Deborah Levy - Hot Milk

‘Blind to what?’

‘Our everyday responsibilities. It is very seductive.’

While we are on the subject of responsibilities, he wants to know about my mother. ‘So did you pay a lot of money to the Gómez Clinic?’

‘Yes.’

He tucks his blond hair behind his ears and nods, as if he knows this already. ‘Look, Sophie, I can tell you, that so-called “doctor” should be struck off.’

‘You might be right.’

‘I am right. Gómez is dangerous and he’s an arsehole.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m training an executive from Los Angeles here in Spain at the moment. He says Gómez is a discredited quack.’

While we talk, Ingrid is placing a few small pebbles around a potted baby cactus which she has balanced on her lap. ‘Zoffie is just trying to help her mother and your client is unreliable.’

Matthew shakes his head s-l-o-w-ly as the hammock creaks and sways. ‘No, he is not unreliable. Tony James is a great guy. Today I did an exercise with him where he throws a golf ball up in the air and catches it while he speaks. He stopped being a zombie. It was like seeing traffic lights change.’ He reaches for the leaves above his head and touches them with his fingertips.

I have to become bolder. I have to find more courage and purpose and chase my thoughts. ‘Does Tony James work for a pharmaceutical company?’

Matthew tosses his empty glass of lemonade on to the ground. ‘Yuh.’

The cicadas have started their call for the afternoon.

Yuh is a good subject for an original field study.

Yuh has covered the subject of the pharmaceutical company in the white plastic that covers the tomatoes and peppers growing in desert sweat farms. And Matthew has covered the marble wall of the Gómez Clinic with the words ‘Sunshine is Sexy’. Yet he seems to be angry with Julieta Gómez.

I’m not sure I believe he is authentically in love with Ingrid.

After a while I tell him I like his red leather belt.

‘Thank you. I like it because Ingrid bought it for me.’ He sounds relieved to be back on track.

Anthropologists have to veer off track, otherwise we would never rearrange our own belief systems. There would be no one to throw water at our smokescreens. No one to tell us that our reality is incompatible with other realities or to understand the significance of the plan of a village and its dwellings — its relationship to life and death, or why the women live on the periphery of the village.

Matthew continues on his track. He adjusts his position in the hammock and starts to swing with new force as he explains how he has developed a method to help his clients, mostly from oil companies, give their PowerPoint presentations. It is his job to help them project who they are and what they value, to learn how to stand with authority and confidence and not to worry about cracking a few jokes to get the audience onside. He has forbidden them to use phrases like ‘The tail is wagging the dog’ or ‘You are a star.’ CEOs always stumble with their autocue technique and so he gives them strategies to cope with stumbling, to make something of it rather than pretending it hasn’t happened. He finds it very rewarding to help free up the leadership potential in his clients. When they reveal their frailties about performing in public or being disliked by their staff, the feeling between his clients and himself is something like love. He encourages them to develop their eccentricities. Yesterday, he told Mr James from Los Angeles to take the golf ball with him to all meetings. Throwing it around while he talks will become his signature gesture.

Matthew stretches out his arms on either side of the hammock to suggest he is flying. The odd thing is that I heard a trace of some of the things Julieta Gómez had implied with fewer words when she recorded my mother’s case history, except they were altered when they came out of Matthew’s mouth. It was as if he had hijacked something she did and applied it to what he did. The executives he trains are his sacred buffalo. He helps them build a persona, a mask through which they can speak authentically on behalf of the brand. The face beneath the mask has to grow seamlessly into the mask. If this apparatus cracks they can call upon him to put it together again.

Ingrid walks into the shade and stands under the tree. I notice for the first time that her belly button is pierced with a green jewel in the shape of a tear. There are spines from the cactus in her fingers and she wants Matthew to pull them out for her.

‘Hey, keep out of the way of my hammock, Inge.’ He sounds vaguely threatening.

She waves her spiked fingers above his face. ‘Matty, you should shut up.’ She points to her lips and makes a zipping gesture. ‘Everything is a field study to Zoffie. She is taking notes. Believe me, she will give a paper on your life-coaching methods and then everyone will know your secrets.’

‘Keep your distance, Inge. This is my hammock and I don’t need a push.’ It is as if he is chastising her for something.

She walks back into the shade and places her hand on my knee. ‘Then Zoffie will take out the needles.’

‘So what’s your job, Sophie?’ Matthew speaks over her, his eyes now closed as he sways gently under the leaves.

‘I make artisan coffee.’

‘That’s a good skill. How do you make it perfect?’

‘Quality beans, texture of the grind, the way the water flows through the coffee.’

He nods gravely, as if we were discussing something important. ‘So what do you want?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know, insane things like work, money, being included in the game? If you had to write your wish list and you could use invisible ink, what would it be?’

I can see my face flushing in the various triangle-shaped shards of mirror that have been planted around the desert plants in their garden.

‘Zoffie has nothing on her wish list. Nothing nothing nothing.’ Ingrid flutters her spiked fingertips on my knee.

I am deformed with embarrassment. Have I ever said what I meant in my life so far? So why would I say it to Matthew?

He snaps his fingers and laughs. ‘You need an autocue, Sophie! That’s what Julieta Gómez does, isn’t it? She prompts her clients to jog their memory?’

I stand up and jump over the low stone wall that separates their garden from the beach. One of the good things happening to me here in Spain is that I now jump over things.

I am so lonely.

I am walking on the sand and the tide is out. A woman is galloping on her horse across the burning sand of the playa. A tall Andalusian horse. His mane is flaming his hooves are thundering the sea is glittering. She is wearing blue velvet shorts and brown riding boots and she is holding a giant bow and arrow. Her upper arms are muscled, her long hair is braided, she is gripping the horse with her thighs. I can hear her breathing as the arrow flies through the air and enters my heart. I am wounded. I am wounded with desire and I am ready for the ordeal of love.

Four boys are playing volleyball on the beach, thumping the ball over the net. When the ball comes towards me I jump high and whack it back to them. They cheer and wave to me.

One of them was Juan.

Ingrid and Juan. He is masculine and she is feminine but, like a deep perfume, the notes cut into each other and mingle.

When the Greek girl speaks her accent is English but her hair is black like the bread my father eats with salted lard and mustard. In the morning she saves watermelon rinds for the chickens that live in the yard near the cemetery at the back of the village. She puts the rinds in a carrier bag every morning and takes them to Señora Bedello who owns the chickens. The wide brim of her sombrero casts a shadow around her shoulders. Her medusa stings are fading.