Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

The men lay next to each other on the floor. Dan’s skin was stinging from carpet burn. He slid his hand over the wet clumps of hair on Clyde’s chest and belly, flicking off a glob of drying ejaculate from Clyde’s crucifix. Their combined breathing slowed and separated. The sound of crashing waves and the slow rumble of the traffic re-entered his consciousness. Dan peeled the condom off Clyde’s prick and got up to go to the bathroom. He chucked the mess of plastic and semen into the toilet bowl, then sat down and immediately allowed himself the relief he had craved from the moment Clyde’s cock had pierced him: his shit, wet and putrid, slid seamlessly out of his bowel. He could smell the previous night’s dinner in it, lamb, garlic and wine. He flushed the toilet and went back into the living room.

Clyde was still spread naked on the floor. He raised his hand, examining his fingers, pursing his lips in distaste. ‘I need a shower, I’m like a mangy dog.’ He wiped his hand disdainfully on the carpet, his nose wrinkling in revulsion. ‘Your cum,’ he blurted out jokingly.

Dan could relax. It had worked. Clyde had forgotten all about the water and why Dan didn’t want to swim.

Dan checked his phone again. It was seven twenty-five and Clyde was still in the bathroom. They were meeting the girls next door at seven-thirty — they were going to be late. Dan couldn’t fathom how Clyde was not capable of managing time. It was simple, time was allotted in discrete units, it was logical — the day was measured by it. How could Clyde not get it? He looked again. Seven twenty-six. He couldn’t stop himself; he opened the bathroom door, about to say they were going to be late, but then stopped in amazement.

Clyde was smiling at him in the bathroom mirror. He was standing there naked, a razor in one hand, his chest, belly, the skin of his pubis blotchy and red. Dan was transfixed.

Clyde frowned. ‘Don’t you like it?’ He rubbed at his shaved chest. ‘I know it’s going to itch like hell, but I’ve always wanted to try it. I was sick of all that sand scratching at me all day. Don’t you like it?’

A memory he had to stifle, a joke from that other world: You look like a skinned rabbit.

Dan didn’t know what to say. It was Clyde’s face but it wasn’t his body. It was the body of a youth, a glimpse of the past, the change rooms after a meet. It was pale white smooth skin. It was Clyde’s face, but it was Martin’s body.

And for the first time, looking at his lover, it wasn’t just lust that was a bolt of radiance through his body. It was falling through the earth, and at the same time it was flight. It was swooning. Was it love?

Clyde watched quietly as Dan found a tube of sorbolene cream in his toilet bag. The men were silent as Dan carefully, lovingly applied the cream all over Clyde’s freshly shaven body.

‘It’s going to be itchy for days,’ he counselled softly, his hands cupping Clyde’s balls. ‘You’ll have to stop yourself scratching.’

He continued soothing his partner’s skin. He had forgotten that Demet and Margarita were waiting. Time had been stalled, it had been vanquished.

Margarita had booked a table at a Greek restaurant by the jetty. Their table was at the far end of the deck, overlooking the water. A young waitress briskly handed them their menus, took their drinks order and was about to launch into a recital of the night’s specials when Clyde held up his hand. ‘We’ll settle on food after our drink.’ But there was charm in his smile and he’d put an extra lilt into his accent, softening the brogue. It worked, as it usually did. The girl returned his smile and poured out water for each of them.

When she left them, Clyde grabbed a menu and started fanning himself with it. ‘Oh my God,’ his voice an exaggerated mince, ‘it is so furcken hot.’

Demet poked out her tongue. ‘It’s perfect weather. Just shut the fuck up, you whining Scottish poofter.’

At the next table, an elderly woman scowled and said something to the old man across from her. He looked over, caught Dan’s eye and quickly looked away.

Just don’t be so loud, don’t swear so much, he silently begged of his friends.

The drinks arrived and Clyde raised his glass. ‘Well, happy Australia Day.’

‘Happy Invasion Day, you mean,’ Demet said loudly, making sure that the couple at the next table had heard. Dan knew that she wanted everyone around them to hear.

‘Happy Invasion Day,’ repeated Clyde as they clinked their glasses, but he couldn’t help adding, ‘I see that you aren’t too outraged to accept the public holiday?’

Demet’s eyes flashed but then she shrugged and chuckled. ‘Well spotted, Scotsman,’ she said as she took a sip from her champagne. ‘I am a hypocrite.’

Dan saw Clyde’s brief bristle of irritation. It was the inflection she gave the word, Scotsman, the stress on the second syllable. I don’t know how she does it , Clyde had complained to him, how she makes it sound like an insult every time .

‘Hypocrisy is inevitable.’

They all looked at Margarita. She was holding her cool glass to her cheek.

‘What do you mean by that?’

Margarita touched her lover’s forearm. ‘I don’t mean to be heavy about it, mate, I just meant that it is hard not to be conscious of how hypocritical we all are. You know, we all believe in reconciliation, we all believe in Aboriginal statehood, we all believe in social justice, but here we are on the day that should be about acknowledging how this land was stolen from its original owners and we’re living it up on one of the most expensive coastal strips in Australia. That’s all.’ She wasn’t like Demet — she didn’t have to announce it to the world. She’d said it softly, a statement just for them to hear.

‘I mean,’ she added even more quietly, as if ashamed of what she was about to say, ‘is there even one Aboriginal person in this whole fucking town?’

Clyde patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry too much about it, sweetheart. You’re the darkest person here.’ He made a gesture that took in the whole restaurant. ‘I mean, they all probably think you are Aboriginal.’

Demet’s laugh was a roar, a crack of thunder that made the couple next to them flinch. But Dan didn’t mind. He just felt relief every time Clyde said something that got a laugh out of Demet. I can relax, thought Dan, as Clyde lit a cigarette. It’s going to be alright.

The waitress rushed over, exclaiming, ‘Sorry, sir, but it’s no smoking here.’

Demet jumped in. ‘But we’re outside.’

The young woman looked serious. ‘Yes, but we serve food in this area and so there is a no-smoking policy till eleven o’clock.’ She pointed across to a boat landing a few metres from the restaurant. ‘If you like you can smoke out there. As long as you’re at least nine metres from the eating area.’

Dan felt that they were all being given a reprimand.

Demet had pulled out her pack of cigarettes. ‘Come on, Clyde, I’ll come with you.’ But as she left the table, she called back over her shoulder, ‘I mean, for fuck’s sake, it is a Greek restaurant.’

The waitress looked mortified. ‘Right,’ she declared, turning on her heel, ‘I’ll come back with the specials when they return, shall I?’

Dan watched Clyde get drunk. There was the first gin and tonic, and then the second when Clyde and Demet had returned from their smoke. Not that Dan was counting; he was just glad that Demet and Clyde had found common ground and bonhomie in their shared outrage at the pettiness of Australians. He could tell that Margarita was also relieved that the night hadn’t turned into another sparring match between their respective partners. Dan had heard the mantras before; Clyde’s dissection of Australia had become both more bitter and more resigned the more his frustration with the country grew.