The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  “Said I enjoyed it, didn’t I?”

  The waves sucked and surged.

  “Did Jazz say something?”

  “He didn’t have to.”

  “There was just too much light there,” I muttered, the words muffled by my knees.

  I slotted my index fingers into the space behind my shades and rubbed my eyes. Her arm snaked around my shoulders. I didn’t move or turn around. But I didn’t shrug her away either.

  Before I knew it, I was being manoeuvred past gangs of Teutonic schoolchildren, towards the ticket machines. My body was pressed against a metal bar. Martin told me to wave my arm at the machine and the bar gave way. I felt a gentle tug at my elbow and realised we were on a rutted path. A moment later, Martin told me to stop and face forward. His arm shot out and grabbed one of the ropes as it floated past. Something hard landed under my posterior. I was propelled forward with a sickening lurch. A weight settled on my chest. Martin’s arm was on my waist, steadying me.

  “Don’t sit on it, Astrid. Lean into me, nothing like a bit of up-close and personal. There, you’ve cracked it. Wasn’t so bad after all, was it?”

  Relief surged through me; my head spun. Martin began spewing out a monologue, to the accompaniment of whoops and yells from the Teutonic schoolchildren. It could have been a discourse on the merits of Socratic versus Platonic debating techniques for all the attention I paid to it. My body was coiled, as the ground threatened to slip away from me.

  “Don’t say much, do you?” Martin said.

  What did he expect? I wasn’t in the most comfortable position for sparkling repartee. Minutes stretched out, civilisations rose and fell. Martin’s arm was still around my waist. I preferred my tactile stimulation to take place under cover of darkness, but I couldn’t summon up the nerve to remove his arm. Again, a memory of another arm bobbed to the surface, a warm weight encircling my body. When we reached the top, Martin told me to turn left. As I turned, my legs wobbled and collapsed with relief. Martin yanked me to my feet.

  “Get going, you lazy git,” he said, laughing with enough volume to trigger an avalanche.

  Up here, the sun’s laser beam was even stronger and there were no clouds to block it out. Martin swung his skis around so he was in front of me.

  “Right, remember what we agreed. Follow my beautiful green vest. We’ll take it nice and slow. Got that?”

  I nodded. He set off. The trees at the top of the slope provided some shelter from the sunlight. Their branches cast long shadows on the snow. My legs obeyed my commands. I was Queen of Cabbage Patch Land. An electric pulse surged through me. I took a sharp turn and almost passed Martin out.

  “You’re too good for me,” he said. “Have pity on my old bones.”

  I knew I could blow him off.

  After the next turn, the trees disappeared. A flat white expanse stretched in front of me. The snow glittered with tiny crystals. Martin was now a shadow, a yeti. My eyes burned. I forced myself to keep going, towards the next batch of trees. The weight returned to my chest; breathing became a struggle. I didn’t turn, just kept going in a straight line, my skis moving fast enough for me to wonder if they might detach themselves from my legs. But there was no escape from the light. Fucksake, I muttered.

  “Oi,” Martin yelled as I shot past him.

  My skis juddered against a bank of snow. I tried to force them onwards, but they intersected. The fall happened in slow motion, the air leaving my body as I hit the ground with a crunch.

  I heard the swish of skis and Martin appeared in front of me.

  “You all right?”

  The taste of orange drink filled all the space in my mouth, rendering speech impossible. The weight in my chest became heavier, spread to my arms and legs.

  “Occupational hazard I’m afraid,” he said, laughing.

  I batted away his outstretched hand and forced myself to stand back up.

  “Glad you find this so amusing.”

  “Nothing wrong with your tongue anyway. Let’s crack on then, shall we.”

  This time, my pace was more moderate. Martin’s vest was a more useful marker than I cared to admit, but the weight refused to lift from my chest. It trapped all the air inside. The trees cut in and out, tantalising me. There was only the feel of the ground under my skis to guide me as I navigated the white expanse. The slope was never-ending. Every muscle in my body strained in an effort to keep Martin in my line of vision, even though he was only a turn away. His green vest was now a sludgy colour.

  “Nearly there,” he yelled back to me.

  Just as I permitted myself to hope that I could escape this ordeal unscathed, a figure appeared from nowhere. In a reprise of the Livigno incident, my body crunched against his and our limbs became entangled. My skis detached themselves. An engorged red face hovered above me, emitting a stream of curses, German ones this time. Martin approached the man, pointing to me and gesticulating. I tried to rustle up words of apology, but the weight was in my throat now, blocking my vocal chords. My skin prickled all over. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, under my armpits. I pulled my legs towards me and rested my head against my knees, zoning out, searching for my ice fortress. But Jazz blocked my path. You pretty much are one. My head pounded. Martin edged towards me, but I didn’t look up.

  “Thought World War II was over,” he said.

  “Thought you should know. It’s not going to work. I’m calling it a day.”

  The shake in my voice enraged me. It resembled Mia’s.

  “Oh no you’re not,” he said.

  His gentle tone belied his words. My eyes stung.

  “Honest, it’s the only way.”

  I remained hunched, my head buried in my knees.

  “Wasn’t your fault, Astrid. That Fritz came out of nowhere. I should have stayed closer to you, headed him off. That’s my job. Bloody ignorant, most of ‘em. Vest doesn’t seem to stop ‘em.”

  He helped me to my feet. I put my hand on his shoulder for balance as I clipped on my skis. His shoulder was broad. Like Matthew’s. Like Jazz’s.

  “We’re nearly there anyway. Two more turns and we’ll be at the caff. You’ll be all right after a breather.”

  I planned to get toasted.

  “And then we’ll go out again. Only this time, we’ll do it like the others do it. I’ll go behind you and yell myself hoarse. Take the stress out of it for you.”

  I opened my mouth to voice my protest, but couldn’t form the words fast enough.

  “I know you think you don’t need it. But it’ll make life easier for you. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

  You always have to turn everything into a fight.

  “Fine. If you insist.”

  My path was blocked by a phalanx of Austrians, all with huge shoulders. The voices of the Cabbage Patch Kids were still audible through the roar of the crowd. I prepared to adopt my usual battering-ram mechanism for dealing with crowds, but a hand restrained me.

  “All right Astrid, I’ve got you,” Martin said.

  He weaved me through the throng, which parted like the Red Sea. Jazz had a similar effect on crowds at concerts and nightclubs.

  “Johno mate, got room for a tall one?” Martin yelled as we reached the table.

  I registered the empty chair next to Johno, but was too tired to care.

  “Plonk yourself down there girlie,” Martin said to me.

  I wedged into the chair and gazed down at the plastic-topped table. Opposite us, the Greek Chorus were carrying out a noisy comparison of war wounds.

  “I’m after banjaxing my knee.”

  “I think I’ve a hamstring injury,” said the other. “A bit like a footballer.”

  No doubt the entire cafe was now aware of their injuries. I studied Johno’s battered, lived-in face. It was close en
ough for me to discern the layer of stubble covering his cheeks.

  Jazz’s skin was always at its most pleasing after a shave, smooth, fragrant with his lingering citrus odour.

  “Does he even know where the hamstring is?” I whispered.

  “Probably thinks it’s near his elbow. Did you have a good time out there?”

  A little censoring was in order.

  “Oh, I killed it. You?”

  “Brutal. Me hole is killing me from landing on it.”

  Least I wasn’t the only one. Odd how he gloried in his humiliation, viewed falling as a badge of honour.

  “Were you on the big slope?”

  I jumped when I heard the helium voice. Mia was sitting opposite us, dwarfed by the crowd.

  “Yes I was.”

  My equilibrium was beginning to restore itself.

  “I was just on the little one.”

  “But you did really well, didn’t you?” said Kevin.

  “I only fell over once.”

  Kevin put his arm around her shoulders. She beamed, thriving on the incidental touches the guides were so fond of bestowing.

  “Jaysus, the little one’s bad enough,” said Johno.

  No contenders for my throne here.

  As Mia and Kevin began reliving the morning’s skiing, a waitress bore down on us. She was blonde and wore traditional garb, a wide check skirt with an apron and a white blouse with puffed sleeves. Several buttons of the blouse were undone, exposing acres of bare skin. She took the Greek Chorus’s order first.

  “Aren’t you a lovely girl,” one of them said to her.

  He reached out to touch the fabric of her dress, his hand perilously close to the mounds of flesh underneath.

  “Sorry love,” he piped up. “Didn’t see you there.”

  This prompted much chortling.

  “Who let the dogs out,” I muttered.

  “Is he getting excited,” Johno said, gurgling.

  “You could say that. Although I suppose he has reason. She is exposing rather a lot of flesh.”

  “Yeah? Enough to make the blind see, what?”

  His gurgle was less endearing than before; it set my teeth on edge. Mia and Kevin gave their orders, then returned to their conversation. The waitress was still hovering. I only hoped she couldn’t speak English.

  The lady was wrong. I wasn’t like the other girls. They were aliens. When I was around them, my flesh itched and became tight. They clutched dolls which wore pink dresses. The dolls had soft bodies, but their faces were made of plastic. They had round cheeks and they smiled for no reason. The girls called the dolls Cabbage Patch Kids and asked me if I wanted to hold one. But I didn’t. The dolls had dead eyes, just like theirs.

  I picked up a menu, so we could give the good Frau our verdict.

  “Well there’s chips anyway. I’ll have those. And a couple of those huge sausages. With some sparkling mineral water to wash it down.”

  “Me too. And coffee with some of that lovely mother’s milk,” said Johno.

  Up close, his six-pack was visible. Pity his hands were so rough. But his fingers were long and tapered; a very good sign. Jazz’s fingers were rounded and soft at the tips, the ideal shape for working a mixer. Made for sucking on.

  “I’ll have that afterwards. For now, I’ll stick with good old fashioned aqua vitae.”

  “What? That some sort of yuppie drink?”

  I was willing to overlook his lack of intellectual acumen.

  “Nope. Water by an other name.”

  My earlier humiliation was a distant memory; the bubbles in the water brought my mouth back to life. I was beginning to enjoy this unparalleled access to my quarry, even though his attention was diverted by his food, which he attacked with vigour, a pig slurping swill from a trough.

  I was spearing my last chip when Martin came to reclaim me. My legs were splayed out, to give my muscles a chance to relax. I patted my stomach in satisfaction. Johno’s hand rested next to mine. The temptation to lift it up and place it on my stomach was almost unbearable. Martin’s bellow shattered the dream.

  “Get a move on, girlie. Have to work off that lunch.”

  “Bet you’ve some job keeping her in line,” Johno said to him.

  “You’re telling me, mate. Bloody hard work, she is.”

  “I don’t envy you.”

  I grinned.

  “Wait’ll I start on you,” I said.

  “Wha?” Johno muttered as I heaved myself out of my seat.

  Sometimes I liked to keep them guessing.

  On the second lift run, Martin decided I was stable enough for some light interrogation.

  “So what do you do for a crust, then?”

  “What?”

  “You know, for a living?”

  “Oh. Freelance proofreader.”

  “What’s that when it’s at home?”

  His attention was a laser beam. Too much light at once.

  “I doubt it’s of interest to you.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Looking over books and papers before publication to check that there are no errors.”

  That was sure to sate him.

  “Sounds all right. Any blockbusters?”

  “No. Medical and scientific books.”

  “Manage all right with that? You know, with your eyes.”

  “Yes of course.”

  I saw myself at Jazz’s kitchen table, my head resting on my closed fist, reading faint lines of text which blurred into each other. Grit filled my eyes; my eyelids were pulled downwards by an invisible force. Jazz came over to me and touched my shoulder. I didn’t know you could read with your eyes closed.

  Such incidents only occurred when there was a tight turnaround time on a document and I couldn’t take my usual breaks.

  The top of the lift beckoned. This time, my legs didn’t collapse. I fiddled with my gloves and my shades.

  “Come on, stop faffing about,” said Martin.

  I tucked my poles under my armpits and propelled myself forward.

  “Right, point your skis downhill... give yourself a bit of speed. And we’re off. Swing to the right... check your speed... left... get that leg round... right... relax now... let your skis run straight... build up some speed through the flat bit.”

  There was no time to think, no time for the weight to build in my chest. The sound of Martin’s voice filled up all the space in my mind. It cut through the dazzling whiteness, acting as both safety net and spur. I was flying.

  “Little left... not too much... big right... get round these schoolkids. Keep it running... that’s the way. Little turns here... left... right. Eh, you’re going fast here, girlie, you going for the Winter Olympics or what? Check your speed, bit more of a plough... and stop.”

  I jerked to a halt, spinning around and almost crashing into him. It was over already. My head spun. I leaned on my ski poles for support.

  “How was that for you then, girlie?” he asked, chortling.

  I looked down at my boots.

  “Fine. No big deal.”

  But a grin leaked across my face. Bolts of electricity coursed through me, shocking but not unpleasant. This was how it felt to meld two pieces of music into each other, until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

  “I’m guessing you enjoyed it then. You up for more punishment?”

  “Bring it on.”

  We blasted down the slope several more times, each run more successful than the last. His voice gave me wings.

  The DJ Shack

  My composition lay on the table in front of Matthew. It was my first typed composition and I was eager for Matthew’s verdict. He was teaching me to type, because handwriting w
as still a Herculean labour for me. I used his old typewriter from university. It was cumbersome and made a lot of noise, but the speed with which it produced letters mesmerised me.

  Matthew gave my efforts only a cursory glance.

  “I have some important information to impart,” he said. “Ora will be visiting us at the weekend.”

  He was always more lenient about my work in the days before Ora’s visits.

  “That’s not a newsworthy event.”

  “Well on this occasion it is. She will be staying for the entire weekend. And she will be bringing her son Geoffrey with her. He was due to come last weekend, but he was celebrating his thirteenth birthday.”

  That was indeed interesting. Ora talked about her son often; she gave him the status of a demigod.

  Voices floated towards me from the washroom; they were early. Ora burst into the kitchen, trailing bags, a familiar enough visitor by now to not feel the need to announce her presence. I carried on reading my National Geographic, determined to finish my article. At the sound of a second set of footsteps, I lowered the magazine a couple of inches. A plump boy stood by the door, clutching a sports bag and a long, grey object which I couldn’t identify. His shoes squeaked as he scuffed his feet against the tiles. Ora placed her parcels on the table.

  “Astrid, come and meet my son Geoff,” she said.

  I slid off the windowseat and stood in front of the boy. His face was soft and round. It was framed by a cap of dark hair. He wore a blue jumper with a logo on it, a white shirt, a blue tie and grey pants. I guessed it was the uniform for his school. The fabric of the jumper stretched over a round belly. He placed the objects on the ground with care, treating them as delicate samples. Then he shook my hand. His hand was soft and damp. His thick glasses mirrored mine.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice directed at the floor.

  “What’s that?” I said, pointing to the long, grey object.

  He picked it up and held it out for me to inspect. It was covered in small round knobs. A long silver pole poked out at the top.