Maggie Gee - Where are the Snows

I kissed her cheek, I missed her firm mouth because she turned her head away. As I went down the path she called to me. ‘I wish I had got you when you were younger.’

Back home still smarting from that encounter, and yet it had gone off better than it might have done, she hadn’t wept, and nor had I, we hadn’t accused or insulted each other — but Mary knew she was better than me. She wouldn’t be there after Alex died. Not that I wanted her there, but still… I wished fiercely that Alex had come home with me, to keep her living image with me and banish these stupid small discomforts; she was starting to fade a little already. I tried to phone her; she was not at the hotel; but phoning brought a rush of love, a passionate wish to talk to her.

— All the same, the discomforts were real enough. My life was in chaos because of Alex. She had always caused chaos, always; I had lost my family because of her, only luck had brought Susy back to me, and now we were quarrelling again –

There was a tap at the window like a cat, but it would be Susy, she’d forgotten her key, and Becky would be with her, I glowed with pleasure — and perhaps a little with the rather large whisky, because I was delighted to find it was Madonna.

‘Come into the garden, Maud,’ I said. She looked blank; we had a culture gap, despite our love of virtual worlds. ‘Come into the garden and hear my troubles.’

‘Gossip, amazing, I love it,’ she said. She smelled very strongly of something musky and yet growing, earthy, like tobacco-plants, perhaps. Her nipples poked out at me through her blouse. She was radiant, carefree, bursting with life.

‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said, as she gave me a hug. ‘Give me some at once. No, more than that. I’m not your daughter, you know, Chris…’

‘You know I know.’ She was extremely attractive. She squeezed my arm as she went into the garden. I followed her bum, her long bronzed legs. I felt something I had not felt in months; cheerful, yes; I hadn’t felt cheerful; happy, ecstatic, tormented, wracked, but not actually cheerful, and — yes. It was shameful, given the drama I was living, but Madonna made me feel randy. The bliss of uncomplicated randiness. The garden was hot, we sat side by side, the grass prickled and swarmed beneath our legs, the earth felt alive, and so were we.

I told her my story. She adored it. To her it was a book, a love story. To her the whole thing was intensely romantic.

‘But does she really look old?’

‘— Well, yes.’

‘In the photographs she looked so young.’

‘She’s ill, remember —’

‘But you still love her?’

She seemed to find this incredible. How could I love someone who looked old? Madonna thought only men should grow old. She didn’t believe in death, or illness. And when I was with her, nor did I.

‘I’ve got some news as well, you know. I’ve given Yukio the boot. I was bored with him. It’s great.’

The sun poured down from an immense height. She was pressing her thigh against my thigh. I closed my eyes and let the heat pour through me, the red living heat poured through my eyelids, through my veins, through my old bones. The sun was life. I wanted to live.

‘We should run away,’ purred Madonna. ‘We could run away. Wherever you wanted. I’m sick of England. We could be free.’

Her hand was creeping across my trousers. The heat was in my cock, it began to stand up, I was not an old man, I was proud of it.

‘We could have babies,’ she said. ‘I want to have children now, at once. I’ve wasted enough time waiting for Yukio. I want to have three boys who look like you. You’d be a wonderful father, I’ve seen you with Becky —’

‘But I’m seventy-two. I’m much too old —’

Her hand was pressing, kneading, caressing. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were red, the line of her arm was beautifully round, her hair was a mop of varnished curls. We hardly moved; just her hand and my penis; the heat of the sun held us fast, mesmerised, dreaming of brilliant, distant futures. She offered me everything; freedom, and babies, and a hold on youth, and sex, and fun. Madonna offered me my dreams. But she was not impractical.

‘When you were trying for a baby with Alex. You must have tried IVF, I suppose.’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘That’s great. They must have put samples of sperm on ice —’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s standard practice. They must have done. I know about it. I was trying then, with another man —’

‘But why couldn’t we try the regular way?’

‘Oh, I hope there’d be lots and lots of trying. I hope I’d be able to tire you out —’Her fingers tightened on my cock, almost painfully. ‘But for children, we should use the younger sperm, sweety. Safer, you see. Less chance of defects.’ She caught my expression of frank dismay, and laughed, and got up, showing me her crotch. ‘Just leave all that to me, I’m an expert at this. Come inside with me. Let’s have some fun.’

The telephone rang from the house.

‘Let’s not answer it,’ she said, as she preceded me into the darkness.

‘I have to. It might be Alex —’

‘Even more reason not to answer it.’

She was warm and damp with sweat from the sun. The smell of her was overpowering. She pulled off her t-shirt with a fluid movement and they bobbed before me, round as apples but with toffee-brown nipples that stuck out like sweets. They brushed my arm. I heard myself groaning. But the phone was still ringing. Alexandra needed me — I pushed her away with more force than I meant, more force than I knew I still had in my body, and went for the phone; but the phone stopped ringing just as I snatched it up to my mouth. It stopped ringing! I started to curse, I traced the call and considered the number; a Paris number, not her hotel; I dialled it, my fingers banana-huge and clumsy from sun and lust and whisky, and it rang and rang in an emptiness, a horrible dead metallic sound. I checked; the number was a call-box. Of course it was Alex, but what was she doing? Why not ring from her hotel? Don’t say she was wandering, half-insane, the way she looked when Mary saw her –

I turned back into the room, and there was Madonna, stripped to her pants, the briefest thong. There was something unpleasant about her mouth. She was angry; I had pushed her away. Nobody pushed Madonna away. Her nostrils were slightly flared, sulky.

‘You see? I told you not to answer it.’ She came towards me, golden-brown, nimble as a spider with her two bobbing breasts.

‘This is not a good idea,’ I said, feebly. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, but I — Alexandra —’

‘Wasn’t she always unfaithful to you?’

‘No. Not always. Oh. Oh. Oh that’s so nice. Please don’t, I mustn’t…

For the next five hours I didn’t think of Alexandra. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. I shot the bolt on the door to upstairs, I shot the bolt on the door to memory. I sealed the decision with a lot more whisky. We took some coke that Madonna had in her bag; she said it would make sex even better. Perhaps she was right, for it was wonderful. I hadn’t been with a woman with a body like that since too long ago for me to remember (I couldn’t bear to, for the woman was Alex, Alex before we both grew old). She knew exactly how to make an old man happy; she knew exactly how to make any man happy.

I was laughably happy, with the whisky as well, and as we floated together on the golden river I realised how I missed excess; I couldn’t remember when I’d last got drunk, I’d been leading a life of awful moderation, seeing things grimly as they were; drink gave me the wisdom to know all this; I explained it to Madonna, who laughed a lot, she laughed a lot, we laughed a lot, we drank some more, we were suddenly silent.