The Memory of Water

by JT Lawrence

  “That’s cool, man. That’s cool.” He takes a sip of beer. “How’s life otherwise?”

  I’m just about to nod and say ‘Terrific!’ because I’m the host of this great party. I’ve had plenty of the good stuff and if anyone should be cheerful, it’s me. That’s the kind of things hosts are supposed to say. And I’m sure that Frank doesn’t want a slice of my sorrow.

  “I’m going through a pretty hard time, to be honest,” I say, smiling so that he doesn’t feel the weight of it. Thinking again of those damn bald kids. Why is it that lately, despite my dread of talking about my personal problems, I seem to be doing a lot of it? It’s as if the words just hop out of my mouth.

  “That sucks, man. Is that crazy chick back? PsychoSally?” There is light in his eyes.

  “Er, yes, but funnily enough that’s not the problem.”

  “Is it your soldier?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, man, your pistol, your ammo.”

  “Oh, no, my pistol’s just fine … last time I checked.”

  “’Cos that kind of stuff happens to a lot of dudes, you know, nothing to be ashamed of. Some handguns jam, some fire blanks. That’s just what happens, you know.”

  He gives me a slow nod, as if to encourage a confession.

  “It doesn’t make you any less of a m–—”

  “Frank, it’s not the goddamn pistol.”

  He narrows his eyes in contemplation, suggesting those are the only things in life that can give you trouble, women and handguns. God, if only.

  “Look, it’s nothing, really,” I say, “just battling a bit with the next novel. I’m a bit … stuck.”

  Frank ponders this. Drinks beer, nods, ponders.

  “It’ll come to you, buddy.”

  It’s more than that, though, I want to say, it runs a lot deeper than that. Instead I smile and take a long sip of my drink. I shake myself. Maybe he’s right. Either way, this party was supposed to be about just letting go and having some fun, so I put on my party face.

  I told everyone I invited to bring as many friends as they liked, which seems to have worked because my property is hot and heavy with the writhing bodies of strangers and stragglers. I dance for a while with a skinny blonde in a flapper dress who acts as though she is the star in her own movie, then move on to an energetic brunette with a feather headband. Gradually, for the first time in a long time, I start feeling good. I am looser: the lead in my stomach is melting, my feet don’t sting anymore. This party was A Good Idea. Out of the corner of my eye I see Eve. She is watching me with a smirk on her face, like an indulgent mother. Despite her obvious condescension my heart lifts when I see her. I squeeze my current partner’s forearm and leave the dance floor to go to Eve.

  “Eve, thanks for coming,” I say, hugging her.

  “This is quite some … party.” There is a hint of distaste in her voice. I wonder if this is all just too much for her. Too much extravagance, too much indulgence. Or maybe it’s worry: she knows I can’t afford it.

  “Have you seen the chocolate fountain?” I ask.

  She nods and laughs.

  “There were some girls, twins, practically swimming in it, on my way in.”

  “Were they naked?” I ask.

  “No,” she says.

  “Oh well,” I shrug, taking her hand, “let’s get you a drink then.”

  I order a glass of champagne for Eve and another double for myself. I realise that I have been waiting all night for her to arrive. I wonder if I have actually had this party for her. My whiskybrain is thinking that this may be the night I am brave enough to make a move. The thought makes me cold and hot at the same time. Oh my God, I want this woman. I have wanted her for ten years.

  She looks a little uncomfortable. I wonder if my face has betrayed me.

  “Can we talk?” she asks. “I don’t want to take you away from your party—”

  “Of course! Of course we can.” I look around the festivities and don’t see a quiet corner anywhere.

  I lead her inside and unlock the door to my den, locking it again from the inside. I move some books around to make space and then motion for her to sit down on the chaise. I take the leather ottoman, close enough to smell her hair. Through the glass doors we can see the party in the garden.

  “What’s up? Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m worried about you.”

  “Me?”

  What? Why? Look at what a great time I’m having!

  “I’m fine! I’m great! Don’t worry about me,” I laugh.

  Is this why she wanted to drag me away from the party? To have a heart-to-heart? To piss on my parade? I’m not in the mood. I want to go and flirt and laugh and dance.

  “I mean, sure, I’m going through a bit of a rough patch …”

  “A bit of a rough patch? Slade …”

  “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” I chuckle, knowing she won’t fall for it.

  “Sifiso just told me that you’ve spent your advance on the new book and you’ve already asked for more.”

  “Sifiso should shut the hell up. I owe a lot on my credit cards. Doesn’t everyone? Post-recession. It’s practically de rigueur.”

  “But you haven’t even started the book. Don’t you think that’s a little irresponsible?”

  Ker-rist. Could she be any more overbearing? I am torn between pushing her away and ripping open her top.

  “Eve, I get royalty cheques all the time. There’s nothing a little royalty sum can’t take care of.”

  “Really?” she asks, as if she knows something I don’t. “What about your bond? You told me yourself that you’re behind on your payments.”

  “They call every now and then to see how I’m doing. Offer to take me out for lunch.”

  “Are you not even a little worried?”

  “It’ll sort itself out, it always does.”

  “Look, I can lend you money. Just let me know how much you need.”

  The ape-man in me feels insulted.

  “Eve, the problem isn’t money. I don’t care about it. And if I did, I could get some. The real problem is inspiration. I need an idea. Can you lend me an idea?”

  She looks at me as if I’ve just spoken in tongues.

  “I’m going to ask you a question and you have to be honest with me.” The look on her face is intense and the rest of the room fades away.

  “Okay.”

  “Are you doing this on purpose?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “I mean, are you planning to write a book about a man who loses everything? Who gets his house taken away from him and has to live on the streets? Because if you are, then fine. Just let me know so that I don’t worry so much about you.”

  “No,” I reply, “but it’s not a bad idea.”

  She wants to smile.

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “At least then I’d have something to write about. Instead of this.”

  “Still nothing?”

  “I’ve written over a hundred beginnings. None of them have anything remotely redeeming about them. I’ve tried on my machine and on paper. I’ve even started sleeping with my Moleskine in case anything comes to me in the middle of the night.”

  This is torture. Admitting it to the woman I most care about in the world is like being run over by a train. I need her to see me as talented, successful, wealthy; instead, she sees this: this failure of a man. This rice husk, this fly casing. This shadow of a shadow.

  “Look, Slade, I’m worried. It seems that you’re not getting better. I mean I keep thinking that you’ll have a breakthrough but it doesn’t seem to be happening. Have you thought of maybe taking a break from writing? Doing something else for a while? Maybe get a job to pay the bills?”

  “A break from writing? There is no such thing. That’s like saying take a break from breathing. Putting myself in a coma. I can’t.”

  “But I see how depressed you are. Your eyes are …
empty. You’re not yourself. It’s like I’m looking … looking at a silhouette of you.”

  “Well, maybe that’s part of my journey.”

  “I think at the very least, you should consider seeing someone.”

  “Unless it’s someone who’ll write my book for me, I don’t see the point.”

  “So what are you going to do? Wallow in your writer’s block till some kind of miracle happens? Do you think a story will drop down from the sky?”

  “That’s the way it usually happens, yes.”

  “But it’s not happening, is it?” she demands.

  I know she’s right. It’s practically beyond hope. I’m lost for words, lost for everything. Desiccated.

  “I have a theory for you,” Eve says, her eyes glittering, “but you’re not going to like it.”

  I put my glass down, look up at her, waiting for a revelation.

  “Here’s the thing,” she says, soft and gentle, like a nurse with bad news, “I think you’re stuck because you’re not giving enough, not putting enough of yourself out there.”

  I feel the warm beginnings of anger but I wait for her to explain.

  “You’re a taker. And you’ve been taking for a long time. And I think that you can only take so much from the universe before it closes shop.”

  I laugh bitterly. There is a sad old man attached to my back.

  She is infuriating, and she smells too good. Like sex and cookies.

  “Look, Eve, I appreciate the concern. I really do. I am a taker. I’m not denying it. I have to take in order to write.”

  I stand up and Eve follows suit.

  “It’s about more than that, Slade,” her voice is rising, trying to get through.

  “It’s about how you use people and then throw them away. You leach everything you can and then you crush them and trash them.”

  In my imagination I have the vision of myself downing a beer, squashing the tin on my forehead and then throwing it backwards, over my head, a perfect landing in the bin. I don’t cover my mouth to burp. In reality, I sway and look at Eve with weary eyes.

  “I understand that you have issues with women; that it’s very difficult for you, especially with what happened with your mother.”

  I grab her wrist to stop her words from splattering on the walls and carpet.

  “Don’t bring my mother into this,” I whisper, close to her ear. “This is not about her.”

  It’s a lie: it’s always been about her. Everything has always been about her. And Emily.

  “I just think that there are some things that you have to start facing!” she yells, “Otherwise how else are you going to get better?”

  “I don’t need to get better!” I yell back. “I need to be this! The person I am.”

  “Damn it. Slade, there are people who care about you! Who hurt when you hurt yourself! Why are you so fucking self-destructive?”

  “It’s not about being self-destructive. It’s about living and living requires taking risks. My writing demands it of me.”

  “Ha! Like almost ending up in a wheelchair after deciding to jump out of a plane? And almost dying in Nigeria?”

  I wave my hand at her to signal she’s exaggerating.

  “And Bangkok? You were in hospital for two months, Slade. No one even knew what had happened to you, or where you were.”

  “None of that was my fault! You know damn well that I was on assignments. Would you have had me turn down some of the most important writing assignments of my life?”

  “Like driving your car over a bridge?”

  It had always been a sore point. I wish I had never told her about it.

  “I planned that very carefully, nothing could have gone wrong.”

  “It was suicidal, Slade. Everything could have gone wrong, you’re just lucky it didn’t!”

  “Am I?” That was the bitter old man speaking.

  Despite the evidence to the contrary, I’m not suicidal. If anything, these stunts make me feel more alive. Maybe Eve will never understand that.

  Heat rushes inside of me. Part rage, part lust, my body is magnetised by Eve’s. I step closer to her, too close, forcing her to take a step back.

  “You treat your life experiences like … like notches in your bedpost! I just think … that if you had more meaning in your life …”

  As I advance she takes another step back. I’ve had enough. I fling open the double doors that lead into the garden as a sign for her to leave.

  I have to shout over the noise for her to hear me.

  “Maybe I think that meaning is overrated. As far as taking risks is concerned – perhaps you should try it sometime. You, sequestered in your cocoon of a studio. You’re hardly, as you say, ‘putting yourself out there’.”

  Eve is trembling. She moves towards me. We are standing so close now I can feel the warmth radiating off her body and my senses are singing.

  “It’s a gift, Slade,” she breathes, “my art, your writing. If you misuse it, it will abandon you.”

  The moment has come. There will never be a moment like this again. It feels like the world is holding its breath. I am electrified. Despite the violence of my feelings I am gentle when I grasp the back of her head and kiss her.

  Not a second of hesitation passes before she slaps me. The revellers nearest to us turn to look. Eve whirls away and, in her haste to retreat, misses a step down, trips and falls onto the wet grass on her hands and knees. A hush falls over the crowd. She takes a moment before trying to stand up. Someone goes over to help her. I’m too angry for sympathy, condemned to being a silhouette. A voice in my head repeats ‘it’s over’ again and again until I want to cleave my head open to release the pressure of the words.

  I see a waitress out of the corner of my eye and click my fingers for a refill.

  The rest of the night is a blur with missing snatches. I rebel against chaste, caring, maddening Eve by drinking enough to fell a large horse and behave as astonishingly badly as I know I can get away with. Ordinary people expect the more famous of us to be a bit strange, go a bit far, be a bit outrageous. What would Warhol be without his paranoia, Hunter S. Thompson without his Quaaludes, Johnny Cash without his philandering? We Somebodies are not expected to walk the line.

  I remember skinny-dipping at midnight with some of the guests, including Frank from Football and the bar lady with the black fingernails and great tits. I steal watery touches of the pretty brunette I met on the dance floor and kiss her wet skin. I pin her up against the side of the pool with her legs around my waist and we make out like teenagers while I furtively stroke her clit. I can tell she wants me to fuck her, so I switch off the pool light for the five minutes it takes. I cover her mouth with one hand and pull her towards me with the other. I am so pent up from the encounter with Eve that I have an explosive orgasm. The girl giggles and purrs and I get out of the water.

  Cut to Sifiso slapping me on the back again, smiling like a charcoal Cheshire cat and smoking a cigar. Cut to seeing the twins at the chocolate fountain and suggesting we take it into the bedroom. Cut to watching Francina dance to Abba. Cut to when the last stragglers and I are at the bar, watching the sunrise and drinking screwdrivers with freshly-squeezed orange juice. A waiter brings in egg and bacon rolls with HP sauce and hot chips drenched in vinegar. I meet a guy from Texas who speaks like a cowboy and a tall fish-eyed woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, who chain-smokes like Bette Davis. We talk about things that seem important at 5am: plastic surgery, designer sneakers, upcycling, the petrol price, Malema, Gadaffi, chicken roasted on a beer can, and no one wonders why the others are standing in a stranger’s garden, drinking drinks they no longer need speaking to people they will never see again. No one wonders why this seems like a better idea than going home or what that says about the people doing it.

  Cut to me realising the party is over, giving the faux butler the responsibility of ushering the last hangers-on out the door, and going to my bedroom where I hope to find the chocolate twins but act
ually find a cold, empty bed.

  “ Writing is utter solitude,

  the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.”

  - Franz Kafka

  8

  Divine Dictation

  There is a pleasure and pain in writing that is, ironically, difficult to put into words. When you are struggling to tap into the force it can feel like you will never get there again, that the muse has abandoned you, for bad behaviour, or just for kicks (muses have distorted senses of humour) and, if this happens enough, you can end up throwing your laptop out of the window and swearing off writing for life. And then one day – when far away from pen and paper, on the M1 highway or at a dinner party – something will come to you which you know is good, you know is original and fresh and important. You end up in the emergency lane, hazard lights flashing, ransacking the cubby-hole for something, anything, to write with, or the guest bathroom, scratching down sentences on double ply with borrowed eyeliner while other guests knock down the door. Divine dictation. The feeling that comes with it, intimate and sexy, pen on paper like lips on skin, a heat that starts in your pelvis and travels upwards, outwards, not so much a bolt as a current. You are turned on: physically, psychologically, spiritually. Nothing beats this feeling. Well, very few things beat this feeling.

  I haven’t had it in a while. I keep hoping that my muse will rescue me, lift me out of this pit of desperation. I try to have faith but when you show up to the page every day for over a year and get nothing, you start to feel a little bereft. I’ve tried to fake it, tried to force it, but that never gets me past a couple of hundred bad words. I gaze at copies of my published work and wonder where the hell all those sentences came from. And what a schmuck I was, taking it all for granted. The Catastrophe of Success, as Tennessee puts it, embalmed by fame … and then, nothing. The cold abyss.

  This blankness, this snowstorm, this nothingness makes me reckless. I start thinking I should do more, travel more, taste more, try more, fuck more. I am cast adrift in pages and pages of white paper and I realise that I will do whatever it takes to get me writing again.