by Lisa Alther
Then she had added, “How do you write honestly about gay experience without destroying your chance of being published and reviewed by mainstream presses? Is it possible? Cavafy didn’t even try. Once he started writing candidly about his male lovers, he no longer published his poems. He just circulated typescripts to sympathetic friends.
“Vita Sackville-West tried to solve this dilemma by making a woman in each of her female couples male. But for this reason, some of her fiction doesn’t ring true. By trying to make yourself acceptable to the conventional world, you falsify your own reality.
“Marguerite Yourcenar created protagonists who were gay males living in the distant past. Thus, readers could never claim that her novels were autobiographical—even though she lived for forty years with another woman. She was widely praised for writing like a man. If she had written like the lesbian that she was, whatever that entails, would she have been elected to the Académie française?
“Proust turned the men he yearned for into women in his fiction. E. M. Forster wrote Maurice in 1914, based partly on his love affair with a man in Alexandria. But it wasn’t published until 1971, after his death. Who knows what amazing fiction gay writers might create if we weren’t forced into straitjackets, so to speak, in order to earn a living or avoid ridicule? Self-censorship is the most insidious kind.”
So did this lament explain Kat’s interest in Cavafy? It wasn’t that she admired his busy erotic life. It was, rather, that she was trying to figure out how to write about a gay person’s perceptions without being penalized and pilloried for it. And she had apparently concluded, as had Cavafy, that it was impossible.
Jessie flipped back to “Swan Song I” and reread it. Then she closed the journal and leaned back on her pillows. Who was this mystery woman Kat had fantasized about? Or was it a real woman whom Kat had pursued in secret? Jessie had been so busy during Kat’s final year, doing her job so she could pay their bills, and overseeing Kat’s tests and treatments, that she probably hadn’t taken the time to be very comforting to Kat about her approaching death. In any case, Kat had been such a stoic that she had appeared not to need it. Had someone else come along who was more comforting? One of the hired caregivers who came to the condo? A nurse at the hospital? Had the encounter in the poem really happened, or was Kat just wishing that it would? Surely she had been too sick to conduct or participate in a new seduction. But what a horrible way for Kat’s and her romance to end—with her not knowing if Kat had been in love with someone else when she died.
Jessie realized that her imagination was running riot. She would have been able to tell if Kat had been involved with someone else. Besides, Kat wasn’t devious. She would have told Jessie if this were so. In any case, Jessie had no choice but to exile this ridiculous suspicion from her mind. Otherwise, it might embitter her for the rest of her life. She grabbed her running shoes and laced them up. She would clear her mind with fresh air and mindless exertion.
As she exited through the heavy door onto the walking deck, she spotted Ben coming toward her in his officer whites, along with Mona in a mauve tracksuit. Jessie was irritated to feel a surge of pleasure at the sight of Mona. Dear God, when would it ever end, this ordeal of being drawn to another person like a sea turtle to a sandy beach on a full-moon night? She and Mona had had several brief encounters since passing the night in each other’s arms—a coffee here, a chat there. Jessie found herself inventing excuses to detour past the theater on errands. A couple of times she had bumped into Mona near the clinic, where Mona had no business being. When Jessie tried to figure out what she had meant when she told Mona that she loved her, she realized that she was acknowledging a need they both seemed to feel simply to be together. It apparently soothed them both.
Mona looked embarrassed. Ben looked—what? He looked smug, an older man who had snared an attractive younger woman. So Mona probably hadn’t told him about her night with Jessie. If she had, he would be looking licentious right now as he schemed about how to get them both into bed with him at once. Jessie waved at them and kept walking fast in the opposite direction.
* * *
—
Dressed in her skirted officer’s uniform, Jessie walked out on the top deck. It was packed with oil tycoons in ten-gallon hats, Miss Kittys from Gunsmoke, a Lone Ranger in a black mask, several Davy Crocketts in fringed leather, renegade Indians and kerchiefed bandits, and some Dolly Partons. Many were swilling Jack Daniel’s or Coronas. Ribs from an entire herd of steers were roasting on smoking grills tended by a platoon of chefs in tall white hats. Long tables held huge vats of coleslaw, baked beans, and potato salad. Platters were piled high with sliced tomatoes and ears of corn. Giant baking tins held oozing fruit cobblers. It felt obscene to Jessie after her night with the starving refugees, but she kept her gloomy thoughts to herself.
Mitch, the cruise director, wore sleeve garters and a brocade vest. It was unclear whom he thought he was impersonating. Bat Masterson maybe? He yelled through a microphone until he had quieted the crowd enough to announce that the line-dancing class was going to perform a new routine called “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” Recorded country music blasted across the roof deck, and the dancers launched into a number that involved circling their arms overhead, as though lassoing steers, while shuffling their boots in intricate patterns. They wore cowboy hats, which they periodically removed to twirl in time to the music.
Rodney’s twisted ankle must have healed, because he was schottishing with the best of them. And the best of them was unquestionably Mrs. Pendragon, the permanent passenger, who was giving quite a show in her tight jeans, pearl-snapped cowboy shirt, and tooled leather boots, hopping and stomping and slapping her boot heels. No one could have ever guessed that this good-time gal passed her days sewing miniature wedding gowns for aborted fetuses.
Once their dance had concluded, Captain Kilgore took Mitch’s mike and said, “If you’ll look off our starboard side, you can see the famous Rock of Gibraltar, one of the Pillars of Hercules. And off our port side is the other pillar, Morocco’s Jebel Musa. On these pillars in ancient days was said to be posted the message ‘Ne plus ultra,’ meaning ‘No more beyond,’ a warning to sailors not to venture into the dangerous ocean that raged on the far side of the pillars. And, in fact, you will need to hold tight to your drinks tonight, folks, because it can get rather rough in the strait. An upper current of water flows from the Atlantic into the Mediterranean, while a lower current flows in the opposite direction. Vikings used to sail their longships through this strait on the current alone, and German U-boats turned their engines off so they could drift into the Mediterranean undetected by Allied sentries on the shore. Enjoy your barbecue supper. I’ll be back to reveal our special sunset surprise once we reach the Atlantic!”
Jessie moved to the starboard railing to inspect the Rock, which resembled a crouching lion. The sails of some windsurfers billowed at its base. Farther out, a couple of small fishing boats were trolling through the turbulent waters. In the distance straight ahead a ferry was crossing from Spain to Morocco.
Ben came over to her. Their night of dealing with the refugees had apparently convinced them both that it was unseemly to feud with each other when they were among the most fortunate people who had ever roamed the planet. Observing him that night, Jessie had recognized what a skilled physician he was—and also what a compassionate man, apart from his torturous affairs of the heart. He was an interesting man, as well, with his fascination with archaeology and paleoanthropology. There was a reason she had loved him all those years ago, and she had to confess that she still liked him very much. He was like a brother to her. They were similar in so many ways that it was no wonder their romance had fizzled. It had probably felt vaguely incestuous to them both.
“That rock is where the last Neanderthals died about forty thousand years ago,” he was saying.
“Really? What happened to them?”
“Nobody knows
for sure. They used to live all over what’s now western Europe. They might have been slaughtered by the Homo sapiens who arrived from Africa. Or Homo sapiens might have brought diseases Neanderthals had no immunities to. Or the warming weather might have weakened Neanderthals, since their bodies had been designed for an ice age. But before they died out, they must have had some wild nights with our distant ancestors, because everyone alive today contains some of their DNA. Except for Africans with no European or Asian ancestry.”
Mitch was calling for everyone’s attention, so they returned to the dance area. A song by Shania Twain called “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” erupted from the speakers. Some dogs caged in the kennels down the deck began to howl. A dozen chefs suddenly deserted their grills to invade the dance floor like a flash mob. Waving their butcher knives and barbecue tongs, they performed the Electric Slide in unison in their sauce-stained aprons and tall white hats. One chef took center stage to juggle three butcher knives, while the audience whistled and cheered and twirled their white napkins over their heads.
Then Mitch invited the passengers to the buffet tables. People piled up their plates and headed to the chairs and dining tables and cushioned sea chests full of life jackets scattered all around the deck. Mrs. Pendragon and several of her dance team snagged Jessie to sit at their table as she passed by.
“I loved your new dance, Mrs. Pendragon,” said Jessie.
“Please,” said Mrs. Pendragon. “Just call me Mrs. P., the way everyone else does. But you should come to our class sometime.”
“Thanks, maybe I will.” Jessie mused that line dancing might be one way to avoid brooding in her cabin over Kat’s infidelity that had probably never happened—and over the memory of that limp little body she had cradled in her arms.
Mona mounted the central dais, disguised as a Spanish flamenco dancer in a long red dress with flounces around the hem. Drago had parted and slicked back her auburn hair to resemble a severe bun and had placed a huge fake scarlet hibiscus blossom at the nape of her neck. A man in a fedora accompanied her, carrying a guitar. He sat down and began playing an introduction that involved a lot of backhanded flicking of his fingers across the strings in a stabbing rhythm. Mona began to sing in Spanish. The song kept shifting from a major key to a minor one and back again. Jessie knew enough Spanish to follow the lyrics, which were expressing gratitude to life for all its gifts to human beings—the most precious one being love.
Mona gazed unabashedly at Jessie as she sang this. Her magnificent voice exuded an optimism much appreciated by the assembled guests, many of whom were still quite disturbed by the refugees’ ordeal.
All of a sudden, Gail Savage moved out on the dance floor, wearing a long black dress with a skintight skirt that cupped her shapely buttocks. She was also wearing her usual black head scarf and sunglasses, as well as black stiletto heels with pointed toes and ankle straps. Harry was beside her, attired as a gaucho in a red kerchief, leather chaps, tight boots, and a black hat with a wide, flat brim.
With a flourish, Harry grabbed a butcher knife from one of the chefs. Gail reached down and seized the hem of her skirt. As she stretched it taut, Harry slashed her side seam all the way up to her hip. The audience gasped. It was like watching bad porn. Underneath the skirt Gail was wearing a black bodysuit and fishnet stockings. She was without a doubt the most erotic mourner Jessie had ever witnessed. The rumor around the ship was that Harry had been a priest. If this was true, he appeared to be making up for all the time he had lost being pious.
Gail moved into Harry’s outstretched arms, and they began to dance an agonizingly slow tango to Mona’s song. As it progressed, Gail and Harry assumed some truly astonishing poses, with Gail stretched out supine while Harry held her just a foot off the floor, his mouth hovering inches above her ruby lips. Then he lifted her to her feet, and she flicked her heels backward at him several times, like a colt frolicking in spring sunshine, the sharp talons of her shoes barely missing his crotch. Men all over the deck reflexively folded their hands in front of their groins. Jessie watched with admiration as Gail wove her long fishnet-clad legs behind and between Harry’s legs, and around his waist, without missing a beat, flashing enticing glimpses of her black bodysuit. She was like an octopus with rhythm.
Gail and Harry left the dance floor amid thunderous applause. As Gail passed the table at which Rodney Mullins and his wife sat, she bumped it with her hip. Rodney’s drink skittered across the tabletop and fell into his lap. His face at first registered surprise, then discomfort as the chilly liquid soaked his crotch—and finally, fury. Gail’s bumping his table had appeared deliberate, but who would mess with a man who had a serpent snaking up his forearm?
Rusty Kincaid was sitting at Gail and Harry’s table, looking defeated. What could he possibly do with Gail to equal that libidinous display? Xander lay on his back beneath one of the grills, tinkering at it with a wrench and looking wretched. Jessie noticed that Charles’s mahogany urn was also sitting in a chair at Gail’s round table. On its top perched Charles’s naval veteran cap.
As the applause faded, a woman disguised as Loretta Lynn, in a ruffled square-dancing skirt and cowboy boots, climbed up on the dais and grabbed the mike from Mona. “I want everyone here tonight to know that that woman you’re all applauding stole my new gown from the laundry room before I’d worn it even once!” she yelled in a broad Australian accent. “And she also burned my arm on purpose with a hot iron!”
The crowd fell silent and stared at Gail.
Gail sipped her Jack Daniel’s, not even bothering to look at her accuser.
“Admit it, bitch!” screamed the woman. “You know it’s true!”
Mitch rushed out, wrested the mike from the woman, handed it to Mona, and ushered the woman toward the elevator, talking to her soothingly.
As everyone watched, Gail gestured dismissively with her hand, as though flicking aside an annoying gnat.
Mona quickly said something to her guitar player. He began to strum, and she started singing “Slave to Love,” with lyrics that described how loving a woman leads to obsession and ruin. Her eyes once again sought out Jessie as passengers got up and began to two-step, the men twirling the women in front of them while they circled the dance area. A blast of wind swept across the deck, carrying someone’s Stetson over the railing, where it floated for a moment before tumbling toward the ocean. A flock of passing seagulls seemed to pause in mid-flight to discuss the identity of this strange new bird.
While Mrs. P. and her friends got up to join the two-steppers, Jessie remained seated, watching Mona in her stunning red dress, which displayed an even more stunning cleavage. She could feel Mona’s attraction to her in the intensity of the gazes she kept directing at her. But what did Mona really want? Was she experiencing love, or was it just an attraction based on her need for some financial security as her voice underwent the challenges of aging? Did she want a patron, or a mother—or a lover? Mona was trying her best to make it work with Ben, but she had mentioned having had girlfriends. And once you had experienced the tenderness of a skilled woman, it was sometimes difficult to revert to the rough-and-tumble of a man.
Jessie wished she could give Mona what she appeared to want. She could certainly make love to her once or twice, but then it would be over—because Jessie was still haunted by Kat. But she could also see so clearly what would happen if it didn’t end: She was in early old age, whereas Mona was just entering middle age. In a few years, Jessie would be seriously old. Mona would stay with her out of love and duty. But she would come to feel uninterested in Jessie’s sagging flesh and would long for her freedom. Kat had been a few years older than Jessie, but they had grown up together before growing older together.
Mona might say tonight that “once or twice” would be just fine with her. But it wouldn’t be fine with Jessie. Lovemaking was a fuel. Why rev the engines if you weren’t going anywhere? Besides,
she had had too much experience not to know that one-night stands between women were often disappointing. Good lovemaking for most required time. You had to learn what pleased the other person and explore new ways. You had to develop trust. In reality, most women weren’t all that thrilled by the danger and novelty of the unknown.
Men were cursed with the biological imperative of spreading their seed as widely as possible. Danger and novelty turned them on. But women were left having to raise the seedlings. So women were cursed with the biological imperative of caution. It took an act of courage to allow foreign objects to enter your orifices. The stakes were high, and penalties for the losers, severe. Jessie had dealt with them all in her ER—pregnancy, HIV, HPV, herpes, syphilis, gonorrhea, chlamydia, fecal incontinence, battery, murder, suicide. To pretend these dangers weren’t real, as many women did, was to betray your deepest instinct, one that went even deeper than desire—that of self-preservation. As you got older, you realized that wisdom often consisted of doing nothing.
Mitch took the mike from Mona and announced, “We’ve been fortunate to have had such calm conditions for our passage through the strait. We are now commencing the Atlantic portion of our voyage. We would like to invite you all to the bow to enjoy a concert by our wonderful Amphitrite orchestra, along with a complimentary glass of Veuve Clicquot. Our promised surprise is yet to be revealed!”
It took a long time for the wranglers on the roof deck to reach the bow and acquire their free champagne. Meanwhile, the orchestra played hits from Les Miserables and The Phantom of the Opera, while a few inexhaustible couples fox-trotted along the railings. The guests began to occupy the rows of folding chairs that looked out across the nose of the ship, where the sun was inching toward the horizon.
Once everyone was seated, the orchestra fell silent. Captain Kilgore appeared, the sinking crimson sun backlighting his crisp white dress uniform. Through the microphone he said, “And now for the special sunset surprise we’ve been promising you all evening: I give you our sister ships! Off our starboard side, behold the Aphrodite—born of sea foam, goddess of love, beauty, and pleasure—coming to us from her most recent stop at Cádiz. And to our port side is the Galateia, goddess of calm waters, joining us from Tangier. They will be sailing with us, side by side, all the way to Lisbon! Let’s raise our glasses now to welcome them!”