Vanessa stands up to talk to Father Bede. She stands close to him, so that he has to arch his body to avoid touching her, so he seems to be bending over her, as though he is the one trying to get close. She lowers her lids again, tips her head back so she can see him. Her hand sketches the surface of his cassock. She is speaking hesitantly, as though too shy to say what she means. At such moments she is inclined to lisp.
I’m sure she is a nice woman, says Enid, my friend who looks after the bishop. Very kind, really, and truly devout.
No she isn’t. She isn’t. She is the dirtiest fighter in the game, totally selfish, only interested in her own advancement. I don’t say this to Enid. I know I will only make myself look mean and petty. Quite possibly, is all I allow myself to say. I think: she is a crocodile.
Advancement? you wonder. She edits the Catholic Times, which is a surprisingly serious journal. I used to do this but she took it over. That said, she doesn’t do a very good job; the old team including me still do the work but she takes the credit.
I have to confess my husband found her rather cute. She is quite a wonderful woman, in her way, he said. If you like that kind of thing, I said. He smiled. He was always quite sweet to me. That conversation was not long before he left me for a man. Or men, rather. As politely as ever. So I don’t know that I know what it means.
The mother is still holding the book. The child says book again, in her firm clear voice. Father Bede nods at it: Are you going to buy it? he asks her.
The woman shakes her head in horror and puts it back on the stand. Anthony Tindale on The numinous in a daily world at sixty dollars a copy is not her thing. Looking interested at a book launch is one thing, buying let alone reading quite another.
Vanessa buys it and gets him to sign it, pointing her long crocodile (all right, my imagination, but I can see it) face at him, keeping her teeth hidden, masking her fishy breath. I’m not making that up; her breath does have an odd fishy odour. She slaps on a lot of Dior’s Diorissimo but it doesn’t help. I know that’s what it is because I asked her.
Lovely scent, I said, what is it? Diorissimo, she said. I suppose she was telling the truth.
She’s back to Father Bede. Seductively saying something. He frowns slightly, looks around. Looks back at her, his brow smooths, he smiles and walks off with her, she leaning into him, her hand hovering, still not touching. She has a room in this complex of buildings, an old convent, most of which is no longer needed for its original intent. The book launch is here in the old refectory, a large room with beams, with windows made of panes of coloured glass; very new world I always think it is, imitation somehow, not very convincing. But a good space. The journal has an office here, and she has a sort of study in which to write the great work. I assume that’s where they are going.
I suppose you think I might sidle off, slip up to the door, knock and throw it open in one swift gesture. No, of course not. What do you think I am? What she gets up to in there is her own business. I say I don’t think it’s anything. She doesn’t want to sleep with priests, she wants to flirt with them, pull them to her, hold them by her.
Later, when I am leaving, I walk past her room. The door is open and she is sitting at the desk, he in an armchair on the other side, a brightly coloured Turkish rug under his feet, a cut glass tumbler of I suppose whisky in his hand. She is leaning forward, speaking softly. She gives a little laugh in her throat. The kind, if you heard through a wall, you would think, I know what’s going on, in there.
*
Time passes. The book progresses, she says. She has been busy judging a prize for religious writing, open to any faith. There’s a committee, my friend William who is on it complains that she takes no notice of any of them. They are not at all happy with the choices she is making, he says, but they don’t know what they can do about it. None of them likes to make a fuss so she will doubtless have her way. That is how it goes.
And then she is gone. Her husband had been offered a visiting chair at one of the New York Catholic colleges and suddenly she is off with him. Not living with him in the city of his boys’ school is one thing, New York clearly another. She sends us all mass emails, blog-like spiels, nothing personal, describing the delights of life there. She is a parishioner at the cathedral of New York, St Patrick’s, in Fifth Avenue. Vast new fields of priests to flirt with, I expect. Pastures new.
Other People
Matt Gabriel
The rental market is tight, an article in this morning’s paper tells me. It is not the first time I have read this. Newspapers publish articles like my uncle tells stories. There is an accompanying photo of a real estate agent with only half his eyebrows. It makes me a little nauseous over breakfast. To his side is an inset textbox. A series of dot points reads: booming population, high demand in inner-city stock, continuing investor confidence.
I only finish reading it because we put up an ad in a bookshop window yesterday afternoon. It described us as friendly and considerate. As soon as it went up, my phone didn’t stop ringing. I only answered the first three times. Each person had plagarised our adjectives. They repeated them twice in their initial description of themselves without synonyms and then once more as they said goodbye to reinforce the message. I got suspicious that people were using a guide to answering rental ads in a tight market and didn’t pick up the phone again.
Beth is in the kitchen. She’s pouring cold coffee into a pan. She tries to convince me that, if we want to fill the room, I am going to have to return the missed calls. This is in place of my preferred method, continuing to ignore them. In the past, when I was on the other side and looking for a new room, I always felt relief hearing the call I’d made ring out. I could apply this generally for my telephone conversations, or the lack of them. For me, the trying fulfills my end of the obligation. I never expect people to call back. I’d go so far as saying I feel good when they don’t. I often assume other people are like me.
It’s been said I have confidence issues. Beth reminds me that on the phone I am the one in control and that I shouldn’t let people turn my shit around. My therapist is also helping me with this. She gets me to visualise my imagined masculine ideal. I can’t help but think of Steve McQueen. She sometimes doubts whether it’s confidence where my issues lie.
That said, I am bare-chested and standing poolside in my compound. I am somewhere in Beverly Hills. Feeling better, I call the first number. I try to organise a time for them to come over on Tuesday, but there is a foreboding sense that they have already turned my shit around. I watch Beth pour half the reheated coffee back into my cup. My Californian sunshine fades. The guy on the line is looking at houses today and insists on coming over this afternoon. I say the kind of ‘yeah’ that means ‘not really.’ He replies with a ‘great’ that says ‘I will be outside your gate soon.’
I say my housemate will be out this afternoon. Steve leaves me and is somewhere shaking his head and grabbing the keys to his shit-hot Mustang. Beth rolls her eyes at me. She mouths, ‘Hold onto it, Steve.’ I appreciate the support, but Beth obviously can’t hear the roar of the Mustang’s engine.
‘Two o’clock is perfect,’ he says. He just wants to check out the space. I try to suggest that there is no point if Beth and I aren’t both in. He asks me some more questions about the ‘space’ on the phone. I wish he would call it a room or maybe a home.
He is a remedial masseur. He has a list of requirements. These are not for him, but necessary for making his clients feel comfortable. I am not listening because I am thinking about the naked people in towels walking through my house. I think about our lounge room full of the pained, injured and lonely, waiting for their professional touch-up. The nakedness changes its hue. The thought of all that expectation starts my nausea churning again. I tell him the room is really small and not suitable for his clients. He says he will loft his living space and multi-utilise its functionality. I have
lived in the room. I tell him that you can’t fit a queen-size bed in there, but it fits a double. He doesn’t understand that I am euphemistically telling him that the room is the size of a double bed and barely facilitates the function of a nightly sleep. He interrupts and asks me to describe the layout of the house. His clients require a bathroom outside the general living area. Since we didn’t put ‘must have a small business to set up in our home’ in the ad, I assume it’s part of a remedial masseur’s habitat to set up practice in their nesting grounds.
I am imagining naked strangers in my house again, but this time I am back poolside and I am Steve McQueen and I am not interested in the other, less attractive naked people anymore. I tell him it won’t work. He has a studio he can work from in the city is his reply. I am unnerved. He almost sounded vulnerable, a touch desperate. At this point, I wish I had hung up, but I don’t because as quickly as Steve returns, he’s leaving the building again. The vulnerability I heard was indigestion. The masseur punctuates his response with a short series of smothered burps. He then informs me that our location is central enough for him to compromise on certain requirements. I’m not sure if I owe him one for this, but I feel like I do. I find myself booking him in, so that he can check out the space. He insists on two o’clock this afternoon.
I realise I don’t know his name, so I ask. It sounds like a variation on Josh, although I am not certain. I ask him to spell it. I look at the letters I have written on the pad. S, C, H, T and S. I repeat them for him. He corrects me by repeating his name. It sounds like a variation on Josh. I ask him if his name is Josh. He says if it’s easier for me to pronounce, then he is fine with Josh. I like to get a person’s name right, so I insist on calling him Schts when I say goodbye.
When I hang up, Beth asks me where the hell Steve went. I answer by asking her if she will be home this afternoon. I explain the situation. She says he sounds like a creep. I question the objectivity of the way I have portrayed Schts to her. I feel sorry for other people sometimes, but I know him moving in isn’t going to work. I message him this. He calls straight back. I let the phone ring out. The phone beeps a forewarning of his voicemail message. My coffee has gone cold again. Beth listens to the message. She tells me he has one more question and that he wants me to call him back. I know the question. I don’t need to call him.
*
By Tuesday, Schts is back. He booked in with Beth to check out the space. He used the name Seth. Also, he is no longer a remedial masseur. He is a myotherapist who works in the city. Beth said she didn’t like him at first, but that she changed her mind. A myotherapist she assumed worked with the vision impaired, but didn’t ask. I understand, career people are strangely offended when you haven’t heard of their professional specialisations. I also defer to pretending I know.
I knew it was Schts by the way he pronounced Seth. I return his introduction with ‘Hi Josh. Nice to meet you.’ He flinches, but only slightly. I say it more for Beth’s benefit. She doesn’t seem to pick up the significance. I try to stay on the front foot, as they say in the sports, and declare that we have already decided on someone. Beth gives me a surprised look. She laughs and asks who. I find her tone unsupportive. I say Calvin. She laughs harder this time.
She says, ‘What, that French guy? The one who could only describe everything as either fucking boring or fucking stupid?’ She does a pretty good impression of Calvin and punctuates this comment with another laugh. I even find myself giggling. Josh takes the opportunity to turn to me and smile. It’s giggly too, but strangely he hasn’t met Calvin. He walks past us both and into the house.
I pull Beth aside and tell her that this Seth guy is really Schts, who also goes by the name Josh. She gives me a look. It says to me, Why did you give that creep our address? I tell her to call her friend Victor. He can come over and pretend he is another person looking for a room. I also think that Victor can be especially mean and will protect us from this guy pretending to be Seth. Beth says that I just want to invite Victor around because I think he is a bigger arsehole than this Josh guy. She’s right, but I say it isn’t true. She doesn’t believe me but still calls Victor. I go inside.
Josh is smiling at me again. His smile is saying, I forgive you, or perhaps it’s just that he has no idea we have talked before. Either way I wish he would stop because I can’t help but smile back. I have no idea what my smile is saying. I might be at this moment inviting him to carve his initials into my forehead. Thankfully, he just asks about the furniture. He wants to know whose it is. I say Beth’s. He says he loves it, but his is much nicer. It’s newer. This confuses me a little. He informs me it’s in storage, but this is perfect because Beth can share the storage space. It will halve the cost. I tell him that we haven’t decided who will move in yet. I am smiling at him. Without trying I think my smile is telling him I might carve my initials into his forehead. He says he has a technique. His technique is projecting. Projecting helps him to get where he needs to be. He is writing a book about it. If I had his technique I assume that I could think of better places to project, but maybe it doesn’t work like that. I’m not really interested in buying the book to find out.
I am out of questions before I have a chance to ask him one. I think he is too, so we stand and look at each other. He breaks first. He is distracted and runs his finger over the top of the stereo. I say something banal about being close to trams creating a lot of dust. I fill the next awkward silence by asking if he would like a drink. I’m reminded of first dates. A first date at which the participants realise there is no attraction between them. In general, politeness dictates that both of you must wait at least thirty minutes before making excuses. We abide by this masochism of manners. I think of my parents.
Josh asks if he can see the other room. I suggest we wait for Beth. He says the kitchen needs a complete clean out. He will organise the schedule. He likes that kind of thing. He was once a personal assistant. His use of the past tense shocks me, but also gives me hope. He must have had a better offer somewhere else. I ask him if he has seen any other good houses. He answers by telling me he is a fantastic cook. He informs me that he cooks three times a week. I don’t ask which days. He always shares his food, but Beth and I will need to give him money for ingredients. He explains that this will mean we needn’t feel like we have to reciprocate.
I break. I tell Josh that the interview is over. It just won’t work. We are seriously different people and Beth and I are really looking for someone a bit more relaxed and accommodating. He looks shocked. He asks if he can ask one more question. My silence tells him he can try. He does. In a genuinely concerned voice, he says, ‘Do you let anything touch you? I mean really reach you, or are you so used to it by now that nothing really touches you?’
It doesn’t quite make sense considering the context, so I answer, ‘You believe what you want. You work your side of the street and I’ll work mine.’
Actually, I lied. I didn’t break. I just let Josh wander upstairs and found myself daydreaming about Steve McQueen again.
I notice Beth still hasn’t come in from the back. I go looking for her. I want to tell her I have things to do. I am trying to think of what those things are. I look out the back of the house. She has left. I decide I need proper coffee and leave too.
At the café, Beth is sitting with Victor. She isn’t happy to see me. I tell her that the Josh guy is just checking out the rooms upstairs, but he won’t be too long. I try to make my intonation say, ‘Me and Josh have made a deal that he will lock up after he leaves.’ She accuses me of locking a snowdropper in our house. I’m not sure what that is, so I ask. It makes her angrier. I assure her he is not interested in our underwear, unless compelled to reorder and launder them and charge us for the favour.
By the time we have finished our coffees we order some beers and we are talking about where we think Josh comes from. Victor, having ignored me for the most part, is kind of interested now. Be
th puts forward the theory that he waits around in IKEA for the store to close and each night chooses a themed area to act out his sickest of domestic fantasies. I say that he is a terrible mythical tale told to children and he hides in unmade beds waiting till dinner time and then appears uninvited and expecting a place set for him and murders the whole family with stories of his time organising others as a PA. Victor says that he is giardia incarnate and lives up people’s arses and fills rooms full of stench in the most unexpected social situations. I feel Victor has gone too far, but I am afraid to say this and laugh anyway. I think of Josh as a bad habit that we all have but wish we didn’t. We then go to great lengths to hide it from others or sometimes from ourselves. I think the beer is making me feel a little nostalgic for his company.
It’s been a while, so I convince everyone it’s time to go back to the house by offering to buy some more beer on the way. We all agree that he must have left by now, although when we get back no one is willing to move beyond the kitchen. We keep drinking and try not to mention Josh. It’s not long before we hear a noise from upstairs. It’s loud enough to stop our conversation. We all look worried, then laugh, then look worried again. He is waiting and he isn’t happy. Victor directs this towards me. I say it’s nothing, but my voice comes out high-pitched and vibrato. Victor looks in the drawer and tells me the kitchen knife is missing. The nervy high-pitched squeaky vibrato he uses is very similar to mine. This time the smile standoff is between Victor and me. I notice Victor’s eyes slowly appraising the rising colour in my face. His look is locked on the dial of my body temperature. I can’t stop him turning it up. I think of asking to look in the drawer, but I am sure Victor has pocketed the knife himself. I think it would be safer in Josh’s hands.
The Best Australian Stories 2012 Page 15