Another Justified Sinner

by Sophie Hopesmith

  I don’t remember what the guide even said. I was too busy feeling claustrophobic and bored and strung down. Inside the pyramids were these cramped partitions with the same-old stone: bleached out and sandy. We saw Tutankhamen’s tomb and some Egyptian stuff (can’t remember what exactly). We weren’t allowed to take photos for that bit, so I couldn’t even tinker with the camera settings as distraction. I was dripping with sweat, and I watched that instead: drops of me splashing on to artefacts all these thousands of years old.

  Later that night, Annabelle spoke to me all super-enthusiastic about the ‘creation myth’ that the guide had told us. My ears perked up at that: I always like a chance to laugh at people’s ideas about God and the way that everything is. It’s like hearing a child say the moon is made of cheese.

  Anyway, Annabelle’s eyes were glistening in the candlelight and her hands were swishing around and her voice tripped over itself as it pulled in different chatty directions.

  It turns out that Ancient Egyptians were just as retarded as I reckoned.

  ‘In the beginning of time,’ began Annabelle. Here we go, I thought – here’s the first contradiction. How can time just begin? Time, by definition, is circular, infinite. Otherwise, what was the time before time?

  ‘Here’s the first contradiction,’ I answered – and I told her exactly what I just told you.

  She rolled those limpid eyes of hers and shook her head. ‘Just listen, will you? It’s poetic.’

  I told her the line about needing to renew my poetic license. She wasn’t impressed.

  She carried on instead. She told me how there was this complete and total darkness and swirling chaos. Everything amorphous and indeterminate. And that this was called Nu.

  I shrugged. ‘Good a name as any.’

  ‘Shut up. Listen to me. I’m trying to tell you about this. It’s really, really beautiful. Anyway – you were there. Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘There was a lot to take in,’ I lied.

  She nodded.

  ‘Anyway, out of this nothingness came somethingness. Everythingness. There was light – the sun! The creator of everything.’

  ‘This is very Earth-centric,’ I countered. ‘Obviously now we know that there isn’t just one sun. There isn’t just one galaxy. There is nothing unique about us at all.’

  ‘Oh, apart from the fact that we’re the only planet with life on.’

  ‘That’s debatable.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The odds are overwhelming. It’s hugely likely that there is life elsewhere in the universe but for some reason we can’t communicate with them. Perhaps we’re not at the same stage of technological advancement. Perhaps there are time loops and worm holes involved. Perhaps they are not intelligent and sentient in a life form we would even recognise – even if they were standing right in front of us now.’

  ‘But you said maybe you didn’t believe in God anymore. And plenty of people say that the odds are overwhelming that there must a god – an originator – a creator, whatever. Everything just doesn’t make sense otherwise.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in God yourself! And there’s absolutely no proof of that, anyway.’

  ‘There is absolutely no proof of aliens.’

  ‘Plenty of people say they’ve seen UFOs,’ I said – and then instantly regretted going down that argumentative route.

  ‘Plenty of people have seen Jesus Christ in toast.’

  ‘Can we go back to the creation myth, please?’ I said. ‘It was interesting.’ She didn’t even notice the little smirk on the right-hand-side of my upper lip.

  So they thought this sun was a god. He was given lots of different names, but the one that seemed to stick was Ra – as that was his name when the midday sun was giddy with power. When the sun set, it was more like an old man, and it was given a different name entirely. Annabelle couldn’t remember that one. She was annoyed with herself for that.

  ‘It was hot,’ I said, trying to maker her feel better. ‘And the acoustics were terrible.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Annabelle, remembering something. ‘I keep saying “he”, but apparently that’s wrong. This sun god wasn’t female or male. They weren’t as sexist as all the other religions. This god was just an all-seeing power, a presence that was everything. Represented by this giant eye that was aware of everything. If you can picture that.’

  ‘Omnipotent. Omniscient. Omnipresent.’

  ‘Yes, Marcus,’ she sighed. ‘I know those big words too.’

  But I bet she didn’t.

  And I thought the story was coming to an end – but it wasn’t.

  Apparently, having all the power and knowledge and mastery of the world isn’t enough. You need companionship. You get lonely. But instead of logging on to a dating site or accepting a few more party invites, the sun god ‘did the business’ with his own shadow and had a son and daughter.

  ‘A bit egocentric,’ I commented. At least that was one depth I hadn’t tried to sink to yet.

  ‘And he gave birth to them in a funny way,’ she said, screwing up the table napkin in her hand and looking agitated. ‘Oh dammit. What was it? So – he spat out his son and he was the god of air. And – I think he just vomited her. His daughter. Yes, I think he vomited her and she was the god of water. Rain, I mean.’

  ‘And did he shit out a third child – the god of earth?’

  ‘Marcus.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  And she continued. Telling me how the son and daughter were straight away put to good use and told to do the chores. They had to put the chaos into order and pull out strands of light from the darkness. But somehow – maybe they were too young for the task, poor tikes – they got lost in Nu and all his mess.

  The eye of the sun searched endlessly for the children, peering into all the corners of the universe, but seeing only entanglement and formlessness. Until eventually it found the children and returned them to the sun god.

  He wept with joy and the tears tumbled to earth like little seeds – sowing human beings wherever they fell.

  And there was more to that story (I think they had to make more gods – gods of this, gods of that) – but she decided to stop there.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she purred.

  ‘It’s horrible. We’re made out of tears.’

  ‘Tears of joy,’ she said. ‘Joy, Marcus. We are happiness turned solid.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that?’

  ‘No,’ she groaned. ‘But it’s fun to believe. Isn’t it? Can’t you just let your imagination drift a bit?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said – remembering our engagement. ‘And of course I can, I’m all for a good yarn. I just don’t see what’s so great about being made out of tears, that’s all.’ And then it struck me. ‘No,’ I said, reaching out for her hand and caressing her ring finger. ‘You’re right. You’re totally right. It’s perfect. It’s beautiful.’ And it was: it made perfect sense.

  I leant over to kiss her. Even the lewd, sexual catcalls of a passerby couldn’t put a dent in my enthusiasm.

  So we left Egypt sky-high, with the clouds in our hair: taking off over the rocky sands of Libya, looking down at a Tunisian runway. While we were up in the air, shaking with turbulence, our conversation turned to marriage. And children. And the long inevitability that stretched before us.

  ‘You do want children, don’t you?’ asked Annabelle. ‘We should have discussed this sooner. Oh God. You do, don’t you?’

  I saw she looked worried – so I reached for her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I want children.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  She giggled. ‘How many?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Just a normal amount. I guess.’

  ‘What’s a normal amount?’

  I shrugged. ‘Two?’

  ‘Two! Oh God. Jesus.’

  ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘What?’
>
  ‘That groaning sound.’

  ‘It’s just it’s – ugh.’ She shuddered with revulsion. Like she was having to eat shit. ‘It’s just such a cliché. I’m sorry. But it is. Two children. A boy and a girl. La di da, la di da.’

  ‘Well, how many do you want?’

  She smiled in a daydreamy fashion. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was obvious that she had actually wanted to answer her own question all along. ‘Well, as many as possible, I guess.’

  ‘Yes, but how many is that?’

  She giggled again. ‘Six?’ She said it slowly: long and drawn out, with a mischievous giggle on her lips.

  ‘Six?’

  ‘It’s a good number. I want six.’

  ‘Fuck. We’d better hurry up then.’

  She laughed like I was hilarious. I wasn’t even joking.

  ‘Annabelle…’ I began – but it faded out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Just – can we afford that many? Kids are pretty expensive. So I hear. And last time I heard, philanthropy didn’t pay so good.’

  Her lip jutted out. ‘We’d manage. People manage.’

  ‘People manage on two. People that have to “manage” don’t tend to have six.’

  ‘OK, you’re right. I guess you’re right.’ She turned her shoulder to block me and stare miserably out of the window. It was obvious she was sulking and I cannot bear sulking. I reached over.

  ‘Whatever you want, sweetheart. We’ll have six. We’ll manage.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she said, with the sound of tears in her throat. ‘We probably can’t afford to have children at all. God knows how long it’s going to take me to get my drawing thing up and running.’

  I was glad she couldn’t see my face. I was struggling to mask the incredulity. If that was her best career move, we were well and truly fucked.

  ‘Maybe I could go back to my job,’ I said – before I even knew what I was doing.

  ‘What?’ She shifted back round. ‘But you hated that job. You said it was evil.’

  ‘Evil’s a strong word. Much too strong.’

  ‘You said it made you a bad person.’

  ‘I’d know what to look out for this time.’

  ‘You said you hated it.’

  ‘I didn’t hate it.’ I didn’t tell her that I was missing it. That this – a lifetime of backpacking and sweet-talking – would send me straight on the next plane to Dignitas.

  ‘But what about the recession?’

  ‘These things come and go. It’s going to recover.’ And then get worse again, and then recover. Just a see-saw ride for suckers and succubi.

  ‘You would do that? For me?’

  ‘For us. For our kids.’

  ‘Oh Marcus, that’s so sweet.’ She leant forward and our tongues mushed together a bit. I was thinking about taking my old job back. It felt right and good, like a made-for-measure suit. Of course, I’d be going back with a new perspective though, a different cloth.

  She pulled away first, like she could hear my thoughts. ‘I don’t know if it’s right, though. It doesn’t sound very ethical.’

  ‘I’d be careful this time. I’d go in with my eyes wide open.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you wouldn’t have to do it forever. Just until my drawing took off.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I said – pretending the laughter was for joy.

  ‘We’d just do it for the money. Save some up and then you can walk right out of there. We’d be using them, if you think about it. I mean: it’d be like a gigantic “fuck you” to the entire industry.’

  ‘I couldn’t put it better.’

  ‘Nobody could actually blame us for doing it. Not if we were doing it for our children.’

  ‘We want our children to have a good education. To be healthy and bright and happy. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.’

  ‘And we can donate most of the money to charity, can’t we?’ she persisted. She was looking up into my face with an earnest expression, but I could see the truth in her eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ I lied back. It was fun playing this game with her. She was as good at it as me. It brought us even closer.

  ‘We don’t need a big house. We’ll just get somewhere small but make sure the children are all right.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We don’t need very much.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll just take the money and then – walk away.’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  We told ourselves these things, over and over. It was a more a case of stabbing them in, rather than letting them sink in.

  #

  We landed to brilliant sunshine. Although the country is Muslim, the capital was studded with fairy lights, fake mistletoe and snow. It was Christmas time in Tunisia.

  We headed east, to the tourist resort of Port el Kantaoui. Everything was white and glistening, from the sand to the yachts to the low-rise hotel complex. The first thing we did was order a cocktail and lie under the parasols, staring to the edge of the sea. Our inactivity felt luxurious and sensual. We let the sun warm our skin while we twiddled the drink umbrellas and the waves were whooshing us into womb-like sleep.

  The plan was to stay a couple of weeks – see in Christmas, New Year, then travel to Morocco for a final fortnight. But one day we heard the hotelier shout something to a waiter, and the building buzzed with commotion and the switch-ons of radios.

  It was mid-December and a man called Mohamed Bouazizi had set fire to himself somewhere called Sidi Bouzid.

  We didn’t do this very often (we liked to keep ourselves to ourselves), but we leant over to ask a couple beside us if they knew what was happening – and why everyone looked frantic.

  The guy was foreignish. He turned out to be half-Tunisian, so he understood Arabic. His eyes were dark and sort of twitchy, which made us feel panicked. But he didn’t tell us anything that we didn’t already know. This guy in his twenties had set himself on fire. He was a fruit vendor. It was in Sidi Bouzid. Other than that, the information was thin on the ground, but people were still rushing around and looking alarmed and raising their voices – and Annabelle looked pale and anxious and I wanted to settle her.

  I sat her by the bar with a large gin and tonic, then made my way to the hotel computer before any queues could form. I clicked to the BBC, but in typical form, they were vague and understated. Everything was a ‘report’ or ‘alleged’. I logged out and joined Annabelle, feeling a little unnerved and put out. This was meant to be the most relaxing bit of the holiday – the bit before life had to go back to normal. And we couldn’t even get served another drink. All the staff had gone from their stations. Some were gathered in corners, making loud, urgent whispers. They were oblivious to any finger clicks or shouts of ‘Excuse me’. Our moods were deflating and I was extremely pissed off.

  We returned to our bedroom and made nervy, rabbit-like love: the sort of sex with quick, repetitive thrusts and half your clothes still on. Then Annabelle read for a bit on the balcony and I flicked through music channels. We had our showers, got dressed – it was time for dinner.

  We bumped into the couple from earlier in the foyer and I pushed him for more information. Yes, he said. The man had set himself on fire as a protest.

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘Oh, you know what youth are like. The injustices of the world.’ He laughed crookedly and with his eyes like slits. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just a few rumbles in his hometown, that’s all. Have a lovely dinner.’

  ‘Yes, where do you recommend?’ I asked. ‘We’ve been eating here most nights but we’d like to try somewhere new. The staff were terrible today.’

  ‘Yes, they were. I agree. They should have been more professional. Well, there’s a lovely restaurant by the harbour.’

  ‘Oh yes, we know the one. Has it got the red tablecloths?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. We ate th
ere last night and the seafood was lovely.’

  ‘Thank you very much. We’ll definitely head over there. Good night.’

  ‘Good night,’ he said – his chic lady stayed talkless but her eyes flashed in parting.

  I turned to Annabelle with a smile, but her arms were folded. ‘I’m not hungry anymore,’ she blurted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How on earth can you eat after hearing that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘I don’t get it. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Why would a man just set himself on fire? There must be more to the story.’

  I was thinking of scallops and squid. My stomach was rumbling. ‘Well, what would you like me to do about it?’

  ‘There’s the manager over there. Please just ask him for a bit more info. For me. Please.’

  For dinner, I would do anything. I hurried over and asked him for any further updates on this shocking situation. I knew the adjective would please my Annabelle.

  ‘It’s nothing for our guests to worry about,’ he smiled – with the same look as the last guy.

  ‘Yes, but why did he set himself on fire?’ Annabelle was paler than ever.

  ‘I really can’t say.’ He shrugged. ‘He was young and passionate. Who knows?’ And he left abruptly.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ said Annabelle. She marched over to the computer.

  ‘I checked that earlier.’

  ‘Well, I want to check again.’

  Finally, the BBC had updated its webpage, and we read it together, in silence.

  An impoverished fruit vendor, blah blah blah. He may or may not have been slapped in the face by a female police officer. They took away some of his fruit. He poured oil over himself and burned himself into a coma. He was now being called some kind of martyr in his hometown. I didn’t get it at all.

  ‘Ten dollars a day,’ gasped Annabelle. ‘That’s how much he was earning.’

  ‘That’s going to be a lot where he lives. Remember it’s all relative.’

  ‘Thirty per cent,’ she said after another minute. ‘That’s what the unemployment rate is here.’

  ‘You’d think they’d find better staff, then.’