Peter Carey - Collected Stories

It has been said that the penis has no sense of right or wrong, that it acts with the brainless instinct of a venus fly-trap, but that is not true. It’s too easy a reason for the stiffening cock that rose, stretching blindly towards the bony fingers.

“I could show,” said the voice, “that it is something quite extraordinary … not worse … better … better … better by far, you have nothing to fear.”

I knew, I knew exactly in the depth of my clouded mind, what was happening. I didn’t resist it. I didn’t want to resist it. My purpose was as hers. My reasons probably identical.

Softly, sonorously she recited:

“Which trees are beautiful?”

All trees that grow.

Which bird is fairest?”

A zipper undone, my balls held gently, a finger stroked the length of my cock. My eyes shut, questions and queries banished to dusty places.

“The bird that flies.

Which face is fairest?

The faces of the friends of the people of the earth.”

A hand, flat-palmed on my rough face, the muscles in my shoulders gently massaged, a finger circling the lips of my anal sphincter.

“Which forms are foul?

The forms of the owners.

The forms of the exploiters.

The forms of the friends of the Fastas.”

Legs across my lap, she straddled me. “I will give you a taste … just a taste … you won’t stop Carla … you can’t stop her.”

She moved too fast, her legs gripped mine too hard, the hand on my cock was tugging towards her cunt too hard.

My open eyes stared into her face. The face so foul, so misshapen, broken, the skin marked with ruptured capillaries, the green eyes wide, askance, alight with premature triumph.

Drunk on wine I have fucked monstrously ugly whores. Deranged on drugs, blind, insensible, I have grunted like a dog above those whom I would as soon have slaughtered.

But this, no. No, no, no. For whatever reason, no. Even as I stood, shaking and trembling, she clung to me, smiling, not understanding. “Carla will be beautiful. You will do things you never did.”

Her grip was strong. I fought through mosquito nets of mushroom haze, layer upon layer that ripped like dusty lace curtains, my arms flailing, my panic mounting. I had woken under water, drowning.

I wrenched her hand from my shoulder and she shrieked with pain. I pulled her leg from my waist and she fell back onto the floor, grunting as the wind was knocked from her.

I stood above her, shaking, my heart beating wildly, the head of my cock protruding foolishly from my unzipped trousers, looking as pale and silly as a toadstool.

She struggled to her feet, rearranging her elegant rags and cursing. “You are an ignorant fool. You are a stupid, ignorant, reactionary fool. You have breathed the Fastas’ lies for so long that your rotten body is soaked with them. You stink of lies … Do you … know who I am?”

I stared at her, panting.

“I am Jane Larange.”

For a second I couldn’t remember who Jane Larange was, then it came to me. “The actress?” The once beautiful and famous.

I shook my head. “You silly bugger. What in God’s name have you done to yourself?”

She went to her handbag, looking for a cigarette. “We will kill the Fastas,” she said, smiling at me, “and we will kill their puppets and their leeches.”

She stalked to the kitchen and lifted the mince meat from the sink.

“Your mince is thawed.”

The mince was pale and wet. It took more flour than usual to get it to the right consistency. She watched me, leaning against the sink, smoking her perfumed cigarette.

“Look at you, puddling around with stinking meat like a child playing with shit. You would rather play with shit than act like a responsible adult. When the adults come you will slink off and kill fish.” She gave a grunt. “Poor Carla.”

“Poor Carla.” She made me laugh. “You try and fuck me and then you say ‘poor Carla’!”

“You are not only ugly,” she said, “you are also stupid. I did that for Carla. Do you imagine I like your stupid body or your silly mind? It was to make her feel better. It was arranged. It was her idea, my friend, not mine. Possibly a silly idea, but she is desperate and unhappy and what else is there to do? But,” she smiled thinly, “I will report a great success, a great rapture. I’m sure you won’t be silly enough to contradict me. The lie will make her happy for a little while at least.”

I had known it. I had suspected it. Or if I hadn’t known it, was trying a similar grotesque test myself. Oh, the lunacy of the times!

“Now take your nasty bait and go and kill fish. The others will be here soon and I don’t want them to see your miserable face.”

I picked up the rod and a plastic bucket.

She called to me from the kitchen. “And put your worm back in your pants. It is singularly unattractive bait.”

I said nothing and walked out the door with my cock sticking out of my fly. I found the dwarf standing on the landing. It gave him a laugh, at least.

8.

I told her the truth about my encounter with the famous Jane Larange. I was a fool. I had made a worm to gnaw at her with fear and doubt. It burrowed into the space behind her eyes and secreted a filmy curtain of uncertainty and pain.

She became subject to moods which I found impossible to predict.

“Let me take your photograph,” she said.

“All right.”

“Stand over there. No, come down to the pier.”

We went down to the pier.

“All right.”

“Now, take one of me.”

“Where’s the button?”

“On the top.”

I found the button and took her photograph.

“Do you love me? Now?”

“Yes, damn you, of course I do.”

She stared at me hard, tears in her eyes, then she wrenched the camera from my hand and hurled it into the water.

I watched it sink, thinking how beautifully clear the water was that day.

Carla ran up the steps to the house. I wasn’t stupid enough to ask her what the matter was.

9.

She had woken in one more mood, her eyes pale and staring, and there was nothing I could do to reach her. There were only five days to go and these moods were thieving our precious time, arriving with greater frequency and lasting for longer periods.

I made the breakfast, frying bread in the bacon fat in a childish attempt to cheer her up. I detested these malignant withdrawals. They made her as blind and selfish as a baby.

She sat at the table, staring out the window at the water. I washed the dishes. Then I swept the floor. I was angry. I polished the floor and still she didn’t move. I made the bed and cleaned down the walls in the bedroom. I took out all the books and put them in alphabetical order according to author.

By lunchtime I was beside myself with rage.

She sat at the table.

I played a number of videotapes I knew she liked. She sat before the viewer like a blind deaf-mute. I took out a recipe book and began to prepare beef bourguignon with murder in my heart.

Then, some time about half past two in the afternoon, she turned and said “Hello.”

The cloud had passed. She stood and stretched and came and held me from behind as I cooked the beef.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you,” I said.

She kissed me on the ear.

“What’s the matter?” My rage had evaporated, but I still had to ask the stupid question.

“You know.” She turned away from me and went to open the doors above the harbour. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe we should.”

“Why?” she said. “I’m going to do it so there’s nothing to be said.”

I sat across from her at the table. “You’re not going to go away,” I said quietly, “and you are not going to take a Chance.”