“You’re very close to the canal here.”
“Yeah, you can think of me lying here listening to the wino’s roar.”
“Is that a quote?”
“A Joyce mutilation—”
“I love Joyce.”
The temptation was enormous... what do you love about him... but I’d had my tails streak already. Best not to lean on that luck. I said, “Cheers.”
“Oh right... slainte... there’s an awful lot of Hemingway here.”
“Yes there is.”
“I suppose you love all that... strut... and yes, all that macho stuff.”
Ah... u... d, the whiskey chunneled down in a weltor of sugar and... did I swallow a clove? Who cared. My eyes moved into overdrive. I figured she’d been reading Cosmopolitan. Sure it heightened your awareness. So did hot whiskey... then the sugar kinda blinded your subtlety. Time to reply.
“No.”
“What?”
“No, I don’t... I like A Movable Feast.”
“Will you teach me about him?” Was she lisping.
“What!.. what’s to teach. You read his books. You like or you don’t like the way he writes. You get something from his view of the world... or you don’t. That’s what there is to learn. What I can tell you of real significance is nearer home.”
“Oh please... tell me!”
“It’s smart to drink hot whiskey when it’s hot!”
... she did... and how, she knocked back a whack that my father would have had a cure from.
“Whee... ee... h... oh Dillon, that’s lovely. Cripes, you read a lot of American writers. Do you like them a lot.”
“Lemme show you something.” I weaved towards the bookcase. I wasn’t hurting now — at all. It took me some time to locate Ross Macdonald. I kept forgetting what I was seeking.
“Here it is. The Ivory Grin... written in 1952. He’s describing an American woman. Listen to this:
‘There were olive drab thumbprints under her eyes. Maybe she had been up all night. After all in my case, she looked fifty, in spite of the girlishness and boyishness.
Americans never grow old; they died; and her eyes had guilty knowledge of it.’”
I forgot then why I was sharing this. Marisa forgot too.
“Do you want to sleep with me, Dillon”
“I do.”
She stood and pulled off the track suit.
The whiskey receded a moment, and I didn’t know — was it Julie before me. I said nothing. Then the whiskey got back to its mission. I moved close to her, and we forgot Ross Macdonald, Hemingway, Robbie, Chinese waiters... the whole shower.
Waking... on the better site of intimacy, we had gotten to the bed. A hangover hadn’t yet decided on its strength. Marisa stirred. I lit a cigarette. Oh God, luck.
“What are you thinking about, Dillon?”
“I’m thinking about you, dear.”
She smiled, deep. But there’d be more. Had to be.
“Do you think you might love me... a little bit Dillon... do you?” She was lisping.
“Well... I’m not in love with you... if I say I am, you’ll want to hear it and hear it a whole lotta times. It’s the first time that opens the dam. I like you a whole lot... let’s not mess it about with that loaded term.”
Far too long a theory. The hangover moved up. I headed for the bathroom. Morning prayer... on my knees to the porcelain. Sloo... sh... here went Robbie’s bet... coloured gay. Twenty to the good.
Blast the shower... grief it meant to be. I chanced a glance to the mirror. Wet... I said... I look wet... right. M... m... mh.
A shade dismantled, alas. I managed to make some shook coffees. It’s Saturday so... so perchance a jigger of that Irish. Morning drinking... hello, alcoholism. Back to the bed. Marisa was groaning.
“I’m ill.”
“Have a hit on this.” More of it, I thought.
“Ah, what’s in this...”
“Sugar.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
She took a cigarette... coughed... coffeed and shook.
“Julie told me why you go to the funerals.”
Good old chatty Julie... mebbe she could take out full-page advertisements. I savoured the coffee; no sugar there.
“She says you didn’t go to your father’s, and you’ve been compensating ever since.”
“Could be... I might have me some of that line of thought.”
“... and that you carry guilt because you don’t recall your mother’s burial. Is this very painful?”
“Hangovers are painful.”
“Robbie said you were a death-freak.”
“Ary, stop... I’m too ill for this... alrite.”
“Why do you go...”
“I started initially because I had a dread of them... I was afraid to go... now I think I’m afraid not to go...”
“I don’t understand.”
“Since I began to follow the funerals, nobody close to me has died.”
“But that’s crazy.” She spilt the coffee in exasperation. T’would be a whore’s ghost to remove coffee stains.
“Look, I didn’t start out saying this was logical... did I? Why does it have to be rationalised. Where does it say this must make sense?”
“But you can’t live like that.”
“Why?”
“... Because... oh God... what... because it’s weird. Julie says it’s neurotic...”
I moved. To ease the knife Julie was burying up to the flogging hilt in my back. How much whiskey was there yet in that bottle.
“I’m going to tell you about Julie... she lived in Greece for three years. Her father-in-law was in the army, and her Greek husband didn’t understand a whole lot when she began sleeping with the colonel. Like a bad literary joke. They forgot to tell her no-one sleeps with the colonel.” Marisa listened with the delight of the truly scandalised. The joy of the completely horrified. I could have stopped there. I saw her eyes again... as that coin spun in the air. Go to it.
“After a confrontation, the father-in-law leapt in his car... roaring... and an articulated truck put him and his guilt all over the centre of downtown Athens... that stopped the roaring... and his gallop—”
“Ker-ist.”
“Julie got divorced and came back here. She gave me something she’d written and said it would explain everything and shed light on nothing. She called it — levels. Which she certainly wasn’t... on the level I mean.”
“Could I see it...”
My instincts said no.
My loyalty whispered... no way.
I said... “Sure...”
“Levels...”
Ending school
at 17
as I was then... a
gutter-d level was
what they fore-saw
for me... I half-
elated
on some reputation tough... as I believed
believed thru years astray
should manic give me
bestow a mantle of
recklessness... from acceptance
lower
Second level
in Athens
on a Sunday
would you not
a day in sunshine say — near
had to be
and you’d be wrong
as wrong as I
descending
from a claustrophobic bus
witnessed