A Story Without Substance
To be honest, it was fear I felt rather than simple apprehension, caressing the taxi’s leather upholstery on the way to meet her, my renegade sister, after a twenty-five year separation only a blood-bond could survive. She has always managed to instil fear in me: a subtle, paralysing poison sapping me of my will. On impulse she had decided to contact me via a reverse the charges call, which plunged me into sweat-soaked consciousness at three thirty am, precluding further rest. We were enduring a heat wave: sprinkling yellowed lawns or dust-clad cars strictly prohibited. I had cast my single sheet to the floor in one of my habitual nocturnal writhings. My tongue tasted of dried bile and the contents of my cranium screeched, invested with abrupt but prodigious nerve capacity. She repeated a number over and over until I managed to convince her I had indeed had the sense to fetch a pen and paper and scrawl it down. We would meet in the lobby of the Sheridan if I were willing and not otherwise engaged – she did not wish to upset my arrangements, the consideration of a patch of nettles growing beside the docken leaves. I checked through my diary of events with a pause of sufficient duration to communicate both my status and my reluctance. Eight pm seemed respectable enough. I promised to inform her if anything cropped up in the meantime. Her voice made me shudder involuntarily – deep, authoritative, each word meticulously selected and articulated with honeyed precision…
We jerked to a halt, the driver swearing loudly, glancing at me in the rear view mirror. I did not react, so he returned his attention to the crossing and the traffic lights, which were still at red. I watched the pedestrians in their Friday finery, longing to join them in their carefree quest for entertainment, to drop this absurd Paisley-patterned tie into the nearest litter bin where it would be whisked away to rot on a gull-infested heap along with other tokens of our decadent civilisation.
She was sixteen when she ran away from home – old enough to restrain my hysterical Mother from initiating a police hunt over half the country. She had obviously maintained a line of communication to exchange information with the nest – how else could she have located me? Disapproval, however, had exercised its authority through rigorous censorship: not one detail had been deemed suitable to filter down to me. Abandonment.
The portal, adorned with laurel-enclosed gilt letters: SH. The circuitous route manifested itself in the form of cash-dispenser crisp notes. He raised an appreciative brow at the generous tip. I was prepared: “Don’t forget you’re paying!” had been her laconic parting shot. Nothing beats sibling tenderness. Oppressive heat. I was trickling beneath the silk. Inhale deeply. The fountains in the square tempted me to unlace my shoes, roll down my socks and paddle. The water’s yellow tinge, beer cans and floating pigeon down an effective deterrent. I pulled at my cuffs, straightened my posture and ascended the steps. It took a couple of seconds to establish that she was not gracing the foyer with her inimitable presence. No-one, apparently, bothered to register my entrance, not even the bell boy, who was concentrating on stifling a yawn. Near the revolving door, a member of the housekeeping staff was polishing the leaves of the rubber plant back to full gloss. My watch wasn’t fast according to the clock above reception. Clearly she was unaware of the virtues of punctuality. Most of the sofas were empty. Amateur piano tinkling and laughter from the bar. She wouldn’t be there. I headed for the gent’s, locking the cubicle to indulge in the private meditation that encouraged the loosening of my bowels. No sense of occasion, the baggage, typical of her gender. I had been forced to wait, but resolved to waste no more than fifteen more minutes of my precious time.
I ordered a double espresso, to the chagrin of the barman who had gone to the trouble of listing a selection of bizarrely named cocktails. Pocketing five sachets of brown sugar, I retreated to the rendezvous. Thankfully, a copy of the Financial Times lay forsaken on a glass-topped table next to a bowl of fruit. I had no need to skim through the share prices; they were out of date before the ink dried on the thin pink paper. Ten to go. I sipped from the monogrammed cup little bigger than a thimble that made my hands seem even more disproportionate than they were. I placed the newspaper in my lap, too irritated to keep up the pretence. By now I was quite alone in the discreet dimness. Strain on the eyes scanning the small print anyway. Flushed green apples, browning bananas, plump cherries. My favourite. In less distinguished surroundings they would most likely be artificial. I reviewed our history of rivalry, pushing the stone between tongue and cheek. We competed constantly, especially during the holidays when our energies were not channelled into scoring better marks at school. She with the self-assured superciliousness of four years’ worth of advantage invariably won, to my invariable frustration. Swinging in the tractor tyre, pushed by sweating parents in the afternoon sunshine, screaming for height to arrive at the laden boughs – who would be the first to snatch the ripest fistful to the sandy soil? Black cherries were the best, sweetest, champions. Her blue dress lifted by the curious fingers of the breeze, her long, auburn pony-tail disciplined hair swaying, she would thrust herself forward in the rubber vehicle with all her might, vehemence shadowing her features, determined to triumph, to demonstrate yet again her invincibility. That tree was taller than the cottage we lived in. Both branch and rope could take our Father’s weight easily. He had been known to join in with our games. Mother never did. She always kept her distance, a slight frown darkening her brow: it offended her concept of propriety.
“Robert?”
I gasped. A tall, slender woman shimmered before me in a trailing gold lamé gown and blue feather boa that would have looked incongruous on one of lesser bearing. I stood to greet her, placing the saliva-coated seeds in the empty ashtray and wiped my palms on my trousers, foolishly betraying my nervousness. She slid her sinewy arms around my neck and kissed me on the lips, lingering. Her musky scent filled my nostrils. She released me. I sneezed.
“Thriving, eh?” she purred.
“Moderately, at least”.
“Tubby too,” she patted my dignified paunch. I winced.
“Growing in stature”.
“Don’t let me vex you. I’m famished and I see you have a healthy appetite. The view of the castle is divine. Shall we?”
She motioned to the lifts. Top floor restaurant, top range prices. I would not fail her.
She took my hand as we stepped out. A uniformed waiter of Mediterranean ancestry strode towards us, brandishing menus with enthusiasm and an air of slicked-back subservience. He could not take his eyes off her.
“Good evening,” I muttered, reminding him of his duties.
“Good evening, sir, welcome Madame. Do you have a reservation?”
Oxford accent. Picked up in a classroom.
“Actually, no. May we have a table for two, please? Somewhere quiet”.
“Ah, indeed, sir. What is your room number, if I may enquire?”
“We’re not residents…”
“Yet,” interrupted my sister, flashing her perfectly white, even teeth. He gave her a slight bow.
“If you would care to accompany me”.
He swept off to the left, brushing against the foliage of the decorative lemon tree.
“Don’t be so tense, I relish chivalric deference, it has such a pathetic quality,” she whispered, her lips touching my earlobe.
I studied her as she gulped down her champagne aperitif. Her locks coiled below her shoulders, an element of continuity. Scarcely a wrinkle, a girlish sportiveness the veneer of sophistication could not disguise. Her cheeks had hollowed slightly, her complexion paled. She had often gloated over our physical dissimilarity. Once, on an expedition of plunder in the woodlands we had chanced upon two American tourists. Cramming our spoils into our pockets where the purple juice of the brambles stained the white cotton, we dodged behind the thorn bush to observe their primrose-hunting. A twig snap alerted them to our presence and they called me over, eager for advice. After a short interval, she emerged, smirking.
“You’ve been hiding there all along?”
“Yes, he’ll tell you”.
I glumly nodded acknowledgement.
“Hate to say it, boy, but your girlfriend makes a better Injun than you do”.
Girlfriend. How I cringed.
“Enrapture me with an account of your business ventures,” she wheedled, stabbing prawns.
“Nothing exciting to report. I’m an invisible eminence, juggling figures on a computer screen, executing orders bawled over the phone. I don’t wear a bowler hat, but I do carry my laptop in a brown leather briefcase. I never fasten the top button of my shirt and my tie is frequently to be found hanging round the office door handle – the big chief is lenient on talent. Otherwise I obey convention. My white E-type Jaguar is my pride and joy, but mostly stays locked up in the garage. I have a cherry-red Volkswagen beetle for my recreational jaunts. I’ve paid off the mortgage on my house and my London flat, a gardener mows the lawns and trims the hedges for me and I collect original ukiyo-e prints and once succeeded in outbidding the British Museum for a rare Utamaro at a Christie’s auction. The only outward indicator of my high-stress lifestyle is the premature silvering you have so magnanimously curbed yourself from commenting on”. I poured myself another glass of red.
“You’re sounding ridiculously defensive you know”.
“Sorry, burden of memory”.
“Mother’s sulking”.
“God, when isn’t she?”
“You neglect her – you haven’t visited her in five years. She resents your generosity, the monthly cheque is too transparent a palliative, though she’d be wretched without it. Her pride prevents her from writing. I’ve read your letters – well, notes would be a more accurate description. Bleak, Angel, bleak”.
“Thus spake the virtuous daughter who ever honoured her kith and kin. My scepticism is justified: surely your need to salve your guilt is as insistent as mine? She never uttered a word about you, not once. An eloquent omission I believe”.
“Lower your voice, dearest. She was simply complying with my request. Quarrelling is futile”.
She dabbed the tablecloth with the linen napkin, where mayonnaise had dripped from my trembling fork. Her fawning waiter appeared to convey our plates and used cutlery to the dishwasher beyond the kitchen entrance. Pausing first to refill her glass, he bent slightly more than necessary to enhance his view of her ample cleavage. I cleared my throat and fidgeted, averting his gaze.
“May we have the bill, please?”
“If you insist, sir,” his tone obsequious, but unmistakeably frosty, “I trust the meal was to your satisfaction. Please bear with me for a moment” he strutted off towards the cash register.
“You didn’t like him flirting, you’re jealous!” she exclaimed.
“Rubbish!” I spluttered, “He was damned insolent gawping that way and you were the one who started pretending we were involved in some kind of sordid liaison”.
“Illicit association…possibilities. You’re a very eligible bachelor, rich, relatively young, still on the up – have you considered that?” her eyes gleamed.
“You’re despicable”.
Ignoring the rebuke, she drank from my glass, staining the rim with lipstick whilst stroking my hand pensively. My cheeks flushed. The paucity of my intimate encounters was a source of discomfort to me. The sporadic post-party copulations knocking the in-tray and the staplers off the desk were hurried, messy, morbid and generated gossip. A lewd image of sticky labours beneath hotel blankets dissipated at her sigh. Weary, fragile, weak.
“The bar’s open late,” she suggested.
I flourished a wad.
“That ought to keep him happy,” I boasted.
As we approached the lift, I clasped her to me, ensuring we were in full view of the party he was attending. Once through the doors she responded by sliding her arm inside my jacket and resting her head demurely on my shoulder. Her lids were unpainted, her breathing shallow. Women worthy of a proposal daunted me: respect for their professional abilities prevented me from evincing interest, from peeling off their flimsy blouses. Yet here I stood, my bestial sister dozing, unconcerned, unable to push her away.
“Ground floor”.
My order of gin and tonic and tequila sunrise was more to the bartender’s liking. As I waited for the ice cubes and plastic stirrers I could not help but watch her. She was already drawing admiration from several of the bespectacled teak-proppers from their perches among the dishes of salted peanuts and miniature pretzels. One gangly aspirant minced across the burgundy carpet to be rebuffed by an airborne kiss aimed at my humble person. Defeat slouched him as he was forced to walk past her. My abdomen tingled. I should have throttled her there and then.
“How can you stomach that?”
“It’s sickly by the litre, but smooth, invigorating. You could do with some yourself, you’re looking a bit off colour”.
“Not the drink”.
“The type who is obviously out to bed me is seldom fortunate enough to have his wish granted. There’s no adrenalin in acquiescence”.
I coughed. She rubbed my back. Her eyes knifed me.
“I haven’t been an adherent of romantic ideals since designating the task of defloration to a cripple. Metaphorically, I mean, he was athletic enough. It was during my second job, waitressing. When he wasn’t making advances to me, he was gutting rabbits or plucking pheasants for the game soup. I wore down eventually. Besides, I had a naïve theory that once he’d fucked me, he’d be off. Amazingly callow, wasn’t I? I became both lover and absolver – he confessed his various aberrations with voracious glee. Though he lacked the imagination for more drastic pollutions. His fantasies were fairly banal, really: knicker-sniffing, tights over the head, lesbian and bondage standard fare. My tolerance reached its limit on the evening of my eighteenth birthday when he borrowed my bodice, basque, suspenders, stockings and high-heeled boots to celebrate. Trembling with excitement. Disgusting. I shoved him out the front door, leaving him to fate and our next-door neighbour, the local constable, whom I telephoned to make sure he knew the garb had nothing to do with a fancy-dress party. After a deluge of particularly virulent letters, I fled to the coast where I was adopted by the yachting fraternity. Which culminated in my marriage to a German, Bernhard. He was a guest of the club from Travemünde, a member of your caste, dazzlingly successful. I had by then understood the benefits of material security – his bank account bulged fatter than his belly. Infatuated by his munificence and the age-gap – he was forty-three when we met – I was easily persuaded. Dependence on a silver platter. At his Tuscan villa I discovered the true motive behind his gallantry. He had never insisted on pre-nuptial intercourse and his impatience to certificate us became clear on our honeymoon: a misshapen penis. He was no virgin, but had always paid up front before. I nicknamed him Bendy. The consummation was rapid – he rolled off my shock-rigid body to dribble on the sheets, panting: ‘Vell, meine Liebe, zere iz vun sing I haff to ask, did you haff vot zey call an Orgasmus?’ Had the lights been on he could have distilled from my expression that catastrophe parted her willing thighs ahead. Angel, I’m at the grenadine, would you fetch me another?”
Early bathtub traumas came flooding back. I was forced to sit at the tap end, fervently praying that my Mother’s guardian form would not be summoned away by the insistent ring of the hallway telephone, delivering me unto Her.
“Let’s go fishing!” she would command, baring her teeth in predatory grin. I acquiesced, numbed into submission by her precocious aptitude for persuasion: the minimum penalty for resistance I knew from experience was scalding, the maximum disgrace and parental disfavour, a slapping and banishment to my room without supper. The jibes had not been exorcised.
“Angel?”
A bloody Mary with triple vodka to obliterate the past. Thirties jazz and falsetto laughter, leanings to whisper, conspiratorial nudges – intrigue hung heavy in the filtered air, infecting, inciting. I downed the foul mixture and paid for a second doze. She could wait. A tall, graceful blond barely out of boarding school ensconced himself on the sofa beside her, proffering a cigarette in exchange for a light. Extending a naked arm towards his mouth, she did his bidding, but declined his offer. I wove my way through the haphazard arrangement of couples and huddles to oust him with the indulgent affability of the victor.
She smiled, a flowering of nettles. Her lips glistened.
“Thanks. Where was I? Bernhard, ah yes. Freed from his anxiety, he was ravenous, insatiable, determined to exhaust the repertoire of gymnastic contortions and guaranteed methods of achieving celestial bliss described in the columns of Playboy. One thousand methods of pleasuring your partner from frolics on the forest to passion by the poolside. The decay to mutual battening was swift. I flaunted my contempt at his incompetence, yawning or inquiring how much longer at the critical juncture, savouring his exasperation. The humidity impelled him back to Stuttgart, leaving me to recuperate. I renewed my passport at the consulate. When he finally returned I threatened to castrate him with a bread knife if he tried to screw me over the settlement, the lawyers called it an amicable divorce. I fax him if ever I need anything. He has a respectable spouse these days and values her innocence. Highly. Don’t frown, it emphasises the bags under your eyes”.
She stroked my left cheek. It flushed.
“You’re tired”.
“No”.
She stepped into the shower, spreading a towel to protect the rug before shutting the transparent panel. Steam filled the compartment, depriving the mirrors of their function as she lathered herself from the neck down, cleansing every sacred and once familiar inch of flesh. I listened to her humming of Dietrich’s most famous melody with the same provocative huskiness of tone. The flow of water ceased. She dried languorously, applying soft aromatic oils to her skin. Cherry blossom. Lured by her soft splendour, I approached. She loosed the belt of my bathrobe, pulling it to the floor. I lovingly gathered the damp strands of her hair before yanking her to her knees. Her laugh, though higher pitched with pain, was defiant, haughty, stinging. She would submit. My will was the stronger. Struggling to ignore the sensations imparted by her tongue and lips, I strained hard. She fell back, choking on the surge. Impotent. Vanquished. I aimed the final tricklings at her defeated face, turning away from her wretched sobbing with longed for satisfaction.
“Are you sure you won’t take a sip of mineral water? It’s still, not sparkling”.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to throw up,” I hissed, “Please resume your enthralling narrative”.
“If you insist, darling. The interlude of settling down again back home is hardly worth mentioning. Establishing a routine, placating Mother, the usual banalities. Anton. Anton Hallow. I strolled into his studio in response to his classified: model wanted, female, Jugendstil type preferred. He appeared sceptical, but beckoned me in nevertheless. My blue-fox, mid-calf length, gives me deceptive bulk. Apart from it, my Chanel evening shoes and my diamond stud earrings I was as nature intended. When he offered to take my coat he shrugged, pointing to the chaise longue: “You’ll do”. Thus I became one of several mistresses, a fact he never attempted to conceal, to his credit. He was taciturn, but dedicated to his canvases. Fruit was his supreme obsession: all seven rooms, with the exception of the toilet closet, were papered with magazine clippings, mostly of dessert recipes. Selecting a single pear, plum or pineapple took up hours of supermarket and street-stall browsing. Perfection for him varied from mouldy to unripe according to his mood. The cornice of vines in the hallway was painted and repainted to match the season. The onset of boredom with me first became apparent in oils and acrylics. Sprawled, happily tired amongst squeezed paint tubes, empty frames and canvas stretchers I was honoured with a glimpse of his latest composition: Number 85, Woman and Banana. The latter’s curvature the only feature apparent to my undiscriminating eye. I had inspired the overlapping smears of red and blue I was informed in answer to my cautious enquiry. Never bruise an artist’s vanity, Angel. The superfluousness of my services was indirectly indicated during the following fortnight by a series of vivid still-lives of dissected peaches on porcelain plates, my replacement a Chinese vase with a green wood-dragon. I stopped visiting, but a month later received a beautiful hand-drawn card: would I come to the flat on Tuesday at nine? He sat in his spattered smock at the kitchen unit, upon which three jars of imported cherries rested: Schattenmorellen in syrup. He speared them one by one with a gilt hat pin, allowing them to drip before slicing them on the chopping board. A fourth, smaller jar was used for depositing the discarded stones. He roused me at two, the tedium of his thoroughness and his silent concentration having long since sent me to his futon. With an almost religious solemnity, he led me into the atelier, exceptionally bare but for a bright red sheet decking the floorboards and two dozen or so scented candles lining the window-sills. ‘Take your clothes off and lie there,’ he directed. He positioned the plain dinner plates on which he had arranged the cherry slices in floral patterns around me, their cold rims stimulating a shiver. Finally came the jar with the remainder of the syrup, which he utilised in a prolonged massage. Gradually, I relaxed. Then he covered me with the cherries, piece by piece, from ankles to forehead, pulling back at intervals to study the effect. He smiled”.
A draught intruded through the now open exit, quivering the tartan curtains. Headlamps blazed in the car park beyond, dipped, vanished. Some lucky sod had absconded.
“Just a second,” I spluttered, flourishing my glass.
“Naturally, Angel,” she nodded, indulgent, exasperatingly collected.
I tripped on the carpet, cursing audibly. The bar was still busy. I clambered on to a ridiculous stool with a cushion that flopped to the floor to be retrieved by a creature of indeterminate gender.
“Allow me,” its sonorous voice at variance with the lustrous shoulder-length raven curls, fishnet tights, stilettos, spray-applied miniskirt and padded imitation biker’s jacket. It elbowed me affectionately in the side, pouting its purple lips in an expression of mischievous concern and fondling a silver death’s head on a shoelace dangling round its swanlike neck.
“Forget her, love, she’s a bitch. Trust me, I can always tell. Definitely not in your league, not worth the effort”.
Its breath was as heavily laden with stale garlic as it was with insinuation.
“She’s my sister, actually”.
“Sister, eh love? Not heard that one for a while. Never mind. I’m over there if you want me for a quick suck or a hand job”.
I dared not flatter it with a reaction. Shrugging, it steadied itself on my thigh before teetering off.
“Finished with your friend? He’s quite attractive, actually”.
“Maybe, maybe not”.
“I’d hate to detain you with the conclusion” she teased, winding the boa round my throat, “Robert, you’re dribbling, dear”.
I wiped my face with my handkerchief.
“My final evening with Anton, unforgettable! Tired of bending, he carried off the leftovers of his vengeance to the niche consecrated to his masterpiece, a sculpture of wood and glass, The Eternal Apple, his symbol of corruption, of the unattainability of the ideal. It had been removed for protection, though I did not suspect why it was missing. He feasted, mouthful upon exultant mouthful, licking after the last traces of sweetness, dallying wherever I tensed, inserting his tongue into my navel, between my lips. His tenderness was excruciating. Only my breasts remained. If challenged, he would impute his puerile fascination for them to an appreciation of what he termed their ‘bountiful disproportion’ – he once photographed them alongside a pair of mangoes. I was almost rigid with impatience. Playfully, he pinned me to the floor, as he often did when coupling was imminent, but instead of sucking or nibbling at my left nipple, he clamped his teeth round it, tugging, impervious to my screams. He managed to bite most of it off in the end. Such a wound was awkward to account for at accident and emergency. He drove me there – the damage inflicted he bore no further grudge towards me. That was three months ago, so you see, Angel, I’m quite alone and it’s terribly, terribly boring”.
I yawned, feigning indifference. She probed my trouser pocket, seeking evidence of my appreciation, teasing, urging. Outmanoeuvred, I abdicated.
“Fetch my keys, would you? Room 101. I won’t be an instant, must powder my nose”.
She glided towards the lavatories to the dismay of the rose-seller who had been hovering for custom for half an hour or so.
I pondered: consolation or mockery? A cheerful wave distracted me from the exit. My escape route was blocked, choice capitulated to inevitability. Wretched, I staggered to the reception desk upon which I deposited the glass with its dregs of rum and Coke. The senior of the two employees broke off his monologue in mid-sentence to whisk away the offending article, raising a haughty brow at my sister’s gift.
“Can I help you, sir?” he intoned with self-satisfied dismissiveness.
“Room 101, please” I snapped.
“101,” his fingers flitted over the keyboard, “Mr. Wintergarten, forgive me. I was not informed that you had arrived. May I extend a heartfelt welcome and our warmest congratulations upon your honeymoon? Suite 101 is our finest. I believe your lovely bride remarked that it more than made up for the unexpected delay,” he effused with a servility that exceeded even his distaste, “Please ring 123 if you require attention, complementary champagne will be sent up with the breakfast tray. It is a pleasure to have you with us, sir”.
“Thank you, we’ll retire now,” my sister interrupted, nestling close to me, feigning innocence.
He escorted us up, apologetic concerning his lapse with all the eagerness to please of a dog just kicked. After a swift explanation of the facilities for my benefit, she sent him off with a twenty pound note to ingratiate himself elsewhere. The décor was insipid, the kitschiest feature a plastic heart so garish it almost pulsed, nailed to the canopy of the reproduction four-poster. The minibar was well-stocked, however. She watched me pour a single malt.
“Wintergarten!” I spluttered in idiotic amusement.
“I saw no reason to alter my married name”. Dark undertone.
A pang of wistfulness drew me to the window. It was ten to two. Street after street of petty dreams of security, a myth of vitality crammed into minimal area, a community of electronically-induced oblivion. Insanity. Convention.
“Robert?” demanding.
She wanted to incorporate me into her string of anecdotes. I threw the boa past her, seizing her. A dyed feather floated slowly to the carpet. She struggled as if I were smothering her. My cufflink snagged on her zip.
“You disappoint me, Robert, confirming my prejudices”. Her lipstick had smeared. She was panting. Tightening my embrace, I started for the bed. I had underestimated her. Pounding me with her fists, she broke free.
“The invitation is cancelled. I’m going for a bath now. When I come out, I expect you to be far away. Goodbye, little brother”.
“Vicious slut” I spat.
When I could hear the water running, I slammed the outer door and waited.
She had lowered herself into the tub when I entered. The mat was littered with brown-streaked balls of crumpled tissue. Shampoo foam crawled down her temples. Startled, she snatched a towel off the rail. But I had seen it – erect, unblemished, deriding. I advanced, loosening my tie: “Let’s go fishing!”
Copyright © 1990, the author. All rights reserved. No portion of this text may be copied, reproduced or otherwise employed without first seeking the express written permission of the author, which may be obtained via chameleonrattex at hotmail dot com.