A Man Melting

by Craig Cliff

  Before he could come up with anything, Barry asked, ‘Do you still like her?’

  The question socked him in the face.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Jesus. Of course I do. I love her. Why would — What makes —’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘You don’t see us together much, is that it?’

  Barry shrugged and began reshaping his pyramid of grass.

  ‘We’re good. Sophie and me. Don’t worry about us.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘This girl you like. Tell me about her.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know any words for it. I don’t know anything for the way I feel about anything.’

  ‘I’ve been there.’ I wasn’t twelve when I felt it, he thought, but I’ve been there.

  Barry pulled another clump of grass.

  ‘Was this girl anything to do with you being expelled?’

  Barry stopped tearing grass.

  ‘What’d you do? Barry, come on. I want to know.’

  ‘I tried to express myself. Last time I do that.’ He sent the back of his hand flying into his pile of grass fragments and sprayed them towards Danny.

  As Danny paddled the canoe back to the camp (Barry refused to have a go once again), he thought about how a twelve-year-old kid could get expelled — not just suspended, but expelled — for trying to express himself to a girl his own age. He thought about the time he caught Barry and the other boy looking at porn. Maybe they weren’t looking up Sappho; maybe they’d built that excuse into the act. He thought about Sappho’s poetry: those icy posthumous titles (Fragment 32, Fragment 94), but full of burning words and lacunae, as if the paper couldn’t stand the heat of her feelings, of her heart.

  … love has brought the brightness

  And the beauty of the sun …

  That night he told Sophie about his talk with Barry, but left his own lacunae, like the fact it took place on the island, and Barry’s questions about whether he still loved her.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not good. There must have been some misunderstanding at the school. It breaks my heart.’

  ‘That’s what’s good about it.’

  ‘You want my heart to break?’

  ‘I want it to melt. You’ve hung out with this kid for four months —’

  ‘Off and on.’

  ‘— and you’re only now cracking the nut.’

  The lights were out and they were both lying on their backs. A pause like the one the conversation entered could easily have been terminal, as both drifted deeper into their own thoughts, which spread out into the mist from which their dreams would form. But Danny’s thoughts kept running into the very solid, very real proposition of the woman lying next to him. When was the last time he’d cracked her nut? Of course Barry had asked, Do you still like her? When was the last time he gave any evidence that he did? To any onlooker, they might as well have been business partners. He had put Barry straight at the time, told him of course he loved Sophie, but had he ever really thought about it? Had he looked at their relationship as anything but a given?

  Danny sat up, not sure how long had passed since those last words were spoken, not caring. ‘I want to take you somewhere.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No. Now would be difficult. Tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘What about dinner?’

  ‘Holly can supervise. I’ll sort our food.’

  ‘Okay.’ He felt her hand climbing up his back. When it reached his shoulder, she pulled him back down. ‘But now, we sleep.’

  When Barry arrived on the beach after breakfast, Danny had already loaded two canoes with supplies.

  ‘What are you doing with this one?’ Barry asked, and kicked the light green one that had sunk with him in it.

  ‘I’ve been over her, there’s no leaks. It was just overloaded last time with two of us in it. By yourself, you should be fine.’

  ‘—?’

  ‘I’ll have the brown one, and the paddle, and I’ll tow you.’

  ‘I don’t know, Danny.’

  ‘You’ve lost two stone since we sank. Two stone!’

  The right corner of Barry’s mouth slowly curved upwards, and he placed his thumbs in the belt loops of his baggy jeans.

  With Barry’s help, Danny got into the light brown canoe, positioned the lanterns, rugs and hedge clippers around his legs, and paddled out till the rope linking the two vessels was taut. Barry, sitting in the beached green canoe, gave the thumbs up, and Danny paddled hard while Barry used his hands to push his craft along the shingle and into the water.

  ‘It’s working,’ he shouted.

  Danny let out a grunt. ‘Keep it steady.’

  ‘Woo!’

  He pulled his paddle from the water and looked back to see Barry with his hands in the air, his canoe ploughing through the water. With both craft in the water, paddling was a breeze, or so it felt for the first twenty strokes. Then the shortness of breath kicked in. Halfway, he had a coughing fit.

  ‘You can do it, Danny. No turning back.’

  When they made it to the gap in the vegetation where they had landed the day before, he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to propel his canoe (and tow Barry’s) into the bank with sufficient force to lodge it so that he could clamber onto land, then haul Barry in.

  And the first attempt bore this doubt out.

  But on the second go, with Barry clapping, slowly increasing the pace like at a high jump competition, he found a second wind.

  ‘Are you going to read poems to her or something?’ Barry asked once they’d unloaded everything from the canoes.

  Danny patted the breast pocket of his shirt where his ladyfingers normally sat but now there were two A4 pages folded in half and half again.

  ‘Astute as always, Barry. Nothing like a bit of Lesbian poetry to set the mood.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Every time a coconut.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  Danny picked up a lantern and held it up, picturing what the clearing might look like after dusk.

  ‘What were her poems like?’

  ‘Sappho’s?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Most are only fragments of longer poems. Sometimes it’s just a few lines. Sometimes it’s a whole page, but the page is so old and damaged, no one can work out what the missing words are.’ He removed the pages from his pocket. ‘See.’ He unfolded the pages and held them out for Barry. ‘Those dot-dot-dots, that’s where we’re missing words. So you’re reading along just fine: And I said to her this: / Go and be happy, remembering me, / For you know how we cared for you. / And if you don’t, I want to remind you … And then there’s this gap. And if you don’t, I want to remind you what?’

  ‘Of a fire engine.’

  ‘Maybe. But does it fit with what comes next? And if you don’t I want to remind you of a fire engine / and the lovely things we felt / with many wreathes of violets / and roses and crocuses / and …’ He rolled his hand. ‘And?’

  ‘A really long fire hose.’

  ‘And I …’ He rolled his hand again.

  ‘Put out lots of fires with it.’

  Danny nodded and continued, ‘… and you sat next to me / and threw around your delicate neck / garlands fashioned of many woven flowers / and with much …’

  ‘Wellingtons.’

  ‘… and costly myrrh / you anointed yourself with royal …’

  ‘Pain in the bum.’

  ‘… and on soft couches …’

  ‘You farted.’

  ‘Your tender …’

  ‘Butt cheeks.’

  ‘Fulfilled your longing.’

  ‘Aren’t you hot in that thing?’ Danny asked when he had finished hanging lanterns around the clearing.

  Barry looked up from the last patch of uncut grass, then performed a serious lop with the hedge clippers.

  You’re sweating
like mad.’

  ‘Leave off. I’m nearly done.’

  ‘I can finish if you want.’

  ‘Leave off, Danny.’ Barry stared at the clippers for a moment before throwing them down. He rose up, ran to the corner of the clearing, paused, then pushed through to the edge of the island.

  Danny could still see an orange mass through the leaves. He walked up so that he was touching the hedge that separated them.

  ‘Mate, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to understand. Some people don’t have the time to understand, or the inclination — but I do. I have so much time. But I haven’t done anything. It’s like in The Simpsons, where the doctors tell Mr Burns he has every disease known to man, but they’re all trying to get through the same door, so no diseases get through. I have all this time and I’ve done nothing. I want to understand why you’re here, Barry. I don’t care if you have trouble putting it into words, because I have the time and inclination to work it out. With you.’

  ‘Danny!’ The scream sounded as if it came through clenched teeth, like he was close to tears.

  ‘Please, Barry.’

  They stood, silent and still, either side of the hedge.

  Two lines crossed oceans and centuries and languages and appeared in his ear:

  from the shimmering leaves flows

  the breath of sweet sleep

  Through these leaves he saw the orange mass wriggle, rise up, narrow to a single band, then drop to the ground. He stepped back as Barry pushed through the hedge. His hands were the first to emerge, then his bowed head, then his bare, crimson and violet torso. Barry lifted his head, looked him in the eye and said, ‘This is why.’

  The triangular burn stretched from his left shoulder to the start of his right clavicle, then down to a point a few inches above his belly button. This is only minor, Danny thought, and tried to convey this with his expression.

  Barry brought his hand up to his chest. ‘I tried to show her. I said, “I am damaged, so I can do this.”’ He tapped his chest.

  Danny leant closer. There, on the scarred left breast, was a thin, asymmetrical outline of a heart. Inside was a letter A.

  ‘Her name was Abby.’

  Danny, his eyes still level with this second scar, placed a hand on Barry’s shoulder and pulled him in. He could feel the boy go slack in his embrace. He squeezed tighter as the sobs began.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Barry, I understand.’

  They were not on the island, but they could see it from the log on which they sat.

  ‘Sophie, the camp is losing money.’

  ‘But I thought —’

  ‘I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you sooner. It was a money thing. All I had to look after was the money. I wanted … I didn’t want to fail you.’

  ‘How long —’

  ‘We’ve never made it out of the red. If it wasn’t for your uncle’s money —’

  Sophie spun and punched him, hard, just below the breastbone, winding him.

  He wanted to say, ‘What was that for?’ but by the time he had regained his breath, he knew how stupid a question it was.

  When he looked up the sun had dipped behind the island. The loch was maroon. Sophie’s face was granite.

  ‘You punched me quite hard.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘That was how Houdini died. Punch to the solar plexus.’

  He could barely see her hitch her shoulders in the sooty dusk. Soon they would just be voices.

  ‘I’ve wanted to punch you like that for ages,’ she said after another long pause.

  ‘Feel better?’

  He tensed his stomach muscles in case another blow was on its way, but none arrived.

  ‘I’m not stupid, Danny. I knew things were tight. Don’t you think I could have helped?’

  ‘It’s not too late.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you want to save Camp Grant? Or do you want out? If you’re not happy here, now’s the time to say.’

  ‘I wasn’t happy here.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I wasn’t happy in the city, either.’ He knew what was coming next. Not another punch, but a question that would have the same effect. ‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘Without you I would be miserable. I’m not miserable, not depressed, not anything.’

  He thought of that golf ball of apprehension. It had vaporised when Sophie entered his life, but had she vaporised more than that? With that golf ball, had he lost his drive?

  ‘But I am missing something. Maybe it’s like you felt without this camp, I don’t know. It’s just my twenty-ninth birthday crisis deferred a couple years. I feel as if my life has been building towards something, and now I stand on the cusp, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to leap into. I’m not supposed to be an accountant, or a novelist, or a repairman.’ He sighed, imagined it drift out to the island. ‘What could I do? I am not ageless. My youth is gone.’

  ‘Are you quoting something?’

  ‘Sappho, I think.’

  It was Sophie’s turn to sigh. He imagined it drift out to the island.

  Facing Galapagos

  Thursday

  I received an email from Charles Darwin today. He said he was the Charles Darwin, ‘the one who invented evolution’.

  Yeah, right.

  I was at work but found the time to write back: ‘Darwin didn’t invent evolution, he merely posited a theory and provided some supporting scientific evidence regarding the evolution of all species of life from a limited number of common ancestors through a process of natural selection.’

  I may have pinched from Wikipedia slightly.

  Charles Darwin replied one minute later: ‘Religious nutter! Ostrich-headed Christian!! Science heathen!!!’

  Before I could reply that I was not religious, nor did I believe in ghosts, auras or alternate universes, another email from Charles Darwin appeared in my inbox. It was just a jpeg of a fleshless, skeletal hand doing the finger.

  Then another email a minute later: ‘Sorry. I know all that evolution stuff. I am Charles Darwin. Test me.’

  I sent: ‘What was your mother’s name?’

  He replied: ‘Susannah Darwin (née Wedgwood).’

  I replied: ‘That is exactly how it appears on Charles Darwin’s Wikipedia page. You even put the acute accent above the first e in née.’

  He replied: ‘Then ask me something that isn’t on Wikipedia, or anywhere else on the net. PS Who knows what the thing above the e is called anyway?’

  I wrote back that I didn’t know enough about Charles Darwin to test him.

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to believe me then. An interesting voyage awaits.’

  That was just weird enough to snap me out of it. What was I doing emailing this crackpot?

  I left my office, asked my personal assistant, Sian, if she wanted a cuppa (she was too busy looking up tanning salons online to answer), and made my way to the kitchenette. Lib Drury, VP of distribution, was there.

  ‘Mr Leon, just the man I was looking for. I need another body.’ The microwave beeped. Lib removed a steaming cup of soup and gave it a stir. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘You need another body?’

  ‘Ha. You betcha,’ she said. Lib Drury is a metre and a half tall and must be a hundred kilos, and doesn’t let anyone forget it. ‘But seriously, Dave, I need someone for an interview panel.’

  ‘I’ll check my calendar.’

  ‘You’re a gem, Dave.’

  Friday

  Thirty-six emails from charlesdarwin@galapagos.co.ec were waiting in my inbox this morning. The emails all had the subject line ‘Print me, David Leon’ and each contained a picture of two Galapagos tortoises copulating. If it wasn’t for the slightly different file size of the jpegs, I would have sworn they were the same photo.

  At the end of each email he signed off, ‘The Charles Darwin.’

  I didn’t bite because, in addition to my usual worklo
ad, I had to read through the stack of junior analyst applications Lib Drury left on my desk.

  And, just like that, it’s the weekend.

  Monday

  What a weekend! Maxine and I spent Saturday searching garden centres for a DIY gazebo to construct in our backyard, but my wife has exacting standards. Too expensive, too tacky, too flimsy … When she could not level any of these faults at a particularly attractive kit, she claimed it would be too complicated to erect! She might as well have double-dared me.

  Sunday was dedicated to the erection of our gazebo, though sunset arrived sooner than expected, and the finishing touches will have to wait for next weekend.

  When I checked my emails this morning, it seemed Mr Darwin had had a busy weekend also:

  ‘David Leon, have you considered what office life will be like 50,000 years from now? 50,000 years is but a blink of the eye in evolutionary terms. But humans? Look at what has transpired since my quote-unquote passing. Children can play computer games on instinct alone (your Lord knows parents are not teaching them). We fly in metal canisters like it is nothing. We trust the white paint of a pedestrian crossing to stop whatever many-wheeled vehicle is hurtling towards us. We are not afraid of anything we should be afraid of: heights, speed, other predators. (There are still some who harbour these fears, but there are always genetic backwaters in any chain of being.)

  ‘Humans have evolved, David Leon, to defy the fears of the body, to become accustomed to unnatural scenarios (your zookeeper, your stunt double), postures and routines (your gay-for-pay porn star, your office worker … i.e. YOU).

  ‘Those who excel in the postures and routines required by modern circumstances, and fuelled by our own conglomerated demand, flourish.

  ‘Those who do not perish.

  ‘This is what I was writing about when flesh still clung to my fingers. Adapted structures wedge into gaps in the economy of nature, weaker structures are thrust out. But there are so many people, so many niches in which to survive, perhaps I should have called it Survival of Best Fit?