by Steve Toltz
She looked at me strangely, standing there like my favorite tree: straight and tall, slim-stemmed and graceful.
“I’d better get going. Just point me in the right direction,” she said, putting a cigarette in her mouth.
“So I see you’re still smoking like an inmate on death row.”
Her eyes fixed on mine as she lit her cigarette. She had just taken the first puff when something black and nasty floated down to her face and landed on her cheek. She wiped it off. We both looked up at the sky. Ash was falling softly, dark ash falling and whirling crazily in the hot bright air.
“Looks like a bad one,” she said, looking at the orange glow over the horizon.
“I suppose.”
“Do you think it’s close?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I think it’s close,” she said.
All right, so what if we live in a flammable land? There’s always a fire, always houses lost, lives misplaced. But nobody packs up and moves to safer pastures. They just wipe their tears and bury their dead and make more children and dig in their heels. Why? We have our reasons. What are they? Don’t ask me. Ask the ash that sits on your nose.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’ve got some ash on your nose.”
She wiped it off. It left a black smear.
“Is it gone?”
I nodded. I wouldn’t tell her about the black smear. A raw, hungry silence descended, swallowing whole minutes.
“Well, I really have to go.”
“Why don’t you take your pants off and stay awhile?” I wanted to say but didn’t. There’s little doubt that when the defining moments arise in which character is molded, you’d better make the right decision. The mold dries and sets quickly.
We walked through a small clearing where the grass was so short it looked like green sand, and I led her to a cave. I walked in and she followed me. It was dark and cool inside.
“What are we doing in here?” she asked suspiciously.
“I want to show you something. Look. These are cave paintings.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I did them myself just last week.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you sound so disappointed? I don’t see why you have to be fifty thousand years old to paint on a cave wall.”
That’s when she leaned forward and kissed me. And that was that.
V
A few weeks later the Towering Inferno and I were lying in bed and I was feeling as secure as if we were both stored in a large vault. She was on her side, propped up on one elbow that was tireless, like a steel pole. She had her pen poised on a notebook, but she wasn’t writing anything.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“I’m thinking about what you’re thinking about.”
“That’s no answer.”
“Well, what are you thinking about?”
“What you’re thinking about.”
She snorted. I didn’t press it. She was secretive, like me- not wanting anyone to know her every thought in case he used it against her. I imagined she’d discovered, as I had, that what people want from you is confirmation that you’re toeing the line, living by the same rules they are, and that you’re not going off on your own or awarding yourself any special privileges.
“I’m trying to write a birthday card,” she said. “It’s Lola’s birthday. You remember Lola, from school?”
“Oh yeah, Lola,” I said, not knowing who Lola was.
“Do you want to write something to her?” she asked.
“Sure,” I lied.
Just before I put pen to card the Inferno said, “Write something nice.” I nodded and wrote: “Dear Lola, I hope you live forever.” I handed the card back. The Inferno scrutinized it but didn’t say anything. If she knew my message was a curse and not a blessing, she didn’t let on.
Then the Inferno said, “Oh, I almost forgot. Brian wants to talk to you.”
“Who?”
“His name’s Brian.”
“That may be so, but I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“He’s sort of my ex-boyfriend.”
I sat up and looked at her. “Sort of?”
“We went out briefly.”
“And you still speak to him?”
“No, I mean, the other day I ran into him,” she said.
“You ran into him,” I repeated. I didn’t like the sound of this. No matter what anybody says, I know that people don’t really just run into each other.
“Well, why does he want to talk to me?”
“He thinks you might be able to help him get his job back.”
“His job? Me? How?”
“I don’t know, Jasper. Why don’t you meet him and find out?”
“No, thanks.”
She looked annoyed, rolled over, and turned away from me. I spent the next ten minutes watching her naked back, her red hair spilling over her shoulder blades, which jutted out like surfboard fins.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Don’t put yourself out,” she said back.
***
Our honeymoon period mostly consisted of staring at each other’s faces for hours on end. Sometimes that’s all we did for the whole day. Sometimes her face drifted in and out of focus. Sometimes it looked like an alien face. Sometimes it didn’t look like a face at all, but a bizarre compendium of features on a blurry white background. At the time I remember thinking that we’d fastened onto each other in such a sticky fashion it would be impossible to separate without one of us losing a hand or a lip.
Things weren’t perfect, of course. She hated it that I’d not yet dropped the habit of mentally noting all the famous actresses I’d like to sleep with when my ship came in.
I hated it that she was too open-minded and half believed in a creationist theory that had God go “Ta-da!”
She hated it that I didn’t hate fake breasts.
I hated the way when she was mad or upset, she’d kiss me with her lips closed.
She hated the way I’d try everything to open them- lips, tongue, thumb and forefinger.
Whenever I’d heard anyone say “Relationships are work,” I’d always scoffed, because I thought relationships should grow wild like untended gardens, but now I knew they were work, and unpaid work too- volunteer work.
***
One morning a couple of weeks into the relationship, Dad ran into my hut as if he were taking refuge from a storm.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Love must be pretty time-consuming, eh?”
“It is.”
He looked to be bursting with bad news that he couldn’t hold in much longer.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. You enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I will.”
He stood there like stagnant water and said, “Jasper, we’ve never talked about sex.”
“And thank God for that.”
“I just want to say one thing.”
“Get it over with.”
“Even though using a condom is as insulting to the senses as putting a windsock on your tongue before eating chocolate, use one anyway.”
“A windsock.”
“A condom.”
“OK.”
“To avoid paternity suits.”
“OK,” I said, although I didn’t need a sex talk. Nobody does. A beaver can make a dam, a bird can build a nest, a spider can spin its web at the first attempt without even fumbling. Fucking is like that. We’re born to do it.
“Want to read anything on love?” Dad asked.
“No, I just want to do it.”
“Suit yourself. Plato’s Symposium won’t be much use to you anyway, unless your girlfriend is a thirteen-year-old Greek boy. I’d avoid Schopenhauer too. He wants you to believe you’ve been had by the unconscious desire to propagate the species.”
“I don’t want to propagate anything. Least of all the species.”
“Dad,” I said, “remember how you said love is a pleasure, a stimulant, and a distraction?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, there’s something else you didn’t mention. And that’s that if you could save the person from ever having another splinter in her finger, you’d run around the world laminating all the wood with a fine, transparent surface, just to save her from that splinter. That’s love.”
Dad said, “Huh. I’ll make a note of that.”
The next night when I got into bed, I found something bulky under the pillow. It was thirteen books, from Shakespeare to Freud, and after staying up all night and skim-reading at least half of them, I learned that, according to the experts, you cannot be “in love” without fear, but love without fear is sincere, mature love.
I realized I’d completely idealized the Towering Inferno, but so what if I had? Sooner or later we have to idealize something- being lukewarm to everything is inhuman. So I idealized her. But did I love her or not? Was it a mature love or an immature love? Well, I had my own method of working it out. I decided: I know that I love and am in love when suddenly I fear her death as sharply as I fear my own. It would be lovely and romantic to say I fear hers more than mine, but that would be a lie, and anyway, if you knew how deep and complete is my desire to perpetuate through the eons with every particle intact, you’d agree it was a romantic enough fear, this terror of the death of the beloved.
***
So I called her sort-of-ex-boyfriend, Brian.
“It’s Jasper Dean here,” I said when he answered the phone.
“Jasper! Thanks for calling.”
“What’s this about?”
“I was wondering if we could meet for a drink.”
“What for?”
“Just for a chat. Do you know the Royal Batsman, near Central Station? We could meet tomorrow at five?”
“Five twenty-three,” I said, to exert some control over the situation.
“Done.”
“What’s this about me helping you get your job back?” I asked.
“I’d rather tell you face-to-face,” he said, and I hung up the phone thinking he must have either a low opinion of his voice or a high opinion of his face.
For the next twenty-four hours my whole body pulsated with curiosity; this idea that I could help him get back his job confounded me. Even if it was somehow possible, why assume I’d want to? The worst thing you can say about someone in a society like ours is that they can’t hold down a job. It conjures images of unshaven losers with weak grips watching sadly as the jobs slip free and float away. There’s nothing we respect more than work, and there’s nothing we denigrate more than the unwillingness to work, and if someone wants to dedicate himself to painting or writing poetry, he’d better be holding down a job at a hamburger restaurant if he knows what’s good for him.
I only just got through the doors of the Royal Batsman when I saw a middle-aged man with silver hair waving me over. He was in his late forties and wore a flashy pin-striped suit, almost as flashy as his hair. He smiled at me. That was flashy too.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“I’m Brian.”
“You’re the ex-boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re old!”
That made him smile unpleasantly. “I guess she has a little something for celebrities.”
“Celebrities? Who’s a celebrity?”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Don’t you watch television?”
“No.”
He looked at me, puzzled, as if I’d actually said no to the question “Don’t you eat, shit, and breathe?”
“My name’s Brian Sinclair. I was on Channel Nine television for a couple of years. As a current affairs journalist. I’m taking a hiatus now.”
“Well so what?”
“Beer?” he asked.
“Thanks.”
He went to the bar and fetched me a beer and I was swept up in a sort of panic, dazzled by his silver hair and matching suit. I had to remind myself that he needed my help, and that put me in a position of power which I was free to abuse at any given time.
“Did you see the game last night?” I asked when he returned.
“No. What game?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what game- I was just making conversation. And he had to ask what game? Who cares what game? Any game. There’s always a game.
“So what can I do for you?” I asked.
“Well, Jasper, as I said, I used to be a current affairs journalist for Channel Nine. And I was fired.”
“What for?”
“Are you sure you don’t know about this? It was big news for a while. I was interviewing a twenty-six-year-old father of two who was not only not meeting his child-support payments but living off the dole so he could maintain his obsession with daytime television. I was just asking him a few simple questions, and right in the middle of the interview-”
“He pulled out a gun and shot himself.”
“Hey- I thought you didn’t watch television.”
“It’s the only way it could have gone down,” I said, although the truth was, I do sometimes watch television and I suddenly recalled seeing a repeat of that suicide in slow motion. “This is all very interesting,” I said, “but what’s it got to do with me?”
“Well, if I had a news story that no one else had, that could make me a valuable commodity again.”
“And?”
“And your father has never given an extensive interview about his brother.”
“Jesus.”
“If I could get the inside scoop on the Terry Dean story-”
“What are you doing now? Are you working?”
“In telesales.”
Ouch. “That’s a job as good as any other, isn’t it?”
“I’m a journalist, Jasper.”
“Listen, Brian. If there’s one thing my father doesn’t want to talk about, it’s his brother.”
“But can’t you-”
“No. I can’t.”
Brian suddenly looked as though life had worn him down, literally, with an enormous nail file. “All right.” He sighed. “What about you? You probably know a few things about the story that the rest of us don’t.”
“Probably.”
“Would you agree to an interview?”
“Sorry.”
“Give me something. The Handbook of Crime.”
“What about it?”
“There’s a theory your uncle didn’t write it.”
“I really wouldn’t know,” I said, and watched his face tighten into a fist.
***
When I got home, Dad was curled up on the couch, reading and breathing heavily. Instead of saying “Hello, son, how’s life?” he held up the book he was reading: it was called A History of Consciousness. Instead of saying “Hi, Dad, I love you,” I sneered and started searching the bookshelf for something to read myself.
As I browsed, I could detect the sweet, sickly odor of clove cigarettes. Was Eddie here? I heard muffled voices from the kitchen. I opened the door to see Anouk and Eddie huddled together, speaking in low tones. They looked surprised to see me, and while Eddie hit me with one of his dazzling smiles, Anouk beckoned me over with one finger over her lips.
“I just got back from Thailand,” Eddie said in a whisper.
“I didn’t know you’d gone,” I whispered back.
He frowned unexpectedly- the frown surprised his own face.
“Jasper, I’ve got bad news,” Anouk said in a barely audible voice.
“Say it all at once.”
“Your dad’s depressed again.”
I looked through the door at Dad. Even when there were people in the house he still came across as a complete recluse.
“How can you tell?�
�� I asked.
“He’s been crying. Staring into space. Talking to himself.”
“He always talks to himself.”
“Now he’s addressing himself formally as Mr. Dean.”
“Is that all?”
“You want a repeat of the last time? You want him to go back to the mental hospital?”
“The man’s depressed. What can we do?”
“I think it’s because his life is empty.”
“And?”
“And we need to help him fill it.”
“Not me,” I said.
“Jasper, you should talk to your father more,” Eddie said with surprising sternness.
“Not at this juncture,” I said, leaving the room.
My father’s depression could wait a couple of days. At present I was suddenly interested in having a look at The Handbook of Crime, by Terry Dean (Harry West). I figured that since my relationship with the Towering Inferno had begun with blackmail, maybe the book had some other relationship advice. I found it in a pile on the floor, in the middle of an unsteady igloo of printed word. With the book in hand, I wound through the labyrinth to my hut.
In bed, I flicked through the table of contents. Chapter 17 caught my eye. It was called “Love: The Ultimate Informer.” If there’s one thing a lawbreaker needs in his inventory, it’s secrets, and if there’s one enemy of secrets, it’s love, the chapter began.
The names of your informers, what backstabbing campaigns you’re embarking on, where you store your guns, your drugs, your money, the location of your hideout, the interchangeable lists of your friends and enemies, your contacts, the fences, your escape plans- all things you need to keep to yourself, and you will reveal every one if you are in love.