Saltskin

by Louise Moulin

  14.

  Black Liquid: Dreaming

  Gilda:

  The sun is bright, as bright as headlights on full beam, and it hurts her eyes, mesmerises her. She tries to run but her legs won’t move, as though from the waist down she doesn’t exist. A woman is trying to make her drink something black and inky. The woman is telling her it will help with her forgetting, but she won’t drink it. She’s not thirsty or hungry or anything but numb. The woman pushes it against her mouth. It is slightly sticky like molasses and as black as a hole, and the rosemary aroma is overwhelming.

  The woman insists and her face is worried. She wears a locket and it sways like a pendulum back and forth, back and forth. Eve swallows. Black tar streaks her chin and she closes her eyes against the light and sinks down and down and now she is out, as in a new world, as if dropped from a slit in the sky and she is peaceful, like breath, like oxygen, and we fly together, though nothing moves and yet we are soaring fast and I am with her and it is exhilarating, but she can’t see me. I am her shadow.

  I reach to touch her but she is just fractured light, a hologram, and it is cold, like opening a fridge door, and I cannot stop looking at her. I try to move my eyes away but they won’t leave her, fearing that if they do she will disappear, that she is only there because of my seeing. Like, is the grass green at night, y’know.

  And her coldness is not without warmth, comfort is irrelevant, there are no senses to feed, to cater to. There are no memories. There is no before, there is no future. It is morphing. We move over a landscape like acres of liquid coal and then we are on a beach, but just a piece, like a jigsaw puzzle on a black cloth and a man is in the water. He is frozen still, as if the film has jammed and she stares at him, expecting to know him, but she doesn’t, and I want her to leave. We should not be here. I want her to somehow focus on me.

  And then it judders, the vision, and then an awful roar loud like a train in a tunnel and the man: he moves and he’s worried, agitated, and I don’t know why we are here when we could be flying and I reach again for her and this time she turns towards me and suddenly she knows I am here.

  15.

  Ball Gowns and Small Towns

  Gilda disentangled herself from Ben Johnston and slithered off the hotel bed. In the bathroom she ran the water in the basin so hard it splashed the mirror, and she put her face under the spout. She looked up and her reflection made her wince: mascara streaked, hair knotted. Her mouth was dry as sand. She put her hand to the base of her neck, feeling for the throb.

  Her memory of the night before was a bit patchy. She had drunk too much, maybe. She slitted her eyes in concentration. Had she dreamed? She was not sure, could not piece together the snapshots of the night. If she had dreamed she should feel different — lighter, relieved. But she didn’t. She moved her fingers into the hollow at the base of her skull as if searching for a lost pulse. Someone had told her once it was the spirit gland. She felt cheated. Why couldn’t she remember whether she’d dreamed? She dried her face on a damp towel she found on the floor and went back into the bedroom.

  Her clothes were folded neatly on a chair. Not something she would do. She put them on, making a yuck noise when she noticed a dry patch, like PVA glue, on her thigh.

  Ben was sprawled still in the curvature of her shape. He looked angelic with his pale peaches and cream complexion. Why do men look so darling asleep? Gilda mused, and why now, when she looked at him, did she consider maybe he had something? She liked being awake when others were asleep, feeling she were their guardian.

  Suddenly she remembered and slapped her hand over her mouth. She had fainted. Had been out not long, surely, only a minute or two, not much longer? Oh God. Gilda grimaced as she recalled stumbling up the stairs, him leaning on her, her leaning on him, crashing into the walls. She hadn’t been that out of it, had she? She saw herself opening the mini-bar and piling the tiny bottles on the bed, him laughing indulgently, taking off his jacket, loosening his tie.

  She had downed three little bottles in a row, as horrid as petrol — and fuel of a kind. Walking over to him unsteadily, her face all lascivious pout and fluttering lids. Now she turned her face to the wall in shame. Oh God, she had put on quite a show. Was the star of the show: a feather dancer in the Moulin Rouge, a pole dancer on K Road, a concubine in Arabia, a temptress, a jezebel. Oh God. Flashes came back: he had her pinned down as if he were a fork over a spider. He hadn’t waited for her to be ready and she hadn’t said anything. Why not?

  Suddenly Gilda needed to get out of the room: it spooked her. She needed her boots. She began to search but her attention kept being drawn back to the man sleeping on the bed. She wanted to wake him, bounce on him and launch into the future with him … Except there never was a future. Why was it always so different in the morning?

  She decided to leave a note, but everything she thought of saying sounded like a request. She wanted to be direct but it felt wrong, ill-mannered or somehow debasing, to make emotional demands on him. And what was there to say? I love you? She guffawed, but still she reached out as across a divide and touched his sleeping brow with her fingertips, then quickly snatched her hand back.

  She hadn’t liked the sex, she realised. It had been too fast, too hard. She realised she barely liked him. Hadn’t last night, either. So why had she even come to the room? Blast it, she cussed. All of this because of Martha’s mystery man. Why won’t they be straight up with me?

  Yet that excuse didn’t hold any water. The truth was, she had wanted to be wild. What had she done? How stupid.

  She looked under the bed for her boots. It was all a waste of time anyway because the whole town knew the Page women were mistresses — not wives. An empty whisky bottle rolled when she shoved it. Her thoughts ran loquacious: Women in the world are as pretty, intoxicating and sweet as flowers. Why on earth would any man stick with just one? Least of all her. If she were a man she wondered if she would do the same thing — race around planting seed like it was going out of fashion.

  She still couldn’t find her boots. Well, she wasn’t going to put herself up for sale again. She always gave away more than she intended. They could have her body, but never her heart. That was the secret. But that didn’t feel right either. Gilda stood up, annoyed, muddled. Stuff the boots. She took one last look at the sleeping rock star and bent to sniff his neck. She touched his skin, awed, for it was as soft as bread. She went to the door, opening it carefully, and slipped away.

  Stealthily Gilda tiptoed down the hotel hallway like a fugitive in a cartoon, exaggerated and comical, making herself snigger. She snuck out the front door onto the street and bumped smack into Joel. She gave a yelp. He flicked her up and down with hard eyes and shook his head. ‘The seedy walk of shame.’

  ‘Don’t start. Go get us a coffee,’ she said imperiously.

  He passed her his lit cigarette and went into the Qualm’s Arms.

  Gilda sat on the step outside and took a drag. The smoke tasted foul, just like it did in the school paddock all those years ago. It made her skin fizz and she felt woozy; her headache started up its thump thump and for that she was grateful. If she had a turn she wanted to be there for it, not have it be vague, for the dreams always stayed with her when they happened in daylight, as well versed as a memorised poem.

  She flicked away the cigarette and looked down the street. It was quaint, and an unexpected gust of nostalgia rose in her. She tilted her head to the sun and smiled, for in a way she had made a lucky escape. She knew what words the Bens of this world chose. She certainly didn’t need to hear them again; the message was always the same: Cheers, darling, see you around.

  ‘Warm today,’ said Joel, handing her a coffee, and she saw again the Madonna tattoo on his arm.

  ‘She really is fantastic.’

  ‘The sacred feminine is where it’s at,’ said Joel cryptically.

  Gilda choked, gagged on her laughter, searching his face for the joke, but when he returned her stare levelly, sagely, she cried, �
��That is such a bizarre comment coming from you, Joel.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m a maaaan?’ He drawled out the word.

  ‘Yeah, because you’re a man.’ Gilda swilled a mouthful of coffee, sweet and strong. It stripped away the ugly feeling in her mouth, but as soon as she swallowed her mouth felt dry and sticky again. ‘And because I bet that wasn’t what you were thinking when you threw your last weeping girlfriend onto the reject pile,’ she added slyly.

  Joel had the grace to look pained, she noted with triumph.

  But he was shocked at her crassness. He had never dumped a girl in his life. He knew how she had him classified, in her judgemental absolutes: convicted before a trial.

  ‘You men wouldn’t know a good thing if it sat in your lap,’ Gilda said, trying to pick a fight.

  He smiled at her, amused, tolerant but not ingratiating. ‘We just don’t understand each other — men and women. You lot are a mysterious force that will destroy us unless we destroy you. You should all wear burkhas.’ He added the last just to rile her. He liked the charge she was sending out. He liked her passion. He could tell she was getting mad.

  And she was. He was too together, more than he had a right to be, and he was calmer than her, which was infuriating. Gilda looked up at the sky. ‘Sex is all you blokes want,’ she said languidly, pseudo-bored, aloof.

  Joel gave a short laugh, then an expression of sadness crossed his face. ‘No,’ he said, looking into space.

  ‘Yes, you want to conquer,’ Gilda retorted, and yet she could see the irony, for it was she who invariably conquered, leaving before she could be left. Attack was always the best form of defence. She was no fool. She looked at him defiantly and was momentarily arrested by his long, thick eyelashes. She picked up a stone and threw it an impressive distance.

  Their eyes followed the stone in silence. Not quite checkmate.

  Joel lit another cigarette, collecting his thoughts. Only the brave is worthy of the fair maiden. He slowly blew out the smoke and said, ‘You have forgotten how nice peace is.’

  Gilda blinked rapidly. Clever men knew how to get in under the radar. Tell the girl she has a problem and they have the quick fix. Yet the mention of peace made her uneasy, curdling the acid in her empty stomach. ‘Forgotten how nice peace is — Joel, where do you get such shite?’ Gilda mocked him just like she mocked all the boys. He’s a nutter, she told herself. How in hell had he got on in the world if he went around talking like some prophet? It was intrusive, too close. People didn’t like that. No wonder he was here in the back of beyond.

  ‘Have you been gorging on self-help books?’ she said.

  ‘I made it up just then,’ he said truthfully, not bothered by her sarcasm. ‘I’m looking for peace too: that I’ve-comehome feeling. We all are.’

  Gilda felt her anger, her indignant confusion rise. God, she did want peace, but the problem was she remembered too much. There were too many memories. Her damned dreams. She frowned and said in a brittle tone, ‘We’re born, we die. That’s it. Just like sheep and every other animal.’

  ‘You’re afraid.’ He swivelled and faced her.

  ‘That’s rich. What of, big man — you?’ She scoffed and fixed him with one of her never-fail vixen glares that shouted that she didn’t need anyone, and tossed her head for good measure.

  But the real Gilda shone out from behind the bravado, just for a second, and Joel saw she was sweet and he was crushed. The tone of his voice softened. ‘I’m sure you are not afraid of any man, but maybe of yourself.’ He wanted to smooth her feathers, yet he knew she’d take flight at the slightest touch. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Fear is an indication that there is an opportunity for growth. Everyone is afraid of feeling too deeply. That’s the gamble, the game. But that shouldn’t stop us.’

  He realised he was putting her off but he wanted to take the trouble out of her eyes. He rubbed his palms together and realised they were sweaty. He flicked away his cigarette. He was aware of a shift between them, as though a new foothold had been found, and he had the brief but profound notion that she needed him. He smiled at the beauty of it.

  But Gilda wasn’t about to buy anything he was selling. ‘Gambling is a vice. My experience is that men operate on the snatch-and-grab philosophy and are therefore not the best basket to put one’s eggs in. And an egg is about the one thing that can’t be mended once broken.’

  ‘As to your faith so shall it be,’ Joel said tentatively, as if coaxing someone off a ledge.

  ‘What?’ No wonder he needed to get out of his head through drugs, she thought unkindly. He annoyed her so much she wanted to pull his hair. She stared at him, baffled. She felt she were on a debating team and had been briefed on the wrong topic. She didn’t want to be having a deep conversation right now. She thought, I’ll just stand up now and walk away. Then she nodded her head and smirked. Boy, this one was good, a real campaigner, and women are so easy, so willing to believe a pretty tongue.

  But it wasn’t his actual words that made her stomach drop. It was the fact that he was getting too close — poking, it felt like, at her secrets — and it made her wild. She took a swig of coffee, like a truck driver downing a pint, and wildly wondered if it was too early for a drink.

  ‘I’m just saying you get what you believe,’ he murmured.

  ‘I don’t need you to fix me. Why don’t you find another damsel to distress,’ Gilda quipped.

  He chuckled. His expression was frank with empathy but Gilda read it as pity, and she started to talk shrilly. ‘Faith? Faith has nothing to do with it. It’s not that simple. Some people just aren’t cut out for “happy ever after”. There are too many unreturned phone calls and smashed promises in the glory stories of every woman in my family.’ She felt she were being trashed in a wave. Blood thudded in her ears as her rage rose, and she held up her attitude like a sheet of iron pinging off bullets.

  ‘But you can choose. It can be simple,’ said Joel.

  Gilda curled her fingers in a clutching motion in an effort to find the right words. She spoke ardently. ‘Joel, love is not real; it’s a mere chemical reaction, a trick of nature to get the girls and boys from opposite sides of the disco to get it on and have unwanted children. Look, I know all about falling in love. I know all about the wretchedness of a rejected heart, and I’m telling you it is a waste of energy. The idea of two halves making a whole, the delusion of one-flesh-soul-soup is completely false. It’s for troubadours and Shakespeare; it’s theatrics, not reality. Romance is a fashion, and the sooner the whole world realises that love is not the answer the better off everyone will be. Then people will get together simply to procreate and run a household, and there will be no more divorce and probably no more marriage and then we can all live sanely ever after.’

  Joel could barely handle the sadness of her words. She was wrong, and he knew it with such force that his face contorted in a kind of agony. ‘But what if your heart doesn’t break? What if your love does go on forever?’

  Her heart skipped a beat but Gilda snorted and poured all the scorn she had. ‘Poor you.’

  He looked at her, flushed, and thought: She has the face of a movie star — tempestuous and impossibly planed; and in that moment she seemed to Joel to be surrounded by light, and he was the source of it. Somehow it was beaming out from his heart. It rocked him. He suddenly wanted more than anything to touch her, as softly as a butterfly, or to hold her wrists in the air and shake her, and then fold her arms behind her until she stilled. He wished he could change her weather, and yet he also had the sense that there was time — there would be time for everything. He let out his breath on a long whistle. ‘Why are you so angry?’

  ‘Oh, piss off.’ Save it for rehab, she thought, and scowled up the street. She noticed Tom scurrying along pushing a wheelbarrow of jumbled things. He looked over, saw her and, oddly, pretended he hadn’t. She thought that queer. Tom adored her and usually bailed her up at the slightest opportunity.

  Joel rubbed his eyebrow and followed her gaze
. ‘Hey, there’s that estate auction today at Mrs Stone’s house. I thought I’d go later. Do you want to come with me?’ He flourished his arm as if waving a surrender flag. His skin brushed hers and made her jump.

  She knew what he was after and he could rack off. She ignored the invitation. Gilda was too furious to be nice to him. She wasn’t going to let him set the tone.

  But Joel wanted a truce. ‘Look, it’s simple, isn’t it? Don’t we all just want to have someone to wake up with?’

  His words made her appear bitter. She wanted true love to be true. She felt the fight go out of her, tried to save face. ‘You don’t have the moral high ground here.’ Yet her voice was soft.

  They were silent, both of them settling a little, like the tide going out.

  Joel glanced down and suddenly saw Gilda’s bare feet. Her toes were webbed. ‘Hey! Let’s have a look at your trotters!’ He made a slow-motion grab at her leg and she slapped him away, yet the idea of him touching her jetted adrenalin through her veins, making her belly flutter.

  Gilda stood up and placed her hands on her hips, disobedient, bold. She couldn’t help it — she grinned. He watched it move up one side of her face and then the other. He grinned back and watched her eyes deepen.

  ‘That smile …’ he said wondrously.

  Which she ignored. ‘Yes, Joel. Not only am I not perfect but I am actually deformed. Thanks for the coffee and good day to you.’ She stormed off, hoping he was watching her, although she resisted looking over her shoulder to check. Her legs weren’t working properly; she became oddly worried she might trip.

  She had gone about ten paces before Joel yelled, ‘I don’t want perfect!’ And shook his head in admiration. She sure was feisty. He took a deep breath that made him realise how much he needed it. He stood as if he had returned from a long, adventurous journey, and went inside the Qualm’s to set up for lunch.

  Inside, he walked over to the window and watched Gilda march up the road, arms stropping at her sides. He felt her in his chest. He recalled the way he had landed in Riverton: the way the car just drove him there. He’d stopped outside the fish ‘n’ chip shop with a strange feeling of expectation, and Sophia had knocked on his car window and asked for a light.