Belly Dancing for Beginners

by Liz Byrski

  SIX

  Berlin was covered in snow; it slowed the traffic, softened the city’s noise and blurred its contours. The temperature had stayed at minus four degrees for the last week, rising only slightly in the middle of the day. Oliver had thought he was well prepared for the cold but the intensity of it had taken him by surprise, and on his second day there he had headed for a palatial shopping centre and bought some thermal underwear and socks.

  He had been promising himself this trip to Berlin for years and now he was here he couldn’t understand why he had left it so long. What had held him back? Wanting to preserve the dream, perhaps? A subconscious fear that it would not live up to expectations? He cursed the instinctive caution that had held him back from so many things in his life. Now he felt absurdly happy and wonderfully self-indulgent. He’d made the trip at the start of his six months’ study leave because he had research to do here, but also his dream had always been Germany in winter. In that dream he was accompanied by a woman; no specific woman, although a few had slipped into the fantasy and out again over the years. This elusive love of his life was now the only missing factor but fortunately it didn’t seem to be spoiling his enjoyment one bit.

  That day he had finally met the woman with whom he’d had an email correspondence for several months. Erika, a lecturer in the Faculty of Arts at Humboldt University, was working on a topic similar to his own – Nazi wives. She had taken him on a tour of the university and then for a late lunch in a campus restaurant. While planning the trip, Oliver had daydreamed that perhaps they were destined for a romantic as well as a professional relationship. Her English was obviously good, and they shared professional interests; if she were single, perhaps they would share more – much more.

  On arrival at her office he was delighted to find that she was a very attractive woman in her forties, but his fantasy evaporated when, during the campus tour, she introduced him to her husband, who was Professor of Philosophy in the same faculty. Oliver promptly relaxed the antennae that he had raised in hope and was thereafter able to concentrate on the purpose of his visit.

  ‘I can make you the introduction to two women you will find very interesting,’ Erika told him. ‘They are friends from all their lives, from school, and both married to Nazi officers, very high up. Now they live together. They are ninety, I think – perhaps more. I will take you to visit with them, Oliver, they will talk very much. Sometimes it is hard to stop them. I can take you there and translate for you; it is not far, Charlottenburg only. You have the cassette recorder? I think they let you make the recording.’

  By the time he left the university it was already dark, the sky turning from midnight blue to charcoal, and the light from the streetlamps glowed gold in the fine evening mist. His breath drifted in clouds on the cold air as he wandered through the grounds to the Neue Wache, melancholy against the snow and bare trees. In a side street off Unter den Linden he found a small café, cosily overheated by a glowing wood stove. The interior was lined with dark timber panelling and hung with etchings and photographs of pre-1900 Berlin.

  Choosing a table near the stove, Oliver ordered coffee and Gluwein and settled down with his book. The combination of warmth and the spicy wine made him glow, and as the alcohol hit him he settled deeper into the chair, pleasantly relaxed. So relaxed that by the time he had finished the wine and coffee he couldn’t concentrate on reading. Setting aside his book he took out some postcards and reached into his inside pocket for his pen. It was an elegant black and gold Parker he had used daily since Gayle had given it to him six years earlier on his fiftieth birthday. A few months later that same year, on her own fiftieth, he had bought her a Parker pen too, this one in brushed stainless steel. These were the only gifts they had ever exchanged.

  As Oliver turned the pen in his hands, the urge to clear his throat turned into a cough and his eyes stung. Everyone here smoked; if he had one complaint about Germany it was that: the smoke-filled bars and restaurants. His clothes and hair smelled of it. In the past it would have been something he’d have reported to Gayle, but now? Oliver knew he had behaved badly. Apart from a brief email after the wedding he’d made no attempt to contact her, and now it was the end of January. Before Christmas, she had left a couple of messages suggesting they meet, but the sound of her voice had paralysed him. Not only had he failed to return the calls, he had deliberately stayed off campus on the days she’d said she would be there. Christmas had come and gone and he had sent a card bearing only his signature. His leave began with the New Year and then he had left for Berlin. The least he should have done was to call or email before he left, but what he had learned about Gayle’s life was so much at odds with the woman he knew that Oliver could no more ignore it than he could confront it. And, after all, it was none of his business.

  He selected a postcard of the Brandenburg Gate by night, addressed it to her at work, and then paused to order more coffee and wine. What should he write? Anything that might in the past have seemed normal and natural now seemed stilted and inappropriate. His knowledge and her ignorance of it hung between them. ‘An iron curtain,’ he mused, enjoying the irony. ‘Well, I’m in the right place.’

  Despite its confinement to the university campus the friendship had been precious. He noticed he was thinking of it in the past tense, as though it were over, and realised that something really was over for him. It could never be as it had been, because Gayle had become a stranger. He was shocked to discover how little he knew about her, while he had disclosed so much of himself. He had talked at length about his childhood, his father’s disappearance and being raised the only child of a single mother, about Joan’s influence on him, and her activism. He had confided in her about his work and his failures with women. Now his shock was twofold. Did his lack of knowledge mean that he had always dominated the conversation? Had he been boring her for years, using her as a sounding board, a confidante to boost his ego? He had heard women complain about men who monologued, who bored them to tears ranting on about their work or delivering their views on the state of the world. Was that what he had done with Gayle?

  And then there was Brian, the wedding and the house, all incongruous enough even before Sonya’s revelation. Gayle’s life had unravelled before him like some horrible reality TV program. He was angry with her for changing everything. He knew, or rather he had thought he knew, how she felt about so many things. Hadn’t they shared a mutual aversion to smoking? Hadn’t they even discussed their distaste for the power and influence of the tobacco companies? And yet all the time she was living, and living very comfortably, on the profits of those companies.

  And, worse still, the son. The Gayle he knew would not tolerate that kind of treatment of her child. He had respected her as a person, valued her friendship, admired her integrity – now he felt robbed and he resented it.

  He stared down at the card wondering where to begin. ‘Berlin is beautiful in winter,’ he wrote. ‘Wonderful food and wine, snow and sunshine. I’m making progress with my research. Hope all is well with you. Best, Oliver.’ It was impersonal, distant and all that he could manage. He held it up and read it, waiting for the ink to dry. Then he picked a shot of the Tiergarten covered in snow and began to write to Sonya, but he ran out of space and trespassed onto the area reserved for the address, so then he tore a couple of pages from the lined A4 pad in his backpack and filled them with his small slanting script. Finally, he folded the pages around the card and slipped them into an airmail envelope, feeling guilty relief that Gayle, who scarcely knew Sonya, would never know how much he had written to her.

  It was cold in Chicago too. A different sort of cold: bleak and raw under a leaden sky. Icy winds tore through the streets, along the narrow alleyways and across the open spaces of squares, ripping newspapers and parking tickets from unwary hands, seeking out ill-fitting doors and loose window frames, whipping litter to head height and bearing it off across the city. People walked with their shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in their pockets, the earfl
aps on their fur-lined hats turned down, scarves wound around their necks, oblivious to others, anxious only to reach their destination as soon as possible to escape the biting wind.

  It was weather to set the strongest nerves on edge and it reflected Brian’s mood. He had flown over with Mal for the international sales conference, and delays meant that they had to show up at the pre-conference dinner with scarcely time to wash and change. As he collected his name tag and ordered his first drink, Brian felt rushed and irritable. He’d never been keen on this conference but in past years he had frequently come to it a winner. This year was different; this year there were no awards coming his way, just a large neon question mark hanging over his head.

  The pre-conference dinner was the occasion for effusive greetings and backslapping; for conversations about sales figures and new initiatives; who was on the up, who had been let go. Let go. What a misnomer that was, Brian thought, the words implying a sense of purpose on the part of the victim that could not be resisted by the employer, a sense of regret. Whereas everyone knew that when your number was up they couldn’t get you out fast enough. You would be given the order to pack your things immediately, hand over your staff pass and be marched out of the building with your possessions in a box.

  Brian sighed and reached for his second drink. He needed to get a few under his belt to break his mood. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he was misreading the signs, but one thing he had learned over the years was that when things go wrong, when something big is lost or conceded, there is always a scapegoat and it’s rarely the person responsible for the stuff-up but someone else a little lower down the food chain – someone exactly like him.

  A meaty hand descended on Brian’s shoulder, making him start suddenly and choke on his drink.

  ‘So, Brian, old buddy, how are ya? Good to see you.’ Rod Campbell, his former boss, was wearing a very expensive charcoal suit and looking exceptionally pleased with himself. ‘How’re you going back home in Oz? I sure miss you guys.’

  Brian allowed his free hand to be pumped in both of Rod’s. ‘Good, thanks, Rod. You seem to be doing well.’

  ‘Sure am. I love this place. America is where it’s at. Family love it too. Susie’s in heaven – shopping, shopping, shopping. She and the girls must have added several percentage points to the GDP already. How’s Gayle?’

  Brian wondered why it was that in less than a year Rod had acquired an American accent. Not just a hint, not just the odd vowel here or inflection there, but a complete transformation that made him sound more American than the Americans themselves. Suddenly he hated it all: the false bonhomie, the self-aggrandising conversations, the ridiculous charade that people from company outposts around the world were working together like a great cohesive international team, when the truth was that each one of them would cut the other’s throat to gain a millimetre of advantage.

  ‘And how’s that little hiccup with the regulation board moving along?’ Rod asked. ‘I guess you’ll have a decision soon?’

  Brian gritted his teeth. It was the little hiccup with the regulation board over labelling that was responsible for his current unease. The new labelling had always been risky and potentially misleading, but Rod had been right behind it until it all went pear-shaped. Then he’d taken a swift step sideways and left Brian hanging out to dry. He attempted to look confident and unconcerned but had difficulty mustering the desired expression.

  ‘Couple of months,’ he said. ‘That cock-up in the early stages hasn’t helped. We haven’t been able to claw back the ground since then.’

  Rod’s eyes glazed over and he delivered an icy smile, a warning to Brian to watch his step, but Brian wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘You think you’re clear of it now, I guess,’ Brian said, picking up a third drink from a passing tray, ‘leaving it for us poor buggers to mop up the mess.’

  Rod deposited his own empty glass on the same tray and put his hands in his trouser pockets, leaning slightly away from Brian. ‘Leaving it in your capable hands, rather,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you and the big Texan can pull a few rabbits out of the hat. Hope you’re getting along well with Mal, Brian. It pays to keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ And with a nod he turned away, edging himself into a nearby group whose members welcomed him noisily.

  Brian drank his way through the dinner and the speeches, the alcohol blurring the sharp edges of his irritability and resentment, making it possible for him to survive the pleasantries until he could get away.

  Back in his room at last he flung himself on the bed with a quarter bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a glass of ice from the mini-bar, and flicked on the television. But as he lay there, staring unseeingly at the screen, he was struck by a sense of hopelessness and a loneliness so overpowering that he began to tremble. Getting up he paced the room several times, and flicked the remote control through old movies, ads for fitness equipment, born-again evangelists, and back-to-back reruns of Happy Days.

  Tossing the remote onto the bed he dragged at his tie with one shaking hand and then ripped so hard at his collar that he tore off the button. Setting his glass down to take off his jacket he knocked the conference hospitality pack off the desk. Its contents spilled out onto the carpet and, still unable to control the trembling, Brian got down on his knees to pick up the brochures and postcards, the embossed pens and a prayer sheet. A business card slipped sideways and as he went to push it back into the pile he read the name. Ecstasy Escorts, it said, Professional, Discreet, At Your Service 24/7. He flicked the card between his fingers. Despite what he got up to in Australia, Brian had always been very careful to keep his nose clean at company events. The local sex trade thrived on occasions like these but he preferred to play it safe. Tonight, though . . . He stared at the card. It would relax him, get rid of all the tension. Sex always increased his confidence, made him more aggressive, and he needed that.

  He quickly dialled the number on the card, but when it was answered he paused and then put the receiver down suddenly. Too risky. His room was next door to Mal’s, and Mal was a born-again Christian, guided by the Lord in everything he did. He was prone to deliver long homilies about fidelity, chastity and family values. Brian needed Mal right now, he needed his endorsement, his trust, his respect.

  He wondered about calling Gayle. It would be nine-thirty in the morning in Perth. The answering machine was on at home, and when he tried her mobile it was switched off.

  ‘Never there when I need her,’ Brian said aloud, slamming down the phone. ‘Doesn’t give a rat’s arse about me. Everything I do for her and all she cares about is that bloody job and the stupid thesis.’

  Hurling himself back on the bed he undid his fly and held himself, still at first and then moving, stirring himself to an erection. She didn’t even want to screw him these days. Not that she ever refused him, oh no, she wouldn’t do that, she knew there was no negotiating about that. Not a refusal, no, just waiting for him to finish, to be free of him. The ice queen treatment was enough to freeze the balls off a man.

  Brian rolled on his side, rocking back and forth. The trembling stopped now but the tension multiplied. ‘Fuck her,’ he said, ‘and fuck Mal, fuck the lot of them.’ And reaching out for the telephone he dialled Ecstasy Escorts again, and this time he didn’t hang up.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Sonya asked, standing back. ‘Is it worth another fifty thousand dollars on my mortgage?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Angie said, running her hand along the marble benchtop. ‘I love it. You should do it, Sonya. It’s an investment, and you couldn’t go wrong with a place like this.’

  Trisha drew in her breath and looked doubtful. ‘Well . . . it’s a lot of money. I mean, it’s gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but if you’re going to upgrade, shouldn’t you be buying a house? Isn’t it land that appreciates? I don’t think apartments grow so quickly in value.’

  ‘Yes, but it will still grow in value. And I’ve got another ten years before I retire,’ Sonya said, ‘may
be more. Plenty of time to pay it off.’

  ‘Go on,’ Angie said. ‘Honestly, you’ve got nothing to lose. I’d kill for a place like this.’

  Trisha shrugged. ‘If you’re really convinced . . . it’s certainly beautiful, and a very nice location.’

  ‘Not it’s not,’ Gayle said, and the others turned to look at her, reminded suddenly of her presence. ‘The location is elegant but it’s unnatural. It’s all too new, too artificial.’

  ‘All new areas are like that, Mum,’ Angie said. ‘Look at your place – we lived in that house for twelve years but it’s still got that new area feel. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Yes there is,’ Gayle said. ‘It lacks character, not like the older areas.’

  Trisha raised her eyebrows. ‘But, darl, it’s lovely where you are.’

  Gayle shook her head, ‘No, no, it’s not, it’s sterile. This apartment is lovely, Sonya, but would it feel like a home?’

  Sonya stared at her. ‘Actually, that’s what I haven’t been able to work out,’ she said. ‘I love it, but I haven’t been able to picture myself living here.’

  Gayle looked around the empty room and then sat down on the cream carpet, leaning back against the wall, legs in front of her. ‘That’s very important,’ she said. ‘You need to listen to that inner voice, Sonya, it’s telling you something.’

  ‘Mum,’ Angie interrupted. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s fantastic. Look at the quality of the tiles and the kitchen fittings, the carpets . . .’

  ‘Those things aren’t so important,’ Gayle said. ‘It’s nice to have them but they don’t make a place a home.’

  ‘They certainly look great in your place, Gayle,’ Trisha said, joining her on the floor. ‘And that’s a home.’