Can the Gods Cry?

by Allan Cameron

  I have thought about every possible solution to this terrible problem, including the “decapitation” of each fingertip, but this would merely cause new skin to be formed further down the finger with the same disastrous results, while creating the indisputable disadvantage of reducing the efficacy of my hand movements. Wearing rubber gloves is a costly but effective way of dealing with the problem, but I find that my hands sweat more and I have a niggling suspicion that this simply postpones the damage until the moment I remove my gloves and let loose my white, swollen hands on an unprotected environment.

  So on rising, I open all or nearly all the windows of my flat, according to the season. I then vacuum the entire flat in the most meticulous manner, by which I mean that every piece of furniture has to be moved. I then dust all surfaces to remove traces of the deposits caused by my innate vices of shedding skin and breathing. Once order has been re-established following the relative anarchy of the night during which I have been obliged to drop my defences against myself or indeed any invited or uninvited intruder, I make myself a well-earned cup of chicory ersatz coffee. A thermometer that always hangs above the cooker is employed to ensure that the milk is heated to exactly the right temperature. I then eat a health-giving plate of cereal with added vitamins. These are not sufficient. I line up an alphabet of vitamins on my side plate: A for my eyesight, B to prevent nervous breakdowns, C to prevent colds and flu, D for healthy teeth and bones, and E for healthy skin. Life is not only about accumulation; it is also about conservation. This means conserving our financial assets through sound business practice, conserving our material assets by careful maintenance thereof, and conserving our bodies, which, in order to achieve maximum longevity, we should treat as though they were eternal. In spite of this devotion to my personal health, I have to admit that at the time of writing this instructive story, I am suffering terribly from the common cold and an unsightly eruption of red pimples decorates my face. The body is the most stubborn and contrary of our assets.

  After breakfast, I then walk a mile and cycle two in my custom-made gym. I walk and cycle while staying in exactly the same spot, using exercise to trim my body while avoiding the unpleasantness of travelling through places inhabited largely by walking and breathing people with dangerous fingertips. The only problem is that this traps the sweat and hot breath I produce, within the confines of my own flat. After gym, I go for a shower and the pleasure of well-scrubbed skin, which nevertheless persists in producing the occasional defiant sore.

  I leave for the office and all that involves: the company of often foolish and ungrateful people who have no sense of guilt about their walking and breathing. I am however extraordinarily good at what I do, and no one dares annoy me too much, because the directors very much appreciate my profound knowledge of the spot market in green tea. All the great tea houses look to me as a kind of god – the man who has his finger on the pulse of the new markets, the ones driven by our very sensible desire to rid ourselves of free radicals through the massive ingestion of antioxidants. I am the future.

  I have my detractors, I do not deny this; indeed some people call me a “cold fish”, which reflects the foolishness of those who cannot look below the surface and into the complex mechanisms of the human psyche. And yet, I think I can say without risk of being called arrogant or boastful that I am not only a handsome man but one irresistibly attractive to members of the opposite sex. I have no problem in finding lovers, although I am disciplined enough to keep my encounters with each one to a maximum of five. I strongly believe that we only have freedom for as long as we act as entirely independent individuals economically and socially. I do not wish to restrict my liberty or theirs by forming permanent attachments. And yet on not one but two occasions I allowed myself to be entrapped in that psychotic state of dependency we like to call “love”. This all occurred in a period of just over six months, and the intensity of it was such as to impart a harsh lesson that I have never forgotten and think I never will during the rest of my long and successful career.

  I met the first of these two sirens while taking a brisk walk in order to digest my food and keep my body trim. Usually my work-out in the gym is more than sufficient, but on that particular day I felt the need, for whatever fatal and fateful reason, to get a little more exercise. There was a group of women tourists outside a shop, and two were staring avidly at a display of leather bags, wallets, purses, key rings and the typically wide choice provided by shops in our advanced civilisation. Another, my lovely Jessica, was standing impatiently a few steps away and staring at one of our ancient churches. “I think,” she said in the ringing tones of a powerful American accent, “you’ll find the best deals are south of the river. Come on!”

  She was a tall, well-built, handsome woman with long, frizzy red hair. She looked intrepid, and her intelligence was obvious. Had she not just expressed an immediate and quite truthful assessment of the tourist market as it operates in our historic city? The best deals definitely are on the south side of the river.

  So I did something quite unprecedented, something that is totally alien to my nature: I started to converse with persons entirely unknown to me. This is the first lesson of my story: always suppress any spontaneous impulse; it will only lead you into trouble. “You are quite right, madam,” I emphasised my European good manners to create an image of quaintness and solid old-fashioned values. My feeling that the American lady would find this appealing was also a product of rash spontaneity. “The best deals are indeed to be found on the south side of the river.”

  An enormous, white-toothed smile widened her mouth by a factor of at least 150 per cent, which of itself was a quite extraordinary phenomenon. I felt sure I had made a conquest. “Jessica,” she stretched her hand out to shake mine, “what’s your name?”

  Again my rashness overcame me and I offered to act as their guide and take them to the market area south of the river where they could purchase the desired items at more favourable prices. “We’ll pass by the early Gothic cathedral, one of the finest in the country, and then cross Prince Charles bridge. That is a slight detour, but the prolongation of our itinerary will be handsomely repaid by the exquisite architecture we’ll encounter.”

  The other women looked as though they hadn’t quite understood what I was saying and appeared to consider me an unwanted intruder. Jessica, on the other hand, seemed smitten, and was staring at me with what is called a “doe-eyed expression”. I have this effect on women.

  “I love art and architecture,” she said. “Did you say early Gothic? That’s incredible.”

  So we set off on our trip and I thought I would make myself useful by pointing out the various buildings of note as we went. I tried to engage with the whole group, but I was coming up against increasing resistance. So after the cathedral, I suggested that we stop at one of our better cafés – a touch on the expensive side, it’s true, but the coffee is superlative. This achieved a happy outcome – or perhaps not, depending on how you look at it. The other women decided that they had no time to waste and split into two parties: the first, the more provident one, went off to find the south-side market, while the second, wishing to make a point no doubt, turned back for the shop whose window they had been marvelling at when I interrupted their commerce. Jessica and I found ourselves alone with two excellent cappuccinos with croissants. I decided to give Jessica a lecture on how we make croissants in our city – a very particular process – and on the health benefits of only consuming decaffeinated coffee. She seemed impressed, and I could see that she was a woman of considerable sensitivity.

  We found the market and after two and a half hours meandering amongst the stalls, she finally made her choice. Of course I admire the entirely rational thoroughness with which she carried out this transaction, but my feet were protesting. I like to walk, but at a fairly brisk and steady pace. Sauntering and idling are for me something of an ordeal. Still, I have a generous nature and was only too happy to sacrifice my day to this bright but ingenuous fo
reigner. Besides, the purchase proved to be an outstanding bargain. I removed my pocket calculator and determined the ratio between it and the identical bag in the shop outside which we so fortuitously happened to meet. My timely intervention had saved her no less than 23.86% (not the exact figure, but two decimal points are sufficient here). I told her of this achievement, and once more she seemed impressed, although her smile was somewhat weaker on this occasion.

  All in all, we had had a wonderful afternoon, notwithstanding my guilt at having ignored my work for such a prolonged period of time. I invited the young lady to supper in one of our better restaurants, without going over the top. I have achieved wealth precisely because I understand the need to be careful about all outgoings, and I keep meticulous accounts of every transaction I make, however small. She, of course, happily agreed, flashing one of her fullest, full-on smiles. We parted happily and knew where all this was leading.

  No sooner was I back at my desk than I started to fret. I would have to ask her back to my flat. I sensed that Jessica would not be amenable to a brief romp in her hotel bedroom. She would want to be courted, and I had already set the tone with all that old-world courtesy stuff. This would mean doubling the breathing, as there would be two human beings instead of one, and sexual intercourse also increases it by an unknown margin. She would of course be wandering around my flat, and although not above eighty kilos in spite of her height and build, her footsteps would have some impact. And being American, she would put her greasy hands over just about everything in my home. Just as a snail leaves its trail of slime wherever it goes, so we human beings leave a more complex and probably even more noxious trace of our existence. How did we live before cleaning fluids?

  Fortunately half a bottle of wine each smoothed out the way for the start of our relationship. Otherwise I don’t know how I could have endured that invasion of my space by another body. So sexual intercourse took place and it was good. This was confirmed by Jessica in the morning, as she hugged me closely, told me how intelligent I am and flashed her amazing smile. I have to say that I found all that hugging a little unnecessary and was desperate to get back to work. While the day before I had been providing most of the conversation because I wanted Jessica to benefit from my frankly exceptional knowledge of our city’s history and culture, she was now dominating the conversation with her inanities. Yes, I know that I am good-looking and intelligent, and I don’t need some American mediocrity to come over here to tell me. She seemed to talk as though she had moved in, and my worst fears were confirmed. All the time I couldn’t wait for her to get out and get on with being a tourist.

  After she finally left, I started to polish the genuine silver photograph frame containing a picture of my ex-wife. I loved her still, I often told myself, although there had been a real compatibility problem she had not been willing to confront. She really did leave a trail of destruction behind her. She had an extravagant mind and it deposited all kinds of detritus around the flat: books, magazines, pens, scissors, lipsticks, used coffee cups, undrunk coffee cups, plates with toast crumbs and plates with pieces of uneaten, cold buttered toast… These objects had no boundaries, no fear of invasiveness. They colonised the flat like a disease. Then she left, after having screamed the most terrible abuse at me. She had said the unkindest things, but she could not have really meant them. She was offloading her own problems onto me. Now she is living with a plumber who plays in the local rugby team. He thinks he’s a local hero, but actually he’s a bit of a clown. And he leaves behind him an even bigger trail than she did, and most of it consists of empty beer cans. God, she must have regretted leaving her husband, but she couldn’t come back because she was obviously too embarrassed by the terrible things she had said. I would have forgiven her, I think, but I was fearful about her breathing, treading and touching, because she always seemed to do a lot more of those things than any other person I have known, and I have lived a full and varied life.

  Are humans really designed to live together? I ask myself in my more reflective moments. And the answer has to be no. The whole history of marriage is a history of misery and regret. Of that I am certain. Even I was unable to make a go of it. It is a nice enough idea, but entirely impractical.

  I consider myself to be the ideal modern man. I work hard and consume efficiently and rationally. I keep myself to myself, and live entirely within myself, which takes much more courage than that wife-and-kids stuff and that sharing out. That’s for people who can’t stand on their own feet. I am uncluttered by children and I look after my health scrupulously, so I demand hardly anything of the state. Why, I ask, should I help out the less fortunate? There is a very good reason why they’re less fortunate.

  As the day went by and I occasionally thought about Jessica, I started to change my opinion about her. She had a great body. She may not have been very cultured, but I could work on that, and she did appear to have an innate sensitivity. I think that was why she was drawn to me. She clearly wasn’t as slobbish as my ex-wife, as I had carefully noted when she was clearing up after breakfast. She adored me, and that was entirely understandable. Surely my expensive flat could cope with an extra human being. Why should I turn her away? Why should I not let her stay for a few months? Do you see how easy it is for a man to be led astray by female wiles?

  The first thing I did on getting home in the evening was to remove my ex-wife’s photograph and throw it in the bin. The second was to ring Jessica on my mobile and ask her over for a meal at home. And so it was: we lived together quite happily for six months. She proved to be extremely accommodating, submissive even. I found that I could get her to do most of the cleaning chores. There was a good chance that the arrangement was home-friendly – that any damage caused by her presence was undone by the efficacy of her cleaning skills. When she announced that she had cancelled her return ticket and that the immigration people probably wouldn’t notice her for a long time, I wasn’t at all upset. In fact, I was actually happy about it. Jessica’s photograph found its way into my prized silver photograph frame.

  Then came the second woman and it was Jessica who invited her into the flat. As I say, about six months had passed – possibly the happiest cohabitation of my life. Do you see the snare? Sometimes you only notice after you’ve become irreversibly trapped. The woman was an Italian called Elena Fuoristrada, and she literally draped herself across my sofa, while she fingered its borders and put one foot on an armrest. And I didn’t mind. In fact I was charmed. She wore no bra, and her breasts hung down lazily, occasionally swinging under her loose cotton dress as she made one of her sudden movements often for reasons of emphasis. Normally I find such things not just unattractive but positively repellent, yet there was something

  about those free breasts that was unmistakably arousing. This was slightly embarrassing as Jessica was by now examining my every move. I think I know why those breasts were so attractive, and it was nothing to do with themselves or the rest of what was, after all, a youthful and energetic body. It was her, her entire persona and, most of all, her boldness. Everything about her said, “This is who I am. Accept me as such, or take a running jump. I care not for you, and in fact I find you somewhat inferior and servile. There is nothing you can do that will ever please me.” How could any red-blooded man fail to fall in love with that?

  Jessica took great pleasure in telling me that the woman had said she thought I was a creep and a fico lesso, which apparently is the Italian for a “boiled fig”. “Meaning?” I asked, entirely unaffected by the whole matter. “Meaning that you are a persnickety little wimp – the kind of person who worries too much about the silly little things.”

  “I wonder what a fig looks like when it has been boiled,” I said, as my passion for Elena only grew, in response to I know not what absurd sexual mechanism. They say that opposites attract, but I cannot say that Elena was showing any signs of being attracted to me. They say a lot of things: most of them untrue or so general as to be worthless. The reality was undeniable: Ele
na was my new passion. Jessica was my old one and therefore an encumbrance. “I believe that a boiled fig would probably be bloated and bleached.”

  “Very attractive,” said Jessica. “That’s you to a tee.” I believe that was her first remark that did not express unalloyed devotion. But such is the psychotic state of love that I wasn’t even offended. I didn’t heed it. What clearer proof do you need? And surely you too have found yourself in this irrational state? One that ignores the clearest signals of trouble ahead. Evidently Jessica had noticed something.

  Well, a man in love is capable of anything, and for me the solution was very simple. I waited until Jessica was having a shower and then looked through her address book for Elena’s number. I then waited for her to go out and rang Elena, who eventually replied in an insouciant voice that could melt your whole body. I was stuttering like a schoolboy. Would she come to see me alone? Would she come now because Jessica would be out most of the day? After a little thought she said she would.

  Five minutes later, Elena was there. Five minutes! Surely she was as desperate as I was, although such a cool character gave nothing away. She threw her collapsible umbrella into the Chinese vase on the hall table and her coat on top of it. She could not have known, of course, that the vase was worth half a million euros and was one of my most prized possessions. She lost no time in draping herself once more on my sofa – and I didn’t care. She had slipped off her sandals and her naked toes were digging themselves into the leather upholstery – and still I didn’t care. “Very comfortable sofa, this,” she said and then her buttocks jumped up and down in the middle to test the springs. “Yes, very comfortable.”