by Toni Jordan
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Would she have been heralded as a great benefactor, the giver of a way to know how many bison were in a herd or how many days’ walk to the ocean? Prized as a mate, a mother, a senior member of the tribe? Perhaps it would have been too different, this way of seeing. Was she ostracised or punished or bullied because her insight was greater? Was she alone, sent away because she defied the moon and the seasons and the knowledge that they bring?
It started as a row of notches; but it didn’t take long for the notches to be grouped in finger-lots of 5. Then the groups of 5s became 4 downward strokes with 1 cross stroke through them. In fact the Arabic numerals 2 and 3 come from those strokes. A 2 is just two horizontal strokes joined together; a 3 is three joined strokes. Eventually special symbols would evolve for 5 and 10, to end the repetition of all those strokes. Yet there’s purity in those simple marks, the kind you still see on children’s blackboards. We all count with our hearts when we are young. At teachers’ college most of my classmates aspired to teach upper secondary, but primary school was all I ever wanted. Seeing small children learn to count thrilled me year after year, as if it were me drawing those marks for the very first time. I remember everything about being a teacher. The feeling of chalk dust, silky against my palms. The wonder and mischief on those little faces.
Sometimes at night, after all the day’s counting is done, I imagine I am the woman who finds the numbers first. The woman who cut the marks into the wolf ’s bone. I am to be sacrificed for my heresy. It is always Nikola who saves me.
Sometimes I’m in Salem, Massachusetts. My puritan-black smock is laced tight over my breasts. My wrists are bound behind my back, around a stake piled with branches for burning. From waist to ankles my legs have been pressed together and tied by my church-going neighbours who take the chance to force roughened hands under my skirts, lingering over my calves, my thighs. The crowd jeers. The fire is lit. There is no hope for me. I am to be devoured by the flames. Suddenly, the crowd falls silent. A black horse thunders through the night. It is Nikola. He walks towards me, the flames curling around his knee-length black boots. He is unburned. Unharmed. He snaps my ties and cradles me against his chest.
Other times my wrists are bound in front of me and I am kneeling before the Aztec high priest. My eyes and mouth are open wide. My clothing, elaborate gilded and jewelled cloth wound around my body, is removed by two guards who stand on either side, hands on my shoulders. They tie a silken blindfold over my eyes. One guard cups my naked breast insolently. I am helpless. They haul me to my feet by a chain around my throat and bend me over an altar. A cold hand presses against the nape of my neck. Abruptly I sense a change in the crowd—murmurs, scuffling. I am hauled from the altar, lifted over Nikola’s shoulder. My blindfold falls to the ground. The guards lie dead, the high priest grovelling.
It’s a teenage fairytale fantasy I know, but so vivid sometimes that real life seems pale. At least it’s not like the typical middle-class fantasies of a middle-class woman from a middle-class suburb. I can imagine how they go: ‘Take me on the granite benchtop, Julio! Let me see your pumping arse reflected in the European double-door stainless steel fridge with ice-maker!’
In my fantasies, I am always about to die and Nikola always saves me. I have never been to Europe or America or Asia, but my fantasies show me exotic places I can smell and touch and feel. My dreams have no numbers in them, none at all; no counting, no signage, no paces. I wake, and count again.
It’s Saturday. It is 24 degrees, an annoying number because technically ‘room temperature’ is between 20 and 23 degrees. I wake at 5.55 a.m. I have 5 minutes to gather myself then my feet hit the floor the second the numbers roll around to 6.00. (I check the time on the internet at 6.00 p.m. every night and readjust all my clocks and my watch if necessary. It is rarely necessary.) The rest of Glen Iris might have morphed overnight from leafy streetscape to alien-inhabited moonscape. I never open the blinds.
I stand. 25 paces to the bathroom. Luckily my legs are long for my height. If I had to face a 27 or a 28 so early in the morning it would throw out my day. Brush my teeth—this is tricky. Each tooth has 3 surfaces—inner, top and outer, except for the front row which has only 2 surfaces because the tops are sharpened like a razor blade. There are 6 rows—top left, centre, top right, bottom left, centre, bottom right. Each surface needs 10 full strokes of the brush, back and forth. This means 16 by 10 strokes. 160. It takes a little while. Then floss up and down between each tooth 10 times.
Shower. When scrubbing each limb 10 times with soap it’s important not to be heavy-handed. Hair: washed every second day and counted out in the circles formed by each finger pressing against my scalp. 10 circles for each finger, and move to another place on my head. Repeat 10 times. The conditioner needs less—only 10 by 5. Out of the shower, dry myself with a towel from the top of the pile. Again, 10 wipes on each limb, 10 for the chest and 10 for the back. Wash my face. My face is divided into 5 zones: forehead— pale, wide, smooth. Each cheek, defined by sharp cheekbones. One nose, a little too pointy. And one chin, prominent. The overall effect is attractive but sharp, like a Scandinavian maitre d’ wearing underpants a size too small. Each zone needs 5 wipes with a cotton pad to remove the cleanser. Repeat with toner. Use the same action to apply moisturiser. Repeat with sunscreen. Dry hair, 100 slow strokes with the big brush under the dryer. This is the most difficult part because each stroke must be full and complete right to the tips down the small of my back, yet gentle so I don’t end up with a halo of blonde frizz. The only variation to this is Sunday morning, when I also trim my nails and push back the cuticles and cut them, and buff the nails 10 times each with each side of my buffer. There are 4 sides to my buffer: a file, a ridge-remover, a smoother and a polisher. This, too, takes a while.
But it isn’t Sunday. Back to the bedroom, another 25 steps. I have 10 pairs of knickers and 5 bras. These are folded in the appropriate drawers and I select from the top. Each bra I wear 5 times and each pair of knickers once. I have 10 pairs of trousers and 10 skirts. I have 10 short-sleeved tops and 10 long-sleeved tops. The trousers and long-sleeved tops are, of course, for the cold months and I wear them alternating on a daily basis from April 15, which is halfway through autumn, until October 15, halfway through spring. For the actual winter months of June, July and August I add a jacket regardless of the temperature. The skirts and short-sleeved shirts are for the other half of the year. Each top is worn once and each pair of trousers or skirt 5 times if its first day is a Monday but only twice if its first day is a Saturday.
I start at the left of my wardrobe and work towards the right, because after I have washed and ironed my clothes I hang them back at the right side. The order is random, determined by how I hang them on the line which is determined by the order in which I remove them from the washing machine; I put my hand in and pull out the first piece of cloth I touch. I don’t worry about co-ordination but there is a disproportionate amount of solid, dark colour in my wardrobe. Patterns and prints are asking for trouble. I have 10 pairs of shoes: day and evening shoes for each half of the year, plus boots, sneakers, ugg boots, slippers, old sneakers and a pair of sandals that don’t fit but make up the 10. The evening shoes don’t get much wear because I haven’t been out in the evening for a while.
So now I’m ready for breakfast. It’s 7.45.
As it’s Saturday, after breakfast I go to the supermarket. At 8.45 on Saturday morning in January in Glen Iris the supermarket is deserted—everyone is still asleep in their beach houses at Portsea or Anglesea or Phillip Island, dreaming about whomever it is they dream about while they lay beside their spouses. Waiting for me at the checkout is a handsome boy, twentysomething, with too much enthusiasm on his pink face. Either he’s still full of love for all mankind from last night’s ecstasy or he’s waiting for the right time to talk to me about Amway. Still, there’s no other checkout open. The boy smiles encouragingly. I feel a headache coming on. I push my shopping trolley over, squeaking wi
th each step.
My trolley has 2 trays of chicken thighs, fat and glossy, each tray containing 5. A carton of eggs marked as a dozen. (Each week I assure ecstasy-boy or high-pain-threshold-girl, a Kiwi backpacker with seven piercings in each ear, that I have already checked the eggs. This is so they won’t open the carton and notice I have removed 2 and left them in the assorted spices.) Plastic bags containing 100 beans (that’s a pain), 10 carrots, 10 baby potatoes, 10 small onions. 100 grams of salad mix. (I refuse to shop in a supermarket without a digital scale.) 10 little tins of tuna. 10 orange bottles of shampoo. 9 bananas.
What?
Count again.
How the fuck did I get 9 bananas in my trolley?
This is impossible. I look behind the eggs, behind the bag of beans. This is not possible.
The drug-addled multilevel marketer is standing behind the counter, smiling. Those teeth are money well spent. He’s got a smile like a Scientologist’s. Well, I’m going back. I can’t buy 9 bananas. He can wait while I go back to aisle 12 and get another.
Just as I am about to excuse myself, someone comes to a stop behind me with a basket hanging over his arm; now I’ll lose my spot. And I was here first. What kind of a Nigel No-friends is at the supermarket this early on a Saturday anyway? Must have had a big Friday night with ‘Inspector Morse’ on DVD and a cup of hot cocoa. The Scientologist drug dealer is still standing there. His smile is fading. He folds his arms.
The guy with the basket is reading Celebrity Nosejobs, or some other Pulitzer-winning publication picked from the display near the checkout. He must be nearsighted because he’s holding the magazine about one inch from his face. All I can see is his forearms below shirt sleeves scrunched up to his elbows. His forearms are smooth on the underside. One has a tendon taut from the weight of the basket. Dark blond hair on the front. Not too much. Not extending to the back of the square, capable hands. Dangling over the edge of his basket amidst 2 trays of mince, 3 trays of sausages, a jar of chilli paste and 3 apples is 1 unfettered banana.
The key to an operation like this is nonchalance. I smile, piranha-like, at the Scientologist. He fiddles with his tie. I start loading my groceries onto the belt at the end furthest from the scanner. All except the bananas. The belt rolls onward, remorselessly. It could care less about the bananas.
‘I’m exhausted,’ I say.
He jumps. Whoever trained him should have mentioned that customers sometimes speak.
‘I spent all day yesterday collecting spare change for the Red Cross. Famine relief. For the kiddies.’ I wink. His smile returns. I beckon him closer with a crooked finger and wave my hand over the groceries. I lower my voice to just above a whisper. ‘Do you mind if I pay for this lot in five-cent pieces?’
His eyes bug and as he says, ‘I have to check with the manager,’ his voice breaks. He spins around looking for somebody, anybody. While he’s distracted I nonchalantly pick up the bananas from my trolley with both hands. Nonchalantly I rock back, then ever so nonchalantly I spin around, reach my arms full stretch, grab the shrivelled brown end of Nigel’s banana and lift it out of his basket. He can’t see a thing from behind that magazine.
By the time my prospective money-laundering cultist has looked back, all he sees is me smiling eerily, hands up like I’m about to crown Miss Universe with a bunch of bananas. A bunch of 10 bananas that I lay gently on the belt.
‘Never mind about the coins,’ I say, pulling a fifty from my purse. ‘Not everyone’s a cheapskate.’
Operation Restore Banana is complete. My groceries are bagged and paid for. I stop for a minute or two to scan the headlines of the pile of newspapers near the door. Humming the theme to The Great Escape, I walk out of the store, 2 bags in each hand. In the car park I lean over for a moment to readjust the plastic bags before they amputate my fingers. I straighten. Someone is standing right in front of me.
It’s Nigel No-friends. In his right hand is an apple. He throws the apple in the air and catches it.
2
‘Yes?’ You learn imperiousness at teachers’ college.
‘I wondered if you’d like an apple.’ He smiles like we’re friends, and one eyebrow raises. Nice white teeth. Brown eyes with crinkles around them. 12 around one eye, 14 the other. On top of his head perch a pair of Wayfarers, circa 1986. He works outdoors, I’d say; thin-ish build but his biceps and forearms are defined. His shirt is red with some kind of logo. Smooth tan skin. Faded blue jeans. He’s 10, maybe 11 centimetres taller than I am. The small waves in his blond hair look damp, like he raced to the supermarket after getting out of the shower. Or perhaps he’s been sweating. Occasionally his nostrils flare.
I don’t answer. I put the bags down and fold my arms.
‘It’s a nice apple. Crispy. You could take this apple, and give me back my banana.’ He holds the apple out.
‘My banana? Did you say, “My banana”?’
He nods. He’s biting his bottom lip.
‘Had you paid for it?’
He laughs, head tilting back. ‘Not exactly. But it was in my basket.’
‘That “my” thing again.’ I roll my eyes and speak slowly. ‘It was the supermarket’s banana, because you hadn’t paid for it. And now it’s mine, because I have. It was also the supermarket’s basket. It was your…nothing.’
‘Well, this is my apple, because I have paid for it.’ He pretends to throw it up again, but instead hands it to me. ‘A small gift for your kind explanation of property law.’
The apple is smooth in my hand, and warm from where his hand has been. ‘That’s nothing. I can also explain microeconomic reform using two baguettes, an empty toilet roll and a mousetrap.’ I rest the apple on top of the shampoo. I pick up the bags and start to walk off. He starts walking with me. Like we’re walking together.
‘And all that shampoo? What does that explain—the stock exchange? Are you cornering the market?’ Hands, sans apple, are thrust in the back pockets of his jeans. His tight jeans.
I stop again. ‘Are you doing a survey?’
‘Just curious. You have vegetables and fruit and chicken probably for one week for one person. But shampoo for more. It makes me wonder.’
‘Supermodels. Me and twenty-nine other supermodels live in a big house together, painting each other’s toenails and having pillow fights in our pyjamas. So this is food and shampoo for one week.’
He leans a long arm into my left hand bag and uncovers the potatoes.
‘Don’t think I’m doubting you. You could be a supermodel. But I’m pretty sure that supermodels don’t eat potatoes. Also you don’t have any celery. Or sprouts. Or Perrier.’
‘You’re right. I’m kidding about the supermodels. Actually I’m stockpiling shampoo. The horsemen of the apocalypse are nigh.’
He shakes his head and frowns, momentarily saddened by the thought of the end of the world. He looks down at my bags again like the contents might have changed in the last ten seconds. ‘No water, though? Is this some kind of magic dry shampoo? Anyway, the horsemen won’t care what you look like.’
‘No water will be necessary, because the horsemen will be swimming in on rising sea levels. And they will care what I look like. I think the Bible says something about the meek and the blow-dried inheriting the earth.’
We say nothing for one millisecond longer than is comfortable.
‘Thanks for the apple. Next time I eat fruit salad I’ll think of you.’ I walk across the car park. I don’t look back.
I used to be good at flirting. A lot of people think that flirting’s about sex. Well, flirting’s about surprise, and surprise is about sex. If someone can be unexpected using words imagine how thrilling they could be using their mouth. Or their tongue. Or their teeth.
I’m good at flirting because lots of conversations run through my head all the time with lots of different outcomes. I’ve always been good at taking people by surprise. In fact the more nervous I become the more sentences and thoughts and numbers fly around my brain, lo
oking for but not finding a way out. Take one comment that someone makes, and think of all the possible replies. How many replies would be logical? Well, if the comment is, what colour is the sky today?—the reply would be limited to, say, 15 or 16 choices. But if someone says ‘And all that shampoo? What does that explain?’ there could be 100, maybe 200, appropriate replies. And if each reply invites 200 other remarks already we have 40,000 possibilities in 3 sentences. And some conversations have 50 sentences, so it’s impossible to plan ahead. The trick is to say the first thing that pops into your head.
Back when I was teaching, after school on a Friday some of us would go to the pub up the road for drinks. One night, not long before it ended, we had all had a few and I was sitting at the bar chatting to a lovely man called Gav. All right, flirting. He was a brickie and he wore heavy boots dusted with cement, black jeans and a blue striped shirt. He had a nice smile. One of the other teachers was pissed. He came up behind Gav and whispered in his ear, but I could hear it clearly, even over the music. Don’t waste your time, mate. She might look hot but she’s a fucking nutcase.
I leave the apple on a fence halfway down the next street.
Tonight I dream of Nikola, except he has blond hair with small damp waves. After he saves me, after he kisses me, he puts his hand on the curve of my belly, his big hand spread flat. He slips his fingers under the band of my skirt. I can feel his breath in my ear. His hand reaches down my pants and he presses against my clitoris, sudden and steady and hard with his thumb rough from his experiments. I gasp. When I wake I lie very still. I can still feel it.
At Melbourne international airport there is no gate 13. The gates go up to 11 in odd numbers and to 14 in even numbers. They say I’m the fucking nutcase but everyone has it. The fear of 13 is deep inside people, in that part of them that’s more animal than human. Imagine the announcement: ‘Attention, please. Flight number 911 to New York City is now boarding at gate 13.’ How many people would get on that plane? Rational people. Educated people. The fear of the number thirteen is called triskaidekaphobia. Almost everyone has it. They work, they have friends, partners. No one tries to make them take drugs.