Janita Lawrence - The Memory of Water

I sigh at the evidence: I have an unreachable star.

It’s tempting to go as far as to say that I’ve modelled myself on Gatsby, but I know it’s not true. I was unhinging my life years before I even picked up a battered copy. Mostly it’s about being a figment of my own imagination. Meet Slade Harris, the tragic protagonist of his own life.

I have no friends and yet I am throwing an extravagant party. I have ordered 200 oranges (why 200? what am I going to do with the left over 196?) and have all but forsaken my family. As I write I create my life and the reverse is also true.

Like Gatsby, I’m a fraud. My whole life has been engineered, contrived. So much so that I don’t really know who I am or who I was or who I’m meant to be. In moments of melancholy I see visions of myself floating upside down in my pool, an island to ruby water. There are worse ways to go, I assure myself, there are worse ways to go.

The band is testing their equipment and the bar is overstocked. I had someone scrub the graffiti off the front wall but there is still a faint scar. Hopefully no one will be able to make out what it says in the evening light. I cleaned up the broken glass and taped clear plastic sheeting to where the window used to be. I make last minute checks, smiling woodenly at the caterers, feeling ridiculous in a tux, wishing someone would arrive. Looking at the sky, hoping the weather will hold out. Winding my watch. I’ve always been insecure about parties. No matter how many people RSVP I still end up with pre-party jitters, thinking no one will come. Or worse, two people will come and see through the wormhole what a sham my life is, then leave without bothering to finish their pink gin and tonics, tripping out of the front door because their eyes have rolled so far back into their heads. My cell rings and I’m sure it’s the first of many, calling to say that something better has come up and they won’t be able to make it anymore. I should just tell the caterers to leave and take their beef satays with them. The bartender can leave but I’ll keep the bar, for tonight. Maybe longer.

It turns out to be Dad.

“Slade,” he says. He sounds strange. Skew.

“Hi Dad. How are you?”

“I’m… I’m having a bad time today, son.”

I look at my watch. The party was supposed to start ten minutes ago and there’s a not guest in sight. The DJ is going to despise me when I tell him to pack up his kit.

“Really?”

Silence. Is it a bad line? I don’t have time for this.

“Dad? Really? Why?”

Oh God, I think he’s crying. I really can’t deal with this now. I smash my glass of bubbly and wonder if I should drop the call.

“Dad?”

Clearing of throat and a near-silent sniff. I can’t deal with a breakdown from Dad, not on top of mine. A bloodline of broken-down men. It makes me think of road kill on a highway.

“I know I’m an old fool…”

Jesus Christ! I motion impatiently to the bartender to top me up.

“… but I’ve been thinking today…”

I cut him off. “Look, Dad, this really isn’t a good time.”

“Oh,” he says, confused: I have stated the obvious.

The doorbell rings. The rent-a-butler will see the guest in. Hopefully it will be a guest, and not the feather-duster man. Although a feather-duster man would count, wouldn’t he?

“I mean, I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now. Sorry. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Of course. I understand.” He tries to resolve the wobble in his voice.

“Chat to you tomorrow, then. Take care.”

Frank From Football is here in a zoot suit, with a grin as wide as an oasis.

I hit the red button and throw my cell phone into the nearest bush.

Bless you Jesus.

A couple of hours later I inhale my fifth line of coke off the dressing room table’s mirror in one of the spare rooms. I bought enough for whoever is interested and have had the waiters spread the code word. A giggling couple stumble in, kissing, then realising their mistake, stagger out again. The sixth line is smooth. I wipe my nose, check for residue. I hate the crassness of people who powder their noses in public.

The kick is cool, high, and instant.

I walk through my house and down into the garden, passing about a hundred people without recognising one. Everyone seems to be having a good time. Plumes and sequins seem to be scattered in every room of the house, and there are already people swimming in the bright turquoise nightlight of the pool.

“HARRIS,” booms Sifiso, “great PARTY!”

He slaps me on the back the way a man after five whiskies does, as if I have done something impressive. Little does he know. His wife stands next to him, matching his height. Her name slips through my fingers. I over-smile in compensation. I went to their wedding, for God’s sake.

“Having a good time?” I ask with a manic grimace. She nods and looks into my eyes as if trying to find something. A secret, or a shred of sanity.

“Where did you find the GO-GO GIRLS?” Sifiso demands, gesturing in the general direction of the attractive waitresses serving body shots.

“They’re ex-girlfriends,” I joke.

Sifiso’s wife smiles politely. I feel like an arse. I am an arse.

“I’m off to get a refill,” I say, “can I get you two anything?”

“No, brother, you’ve done ENOUGH!” says Sifiso. I look at him with a frown. Another slap on the back, which leaves me slightly winded.

“You can’t hide the secret anymore, Harris,” he winks.

I still don’t know what he’s talking about. Then: uh oh.

“It’s OBVIOUS to EVERYONE!” he yells, his ice pirouetting in his glass. “You’ve FINISHED the book! And you know it’s GOOD! Why else would you be having this amazing PARTY?”

People around us turn to face us, hands in prayer position, as if expecting an impromptu announcement from me. I laugh, awkward, and touch my glass to Sifiso’s, then turn and walk as fast as I can to the bar.

Frank is there, faithful, drinking a Heineken and chatting up the bar lady.

“Hi Frank, enjoying the party?”

“Hey buddy,” he smiles, “yeah.”

We shake hands.

Frank always has a lot of intonation in his voice. He savours saying his words. So ‘buddy’ isn’t made of two short, sharp, monotonous syllables when Frank says it, it’s more like buuuyrrr-di. Then his Yankee ‘yeah’ is a ‘Yeah!’

I order a double single malt.

“So which one of these pretty women is your lady friend?”

Puurrdy women, lay-di friend.

“Oh, I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

Frank roars in happy disbelief.

“You’re kidding me, right? I’ve never known you to not have a lady friend.”

“I suppose I’m in between relationships, then,” I say.

“Ah!” Frank says, “so you’ve got a chick on your radar.”

“Kind of,” I say, knowing it’s not strictly speaking true. Frank comes up with the strangest expressions. Sometimes talking to him is like interpreting some kind of military code. His smile is conspiratorial and he nods.

“That’s cool, man. That’s cool.” He takes a sip of beer. “How’s life otherwise?”

I’m just about to nod and say ‘Terrific!’ because I’m the host of this great party. I’ve had plenty of the good stuff and if anyone should be cheerful, it’s me. That’s the kind of things hosts are supposed to say. And I’m sure that Frank doesn’t want a slice of my sorrow.

“I’m going through a pretty hard time, to be honest,” I say, smiling so that he doesn’t feel the weight of it. Thinking again of those damn bald kids. Why is it that lately, despite my dread of talking about my personal problems, I seem to be doing a lot of it? It’s as if the words just hop out of my mouth.