Forget Yourself

by Redfern Jon Barrett

  “What were you wondering?”

  In a city? Lights towering over us.

  “Does it bother you?”

  I and my love, my spouse, for better or worse.

  “Does it bother you,” I repeated, “when I go to see Frederick?”

  Forsaking all others.

  “I have a question for you,” Burberry replied.

  For the rest of our lives.

  “Go on.”

  The rest of our lives, until we’re taken and placed somewhere else, wiped clean.

  “Do you love me?”

  “I love you,” I replied.

  “Then no, it doesn’t bother me. I love you, too.”

  Burberry left to cook at the fire tap—I told her I was unwell. I couldn’t tell her about the magazine—she had hated the book, this would be worse. Really, I needed to keep it to myself.

  I unfurled the lino, took the magazine and hid it beneath my fraying jumper, then stepped into the warm air. Rain fell in a series of flecks, weakly spattering my face as though it had run out of energy. Nobody had found the page, it hadn’t been mentioned. It was gone.

  Of course they hadn’t found the page. They never would. Each line about the end of love had been wrong. There was no end to love. There were no tearful goodbyes, no shattered promise, no break-up sex. There was marriage, there was union, and it was eternal. The page had been wrong and so it had been corrected.

  I took the magazine to my mock-living room, by the deserted, discoloured section of wall. The plank that was my mantelpiece still rested on the ground. I sat on it and flicked through the magazine once more.

  The Great Outdoors

  Another page, another wedding: the great outdoors. Endless piles of trees under an ever-blue sky. Two men: one older one younger, both handsome. Rows of words surrounded them from both sides. One was holding a pole with a wire dangling from the end, the other looking at him with unmatched adoration. The older one had thick eyebrows and set his eyes in the middle distance, toes on the edge of a stream which had frothed itself into frenzy. The ground was a neat carpet of wood chippings. For the alternative wedding, try the great outdoors. Fresh air, new love. The sky has faded purple-blue and clashed with the green trees.

  The next page and another couple, her curly black hair was tied up above her head, her dress nearly-white. Him with a closed-mouth grin. They had their feet in water and were surrounded by sand which almost matched her dress. Red flowers scattered around them, swirled crimson shells. Tiny letters passed unnoticed beneath her feet, dress by Regina Ingrid Norman-Gotes. Exclusive. An ink-scrawled knife stuck into her gut.

  Words filled the sky: the best beaches this time of year. Sand beaches, shingle beaches, or for the very edgy, post-urban beaches. Sand or pebbles or slabs of salt-water-soaked concrete. A new season of bridal gowns for the very thing. Disaster-relief styles. Louisiana chic. Chapel Wave Weddings will give a service in a water-lapped church, waves dancing by your toes and stained glass above your head. Celebrities.

  Or the great outdoors indoors. A winter wedding. Actual snow. A projected sky, you won’t know the difference. It’s the great Alps of our parents. Ice-themed accessories. A couple in matching copper-toned ski-gear.

  I stopped reading. Burberry would be wondering where I was. I buried the magazine beneath the mantelpiece and left.

  There were footprints everywhere. All around the bush, all around the courtyard, to and fro. One line of craters were half the size, someone sprinting on their toes, trying to be somewhere quickly. The footprints were crossed by another pair, slow and sure, feet firmly planted. What could they have been so sure of?

  I followed a series of them to the fire tap.

  “Blondee,” my neighbour greeted.

  “Fluffed.” I hadn’t seen him for a while.

  “I haven’t seen you for a while,” he said.

  “What’s been happening?” I asked. “Why are you naked?”

  “I came out to keep an eye on things. It’s all been pretty strange lately, you’ll have noticed. Not that things have been especially normal at yours, eh?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well, your two—”

  “Oh.” My two lovers. The crime seemed least now. I watched a drop of water crawl from his temple, down his face, zigzag through stubble, cross his jawbone and ride down his neck, through the light hair on his chest and down over the flat surface of his stomach. It rested in the curve of his belly button.

  “Blondee, what’re you looking at?”

  “Nothing.” I moved my gaze to his face.

  “It’s been crazy”, he continued. “Everywhere. There were fights, two fights, just today. But no-one did much, we all stood and watched. The first time it was a woman and a man scratching and smacking and bleeding, the second time it was another two, both men. One broke the other’s nose.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you going to the meeting?” he asked. I didn’t know what he meant. “The meeting. Pilsner ain’t happy. He wants to have a meeting, with everybody. Even them. It’s around now, actually.”

  “Why aren’t you there?”

  “It’s not much to do with me. Besides, what’s passed is past. Anyway I’ve been outside long enough. Goodbye, Blondee.”

  “Goodbye, Fluffed.”

  He turned, small round arse disappearing into his hut. I poked my head inside our triangle-home, wondering if Burberry had heard about the meeting.

  She had, she said, reaching her arms up to embrace me. She handed me the remains of the food she had prepared and I ate, the two of us covered by a scratchy wool blanket as rain battered the window. By the time I had finished water was rushing down the glass and pooling at our feet: with the blanket wrapped around ourselves we made our way to the courtyard.

  At the courtyard it was roaring, brutal, beating down the skin of my ears, a deafening monotone buzz. The sky had collapsed, a force of water pressing me into the ground. I could barely see in front of my face but I could hear it, the rush of water on stone. He hadn’t seen us. Pilsner stood alone, his back hunched, a shadow through the rain which forced my eyelids closed. I placed my hands to my eyebrows as he raised his arm, waving back and forth. No-one came. Another rush and he was gone.

  Burberry left, seeking shelter, asking me to go with her.

  Not now, I said: soon.

  I stumbled forward, limbs heavy, pulled to the earth, or pushed, or shoved and pressed and crushed. I felt the flagstones against my feet, wet and gritty. Perhaps someone would come. Perhaps someone would come and explain. Explain something. My mouth was dry. I felt the wet metal of the tap on my fingers, pulling the handle upwards. It was lost in the ocean which fell from above. I slumped down, stone against hip, stone against shoulder. I clung to the tap, holding on so I couldn’t be swept away, my fingers clutching wetly at my arms. I screwed my eyes closed and screamed. Screaming, screaming, where I would never be heard, screaming until my lungs felt bloody and my body limp and I was lost.

  “You’re wet, Blondee.” A familiar voice in my ear.

  Then it was gone.

  “FREDERICK?”

  “Yes—yes, Blondee?”

  “Why do you talk the way that you do?”

  “Wh-what do you mean, Blondee?”

  “The sort-of stuttering, like you have to force the words out. It’s like it takes an effort. Does it take an effort?”

  “I don’t—I don’t know, Blondee. I don’t remember things being any—different.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “What?”

  “Are you scared, Frederick? Are you worried about the things you say?”

  “I—I don’t know... it’s easier to convey—to communicate my thoughts with things—things like models, the things I make.”

  “But aren’t you scared then? About what people will think of the things you make?”

  “No. No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I... the things I make... they’re not me. People
look at those, not at me. If I talk, then, then they look at me—right at me. I don’t like that. It would be better if—if no-one ever looked at me. I prefer to watch other people, and listen to them. It’s better if no-one sees me. Besides, it’s easier to see them.”

  “I have to go and see Burberry. I love you, Frederick.”

  “I—I love you too, Blondee.”

  She shimmered; the lake shimmered. She had no memory of being in water, so I watched her first-time-wallowing in the lake. She had stepped in tentatively, poking at it with her toe, then slapping at it with the flat of her foot, then kneeling, sloshing water over her shins and shoulders. Finally she had waded out, summoning waves with one hand, a box of old blueberries in the other.

  Her mouth was stained blue.

  We weren’t supposed to be there, she and I. It was her idea. She was loving every moment. She took another blueberry from the box and aimed it at her mouth—I pulled myself free of my clothes and waded in the join her.

  Once I reached her I placed my arms about her body. She put a blueberry into my mouth. I swallowed.

  “Are you happy?” I asked her, juices running down my chin.

  “I am.” She ate another, chewing it carefully and finishing it before continuing. “I really am. I miss Tanned less. It doesn’t feel real any more. I’m happy with you. You thief.”

  She grinned at me, a stage of stained teeth.

  “Were you happy with Tanned?”

  She pulled away a little, tilting her head to one side and dipping her dreadlocks into the water.

  “I was at first. We got together because it made sense—there we were. We did it because we couldn’t really think of anything else to do. He’d go and pick these sprigs and twigs off the bushes for me—it was another thing he claimed he remembered, giving plants as presents, but he didn’t ever write that down. But otherwise every day was the same. It was the way he liked it, really.”

  She pulled me close to her once more, speaking so-so gently into my left ear.

  “It wasn’t like what we are. It was different to us, and what I feel for you. I felt for Tanned quickly, I mean that I loved him quickly, and then it ended quickly. What I feel for you Blondee, that took a long time—a very long time. Seeing you at the bush and at the courtyard. At first I wanted to get to know you, but then I wanted to know your body as well. After that I wanted you even more, I wanted to be familiar with every piece of you. I couldn’t hide that forever.

  “There was no room to move before, now there is. I worry Blondee, I worry that I don’t have anything to offer—but then I think, why does that even matter? I exist. I don’t agree with the way things are done because those memories aren’t mine and they’re not any better than mine, the ones that I’ve made for myself. Who can say that our memories all fit together anyway? Perhaps we’re all from different worlds, ones which are totally opposite. Like Frederick said. Perhaps our memories couldn’t possibly fit together. Why does it even matter?

  “And I can talk about this with you, Blondee. There’s no pretending. I wish that I had been the one to break the book, that I had torn a page from it. Don’t look so sad. You don’t control how they act; nothing they do is your fault. They’re just scared. We don’t have to be.”

  She picked a blueberry from the box and held it aloft.

  “This is it: goodbye Tanned.”

  She was serious; she dropped the berry into the water. It didn’t sink though, it floated slowly away. She placed another berry into my mouth. I was in love with her. She told me she loved me, and that was true. Whatever else may have been uncertain—unreal—that was true. I know that. The look in her eyes was absolute.

  I should have sunk the both of us—dragged me and her down to the bottom, my body wrapped around hers, firm and fierce, until all our breath was gone.

  Choosing

  A single word, ‘choosing’, spread lower-case across the two pages. In the centre was a bride, staples in her skull, a man on either side. She showed no teeth, and beneath her veil she looked confused. Who to pick? Who would be your ideal spouse? What to look for. Who to look for. When to look.

  Medical school? Meaningless words, missing memories. A no, anyway. Long hours, low pay.

  Writer? Someone to talk to. No, not a stable job, no planning for the future.

  Comedian? Makes you laugh, giggles in bed. No.

  The office job may be boring, it may not save lives, but a stable job with stable pay is a must.

  But what use is pay in our world?

  In the end it is important to look for what will be provided after the wedding. Looks and laughter wear thin. Houses last. Good food and comfort are to be savoured. You might think he’s dull now but you’ll be the one laughing in fifty years. Fifty years.

  But I didn’t drag her to the bottom of the lake; she dragged me by the arm to dry land. We lay side-by-side in the sun, water slowly sizzling from our bodies, brushing fingers lightly against one another’s: first the edge of the smallest, then two, then three, then interlocking longest fingers, then all in a chaos, caressing and jumbled in one another’s hands. Her foot brushed mine and we entwined toes, then clumsy movements of sole against heel, ankle on calf.

  “Blondee,” she whispered, her voice light with joy.

  “Burberry,” I replied.

  I SWIVELLED AROUND ON MY YELLOW CHAIR. Around and around and ‘round, the hut blurring and my head spinning. Frederick was still sleeping and I was bored of Tie. I could ignore him if I spun.

  Until I had to stop, my head lighter than the air.

  “When will you be giving your next lesson, Blondee?”

  “Be quiet, Tie.”

  I didn’t want to go to the courtyard and teach them.

  “Is this how you lived?” Tie asked, “In these shiny shirts with those long nails?”

  I nodded. It didn’t matter.

  I went to inspect our rations. Rice. Salt crackers. Dried peas. Mustard. I hadn’t seen mustard before. I glanced at Frederick, seeking permission, but still he lay motionless, blocking out the room with his hands. I unscrewed the jar, gently dipping in my small finger, the one with the shortest nail. It tugged at my tongue. It tasted expensive.

  As it had filled with ever-new items, the hut had lost colour. I had loved running my hands over the new furniture, feeling them crinkle or slip under hand. The last thing my husband had come home with was a large roll of mirror-sheet, crumple-crackled and metal-coloured. We’d hung it ceiling to floor. I had spent hours watching it. He even entered me in front of it. I’d been fascinated by the thousand tiny Blondees staring back.

  The floor was covered in rugs and rectangles of carpet. Burgundy, maroon, a little navy blue, some red. No part of the floor looked empty, not even—

  “It was there.”

  “I know it was, Tie.”

  “I’m just saying, my dear, it was there.”

  “Great.”

  “Mmmm. Blondee? Are you all right?” Frederick stirred, his throat filled with sleep. I had been talking out loud. Talk inside, Blondee, keep the talk inside.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Mmmm,” he groaned, drifting away.

  Tie was right. He was dead as all fuck, yes, but he was right, that was where it had been. So it wasn’t there any more. The towers, the offices, apartments, the silly little bricks. It had all been in the way. It was his idea, we need the space, he’d said. I just smiled and said of course, or something like that. Had I used a soft voice? Probably.

  “So when will you give your next lesson?” he repeated.

  “Be quiet, Tie.”

  “What’s that?” Frederick sat upright in the bed. His eyes were pink. He lay back down before I could answer.

  “What will you teach them, what will you show them my dear? Do you have anything left? Is there anything else you claim to remember? Any other womanly tips? What will happen when you run out, when you can’t help them any more, when you don’t have anything else to do? When you can’t preten
d you’re not enjoying it any more?”

  “Just fuck off,” I shouted, throwing the dried peas.

  “Blondee, what—what are you doing?” Frederick sat up again. “Pick them up will you, please, I’m trying to sleep.”

  We were outside again, the naked group, the farm: but this time no-one was eating. Some were in pairs, sitting on logs and talking, some were running to and fro with thoughtless throaty laughs spilling from their mouths. I was on the ground, feeling firm flesh and nuzzling a neck. The man pressed against me and groaned, reaching his hand back and running it over my arse, pressing me into him. My cock was so stiff it ached. Someone whispered in my ear: you are so young, so young, just a boy, and the man whose body was pressed so warm against my own took me in his hand and guided me into him. I shuddered, and gently eased forward and back, each push making him moan, and I kissed the back of his neck and ran my fingers over the fuzz of his chest, pushing, pushing, pushing, over and over, each groan growing to a roar, and I took him in my hand, gripping him hard, thrust after thrust until he shook and spilled, until I burst, balls aching, the sweat running down my sides. The world was a blur, a soft panting rush.

  “You had a penis, Blondee?”

  “I don’t know, Tie.”

  “You were sure, so sure, my dear—you were a wife.”

  There was nothing I could say to him. These memories weren’t mine; they were from someone else, from another world. I was a wife and I had been married to a husband.

  But I couldn’t remember his face.

  “Perhaps they are stories, just stories—ones you remember from the old world.”

  Burberry would have agreed that they were fictions—that imagination is stronger than memory, maybe even that I was deluded. She would have said that it doesn’t matter anyway, that only right now is important. But she was gone.

  I hadn’t invented either: husband or farm.

  They were no longer night memories, either. They came in the morning, in the middle, in the dusk. Tie always saw them—I had the feeling that he was showing them to me. Perhaps he had always been showing them to me.