by Liz Byrski
He picked up the small tablet of hotel soap, rubbed it between his hands and began to spread it over his body, massaging his genitals first and then moving up over his belly to his chest, armpits and finally his neck. Hygiene was important to Brian. He took two showers a day, sometimes three, the only exception being those days when he’d had a skinful and fell asleep before actually going to bed. He was a large man, considerably overweight, and he sweated a lot, even in mild weather. His doctor had warned him about heart attacks and strokes, about his diet and cholesterol, about alcohol, the value of moderation and need for exercise. He did try to fit in a walk from time to time, but his regular spectacular performances in the bedroom always reassured him that there wasn’t much wrong with his health.
He turned up the hot water until it was almost painful and stood under it as long as he could bear before swinging the tap to cold and gasping as the icy blast hit him, forcing himself to stay there for a count of sixty. That must be good for him, surely, and, after all, he didn’t smoke. Still breathless from the icy water he climbed out and dried himself using two bath sheets – there was a lot of surface area to dry and he hated the feel of damp towels. Dropping them both on the floor he put on his robe and went back into the bedroom from which Kelly or Kerry had now departed, leaving only the traces of a perfume he didn’t much like.
Brian straightened the bedspread, sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone.
‘Thought I’d catch my darling girl before all those hens arrive,’ he said when Angie answered.
‘They’re here already, Dad,’ she said, and he could hear the clamour of voices and laughter in the background. ‘You in Sydney?’
‘I am. Working myself to exhaustion to pay for this humungous wedding.’
‘Oh yeah,’ she laughed, ‘I can imagine! Bet you’re just off somewhere for dinner, with a lot of boring old blokes.’ Brian gave a theatrically loud sigh. ‘How sharper than a shark’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’
‘King Lear, and it’s a serpent’s tooth.’
‘Really? Good to see all those thousands of dollars in HECS fees have paid off. Anyway, just wanted to say I hope you have a lovely party.’
‘Thanks, Dad. D’you want to speak to Mum?’
‘Oh well . . . not unless she does.’ He waited, picturing her waving the phone at Gayle, and Gayle shaking her head.
‘She’s talking to my boss,’ Angie said. ‘So she’s saying no.’
‘Good then. Take care, sweetheart. See you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, only three more sleeps.’
‘Still time to call it off!’ he joked.
Angie groaned. ‘Your jokes are so predictable.’ She made a kissing noise. ‘Thanks for ringing, have a nice night.’
Brian hung up, found a clean pair of boxer shorts and a shirt and dressed quickly, deciding not to bother with a tie. He thought he might just have a couple of drinks and then an early night. Standing in front of the mirror he towelled the last of the moisture from his hair, ran a comb through it, adjusted the open collar of his shirt under his jacket and, picking up his wallet, keys and mobile, made his way out of the room. He had the lift to himself, which pleased him. The lighting in it was good, flattering. He straightened his shoulders between the tenth and ninth floors, and had smoothed his hair again by the sixth.
He was looking forward to the wedding despite the fact that it was costing him several arms and legs: the marquee, the dance floor, the band, the booze, the caterers. The bloody flowers alone cost enough to buy half a car, although not the sort he’d want to drive. And neither Angie nor Gayle had yet been prepared to tell him how much the dress had cost, but he didn’t care – only the best for his girl. And it was a chance to shove it up his brothers’ arses.
‘Yes,’ Brian murmured to himself as the lift doors opened at the mezzanine level and he stepped out into the soft lights and gentle hum of voices in the cocktail bar. ‘This wedding’ll show ’em, this’ll sort out the men from the boys.’ And, spotting his broker nursing a malt whisky in a corner booth, he raised his hand in a wave and went to join him.
Gayle had cried so long and so hard that her face burned, her throat ached and her body felt drained by the intensity of her emotions. She had wept for the loss of her daughter, the yawning gap of the future, and the leaden sense of hopelessness that had overtaken her. And she had wept with anxiety over the wedding and particularly the explosive potential of the drinking that took Brian and his brothers to the edge of aggression and sometimes beyond it.
Was the dancing the catalyst for this outpouring of grief and anxiety? From the first few drumbeats the rhythmic liquidity of Marissa’s movements had sent a shiver through Gayle’s body. And as her eyes followed the rotating hips and shoulders, the undulating belly, the graceful snake-like arms, she too had surrendered briefly to the powerful energy of the dance. She had only seen a belly dancer once before, a pale, skinny girl whose gestures were overtly sexual and who had cavorted through a Perth restaurant targeting the best looking men with her pelvic thrusts. She had thought it tasteless and embarrassing, almost as embarrassing as if the restaurant had employed a stripper. So she’d been both surprised and a little disappointed when Angie had said she’d like a belly dancer at her hens’ night. The idea seemed vaguely tacky, but Gayle had bitten back the urge to question it – after all, she knew little about what women in their twenties enjoyed these days.
At the end of the first dance there had been a brief silence, a silence as significant as the rapturous applause that followed, and Marissa had settled cross-legged on the steps and talked about the origins and traditions of the dance. Lying now with a cool, damp towel over her eyes to stop them burning, Gayle could see her there again, calm and authoritative, talking about a celebration of female sexuality, and about the sensuousness and the self-possession of the dancer being the key to its power. Once again she saw the roomful of women rise to their feet; she felt Trisha’s hand on her arm pulling her up, felt the movement of the women’s bodies, saw the swaying jean-clad hips, the swirl of skirts, and Tony’s mother’s arthritic fingers curled with unusual grace. Self-consciousness and embarrassment evaporated as they swayed and turned together in time to the music. Then Marissa had taken Angie by the hand, draped a glittering silver veil across her shoulders and shown her the steps for the bridal dance.
‘It was wonderful,’ Trisha said to Marissa later, watching as she rolled her costume into a soft calico bag. ‘You were fabulous, magnificent . . . Honestly, I was blown away – we all were.’
Marissa grabbed her hair in her hands and pulled it through a scrunchie. ‘Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ She turned to Gayle. ‘They all danced. Once they see it and understand what it means, women usually do want to give it a go.’
Gayle blushed. ‘I feel really stupid . . . I’d no idea.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Marissa said, struggling back into her leathers. ‘Very few people know anything about Middle Eastern dance or its meaning. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Your daughter’s gorgeous. The wedding’s on Saturday?’ Gayle nodded. ‘Well, have a lovely day.’
She reached into a pocket inside her bag. ‘I’ll just give you these cards,’ she said, handing a few to Gayle and Trisha, and to Sonya, who had now appeared in the bedroom doorway. ‘In case you ever feel like doing some more dancing, I run classes. Beginners always on Wednesday evenings from seven to nine, and Saturday mornings. The details are on the card.’ She handed over some vouchers. ‘Come along and see if you like it,’ she said.
Sonya looked at the voucher. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ll give it a go. You’ve inspired me.’
‘Me too,’ Trisha said. ‘We’ll be there sometime soon, won’t we, Gayle?’
Gayle’s breath seemed trapped in her throat.
‘Course we will,’ Trisha continued.
‘Some women find it creates a bit of a change for them,’ Marissa said with a smile at Gayle. ‘And it’s great exercise too. It was love
ly to meet you. I’ll get out of your way now.’
They watched her climb onto the motorbike, heard the engine kick into action, and gazed after her as she roared off down the quiet street.
‘That was amazing,’ Sonya murmured as the tail lights of the bike disappeared around the corner. ‘What a fabulous woman . . .’
‘And the mix,’ Trisha agreed. ‘I mean, the bike and the leathers and the dancing.’ She paused. ‘I’m up for it. Why don’t the three of us go together?’
Gayle had bitten her lip and said nothing, slipping the card into her pocket as Trisha and Sonya swapped phone numbers. Now, hours later, she hated herself: her caution, the emotional and physical rigidity carved into her body. And she knew that, fascinated as she had been by her brief encounter with the awesome energy of Marissa’s dance, she would not risk encountering it again.
Sonya sat at the top of the steps that led from her brick paved terrace down to the lawn. The night was still and clear, the garden rendered mystical in the silvery light of a full moon.
Contrary to her expectations of awkwardness and boredom, she had thoroughly enjoyed the hens’ party, but now that she was alone again, she felt a web of small cracks scoring into her mood like the crazing on old china. A sudden ripple ruffled the surface of the goldfish pond – a fish, perhaps, or a frog finding shelter. The ripples sparkled like the sequins on the hem of Marissa’s skirt that had floated out as she twirled to the music.
Sonya had been mesmerised by the dance: by the riot of colour, the flash of silver beads and the sensuous undulations of Marissa’s body. First on her feet to join the dance and swaying rapturously with the music, she had a sense of herself lightening, shifting, and opening up to the meaning and the power that Marissa had described. She had yearned for its promise, that flash of insight into a different part of herself, but it evaporated once the party was over, to be replaced by the ennui that had entered her life by stealth in recent years, and which she had chosen to craft with threads of humour and disappointment into a veneer of worldly good humour. Was it emptiness that she was trying to mask? She did not feel lonely and yet she knew something was lacking in her life, something of which the dance had given her a fleeting glimpse.
‘It’s a celebration of female sexuality,’ Marissa had explained. ‘And quite often women find it releases something quite primal.’ She’d hesitated then at the rustle of amusement and slight embarrassment in the room. ‘It’s about recognising a part of ourselves that our conditioning – which separates the good woman from the sensuous woman – so often suppresses.’
The idea was not new to Sonya, who had read iconic feminist texts ancient and modern. But over time she had found that while you could change the law, changing attitudes was equally if not more important, and an awful lot harder.
‘Women are still “the other”,’ she had said to Angie only a few days earlier. ‘We’re still judged and still judge ourselves based on ideas that we’ve spent so much effort trying to change. It just seems to be a fact of life.’ The words had rolled glibly off her tongue. ‘We’ve learned to live with the contradictions, I suppose.’
Sonya broke off a stem of lavender and crushed it between her hands, holding the pieces up to her face to sniff the perfume, then rubbed her scented fingers on her neck and temples. What was the cost of learning to live with it, and to live with it in the sort of professional environment in which she had struggled to succeed? Was it this loss of some essentially female energy that had flickered briefly with the dance and then faded? She stood up, brushing the crushed lavender from her skirt, irritated by the same sense of being stuck in a rut that had led her to consider moving house.
Marissa rode home slowly and spent some time in the queue of drivers stopped for random breath testing on Canning Highway. It was her second encounter with the police that evening; the first one had been the cause of her late arrival at the Peterson house. She had been in her leathers, ready to leave, when there was a knock at the door and she had opened it to find herself faced with two officers, one in uniform who looked about twelve, and an older man in plain clothes. Beyond them, in the street, police cars stood, doors open, blue lights flashing, voices crackling over the radios. Marissa’s heart missed several beats; it was three weeks since the theft of her plants and she’d been reasonably confident she was in the clear. She swallowed hard and assumed what she hoped was a surprised and guiltless expression.
‘Evening, ma’am, sorry to disturb you,’ the uniformed officer said. ‘Constable Martino and DI Owen. Wonder if we could come in for a moment?’
Marissa raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, yes, of course, although I was just off out.’
‘Won’t keep you long,’ said the inspector, pocketing his ID.
She led them through to the sitting room, hoping that the guilty rush of heat she’d felt was not showing in her face. She gestured towards the chairs and the two men sat down.
‘We’re wondering if you can help us with any information on your neighbour at number twenty-three, Kelvin Sharpton. Do you know him at all?’ Inspector Owen asked.
‘Only vaguely,’ Marissa said. ‘Why? What’s this about?’
‘Drugs,’ he said, and Marissa blanched. ‘We’ve just arrested him in relation to international trafficking. We’re trying to pin down a couple of people who were working with him.’
‘Really?’ said Marissa. ‘How amazing, I’d no idea . . . of course, one wouldn’t. I hardly knew him but if there’s anything I can do . . .’
There had been little she could tell them. Sharpton drove a silver BMW, was away a lot, often out at night, but had generally been a trouble-free neighbour – no excessive noise or wild parties. She wasn’t aware of anyone coming or going from the house regularly.
‘Women?’ Inspector Owen enquired.
‘Women?’
‘Yes, did you notice if he had any particular girlfriend or other women going in and out?’
Marissa hadn’t noticed. ‘Apart from the elderly couple next door, I don’t really mix with my neighbours,’ she said. ‘They tend to think my house detracts from the tone of the neighbourhood.’
Owen glanced around. ‘That so? Just looks like a real piece of old Fremantle to me.’ He stood up. ‘Well, if there’s nothing more you can tell us we’ll let you get on your way.’ He took a card from the pocket of his jacket. ‘If anything does come to mind, perhaps you’d give me a call.’
She took the card, stuck it behind a magnet on the fridge and, picking up her bag and helmet, followed them out of the door.
‘I was wondering,’ Owen said, turning back as the constable went on down to the car. ‘You’re Marissa the belly dancer, aren’t you?’ Marissa nodded. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you before. You danced at a wedding at the Hyatt, a couple of months ago. The Purley family . . . remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ Marissa said, twisting her hair up into her helmet. ‘I remember. Lovely people.’
He nodded. ‘My oldest friends; the bride was my goddaughter. Nice bike,’ he added, nodding towards the Harley.
‘I think so. But I’m sorry to rush you, Inspector –’
‘Frank,’ he cut in.
‘Frank . . . I’ve got a booking in South Perth.’
‘Oh sure, sorry,’ he said, glancing down at his feet and then up at her again. ‘I was just wondering . . .’
‘I really have to run,’ Marissa said.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
It was almost ten o’clock when Marissa cruised up to the lights at South Terrace and waited for a trickle of people to cross the street from the Norfolk Hotel. She wished she’d had the chance to talk to Gayle Peterson because she could tell the dance had really affected her. She had seen it before: women so confronted they looked as though they were about to fall apart. Gayle, she thought, would by now be crying her eyes out somewhere in that mausoleum of a house where everything was colour coordinated and nothing felt real; another woman ripe for change and for who
m nothing would ever be quite the same again.
The lights turned to green and she slipped the bike into gear and pulled away, down the Terrace to South Fremantle, home, and the prospect of a soothing pot of chamomile tea.
In the bedroom she dumped her leathers, slipped into a cotton wrap and took her tea out onto the back verandah. It was a mild evening, and the still air was heavy with the scent of the moonflower that sprawled luxuriantly over the fence. She always enjoyed these times after working, when she was centred and grounded by the dancing and returned to her own, very private space, her haven undisturbed by anyone. But as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light she realised that something was different, someone had disturbed it.
A black plastic sack was lying on the table just beyond her cup and she tensed immediately, jumping up to put on the light. On top of the sack was a business card. Marissa held it, frozen for a moment, screwing up her eyes to read it without her glasses. Detective Inspector Frank Owen. She put the card down and reached for the bag cautiously, as though at any moment its contents might leap out and bite her. Heart beating furiously she pulled it towards her and peered inside. There were her three withered marijuana plants, parts of them dry, other parts slimy from the moisture in the bag, and the loosely tied dried bunch, still more or less intact.
THREE