The Stillness the Dancing

by Wendy Perriam

  Morna forced her attention back from the still revolving world outside. ‘What is your business?’

  ‘Frozen foods—sales manager. Our parent company’s based out here, but this is my first trip. I hope it’s going to change my luck. It’s a pretty tough business—too much competition.’ He drummed his fingers on the table, as if recalling the strains of work. ‘What are you doing here? Just a holiday?’

  Morna nodded. ‘Sort of.’ She had no wish to define herself, explain. The lights were coming on now, challenging the dying sun—a blaze and storm of light tinselling the buildings, strung out on the freeways, reflected back in water, glass.

  ‘Ah, here are our drinks. I was beginning to think they’d forgotten all about us.’

  Morna turned back. She had forgotten they were in a bar at all—with other people, waitresses, the normal bustle of the cocktail hour. Even the drinks were full of coloured lights—brilliant hued, piled with ice and stars. She took a sip through her stripy straw, tasted mead, not vodka, saw David in his tiny paper boat sailing over turquoise waves towards her.

  David raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’ he said. ‘What shall we drink to?’

  ‘Us,’ Morna murmured, smiling as St Abban beached the boat, leaving the other David free to leap towards her.

  Morna leant against the wall. She wasn’t drunk—not really—wasn’t ill. Just a little queasy. There was a lot of light and movement in her stomach which felt as if it were flashing on and off like a neon sign. The cocktails she had gulped were still fizzing there inside her, but had shifted up and sidewards to make room for the lavish jewelled dinner which had followed them. She had swallowed lobster beached on coral reefs, salads made of emeralds, desserts topped with soft white ermine scattered with jade. St Abban hadn’t murmured, David not demurred. In fact, the more she ate, the closer he had pressed, kissing her fingers as she picked up lobster claws or strawberries, kneading her thigh as he replaced her damask napkin. She had made him break his vows and it hadn’t mattered. Even now, his arm was round her shoulders as he led her into the lift, held her close as it rocketed down.

  She had gone down down in the tank, actually let go. Her mind had said ‘no’, but she moved out of her mind and sunk back into instinct, reached heights and depths she had never known existed. She had even lost track of time. She had read about that in the sex-books—people experiencing such transports that time stood still. It had never happened to her until she let herself be overruled by Krishna, submit to someone else. She had always been too rigid before, too separate. She understood it now. She had fought Neil, resented him, and so stayed locked in struggle and resistance instead of flying past them, flying with him.

  David would guide her, be another Krishna. He was taking her to his hotel—a slap of glare and cold as they crossed the street, zigzagged along the pavement, tottered up some steps; a second elevator ride as they soared towards his room. An orange room, as if the last blaze of sunlight had dissolved in the carpet and the counterpane. He tried to steer her to the bed.

  ‘No, wait,’ she said, recalling Krishna’s words. ‘You have to shower first—wash the body oils off.’ She slipped into the bathroom—orange tub and basin—dragged off all her clothes, glanced at her body in the mirror. It looked better than it had this morning—breasts firmer and more rounded, thighs smooth, legs longer altogether. She needed someone to admire it. She had had no man prior to Neil and only that one brief fiasco after he had left—thirty minutes’ sex in the last five years. She had to make amends. It wouldn’t be sex, in any case—not fucking, screwing, all those crude and vulgar words which Neil used, just a sinking down, a floating up, a rocking to the waves of David’s boat. The tank had showed her how, left her clear and pure like glass, but still too rigid. David would break the glass, find the mead inside it. She remembered the only Jewish wedding she had been to. They had smashed a delicate crystal goblet, ground it underfoot. One of the guests had told her it was a vestige of an ancient superstition, making a loud and frightening noise on a joyous occasion to scare off evil spirits jealous of human happiness. There were no evil spirits here—she had left them all in the tank. She could go right ahead and achieve her ecstasy.

  She emerged from the bathroom, towelled and naked, found David swathed in a maroon striped dressing gown, monogrammed with the initials DLA. She ignored the L—the rest was right—saw his hair damp around the ends, where he had swum over from his island. She smiled, held out both her hands to him. He lurched across. Her stomach lurched at exactly the same moment. She clutched it, reeled back towards the bed.

  ‘I’m s … sorry, David. I’m not feeling too good. Give me a moment, will you?’

  She lay down on the counterpane, closed her eyes to blot out its orange glare. No good. A kaleidoscope of even cruder colours was flashing behind her eyelids, strobing in her stomach; a hot and heavy hand crawling clammy down one breast. She tried to push it off.

  ‘No, wait. This awful pain … My tummy’s sort of churning.’

  She heard him mutter something, tried to shut him out along with the furnishings; turn him into just a picture on the wall, something with no needs, no hands. She could hear his voice still rasping on, but couldn’t make the words out. Too many other sounds were crackling in her head—ugly, painful sounds like static on a stereo. She had to rest, sink down down down again; lose time, body, boundaries.

  When she opened her eyes, the noise was different—muffled gasps and moans. They appeared to be coming from several yards away. Had she parted from her body, floated off from it, so that her mind and consciousness were separate from her limbs? Were those her groans, her still churning rumbling stomach gasping out its pain from the opposite side of the room? She groped out a hand, touched the curve of a breast, the bulk of a thigh. No—she was lying on the bed still—all of her together. How long had she been there—hours or minutes?

  The gasps were getting louder. The room was in semi-darkness but she peered in their direction, saw a flickering screen. A man was slumped in front of it, sprawled out on the carpet, his head blocking half the figures on the screen. She moved her own head, tried to make them out. Naked figures, male and female, writhing in a sort of dance. The man was moving with them, rocking back and forth. There were two different sorts of noises now—grunts and squealings from the screen, and a heavy panting breathing from the man in front of it. What was his name—something special—a name she could never forget?

  ‘David!’ she cried, struggling to sit up.

  He sprang to his feet, clasping the dressing gown around him, tripping on an ashtray. ‘I … I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘I was, I think.’

  ‘H … How you feeling?’

  ‘A little better now, thanks. What are you watching?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It was … er … just to pass the time until you woke.’

  ‘What is it, though?’

  ‘What they call a …’ He paused, shrugged, laughed embarrassedly. ‘An adult movie. You can hire them from reception. I got it yesterday—didn’t know I wasn’t going to need it.’ Another awkward laugh.

  Now that he had moved, she could see the screen more clearly. Everyone was naked, as she’d thought, but it wasn’t a dance. She glanced back at David. His knee-length dressing gown had lifted a little at the hem, levered up by something. He touched the something, tossed the robe behind him, lunged towards her. His flesh looked very white in the gloom. A lot of flesh, and closing in on her.

  She fell back, shut her eyes, felt folds of flab lap against her own flesh. She was lost in smells—a whiff of nicotine, a blast of garlic brandy, a faint undertone of sweat—all contradicted by a sharp imperious aftershave.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Morna didn’t answer. He was pressing on her windpipe, which made it difficult to breathe.

  ‘Or would you rather lie on top?’

  She shook her head, too tired to move or even speak. There was silence for a moment. She jumped when he spoke again. />
  ‘It’s my first time with a redhead. I always wondered if they matched—you know—down below. You do. It’s stunning! A burning bush.’

  His laugh re-echoed in her stomach. She tried to pull free, dislodge the dogged finger he was jabbing up inside her. There were noises as well as smells now—the squelch of flesh on flesh, both their breathings out of sync, a sudden rattling from the street outside, constant yelps and giggles from the video.

  ‘Bring your knees up.’

  His voice was urgent now, impatient, but she couldn’t concentrate. The video was too distracting. A huge pout-lipped negro was head to tail with a schoolgirl in a gymslip—a gymslip but no pants. They moved to close-up—quivering crimson depths probed by pink pulsing tongue. Morna felt the twenty-dollar lobster shift inside her stomach, jostle with the strawberries. She assumed she had digested them by now, but they were still sitting whole inside her gut—strawberries with hairy stalks and leaves on, lobsters with sharp claws. She seemed to be all stomach, had lost the bits below. She wasn’t even sure if David had entered her or not. If he had a Big Sam, she couldn’t seem to feel it. Their bodies didn’t fit.

  ‘I’m sorry. Am I hurting?’ David paused a moment, changed the pressure of his finger. ‘Better?’ He stopped again, tried a different angle. ‘Morna, is that better?’

  ‘Wh … What?’ She had thought it was the negro who had spoken. He was using both his hands instead of just one finger—huge black hands spreading the schoolgirl’s opening as if it were elastic, turning it almost inside out, exposing the raw red swollen depths inside.

  She suddenly jerked up, pushed David off, dashed into the bathroom. Girl, negro, lobster, strawberries, spewed into the basin. She ran the taps to drown the noise, stood leaning against the wall, one hand pressed against her head, the other nursing her stomach. It was minutes before she dared to move, and only then to stagger back to the basin, wipe her mouth. David’s matching toiletries were arranged on the shelf. She sprayed on his cologne to drown the smell of vomit, gargled with his mouthwash.

  There was a hammering on the door.

  ‘J … Just coming,’ she called, swabbing down the basin and almost colliding with a white and naked body as she emerged.

  ‘What the hell …?’ David grabbed her arm.

  ‘I’m sorry. My bladder’s a bit …’ Morna forced a laugh, a lie. ‘It must have been all those cocktails. I’m all right now.’

  ‘Well, you don’t look it.’ David let her go, slumped down on the bed, swatted irritably at the sheet. He did have a Big Sam, a tiny tiny one, like a baby shell-less snail which had curled for safety between the slack folds of his thighs.

  ‘S … Sorry,’ she said again.

  He was still glancing at the video, then looking back at her, as if uncertain which was the better bet. The negro and the schoolgirl had gone—or come. Two older girls were soaping each other in a bubble bath. The blonde leaned across and sucked the brunette’s nipple. David crawled towards the set, squatted on the carpet, nose to screen. ‘I’ve taken my contact lenses out and I can’t see a damned thing back there. Come and sit beside me.’ He patted the orange pile.

  Morna lowered herself gingerly to the floor. Everything was faintly hazed and blurred as if she, too, had removed her contact lenses—except she didn’t wear them. She let David take her hand, felt its growing hurting pressure as he watched the blonde part the brunette’s thighs. His nails were digging into her as the blonde probed deeper, deeper.

  ‘Quick!’ he said. ‘Lie back. No—where you are.’ It was the blonde he was instructing, slavering over her slim and eager thighs as he rearranged her own sluggish heavier ones. She lay torpid, as if dead. The girls in the bath were doing the work for her. The fair one had manoeuvred the long-handled bath brush between the dark one’s legs. She could feel it now, just the tip of it—wobbly for a bath-brush. She tried to firm it up, grip with her muscles, used her hands to help. Too late. It was already slipping out, dwindling away to nothing.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ David heaved off, stalked away, sagged down by the desk.

  She knew she ought to follow him, but she felt too weak and queasy. Everything was tipping, including the screen. The two girls in the bath were rocking back and forth in a sort of writhing agony, mouths open, eyes closed, slopping turquoise-tinted water over the sides of the marble tub. They must be ill as well, judging by their groans. She wished she could turn them off, turned her back instead, crawled towards David in his corner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Third time.

  ‘No, it’s my fault.’ He shifted round on his bottom, fumbled out a hand. ‘Bit out of practice, I’m afraid. The … er … wife walked out six months ago and you know how these things affect one.’

  She nodded. ‘Mm.’

  ‘It’s worse for a bloke, though, don’t you think? A girl can always pretend.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘N … No.’

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘Er … no.’ Three ‘noes’ now, and two of them straight lies.

  ‘Just my luck! A cracker of a girl and single on top of it, and I balls it up.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter—honestly.’ She wished he would stop talking, stop pawing her with that damply heavy hand. He got up for a moment, but only to fetch his Marlboros, plumped down again beside her, offered her the packet.

  ‘No, thanks.’ She had already told him—twice—she didn’t smoke.

  He puffed in silence for a while, using his cupped palm as an ashtray.

  ‘You won’t understand about the kid then,’ he mumbled at last, almost to himself.

  ‘I … I beg your pardon.’

  ‘If you’re single—never had a kid—it’s difficult to realise just how it cuts you up. I’ve only got the one—Michelle—haven’t seen her since the wife left.’

  Morna forced her attention back. She was trying to find David—the other David—slip off somewhere colder and more bracing where her brain would work again, her stomach stop its shuddering.

  ‘H … How old’s your daughter?’

  ‘Two and a half. Go on—say it—I know what you’re thinking: what’s a middle-aged bloke like me doing with a toddler? I was always a late starter—late getting married, late producing a kid, and still waiting for promotion. Christ! That reminds me …’ He stubbed out the fag end on the desk-leg, scrambled to his feet. ‘We’ve got our sales conference tomorrow—all the big guns there—and I haven’t finished my report yet.’

  Morna struggled up as well. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got to get back myself. It’s quite a distance and I’m not even sure which bus …’

  ‘Oh, don’t go. Please. You’ll never get a bus this late, and taxis cost a bomb, if the driver doesn’t mug you first. Stay the night. Go on—be my guest. I’d like to make it up to you—have another stab—if you’ll forgive the pun. I’m always better in the morning, and once I get that homework off my chest …’ He was dragging on his pyjama top, hunting for the bottoms. ‘I suspect that was half the trouble, actually. I’d planned to work this evening, you see—miss dinner and tie up that report as soon as I’d done my hour or two of sightseeing. Unfortunately’—he laughed—‘I met the best sight last of all.’

  Morna trailed towards the bathroom and her clothes. If only there weren’t so many explanations, so many strings of words. Each one hurt her head, left a stain on her mind like a blot from a leaky pen. He was tagging after her, pulling at her arm.

  ‘What d’you have to leave for if you’re on your own? It’s damned lonely on your own. I ought to know.’ He tied his dressing gown, too tightly, round his middle. ‘I feel bad enough already, going off the boil like that, and if you push off now before I’ve had a chance to … Hey, perhaps you’re hungry, are you? I can order you anything you want, you know. It’s twenty-four-hour service, direct to the room. I just charge it to the firm. How about a nightcap, or a milk shake, or a nice club sandwich?’

  She shook her h
ead, heard her stomach snarl its own refusal, flopped down on the bed.

  ‘Great! You’ve changed your mind. That’s it—have a little shut-eye. I can see you’re tired. I’ll creep in after you, as soon as I’ve got shot of this lot. Don’t worry—I won’t disturb you. Let’s save it for the morning, shall we? I’ll set the alarm for six. That’ll give us time before my meeting—even time for breakfast, if you like. Is that light a nuisance? Tell you what—I’ll switch it off and just use this desk one—shade it with a towel or something. How’s that? Better? If you turn the other way, you won’t notice it at all.’

  She turned to face the wall, heard David creak his chair back, rustle papers. Blessed silence otherwise, though it made her feel uneasy. Was he watching her, creeping up on her? She humped back the other way. His head was bent across the desk, shoulders tense, legs stuck out at an angle, huge grey shadow spastic on the wall. A plume of smoke was coiling up above his head as if he were on fire. Smoke and shadow merged. The light was so dim, he was only a shape, a blur. If she closed her eyes, she could turn him into David Anthony. He would be working, too—one small square of light beaconing from his cottage, her letters on his table. She could already hear the faint roar of the sea, feel the swell and slap of the waves against her body. The orange blankets paled into silver sand; the glimmer by the desk was the waning moon.

  ‘David,’ she whispered as she sank back in the water, tried to swim towards him against the rolling threshing waves. ‘Shout louder. I can’t hear you.’

  The alarm was a quiet well-mannered one. Morna reached out automatically to turn it off, then spent some minutes groping for the light switch, blinked in surprise when at last she jabbed it on. She was lying in a bed she had never seen before, in a room completely strange to her, with a man she had never laid eyes on in her life.

  The man was snoring, snoring very loudly, mouth open, the sound vibrating through his chest. His breath smelt of nicotine, the lower teeth stained brown with it, the upper ones crowded with bad bridge-work. His hair was sandy, sparse, his face slack-jowled, shadowed with gingery stubble. A button was missing from his pyjamas, revealing a strip of pallid chest, grizzled with coarse hair. One hand was flung towards the wall. It wore a wedding ring.