Martin Amis - Yellow Dog

‘What?’

‘Oestrus. Heat in women. There has never been a human society that doesn’t observe incest taboos. But the one to do with fathers and daughters has always been the weakest. In the Bible there’s every kind of prohibition. “Thou shalt not uncover the nakedness of thy father’s sister; she is thine aunt; it is wickedness.” But there’s nothing specific about fathers and daughters.’

‘Patriarchy.’

‘Well yes. No. Masculinity. Mother-son incest barely exists. There are about twenty cases in the entire literature. And all the biblical restrictions are addressed to men. Men do it, and it’s the same with the higher animals. Size. Masculine bulk. Men do it because men are big … If you were trying to dream up a justification, then don’t look at the past.’

She leant forward and sipped, parting her bright grey hair with her hands. Clearly these were strange words he was hearing. Then why didn’t he find them strange?

‘Look at the future. Us, us victims, we’re not so frightened and repelled by the way the world is now: the end of normalcy. We always knew there was no moral order. So sleep with Billie, and introduce her to the void.’

‘That’s what it is, is it. It’s a void.’

‘It’s very simplifying.’ She smiled — the bright teeth shallow, feline — and said, ‘Where I live there are all these treatment centres for vices and inadequacies and addictions. Incestuous fathers are taught how to sublimate. They make their poor wives dress up as little girls.’

He thought of Billie, of Sophie. ‘School uniforms. Rompers and nappies.’

‘Not quite that literal. It’s something a lot of men like. Believe me. All you do is you wear things that are many many sizes too small. When I rang you and said I was dressed up as a little girl: I said it because that’s a, that’s a non-deuniversaliser. I don’t know, it takes the stress out of it. Consider the notion of the baby-doll look. It’s not only sublimation, it’s comic relief. How serious can anything be when your dress hardly covers your waist?’

‘You find? Uh, Karla, let me concentrate for a moment and … Yeah. I have seen you before. And it wouldn’t have been on film.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t watch pornography.’

‘You mean you say you don’t watch pornography. Ooh. Then you’re not the good modern person who wrote Lucozade … Unfair. You’re just a generation out — you’re still obliged to disapprove of it. It’ll take a while, but pornography is heading for the mainstream. The industry, now, is always saying how respectable it is. Every time Dimity Qwest or Tori Fate opens a supermarket, the industry says how respectable it is. To say that, you have to say that masturbation has become respectable. And that’s what they’re saying. “Wanking’s cool,” I read the other day. “Handjobs are brilliant.”’

‘Handjobs are bullshit. But wait.’

He did watch pornography, now, in the status quo after. Previously he quite liked it when he saw it but also disapproved of it; now, he liked it a lot and approved of it, assented to it, blessed it. And yet it was no help to him, in his altered state. Because even pornography needed your memory; and there were things wrong with his memory. The streams and currents, the different pressures and temperatures: if these do not flow as they used to, if the memory cannot ride them … The physiological reaction occurred, but nothing was eased by it. As if his erotic past was lost, and his desires, undiluted and unballasted, were all pushed out in front of him, into the present and the actual.

‘Oh don’t be too hard on handjobs.’ She spread her arms at shoulder height on the black velvet. ‘It’s not flattering, to be forgotten. It makes you feel forgettable.’

‘That’s not how it works. Three weeks before I got hit on the head it was Billie’s fourth birthday.’ He checked himself; then he pressed on. ‘When I picked her up at lunchtime, which I don’t usually do, she was very happy and excited. She said to the teacher, “And here comes my lovely daddy to take me home from school.” You know: as if to cap it all. I said at the time that I’d remember that for the rest of my life, but I had to be reminded of it. Like my younger daughter’s birth. Sophie’s birth. I’d forgotten it. I’ve forgotten it. It’s not there. I’d say you were pretty unforgettable. But I still might have forgotten you.’

‘Then I’ll have to remind you properly. Will you excuse me for a moment? You’ll find me in a rather different mood when I return … All you do is — you wear things that are many many sizes too small. Many many sizes too small. Size zero. Don’t watch me walk away. I’ll feel self-conscious if you watch me walk away.’

So he watched her walk away and then sat there with his face in his hands.

Bent over marble in the Ladies, and watched by mirrors, Cora Susan applied light makeup.

Recently, in the industry, there was an actor, Randy Rivers, who kept faking his HIV-clearance — in industry terms his work permit; and he infected five actresses. As this unfolded, various violent people went looking for Randy. They all found him and they all let him be. The explanation she heard was that Randy’s condition and circumstances could in no way be worsened: there was nothing to fuck up.

Cora hadn’t quite put Xan in this category, but she had thought of Randy Rivers, over at Pearl’s. Over at Pearl’s: that was a good name for her. Pearl would have revealed everything — without the good alcohol, without the good cocaine. Similarly, Xan sounded like an ignoble candidate for the rhino horn and the Spanish fly: Xan, the shambling flasher and dirty-raincoat merchant of Pearl’s adumbration. But it wasn’t turning out that way. She knew about such things, and the resistance she felt from him was unexpectedly dogged: erratic and confused, but dogged. Seducing him, therefore, was now a matter of her self-respect and even her self-belief; it was vital to her private culture — to her inner suns and moons. And the other, more terrible punishment, if it had to come, could come later.

She approached from behind and placed her hands on his shoulders, saying, ‘I’m going to have the same again. And I’ll briefly hate you if you do likewise.’

‘Then I’ll have what you’re having … You’ve put on makeup.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘You look a bit younger. No, older. No, more artificial. Like this place. And less familiar. I don’t remember you at all now.’

‘That’s all right. You know, two cocktails is about my limit. It’s funny that men are so starchy about drunk women — except in the bedroom. They don’t want them sloppy. Except in the bedroom. Men do love a legless woman. I suppose it’s the diminished responsibility. But you’ve got to time it right.’

Their drinks came, and she started to touch him. A hand on the arm, a hand on the hand: hand touching hand.

‘You’re a bit starchy, about the industry, aren’t you? When I started out it seemed to me that I was made for the industry. Made.’

‘Because of you and your father.’

‘Well yes, but I meant physically made.’ She took her hand from his and started counting off the fingers. ‘One. Okay: father. Two. I can be candid with you, can’t I? Two. My uh, netherhair is naturally minimalist, as they all are now. As everyone is now. Is that evolution too? Like men stopping having beards? Three. I wasn’t born with a kiss-tattoo on my coccyx, but I do have a birthmark on my hip that’s shaped like a valentine greeting. All I needed, for the complete look, was some great rock bolted into my navel. Or my tongue. Four. The bust. They seem fake. They seem fake because there’s no asymmetry. They don’t move fake but they feel fake. Feel.’