Ménage (16 page)
Authors: Ewan Morrison
‘In the era of the predictable, the only thing left to live for is the impossible!’
OK, she said, but it wasn’t like she was moving in. Just temporary. They’d see how it went. She’d be off to Zurich in a month and she’d have to have a new artwork come up with, and maybe being so close together would help and she’d finally get a good idea and no more time wasting, cos really he had to make a start on the text for the catalogue. And God, she really had to get with the apartment searching. There were three new potential warehouse places, one in Bethnal Green that looked ideal, he could come and see what he thought, help with the estate whatnots, if he wanted.
The next day he took time off and hired a van and was round at Dot’s old place packing things into crates, constantly reaffirming that she’d soon have her new place, just in case. Molly threw tantrums and wanted to take all of her teddies then wanted nothing but to stay. He concerned himself with packing the laptop and DVDs, books and CDs, while Dot threw armfuls of clothes randomly into her travel bags. Six boxes, seven cases and eight hours later Dot and Molly had moved in.
Owen really couldn’t believe she had said yes.
Just temporarily of course.
*
TRANSCRIPTION FROM VIDEO FOOTAGE
Harsh top light. 3 people. 3 names.
Saul Metcalf (S) has JESUS written on the Rizla on his head. Dorothy Shears (D) has SID VICIOUS written on her head. Owen Morgan (O) has MARILYN MONROE written on his head.
D: OK, am I alive or dead?
O: Yes/No answers please! Like – you say ‘Am I dead?’
D: OK, am I?
S: Yes, you are.
Laughter, the camera moves to focus on S
.
S: This is dumb.
S touches the paper on his head that reads JESUS
.
O: Don’t take it off!
S: OK, OK. Fuck . . . am I a film star?
Laughter
.
D: No!
O: Nope, sorry.
The camera moves to focus on O
.
O: OK, am I a cartoon character?
S: This is so fucking –
D: Shh. No, you’re a real person.
The camera moves to D. Exchange of spliff. A drink poured. D drinks
.
D: OK, am I a lovely person?
Laughter
.
O: Come on, he wasn’t so bad! He was just pretending.
D: Aha! So I’m a man!
Off-camera dispute between O and S as to whether O had given away a clue. The camera is passed to focus on S
.
S: Am I a writer?
Laughter. S again touches the paper on his head that reads JESUS
.
O: No, sorry.
D: Well, there is one book, you kind of inspired it.
O: Stop giving him clues.
Laughter. The camera is passed to focus on O. He stares upwards, comic moment when he flicks his hair back, momentarily obscuring the name MARILYN MONROE
.
O: OK, am I a man?
S: I sometimes wonder.
D: Shh, you bitch. No, no, my dear, you are the perfection of all womankind, in a kind of fucked-up way.
Laughter. The spliff is passed; camera is passed to focus on D
.
D: OK, so I’m . . . dead, I’m a horrible person and a man.
She raises her eyes upwards. SID VICIOUS
on her forehead.
D: OK, did I . . . kill people?
O: No, no, only yourself.
S: Bollocks. Your girlfriend too.
D: No way.
O: Nah, it was an overdose.
S: With a fucking gun!
D: My God, who wrote this on me?
Laughter. The camera passes to focus on S
.
S: OK, am I an artist?
O: No.
D: No, no, but . . . you’ve got your head in the clouds, my dear.
S drinks, smokes. Laughter off-camera. The camera is passed to focus on O
.
O: I’m a woman . . . am I . . . sexy?
S: Oh, how trite!
D: Oh yes, very.
S: I never thought so.
O: So am I dead?
D: One question at a time, darling.
O: I just know I’m dead, I always end up dead, why are we all dead?
D: Shhh! Don’t tell him.
S: Aha, so I am.
D: Shh, he didn’t know he was dead!
O: Well, he’s not really, I mean God, sorry, some people still believe in him, millions in fact. Mostly Americans.
D: Shhhh!
Laughter. The camera is passed to focus on S
.
S: I couldn’t give a shit.
D: Don’t spoil it, c’mon. Play the game.
S smokes
.
D: OK, you’re . . . not a writer, not a film star and there’s some debate over whether you’re dead.
S: Thanks a bunch.
D: Why do you have to take everything so personally?
O: Comrades, pleeez!
S drinks
.
S: OK, did I kill myself?
D: No!
Laughter
.
O: You just sort of vanished, and then you came back and then you went away again.
Laughter. S tries to stand. Hand of D restrains him. Off-mike whispers – encouragements to stay. The camera moves to D
.
D: Is it my turn?
O: We’re getting kind of . . . I dunno . . . morbid or –
D: No, it’s you.
S: Fuck sake.
D: Your go again, anyway, whatever.
O: OK, I’m sexy, I’m a woman, I’m dead . . . Am I . . . Janis Joplin?
S: She’s not sexy.
D: She is
soooo
sexy. You don’t know what sex is.
Silence
.
The camera gets passed to focus on D
.
D: So I killed my girlfriend and I’m a guy?
S: Yeah.
Silence
.
D: Am I Ted Hughes?
S: Oh puh-leez! What is this? The feminist half-hour?
Silence
.
S: This is so adolescent.
THE FOLLOWING FOOTAGE WAS DELETED FROM THE COMPLETED ARTWORK.
S gets up, the camera remains on D
.
D: Is he OK?
O: He’ll be back. Just keep on playing.
A moment, then the camera is dropped. Sounds of D and
O
kissing. Camera films the floor: an empty vodka bottle, a Pot Noodle carton full of cigarette butts
.
O: Stop, he’ll see us.
D: I don’t care, you’re so serious and sexy-looking.
O: Shhh, we have to keep playing.
The camera is lifted again. D laughing. Putting on a serious face
.
D: OK, am I –
O: Isn’t it my turn?
D: Sorry. You think he’s all right?
The camera is swapped, focusing on O
.
O: He’ll be off doing some fire and brimstone or taking a shit. He’ll be fine.
Laughter
.
O: OK, I’m dead and I’m sexy.
D: Dead sexy.
Laughter
.
O: Did I kill myself?
D: My God, we’ve all asked that!
O: Suicide or?
D: I think it was an accident.
Silence. The camera swaps
.
O: Your turn.
D looks out of frame, over her shoulder
.
D: Am I . . . sorry, I can’t really . . . this doesn’t really work with just two, it’s like . . .
O: Interrogation?
D: Parents, I was thinking parents.
S re-enters frame
.
S: OK, my turn.
D: OK, great, you OK?
S: Let’s get this done.
The camera shifts hands to focus on S. S lights a cigarette butt
.
S: OK, so I’m dead and no one believes in me.
D: I do . . . sometimes.
S: Yeah yeah yeah. OK, am I Jesus?
Laughter
.
D:
Yes, yes
!
O: Cheat.
S: What?
O: You went to the bathroom and saw it in the mirror.
S: Fuck you, any stupid fucking kid could have guessed. If you must know it came to me while defecating.
O: Cheat! Can’t we just play a simple fucking –
D: Boys!
Pleez
.
S: I just want to know which one of you wrote it.
Silence
.
S: You think you’re so fucking funny.
O: Oh and what about you writing Sid Vicious on her head, that wasn’t exactly –
D: Am I Sid Vicious?
D takes the name from her head, laughs. O takes the name from his head
.
O: Marilyn Monroe, what? You trying to tell me I’m queer?
D: No . . . Boys! Please! I wrote it, it was just a –
O: This is so –
D: I’m turning the camera off now. Just a game, Jesus.
*
The new year brought the collapse of Bush’s New World Order and Bill Clinton had been elected promising radical change, but I cared little for political ethics. I had gone over to the other side and become an agent of deceit. Not a moment passed without my trying to concoct schemes to have Dot in my arms, behind Saul’s back. They had been fighting regularly and I sensed he was onto us so redoubled my guard.
Adultery ideally should happen when one’s partner is
away
, in a hotel room, in a stranger’s apartment, not within the confines of such a tiny flat where all is heard and felt through the thin partitions. Every inch of that stinking flat became a possible trap for me then. I gauged angles of doors and perspectives along the corridor to judge if Saul could see Dot and me together, I estimated how much light seeped into the kitchen and if there was enough darkness in there for us to hide our stolen kisses, which had been many and, although very brief, still intense. The flat was L-shaped and my room was in the middle, their two rooms being at the other extremities, so I was perfectly placed for spying on him to work out when the coast was clear.
I was washing her panties in the bathroom. No, that’s not entirely true – let us say, I was in the bath with her panties when suddenly there was a tiny knock at the door.
— Is it you? I whispered.
— Let me in.
I hastily threw the wet panties behind the cistern, stood, then did my best to conceal my erection with the tea towel, it being the only towel we had (and gingham if I recall). I thought, surely the time had come for us to move to the next stage, possibly even consummate our love, but I was overcome with shyness as she squeezed her way inside, in her T-shirt and panties.
— Did you sneak away? Is he sleeping? I asked, anxiously. She giggled and sat on the edge of the bath. I wanted to hold her but was anxious that the tea towel might fall, or worse still, be left free-standing on my erection, as if it were a towel rack.
— He’ll be so jealous, she said. — Shh, secret. I had thought the secrecy was about the act I hoped we were about to perform, but she was talking about the art she wanted us to both make.
I sat on the edge of the bath and crossed my legs trying to hide my throbbing affliction while she, surprisingly
oblivious
to nudity, ranted and raved, her hands drawing pictures in the air. It came to her in a dream she said.
— I’m going to walk backwards with my eyes closed, like the stage-diving, yeah, like this game I used to play in therapy, you walk backwards, like a hundred yards, and they catch you at the end, you know . . . of the room, but this time, I want to do it on the street, and you’re going to catch me. And I’m going to film my face walking backwards and you can’t let me open my eyes . . . on the street or in the supermarket, like a sleepwalker . . . or . . .
She described it in great detail and it amazed me that she had paid so little attention to the reality of our location, my condition and the fact that Saul could walk in on us at any moment. I pulled the bath plug out and the water started gurgling, rather too loudly. I said the walking blind thing was a brilliant idea but proposed that maybe we should wait till another day because it was 3 a.m. and the clubs would be coming out and the drunks may not have as great a grasp of aesthetics.
— You’re so sweet, she said and smiled as she finally came out of her dream state and noticed the tea towel over my crotch. She stroked my cheek and kissed me. I could hear myself moaning as the kiss lingered. She touched my chest, my stomach, my tea towel fell and I gasped. I could not help it. It had no doubt been due to my prepared state of arousal before she’d entered.
– Quick, quick, Saul’s come . . . coming . . .
I pushed her swiftly out and tried to hold it in by tightening my muscles. I pinched my foreskin but it was too late. Jism shot all over the Artex wall and gingham as I collapsed with a groan. Thank God, she had not witnessed my weakness, I told myself, and decided that before we could consummate correctly, I’d have to practise solving my duration problem.
*
The next morning she ran off in an excited fluster to Goldsmiths, to meet Lucas and Pierce and all her new art chums, to discuss her part in this
Bug
show. No sooner had Dot left than Saul leapt into my room, looking over his shoulder, then out the window checking she wasn’t coming back.
— Kitchen! he announced. — I have to speak to you in the strictest confidence. It was absurd, I seemed to be sneaking in and out of rooms with them both, for entirely opposite reasons. As I followed him into the grime and stench, I feared the worst.
— I cannot tolerate this situation a moment longer, he whispered.
I waited for his judgement on my betrayal.
He looked over his shoulder again at the front door.
— OK, if she comes back just pretend we’re washing the dishes or something.
At which point he turned on the tap. It blasted back at him, splashing his Victorian cravat and Blonde Ambition T-shirt. He made a play-act of pretending to wash the dishes, even going so far as to pull on the yellow rubber gloves.
— Alone at last, he said finally. – She’s incorrigible, like a bitch on heat! You know I can’t bear these psychological exertions . . . she’s becoming more than a little unhinged . . .
N’est-ce pas
?
