B10 – Sex
When they released Jules from the hospital, I gave them a lift home. She and T. wanted to have some time to grieve together. I told them where to find me if they needed anything.
It was only at April's funeral when I saw them again.
I offered Tee to travel back with him, but he told me not to bother.
I did toy with the idea of a surprise visit, but Jules advise against it.
"It would only upset him, and that is the last thing he needs.
When he wants to talk to you, or me, he will.
If for no other reason, do it for me".
About a fortnight later Jules stopped by for a visit. Sitting at the kitchen table she points at the half empty glass of cranberry juice in front of her she asks:
"Do you not have anything stronger than this?"
"What are you after?"
"Ginger beer?"
She sounded like she knew that was a long shot.
"I've got regular beer?"
"Thanks. I will have a glass. Any more than that and I will be hammered."
I opened a can from the fridge and divided its content into 2 glasses. Sitting down I pushed one towards her and took a large gulp of the other before setting it down in front of me.
She said “thank you” but did not touch the glass.
"You do not have to say anything.
Let us just sit here for a little while."
Her pain was not audible. It was written all over her face.
I nodded slowly and I took her hand and wrapped mine around it.
There was nothing I could say.
Jules was the strongest person I knew. I had never met anyone so capable of accepting life for what it was. Nothing used to shake her up or make her loose her temper. Nothing did in the past anyway.
Seeing her now, distraught and sad, hurt me.
I wish I could say I felt the pain of a personal loss. I did not. However tragic the untimely demise of my goddaughter, I felt nothing. As though it was only the death of a person I was not acquainted with. Someone I met in passing. A stranger. The kind of people that dies every day.
I used to think I feel indifferent towards them. As if numbed. Now though? I just feel numb.
“Maybe it was a twist of fate telling me something.”
“Telling you what?”
“That I have been selfish.”
“What a bunch… what makes you say that?”
“That is a long story.”
“I have time – care to tell me?”
Jules didn’t know if it was because we had been living apart for all these years, or if it was because she found it was too personal to talk about it with anyone.
Either way she figured she had nothing to lose and wanted to share it with me.
The official version, which was the one I had received, too, was that she had decided to stop painting and instead dedicate her life to those who helped building the place she called home.
She trained to become a nurse and started working at an old people’s home.
A place she flourished and was loved by the elderly.
What she had not told me at the time was that she was struggling with the exposure and pressure she felt whenever her work was displayed at an exhibition.
This resulted in such events being stressful for her, with one of the side effects being that she often fell ill afterwards. Another problem was that her weakened immune system usually had to deal with an infection of her genitals and as such a major stress reliever was not available for compensation.
One time it got so bad that she caught a stomach bug on the day before an exhibition and spent its entire duration commuting between her bed and her bathroom.
After that she decided she had to change her life around. Others may feel she owed it to the world to share her talent. That her life would be wasted if she kept it inside herself.
All those did not have her price to pay. Such as the physical and emotional discomfort she endured.
Most of them could enjoy sleeping with their loved one. They didn’t have to feel isolated from the partners because of a small infection of the skin.
None of them knew that her gift was not free. And even if they wanted, there was nothing they could do. Anything they could try would only make matters worse.
She concluded that she owed it to herself, and to her husband, and her unconceived child, to make a sacrifice, a commitment.
The reasons she gave were noble, but they were only half the truth. The other half, not so much.
She felt that in the end, because she was unable to afford the cost of her art, the time had come for those she loved most to pay up in her stead.
That was how she found herself the most selfish person she had ever known.
I told her that maybe the two sides of her life didn’t have to be mutually exclusive. That she could find a way to balance creation and privacy, output and space. I even offered her to that I would go vernissages and tell folks that she would not come, and they’d have to make do with what I could say about her work.
*
“Did you come over to confess? My ears are yours, but I cannot offer you absolution.”
“Is this what it sounds like?” I wasn’t sure if she was smiling.
“I will do you one better, too.”
“Oh, and how is that?”
“Simple; I am giving myself the Franklin-treatment and…”
“The what?
I wasn’t aware there’s….”
“Allow me to rephrase; out of everyone I know, and I am pretty sure everyone does that to an extent, there is no one so determined on rationalising everything.
For instance, a random person can jump the queue and squeeze in in front of you and you will do your darnedest to come up with a rational – not saying reasonable – explanation for why that is in order.”
“Well, there have been plenty of times when such a situation resulted in a very rude exchange. Usually initiated by me.”
“I was not saying you succeed every time.”
“What exactly are you saying then?”
“That for you the possibility of a rude outcome is as much a given as the assessment that precedes it. And while most would either not say anything or try to express their disdain via grunts you approach the situation a bit more open-minded.”
“I guess that’s just…
and what does that have to do with you?”
“Over the last few months, I tried to summarise or rationalise my life thus far, how decisions made or not affected my course, how one thing led to another and so on.
How little I really have to show for it after all this time.”
This was when she cracked. Tears and words kept pouring out of her. She said that she and T. got into a fight. Probably their biggest yet. And it felt like it first time since April when they were truly open with each other.
They were making love at the time and when he got on top of her, his necklace was dangling in front of her eyes. He had worn it since he could remember, but until recently it held a small metal container which held the ashes that belonged to T.’s grandfather. The person he was named after.
He recently exchanged it for an unbreakable glass of sort container that held a pinch of April’s burnt remains. She asked if he could take it off because it was not exactly putting her into the mood.
After he asked what the big deal was, a lot of type of sentence that start with “maybe if you…” were fired from both sides. The last thing he said was “maybe you should be with my ever so understanding and patient brother instead.” She did not bother to say anything to that. Just put on some clothes and walked over to my house.
I told her that I wasn’t sure the Franklin-treatment was working too well for her.
A04 – Saturday
You can open virtually any door. It is usually just a question of time and effort you sink into the endeavour. The trick is knowing when to leave a door alone.
Say your uncle keeps his study locked at all times. You have been around his house hundreds of times, seen all the corners, inspected all the nooks and what have you. But that one room and its content remains elusive.
You know it has a lock. You know you also need a passcode. You imagine there's even some more advanced measure implemented - like fingerprint or eye and voice recognition.
Years later you are as clueless as the first time you set foot into his house as a kid. You are still as curious, too.
Over the years you have also completely given up on asking for details. Any straight-forward answers you got were useless: "maybe when you're big and strong like me you can have your own" or "it's my business - not yours – once I need help, I might hire you".
And any not so serious ones no more helpful: "I am building a time-machine. You're pretty much lost in the present space and time - we would not want you to wind up in another century, now, would we?" and "Behind that door lies the secret of the Keepers of the Locked Room Mysteries.” He’d scurry off to look for a notebook, browse its pages and say “I just checked - you're not a member of the society. Sorry kid, I can’t let you in."
Whatever is in the room, and whatever his reasons are, you always admired the stubbornness and dedication of the uncle. All the while hoping that maybe years down the road, when he's lying on his deathbed, he'll elect you to carry the torch. Yet over the years you’ve come to dread that day. Secretly wishing he'd not do that - because carrying the burden of a dead man sounds like a heavy weight.
*
I don’t even know what drove me to come back here in the first place. Maybe I felt through retracing my steps I might see something I forgot or missed completely.
Unfortunately I do not recall anything noteworthy from that night. We ate street food. Something spicy. And we drank. A lot.
Walking through the streets I looked for, I didn’t know what I was looking for. Something. Anything.
I was hoping my eyes would catch something familiar looking.
After a fruitless morning I sat down on a park bench to eat the sandwich I bought on the way. I had only taken a bite when a homeless person approached me, asking for some change.
I told him I was from out of town and didn’t carry any local coins with me. He said he’ll take bills as well. He got me there. But before I could produce my wallet, he slapped my shoulder and told me:
“Hey! I remember you. Yeah…
You were the guy… the guy… who..
That’s it… You and your pretty lady friend you made that suicide pact…
Wait…. I…. a…..
Were you the guy?
Where’s your pretty lady friend?”
I did not know what he was talking about. And from what I could gather he himself was no longer so sure either. Maybe if that question wasn’t on my mind, I would have responded differently.
“I don’t know, man. I don’t fucking know where she is.”
Seemingly unimpressed by my response to a question that for all intents and purposes he asked me seconds earlier, he proceeded to double-down on his quest for loose change.
I informed him that since he last asked, I was too busy to break my bills down in to coins, and that I wished him luck with his pursuit.
After another few hours of aimless walking around I decided to call it a day early and celebrate by skipping dinner. I made the conscious decision to drink, probably too much. Not because I thought it would help. Not because I particularly liked getting drunk – especially not in unfamiliar surroundings.
But because I figured that being drunk would feel different from whatever it was, I was feeling at the time. It was still daylight I came by the park I had lunch earlier. Minutes before I was asked to leave a bar following this exchange:
“Can I have a new beer – the one you just gave me is broken?”
“Excuse me - what do you mean by ‘broken’”
“Well, the glass is shattered into pieces and there’s a lot of liquid running across the floor.
It’s, uhm, in what’d you call that….It’s not in a drinkable condition. Y’know ‘broken’.
As though it was knocked over. And proceeded to roll off the bar to shatter on impact with the ground.”
“It seems you’ve had enough. You can have a cup of coffee. Or leave.”
“Fair enough.”
My instincts told me that even though it was some of the flimsiest coffee I had ever had, it was for the better that I finished the cup. It does not matter if you are sober or drunk, it is always considered more polite to finish it quietly instead of putting it down in disgust.
I opted for number three and carefully put the cup down.
“Your suggestion was good – but it lacked in the execution department. I sincerely hope your drinks are better than this concoction. So thanks – but not for the coffee.”
Sitting on the same bench as earlier, sipping steaming hot coffee I picked up after leaving the bar,I could feel the spirits I drank earlier transferring their powers over to my body. It was the last recollection I have of that night.
*
The next morning, I found myself walking. I noticed the entrance of the hotel on the other side of the street. I did not know where I slept. Or if I slept. For all I could tell I might have been walking around the whole night. I took stock as best as I could. My chin hurt and it felt as though I had a scratch in my cheek to go with it. A quick look in the mirror of a parked car confirmed it. The chin looked fine, though.
Back in my room I ran a hot bathtub and let myself soak. At one point I noticed I was humming a melody I was not familiar with. I played it over and over in my head trying to make out the lyrics.
Before I could piece them together a litany of pictures and memory fragments shot through my brain and I started to feel dizzy. Worried I’d pass out and drown in the tub I crawled to my bed and just about managed to climb under the duvet before drifting off.
It was dark outside when I woke up. I still felt sore around my face. I thought about having a shower but when I saw I’d have to wait for the now cold tub to empty first, I put on some clean clothes and headed downstairs in search for food.
Back in my room I carefully examined the fragments of my brain. There were 2 separate sequences of events that I could make out.
SOE 1
Met bum again. Kept talking about suicide pact. He and his cronies started to sign a song. The melody I was humming in the tub. What are the words?
I joined in. We danced and jumped around. I fell on to a curb. Too drunk to break the fall with my hands.
I gave them money and shouted something at them while running away.
SOE 2
Young Jules. Shitfaced. Dancing on a table. Screaming something. Singing.
The same song. Different melody. And now that it no longer sounds like a children’s song I can make out the lyrics.
Over time I continued to examine these fragments. I even got purposely drunk a couple of times to recreate the proper state to recall more. The closest I got was a broken elbow when I tripped over doing the circle dance in my poorly lit apartment.
Eventually I have pieced together enough to give a coherent account of both nights:
SOE 2
Jules and I got really drunk. Still no clue what we were talking about. At one point I said to her “Saturday is suicide” and raised my glass. Some locals overhearing it offered worried looks.
I told them it was a line from a song. Jules, presumably not knowing the song I meant, started to sing that line to various popularly known melodies.
SOE 1
After finally realising what the bum meant by suicide pact and recognising the song, I thanked him and gave what cash I had to him and his friends. Probably wishing them a good night and then running down the street. I must have realised I had no idea where I was and probably slept on a park bench incapable of finding my way back to hotel.
I have no reason to believe that anyone at home ever heard of this story. Regardless there were a number of voices that suspected she did not so much disappear from our lives but completely vanish from existence – out of her own desire. They had the nerve to not only entertain the thought – granted I had that, too – but to outright utter it. All the while never actually calling it by name.
She might have the guts to pull the proverbial trigger, but too much respect for human life to end it prematurely, let alone her own.
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