quiet and nobody noticed her. She understood she didn’t know the language.
The only mother tongue she had was his in her mouth, at night.
The Shared Patio
Miranda July
Miranda July (b. 1974) is an American filmmaker, artist and writer. Her body of work includes film, fiction, monologue and live performance art. She wrote, directed and starred in the films Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005) and The Future (2011). Her fiction has appeared in The Paris Review, Harper’s and The New Yorker. Her collection of stories, No One Belongs Here More Than You, won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award.
It still counts, even though it happened when he was unconscious. It counts doubly because the conscious mind often makes mistakes, falls for the wrong person. But down there in the well, where there is no light and only thousand-year-old water, a man has no reason to make mistakes. God says do it and you do it. Love her and it is so. He is my neighbor. He is of Korean descent. His name is Vincent Chang. He doesn’t do hapkido.When you say the word “Korean,” some people automatically think of Jackie Chan’s South Korean hapkido instructor, Grandmaster Kim Jin Pal; I think of Vincent.
What is the most terrifying thing that has ever happened to you? Did it involve a car? Was it on a boat? Did an animal do it? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then I am not surprised. Cars crash, boats sink, and animals are just scary. Why not do yourself a favor and stay away from these things.
Vincent has a wife named Helena. She is Greek with blond hair. It’s dyed. I was going to be polite and not mention that it was dyed, but I really don’t think she cares if anyone knows. In fact, I think she is going for the dyed look, with the roots showing. What if she and I were close friends. What if I borrowed her clothes and she said, That looks better on you, you should keep. it. What if she called me in tears, and I had to come over and soothe her in the kitchen, and Vincent tried to come into the kitchen and we said, Stay out, this is girl talk! I saw something like that happen on TV; these two women were talking about some stolen underwear and a man came in and they said, Stay out, this is girl talk! One reason Helena and I would never be close friends is that I am about half as tall as she. People tend to stick to their own size group because it’s easier on the neck. Unless they are romantically involved, in which case the size difference is sexy. It means: I am willing to go the distance for you.
If you are sad, ask yourself why you are sad. Then pick up the phone and call someone and tell him or her the answer to the question. If you don’t know anyone, call the operator and tell him or her. Most people don’t know that the operator has to listen, it is a law. Also, the postman is not allowed to go inside your house, but you can talk to him on public property for up to four minutes or until he wants to go, whichever comes first.
Vincent was on the shared patio. I’ll tell you about this patio. It is shared. If you look at it, you will think it is only Helena and Vincent’s patio, because their back door opens on to it. But when I moved in, the landlord said that it was the patio for both the upstairs and downstairs units. I’m upstairs. He said, Don’t be shy about using it, because you pay just as much rent as they do. What I don’t know for sure is if he told Vincent and Helena that it is a shared patio. I have tried to demonstrate ownership by occasionally leaving something down there, like my shoes, or one time I left an Easter flag. I also try to spend exactly the same amount of time on the patio as they do. That way I know we are each getting our value. Every time I see them out there, I put a little mark on my calendar. The next time the patio is empty, I go sit on it. Then I cross off the mark. Sometimes I lag behind and have to sit out there a lot toward the end of the month to catch up.
Vincent was on the shared patio. I’ll tell you about Vincent. He is an example of a New Man. You might have read the article about the New Men in True magazine last month. New Men are more in touch with their feelings than even women, and New Men cry. New Men want to have children, they long to give birth, so sometimes when they cry, it is because they can’t do this; there is just nowhere for a baby to come out. New Men just give and give and give. Vincent is like that. Once I saw him give Helena a massage on the shared patio. This is kind of ironic, because it is Vincent who needs the massage. He has a mild form of epilepsy. My landlord told me this when I moved in, as a safety precaution. New Men are often a little frail, and also Vincent’s job is art director, and that is very New Man. He told me this one day when we were both leaving the building at the same time. He is the art director of a magazine called Punt. This is an unusual coincidence because I am the floor manager of a printer, and we sometimes print magazines. We don’t print Punt, but we print a magazine with a similar name, Positive. It’s actually more like a newsletter; it’s for people who are HIV-positive.
Are you angry? Punch a pillow. Was it satisfying? Not hardly. These days people are too angry for punching. What you might try is stabbing. Take an old pillow and lay it on the front lawn. Stab it with a big pointy knife. Again and again and again. Stab hard enough for the point of the knife to go into the ground. Stab until the pillow is gone and you are just stabbing the earth again and again, as if you want to kill it for continuing to spin, as if you are getting revenge for having to live on this planet day after day alone.
Vincent was on the shared patio. I was already behind in my patio use, so it made me a little anxious to see him there so late in the month. Then I had an idea; I could sit there with him. I put on Bermuda shorts and sunglasses and suntan oil. Even though it was October, I still felt summery; I had a summery tableau in mind. In truth, though, it was quite windy, and I had to run back for a sweater. A few minutes later, I ran back for pants. Finally, I sat in a lawn chair beside Vincent on the shared pati
o and watched the suntan oil soak through the fabric of my khakis. He said he always liked the smell of suntan oil. This was a very graceful way of acknowledging my situation. A man with grace, that’s the New Man. I asked him how things were going at Punt, and he told me a funny story about a typo. Because we are in the same business, he didn’t have to explain that “typo” is short for “typographical error.” If Helena had come out, we would have had to stop using our industry lingo so that she could understand us, but she didn’t come out because she was still at work. She’s a physician’s assistant, which may or may not be the same thing as a nurse.
I asked Vincent more questions, and his answers became longer and longer until they hit a kind of cruising altitude and I didn’t have to ask, he just orated. It was unexpected, like suddenly finding oneself at work on a weekend. What was I doing here? Where was my Roman Holiday? My American in Paris? This was just more of the same, an American in America. Finally he paused and squinted up at the sky, and I guessed he was constructing the perfect question for me, a fantastic question that I would have to rise up to, drawing from everything I knew about myself and mythology and this black earth. But he was pausing only to emphasize what he was saying about how the cover design was not actually his fault, and then at last he did ask me something; he asked, Did I think it was his fault, you know, based on everything he had just told me? I looked at the sky just to see what it felt like. I pretended I was pausing before telling him about the secret feeling of joy I hide in my chest, waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to notice that I rise each morning, seemingly with nothing to live for, but I do rise, and it is only because of this secret joy, God’s love, in my chest. I looked down from the sky and into his eyes and I said, It wasn’t your fault. I excused him for the cover and for everything else. For not yet being a New Man. We fell into silence then; he did not ask me any more questions. I was still happy to sit there beside him, but that is only because I have very, very low expectations of most people, and he had now become Most People.
The Story: Love, Loss and the Lives of Women: 100 Great Short Stories Page 36