Christos Tsiolkas - Merciless Gods

Vince’s eyes were glistening. ‘What are you going to do, Ant? You going to defend her honour?’

It was clear that Vince would have loved nothing more than for Antony to punch him, that it would have been the fitting antediluvian response to the night. Vince was already victorious, I doubt he would have felt the need to return the punch. But we were not such men. I was ashamed, as were Antony and Mark. Vince shrugged. He turned to leave.

I followed him, I believe Mark did call out, ‘Jesus Christ, just let him go,’ but I followed Vince.

‘Stay, Vince, she’ll be alright. It’s the drugs and the shock of the story, you hooked us all in, mate, just stay, please stay.’

He patted my arm but did not reply; I watched him throw his jacket over his shoulder and walk down the stairs.

He patted my arm. I remember this now and I am mortified. He patted my arm, like a dog.

•

While we men cleaned up, the women managed to calm Madeline, convincing her to stay the night in the spare bed. We all slowly took our leave. Marie, Hande and Antony shared a taxi while Mark and I decided to walk home through the city.

The last thing Serena said to me as she kissed us goodbye was, ‘It’s not true, you know. None of it. Vince wouldn’t do that — none of us are like that.’

‘Of course it’s not true,’ scoffed Ingrid. ‘He did it because he couldn’t bear the attention to be on Hande and Marie. Bloody vain up-themselves conceited men.’ She took the bowl from the coffee table and hurled the remaining scraps of paper off the balcony. They fluttered in the breeze then spiralled down to the street below.

‘You don’t think it’s true, Mark, do you?’ Serena had grabbed hold of his arm.

Mark hugged her close to him. ‘He just wanted revenge, baby, and he got it. Vince always gets what he wants.’ I tried to catch his eye but he had moved past me in the hallway.

‘But it’s funny, isn’t it,’ Serena continued, not wanting to close the door, not wanting the evening to be over like that. ‘How is it that the first word we picked out was exactly the one he wanted?’

‘Any word would have done,’ Mark answered as he kissed her goodbye.

•

That evening marked the end of our social group, the setting of the sun on our intimate, privileged world. Not that it all ended abruptly, that we stopped seeing each other then and there. We stayed in touch for a while, in time even managed to make jokes about that night. Antony began referring to Vince as Hatchet Man. Here comes Hatchet Man. How’s it hanging, Hatchet Man? Keep your children away from Hatchet Man . But no one ever really laughed at it. We fell apart slowly. Vince and Madeline inevitably split up not long after that night, and she moved to Sydney. I’ve heard nothing of her for years. Hande and Antony married and had two children. I heard recently that they have divorced. Serena and Ingrid are still together and now have a daughter. Marie lives and works in New York City. Mark and I lasted for seven years, until I ruined it by having an affair with a work colleague. He couldn’t bear to see me for a few years. But recently I called and suggested we meet for drinks after work. We laughed and chatted without acrimony; and alas, for me at least, not without regret.

Vince is in Athens. He is married, he is a father. In Europe on a work trip two years ago, I sent an email to the last address I had for him, saying I’d be in Athens for a few days and suggesting we catch up. I did not receive a reply.

Marriage, children, divorce, affairs, travel, work. It was inevitable that we would all drift apart. I once thought our group unshakeable but that was a delusion of youth. We were far more ordinary than we believed ourselves to be.

•

That night as Mark and I walked home, out of the city, through the gardens, I don’t recall that we talked much. The exercise stilled the chemicals in our blood, brought us welcome fatigue. While he showered, I had a cigarette on his small balcony. In the waning of the night I watched a car pull up across the road; a young man got out and walked over to the toilet block in the park. While I brushed my teeth, Mark stood at the bathroom door. I could see his reflection in the mirror. He was naked, his hair wet, his skin flushed from the hot shower.

‘What word did you write down?’ he asked me.

My mouth was full of toothpaste, I had to spit into the basin before I could answer. ‘It was silly,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t think of anything so I just wrote down “childhood”.’

He smiled at this, a small tender smile, but when I turned to him I don’t think I’d ever seen him look so sad.

AT THE END OF THAT LONG day, as they fell into bed, exhausted, they both agreed that it had all been worth it, if only for Edward Hopper’s Early Sunday Morning, 1930 .

‘You know,’ Bill said, cupping Trina’s body into his, his left arm gently curving around her belly, ‘I’m always a little scared when I finally get to view a painting I’ve always wanted to see that it will never be as good as my anticipation of it. But the best paintings never disappoint you, do they?’

‘Mmm,’ Trina answered, welcome sleep only moments away. ‘That’s so true.’

His friend Brendan had emailed him from Sydney, had written, Dude, you have to go to the Whitney. It’s one of the things you HAVE to do in New York . Their friend Clare, who had recently returned home after a year in the United States, had told them the Whitney was fabulous. And their Rough Guide to the city had made special mention of the museum. They had to go to the Whitney.

Their first mistake had been to think that they could walk there from their hotel, which was just south of East Houston. Though it was only late May, they had woken to a muggy morning, the light conquering the city’s seemingly impenetrable layer of haze to bathe the streets in hues of orange, gold and yellow.

They had forgone breakfast at the hotel in order to find a café in Little Italy, but when they got there they all seemed to be shut. A skinny blank-faced girl was wiping down a table on Mott Street but when they went to take a seat she had shaken her head and said, Sorry, we’re not open till eleven . It was a curt, dismissive statement and it had given him the shits. They had kept walking and ended up in Starbucks. Their croissants were dry and their coffee bland, and he couldn’t stop complaining.

‘You’re such a snob,’ she laughed.

‘We got rid of Starbucks in Melbourne,’ he reminded her.

‘Bully for Melbourne.’ She laughed again. ‘We’re in New York City — how can you even try to compare it to Melbourne?’ She struggled to find an analogy that would do justice to her feelings. ‘It’s like. . like. . It’s like comparing a village to a metropolis.’

That had put him in a sulk. Then by the time they had reached 23rd and Third Avenue, the back of his shirt was damp with sweat. She seemed not to notice the heat, had not slowed her pace to accommodate it.

‘I think we should take the subway from here,’ he announced.

‘Oh, are you sure?’ She sounded disappointed. ‘I’m so enjoying the walk.’

He hadn’t pushed it. But he quickened his steps, letting her fall behind, so that she had to call out to him to slow down. ‘Walk with me, don’t run ahead.’

He heard it as a whine. ‘Well, stop fucking dawdling.’

She said nothing but at 42nd Street she inexplicably turned right.

‘What are you doing? That’s the wrong way.’ He wanted to consult the map in his back pocket; he was sure they had to head towards Fifth Avenue, but he didn’t want to take out the map and look like a tourist.

‘We’re getting the subway.’