Adam Thirlwell - Politics

He said, ‘Really?’ And Nana nodded — speechless, desperate, imploring. So Moshe moved up over her, his testicles dangling between her flattened breasts.

Moshe was astride Nana’s stomach. His legs were bent back on either side of her ribby chest. And he was giggling to himself. He was telling himself that it was crucial to stay calm. He looked at his penis. His penis was red.

Nana was staring at his maroon penis. She was thinking that dying was ever so melancholy.

Then Moshe began to masturbate. And Nana stared. She stared at his penis. He looked at Nana and Nana looked at his colourful penis. His penis was going warmly soft. Yes, the absinthe was finishing him off. But he carried on. He tried to carry on.

Because if he came, then this would be successful. If he came, the twenty-fourth sex act of Nana and Moshe would finally be over.

6

I do feel sorry for Nana and Moshe. It is not easy, being happy with sex. A lot of people are unhappy with sex. Even the famous, even film stars find sex difficult. Greta Garbo found sex difficult.

‘I can use only one word to describe my sexual attitudes: confusion,’ said Greta.

I don’t think I could ever live with either a man or a woman for a long time. Male and female are attractive to my mind, but when it comes to the sexual act I am afraid.

In every situation I need a lot of stimulation before I am conquered by the forces of passion and lust. But confusion, before and after, is the dominant factor.

This was why sex made Greta confused. She was not quite sure what sex she wanted. She didn’t know if she wanted a boy or a girl.

I dreamed many times about a mature man with experience who would have the vigour of a boy but an adult’s polished methods. Strangely enough, I also dreamed about women of my mother’s age who were ideal lovers. These dreams came superimposed on one another. Sometimes the masculine element was dominant, sometimes the feminine one. At other times I wasn’t sure. I saw a female body with male organs or a male body with female ones. These pictures, blended together in my mind, occasionally brought pleasure but more often pain.

I’m not implying that anguished bisexuality was the cause of Nana’s sexual problem. No. I’m not saying that Nana was Greta Garbo. I’m not interested in Greta’s reason itself. I’m interested in the fact that Greta thought there was a reason at all. I can see that it might be a relief, to imagine that there is a reason why you don’t like sex. I can see that the last thing you want to seem is abnormal. And reasons make you normal. But I think that it’s very possible there was no reason at all. I think that is normal too.

7

This chapter is in two halves. They are not equal halves. The first half was unhappy. It described an awkward complication. Whereas the second half is much shorter and is happier. It is a pastoral scene. It is a contemplation of the animal kingdom.

Nana and Papa were at the zoo.

Something squealed or bleated. It squealbleated. And it might have been, thought Papa, delighted, the mangy padding lion by its water trough and lettuce shreds, in front of him, or might have been, more plausibly, some other beast entirely.

Papa was not a man with a detailed knowledge of the animal kingdom.

Something, no something had definitely just been sick, he thought. He was looking at a panther, sceptically. And trying to decide if it was lavender or maybe heliotrope or purple or maroon or damson or even chocolate. Or even tobacco, he thought.

While Nana was a girl who adored the animal world. She loved the calmness of animals. She loved their sureness. They could only be good.

‘Oh a monkey!’ giggled Nana. ‘A monkey!’ ‘It’s stroking, it’s stroking itself,’ said Papa. Nana said, ‘Do you know what I think I love about animals? It’s that they’re mute.’ ‘Uhhuh,’ said Papa. Nana said, ‘Do you think if animals had more nutritious foodstuffs they’d be happier? They’d have more time to play and think.

‘Sorry,’ said Nana. ‘Sorry. I can see that’s silly.’

They mooched round the zoo. They mooched and looked at the polar bears and penguins and Nana developed a fondness for pistachio ice cream. They bought Papa a pistachio ice cream.

Nana told Papa about her new amusing discovery called Elsa Schiaparelli.

You don’t know about Elsa Schiaparelli. No one knows about Elsa Schiaparelli except Nana. Nana was that sort of girl.

Elsa Schiaparelli, said Nana, was a surrealist fashion designer who despised the bourgeoisie’s taste for ornament. She despised this taste so much that she made a black jumper with a white scarf tied in a bow. The scarf was knitted into the jumper. It was a fake scarf. And this was symbolic. It was symbolic of bourgeois inauthenticity. And Nana said, ‘I really don’t understand that sort of thing. It’s so. It’s so.’ Then her phone rang.

It was Moshe. Nana mouthed to Papa that it was Moshe. Papa smiled.

This was the smiley scene. The motif for the scene was the smile. Because this, thought Nana, was a conspiracy.

She said, ‘Hi hi hi.’

An elephant bleated or squealed.

Nana said, ‘Mat the zoo.’ She said, ‘I was. I said.’ She said, ‘I was in college.’ She said, ‘No one.’ She said, ‘Till now! ’ She said, ‘Moshe! Moshe! ’ She said, ‘What you doing now?’ She said, ‘Uhhuh. Uhhuh.’ She said, ‘No I’m at the.’ She smiled. She said, ‘Yeah I’m. Yeah call me.’

Meanwhile, Nana had hooked her handbag on to her right wrist and rummaged and extricated her lip gloss, which she unscrewed slowly, with her left-hand fingertips slowly, and dabbed it on. Then she repeated the operation in reverse.

She said, ‘Okay.’ She looked at Papa. She put her phone back in her bag.

‘That was Moshe,’ said Nana. ‘I know,’ said Papa. Then they smiled.

1

Then this happened.They were in the Clinic on Gerrard Street, at the centre of Chinatown. It was Moshe and Nana and Anjali. But Moshe had moseyed off downstairs to the bar. So Nana was left with Anjali. For minutes neither looked at the other. They just dreamily swayed, they sashayed. And downstairs, a girl pushed Moshe aside. This was because he was blocking her view to a screen. The screen was showing an advert. She explained that she thought she was in that advert. Apologetic Moshe moved away.

Meanwhile, on the dance floor up above, Anjali moved closer in to Nana. ‘Iz he okay? He’s not sad?’ she asked. She had to stretch her mouth up, breathily close to the arranged curls of Nana’s left ear, its reddish clearer tip. Nana said, ‘Wha?’ So Anjali repeated herself and repeated her gentle gesture. And Nana said, ‘Oh yeah. He’s fine. He’s got a tummy upset.’ Anjali said, ‘He’s what?’ Then

Nana said, ‘He’s got a tummy upset. He mustv gone to the loos.’

Anjali, reassured, nodded.

But Moshe was not in the loos. During this little exchange, he had prowled back upstairs. He was wandering round the dark loud crowd, pretending he was looking for someone. He was not, obviously, looking for someone. He was observing his two best friends. But it was difficult seeming casual. Accidental collisions occurred with strangers, who turned on him as Moshe crumpled and said sorry. It was like a ballet. Moshe was like a solo ballerina. He opened his big eyes wide and motioned, very apologetically, with his arms.

Ballet did not come naturally to Moshe. He decided to go back to the bar.

But before he had got down the narrow wet stairs, with the slippy steel ridges at each edge, a couple of girls who were prettier and ever so much younger than Moshe came triphopping up without seeing our hero. So he had to climb backwards, backwards was easier, squeezing himself next to the toilets. Anxious for solitude, air, just anything other than this, he wandered out on to the balcony. The balcony was a collection of black wrought-iron curlicues and florets. The floor was millioned with thin diamonds. There was some trio sharing a joint — two girls and a boy, a sarcastic cupid and his angelic hosts.