They returned to the hotel tired, sweating, and Hector wordlessly headed to the pool, dumped his bag on a fold-out chair, stripped to his underpants and hurled himself into the water.
When he emerged he was smiling. ‘Come in,’ he called out. ‘It’s refreshing.’
‘I’ll go change.’
‘No need. Strip to your panties.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
He came to the pool’s edge. She realised he was pulling at his cock under the water. ‘There’s no one around.’
‘There’s the staff.’
He laughed. ‘They won’t mind. We’re just decadent Westerners. I’m sure they expect it.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not a decadent Westerner. I’ll go get into my bathers.’
‘Suit your fucking self.’
His mood had darkened again and he dived back under the water. She cursed him as she walked back to the room. He was a child. He was a child every time he did not get his own way. He wanted her to agree to the beach, he obviously wanted a cigarette, he wanted everything to go his way. She did not look at him as she dived into the pool. The water was indeed lovely, another world away from the thick, humid wall of heat. She swam laps and then floated on her back, staring at the white wisps of cloud in the startling sky above.
Hector’s mood continued to sour all afternoon and by dinner time he was spoiling for a fight. She had suggested going to La Luna for dinner. It was expensive, for Bali at least, but the food was excellent and she loved that the balcony looked over the hothouse lushness of the river.
Hector groaned at the suggestion. ‘Again. We’ve already been there for dinner and once for lunch. I want to do something different. ’
‘Fine.’ She was sitting at the vanity table, putting in new earrings she had bought that afternoon from a stall in town. She jiggled her ears. They looked good. ‘There’s heaps of places. We’ll find somewhere else.’
‘I’m bored.’ He sat on the bed scowling at her. She looked at him in the mirror. His hair was plastered back against his scalp. He had just finished showering and his towel was loosely folded across his lap. In two days his skin had tanned dark. She turned away from his reflection and concentrated on her earrings. She had been startled again by how handsome her husband was. Even with the sprinkle of grey in his hair and unshaven face, he looked much younger than his years. It seemed an apt irony that she, who prided herself on her cool, rational logic, was still locked into a love for this man that sprang completely from desire. Sometimes she didn’t know if she even liked Hector—he could be such a lout. He was still scowling heavily at her, she could sense it behind her back, like Adam in a temper, waiting for her to make things right. But Adam was a child and Hector was middle-aged. She might not like her husband but she still thought him the most beautiful man in the world. Beside her, together, they looked a great couple. They inspired envy. She was startled by his shout.
‘I’m bored,’ he called out, clownishly falling back on the bed, his legs in the air, the wet towel slipping to the floor. ‘I’m fucking bored with fucking Ubud.’ He rolled back to his feet. ‘Let’s go tomorrow. It will be full-moon Thursday. Let’s go and see the full moon in Amed.’
He was such a child.
‘I’m sure every driver on the island claims that the full moon looks best from their village. I like Ubud. I don’t see any reason to leave.’
‘I want to swim.’
‘That’s why we booked a place with a pool.’
‘I want to swim in the sea.’
Adam was exactly like Hector. What would she say to Adam? ‘If you want to go to Amed, you organise it. You organise the travel, the hotel, the drive back to the airport. If you take care of it all I’m happy to go wherever.’
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Nah.’ He sniffed dismissively. ‘You’ll hold it against me.’
She swung the chair around. ‘I will not.’
‘You won’t like the room I book, you’ll find something to complain about.’
She turned back to the mirror. ‘Fuck you, Hector. I’m not your mum.’
It was a good shot, she had wounded him. He went silent. She finished applying her make-up and looked around for her shoes.
‘Sandi’s pregnant.’
She didn’t respond, wary of the dangerous terrain they were entering.
‘She’s past the first trimester.’ A pause. ‘Harry told me just before I left for here.’
She was certain he purposefully had missed a beat between sentences. The bastard was toying with her. ‘That’s good news for Sandi.’ She managed a smile, and headed towards the bathroom. ‘I’m very happy for her.’
She heard his mutter. He said it low, under his breath, but it was clear and distinct. ‘Bet you aren’t so happy for Harry, are you?’
Why did those words sting so much? Why did she feel so ludicrously jealous? She was jealous. She wanted him to choose between her and his cousin. It seemed so simple. She wanted his loyalty. She would not think about Art: she deserved her husband’s loyalty. Harry was a violent, cruel man.
She sat on the toilet seat and looked up at the sky. She didn’t know what she was doing in the bathroom. The clouds had disappeared and the emerging constellations beamed down at her. She could smell the nutty sour spices of Indonesian food.
He knocked on the door. ‘I need to get dressed.’
He was still in a temper. She rose and flushed the toilet. She walked past him without speaking.
She wished she could go back to the beginning of the day and change everything. Wake before Hector, suggest a lazy morning by the pool rather than a long, hot walk. But the day had begun as it had, and it seemed determined to follow its own course. Every step seemed to escalate their animosity so that by the time they sat down to dinner they could not complete a sentence without wanting to kill each other. He had suggested they have a drink and then dinner at a posh-looking restaurant set in the grounds of a Hindu temple. A moat covered in gigantic luxuriant lily pads surrounded the tables. She wanted to eat there but she was still pissed off with him for refusing to return to La Luna and so she just replied shortly, No, let’s not go there. It’s too expensive. He didn’t answer. Instead he walked ahead at an infuriating rate, so that she had to almost run to keep up with him. An anxious-looking young man stepped out to offer them a car and Hector spat out the words, Fuck off, in his face. The man recoiled, as if Hector was a viper in his path, as if he was the very devil himself. Aisha was convinced that Hector’s temper was due to his not smoking. She was going to buy him a packet of cigarettes. She’d bloody well force them down his throat. Let him die early. She wanted him to die early. She raced after her husband, slipping on the uneven broken footpath and nearly twisting an ankle. Hector didn’t even bother to stop. It was not just the smoking, there was something about a holiday that accentuated every irritation and annoyance she felt about her husband. What they had together over the last three days was uninterrupted time and that was something that had not been theirs for years. Again she wondered, Do I really like this man?
Hector abruptly turned into an over-lit touristy cabana. A four-piece band was glumly picking and hitting their gamelan instruments, playing traditional Indonesian music as if it was muzak in a mall. The place was terrible and she knew Hector knew it and had veered inside deliberately.
‘Will this do?’
She wanted to hit him.
Instead, she nodded.
The young Balinese waitress rushed over to them and they were seated. The nervous young girl, in hesitant English, offered them menus. Hector ordered beers for both of them. The waitress inquired about what they would like to eat and Hector slapped the menu on the table. Give us a bloody moment. The girl, shocked, embarrassed, stared at him, and then hung her head and bowed. Aisha could not bring herself to look at her.
‘That was a terrible thing to do,’ she chided him as the girl walked away. Hecto
r ignored her, but he was blushing. Good, he was ashamed. When the girl returned with the drinks, he apologised to her. This seemed to alarm her even further. He ended up repeating Terima Kasim, Terima Kasim, until she smiled and he could smile back. Aisha wanted to laugh, suddenly he seemed goofy and lovable again, but in his present mood he was liable to interpret laughter only in a thousand negative ways. She would not speak until he spoke. Her stomach felt tight, her head was throbbing. She doubted she could eat. The beer was refreshingly cold and she drank it greedily.
‘I think you should ring Sandi and congratulate her.’
‘I’ll send a card.’
‘I’ll send a card.’ He made his voice hideous, whiney, jeering her. He turned away from her, shaking his head. ‘You’re fucking incredible. ’
‘What?’ She meant it. What had she done? What did he want from her?
‘I don’t want you to send a card. I want you to ring her. I want you to go over and see her.’
‘I have no problem with seeing Sandi, you know that.’
‘You just have a problem with my cousin.’
My cousin, my mate, my man Harry. ‘Yes, I do have a problem with your cousin.’
‘Can’t you just forgive him?’
‘For assaulting my best friend’s child? And for doing it at my home? No, I’m not going to forgive him.’
‘That child deserved it.’
‘Hugo is a child. Your cousin is meant to be a grown man.’
‘Your cousin is meant to be a grown man.’ That same ugly jeer. Aisha watched two couples walk hesitantly up the steps and into the restaurant. One of the women held a baby and one of the men was holding a toddler’s hand. Another waitress emerged from the shadows at the back of the restaurant. For the first time Aisha was aware of the world just a few metres away from her. She could see bodies moving around in a kitchen, the flicker of a television set. She knew her husband’s eyes were looking straight at her but she ignored him. Reaching for her beer she caught Hector’s eye and he pounced.
‘He’s a terrible child.’
‘He’s just turned four. How can a four-year-old be terrible?’
‘By not having been disciplined, by not being taught to respect other people. He’s a terrible child now and he’ll turn out to be a cunt of an adult when he grows up.’
She would not take the bait. He was using the word cunt in exactly the way she hated it to be used, as a vileness, as an insult to her. He was doing so deliberately. The two couples were French and she was conscious that the young waitress had switched easily to speaking the language.
‘Harry at least had the decency to go and apologise to them.’ Hector was shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned across the table, furious. ‘It should have been Rosie crawling on her hands and knees asking his forgiveness.’
She felt her reserve break, split apart. That sounded exactly like his mum. Exactly Koula’s words, her expression, her sentiment.
‘What did Rosie do except protect her son?’
‘What Rosie has done is use Hugo as an excuse not to deal with the failures of her relationship with Gary. And just like she indulges Gary and refuses to deal with the reality of his situation . . . like his being a fucking alco, like his being the world’s greatest artist in his own head but unfortunately he doesn’t have any bloody talent . . . like the fact he never wanted the kid in the first place.’ Hector breathed deeply. When he spoke again his tone was quieter, more measured. ‘I don’t doubt that Rosie loves her child. Jesus, Aish, I don’t doubt Gary’s love for him. But they are complete fuck-ups as parents. He’s a little monster. No one likes him. Our kids can’t bear being with him. What does that tell you?’
She kept silent. She felt overwhelming pity and despair for Hugo. She saw him interact with such puzzlement and hurt when confronted with the world. He was shocked that he was not the centre of the world when he stepped away from Rosie. But he’d learn. Of course he’d learn. That was also the way of the world, that was what happened with kids. They met other kids.
‘He’ll change when he goes to school.’
‘Yeah,’ Hector was laughing. ‘Yeah, sweetheart, he’ll change and you know why he will change? Because the other kids are going to bash the living shit out of him. Have you asked our kids what they thought of Harry slapping him?’
She could not believe he’d had this conversation with their children. She leaned across the table.
‘What have you been saying about this to Adam and Melissa?’
He gauged her temper and sat back. ‘Nothing.’
‘So how do you know?’
He didn’t answer her.
‘How do you know?’
He crossed his arms defensively.
She suddenly guessed. She let out a hollow laugh. ‘Your bloody mother. Of course.’
‘Harry’s family, Aish. Rocco is their cousin. They know what’s going on.’
‘You mean they get told what’s going on.’
He spoke calmly. ‘They were there. I think they made up their own minds about it.’
She experienced a moment of panic, almost vertigo. It had to do with her children. They belonged to Hector in a way they could not belong to her. Her husband and her children were connected through family, through that network of kin that was not available to her. It would not have mattered if her mother lived in Melbourne with them. Her mother would not be able to bear a life revolving only around her children and grandchildren. She had her practice, her friends and her own life; her family were part of that life, not all of it. Aisha thought that was wise—how life should be. She could live a continent apart from her family. Hector could not. She knew this when she had married him. In agreeing to be with him, she had to agree to be with all of him. But she had never stopped resenting that fact, and knew that her children would never be able to understand that resentment. She wished Raf lived in the same city with her. They loved her brother as much as she did. But she couldn’t share their love for their giagia and pappou, for their uncles and aunts. Of course, she had affection for Manolis, sure, a solid friendship with her sister-in-law, Elizabeth. But her real family in Melbourne was Rosie and Anouk. And her children did not love them.
She looked at her husband with something approaching hatred. You’ve bound me to your life, she thought bitterly. How had it happened?
One of the women called out in French to the toddler who was walking over to the bandstand. She half-rose to grab him but the band leader raised his arm, called out D’accord D’accord and lifted the child onto his lap. Delighted, the little boy began to shyly tap on the xylophone, drawing excited laughter from the musicians.
Aisha nodded towards the bandstand. ‘Isn’t that lovely?’
Hector turned around and looked at the little boy now happily bashing the xylophone’s keys. He smiled widely and turned back to Aisha. ‘He’s having the time of his life.’
‘So’s his mother.’ The French woman was holding a beer and laughing with her friends. The child’s laughter, garrulous, ecstatic, suddenly seemed to have banished all the bitterness and resentment of the day.
Aisha touched her husband’s hand and he folded his fingers around hers.
‘I loved seeing the children in Bangkok,’ she said wistfully. ‘I’d see them every morning, on my daily walk, and they’d all be dressed neat as could be in their school uniforms, boys and girls, laughing and swinging their bags high in the air. They looked like they owned the streets. Not at all in a threatening way, not like when you see packs of kids back home. They just looked safe and happy and completely at home.’
She glanced back at the toddler who was now sucking greedily on a slice of mango that the band leader had offered him.
She turned back to Hector. ‘Greece and Sicily were like that, do you remember?’ she urged. ‘The kids owned the streets there as well.’ She sipped her beer and was lost in a reminiscence of their time in the Mediterranean. It was so long ago, before their marriage—their first overseas trip together
. They had been so young. They had fought then as well, a terrible, destructive argument in Santorini. Back in Athens, Hector’s cousin, Pericles, had told them that everyone fought on Santorini. The brakolaka, the vampire spirits, caused arguments because they could not bear to see a couple happy in love.
‘Greece must have changed so much. We must take the children soon. We must.’
It was then that Hector started crying. Not quiet, discreet tears, but a sudden explosion of painful sobbing. His body shuddered, rocked, and heavy tears streamed down his face and onto his shirt. Aisha was shocked, could not speak. Hector never cried. His grip on her fingers tightened, and it felt as if he could, with just one further squeeze, break her hand. The waitress had been on her way over to them, but she stopped, confused, scared, looking at Hector in open-mouthed wonder. The French couples had fallen silent; the women were looking down at their menus, the men lit cigarettes and were looking deliberately over the bannister to the street below.
The embarrassment spurred Aisha to action. She jerked her hand away from her husband. ‘Hector, what’s wrong, what’s happening?’
He could not speak. His sobs had become louder, deep, racking cries. His breathing was jagged, his face and nose and eyes red and contorted. She grabbed a napkin and wiped under his nose. Ice water was in her veins—for the first time in her life she understood the metaphor, experienced it as real: she was feeling nothing but chilling detachment. She had never seen her husband cry. She would never have imagined this, the shedding of dignity so publicly, in such an agony of grief. She had never seen a man cry like this; or maybe only once before, long ago, an elusive but distinct memory of her father. He too had been howling, sitting on her parents’ bed, in his underpants and singlet. Her mother had slammed the door on her and Ravi’s terrified faces. Yes, only that once had she seen a man cry and her father too had been howling, like a wolf, like a maddened animal. There was nothing weak or submissive about her husband’s crying. He was a man broken, a man vulnerable, inconsolable in despair, but yet, for all that, still a man. Lost, but still a man. She had seen many women lose their control and weep, submit to the raw intensity of grief. She had done it herself. And every time it happened, she had encouraged the woman or the girl—or herself—to cry, to let their emotions play out their complete and necessary symphony. This was not the same. Every sob took Hector further away from her. She wanted it to stop. Her body, her heart, her mind, her soul, her hands, her lips, every part of her felt brittle. Ice water flowed through her veins. She knew why she had recalled her father’s inexplicable anguished outburst, an incident that had never been referred to by her parents again. Just like she had been then, she was scared. She was so scared that she couldn’t even form rational thoughts. All she felt was fear, the terror that after this moment, everything would be changed. After this, things could never be the same.
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