A Woman of the Future

by David Ireland

  I Like Myself

  At eleven I looked at myself down there for the first time. It’s one thing to see yourself in a mirror standing up, either in the bathroom, in your bedroom or in the change rooms on sports day. It’s quite another to shut the door and hold a hand mirror up to yourself with your legs tucked up, and suddenly to see the folds and wet lips. And a bit further down, the anus.

  The anus was rarely mentioned among the kids, as such, only in talk like “up your bum,” or “get your arse over here.”

  It had lines radiating from the circumference of the pinky-brown part, inward to—to what? To nothing. The muscles kept the hole closed. If you opened it out to one side with your finger the radiating lines dipped in and disappeared at a slightly different length from what they were before.

  I faced my bottom toward the window to get a better light, but I didn’t feel like continuing to look at it. I pulled my pants up.

  It was rather indefinite. I mean where did it begin and above all where did it end? Also, it was an exit, yet it looked so much like a mouth, and a mouth sucks when it puckers. But it whistles too.

  As I bent forward to get up I caught a frail odor that must have hung there before I covered myself, and was now gradually rising, being warm. It was my odor. I liked it.

  Next morning when I woke, I felt, for some reason, fully equal to the morning.

  The Hill Children

  The Hill children lived out past the monastery on the other side of Hanging Hill, in the last vineyard left within a hundred kilometers of the city. There was no actual Hill family: the Hill children were kids who lived on that hill, for down past the edge of the vineyard there were houses, little fibro cottages and mock weatherboard places where the hill descended into the valley and the winter nights accumulated heavy cold air that felt like a fog to walk through.

  All the children on that side of the hill had vines which, when allowed to come to fruit, produced a wine like no other.

  The children had for a while been victim of a disappearing disease—they had been abducted by profit-makers who wanted desperately to bring out an original vintage—until they received a dispensation from the authorities to have their own school. It was dangerous for them to go into the world, the world wanted to make something of them. And at school some of the other kids got them at the beginning of the year, at the end of January; some held them down while others plucked them, at each grape a scream.

  The beginning of the grape-growing area was hidden by a huge trick picture of houses and streets, barred by yellow street barriers, as if council workmen were tearing up the street. In front of the houses were pictures to show fields and grapes continuous with the fields beside them and behind.

  The usual growth was from the legs and arms. I particularly liked it when the vines were beginning to sprout. I think there is nothing so lively as the fresh green of innocent plants pushing out into the light with the energy of life behind them. Ah, the buds and baby leaves and miracles of spring.

  Bottled, it was called Child-Wine. Armed security guards protected the Hill children everywhere. They always went round together. Scientists came and studied them. They lived like royalty. But at night the children’s vines entwined, fighting each other. They had to be patiently disentangled in the morning.

  Spiros Kyprianou

  He was frightened of mirrors. A tidy boy; more brown than fair, more small than big, more timid than forward, more mid-class than bright; neat, good on little details like drawing red lines under the titles of his work and in the margin and keen on tiny drawings to illustrate the geography or history he was doing. He even drew little diagrams in his number book, and colored them in: little pictures of the problems. You know the sort of thing: tanks emptying, areas of fields—he drew in the trees and animals—and piles of shot.

  He was very tidy.

  I slipped and fell on him one Friday afternoon leaping for the gate on the way out. There was a patch of gravel shading into sand on the asphalt surface. I hit the edge of the gravel and skidded on to the sand, was airborne briefly, then landed on Spiros. He skidded on his belly, and got up, and I waited, prepared to dispense a brief word of thanks, or to strike like the taipan if it was cheek and dirty words he had ready.

  Instead, when he saw me his eyes rounded and something suspiciously like my dog Boof’s look crept into his eyes. From that moment, he was my dog. I used to whistle and click my fingers at him, and he would come running.

  I found I could look straight ahead and see sideways at the same time. I could look straight at the school bell, with Spiros over on my right; when I whistled him I could see him stop and come toward me. (When I extended my arms sideways and waggled my fingers I could see both sets of fingers—still looking straight ahead!)

  He was only a medium sort of boy, but advanced in his capacity to love. (You mustn’t think I was unable to distinguish at that age between those boys who wanted to look and touch and master me, from the few who might some day be capable of the rarer feat of love.)

  For an English Expression assignment he included the lines:

  “A beautiful girl is like a tree in Spring,

  A bird in the sky, free of the earth.

  A beautiful girl is a gift of God.”

  He didn’t leave it at that. He titled it “The Beautiful Alethea Hunt.”

  The teacher was so taken with it that he had it read out to the class by the best reader. Me. Luckily, we all made such a rout of the English class that the kids thought I just stuck my own name in for the hell of it. When the teacher pointed out that I hadn’t invented anything, I could have died.

  Spiros was pink-cheeked and black-haired and spoke nicely, and it was predicted that he would play five-eighth for high school by year nine or ten, but he had this open sincerity when it came to me. He worshipped me in the playground and in class, and followed me with his eyes when I dashed into the girls’ wash sheds.

  His devotion, after boring, amusing and irritating me, began to affect me. I thought of him at night, I wondered where he was when I lost sight of him in the playground. I felt peculiar when he came near me.

  In class, we learned that the mutton bird kept up its cycle of flying, mating, nesting, in a huge circle round the rim of the Pacific. An enormous merry-go-round. It didn’t care that I was being caught up in feelings that I didn’t understand.

  In English, the teacher blithely went ahead with an inspiring lesson on working for the world and earning undying fame for oneself, but when I looked around innocently to see if Spiros was watching me and found that his warm eyes were like suns big enough to swallow me, I shivered. And shivered at night in my bed, thinking over what was happening and what was to happen in the future.

  Next thing I knew, he had written a composition about me. It was called “My Close Friend.”

  But I wasn’t. He was the friendly one.

  My friend has a striking appearance with a longish face and angel-shaped head. Her nose protrudes like a freckled umbrella sideways in the rain, and her soft green eyes hide under long, tawny lashes.

  Her eyebrows are a whitish-golden mixture, scarcely noticeable at first sight, and her long legs carry her to victory in the “zone” sprint championships.

  Her house is near an oval where she trains with her father spring and summer, but in the autumn and winter she plays touch football with the children from the next street.

  She is eleven years old and is always top of the class and best at everything, even singing. She has a quiet and soft emotional character which she hides behind her brains. She is a lone wolf who asks help from no one.

  As suddenly as I had slipped and fallen on Spiros, I got sick of having him round me. He liked me: so what? I told him to keep out of my way and look at someone else with those brown eyes of his.

  Brown eyes, pickle pies

  Blue eyes, beauty

  Green eyes, greedy guts

  Grey eyes, duty.

  I Resented Having to Feed That Horse

/>   That afternoon I had to feed the horse, and after that, Daddy had to shoot him. I was tired of having a horse. We’d tried to get rid of it many times, I hated being tied to it. I’m grateful that at last his resurrection failed him.

  I’d taken the initiative of putting a mattock and shovel in the boot of the car, all that remained when Belle was shot was to put in a few minutes pleading with Daddy, then we could get on with it. I dearly wanted to dig a hole for old Belle.

  Belle was short for Bellerophon. It had another connotation too. (He was a homosexual.)

  Belle, despite his many brushes with death, still maintained the usual animal stolidity when the gun barrel pointed at his brains, which hid modestly under his skull, which in turn hid decently under soft brown fur.

  When father had blown his brains out and he’d fallen, we dug the hole.

  I know what you’re thinking; why not dig the hole first, then bring the horse over to fall in it. We tried that. The paddock was studded with the scars of many holes, but as sure as we dug the hole and tried to get Belle anywhere near it, we couldn’t. You’d think a nag with so little teachability that you could shoot it any time you liked would also be dull enough to be led over to his grave and shot conveniently beside it. Not Belle.

  Yet he didn’t mind the gun pointing at him.

  The hole was five feet deep, and it wasn’t till we’d got the earth in around him and heaped on his legs that we really believed he wasn’t going to wake up healed, and step with dignity out of the hole.

  I know the desire for revenge is a bad thing, but with all my differences from other people I am still human, and need to be able to pay back aggression, insults and blows. And that horse did throw me. How could I forget that?

  When I got home I cried wholeheartedly. I guess the hardest hearts squeeze out the biggest tears.

  The Authorities Tested Us

  The tests they came to do on us from their education headquarters in the city were attempts to find clues to the potential within us. Even the slow ones, those who couldn’t string their words together with any sureness of arriving at the end of a declaration without loose words left over like spare nuts and bolts, must have been considered to contain some of that precious ore, since they were tested just as often as I was.

  It could be that the more medically aligned tests were for some sort of genetic variation that they hoped to discover in me. (And the others.) They took smears; oral, anal, genital, and when we were eleven, a small piece of tissue from the side of a finger; they took it away in a separate marked glass container as big as a twenty cent coin.

  Sometimes I think: If I could wake tomorrow and be a little girl again. But this is today and I am here: there’s no going back. Cruel time carries me forward to meet whatever is waiting. Whether I’m ready or not.

  Composition: Deserted Wilderness

  The warm October sunlight bathed my weary head and the gentle swaying of the train was making me ever so tired, though I had never been tired before in my life. Suddenly the train came to an abrupt halt and jerked me into the world of reality. Smiling, I thought about all the things that must have happened in the two years I had been away. The train would not stop much longer, I made my way to the door. My foot slipped on some food that a careless passenger had dropped. My head swam as I went flying through the door onto the cement platform. The last thing I felt before I merged into total unconsciousness was a searing scorching pain across my forehead. My mind drifted into oblivion, and I followed.

  Dazed, I sat upright, or what I thought was upright. My first reaction was total amazement. I had a dull recollection of flying through the carriage door and the impact of the cement could still be felt—everywhere! As if I landed on everything I had!—Yet I saw no platform, and no sign of a station. Stretching out to the horizon in all directions was complete waste land desert. The dull bronzed yellow of sand met my gaze in all directions, there was nothing to be seen or heard. Only total silence and desolation. I looked up. The blaze of sun penetrated my body and the harsh heat flooded me. I was tired, so tired. Once more, oblivion . . .

  I awoke refreshed in close, utter darkness which was not only the absence of light but the tangible presence and body of dark. The silence was intense. I tried to remember: I couldn’t. Thoughts swirled about in my head like a gargle. My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and I made out the horizon. It was so peaceful sitting down all alone as gradually a gentle light bathed my form. I could see something illuminated by the soft dawn light. I ran toward it, filled with gratitude and enthusiasm. I stopped. I could see I didn’t have to run. It was coming toward me! It was the beast of the desert, spotted and tawny like a leopard.

  It is much nearer now. Its eyes look through me. Its jaws are open wide.

  The End

  One of the Boys from Another Country

  One of the boys from another country, Rinalde Dalneri, had paper growing out of him. An irregular sheet came from his side where the ribs make ripples under his left arm. It was paper, all right, but flesh-paper, like skin. I mentioned it at home, and father asked, smiling, if Rinalde was going to make lampshades of it, and I made the mistake of asking Rinalde. He didn’t speak to me again.

  Words grew on the paper as it came out, unknown words in a strange tongue. A teacher he trusted was always going to find out what language the words were, but never did; instead, he dropped guesses that it might be Basque, or Sanskrit.

  We told him they were filthy words. (As if words could be filthy.) But he didn’t like being teased, and kept to himself. When he went to sport he always appeared with the flesh-paper trimmed to skin level.

  I tried to make it up to him, simply because I was curious and I didn’t like to accumulate enemies by accident, and he wasn’t really a nasty boy. He got embarrassed when I apologized, so I talked quickly about Mario Fattoretto, one of the kids who’d been at Primary in the class below, and had just died with blood cancer.

  As I went away he said, with a look of regret that I cannot forget, “Thanks. You’re trying to be nice, I know, but it’s me that’s the failure. You’ll never fail.”

  I didn’t know what to say. The sadness in his eyes was more than sadness at his change: it had something to do with me. Then it occurred to me that he could never hope to have one of us. As a real friend, anyway.

  I told Father about him, and tried to explain.

  “You didn’t tell him he was a failure, did you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He seemed relieved.

  “None of us ever say publicly that they are failures. They look at themselves and conclude they are failures, since they don’t get through the grading and they become different. We never make fun of them.”

  “It isn’t necessary?” I asked.

  He looked sideways at me, perhaps thinking I was trying for sarcasm. My face was as pure as I could make it.

  “Well, I daresay—”

  “But why do they change?”

  “People lose some things and gain others. I think you’ll find as you go through life that they, the Frees, regard what happens to them as a type of justice. I know they often lose their humanity because they have lost, but after they have safely failed, they gain other things.”

  “But don’t we label them failures because they change?”

  “Never in public. And it’s good policy never to talk about them to other Servers, because you never know when you’re going to change. Or when they are.”

  I thought about it after dinner, and decided that I didn’t think people unfortunate enough to belong to the Free class should feel there is any stigma attached to failure. After all, personal growth is a greater thing than poverty.

  Could it be that the difference between achievers and those who fail is some kind of difference in the individual attitude to originality, to difference itself, to standing out from the crowd? Those who fall back to the majority, are they cowed by life, are they cowed into conforming to what is, thus losing their chance to s
tep out into confidence, into the work of the world, into fierce competition with the best of humankind?

  Even so, surely it could be possible for some among them to perform acts of heroism, even to die for others.

  The Coming of the Janicskas

  The coming of the Janicskas next door was a great change for me. I had been used to noting the differences between the households of my friends, but I knew that when I visited them I was the stranger who might have changed things and that when I wasn’t there everything might well have been different. The point is that in those houses the mothers did most of the arranging and organizing and giving orders and driving people round, but in our house father did everything. Maybe in my friends’ houses their fathers kept a polite silence while I was there, but maybe not.

  Mister Janicska fitted exactly the collective impressions these fathers made on me. It was my first feel of that joy that comes over you when your prejudgments are confirmed.

  He was optimistic and slightly crooked—he would say something that wasn’t the exact truth if he wanted to get something done now—he was often elated and cheerful, brutal and active; he had a lot of personal initiative, but he was inclined to be hasty.

  Mrs. Janicska was bigger than he was, but still his follower. He was quicker, he was louder, he was readier with an alternative if she backed him into a corner; and it was he who cheered her up, not she him.

  She was inclined to be pessimistic and a little helpless. I could never decide if it was from laziness, remembering mother and my opinion of her, or lack of go. She seemed depressed even when she wasn’t; but she was kind even when she shouldn’t have been. For instance to that Greg Grayling who knocked all the little kids over and laughed. She was thoughtful and considerate, and she considered and thought a lot, but you could never tell if maybe she wasn’t perhaps just a little tired and her passivity was just that she was about to go to sleep.