Ménage

by Ewan Morrison

  Dot was silent behind her camera. Her voice instructing. As she led us up another flight of stairs, the walls lined with images of the great English, of the conquests of the empire, I finally saw the joke of it all. Her revenge not against Saul but against the great men in gilded frames. Her camera pointed up our dresses as we stumbled on ahead. She, in her father’s suit, made lewd suggestions in a play-man’s voice, getting us to pose as she shot us from below, her voice that of a film or porn director.

  — That’s right, cutie, raise your leg, show me the top of the stockings. Higher, lovely, that’s it.

  She asked us to stand on one leg, pout for the camera, waggle our bums. At first I was embarrassed, but seeing the gusto with which Saul embraced his part, some ludicrous sense of competitiveness overcame me. So I copied and tried to outdo him, flashing my legs and pouting, as per her instruction. Fighting him for space to show more leg, more stocking tops. Her camera was rolling and it was art.

  — That’s good. Now kiss each other, a big smoochy kiss. Saul puckered up, all labial lips and stubble, big mwaaa, mwaaas. I closed my eyes and extended my lips. He pulled away immediately, giggling like a man-girl.

  She showed us the playback on the big TV in the lounge as Saul opened the fifty-year-old Glenlivet. On-screen was a shot perfectly framed by the banister. It could have been anywhere, another time – a Warhol screen test from the Chelsea Hotel, ’72.

  — Mmmm, very Andy, Saul proclaimed – the only positive thing he’d said in weeks.

  Two drag queens, posing, following commands as a voice made demands from behind the camera.

  ‘Bend over, show me your asses. Shoogle them, let me see those ass cheeks wobbling: Now do the catwalk, and come back to the banister.’

  On-screen two drag queens fighting to go first.

  ‘One at a time, girls!’

  The queens so studious in their every move, the one that was Saul stumbled in his heels, swore – fuck fuck! Then steadied himself on the banister and sighed deeply like Zsa Zsa Gabor.

  ‘Now pull your dresses up, show me your suspender belts. Show me your pussies. Touch your pussies. Blow the camera a kiss.’

  A moment then when both drag queens stared at the camera, falling out of their roles, standing like men waiting at a bar for a pint.

  ‘I’m the winner!’ shouted the one that was Saul.

  ‘No, me!’

  ‘Me, me, me, me.’

  The voice from behind the camera: ‘There’s no winner.’

  The tape went to fuzz.

  Dot turned it off and sat back on her haunches.

  — So what you think? Is it art?

  Saul got up suddenly, spilling his drink, running past us, falling against the wall in the heels he’d forgotten to take off. The sound of the bathroom door slamming, of him retching. I reached for Dot’s hand.

  — Do you think he knows . . . about us?

  — Shh, she said, — listen.

  The sounds in the bathroom were not just retching, but something almost inhuman, animal. The puking-up of what sounded like inner organs. Dot got up to go to him but I held her back. Whispered, — Did you tell him?

  She shook her head, silent, listening with worry to his every spasm. She ran off to be with him. Her face at the closed door.

  — Sozzle, you OK? What’s wrong? I followed and at the door held her hand.

  — Saul, you OK?

  — EEEE! A scream from inside. — GOD!

  — Open this door! Are you OK? she shouted.

  — GOD! GOD, I HATE YOU, he shouted back.

  We looked at each other then like two children who had upset their father. He shouted – something that sounded like weeping with chunks of food. — IT’S A FUCKING . . . IT’S A FUCKING OBSCENE FUCKING . . . IT’S A . . .

  The toilet door fell open, his mascara running down his cheeks, vomit on his dress. He fell forward into our arms, stenching of puke, whispering, — It’s a . . . It’s a . . . He was exhausted by the exertions — . . . a fucking masterpiece!

  I swear his lips brushed my neck and his arms reached to us not only for support.

  — ’S fucking masterpiece.

  For all of that, though, I found myself in her bedroom, alone as she put him to bed. Sitting there in her mother’s dress, the room seemed preserved by her parents as if Dot had died a decade before and everything had to be kept as she’d left it. Like a shrine, like the Mary Celeste. The rows of Sindy dolls; arts and crafts; a Swedish rug; a poster of some Scandinavian weaving; Doctor Seuss. The entire twenty-seven volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Inside the drawers in the dresser were trinkets and plastic jewellery, frilly panties, a first training bra, white schoolgirl socks. On the mantel was a hockey trophy from St Paul’s, a row of Russian dolls, beside a lovingly crafted horse in clay. Something was missing from the picture, there were no posters of bands or records or magazines, her entire teenage years seemed lost – and nowhere in the house had I seen a picture of the dead brother. I thought of the mad mother and shrink father and shivered. I tried to sleep on the small, single bed. The duvet cover was Laura Ashley, all flowers. It smelled of dust and something sweeter – air freshener or maybe vomit and detergent.

  I was awoken by a dark figure looming over me, a man.

  — My God!

  A hand reaching for me, speaking.

  — Shh, silly, it’s me.

  — Fuck, Dot! What you doing here?

  — It’s my room.

  — Is he sleeping?

  She stepped away then, eyes scanning her assembly line of furry animals. She stopped at the window and leaned on the high shelf. Sight of her from behind: the curves of long slender legs, the gap between them running from knee to inner thigh, the shifts in shape as my eyes roamed upwards, following the line that led to her pubis, then the hard black edge of Saul’s Armani jacket. I sat up hugging the duvet, trying to hide my mounting arousal. I was deeply troubled by the events of the night, worse still by the things she’d said about her ‘episode’. I tried to find the courage.

  — That thing about the deathbed?

  — Yes.

  Her back to me, her voice changed, somehow sincere in tone, dark.

  — Your episode?

  She turned to me then.

  — Am I scaring you, should I put something on?

  Her eyes, in the half-dark, not her own, seemed drugged. I could not stop her. My eyes fixated on her hands as she pulled something from the drawer, then bent forward, baring her arse to me. I begged her to stop, but she lifted one foot and I saw then – the white schoolgirl panties, then the other foot stepping in, my eye following the fabric as she pulled it up. The feminine flesh bulging over the edges where the elastic bit too tight. She did not turn to face me. I whispered, begging her to stop.

  — I’m just getting dressed, she said. — You do like my clothes, don’t you?

  His jacket slid from her as she stepped towards the bed.

  — I’m too big now, they’re too tight, why don’t you wear my panties instead?

  I was close to tears, pleading with her to stop this scary voice, it was no game – this could go no further – Saul was my best friend and if he were to find out. But I had to know about the episode.

  She pulled the duvet from me, glanced at the swollen humiliation, then pulled her panties to the side, took my cock in her hand. She fumbled to guide me inside herself, but the angle was wrong and she bashed her nose on my head. So quickly I was about to come. I told her, please, no, NO! I pulled away, shot immediately over my belly.

  She had changed again. Not the schoolgirl or the Duchess but Dot, the first Dot, nervous, a little shy, then chuckling, silly. Saying sorry. My cock spasming and her tiptoeing away. She went to leave but I held her hand and pulled her back. I had to know. As if she had guessed what was troubling me she spoke, in whispers.

  — My episode?

  — Tell me, please.

  I pulled her close to me, held her against my semen-wet chest. The r
oom was still and terrible. The first light illuminating her dolls on the window ledge.

  — I . . . you don’t want to hear this . . . I know you think I’m crazy, I heard Saul talking about it. You both think I’m mad.

  — No, not at all, tell me.

  She lay back beside me, ran her hand over my stomach.

  — Can I trust you?

  — Dot, please.

  I held her tight to me. Kissed her head.

  — It’s just this thing I learned, I don’t know why, she whispered. — Being crazy, it’s . . . I know you think I’m like this person who . . . a lot of it scares me too but . . .

  — Tell me.

  — They were arguing all the time. This was . . . I was maybe thirteen . . . He was going to leave, both of us, the family, he had a mistress, you know, divorce. It’s kind of normal, this was a year or two after my brother died, you know parents break up after something like that. They had been smashing things and screaming, arguing and him shouting, ‘I’m leaving, bitch.’

  — This is your mum and dad.

  — I got into this weird thing with food, because of it. I don’t know, I got some kind of, maybe it was psychosomatic . . . I used to stick my fingers down my throat . . . every time they argued, and smashed things, I’d make myself puke.

  — Dot.

  — So then, you see, he couldn’t leave when I was sick so I made myself really sick. I puked so much that blood came and I hadn’t had a bowel movement in weeks, my ribs were like fingers. He used to come to my bed and try to feed me, with a spoon, like I was really little again, and I’d wolf it down, to make him happy. And my mum too, she would kneel down and pray by my side. But as soon as they turned their backs, I’d puke it all up again. At first they blamed each other but the sicker I got the more they came to me. When I got really sick they would both just sit there, one either side of my bed. I’d pretend to be asleep or in a coma or something and they’d hold my hands and tell each other sorry and sometimes kiss.

  — He didn’t leave?

  — No, but then the doctors said it was psychological, so they started sedating me and they had to feed me by a tube. It was just too horrible to . . .

  I held her hand.

  — You don’t have to say any more.

  — I think that’s when I did get really sick, like schizo just to keep them together and . . . it was scary but it was worth it . . . I mean, they’re still married right? This was . . . well, it was an institution . . . that really made me fucking crazy, they locked me in, I started hurting myself, eating glass.

  — Jesus!

  — I was pretty sick. Sorry. I should have told you before.

  — My God, no, you’re the most sane person I’ve ever met.

  — You’re so sweet.

  It was me that cried then and her that held me. The tears had been long overdue from somewhere I did not even know. She held me as I wept for her.

  Slowly then the holding became kisses, wet mouths, clinging, our mouths finding necks and breasts. — Shh, she kept saying, — let’s be slow – and that slowness went on and on for hours it seemed, the gentle rhythms of licking and kissing and sucking, then the pause, and calm, then so gently, she took my sex in her mouth and I took hers, as we lay feeding from each other, lost in circlings of lips and sex. With many kisses we smeared each other in our mingled sticky scent.

  As she slept and my fingers memorised the gentle curve from her pelvis to hip and the muscles of her stomach, I told her many things in whispers: of how I would help her to be all she could possibly be, to serve her even, because she could shine brighter than myself, and to be in awe of her was all I could ever hope for.

  It was then that Saul came back to me. Or perhaps some movement of hers on the tiny single bed, but I awoke from these reveries and my eyes roamed the room and there at the doorway I saw the shadow. The shadow moved. Saul? How long had he been standing there? Had he been watching us, maybe for minutes, maybe more, and seen it all? I tried to get up but her naked weight held me down, while from below I heard the creak of stairs.

  Saul had left early the next morning and Dot went straight to Goldsmiths and so I spent all of my tube ride home preparing my confession to him, working out emergency strategies. There was no way he would listen. And the truth was I dreaded what the future might be post-confession. He would leave and Dot and I would be left alone together and she would no doubt tire of my neediness in less than a week.

  I went to his door. It was only about ten but he was already drinking sherry while dressing in his funereal Spitalfields Market suit, pinched from that stall he said had a scam with undertakers who stole suits from corpses before they were buried. My nerves had upset my stomach.

  — Saul, can we talk?

  — Cowboy boots or sneakers? he asked. — Do you think the schoolgirl shirt deconstructs the suit or should I stick with the military-disco look?

  He put on the Duchamps and relit a fag end from the electric bar fire, postponing or pretending that nothing was happening, motioning for me to come in.

  My fear was compounded by the fact that I was not allowed, ever, to introduce a topic first. He found this very uncool. He had to speak first – as it is with royalty.

  — We have to talk, I said again.

  — Damn the Duchamps. They’re just too solemn for this occasion.

  What occasion? Saul tiptoed over to the hundred LPs and rummaged, motioning again for me to be seated. I sat on the edge of his bed. A pair of Dot’s panties were lying there next to the Pot Noodle ashtray.

  — I’m feeling rather excellent, he said, without looking up. — I’ve finally realised that it is my fate in life. You know, for the student to surpass the master. She has – has she not?

  This startled me – when had he ever said such a thing? It was maybe his next choice of music, Rapeman, that had me feeling ill.

  — You OK? he asked. I stammered something out, about things in the house. Things with Dot.

  — I’m having a day of revelations, he said. — I’m giving up on art. I’m going to have to get a job.

  — You’re joking.

  — I have never been more grave. Indeed, the grave, it has been on my mind much, so I have resolved to get well. God knows how, but I think food might be something to do with it.

  — Really?

  — You’re looking rather skeletal too. You could do with a good square meal.

  How could I say what had to be said?

  — But the thing is . . . Dot –

  — I shall cook tonight, he said, — to celebrate.

  — But the thing is . . . Dot and I –

  — Shh, he said again, — you’re disturbing my internal rhythms.

  — Her and me . . . we –

  — Shhhh!

  — No, you don’t understand, I, we have been –

  — NO! Must you reduce everything to Oprah? Confessions are for paedophiles and priests.

  I felt faint.

  — So, he said, — what do you fancy? I’ve got my dole cheque, I thought some chicken à la Quixote.

  I had to lie down, right there on his bed. Rapeman blaring and Steve Albini screaming, that song about Kim Gordon’s panties, and Dot’s panties were under his pillow, and the stench from the ashtray. I caught the vomit in my hand.

  He passed me her panties to clean it up. I muttered thanks. He didn’t bat an eye and passed me the sherry. — It’s me that should be thanking you, he said. I tried to ask him for what.

  — All that seems certain falls away. It’s called a paradigm shift, I’m appalled you haven’t read more Althusser.

  His back was to me as he changed the record again. The Telly Savalas solo album.

  — Or cauliflower au gratin, do you think? Of course, we’ll have to acquire some fromage but I feel lucky today on the shoplifting front. I’m aspiring to some blue Stilton.

  I could not rise to an opinion on choices of cheese. My many questions were drowned out by Kojak’s version of ‘The Imp
ossible Dream’ and with Saul’s non-talk that told me asking for explanations would be crass.

  — Shh, he said before I could even speak. — Change is the only thing in history that never changes. Do you think they have Stilton in Pricecutter or will I have to forage further afield for fromage?

  This surreal meal he made for us. He’d cleared space on his floor and even put a hippy candle in a wine bottle. Whether it was some sick celebration of his acceptance of the adulterous union of Dot and me, he would not say.

  The fruits of his shoplifting, he revealed with a flourish – Post haute cuisine! He thought it an innovative combination of the exotic and the banal – a little Thai, a little Jew, and some classic Brit. No cheese, and it was, from what I could gather, Heinz beans on rye-bread toast with salted KP nuts mixed in with the tomato sauce, topped with chilli. Dot found it hilarious. How the peanuts looked just like the beans and how each mouthful was an almost terrifying set of surprises, not knowing whether the next texture was soft or crunchy, all hidden, lurking in the sauce which was excessively chillied to hide the lack of anything else to taste. I sat silent throughout as they laughed together, trying to sort the beans out from the nuts on the side of my plate. I had the feeling, due to their secret smiles and little laughs and hand squeezes, that some deal had been struck to which I was not privy. That I was in some way the object of their mirth, or – worse – compassion.

  And Saul fussed around and had Dot in hysterics with his haute cuisine jokes as I yet again crunched my way through what I thought was a spoonful of beans. They were coming up with surrealist food combinations.

  — Fish fingers with marmalade.

  — Spam tartare.

  — Pâté de foie gras with Pot Noodle. And Saul laughed outrageously. So much so that I felt it could only have been somewhat hammed up. He grabbed my face, said to Dot, — Couldn’t you just MWAAA? and he made a kissing face. — Really, at times I don’t know whether to kiss or slap him.

  They were laughing, as if they had agreed this whole night in advance, rehearsed their lines. I could not probe. They were off then on the next culinary rant. Developing theories about how food could be the next art form, that, no doubt, all the yuppie artists would start restaurants.