Somebody That I Used to Know

by Bunkie King

  When he plays William O’Hara Burke later the same year in the film Burke and Wills, Greta again plays his love interest, this time an opera singer. After his expedition has departed Melbourne to great fanfare, Burke rides back to see her perform that night. Backstage, he presents her with a posy of flowers. When they shoot that scene, a note from Jack is tucked into the posy: It’s only when I see you act that I recall the simple fact that Thespia was a goddess, not a god. He is definitely a consummate charmer.

  There is a pattern of Jack gushing publicly about his leading lady. Le and I get used to it. He does this with many actresses including Greta, Ingrid Bergman, and later Linda Evans. It may be that he needs to feel in love with and be loved by an actress in order to give that heightened sense of romantic involvement required by audiences. It is part of his role-playing.

  Jack and his career might benefit from his ‘character building’, but for me it is often humiliating and hurtful. I have accepted my position and am enjoying the ride, but these incidents really damage the love I have for him. No males have expressed an interest in me since England, possibly because I am known to be Jack’s woman and thus untouchable. Besides our life is even more isolated now — I rarely mix with new people.

  Yet within three years of returning from England I am again questioning myself. What am I doing with my life? I have no money, career or family close by. Despite a growing feeling that I would like to have a child, I have recently had another termination. I realise I’m becoming more and more numb, just drifting along. I am devoid of any real passion. My only way to feel any sense of self is to choose if and when Jack has access to my body. This is how I challenge his authority.

  In anticipation of the role of King Saul in Bruce Beresford’s King David with Richard Gere as the warrior king who made Israel a nation, Jack has grown an impressive beard and long hair. However, when Bruce is pressured by the studio to cast Edward Woodward as Saul, Jack utilises his hirsute appearance to accept a role in Flesh+Blood, a film set in medieval Italy and shot in the heart of Spain.

  Flesh+Blood is a brutal movie about a group of mercenaries who loot, rape and kill. In essence it depicts various forms of love and betrayal, but this is lost in the overall sex and gore. Jack took the job as he admired director Paul Verhoeven’s work, but comes to regret his decision. The combination of the director’s arrogant manner and the film’s content makes this production feel like working under a black cloud. A lot of the predominantly Dutch cast and crew have been intimately involved with one other at some stage over the years and their cliquishness leaves me feeling like an outsider.

  After completing wardrobe fittings in Madrid, we travel down to the main location in central Spain, Las Pedroñeras, a medieval town near a castle of the period. One of the cast brings her young daughter with her on location, but without a nanny. I have seen the woman drinking in the bar while her daughter sleeps on the floor under a table. Their room is opposite mine, and sometimes the little girl wanders in. Le and I speak a bit of Dutch to her and sing some Dutch songs that Mother sang to us as children. She curls up beside me while I am reading. I brush her hair, enjoying the opportunity to nurture this lonely little girl. I identify with her and believe the emotional neglect she is experiencing is similar to my childhood. I want to be company for her and reassure her that somebody cares for her, just as I wish someone had for me when I was her age. This association stirs maternal thoughts and highlights the fact that I will probably never have the opportunity to be a mother.

  One day, when she is sleeping on my double bed, her drunken, loud-mouthed mother bursts into the room shouting hysterically that we are incapable of behaving properly towards the girl. I hear words like ‘immoral’, ‘people like you’ and insinuations that my conduct is inappropriate. She drags her fearful and confused daughter off the bed, yelling at her in Dutch to never come into our rooms again. Speechless, I sit in stunned disbelief. Why is the woman judging me like this? I am fully clothed, reading on the sofa with the door unlocked while the exhausted child sleeps soundly, knowing that she is safe and secure. What’s the problem?

  Suddenly this woman’s accusations conjure up an abhorrent image that is foreign to how I think about myself and the relationship. A new awareness of public perceptions dawns on me; I feel cheap and dirty. Yes, perhaps our threesome is a bit unconventional, but it is certainly not deviant. There are never any orgies or peculiar behaviour. Her accusations shatter my illusions that I am involved in a great romance. They create a seismic shift in my psyche and expose the profound unease I have felt for a long time, not just about my relationship with Jack, but with the quality of my entire existence. I am neither a cheap tart nor a deviant whore. I am in love, but I become conscious that I am also living an illusion. My dream is never going to be Jack’s, Le’s or this itinerant life we live.

  I hold on to the notion that in Australia our three-way relationship is portrayed as a romantic love story. I don’t want to believe that some people might think otherwise. On film sets in Australia I feel comfortable in my role as Jack’s PA and always know somebody on the crew I can talk with. But on international productions I don’t feel welcome or accepted.

  Angry and confused, I agree to an invitation from a good-looking young waiter in the hotel. Lost and floundering, I just want to be loved, appreciated and be in a normal, uncomplicated relationship with someone — anyone. I am delighted that Fatcho, the waiter, finds me attractive. He is in his mid-20s, short and stocky, but handsome with big brown almond eyes and a square jaw. He takes me to a disco in a nearby town and afterwards we have a passionate session in his car. When Le finds out about my fling she exclaims, ‘My God, Bunkie. Having an affair with a Spanish waiter — I mean, really!’

  Yes, really! I’ve had enough of sitting in hotels. I don’t want to be around people who aren’t my friends and don’t understand me, even if they are my family. I just want to go home and start anew.

  After endless weeks hanging around on set doing nothing and feeling useless, I come down with the flu. I can barely think or move; it is most likely an emotional collapse. I am so vulnerable, spending too much time thinking about everything, about my life and its lack of fulfilment. Ill and confined to my room, I feel even more over the whole thing — all I want is to go home.

  When I tell Jack, he begs me not to leave: ‘Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me in the middle of the production.’

  He pleads with me to wait until we get back to Australia. ‘Just hang in here for a few more weeks then we’ll go to London and America and have a good time. If you still feel the same way when we get back, you can go then.’

  During a break in the shooting schedule we travel to the south of the country. In Granada we visit the Alhambra, the beautiful Moorish palace-fortress built in the fourteenth century. We head for the coast through stunning scenery and towns and eat delicious Spanish food, then loop our way back to Las Pedroñeras. But this great tourist experience makes no difference to my melancholy. All I want to do is go home.

  I naively plead with Jack to let me go, let me leave with his blessings. Inspired by Sting I plead, ‘If you really love me you will set me free.’

  I still believe I love Jack deeply but there is no bond, no real intimacy in our relationship. I don’t consider I have ever seen his true heart, never really known the man behind the charming facade.

  I just want out, at least for now.

  He asks, ‘But who’s going to do the books?’

  I reassure him that I will still do the end of financial year bookkeeping for him. Finally he agrees to let me leave. Jack arranges my ticket through the film company and I feel enormous relief, knowing that at last I am free to go home. I just need a break and fully expect that after a few weeks of being on my own I’ll probably be quite happy to see them again back in Sydney. But for now, I am tired of hanging around film sets where my only role is getting Jack coffee and seeing to his needs.

  I sit quietly in the car as he drives me from
Las Pedroñeras to Madrid airport. Knowing his uneasy relationship with punctuality, I chew my nails the entire two-hour journey wondering whether I’ll make it on time.

  I keep thinking, Oh shit, can we get this over with? I just want to go home!

  When we finally arrive at the airport I drag my suitcase out of the boot and head into the terminal to get to the baggage drop-off counter before it closes. The terminal is virtually empty. With ticket in hand I approach the counter. Suddenly, Jack grasps my shoulder and turns me to face him. ‘Show me your ticket,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just need to check something.’

  ‘What? What do you need to check?’

  ‘Come on. I just want to look at it.’

  I feel uneasy, not trusting him. In the past when he was hurting, Jack tried to hurt me. Though wary of his intentions I can’t really see a problem, standing a few metres from the check-in counter with time to spare. Uncertain and confused, I hand him the ticket. Jack snatches it away. In a wrathful fury he attempts to tear the ticket up! He then shoves it into his pocket and stands, glowering at me, just inches away. He is breathing hard, his face red.

  Knowing Jack as long as I have, I know it isn’t worth trying to reason with him. Our life has been full of drama and this is just another scene being played out. Exasperated, I walk over to the attendants at the counter, ‘My boyfriend just took my ticket. I need another one.’

  Having seen the tantrum, they just laugh at me, ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. You’ll have to report it to the police.’

  I slump on the counter and consider my options. Could I report Jack to the police? My deeply ingrained sense of loyalty to this man, whose privacy needs to be protected, means I cannot bring myself to involve the police.

  Frustrated with my inability to just get on the plane I walk back over to Jack. His gaze chills my insides as I ask, ‘What do you want me to do now?’

  ‘Fuck off!’ he snaps.

  ‘What?’ I am stunned.

  ‘Just fuck off!’ And with that I am dismissed.

  A wave of white fury engulfs me. I pick up my bag and storm out of the airport. Outside I hail a cab and get in with no thought of where I am going or what I will do. In limited Spanish I curse my feelings so the taxi driver grasps something of my situation, ‘Bastardo … el hombre es basura … todo es basura’ — ‘Bastard! The man is rubbish! All is rubbish.’

  The driver laughs as I blaze with anger and we drive off to a destination unknown.

  Chapter 21

  Stranded

  The driver drops me in the heart of Madrid. I stand on the pavement with my suitcase. Reality slaps me hard in the face — I’m stranded in a foreign country knowing only a few phrases of the language. I am grateful when I find I have about $100 cash in my wallet. My mind reels. What can I do? There’s no way I’m going to run back to Jack. If I was part of the film crew, or even Jack’s wife, I might be able to ask the production office for help, but I believe that, to them, I am just ‘the mistress’ Jack brought along on location along with his wife.

  I ring one of the Spanish actors we befriended, a gay guy in his 50s, to ask if I can stay in his flat in Madrid until I’ve sorted myself out. He backs off quickly. He doesn’t want to get embroiled in un asunto del corazón, a matter of the heart. I ask him to recommend a place to stay. He gives me the address of a place that’s clean and cheap by Madrid standards. I get a taxi to the hotel but I can’t afford to stay there for very long, so I check in for two nights only.

  The next day at the main bank I arrange for all the money in my personal account to be transferred from Australia, a grand total of $2500. I need to buy a new ticket home and pay for accommodation, but it’ll take time to arrive. I decide that my best course of action would be to return to the hotel where we stayed for the filming — the film crew has moved on, and perhaps my Spanish waiter Fatcho won’t mind helping me out. At least I am sort of known there and will be safe.

  I ring the hotel and can’t believe my good fortune when Fatcho takes the call. He advises me how to catch the Las Pedroñeras bus from the main Madrid terminal.

  I feel immense relief as I step off the bus in Las Pedroñeras. I’ve finally severed my umbilical cord to Jack. I drag my suitcase along the wide, dusty road that leads from the centre of town. It’s siesta time and the streets are virtually deserted. Las Pedroñeras is the garlic capital of Spain, open, flat country that reminds me of the landscape around Quorn in South Australia where Sunday Too Far Away was filmed. Memories flood back as I walk the empty streets.

  I approach the front desk at the hotel when I see Fatcho laying tables in the dining room. He soon spots me and comes over. I show him my almost empty wallet, gesturing that I have no more money but need somewhere to stay until funds arrive from Australia. Between his broken English and my hand gestures, I can tell he understands my situation.

  Fatcho leads me to the reception desk and explains to the manager that I need to stay but have no money now, but will pay all my costs once it comes through from Australia. The manager looks uncertain; I realise I am in dire straits. I look away, my eyes filling with tears — I don’t want to use emotional blackmail. The manager says something in Spanish to Fatcho who translates in broken English.

  ‘He say OK, you pay when money here.’

  ‘Gracias, gracias!’ I am so relieved. At last I feel safe.

  As I’m not a paying guest — not yet, anyway — the manager ‘El Jefe’ (the boss) puts me in an unheated wing of the hotel. Central Spain can get freezing in winter and snow carpets the countryside as I shiver in my tiny room, huddled over a single-bar heater that Fatcho has found. But it’s fine with me. My separation from the world provides space to work through what has happened, and what lies ahead. There could be worse places for my dilemma than a Spanish hotel room.

  The days turn into weeks and I pass through some of the stages of grief: anger, depression and finally acceptance; acceptance that Jack doesn’t love me and probably never has. Nobody who ever loved me could tell me to ‘Fuck off’ in a foreign country and leave me with no money. I become conscious that I have no idea who Jack is. I am on my own in a foreign country again, but this time I feel I’m a bit older and wiser than I was in London — and I know I will be going back to Australia soon. I take this time to relax, reflect and recuperate. I feel relieved that the relationship is finally over and swear that I will never again be vulnerable to love.

  What I worked out was this: If Jack had genuinely wanted to have a relationship with two women, he needed to be more accountable. We all needed to have a say as to how, when and where our lives together evolved. But he would merely state his decisions and presume that we’d go along with whatever he chose to do. Rarely was there honest discussion and negotiation.

  Las Pedroñeras has a medieval atmosphere that makes it feel as if the rest of the world is forgotten, or at least far, far away. If not for Fatcho, I’d feel utterly alone. I am completely reliant on him. He brings me leftovers scrounged from the kitchen, simple food like bocadillo con queso e tomate — a cheese and tomato sandwich, or huevos revueltos con ajo — scrambled eggs with garlic. He takes me out a few times to cafeterias and we gradually renew our affaire.

  Fatcho doesn’t ever come to my hotel room — El Jefe won’t allow it. We meet in the lobby or cafeteria and, at night, he stays in a boarding house on the edge of town. I don’t go there because it’d cause a scandal as he is engaged. Spanish people usually get engaged young and remain so for many years before they wed. It’s fairly common for married or engaged men to have someone on the side. Fatcho may be fond of me but I know our friendship is fleeting. He has no intention of disrupting the traditions of his society. He’ll marry his sweetheart, his novia, and they’ll have kids and perhaps live happily ever after. When he isn’t working, he goes back to his pueblo to be with his family and fiancée. His situation actually helps; I can’t become emotionally attached to him in the hope that ‘true love’ wi
ll fix everything.

  Once or twice a week we go and stay overnight in another village. There is no great passion between us — he’s not a particularly skilful lover — and we can’t communicate very well. But I’m grateful for the physical contact, and to feel worthy of something besides pain and accusation.

  Fatcho is the one person in the world who knows exactly where I am and why I’m there. My family and friends around the world presumably think I am still happily travelling around Spain with Jack, then heading to England with him and Le. The film crew probably assumes I’ve gone home. Fatcho’s companionship provides a semblance of security. In the process his English improves and I learn to speak quite passable Spanish.

  My relationship with Fatcho shields me in this provincial outpost where women rarely leave their houses, and then only in company. My foreignness, character and behaviour, my very presence, generates plenty of gossip.

  One afternoon four well-dressed yet dodgy-looking types arrive at the hotel and confront me in the salón cafetería. They seem to know that I’m stranded and still without money. One of the men speaks very good English. He makes what he thinks is an irresistible offer.

  ‘We have a yacht. Join us for a couple of weeks, no strings attached. Come take a Mediterranean cruise on a private, luxury yacht.’

  And then what? Get taken over to North Africa and disappear into the white slave trade? Gee, how can I resist?

  Another time, a different group of young men, this time not so well dressed, approach me with the line, ‘We are a fledgling rock group. We want you to sing with us. Come to our studio. What? You can’t sing? Oh well, with your blonde good looks we’ll rock Madrid anyway.’