Silent Heart

by Claire McNab

  "Hey," said Christie, smiling broadly, "how's it feel to be a star?"

  I eased myself into the chair crammed against the wall. "It has its downside. I just overheard a woman announce I'd written a dirty book."

  "Perceptive comment," said Christie. "You have. That's why it's so successful."

  Reyne was half-smiling, but also watching me closely. I wasn't used to being analyzed, assessed, so I challenged her. "There's something you want to say?"

  "Just that you've got a great public persona."

  Christie nodded. "You sure have, though I'm not sure how you do it."

  I shrugged. "I'm used to lecturing..."

  "Don't sell yourself short. It's a lot more than that. What do you think, Reyne?"

  Uncomfortable under Reyne's analytical gaze, I was relieved when the coffee arrived. She stirred hers slowly, still considering me. "I think," she said, "Victoria manages to give the impression that under her uptight academic exterior there's a passionate woman."

  "Under the uptight academic exterior," I said, my voice sharper than I intended, "is an uptight academic interior."

  Her smile was knowing. "Hugh will assure you that it doesn't matter what you are — it's what you appear to be."

  Touched by a vibration of anger, I said, "I'm sure, Reyne, that you're exactly what you appear to be."

  Christie chuckled. "Reyne's problem is she's short on hypocrisy and long on curiosity. She always wants to know what makes people tick."

  Hugh's confidential tones came back to me. I absently stirred my coffee. Lesbian, I thought, turning the concept over in my mind. It was a mysterious word — not in its practical meaning, I understood that well enough — but in the resonances it had for me. In The Erotic Muse I'd included a wide range of homosexual references, including an exploration of the elaborate private codes used by serious writers to disguise homoeroticism.

  If my Aunt Felice had lived to see the publication of my book, I knew she would have been sickened by any reference to homosexuality. I had vivid memories of cold Sunday evenings in winter, sitting chilled in the family pew with my aunt and cousins, while Uncle David in the pulpit loomed over me, his voice swooping and rising in denunciation of the sins of the flesh. Back then, he was a terrifying figure — not the forgetful, pathetic creature of the present, who shuffled to clutch my hand when I visited. All those evenings had coalesced into one recollection: my uncle, holding a Bible aloft, saliva spraying at his most impassioned moments, as he harangued his respectful congregation with powerful images of the sinful behavior that would earn God's most dreadful punishments. After one particularly vehement sermon, I asked Aunt Felice about a word I hadn't understood. Looking back, it was clear that my uncle's Sodom and Gomorrah theme that night had included female homosexuality. So many years later I could still feel the sting of my aunt's slap across my face, and her hissed command, "Don't you ever say that dirty, disgusting word again!"

  I looked up to meet Reyne's cool appraisal. She said, "I need a preliminary interview with you as soon as possible. The whole scope of the article's been extended." My chin went up at her blunt tone, but she continued as though assured of my full cooperation. "Millennium's editorial board wants a full exploration of eroticism versus pornography in Western society — a series to cover literature, press, film, video — the lot. I've been assigned to coordinate literature and will be getting input from our international bureaus, but I think I should tell you I intend to make my article on you the focal point of the section."

  Somewhat bemused by my elevation from author to focal point, I said, "I imagine I should be honored, but I can't quite see why you've chosen me."

  Before Reyne could answer, Christie said, "We were discussing it before you joined us. I think it's a great idea because no one expects a professor of English to legitimize sexy writing the way you do." She glanced at Reyne. "But my friend here thinks the selling point is that you're an enigma — and everyone loves a mystery."

  "I hope," said Reyne with a grin, "that you've got lots to hide, Victoria. I'd just hate it if you were superficial." Her smile widened. "But don't worry — if you're too boring, I'll make something up."

  When I escaped to my familiar office, two messages were waiting on my desk. One was from Gerald. I glanced at his neat request to see me, then frowned over the other message. It was from Zoe's brother, my cousin John, saying that Hugh Oliver had got him a ticket for my literary luncheon. As I was picking up the phone, Gerald came to the door.

  "Victoria? About last night — I'm sorry for what happened."

  I made a forget-it gesture, hoping that he'd be discouraged from a post mortem, but he came into the room, shutting the door behind him. "I think we need to talk."

  It was the last thing I wanted to do. Looking at his thin, intense face, I was torn between blunt truth and some response that would maintain the friendship I valued. It was all too complicated, so I decided to stall. "It isn't a good time now."

  He was persistent. "Then when? Tonight?" He smiled grimly at my expression. "Pushing you, am I?"

  "It feels that way."

  He nodded slowly. "Okay, let's give it a rest for a couple of days."

  After he'd gone I swung my chair around and stared morosely out at the undergraduates strewn across the lawn like untidy drifts of leaves. Bursts of laughter and conversation floated through my open window and I was abruptly envious of youth and freedom. I was set in my ways, my life mapped out before me. I knew, with a heavy certainty, that I would spend it alone.

  Gerald wasn't going to be easily deflected from the subject of a permanent relationship. I recoiled from even the idea, though he was the one man whom I could imagine tolerating physically for any length of time.

  Bleakly, I considered my suitability for marriage, deciding that on a scale of one to ten, I was a minus. It was possible to tick off the points: I was too set in my ways; too independent; too self-sufficient... too detached.

  Usually I liked to face things head on, but it was strange how unwilling I was to think about my frigidity. My thoughts always skittered away from the topic before it could disturb me too much. I didn't shrink from physical contact, it was just that it literally left me cold. I'd made a half-hearted attempt to discover why this dimension should be missing in me, but there were no answers, only questions. I didn't believe I'd ever been sexually abused — certainly I had no memory of anything like that — but my upbringing with my aunt and uncle had been strict and any show of affection was discouraged. Even so, John and Zoe had shared that same childhood, and neither appeared to have my remoteness of nature. It always came back to the same thing — it was me. There was something wrong with me.

  It wasn't as if I'd kept myself aloof, virginal. I accepted with resignation the physical side of relationships, taking with bitter amusement Queen Victoria's reputed advice for women enduring the marital bed: "Look at the ceiling and think of England."

  Of the men I'd known, Gerald had been the best, the most companionable of lovers, and I'd tolerated the sex because of friendship and shared interests. In bed he was painstaking and considerate, never demanding from me sensual abandonment. Wanting to please him, yet despising myself, I'd mimicked some response to his efforts, but it was a charade I knew I couldn't consider for any length of time, even though I enjoyed the illusion of closeness I gained from lying next to his body. At best I'd felt some slight physical arousal, but it was only in occasional dreams that I gained even a hint of what raw passion might be like — the scope of fulfillment physical delight might bring.

  Picking up a copy of The Erotic Muse, I hefted it in my hand. This was what it came down to — passion captured in words. I could write about it — or rather, analyze the work of others who tried to capture the incandescence of love — but I had no reason to believe I would ever experience it myself, except at one remove.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Actually," said the interviewer with a smug smile, "I haven't read your book yet." In case I should respond
negatively, he hastily added, "But I intend to, as soon as possible."

  I shifted my bulky earphones to a more comfortable position, glanced around the radio studio, then stared at the microphone that waited to suck up any entertaining words I might produce. I'd slept badly, so my second early morning radio interview was not something about which I could raise much enthusiasm.

  The song that had been throbbing in my ears came to an end, the interviewer, unkempt, hairy and self-satisfied, smiled at me as he boomed, "And rise and shine, listeners! It's seven-thirty-five on a beautiful Sydney day, and with me in the studio I have the author of one of the hottest books around. And I mean hot! I've read it, and it sizzles]" If possible, he looked even more pleased with himself as he said, "Welcome, Professor Victoria Woodson, mega-selling writer of The Erotic Muse!”

  Earlier, at the first radio station of the day, the questions had been reasonably thoughtful, including one that I had often wondered about myself: "Professor, why do you think the general public has shown such interest in erotica with a literary basis, when there's so much in the marketplace already in magazines and popular fiction?"

  My answer had included the idea that an individual's very human interest in erotica was acceptable and defensible to that person when associated with literature. Such concepts would be beyond the ken of the oaf who was at present leering at me. "What do you say, Prof, if I suggest that all you've done is take the dirty bits out of a lot of old books, get a catchy title, and you're away with a bestseller?"

  "I'd be speechless," I said dryly.

  "So that isn't what you did?"

  Some days before, a member of Hugh's publicity department had sat down with me to go through all the possible questions that might come up during media interviews. Fortified by this preparation, I launched on my "love and affection are the mainsprings of human experience" answer, and was rewarded with a glazed expression from the other side of the console.

  Leila Haven from Rampion's publicity department was accompanying me to each of the interviews, and as we walked to the carpark she remarked, "Thinks he's God, doesn't he? Comes from being one of the highest rated breakfast announcers around." Catching my expression, she added, "I know it's a drag doing interviews, but they sell books, believe me."

  "I believe you. I just wonder if it's worth it."

  "Gosh, yes," said Leila. "It pays my salary."

  I'd agreed to a short preliminary interview with Reyne Kendall before I had to leave for the literary luncheon at the Hilton Hotel. Hugh had congratulated me on the number of people willing to pay to hear me speak — "It'll be packed! One of our most successful ever! And everyone'll have something to ask." Alerted by my experience of unexpected questions from the public at Chantrey's, I hoped to be ready for even the most extraordinary query that might be lobbed at me.

  But I didn't feel well prepared for Reyne's questions. I'd only been back from the last radio interview for a short time when she knocked at the door. Dressed in casual pants, shirt and Reeboks, she filled my cramped room with confidence and energy — and I responded with hidden, baffled enmity. "Reyne, I'd like to know the direction your article's going to take... the scope, if you like."

  She sat back to consider me. "I don't know yet." Her smile was surprisingly sweet. "It depends on you. I hate to admit it, but a lot of what I do just happens. Afterwards I'm more than happy to agree with anyone who comments on the structure and purpose, but while I'm writing it, frankly, I've got no idea what I'm doing."

  I didn't really believe her, but nodded. She took a miniature tape recorder out of her bag and positioned it on my desk. "Do you mind me recording this?"

  I shook my head, amused with the idea that possibly nods and shakes were the safest responses I could give to this vaguely threatening woman.

  Reyne started off with a few brisk questions about my life and career. I passed a folder across my desk. "It's all in here — my degrees, publications..."

  She grinned. "And do you list The Erotic Muse under academic publications?" Not leaving time for a response, she abruptly changed direction. "Tell me some general things about yourself."

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "Likes, dislikes, favorite things. How you spend your time. What you believe in, passionately."

  This was turning into just the sort of interview I dreaded. "I can't quite see..."

  "Oh, come on, Victoria. Humor me. Just do a bit of the stream-of-consciousness stuff."

  "I'm no Virginia Woolf," I said lightly.

  Her response was serious. "No, you're not, but what you are I don't yet understand."

  Irritation was beginning to itch me. "Look, Reyne, I'm happy to talk about my work, my career, about this book. I don't see that anything else is relevant."

  She smiled at me again, and, in spite of myself, it warmed me. "If I say please very persuasively?"

  So I talked, careful always to run everything past an internal censor, but confident that I was providing a convincing picture of someone who could have been me. I felt safest discussing the academic world, but this concentration eventually seemed to irk Reyne. "Bit ivory-towerish, isn't it?" she said dismissively.

  Exasperated, I said, "You think we're too cloistered, here at the university?"

  "Well, if you ask me directly, yes." She shrugged. "Out here in the real world, you academics seem out of touch. I mean, you talk about things, you write about things. You never do them."

  In my case, this was too close to home. Checking my watch, I said with a modicum of polite regret, "I'm sorry, we're out of time. I do have a luncheon..."

  Reyne knew she'd hit home, but whether the strike was deliberate or not I didn't know. As she picked up her things she said, "Are you taking your car, or can I give you a lift? I'm going back into the city."

  She was disturbing my ordered world, stirring up thoughts I didn't want to remember, but I hated to see myself as a coward. "Thank you," I said. "I'd appreciate it if you could drop me at the Hilton."

  "I'd never drop you," said Reyne disconcertingly. "Trust me to always put you down gently."

  The Hilton had hosted a multitude of literary lunches, most for luminaries far brighter than the author of a book on eroticism. I sat at the main table with Hugh and a selection of Rampion executives, eating an excellent lunch that I couldn't taste, conscious of the curious glances and whispered comments from surrounding tables. It was unusual for me to feel so nervous before speaking. I glanced surreptitiously at my notes. I'd decided on a smorgasbord of readings, tied together by the general heading of my talk: The Infinite Variety of Love. I intended to show that erotica, irrespective of whether society condoned or condemned, ran as a constant counterpoint to popular and literary writing, and that both heterosexual and homosexual love were celebrated in ways that often offended, but also intrigued, the society of the time.

  "Think I should warn you," said Hugh, "that there are some religious heavies from the establishment here today." He beamed at me. "Be as controversial as you like, Victoria." His advice was sales-centered: one of the reasons The Erotic Muse had gained so much censure was because I'd included extensive erotic writings from religious references — not only from the writings of supposed celibates and moral leaders, but quotations from publications where Church money or influence had been the means of support and distribution of the literary product. I'd scrupulously checked and documented my references, but this hadn't stopped the almost hysterical indignation of the established religious bodies and many of their followers.

  While I was covertly surveying the room to see if I could detect familiar opponents, my cousin John came up to give me a light embrace. "Proud of you, Vicky," he said. He was the only person who shortened my name, and I'd never been able to break him of the habit. Strangely, his presence, which during my childhood had been a comfort, today only made me more anxious. He went back to his table some distance from the official party, and as I went up to the raised lectern I looked for his square, serious face.

&n
bsp; My audience, soothed by good food and wine, waited indulgently for me to begin. My introductory remarks described my experiences as the original scholarly work was transformed into a much racier study on literary erotica. Buoyed by appreciative laughter, I explained some of the editing suggestions, including chapter headings that had both amused and bemused me — my favorite being my editor's firm conviction — one I resisted — that the section exploring erotic poetry should be called Lusty Lyrics.

  After I read selected passages, I fielded my first question from an angular man with a flamboyant bow tie. "The subject seems to me to be a very strange choice for a lady of your undoubted stature in the academic world."

  I'd been asked this before, and gave the suitably erudite reply that, so far, had satisfied my interrogators. It didn't, however, answer my own queries. I knew that I delighted in the subject of love and passion, at least when it was safely caught in words, not actions. My response was an intellectual one, not physical, and it only took a touch of amateur psychology for me to accept that I had substituted fiction for reality. Perhaps I was suppressing a wild sexuality, but somehow I doubted it.

  A tall, well-dressed woman smiled at me broadly, then asked in bold, ringing tones if I found my work on erotica titillating. "J would," she added, looking around as if expecting her statement to be challenged. "Think I'd be in a constant state of arousal!"

  She hadn't really wanted me to reply — just an opportunity to make a mildly outrageous comment. As if to show her the standard expected at a literary luncheon, the next question — from an intense young man — contained so many references to obscure writers that I became lost in its convolutions, and so gave a answer that sent the questioner back to his seat with a puzzled frown.

  Inevitably, someone wanted to know how long it took to write the book. I responded on automatic pilot, while I wondered why Reyne hadn't asked me directly why I'd written The Erotic Muse. I didn't like the possibilities, particularly the thought that she might assume that I somehow got an unhealthy sexual fillip from the subject.