Wish

by Peter Goldsworthy

  Towards the end of our marriage these changes merely left me feeling alone. Familiarity breeds contempt? It was more than that, surely. I lost Jill each night just when we should have been closest; for a few moments only, perhaps, but enough to leave me dissatisfied as she slowly returned from whichever zone of bliss she had been to, alone, without me.

  Those images from the past had long lost their power to stir me. Jill certainly provided no protection from the immediate presence of Wish.

  Our encounter had not been over-successful, physically. Yet the realisation was growing inside me: there had been more intimacy, more love, in that brief ‘mounting’, than in the numerous prolonged occasions on which Jill and I had made so-called love.

  A realisation: my deepest need was for tenderness, for intimacy. Stella’s drunken words from the previous night came back to me, powerfully: It’s only sex, J.J.—it’s not as if I want to kiss you. They might have been spoken equally by Jill.

  As I floated in the cold muddy water my guilt vanished. As for shame: did I care for the opinion of others? I waded out and strode back through the trees and into the house, willing to look anyone in the eye.

  Wish was either already awake, or woke at my entry; she assumed that same position of natural submission, or invitation. I peeled off my wetsuit and mounted her immediately, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I came immediately, with more relief than pleasure, and toppled sideways and lay against her rough back.

  We nestled together like broad tablespoons. Nothing specific needed to be said, or shaped. Her long arm reached behind her, clasping me gently to her, the glow of her shaved body returned my own warmth, magnified, her sweet musk filled my nostrils.

  I had intended to return to my room before dawn, but I slept the sleep of the contented, the deep dreamless sleep of a sated lover. Her huge presence blanketed me, quilted me, sealed me from contact with the outside world.

  I slept through the buzz of the gate intercom, just after dawn. I failed to hear the footsteps which mounted the stairs, slowly and sedately, shortly after.

  I woke, squinting, against a dazzle of light. Clive was standing in the doorway, his hand frozen on the light switch, staring in, amazed. For a moment there was silence, then Stella appeared behind him, less amazed than enraged.

  BOOK

  FOUR

  1

  If Terry had switched on the light that morning, he might have merely switched it off and returned to bed. If Clive’s flight from America had been delayed, Stella might have slept soundly till mid-morning, I might have crept back to my own bed before she woke.

  If.

  The word is less a shape in Sign than an intonation: a raised eyebrow, a shrugged shoulder, a tilt of the head. An accompaniment. Sign subjunctive offers the Good Hand shape for ‘pretend’ as an added emphasis. Pretend Terry discovered us, then perhaps…

  The time for pretending, for the make-believe of ifs and buts and might-bes, was past. I pulled on the nearest clothes in my bedroom as an argument raged downstairs. Rain was beating against the roof, drowning the sense of that argument. Only the general melody, the gusts of pro and con, carried to me. I could hear Stella’s raised voice, the steady background murmur of Clive’s, Terry’s occasional intercessions.

  To run the gauntlet of those voices—Stella’s sandpaper rasp especially—was beyond me. I crept from my room and tried Wish’s door; it was locked, the key nowhere in sight. I sank to the floor, leaning against the door, and tried to speak to her through that inch of wood. Unable to use Sign, I could only murmur, reassuringly. That she was listening I was certain; I could sense the pressure of her weight against the far side of the door, opposing and returning mine.

  Time passed. Rain fell. The murmuring of voices downstairs stopped, started, then stopped again. Mid-morning, footsteps mounted the stairs, a slow metronome tread that preceded the appearance of Clive. He stood for a moment above me, then folded himself onto the floor opposite, his thin mantis-legs bent about him.

  ‘Stella can’t bring herself to speak to you at present, J.J.’

  He spoke without rancour or recrimination.

  ‘Hell hath no fury,’ I murmured.

  No reaction. The slander, as transparent I would have thought as any sign-mime, went not so much over his head as beneath his notice, too trivial to acknowledge.

  ‘Well,’ he finally said, ‘what a mess.’

  He clasped his knees to his chest. He seemed in some discomfort, an elderly man with stiff joints trying too hard to be informal. Despite my predicament, I felt a small surge of pity. The ginger toupée and white running shoes enclosed his body at each end like parentheses, as if to protect what they contained from the ravages of time—but the wig was slightly askew, and one of the shoes unlaced. He was showing his age, the years were leaking through, not to be denied.

  ‘I want the key, Clive. We have a lesson today.’

  ‘You can’t seriously expect to go on teaching her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He looked away and back, considering.

  ‘There would seem to be several ethical reasons. First, you have exploited a student for your own sexual pleasure.’

  This sounded half-hearted; a quote from a campus behaviour manual.

  ‘She presented to me.’

  ‘A moot point. You would argue that she gave consent?’

  Only Clive could sit on a floor and discuss such matters, at zero degrees emotional weather, in the aftermath of that morning. His academic steadiness might have offered a lifeline, a buffer against the high feelings downstairs, but part of me wanted to reject that lifeline on the grounds of inhumanity. He reminded me too much of Jill, of her irritating insistence on the power of words, and discussion, to ‘work’ things through. I almost preferred to take my chances with the unpredictable Stella downstairs. Hypocrisy, at least, was human.

  ‘I would have thought that presenting her swollen vulva was a sign of consent in any language.’

  I sought to shock him, to jolt out of him what he felt, not what he thought. He merely shrugged.

  I tried harder. ‘If she is entitled to human rights, those rights should, I would have thought, include the right to fuck.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, then turned towards the stairs, distracted by a raised voice. Somewhere below us Terry was trying to restrain, or comfort, Stella. The interruption derailed Clive’s train of thought; instead of addressing the point, he moved on to another.

  ‘Secondly, there is the question of her age. As Stella points out—she is a minor. At least in legal terms.’

  ‘She is fully mature. And Stella is jealous.’

  He looked at me, surprised; I told him, abruptly, bluntly: ‘We went to bed while you were away.’

  If his thoughts were ruffled, he disguised it well. ‘Stella occasionally goes to bed with other friends while I’m away. It’s an arrangement we have.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  He was staring past me now, unfocused.

  ‘Adultery is written in our genes, J.J. It’s nothing to become unduly concerned about. Remind me to show you the statistics sometime. There are some nice mathematical models using game theory. What the sociobiologists call pursuing a mixed reproductive strategy.’

  ‘We’re not talking game theory. We’re talking about Stella.’

  His gaze returned to me. ‘I’m not the possessive type, J.J. And I’m not a young man. It’s perfectly natural that her appetites don’t entirely coincide with mine.’

  His tone was benevolent, paternal—irritatingly helpful.

  ‘I came to terms with this some time back. One of the mercies of old age, J.J.—to be freed from the dictates of your balls.’

  He smiled slightly, amused by the sound of the uncharacteristic word in his mouth.

  ‘Perhaps you should try monkey glands injections.’

  ‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you, J.J. I’m truly thankful for the serenity of age.’

  ‘Is that why you wear
a wig?’

  His smile widened, acknowledging the point. ‘My halo is slipping?’ he said, and stirred his forefinger vaguely above his head.

  I waited, impassively; his smile faded.

  ‘No one’s perfect, J.J.—but I suspect that sainthood is less of a struggle in old age. The emotions loosen their grip—we operate on a narrower bandwidth. Perhaps the alleged wisdom of the old is nothing more than that—the mind finally shaking free of the flesh.’

  Reason without emotion. His own continued to provoke me. ‘Then you understand that Wish might have similar needs.’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t judge you, J.J. I wouldn’t dream of judging you.’

  He added his own sign shape, two Cup Hands, palms up, balancing each other, a weighing of judgement.

  This also irritated me, as if he were speaking down to me, offering pidgin Sign as if that were the only way he could make himself understood.

  ‘Well, I judge you! I think you’re a fucking machine!’

  Did I speak the insult, or speechless, only sign it? I cant remember; certainly my hands moved, with or without my redundant tongue. Machine: two Spread Hands, a furious meshing of cogs.

  His tone remained mild: ‘I suggest we discuss these matters later, J.J. When the dust has settled. For now, it might be best for all concerned if you left.’

  The pressure of weight against the far side of the door shifted slightly, a barely perceptible bulge, a shutting of the tiny air-gap between door and frame.

  ‘I refuse to leave until I’ve seen Wish.’

  ‘I think that would create too many difficulties.’

  ‘She must be very upset. She needs to see me.’

  ‘We’re quite capable of looking after Wish. Terry is here. His ties with her antedate yours.’

  I sat, pressed against the door, impervious to reason. He sounded like a lawyer. He unfolded his uncomfortable stick-legs, and rose from the floor:

  ‘I’m sorry, J.J.—I can’t permit you to stay. We all need time to think. Stella is very upset. She wants to involve the police. If you won’t leave voluntarily I can see no other course.’

  ‘It’s raining,’ I said, absurdly.

  ‘You can take the umbrella.’

  2

  My parents’ house was empty. I fell onto my bed, face-down. Outside the rain fell steadily and soothingly, a percussion played on the tin roof with soft brushes. Its music reminded me of the tranquillising power of immersion, the curative powers of taking the waters. I rose, dug my second-skin from my bag, rolled it on, and headed outside. The cold rain on my face was less tranquillising than invigorating. The surface of the sea seemed flattened, made smooth, by the pressure of falling water. After wading beyond my depth I was lost; visibility shrank within arms’ length, a rain-dimpled foreground against a background of featureless grey. I floated aimlessly, encased and insulated. Frigid rain thumped against my head but the sensation was not unpleasant; a sensation, more importantly, that drove out other sensations, that was a kind of forgetfulness.

  When the rain thinned I found that I had drifted no distance at all; the world that reformed was identical to the world I had left. Nothing was missing. The doll’s house faced me from the esplanade, exactly abreast; even the blurred outline of the Hills was emerging from behind a further, more distant, veil of rain.

  I clambered up the beach steps to find my mother in the kitchen, unpacking a small bag of groceries. If she was surprised to see me back from my new home in the Hills so soon, she managed to hide it. Or perhaps her surprise was merely swamped by the usual maternal concern. The day was cold, I was soaked and dripping.

  ‘You crazy,’ she signed, Point Hand version.

  ‘For swim—perfect,’ I signed, an emphatic Okay Hand.

  ‘You catch cold.’

  ‘Warm inside,’ I signed, then added, teasing: ‘You borrow wetsuit?’

  Literally, wet-clothes. She laughed, a brief, raucous explosion. Having won her over, I asked the question that needed to be asked.

  ‘I come home?’

  ‘This home or that other home?’

  Despite this reminder that she was not to be taken for granted, her expression was playful, I knew that I had a place to sleep. My father might object, but she would handle that. She plucked a thin sheet of fax paper from beneath a fridge-magnet and handed it to me.

  ‘From J. She know you move out?’

  ‘I plan to tell Sunday next. Now need-not.’

  Ring me—Jill. I propped the fax by the phone; I would ring later. First things first. I peeled off my wetsuit in the bathroom and stepped into the shower cubicle, turning my face upwards against the gush of steam and water. The shower is another kind of immersion, different, but complementary; the massage of its high-pressure fingers also offers a temporary amnesia. The sound of tapping on the foggy glass roused me after some minutes. I slid open the door, my mother’s V-hand appeared through the escaping steam. ‘Visitor.’

  Her grim expression alerted me: grave concern.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Police,’ she signed, simply: right hand gripping left wrist, a handcuffing mime.

  3

  I wasn’t handcuffed. Nor did the two police officers sitting politely in the living room fit the vernacular sign, common among the younger Deaf: the Fist Hand snout. Introductions were brief: Detective Sergeant Crilly, a big middle-aged man wearing a bored expression on a blunted boxer’s face, and Detective Senior Constable Vogel, a young sharp-faced woman in a skirt and business jacket, with a pocket full of pens. Vogel, the junior partner, was carrying a radio handset, a clipboard, and a thick torch that looked more like a baton; Crilly’s hands were free, a privilege of rank, perhaps.

  He informed me that, acting on ‘information received’, he needed to ask me certain questions. His tone was world-weary, a been-there-done-that tone. He glanced briefly towards my mother, hovering at the edges of our conversation, and suggested that it might help his inquiries if I would agree to accompany him to Headquarters.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No—but we have a lot of ground to cover, sir. It might be best to do that in privacy.’

  My mother signed: ‘What wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I signed back, an emphatic Okay Hand zero.

  It failed to reassure her. I repeated the sign, with variations. ‘Routine.’ ‘Police need help’—‘help’ being a taking-of-the-arm mime, as if to help the police across a busy street, an irony that might have made her laugh in any other context.

  Vogel watched our fluttering hands, curiously. Even Crilly raised an eyebrow, willing to be diverted from the day’s tedium. I repeated the signs, several times, as my mother followed us outside.

  ‘Back soon,’ I signed. ‘Worry-not.’

  Literally ‘think-too-much-not’. Sitting alone in the back seat of the car I couldn’t avoid a surfeit of thinking. I stared unfocused from the window. Information received? From whom? And where was Wish, what was she thinking? Vogel drove, upright and prim, her jacket neatly suspended from a coat-hanger at my shoulder. Crilly sat with his seat reclined, his elbow jutting illegally from the open window, a big man completely at ease. Twice he turned my way and winked, for no apparent reason. In the confines of the car I noticed for the first time that his broad face was flushed, his breath, on-duty, in the early afternoon, was winey.

  We entered Police Headquarters on Angas Street from the back, hidden from public view by the high walls of the carpark. I was ushered up three flights of stairs and into a bare interview room—three chairs, a single table—and questioned, civilly enough, by my male-female tag-team. Neither shone a lamp in my face, neither offered me a cigarette. We talked for a few minutes, in generalities, giving nothing away; finally Crilly said: ‘I am about to ask you some further questions relating to this matter. You do not have to answer any of these questions, however, if you do your answers may be taken down in writing and given in evidence in a court. Do you understand?’

  The textbook wa
rning, delivered in a textbook tone of voice.

  Vogel left the room, returning with an ancient mechanical typewriter which she eased onto the table in front of her. From that point she typed my answers as I spoke.

  I answered each question truthfully. There was no point in lying; Crilly claimed to have a signed statement from an unnamed ‘eyewitness’ and I didn’t doubt it for a minute. I’d like to believe my frankness was more than that, however—due more to courage and conviction than coercion. I’d come to terms with my feelings for Wish; to deny the accusations was also surely to deny her, and to deny the depth of those feelings.

  Was I deceiving myself? I don’t think so; it seemed—still seems—an important distinction. The notion that I was acting with dignity sustained me through the burlesque of that interview. Crilly’s expression became slightly less pained and more amused as time passed. He wasn’t about to judge me; I had novelty value, if nothing else: a lonely fat man in love with a gorilla. Vogel was also amused, but it was an amused contempt. The questions she occasionally interjected as she typed seemed sharper than Crilly’s, and more to the point; verbal tweezers, turning me this way and that.

  Peeping out from time to time from behind both his amusement and her contempt was the same curious question: what was it like? The question was never put, baldly. Crilly would shift in his seat, his eyebrow would lift at a certain line of questioning. Vogel, crouched behind her huge clacking machine, hid her prurience even more obliquely, in the search for what she liked to call ‘the facts of the case’, the ‘precise details’.

  ‘A gentleman never tells,’ Crilly murmured to her at one point, teasingly. Caught out, she buried her face in the typewriter.