Belly Dancing for Beginners

by Liz Byrski

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Angie said. ‘He might just be very upset, depressed, drinking himself under the table somewhere.’

  ‘He’ll be doing the latter, that’s for sure,’ Gayle said. ‘But depressed? No, he’s done that. That’s what I saw when I came home: the mess. That was the initial shock and depression, but the fact that he’s gone means he’s moved on, he’s rebuilding himself somewhere.’

  ‘You don’t sound very worried about him,’ Angie said.

  ‘Brian’s tough,’ Gayle replied. ‘He’s also quite vulnerable but in a way that builds his toughness. He can always rewrite what happens so that he’s in the right.’

  ‘Whoo hoo, cynical Mum!’

  ‘You know it’s true,’ Gayle said, looking straight at her. ‘You’ve seen it often enough.’

  ‘Yeah, but all the same . . . and anyway, if you’re right, what do we do? Tell him we know or pretend to believe his version?’

  Gayle hesitated. ‘It’s not as straightforward as that,’ she said. ‘Angie, there’s something I have to tell you – several things, in fact – about Brian and about me and . . . well, about you. None of it’s easy and I’ve been agonising over how and when to tell you, but in view of what’s happened I need to do it now.’

  When he woke on the morning after his first dance lesson, Oliver had the distinct impression that he’d been run over by a truck. Everything ached and, being something of a hypochondriac, he lay there wondering if he had flu, or perhaps glandular fever. As he emerged slowly from the fug of sleep, however, he remembered the previous evening’s torture at the hands of Ramon. The physical pain detracted somewhat from the satisfaction of his eventual triumph, but not enough to spoil his pleasure. At the end of the class, Ramon had pronounced him the main man and, surprisingly, found it necessary to kiss him on both cheeks.

  ‘You will be a fine dancer, Oliver,’ he said. ‘You have the lightness of a panther and the speed of a leopard – magnificent.’

  Oliver had smiled in spite of his embarrassment. ‘I’m surprised he can tell all that after just one lesson,’ he whispered to Judy.

  ‘He can’t, dear,’ she said. ‘Take no notice. He says it to everyone, however much they clodhopped around the room. Torture then praise, that’s Ramon’s recipe for success. Not that you clodhopped, of course, but you know what I mean.’

  Oliver was pretty sure he had clodhopped for most of the evening and that any hint of leopard or panther in his performance would have been too fleeting to be noticeable. But he had enjoyed the praise, which, he felt, was an acknowledgement of his endurance, and an admission to the fellowship of Latin American dancers. The morning after, though, he realised how appallingly unfit he’d become. It was months – years, probably – since he’d done any exercise; not since his run-in with the treadmill had he done anything more energetic than walk from the car park to his office, or stroll down to the cappuccino strip. No wonder he felt so rough after a bit of dancing. It was a warning that he needed to do something more than once-weekly dance classes – indeed, he needed to do something in order to survive the dance classes. And so, moving cautiously at first, he got himself out of bed and into a very hot shower, where bits of him began to soften and loosen a bit.

  ‘Must keep moving,’ he told himself, and painfully he donned his tracksuit and headed for the Leisure Centre, where he began some slow and rather ragged laps of the warm, shallow, twenty-five metre pool. Since then he had swum almost every day, slowly increasing the distance, and after the first week he graduated to the open air fifty-metre pool and felt his coordination and stamina improving as he ploughed up and down in the medium speed lane.

  How quickly one built a habit, he thought, and how quickly one could feel the beneficial effects of regular exercise. By the fourth class, even Judy was commenting on how much more flexible he was, how he had loosened up and started to use his hips. Hips: a part of his body with which he had long ago lost contact. Loosened-up hips, Oliver thought, might be very handy if he ever got to have sex again – which, at the moment, seemed highly unlikely, but then you never knew what might happen. And that was the other thing – he was feeling more optimistic.

  ‘Exercise is a great tonic,’ Andrew said. ‘It’ll help you shift some of your emotional blocks.’

  Oliver had heard about the potential problems in client/therapist relations; how, for the first few visits, the client would often be resistant, hostile even, to the therapist, and then there would be a breakthrough in the therapeutic process at which point the patient may well imagine himself in love with the therapist. There was no way that Oliver thought he was in love with Andrew, but he did admire him and find him interesting and wished they could have a drink or dinner together.

  ‘Socialising is not part of the therapeutic relationship, Oliver,’ Andrew explained. ‘It’s important that we stay within the boundaries for both our sakes, yours in particular.’

  ‘But there are things I’d like to discuss with you,’ Oliver said. ‘Things about my research which I think would be interesting to you, and I’d value your opinion.’ And he explained about the book he was writing and the research and interviews he’d recorded in Berlin.

  ‘Fascinating,’ Andrew said, chewing one of the arms of his glasses. ‘I suppose we could perhaps have a professional, research-based relationship, as long as we’re both clear about its nature.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely clear,’ Oliver said. And so on the following Sunday morning, after his swim, Oliver prepared with enthusiasm for Andrew’s arrival. He was feeling loose limbed and positively rejuvenated. On a tray he set out the coffee plunger, mugs, a small jug of cream and some almond croissants he’d picked up on his way home from the pool. Then he set up his cassette player on the table on the deck.

  ‘Now, this is Helga’s tape,’ he said, slipping it into the cassette player when Andrew had done with admiring the house and the wisteria that rambled over the pergola. ‘This is the one I find most fascinating. Why don’t you start with this while I make the coffee?’

  He stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, leaning against the sink and whistling contentedly through his teeth, half listening to the slow drone of Helga’s voice drifting in through the open window. And then he stopped whistling. He didn’t notice the kettle switching itself off as he moved closer to the window. As he listened again to Helga’s story, he realised for the first time he was hearing a much larger story, his own story and Gayle’s, and that of millions of other people; a universal story of people trapped in the prisons of their past, their upbringing. He realised that he was listening again to the women’s stories that Joan had told him, stories of the sexual politics of fear and intimidation, of love and duty, of powerlessness and inertia even in the face of moral and ethical dilemmas. He was overcome with a desire to bang his head against the wall in frustration at his own blindness, for now he understood his fascination with Helga’s tape.

  He walked out onto the deck and sat down opposite Andrew. ‘I think I’m a complete fool,’ he said, reaching out to stop the tape. ‘Somehow, while I read about those women, while I talked to them and then listened to the tapes, I thought that to stay silent, effectively to collude with their husbands through their silence, must mean that they somehow lacked moral fibre, must be in some way evil.’

  Andrew smiled at him. ‘And now you think differently?’

  Oliver dropped his head into his hands. ‘I suppose it’s that we are all the products of our upbringing, not just our parents’ but the circumstances and societies in which we’re born and grow.’

  ‘But you’re a historian, Oliver, a social historian. You must always have known that.’

  ‘Of course, this is ridiculous. Of course I’ve always known it – but in my head, only in my head. As I was listening to Helga then, for the umpteenth time, I knew it in my heart, and in my gut. I knew it at a personal level, not just a theoretical, intellectual level. I felt myself in there, and my friend Gayle, and then fragments of lots
of other people –’ He stopped suddenly, embarrassed to find himself choked with emotion.

  ‘I was so judgemental, expecting women to be morally and ethically perfect. Suddenly it all seems so sad and confusing. My mother – she wasn’t perfect by any means, and she certainly didn’t expect it of others. She never intended that I would become such a narrow, boring prig.’ He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. ‘I’m sorry, Andrew – boundaries, I know you said boundaries, I didn’t mean to . . ..’

  Andrew reached across the table and patted Oliver’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Oliver,’ he said, ‘these things happen. Why don’t you sit there and I’ll go inside and make the coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver said, nodding. ‘Thank you. I’m such a late developer, aren’t I? Everyone understands this messy, human, personal stuff except me.’

  Andrew laughed and got up from the table. ‘No, Oliver, by no means, but you’ve lived a long time in your head. You survived on intellect and now you’re gaining a new and more complex understanding of the human condition. The journey from the head to the heart is the longest journey in the world and some never make it.’

  ‘But I’ve wasted so much time with my stupidity and blindness.’

  ‘It’s not unusual. Midlife is the turning point for many of us. You tried to fit your relationships with women into one particular box, but sexual attraction, love and relationships are chaotic and, as Helga points out, much that’s shameful or inexplicable is done in their name.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘There is no way I’m leaving you on your own tonight, Marissa,’ Sonya said, dumping her bag on the floor. ‘We agreed this in the car, with Gayle. You promised to stay with me. Okay, you changed your mind, you want to be in your own place and I can well understand that, but, that being so, I’m sleeping in your spare room and I’m not leaving until I’m confident that you’re okay.’

  ‘I won’t do anything silly, Sonya,’ Marissa said. ‘Honestly. I totally lost it, I know that, I went right over the top, but I’ll be fine now. Look at me, I’m fine.’

  Sonya looked at her across the kitchen table. ‘I look at you, Marissa, and I see someone who’s shattered and a bit spacey; a woman who looks rather worse than the night she started to play with razor blades. Sorry – I’m not subtle. Probably I should be dancing round you not referring to any of this, but then, I’ve never been in this situation before.’

  Marissa nodded and looked away. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  They stood in awkward silence on opposite sides of the kitchen table, not looking at each other. Marissa switched on the kettle and, unlocking the back door, walked out onto the deck. Her neighbour Alberto had kept the lawn mowed for her and pulled out the worst of the weeds, but everything needed attention. The sunflowers, just bursting into bloom, had grown tall and bushy; nasturtiums roamed wildly, wrapping themselves around the foot of the orange tree, and crowding the daisies. The table on the deck was coated with garden dust; dead leaves had blown in and settled around the ceramic dish painted with lemons that always stood in its centre. She blew away the worst of the dust and pulled out her favourite chair. Its cushion was covered in cat’s hair; clearly there’d been a regular feline visitor in her absence. It all looked tired and a little neglected, but it was hers, her sanctuary, and she was thankful to be back.

  A madness had overtaken her that night. She could remember feeling shaky and light-headed as they left the hotel, feeling that she needed one of the others to lead the dance or she might not make it. Autopilot had got her through the dancing but back at the hotel, in the noise and harsh lighting of the foyer, panic overtook her. If she were alone she’d be all right, she could calm down, get through it, she thought.

  ‘Just need to run up to the room,’ she’d said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Okay, but hurry up,’ Gayle responded. ‘We need you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sonya added. ‘The sisterhood is incomplete without you.’

  Sisterhood: the word buzzed in her head. What she longed for was reaching out to her but now, having sought it, she wanted to run from it. The long passage to the room seemed to sway ahead of her, and she fumbled for her key and sank onto the bed. She couldn’t go back downstairs. Sleep might help. She must stay here, stay calm, try to breathe.

  The phone startled her; it was the answering service callback. Try to be normal, try to be calm, play the message, she told herself. She listened to Frank’s voice and her head started to spin. The message kept repeating itself and there was a painful drumming in her ears. It seemed as though the bed, the very room, was shaking. She dropped the phone and grasped her head, it seemed gripped by an iron belt.

  That was when the coldness hit her, a terrible cold that made her teeth chatter. Hot water, that would help, hot water . . . She staggered to her feet and stumbled across the room, hitting her head on the bathroom doorjamb. Dragging her clothes off, she fumbled with the taps and that was when she saw the razor. It seemed so logical, so right, the answer to the cold, the shaking and, better still, the answer to the fear and to the great scar, silent and brooding for so long, that had now reopened into a livid wound.

  ‘Chamomile,’ Sonya said, carrying the pot in one hand and two mugs in the other. ‘Chamomile, I think that’s what you like.’

  Marissa looked up, jolted from her reverie. ‘But you don’t.’

  Sonya shrugged. ‘I can get used to it, as long as my supply of caffeine isn’t completely cut off.’

  ‘You must have things you want to do at home,’ Marissa said.

  ‘Oh, you don’t get rid of me that easily,’ Sonya said, pouring the tea.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. It’s just that, well . . . what I said . . . we’ve been away a while, you must have heaps of things of your own you want to do, and I’m stuffing that up.’

  Sonya pushed a mug towards her and sat at the other end of the table with her own, looking out onto the garden. ‘You know, Marissa,’ she said, ‘you’re right. There’s heaps of things to do, always are when you’ve been away. Opening the mail, airing the house, checking what’s grown in the garden, unpacking, catching up with people . . . but right now none of it seems more important than being with a friend who’s going through a crisis. Right now, that seems the most important, most special thing, the thing I most want to do.’

  She looked across at Marissa. ‘If these last weeks have meant to you what they’ve meant to me you’ll know why I want to be . . . have to be here now. It’s called friendship; it’s not a new concept, although my guess is that it’s a scary one for you despite the fact that you show signs of being very good at it.’

  She paused before continuing: ‘Sorry. Sorry I’m being patronising and facetious. It’s because I feel so inadequate. Look, Marissa, the other night Gayle and I thought we’d lost you. We were both really frightened and, frankly, pretty pissed off, and we don’t want it to happen again. Nor does poor bloody Frank, who doesn’t know what’s hit him –’

  ‘It’s not about Frank,’ Marissa cut in.

  ‘No, but you might want to explain that to him. Obviously it’s not about Frank, but he is a factor.’ She stopped suddenly and leaned across the table to take Marissa’s hand. ‘Don’t make it harder on any of us, darl. You asked us to dance with you and we did, and a whole lot more happened as a result, so now you’re stuck with us. Get used to it. Practise feeling what it’s like to have people who care about you, because we’re not going anywhere and we’re not going to let you down.’

  The last time Brian had shaved was on the morning of the day he got the sack. For the next four days while his life stood still, his beard had grown; when he decided it was time to act, he soaped up his shaving brush, got out his razor and then put it away again and ran his hand over his chin. Who’d care if he shaved or not? Why bother?

  By the time he was ready to fly back to Perth, he thought the beard was shaping up rather nicely. His hair had grown too. Normally he’d ha
ve had it cut by now but it seemed to go well with the beard, so, rather than get his usual once-over from the barber, he went instead to a unisex hair salon and, for the first time in his life, had his hair styled and his beard trimmed and shaped. As he put his jacket on and stood at the desk while the receptionist swiped his card, he thought he looked pretty good. He hadn’t had a beard since the seventies and it had suited him then too. His hair had been redder in those days but it had faded over the years and was now streaked with grey. He thought it looked distinguished. He no longer appeared the company man, but his own man. He wondered what Angie and Gayle would say when they saw him.

  ‘Hardly recognised you, Mr Peterson,’ said the clerk on duty in the Qantas Club. ‘The beard suits you, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  It was reassuring to be recognised, to be greeted in at least some of the places to which he’d been so accustomed.

  Once on board he opened his briefcase and went through the paperwork again. In the Manly hotel he’d made a full assessment of his assets, superannuation, investments on and off shore, cash in the bank accounts, a rough valuation on the house and a couple of small commercial premises in Perth’s northern suburbs. He’d also drawn up a financial plan for the future. There was the house to be sold, some investments could be shifted around and the nature of some of them changed, but on the whole there was plenty of scope. A lot of what they owned was in Gayle’s name and there was no reason to change that. He just might need her to sign off a release on one portfolio if he decided he wanted business premises, but he was shifting closer to the prospect of a life of leisure. The last few weeks had made him realise how totally his time and energy had been focused on work; suddenly liberated, he was discovering what he’d missed. The real estate agent introduced him to the golf club and he enjoyed long, leisurely games with interesting new acquaintances. He was invited to a wine club, and to a day’s fishing on a luxurious launch.