Janita Lawrence - The Memory of Water

“That sucks, man. Is that crazy chick back? PsychoSally?” There is light in his eyes.

“Er, yes, but funnily enough that’s not the problem.”

“Is it your soldier?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, man, your pistol, your ammo.”

“Oh, no, my pistol’s just fine… last time I checked.”

“’Cos that kind of stuff happens to a lot of dudes, you know, nothing to be ashamed of. Some handguns jam, some fire blanks. That’s just what happens, you know.”

He gives me a slow nod, as if to encourage a confession.

“It doesn’t make you any less of a m–—”

“Frank, it’s not the goddamn pistol.”

He narrows his eyes in contemplation, suggesting those are the only things in life that can give you trouble, women and handguns. God, if only.

“Look, it’s nothing, really,” I say, “just battling a bit with the next novel. I’m a bit… stuck.”

Frank ponders this. Drinks beer, nods, ponders.

“It’ll come to you, buddy.”

It’s more than that, though, I want to say, it runs a lot deeper than that. Instead I smile and take a long sip of my drink. I shake myself. Maybe he’s right. Either way, this party was supposed to be about just letting go and having some fun, so I put on my party face.

I told everyone I invited to bring as many friends as they liked, which seems to have worked because my property is hot and heavy with the writhing bodies of strangers and stragglers. I dance for a while with a skinny blonde in a flapper dress who acts as though she is the star in her own movie, then move on to an energetic brunette with a feather headband. Gradually, for the first time in a long time, I start feeling good. I am looser: the lead in my stomach is melting, my feet don’t sting anymore. This party was A Good Idea. Out of the corner of my eye I see Eve. She is watching me with a smirk on her face, like an indulgent mother. Despite her obvious condescension my heart lifts when I see her. I squeeze my current partner’s forearm and leave the dance floor to go to Eve.

“Eve, thanks for coming,” I say, hugging her.

“This is quite some… party.” There is a hint of distaste in her voice. I wonder if this is all just too much for her. Too much extravagance, too much indulgence. Or maybe it’s worry: she knows I can’t afford it.

“Have you seen the chocolate fountain?” I ask.

She nods and laughs.

“There were some girls, twins, practically swimming in it, on my way in.”

“Were they naked?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

“Oh well,” I shrug, taking her hand, “let’s get you a drink then.”

I order a glass of champagne for Eve and another double for myself. I realise that I have been waiting all night for her to arrive. I wonder if I have actually had this party for her. My whiskybrain is thinking that this may be the night I am brave enough to make a move. The thought makes me cold and hot at the same time. Oh my God, I want this woman. I have wanted her for ten years.

She looks a little uncomfortable. I wonder if my face has betrayed me.

“Can we talk?” she asks. “I don’t want to take you away from your party—”

“Of course! Of course we can.” I look around the festivities and don’t see a quiet corner anywhere.

I lead her inside and unlock the door to my den, locking it again from the inside. I move some books around to make space and then motion for her to sit down on the chaise. I take the leather ottoman, close enough to smell her hair. Through the glass doors we can see the party in the garden.

“What’s up? Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m worried about you.”

“Me?”

What? Why? Look at what a great time I’m having!

“I’m fine! I’m great! Don’t worry about me,” I laugh.

Is this why she wanted to drag me away from the party? To have a heart-to-heart? To piss on my parade? I’m not in the mood. I want to go and flirt and laugh and dance.

“I mean, sure, I’m going through a bit of a rough patch…”

“A bit of a rough patch? Slade…”

“Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” I chuckle, knowing she won’t fall for it.

“Sifiso just told me that you’ve spent your advance on the new book and you’ve already asked for more.”

“Sifiso should shut the hell up. I owe a lot on my credit cards. Doesn’t everyone? Post-recession. It’s practically de rigueur.”

“But you haven’t even started the book. Don’t you think that’s a little irresponsible?”

Ker-rist. Could she be any more overbearing? I am torn between pushing her away and ripping open her top.

“Eve, I get royalty cheques all the time. There’s nothing a little royalty sum can’t take care of.”

“Really?” she asks, as if she knows something I don’t. “What about your bond? You told me yourself that you’re behind on your payments.”

“They call every now and then to see how I’m doing. Offer to take me out for lunch.”

“Are you not even a little worried?”

“It’ll sort itself out, it always does.”

“Look, I can lend you money. Just let me know how much you need.”

The ape-man in me feels insulted.

“Eve, the problem isn’t money. I don’t care about it. And if I did, I could get some. The real problem is inspiration. I need an idea. Can you lend me an idea?”

She looks at me as if I’ve just spoken in tongues.

“I’m going to ask you a question and you have to be honest with me.” The look on her face is intense and the rest of the room fades away.

“Okay.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?” she asks.

“What?”

“I mean, are you planning to write a book about a man who loses everything? Who gets his house taken away from him and has to live on the streets? Because if you are, then fine. Just let me know so that I don’t worry so much about you.”

“No,” I reply, “but it’s not a bad idea.”

She wants to smile.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“At least then I’d have something to write about. Instead of this.”

“Still nothing?”

“I’ve written over a hundred beginnings. None of them have anything remotely redeeming about them. I’ve tried on my machine and on paper. I’ve even started sleeping with my Moleskine in case anything comes to me in the middle of the night.”

This is torture. Admitting it to the woman I most care about in the world is like being run over by a train. I need her to see me as talented, successful, wealthy; instead, she sees this: this failure of a man. This rice husk, this fly casing. This shadow of a shadow.

“Look, Slade, I’m worried. It seems that you’re not getting better. I mean I keep thinking that you’ll have a breakthrough but it doesn’t seem to be happening. Have you thought of maybe taking a break from writing? Doing something else for a while? Maybe get a job to pay the bills?”

“A break from writing? There is no such thing. That’s like saying take a break from breathing. Putting myself in a coma. I can’t.”

“But I see how depressed you are. Your eyes are… empty. You’re not yourself. It’s like I’m looking… looking at a silhouette of you.”

“Well, maybe that’s part of my journey.”

“I think at the very least, you should consider seeing someone.”

“Unless it’s someone who’ll write my book for me, I don’t see the point.”

“So what are you going to do? Wallow in your writer’s block till some kind of miracle happens? Do you think a story will drop down from the sky?”

“That’s the way it usually happens, yes.”

“But it’s not happening, is it?” she demands.

I know she’s right. It’s practically beyond hope. I’m lost for words, lost for everything. Desiccated.