Praise (23 page)

Leo came into the bathroom. ‘What happened? You okay?'

‘I'm okay. Cynthia threw a Coke bottle at me.'

He examined the top of my head. ‘Jesus, it's split open.'

‘I don't think it's that bad. There isn't much blood, and I feel okay.'

‘This might need stitches.'

I felt it again. There really wasn't that much blood.

‘It's okay. Honestly.'

‘You might be concussed.'

‘I'm an expert on concussion. I know I'm not.'

‘I should ring your brother. The doctor.'

‘Don't. It's late. I don't need him.'

‘I'm calling him. What's the number.'

‘I don't remember. Maybe I
am
concussed.'

‘Bullshit.'

I gave him the number. He went off. I washed my head again and went back down the hall to the flat. Leo was hanging up the phone.

‘He's on his way,' he said.

I sat down, poured myself a glass from the dregs of the wine, and turned on the TV. Things didn't seem too bad. My head felt swollen and vague, but it didn't hurt any more.

We sat there. Leo and Molly didn't say much. It was awkward. I felt my head from time to time. The bleeding had almost stopped. Joseph arrived and looked at it.

‘It's nothing,' he said. ‘Just a little cut. Why'd you get me over here for this?'

‘I'm sorry. It wasn't my idea.'

Just a scratch. Where was the poetry in that? I began wishing that Cynthia had knifed me, cut my throat, gashed my stomach, hospitalised me. It might've balanced things up. She was right. I was a bastard. I was no good.

Joseph left. Leo and Molly called themselves a cab. Then I was alone. The alcohol was all gone. I watched TV.

Cynthia came out, wearing one of my shirts. She didn't look at me. She went into the hall. She came back a few minutes later. She was holding an empty beer bottle. She threw it at me. This time she missed by a good yard. She went into the bedroom. Came out again.

She sat down next to me.

I said, ‘My head's okay. Joe came over. He said it was nothing.'

She was staring at the screen.

‘What?' she said.

‘My head. You hit it with the Coke bottle.'

‘Did I?'

She was out of it, completely crazy. I'd been a fool even getting into the same bed as her.

She said, ‘Are you gonna fuck me, then?'

‘Christ, Cynthia, no.'

We watched TV. She reached out and took my hand, put it between her legs. I didn't move it. I was tired of it all. I was full of hate. Not necessarily for her. She wasn't even conscious, the Cynthia I knew was miles away. But the hate was still there. I couldn't bring myself to help her. After a while she took my fingers and placed them against her cunt. She started moving them. I didn't pull them away. I kept my eyes on the screen. She rubbed my hand up and down. She jammed it against her clitoris. She grunted, worked. Then she quickened, pumped, came. I took my hand back.

I didn't look at her. I was still watching TV. Eventually she got up and went back into the bedroom. An hour or so later I did the same. She was asleep. I undressed, climbed in carefully and curled up beside her. She stirred. ‘Gordon?' she whispered.

‘It's me. It's okay. I'm here.'

She sighed, leaned into me.

God, I thought. Jesus fucking Christ.

I kissed her.

Someone was knocking on the door. It was morning. I got up, wrapped a towel around my waist and answered it. It was Maree.

‘Are you okay?' she said. ‘Leo called me this morning and told me what happened.'

‘I'm okay. It's only a bit of a lump.'

‘I'm worried about you, Gordon. Cynthia might've killed you.'

‘I know ... but it's not her, it's the alcohol and the cortisone, they drive her crazy. It's my own fault. I should've kept my distance last night.'

‘You can always stay at my place if things are that bad.'

‘Thanks. But she goes tomorrow anyway.'

‘Are you going to be okay?'

‘I will be. Really.'

We sat down. Cynthia came out. She looked terrible. Red-eyed and raw-skinned. ‘Good morning,' she said. Her voice faint and whispery. ‘Hello Maree.'

‘Hello Cynthia,' Maree said. ‘You okay?'

‘No. I feel lousy. I think my voice is going.'

We made tea, drank it. Maree left.

Cynthia winced when she tried to speak, but she got it out. What was Maree doing here?'

‘She was worried about what you did last night.'

‘Why? What did I do last night?'

‘Don't you remember?'

‘No?'

‘You threw a Coke bottle at me. It split my head open. See? Joe had to come over and check it.'

She looked at my head. ‘Oh ... I did that? God. I'm sorry, Gordon. I don't remember.'

‘It's okay. It's my fault anyway.'

‘Yes. It is. But I am sorry.'

‘I know.'

I felt as much love for Cynthia in that moment as I ever had, even in the good times. It was strange and confusing. But when a woman loved you enough to want you to die, it was hard not to love her back.

The day passed quietly. Cynthia's voice faded away. We did the rounds of all our friends so that Cynthia could say goodbye. It was a gloomy progression. Cynthia could barely talk. None of us were drinking. There was no joy. We came home and went to bed early. We couldn't sleep, and we couldn't talk. We held each other. Around dawn, we fucked, just the once, very softly. Then we got up, dressed, and drove out to the airport.

Cynthia was on a standby ticket. She would only get a seat if one of the booked passengers failed to show up. Cynthia wasn't worried. She said that there were always a few that didn't make it. But she had had to arrive about an hour and a half early and check in at the desk. We were faced with all that time of saying goodbye, when there was no certainty that she was even leaving.

We checked in, then moved to the bar. We had a beer each. Cynthia was very quiet. She wasn't interested in drinking. We went and sat in a couch in the departure lounge.

She started crying.

‘I don't want to go.'

‘I know.'

‘How can you let me go?'

‘I have to, Cynthia. We'll kill each other if you don't.'

‘I know, I know. But I'll be so lonely.'

‘I'll call. I'll call you tonight.'

‘You'd better write to me. I want at least one letter a week, Gordon. You owe me that.'

‘I know. I will.'

‘I don't care what you write. Anything. Just do it, okay?'

‘I will, honestly.'

‘I thought it was going to go so well. I really did.'

‘It was, Cynthia. For a while there.'

‘Then what went wrong?'

‘It was me, not you.'

‘You were so nice to me. I know I've been a bitch lately, but you
were
nice to me. You never tried to hurt me. And even in bed. You don't have any talent there but you tried, you really tried, I love you for that. I love your little penis, the way you poke it around. I love your eyelashes ...'

I held her. I was struggling with tears. Please God, I thought, let her leave today.

Ten minutes before departure time we moved to a seat near the desk. The attendants called her name. She went up, talked to them, came back. ‘I'm on,' she said.

They started calling the flight. We went over to the gate. Two hostesses were taking tickets. We stood there, not knowing what to do. It was over, it was really over.

Cynthia was crying again ‘Goodbye. I love you.'

I was numb.

I said, ‘I love you too.'

We kissed, held each other.

‘You're going to let me go, aren't you? You really aren't going to stop me.'

‘No. I'm sorry. I'm not.'

She dug her head into my shoulder. ‘Oh God, oh God.' I held on. ‘I wish I'd had the baby,' she said. The only reason I didn't was because I didn't want to lose you, and now I'm losing you anyway and I've got nothing to remember you by. What am I going to do?'

There was nothing I could say.

They called her flight again. It wasn't the final call. We could've stayed there longer. Another ten minutes. But she pulled away. She picked up the bag she was carrying on. It was full of books.

She looked up at me. Lost. Betrayed. I felt pain come howling up from somewhere deep inside. She turned away. The hostesses took her ticket. They looked at it, passed her on. She went to the door. She looked back one more time. Then she was gone.

I choked, I started to cry. I sat down. I couldn't stop the crying. It got worse. I put my hands over my face and sobbed. I was helpless. I didn't know what it was. Relief. Horror. Love. It went on and on, getting louder and more agonising. This is it, I thought. This is the breakdown, you've fucked things up completely this time.

Finally it stopped. I took my hands away. I sucked in the air and looked up. The two hostesses were watching me. They lowered their eyes. I stood up. Started walking. I thought — this doesn't make sense, this doesn't make any
sense
. A man and a woman come to the departure gate, they cling to each other, they kiss, they cry, they say they love each other ... and then she goes. And he lets her. Where was the reason in that? Where was the understanding?

I found the car park, found the car. I sat in it and started crying again. Painful, noisy crying. A plane roared, flew over, turned across the city. It might've been hers. I didn't know. I stopped crying. I put the keys in the ignition. The car wasn't the same. There was a great empty space in the passenger seat where Cynthia had been. I started up and drove. I was alone again.

I didn't go home. I went to Molly's place. Darren was there. I purchased another tab of acid. Then I went home.

I opened up the flat and took the tab. It came on quickly, the room swung in. I sat in the flat for the rest of the day, watching television and drinking cask wine and letting the acid run. Then I dialled Cynthia. After ten, when the long distance charges had dropped. It rang. Then it was picked up.

‘Cynthia?'

She said, ‘My love.'

Next day it was time to face some realities. I went down to the STD clinic. It was in an old building on the quieter end of Adelaide Street in the City. The sign outside said Special Clinic. I went inside, walked up the stairs and gave my name at the desk. Then I sat down to wait.

There were three other men there. My fellow diseased. My fellow
male
diseased. The women's waiting room was somewhere else. It made sense. The sexes were embattled enough as it was.

I read some leaflets, some magazines. I thought about the warts. There were no growths on my penis, but I was sure to have the virus. It was my first sexual disease. If that wasn't a sign of manhood, what was? I should've felt
good
. The waiting room was an initiation chamber for
men
.

I didn't feel good. I was sad. I felt like a fool. They called my name and I got up and followed the doctor in.

My doctor was a woman. She sat me down and asked me what the problem was. I told her about Cynthia and the warts.

‘Okay,' she said, pulling out a form, ‘I'll just get some details.

‘Fine.'

‘How many sexual partners have you had over the last twelve months?'

‘Three.'

‘Use condoms?'

‘No. Not with Cynthia.'

‘Uh-huh. Ever used intravenous drugs?'

‘A couple of times. Not lately.'

‘Did you share syringes?'

‘No.'

‘Any homosexual experiences?'

‘Barely. Just the once.'

‘Any anal intercourse?'

‘No.'

‘Any anal intercourse with your female partners?'

‘Yes.'

‘Any idea about their sexual history?'

‘In some cases, prolific.'

‘Had any sexually transmitted diseases in the past?'

‘No.'

‘Any current symptoms that you might think are due to a sexual disease?'

‘No.'

‘Do you want an
AIDS
test?'

‘Should I?'

‘You could be at risk. It couldn't hurt.'

‘Okay.'

And there it was. My life.

‘Okay. Take off your pants and lie on the table.'

The doctor turned away to a table of instruments. I pulled down my jeans. There it was, the organ in question, my penis. Retracted and wrinkled and tiny and pink. I tweaked it a couple of times. It didn't relax. It knew what was coming.

I lay down.

She came over, pulling on a pair of thin plastic gloves. She took my prick in one hand, bent down over me and scrutinised it. The gloves felt cool. I put my arms behind my head, stared at the ceiling.

She was twisting it around, looking from all the angles. Then she started on my balls, rolling them, squeezing them, lifting the sac. ‘Have you always had this mole?'

‘Apparently.'

‘Has it changed shape lately?'

‘Well, I don't really see it that much.'

‘You should keep an eye on it. Use a mirror.'

She stood up. ‘I can't see any warts. What I'll do now is douse your penis with vinegar and then look at it under a UV light. That should show up any warts that are too small for me to see. They're like that sometimes.'

She went over to the table and came back with some strips of tissue soaked in vinegar. ‘This'll feel cold,' she said. She wrapped them round. She was right about the cold.

‘I'll have to leave it like that for a while.'

We waited.

‘So what do you do with yourself, Gordon?'

‘Nothing. I'm unemployed.'