The Slap (51 page)

Hector rolled off her, flicked off the condom and chucked it on the floor. His shorts dangled from his left foot, his shirt was open to his midriff and he rubbed the moist thick hair on his chest. He hadn’t taken off his sandals. She raised herself on her elbow and took his red, still half-erect cock in her palm. Droplets of watery semen oozed out of the top of his foreskin.

He shuddered, pushed her hand away. ‘It’s too tender,’ he complained. She wiped her hand across the bedding. He softly kissed her on the lips.

‘Do you want to come?’ he asked.

She shook her head and returned his kiss. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘I don’t need to. I’m happy.’

 

Over the next few days she fell in love with Ubud. The town itself consisted of a cluster of villages and she and Hector immediately fell into a routine that consisted of having a tropical breakfast served on the balcony of their room, then taking a long walk through the forests or the villages, before coming back at noon for a swim in the art deco pool at the hotel. The water was fresh and clean, and Aisha loved standing underneath the tall battered stone statue of a laughing, reclining Buddha which poured water into the pool. After their swim they would have a drink by the pool, read, and then stroll into town for lunch. After lunch there would be more exploration of the countryside, or the crowded market where freshly slaughtered meat and plump fruit and vegetables were sold to the villagers while the tourists strolled through the walkways above, bartering for fake designer watches, rolls of cheap fabrics, and small faux-silver and bronze icons. In the late afternoon they would return to their hotel, have another swim to refresh themselves, and then wander the main street for a place to eat. The stroll returning home in the afternoon became her favourite time of day. They would take a zigzag path, follow the tiny alleys that took them past courtyards where, in the cooling shade of evening, young women would light incense and proffer offerings to the shrines of their ancestors. In the back streets they were not bothered by touts, or the surly desperate drivers. They would be largely ignored except for a shy smile from the young women, a polite grin from workmen and the pealing laughter of the old women and children.
Hello, hello
, the children would call out to them in their sing-song English,
Where you from?
They would fall about laughing when told they were Australian and a boy would invariably call out a mangled,
Goodday
, while another would mime the hops of a kangaroo.

The outrageous poverty of the island, the all-too-obvious reliance on a faltering tourist trade was something she and Hector had discussed on their first night, and from them on he refused to barter, simply handing over the amount of
Rupiah
first requested by a hawker or a stall owner. She had to stand away from him when he went to buy something, a shirt, presents for the children and his family, because she was embarrassed that the Balinese mistook his extravagance for him being a dupe. She had to stop herself reprimanding him, You could have got it for half the price, because she knew he would answer, I’m not going to haggle for something worth less than a coffee back home. She could not bring herself to be like him. She was her father’s daughter and believed that negotiation and bartering were integral to trade. But in Ubud, uncharacteristically, she favoured the seller in bargaining, and she tipped generously.

The leisurely pace of village life was attractive to both of them, but Aisha was also conscious that everyone, man, woman and child, worked hard. It was obvious in the bowed bodies of the old women in the rice paddies, in the weathered, leathery hands of the workmen rebuilding the bridge over the river, or the drenched skin of the young stonemasons they passed on the way back from the Monkey Forest. The calm, dutiful morning and evening offerings to the ancestors, the gentle smiles, the intense organic smells of the tropics, the submission to work and family, the sharp light and constant shine of the Asian sun, the cheer and fearlessness of the children who ran and roamed the streets freely—an abandonment lost to her children; Aisha fell in love with Ubud.

 

The peace was shattered on their third night with their first argument. The day had begun badly. Hector had woken her before breakfast with a silly, lascivious grin on his face and his fat erection poking in her thigh. She had submitted to his lovemaking—penance for her adultery, the thought wickedly and shamefully crossing her mind as her husband mounted her—but she resisted his roughness. She could see his puzzlement: delighted by her animal hunger on that first day, he had no doubt assumed that she was willing to indulge what she found the most prurient of his appetites—to dominate her, to get off on the aggression in sex. But she felt unable to be reckless and realised that she resented his assumption. She felt like a whore; after Art Hector was now fucking her like a whore. With her consent, yes, even with her encouragement. But as he slobbered over her while she attempted to bring herself fully into consciousness, all she felt was a repulsion for the absurd theatrics of his lust. They were not newly-weds, adolescents embarking on a new affair. They were husband and wife, parents. She rolled out from underneath him as soon as he had climaxed and left him lying naked on the bed, embarrassed and resentful while she went into the openair bathroom, splashed water on her face and looked into the mirror. She felt lousy. And her period was coming.

Hector had been snarly all through breakfast, and snappy and uncommunicative on their walk. She was happy with the slowness of the pace in Ubud and happy to remain in the mountains for the duration of the week. Hector, she knew, would prefer to spend a few days at the beach, his argument being that it was not a real holiday unless it involved lying on the sand somewhere by the sea. Aisha, who had been raised on the edge of the nurturing solitude of the Indian Ocean, did not agree. Western Australia probably had the best beaches in the world. She had been to the Mediterranean, and indeed, the azure waters were breathtaking, the joy of life on the Greek islands was intoxicating, but she had detested sharing a beach with scores of other humans. Her upbringing had spoiled her. She felt no need to visit Balinese tourist beaches.

They returned to the hotel tired, sweating, and Hector wordlessly headed to the pool, dumped his bag on a fold-out chair, stripped to his underpants and hurled himself into the water.

When he emerged he was smiling. ‘Come in,’ he called out. ‘It’s refreshing.’

‘I’ll go change.’

‘No need. Strip to your panties.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

He came to the pool’s edge. She realised he was pulling at his cock under the water. ‘There’s no one around.’

‘There’s the staff.’

He laughed. ‘They won’t mind. We’re just decadent Westerners. I’m sure they expect it.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not a decadent Westerner. I’ll go get into my bathers.’

‘Suit your fucking self.’

His mood had darkened again and he dived back under the water. She cursed him as she walked back to the room. He was a child. He was a child every time he did not get his own way. He wanted her to agree to the beach, he obviously wanted a cigarette, he wanted everything to go his way. She did not look at him as she dived into the pool. The water was indeed lovely, another world away from the thick, humid wall of heat. She swam laps and then floated on her back, staring at the white wisps of cloud in the startling sky above.

Hector’s mood continued to sour all afternoon and by dinner time he was spoiling for a fight. She had suggested going to La Luna for dinner. It was expensive, for Bali at least, but the food was excellent and she loved that the balcony looked over the hothouse lushness of the river.

Hector groaned at the suggestion. ‘Again. We’ve already been there for dinner and once for lunch. I want to do something different. ’

‘Fine.’ She was sitting at the vanity table, putting in new earrings she had bought that afternoon from a stall in town. She jiggled her ears. They looked good. ‘There’s heaps of places. We’ll find somewhere else.’

‘I’m bored.’ He sat on the bed scowling at her. She looked at him in the mirror. His hair was plastered back against his scalp. He had just finished showering and his towel was loosely folded across his lap. In two days his skin had tanned dark. She turned away from his reflection and concentrated on her earrings. She had been startled again by how handsome her husband was. Even with the sprinkle of grey in his hair and unshaven face, he looked much younger than his years. It seemed an apt irony that she, who prided herself on her cool, rational logic, was still locked into a love for this man that sprang completely from desire. Sometimes she didn’t know if she even liked Hector—he could be such a lout. He was still scowling heavily at her, she could sense it behind her back, like Adam in a temper, waiting for her to make things right. But Adam was a child and Hector was middle-aged. She might not like her husband but she still thought him the most beautiful man in the world. Beside her, together, they looked a great couple. They inspired envy. She was startled by his shout.

‘I’m bored,’ he called out, clownishly falling back on the bed, his legs in the air, the wet towel slipping to the floor. ‘I’m fucking bored with fucking Ubud.’ He rolled back to his feet. ‘Let’s go tomorrow. It will be full-moon Thursday. Let’s go and see the full moon in Amed.’

He was such a child.

‘I’m sure every driver on the island claims that the full moon looks best from their village. I like Ubud. I don’t see any reason to leave.’

‘I want to swim.’

‘That’s why we booked a place with a pool.’

‘I want to swim in the sea.’

Adam was exactly like Hector. What would she say to Adam? ‘If you want to go to Amed, you organise it. You organise the travel, the hotel, the drive back to the airport. If you take care of it all I’m happy to go wherever.’

He eyed her suspiciously. ‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Nah.’ He sniffed dismissively. ‘You’ll hold it against me.’

She swung the chair around. ‘I will not.’

‘You won’t like the room I book, you’ll find something to complain about.’

She turned back to the mirror. ‘Fuck you, Hector. I’m not your mum.’

It was a good shot, she had wounded him. He went silent. She finished applying her make-up and looked around for her shoes.

‘Sandi’s pregnant.’

She didn’t respond, wary of the dangerous terrain they were entering.

‘She’s past the first trimester.’ A pause. ‘Harry told me just before I left for here.’

She was certain he purposefully had missed a beat between sentences. The bastard was toying with her. ‘That’s good news for Sandi.’ She managed a smile, and headed towards the bathroom. ‘I’m very happy for her.’

She heard his mutter. He said it low, under his breath, but it was clear and distinct.
‘Bet you aren’t so happy for Harry, are you?’

Why did those words sting so much? Why did she feel so ludicrously jealous? She
was
jealous. She wanted him to choose between her and his cousin. It seemed so simple. She wanted his loyalty. She would not think about Art: she deserved her husband’s loyalty. Harry was a violent, cruel man.

She sat on the toilet seat and looked up at the sky. She didn’t know what she was doing in the bathroom. The clouds had disappeared and the emerging constellations beamed down at her. She could smell the nutty sour spices of Indonesian food.

He knocked on the door. ‘I need to get dressed.’

He was still in a temper. She rose and flushed the toilet. She walked past him without speaking.

She wished she could go back to the beginning of the day and change everything. Wake before Hector, suggest a lazy morning by the pool rather than a long, hot walk. But the day had begun as it had, and it seemed determined to follow its own course. Every step seemed to escalate their animosity so that by the time they sat down to dinner they could not complete a sentence without wanting to kill each other. He had suggested they have a drink and then dinner at a posh-looking restaurant set in the grounds of a Hindu temple. A moat covered in gigantic luxuriant lily pads surrounded the tables. She wanted to eat there but she was still pissed off with him for refusing to return to La Luna and so she just replied shortly, No, let’s not go there. It’s too expensive. He didn’t answer. Instead he walked ahead at an infuriating rate, so that she had to almost run to keep up with him. An anxious-looking young man stepped out to offer them a car and Hector spat out the words, Fuck off, in his face. The man recoiled, as if Hector was a viper in his path, as if he was the very devil himself. Aisha was convinced that Hector’s temper was due to his not smoking. She was going to buy him a packet of cigarettes. She’d bloody well force them down his throat. Let him die early. She wanted him to die early. She raced after her husband, slipping on the uneven broken footpath and nearly twisting an ankle. Hector didn’t even bother to stop. It was not just the smoking, there was something about a holiday that accentuated every irritation and annoyance she felt about her husband. What they had together over the last three days was uninterrupted time and that was something that had not been theirs for years. Again she wondered, Do I really like this man?

Hector abruptly turned into an over-lit touristy cabana. A four-piece band was glumly picking and hitting their gamelan instruments, playing traditional Indonesian music as if it was muzak in a mall. The place was terrible and she knew Hector knew it and had veered inside deliberately.

‘Will this do?’

She wanted to hit him.

Instead, she nodded.

The young Balinese waitress rushed over to them and they were seated. The nervous young girl, in hesitant English, offered them menus. Hector ordered beers for both of them. The waitress inquired about what they would like to eat and Hector slapped the menu on the table. Give us a bloody moment. The girl, shocked, embarrassed, stared at him, and then hung her head and bowed. Aisha could not bring herself to look at her.