by Mok, Judith;
He stood thinking about the concept of religion while I built a fire in the living room.
The flames were good. I sat him down to tell him more. The flames were bad long ago, when the Catholic brothers wanted to burn your ancestors. We sat on the wooden floor and I drew a map of Europe for him and made a cross on Spain. There, it is still hot in that country where your grandfather’s people came from. There are strong-smelling flowers and proud horses in the mountains. People like Muslims, you know, like our neighbours back home, and pious Jews, lived together in peace. They read each other’s books and listened to each other’s stories and they rode each other’s horses and shared the wonderful sweet grapes that grew on their terraces.
One evening, maybe as moonlit and as sober as this one, you could only hear the turning of pages of the holy books like an insect beating its crackling wings in the dark.
Jews and Muslims alike were reading when the Christian brothers on their barb horses came and took the Muslims, to throw them in the sea. The king chose a queen. As a wedding gift their new queen wanted all the Jews out of their country. So they fled on their elegant Andalusian horses, you know, the ones that do the Spanish walk, and some stayed and were burned in the flames. Since then the Roman Catholic Church has ruled the country with the kings and queens. Your forefathers went north and continued to read their books. But we don’t read those any more and that’s a tale for later, my little pelican.
I felt I was alone, there was nobody any more who could so much as nod in approval or swear that I told the truth. Now this was my family.
He came with boxes and some of the furniture; it had been too expensive to bring everything. He came with a young woman who had to assist him with a huge canvas he was about to start working on. Now that he was home his mother rang and wanted to know if we were settled. Apart from the unpacking, we were. Help was not what family was for, I understood very quickly. I rediscovered it all while I unpacked, my own things and the few objects that my mother had left me. My painter husband and his assistant were working upstairs when I discovered the ghosts. They had shrunk to the size of little pieces of paper with numbers on them. All my lost jewels had been taken to the pawnbrokers by my husband. I started to scream and he stamped down the stairs to complain about the noise, to say that I was an embarrassment.
I held up the pieces of paper. How dare I touch his papers again. He had not asked me if he could take my jewels or told me after he had done the deed in order to protect me. And that was the end of it.
Could I now continue unpacking the books? And by the way, ‘What’s for dinner?’
My suitcase was waiting for me. My child watched me pack with anxious eyes.
But I couldn’t leave. My life was here, now. I had to deal with it somehow.
The phone had been ringing for me, here on the island, to offer me some concerts. I had gladly accepted. The bush telegraph had warned the islanders that I was here. My husband was pleased. Pity the performing fees were so low, but I wasn’t going to have much of a musical life here anyway. There was no tradition for such elitist business. Too expensive. The knot was tightening. I had spent so much time travelling that I’d hoped to spend more time with Sam and with my paintings. After my mother’s death I wanted to fill the void with a new home life. But, of course, I had no students here and for the first time in my life found myself dependent on him.
I wasted time on the telephone looking for students and contacted a couple of violin teachers that I had heard about back home.
They came with a box of chocolates and sat at the edge of the decrepit sofa telling me nervously (they both burnt their lips with hot tea) that it was going to be very difficult for me, me being a stranger over here and all. And look at me with the house and the view and the nice husband. Why didn’t I take it easy?
Taking it easy was definitely not what I wanted to do. The phone rang in the empty hall, a man’s voice boomed down the line, as if he were standing in a field and had to master the elements in order to reach me. He invited me to his festival. It sounded good. Poetry, music, an exhibition by a fine painter, and, yes, he knew my husband, very impressed by his work, yes indeed, did I use his name then? No, I replied abruptly.
This was to be my first Irish gig. I travelled early in the morning and nearly forgot where I was going when the landscape took hold of me. It had wildness and mystery, and told a hard and cold tale that left me unsure of its beauty.
The organizer of the festival showed me the premises: I was to perform in a big pub together with a poet. I hadn’t done that before. I wanted to make them forget their Guinness for a while. I rehearsed, went to my hotel to get rid of my stuff and walked the coastline for the rest of the afternoon. The sun made it look as if a lid had been lifted off it for a few hours and soon the lid would come down again to lock it up into a dark space.
Sam and his father were to come with the poet in his car. As I walked back to the hotel I could spot Sam jumping up and down in his red jacket.
I took my child to the hotel room and arranged for a babysitter. Nightlife was about to start, what with these writers and painters all around. They never stopped smoking or drinking during the reading or the music. Afterwards I went to pick up my fee from the organizer. The man smiled broadly, his face flushed from alcohol. Ah no, he had paid my husband, well you know, I sort of knew him from before, so I thought with him being your husband and all, I could give him your cheque, like, in his name.
There was only one street to stride along in fury, but a lot of pub doors to be opened and slammed shut again before I found him with his mates, drinking their pints.
Surely I should be at the hotel minding Sam instead of roaming the streets at night? They all grinned and showed their ugly teeth. My cheque, yes, he’d cashed it at the hotel desk, but he was more concerned about the child. How could I leave him alone?
I tried to explain that he should have arranged for the sitter to stay longer, and that I had been giving the concert and wanted my due, and a bit of fun afterwards. They all stared at me and patted him on the back, ah sure I was a hard woman.
The next day a white beach and burning blue sea cleansed us all to the bone. Sam, his father and the poet chased the wild horses while I was left with the soft wind sweeping patterns in the sand. There was nobody around; it was so empty that for a split second I imagined nothing had been written.
My pockets were empty when I stood on the ground of my homeland again. One small banknote was not going to get me through the week, and I’d left my bank card on the dining table back in Ireland. Not to worry, his assistant was arriving tomorrow and would bring me my card. He sounded like he was in a good mood on the phone, things were going well with Antonio his new art dealer. Pity he couldn’t be with me for the opening of my exhibition but he was convinced I would have a good time on my own, with my friends and so on.
His assistant didn’t bring my card. My husband hadn’t mentioned it to her.
So I had my shared exhibition but couldn’t have a good time with my friends. I did my publicity stints, being filmed with my violin in front of one of my paintings, wondering all the time how I was going to pay the fare back.
A sea canvas sold and the gallery gave me a generous advance. Enough to go home with.
Ireland, where my son was turning the weather and the language into a place to live. His teacher in school had red hair and looked like an Irish Setter when she walked with her long mane, holding hands with him on their way back from the playground. He came running to me when I collected him from school. The other parents all looked away, didn’t seem interested in getting to know me. It was very cold in the house when we arrived. But my husband had a lot of warm kisses for me and good news. First we needed to clean up and then we would talk. No cleaner here; the raw chores were for me. I had been absent and the house had filled itself with dirty washing and piles of pots and plates. Tears splashed on the used burgundy of the carpet and my favourite shoes. How was my show? Did I have a
good time despite the lack of wherewithal? I stood in the bedroom asking myself these questions. A few days of hard labour kept me warm, so it took time for me to realize that we had no longer had any heating. The gas had been turned off. It was freezing in the house.
I went about with a scarf over my head and wrapped Sam in layers of clothes.
Once the heating was back on I was in bed with pneumonia. A doctor came and had to be paid an exorbitant amount, nearly three times as much as at home. Gael was standing at the end of the bed in his long black coat, looking the part of the greatly gifted one, and announced he was going to the pharmacy. For me. To get me my prescription.
While I emptied my bladder I had a terrible thought. I hurried back to the bedroom and went straight for my purse. My last diamond ring was gone.
He had not left yet. I stood on the stairs, feverish, heavier then ever in my flesh. I demanded it back. Immediately. He handed it over. Strange that I should feel inhibited to ask for what was mine because I felt unattractive in my dressing gown.
We had a fight. Sam got upset and blamed his mother for screaming so loud.
The neighbours would hear. That was all Gael was concerned about.
There were two new friends in my life. The radio and the television. At my parents’ house I had never had a television and we only bought one when Sam turned three.
Now I saw the same faces every day and grew familiar with them. It made me feel less alone.
I had a lot less work abroad because I lacked the energy for large solo works. All my energy was spent on surviving and so I had more empty hours to fill. I was aching for something to happen and complaining about it. To him. Get a life, he said.
I listened to a woman on the radio telling a man with a polished voice that she had her first orgasm at the age of about forty. Their children had been born out of a quick hump or a drunken coupling. The sun was hitting the windows and I could see the sea’s sparkling indifference to it all. How many children? Four, five, seven? I mixed the grated parmesan and gruyère and imagined the awkward fumbling. Lights off, nightie on, here, feel this yoke, hard as a bottleneck, the seed foaming, randy hissing, the name of the next child vaguely in her head, another Sinead maybe, while she lies there wet and dizzy, damp from his outburst of passion, she wants to sleep. But he keeps her awake because he is puking in the sink.
I poured out whitish liquid from a jar into a dish, and then held the empty jar up for a long time thinking abstractedly about my man’s passionate lovemaking. Wondering if Vermeer’s milkmaid thought of the same thing while pouring the milk out of that earthenware jar.
The presenter moved to the subject of socks. Ladies never pick up the socks that are lying around. And they hide their men’s shoes till they start to do it themselves.
While slicing the pears and washing the watercress I listened to commentary on the national tractor race. An annual event for farmers. An important event since everybody seemed to have a farm in the family. I opened the kitchen door to the flood of light and heard the roar of tractor engines. My husband knew how to ride a tractor. He showed me how when we went to visit his family on a farm.
We took Sam and his Granny to meet them in the countryside. The trees, the river and the fields were shining green.
Big dogs greeted us and an uncle came out of the small building in a torn sweater and baggy trousers. He had a flat and friendly face and helped us out of the car into the mud. We stood in our wellies and waited to be invited indoors. A boy came out carrying a trombone; he’d heard I was a musician and wanted to show it to me. Then a girl came out with a trumpet followed by a whole brass band of children. Eight of them, a wind section of eight beaming with joy over the new fiddler in the family. Why were we all outside? They shrugged and laughed and blushed until we had to go inside because it started to rain.
The house consisted of one living room, one bathroom and one bedroom. The air was so thick that I felt short of breath. Sam complained that his hands were dirty and I took him to the bathroom to clean and dry them with a grubby towel. Granny sat on a greasy chair in her best Sunday clothes and read the newspaper, while the rest of us sat around the table listening to some amusing family history.
I didn’t know what he was doing there, but I could see him very clearly. My father was standing in the corner of the room, shaking with laughter, ponting at a crucifix that hung on the wall.
I wanted him to go away, and sat with my head down and my nose in my sweater to avoid the stench. From that position I discovered the origin of the foul smell. A big ferret lay asleep under the table. I lifted my head up again, only to see my father looking straight at me, still smiling. I felt lost, but since my father’s ghost seemed to find it all rather amusing I thought I might as well relax.
While they fried bacon and eggs and spread out newspapers on the table, I fled outdoors with Sam.
My painter husband was wearing a cap and holding a shotgun in his hand. He walked me to the edge of the field and started shooting, hitting his targets quite well. Sam was proud of him and I felt impressed, with the kind of stupefying surge of admiration you feel when you want somebody and you know he is a total idiot, so you concentrate on his physical achievements, like the way he throws a ball in a net or kicks it.
Of course there was more to Gael.
After the meal we went for a walk with Uncle and his youngest five-year-old daughter down the old train tracks. Sam and I washed our greasy paws in a stream and walked on. Until we were told to wait because the little girl had tripped and was lying on the ground. Come on now, her father said, get up. You know Our Lord fell and got up again three times. We stood and heard a rustling of leaves and heard the little girl say that she did not want to get up, because she did not want to fall three times.
Back home I stood at the window and knew that I was weak. The rain made me see sunshine in another country and made me close my eyes in order to travel there, close my ears to hear the life being lived and my nose to remember the smells that my body wanted to breathe. Further away I knew were the voices, the voices of my friends, and, even further, the voices of my parents. My voice was loud in my head, full of questions. I wanted to hit him with them until I could draw blood and dip my fingers in it. If only I could feel it flow, or at least hear the pulse. But all I heard was the bland knock of a battered bird’s beak in my own body quietening to a drone. Then mute. Silence.
That silence had come with the rain, the wind, death, with the quiet people here, still living off the earth.
19
Here are the seals, dressed in sober coats. Modest enough to keep their occupation out of sight. It’s underneath the surface they feed and fuck. He can walk along the sea and talk to them every day of his life, for this is his country. These here, with their long whiskers and innocence bulging from their eyes, are the Protestants of this country. Not like the watered down ones from her Nordic place. Now it is his turn to paint them, the brothers and their Lutheran lookalikes. They have a clear bark when they come to the surface of their sombre world. These creatures have been here for centuries and hold the fish of wisdom in their finned hands. And when they use their strong teeth on the pink flesh he sees that the fish are women. Wise enough to let themselves be shredded to edible pieces after they have served in life and turned from white to a bloody pink.
His woman was alive and would never have let him draw them as they are. Natural, well-dressed, charmingly behaved killers. They have their battle with the waves, the dominant waves that believe they were traitors, stole the fish and took the water to leave behind a hungry land for the other creatures.
The waves have withdrawn to leave them wet and salty and now he rubs the small stone heads and tastes the salt on his fingers while waiting for the brothers to come up. They only fold their hands over their food, never in prayer. She was a Protestant, she wanted rules and bars for his prison; strong steel with very little space in between them. He could swim now and escape because the sea was here. She was a Beg
uine from Bruges, a woman who knew no sins and wore her vanity around her neck in the shape of a fine lace collar. Look at her now, dressing down to the soberness of her brother, having lost all her silly ornaments to be with him, her master. Lives in the bare Kirk of life with her offspring. Muscles her thighs and arms carrying the bags of bargains up, up, up the hill. Leaves her shoulders hard and painful, so her fiddle stays in the cupboard. It sings its own quiet tune. It moans with her complaints whenever she takes it out. He can hear the solemn verses of human suffering right through her playing, those straight notes, no vibrato at all in Bach’s Partita. She wants him to hear it. He hears nothing but the bark of her brothers in the merciless, indifferent, monotonous rhythm of the sea.
She has taken the devil’s dog for company. Already no one understands their mutual exchange. It is a language that deafens his ears for he knows it is about him they talk. Black fur on their tongues, luxurious hatred, sharpened teeth waiting for his bones to be bared. He treats them as his pets, now that he is a master, and tells her about his people who suffered a hundred and a thousand times more than she does of hunger and cold feet. That seems to shut her up. Sitting on a bench at the seafront he sees her with her black pup at her feet, tail wagging and all, talking out loud to her folks across the sea, shamelessly shaking with self-pitying tears.
And then there is that casually dressed islander, a gentleman with a pension, who comes up to her and points his finger at her dirty dog. She stands, straight and sober, a Nordic Minerva, ready to give a just answer. Just go, he says to her, go back to your own country, wherever you come from, go. I will, she says, but what about the dog? He’s Irish.
But they want her to stay and stabilize their existence, he and the seals his brothers.
He is still mad about Minerva, that gagged goddess who lives with him.