by Jessie Tu
‘Can I get you and your friend a drink?’ The conductor is trying.
I place a hand on Trumpet’s forearm. ‘He plays second desk.’
They shake hands like businessmen.
‘Enjoying your season so far?’ Trumpet asks.
‘Yes, it’s been good.’
We exchange social graces, and then Trumpet stands.
‘Bathroom, excuse me.’
Part of me wants to follow him, but the conductor is now pressed forward, elbows resting on his knees.
‘Now that you’re a permanent member, you should apply for the Philharmonic exchange.’
I recall him mentioning something about it on his first day.
‘I know some people on the panel. I can give you some advice.’
‘I’m happy with where I am.’
‘I know you’re happy—but it’s the Philharmonic. Don’t you want to try?’
His eyes are shadowed by a huge flower piece at the centre of the table. In the subdued lighting his face looks forlorn. He could be any old white male. He shifts in his seat, readjusting his angle to me.
‘Is he your boyfriend?’
He glances over at Trumpet, who is talking to a trombonist on another table.
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s good. Nobody’s worth staying in this city for.’
I laugh. A stupid, short laugh. ‘I haven’t thought about applying.’
‘You ought to.’
His gaze is searing. I look away because I realise what he is doing and I’ve forgotten what to do in these situations.
‘Why don’t you take a taxi to my place later? I can give you some advice. I’ve been with the Philharmonic for decades.’
The conductor is staying in a serviced apartment on Macleay Street in Potts Point. The first thing he does is lead me to the balcony. The view is expansive across rooftops rolling towards the harbour, the blue horizon of the city.
He shows me around the rest of the apartment, finishing with the bedroom.
The sex is disappointing. Almost as soon as he takes a condom out, he goes flaccid and then tries for the next ten minutes to make his penis hard again using his hands. I lie beside him watching, gown hitched up to my waist.
He tells me to get his laptop from his desk. We watch a video of a man going down on a woman in a bus. He finally gets it up, but it’s so quick we don’t bother with the condom. He pulls out quickly, his face contorted in a half-agonised half-ecstatic grin. He grabs my chin in his hand and squeezes my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Coming inside you.’
‘That’s okay.’
He rises and goes to the kitchen; returning with a glass of water for himself.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know, don’t worry.’
‘You need to go now—it’s orchestra policy.’
On the way to the train station, I pass a man lying in a foetal position by the side of the road. He is wearing a torn polo shirt, ripped shorts. His eyes are shut, hands clasped together in front of his mouth, like he’s suppressing a cough.
‘Are you okay?’
I can’t tell whether he’s dead or alive.
I ought to call someone. Nobody is around. I dial triple zero, then hang up. I speed walk like a maniac towards Kings Cross Station, glancing behind me every few steps.
At rehearsal the following morning, I sit in my usual seat behind the concertmaster, willing the conductor to look at me. I want an acknowledgement of last night, accede that he’d taken my body and used it for his pleasure, that I exist for him in a way others do not.
I play forcefully, even in pianissimo parts. The other players turn to look at me. But the conductor erases me. And that erasure makes me want to scream. I imagine myself exploding, the pink tissue of my brain strewn across the stand, spilling onto the laps of those unfortunate players nearby. The anxiety runs through my veins, reaching every part of my body. I can’t locate the source of its itch, I only know that as he is thanking the orchestra at the end of the final piece, the blood pulses beneath my skin, and it takes all my willpower to stop myself from leaping off my chair and spearing my bow into his face.
20
After a concert one Thursday in June, my phone vibrates in my coat pocket.
‘Hey.’ Olivia’s voice sounds muffled, like she has a piece of fabric over her mouth.
‘Hi.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Walking home.’
‘Want to grab a drink?’
It’s been over a month, the longest we’ve ever been apart. She wouldn’t call unless she had something to say. She hasn’t been playing in concerts and leaves all my texts unreplied.
We meet at a bar near her apartment and sit on high stools by a fountain in the courtyard, heat lamps blazing above. It’s a cool, windless evening. Blue night. Orange light. Her cheeks are rosy and full. We drink beer and skirt around things we don’t want to talk about. I want her to apologise. Tell me she knows it was her boyfriend who was being an arsehole that night. Instead we talk about the string groups forming around the outer suburbs of Sydney. She asks if I’ve thought about the New York Philharmonic exchange; the conductor has been talking about it in rehearsals. ‘How do you know? You haven’t been coming.’
‘I’ve just heard people talk about it. Anyway, are you going to audition?’
I shake my head. No way. She asks about the SSO. I smile, pleased that she’s acknowledged it at last. I tell her it’s going well.
‘I’m stoked for you,’ she says, though she doesn’t sound it. ‘But I have to say, I think it was unfair that they let you audition. I mean, you were the world’s best violinist once. It was hardly a level playing field.’
I take a long swig of beer and stare at the screen inside the bar to distract me from the pain of her criticism. It’s the first time she’s ever voiced an opinion about my past.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before, but I got the can. They took me off the casuals list. I was missing too many calls.’
I wait for her to catch my eye, but she keeps her gaze on her fingers.
‘Is it because of your mother?’
She nods. ‘I wanted to tell you earlier, but I thought it would seem like such a small thing.’
‘What do you mean? You never tell me anything about her.’
‘But it’s really nothing to you. I mean, someone like you, you were never going to be a casual forever.’
‘That’s not fair.’ I fold my arms and then unfold them. Why do I feel like I need to defend myself?
‘Anyway, it’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’m a bit of a mess right now, but I’ve got a job, at least.’
‘Teaching?’
Another soft nod.
‘I’m not sure what to say.’
She looks up. ‘Don’t worry. You don’t need to say anything.’
We finish our drinks and part at the junction where our two suburbs separate. I watch her turn the corner into another street. She doesn’t look back.
When I get home, there is no text from her. No text from Mark.
I wake the next morning to a throbbing wrist and a ricochet of loud knocks.
Val is at the door with two drinks.
‘So, I didn’t know what to get you because you don’t drink coffee.’
She pushes a takeaway cup forward. ‘Chai okay?’
‘Thanks.’ I stand aside to let her in.
‘I was just on my way to the studio. Mike said he left some brushes in a kitchen drawer.’
‘You’re not here to see me?’
She slips her shoes off with one hand.
‘I love that you know that,’ I say, shutting the door.
‘I’m Chinese.’
She follows me into the lounge room, making small talk about the weather, the election, the greyhounds.
‘Have you decided about moving?’
Her forehead creases as if she doesn’t kn
ow what I’m talking about.
‘The two of us—moving in together?’
‘Of course, sorry. Didn’t I already text you? Sure, I’m up for it.’
I leap off the couch and jump onto her.
‘Hey, watch out. Coffee.’
She holds a hand up, distancing herself from my enthusiasm. ‘Let’s just see how it goes.’
‘I’ll be good, I promise.’
‘I don’t want you to be good.’ She stands and makes towards the kitchen. ‘Anyway, I’d better look for those brushes.’
I follow her, blinking hard, excitement mounting in my chest. My loneliness was just beginning to make me feel like I might commit violence against myself.
21
Mark calls after rehearsal. He’s booked a table for dinner. He tells me to dress up. He tells me he has a conference call at nine, but it is short so I should be ready by nine-thirty.
We meet at Jade Temple. He is in a suit, tie, blue cufflinks the shape of soccer balls. He looks at the waitresses then at me and smirks. ‘You should wear that.’
The women are wearing tight-fitting traditional chi-pao. Hair in a bun. No lipstick. I’ve never worn a chi-pao. It is strange to have a white man tell me to dress in a cultural uniform, put myself into a box, a box he’s created for people who look like me, this face, this skin colour, and all that it means. We sit at a small table. Bamboo fans spin above our heads, leaf green panels hang from the walls.
He pushes a ceramic cup to the side and extends an open palm. My cue.
I’m still offended; I don’t want to touch him. But I put my hand in his.
He carries on with the same racist, sexist rhetoric through the three entrees. He talks about women the way one might talk about nut milks. What’s the latest trend? Which one is lowest in fat content now? Cashew? Almond? Macadamia? Hazelnut?
‘I think white women are too plain,’ he says. ‘I don’t learn anything by being with them. They’re too vanilla. I went through an African-American phase, but I’m into South-East Asian now. They have such delicate features. They’re more feminine. Especially TAGs.’
‘TAGs?’
‘Tiny Asian Girls.’
I want to let go of his hand but I don’t, because I want someone to hold my hand and he is holding my hand.
‘You know, we’re human beings too,’ I say.
He laughs, a sharp exhalation. Even his laugh sounds cruel.
‘I think I might have UTI. It’s really painful and itchy when I pee.’
He releases my hand. Leans back in his chair.
‘Jesus, we’re eating.’
The waitress in chi-pao, who is not Asian, places a bowl of hand towels in front of us.
‘Can we still have sex?’
‘I’m taking antibiotics. We’ll have to use condoms.’
‘Whatever.’
The mains arrive. He’s ordered half a lobster, which comes on a large silver platter.
‘I didn’t realise it would be so big,’ he says.
I am no longer hungry, and we leave most of it untouched.
‘How much was it?’ I ask, gesturing to the platter.
‘I don’t know. Two hundred.’
‘That’s a lot of money.’
I sip green tea from a tiny porcelain cup and tell him there’s a Taiwanese joint my mother and I used to go to when I lived at home. It’s on the North Shore—out of the way, but worth the trip.
‘You should take me. I’ve never had Taiwanese food.’
He flicks a few pieces of lobster shell off the table and looks around the restaurant.
Then he tells me about a blind pussy taste-testing competition he recently discovered on Reddit.
‘I’d do well at that,’ he boasts. ‘If you were to blindfold me and get me to go down on multiple women, I could tell which is which.’
‘What do you mean, which is which?’
‘Which pussy belongs to which woman. You all taste slightly different.’
‘Should I be offended right now?’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s … weird.’
‘What is?’
‘Your blind pussy taste-testing competition.’
‘I’m just saying something objectively.’
‘And I’m saying we’re not objects.’
Back at his place, he undresses himself methodically, placing his cufflinks back in the box, his shoes onto the shoe stand, hanging his shirt on a hanger. He walks over to me and bends down to slip off my shoes.
I reach for my handbag on the edge of his bed.
‘Come on, we don’t need it.’
‘I don’t want to take risks.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll pull out. I promise.’
In the morning, when we are doing it in doggy, I feel a finger slide into my arsehole. I cramp up. He puts his hand over my mouth. ‘Let’s try it.’
He pulls my butt cheeks apart and jams his penis inside. Something comes out of my mouth. Sounds I don’t recognise. But he keeps going.
I try to relax thinking this might ease the pain, if only slightly.
Later, I feel as if I have progressed in some way. Adultified.
When Mark goes to shower, I reach for my phone on the bedside table and call Val. I tell her of my new achievement. I wait for her response. I wait for her to tell me how bad I am for sleeping with a man who is in a relationship with someone else. I wait for her to tell me how I’m doing it all wrong. Instead she asks me a question.
‘Did you make him give you the dirty sanchez?’
‘What?’
‘The dirty sanchez.’
‘What’s that?’
‘After he pulls out, tell him to wipe it across your lips. You’ll make a Mexican moustache.’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘So are you. You just had a cock up your arse. Congratulations.’
His shower has a metre-long window with a view of the city. I trace a line across the products perched on the sill. Facial cleanser, facial scrub, body scrub, gel cleanser, blackhead remover, anti-ageing lotion, anti-fatigue exfoliating powder, intense hydration beard conditioner, anti-fatigue eye gel, charcoal cleanser, exfoliating tonic, aloe shave gel, post-shave soother, dark spot corrector, cellular three-minute peel, anti-gravity wash-off serum. They are all in dark colours. Grey. Black. Khaki. I snap open the facial scrub and apply some to my forehead, cheeks and chin, rubbing it gently in a circular motion. I wonder if I’ll start growing a beard. I flick the side of a bottle onto its back and read the label. Life-changing skin care.
Afterwards, I stand on the bathroom mat, drying my hair with a hand towel. Mark comes in and kisses the back of my neck. I turn around and wrap my arms around his back.
‘I’m seeing my girlfriend this weekend.’ The shower tap is still dripping. ‘You can’t make any new marks on me.’
We have sex again. The whole time, my hands are clutched in tight fists.
22
Val and I are in the studio negotiating how we’re going to live together.
‘Perhaps we just need to stop thinking and start doing.’
I tell her that is the best thing she has said since ‘I CUNT WELL’.
On the weekend, we meet on Francis Street in Bondi Beach to view some apartments. As I’m parking my car, I spot Val walking on the footpath, dressed in black leather pants, blue sweater, denim jacket tied around her small waist. Everything wants to be close to her body.
The first apartment is on the ground floor of an old block. The front gate is unlocked, the windows frosted. Val manages to hide her distaste until after we leave.
The second apartment has two bedrooms and a balcony that overlooks a quiet street. I see a man in a wetsuit, upper half undone, racing across the street with a surfboard under one arm. I walk back into the master bedroom, where Val is testing the sliding closet doors.
‘It’s a bit old and smelly,’ she says.
‘I love the view.’
‘We
can do better.’
The agent wanders in. We shrug noncommittally. She tells us its winter. There is less on the market. She suggests we see a property that has just come up this morning; hasn’t yet been listed. She makes a call then gives us the address.
The apartment is on the top floor of a modern building. There are two bedrooms. One is significantly larger than the other and has a balcony that overlooks rooftops and a tiny slice of the ocean. The kitchen is small but the lounge room is huge. We walk past each other in the corridor. We exchange grins.
Val takes the larger room and agrees to pay an extra hundred dollars a week.
We move in the following Friday evening—15 July—the weekend I turn twenty-three.
I call my mother to tell her the news. She invites me to dinner. It’s been months since I’ve seen my father, and even longer since I’ve seen Rebecca, though she usually doesn’t visit my parents during the week.
At the table, my mother executes a warning. ‘You’ve only known this girl for a short while. How do you know you can trust her?’
‘She’s a woman.’
My father emerges from the study, sullen and hunched. Since we returned from Wayne four years ago, he has resumed the role of my mother’s husband as though nothing had happened. When I allow myself to think about their marriage, a spark of terror lights in my mind; how easy, the performance of spouse-hood. He asks me again where I am moving.
I tell him and say I want to be close to the beach; he says I might as well be living in another country.
‘It’s only half an hour’s drive away.’
‘If it’s near the beach it’s probably very expensive,’ he says.
‘It’s alright,’ I say.
‘Do you have enough money?’
‘Yes.’
After dinner he helps me load bags into the back of my car. Chinese containers of leftovers.
I get into the driver’s seat then wind down the window to say goodbye.
‘Call your mother,’ he says.
‘I do.’
‘Call her more often. She’s got things to say.’
I drive away. An old grudge rising in my throat.
23
The combined housewarming and birthday celebration is Val’s idea. Her vision: Andy Warhol’s The Factory meets the Met Gala, though we’re not sure about the dress up.