Authors: Jim Crace
Genesis (2 page)
That evening Lix's tremor had been especially undermining. Tartuffe had held a very shaky book, and then had spilled a glass of wine. Lix was infuriated with himself. He needed to unwind. He was, of course, still partly in character even though the shaking had disappeared the moment the curtains closed. An immersion actor such as Lix cannot shuck off the emotional raiments of a play as easily as he can shed the costume. Performance always leaves its mark, for an hour or two at least. Indeed, the remains of Tartuffe's florid Pan Stik pink makeup could be seen, if you were close enough, in his eyebrows and his sideburns.
As usual, he'd had to kiss his leading lady twice onstage that night: Tartuffe seducing sweet Elmire within the text but also Lix playacting with a colleague unjustly famous for her love affairs. Stage-kissing, obviously. Dry lips. He always relished it, however, the smell and taste of her (makeup, brandy, perspiration, cigarettes, cologne), the enticing possibility that one night their kisses might turn wet. Lix had seduction in mind. So already he had fixed his hopes on Mouetta and on stairs, the view they offered as his wife preceded him, the urgent discomfort they promised any couple mad enough, inflamed enough, to pause and kiss. He'd spent the evening scheming their impromptu, corrugated sex.
Freda, though, had other plans for him, for them. One of her students at the Human Science Academy (“an activist and very, very dear to me”) had been “listed” in the morning papers, alongside a photograph and phone numbers to contact with
“rewardable” information on his whereabouts. He was, they claimed, “a firebrand leader of the SNRM, already known to the civil authorities.”
“rewardable” information on his whereabouts. He was, they claimed, “a firebrand leader of the SNRM, already known to the civil authorities.”
“He's such a little innocent,” she said, delighted with her protégé, a young man younger even than her own son, George. “He printed up some leaflets and some posters, that's all. And damaged cars. Perhaps he's been a little wild. He's hardly broken any laws, but still ⦔ The police would find him if he went back to his lodgings, she explained, and, depending on the level of their “vicious inefficiency,” would either teach him manners there and then or take him to the barracks yard where bright and pretty faces such as his were routinely “spoiled.” Both Mouetta and her cousin stole a glance at Lix's cherry stain.
“He's in my office now. He's hiding underneath my desk, poor little man,” Freda said. She could not stop the sudden smile, the crossing and uncrossing of her legs. “But obviously he can't stay there.” She put her slender hand on Mouetta's arm and sighed. Bad theater.
Lix did his best to avoid Freda's eye. He hadn't looked her in the eye for years, and with good cause. He did not want to nod, or laugh, or match her sigh with a more ironic one of his own. He was just hoping that he could avoid the implications of the “little man” hiding underneath her desk. That phrase, “But obviously he can't stay there,” could ruin everything. Freda's always organizing her revenge, he thought. She still distrusted, even hated, himâand
with good cause
again. He acted sudden, ironic interest in the wine label, a scene he'd played before to great effect in his third film,
Full Swing.
He was not as calm as he appeared. What
actor ever is? Unless he got lucky, his anniversaryâjust like the student's faceâwould be “spoiled,” no doubt of it.
with good cause
again. He acted sudden, ironic interest in the wine label, a scene he'd played before to great effect in his third film,
Full Swing.
He was not as calm as he appeared. What
actor ever is? Unless he got lucky, his anniversaryâjust like the student's faceâwould be “spoiled,” no doubt of it.
Lix should, he knew, speak up at once, or all was lost. Freda frightened him. Too tough and beautiful and challenging. His cock never failed to stir itself for her. Even now, with Mouetta's hand across his shoulder, he could not contemplate the student hiding underneath Freda's desk without his cock lengthening, without jealously recasting the scene with himself, his younger self, as the protagonist: an armed policeman standing at the open office door, a seated Freda blushing, innocent, her elbows resting on her desk, her earrings swinging, catching lights, the listed student (Felix Dern, as ever, in the leading role) bunched up in the many folds of her black skirt, the audience not knowing whether this was comedy or tragedy or when the kissingâor the beatingsâmight begin. Good theater.
Avoiding eye contact, however, and dreaming the impossible provided no escape. “My little firebrand needs your help,” Freda had already told Mouetta during Molière and Lix's final act. And Mouetta had already agreed to offer the sanctuary of their study couch for a week or so, until it was safe to drive the student out of town, until ⦠No one knew the sequel to “until” in those extraordinary times.
“What's wrong with your place, Freda?” Lix asked finally. “You've got a couch to spare while George is in America, I'm sure. He can even sleep underneath your bed, with the cats.” Now he was looking at her, his leading lady for this scene, looking at her piled-up hair, her speckled throat, the clothy, hammock neckline of her top, imagining how he might stage a kiss with
her. “This fellow's
very, very dear to you,
you say.” His mimicry was faultless.
her. “This fellow's
very, very dear to you,
you say.” His mimicry was faultless.
Freda, though, would not respond. She had no sympathy for Lix. How dare he even mention George? Was he inviting trouble? She smiled at him, an icy smile that said, Do as I want. Otherwise Mouetta will be reminded yet again of what she has so determinedly forgotten or ignored, exactly what went on between us, twenty-five years ago when we were undergraduates ourselves. When I was carrying your child. When you were truly dangerous to know.
She stretched her neck away from him. She'd let him talk. She'd let him huff and puff. She only paid attention once he'd dutifully proclaimed his list of predictable objectionsâthe risk (for him), the inconvenience (for him)âand was prepared to accept what had already been agreed behind his back. There was no need to repeat herself for Lix. He was a spouter nowadays, not a sympathetic listener. Not an activist. She'd already explained herself to her cousin, how her own office and apartment at the academy were “always” being visited by police. Unlike Mouetta, a newcomer who'd “married in” two years before, she'd been a citizen of this “infuriating” town since her own student days. She was a well-known dissident, “a bit of a firebrand” herself. While Lix, born in the town forty-seven years before, despite his posturing, was notânot now, at leastâa threat to anyone. The celebrated Lix would not be visited by police, not in a thousand years. His study couch would be the safest refuge in the town. Saving this brave “boy” (Lix winced at her transparent use of words: a cut, an edit, please!) would be a simple matter, then. They'd drive
in to the campus, pick the hero up, and take him home to share their anniversary.
in to the campus, pick the hero up, and take him home to share their anniversary.
So Lix, defeated, left the Debit Bar, not hand in hand with Mouetta as he had planned, but as one of an ill-at-ease threesome and without a suggestion of any intimacy between them. They could be mistaken for little more than casual, frosty friends. The actor, naturally, looked grander and crosser and more thwarted than the other two, but then men always do, actors or not. They are Pierrots by nature. Smiling is for Columbines.
Lix was too irritatedâand alarmed (for he was no longer an adventurous man)âeven to acknowledge the greetings and congratulations from a couple who had seen his performance, onstage, that evening, a couple who had witnessed his dry kissing and his tremor from the balcony. He contemplated having Freda's callow lodger, callow lover, in his house. Her “boy.” A week or so, she'd said. That meant three months, minimum. A stranger in the frying pan. His egg with theirs. The staircase always busy with the sound of running feet, the sound of running taps. Worse even than the alternate weekends when his acknowledged children came to stay, descended on his house and his routines, his two adolescent boys, Lech and Karol (the products of his first marriage), and four-year-old Rosa (the unplanned fruit of a short, bizarre, and punishing liaison not quite before he'd met Mouetta). At least their running feet were known and loved. For, yes, despite the evidence so far, the selfishness, the sexual jealousy, the lack of courage, the peevishness on this night of their anniversary, theirs was a house of love. Lix, for all his faults, for all his fickleness, was capable of love. He had been thwarted, though,
on this occasion, by the unforgiving first love, second conquest of his life.
on this occasion, by the unforgiving first love, second conquest of his life.
As it happened luck was on his side.
The rain was heavy now, disabling and hostile. It beat out its cacophonies on cars and roofs. The police had had to set up shop beneath the water-sagging canopies on the bar's terrace and were painstakingly checking the identities of anyone who dared to enter or to leave. Their mood was volatile, resentful, tired. They'd welcome the chanceâwere it not for the journalists presentâto burst inside to tip some tables over and to crack some heads. The Debit's clientele was just the sort they hated most. Toffee-nosed and smart-arsed liberals with cash to spare, their lives ring-fenced by bank accounts abroad and properties at home. Provocative women with skin like confirmation cups and catwalk clothes. Men who never had to take the streetcar, or wear a shirt for three shifts in a row, or workâas they themselves were working nowâafter midnight, in the rain, for wages that were “held up” by the bank. A daylight robbery. Imagine how the Debitors' blood would decorate the fancy tablecloths, or how dramatically those clever, brittle heads would bruise and crack if only someone with a bit of spirit and imagination in the government would give permission for the patriots to Proceed. They wanted their revenge for having to be dutiful when everyone else was having fun, for having to be young and unimportant, for being dull and out of place.
Their corporal, a townie boy though not this town, made a corridor of tables through which Debitors must pass. His comrades crowded around to take offense. Now here was someone that they recognized and did not like. Not Lix. They hadn't seen
him yet. But Freda. “Freedom Freda.” The firebrand lecturer whose rants they'd had to endure at far too many public meetings, in far too many television interviews. A critic of the army and the police, indeed. There was no mistaking this giraffe. She was a handsome woman, tall and set, to use the current phrase. Frisking her and requiring her to stretch her arms above her head, her fine teeth biting on her documents, was a duty and a luxury. Even Lix could see what satisfaction it was providing them, could sympathize with their wide eyes, their gaping mouths, caused just as much by how she looked as by what she was saying (for she could still create a din, could shout and curse, through her clenched teeth). They'd never heard such legal threats, such posturing, such statements of intent, such growls. They'd never detained such hair before, such long and capable arms, so willowy a neck, such arrogance, such heavy fabric in the dress, so hectoring a voice. And what good luck! The woman was not carrying an up-to-date ID with her. She'd not renewed. On a point of principle, she said. Well, on another point of principle, a legal principle, the corporal had no alternative but to send her to the barracks for some questioning. If only she would show a little more respect and quiet down, then possibly they would allow her to be taken there “without handcuffs.” The policemen lookedâand smiledâat Freda's narrow wrists, her bangles and her amulets. A pair of extra cuffs would finish her.
him yet. But Freda. “Freedom Freda.” The firebrand lecturer whose rants they'd had to endure at far too many public meetings, in far too many television interviews. A critic of the army and the police, indeed. There was no mistaking this giraffe. She was a handsome woman, tall and set, to use the current phrase. Frisking her and requiring her to stretch her arms above her head, her fine teeth biting on her documents, was a duty and a luxury. Even Lix could see what satisfaction it was providing them, could sympathize with their wide eyes, their gaping mouths, caused just as much by how she looked as by what she was saying (for she could still create a din, could shout and curse, through her clenched teeth). They'd never heard such legal threats, such posturing, such statements of intent, such growls. They'd never detained such hair before, such long and capable arms, so willowy a neck, such arrogance, such heavy fabric in the dress, so hectoring a voice. And what good luck! The woman was not carrying an up-to-date ID with her. She'd not renewed. On a point of principle, she said. Well, on another point of principle, a legal principle, the corporal had no alternative but to send her to the barracks for some questioning. If only she would show a little more respect and quiet down, then possibly they would allow her to be taken there “without handcuffs.” The policemen lookedâand smiledâat Freda's narrow wrists, her bangles and her amulets. A pair of extra cuffs would finish her.
What none of the policemen or Lix had spotted was the sudden transfer, just before Freda's hands were raised, of her shoulder bag to Mouetta. So he was baffled and relieved when, rather than arguing for her cousin's immediate release, as he expected,
as she was prone to do, his normally plucky wife simply took his arm and, without a glance back or a word of farewell, steered him through the uniforms, across the terrace, and out into the driving rain. No one tried to stop him, obviously. Too familiar. He was starring every Tuesday night in
Doctor D
on Channel V&N. He was in the ad for Boulevard Liqueur. He'd won a celebrated Masters Medal for his solo version of
Don Juan.
He'd gone to Hollywood, appeared in several films, and come back almost undefiled. He'd even had success as a singer: his
Hand Baggage:
A
Travelogue of Songs
, recorded fourteen years before, was selling still. He was, as Freda had made clear ten minutes earlier, a threat to nobody.
as she was prone to do, his normally plucky wife simply took his arm and, without a glance back or a word of farewell, steered him through the uniforms, across the terrace, and out into the driving rain. No one tried to stop him, obviously. Too familiar. He was starring every Tuesday night in
Doctor D
on Channel V&N. He was in the ad for Boulevard Liqueur. He'd won a celebrated Masters Medal for his solo version of
Don Juan.
He'd gone to Hollywood, appeared in several films, and come back almost undefiled. He'd even had success as a singer: his
Hand Baggage:
A
Travelogue of Songs
, recorded fourteen years before, was selling still. He was, as Freda had made clear ten minutes earlier, a threat to nobody.
The carâtheir large but unpretentious gray Panache sedan, perfect for the family with adolescentsâwas parked behind the theater, a leisurely five-minute walk on any other night. But it was far too wet for leisure and they were far too fearful. Fearful for Freda, of course, but also for themselves. Her shoulder bag was dangerous. What might it hold? And fractious men in uniform are always frightening. Any second now and they might hear beyond the clatter of the rain the sound of running boots, the cliché call for them to stop and raise their hands. So Lix and Mouetta didn't speak as they hurried through the rain, encountering what everybody knows but needs reminding of, that speed is no protection from a storm. He ran ahead of her to open up the car but both of them were sopping and sobered by the time they'd slammed shut the doors. For a few moments, the smell of drenched clothes was stronger than the seat leather, even, richer than the perfume and the gasoline.
Mouettaâwetâlooked flushed and beautiful, Lix thought. Why hadn't he noticed before how much trouble she had gone to, to be attractive for him on their anniversary? A bluish calf-length skirt, a favorite blouse he had brought her from L.A., front buttons even, that pretty necklace a child might wear. Cousin Freda, the radical, had blinded him, had shouldered out his wife. She always did. She always had. There's something deadening about the vivacious company of prettier and older cousins. Mouetta was a sort of beauty too, although a quieter sort, not theatrical but ⦠well,
homely
was an unfair word.
Unaffected,
perhaps.
Contained.
She was the kindâand this was cruelâwhose company was supportive rather than flattering. She'd only turn the heads of wiser men. But now that she was wet and dramatized by their short run, her beauty seemed enhanced, her perfumes activated by the rain, her hair shining like someone found soaked and streaming in the shower room, her blouse and skin a clinging unity. He should have been thinking of Freda, her arrest, what they should do for her release, their duties as citizens and their obligations as radicals. But he was not.
homely
was an unfair word.
Unaffected,
perhaps.
Contained.
She was the kindâand this was cruelâwhose company was supportive rather than flattering. She'd only turn the heads of wiser men. But now that she was wet and dramatized by their short run, her beauty seemed enhanced, her perfumes activated by the rain, her hair shining like someone found soaked and streaming in the shower room, her blouse and skin a clinging unity. He should have been thinking of Freda, her arrest, what they should do for her release, their duties as citizens and their obligations as radicals. But he was not.
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