This One Sky Day, page 13
Man who soft
We don’t want no man who soft
‘Macaenus! What a shame and a disgrace!’
He looked up, shielding his eyes in the sun. The woman standing over him was gesticulating so madly he thought for a minute she had multiple limbs or faces.
‘Is alright, sis. I waiting with everybody.’
‘No, no. You don’t hear it?’ She pointed at the radio.
He listened obediently.
It was the kind of popular, mischievous ditty perfected only in Popisho. The small Christian population regularly objected to the bawdiness, but he quite liked this kind of song, even with the sound of Puppa Gyallis’ chuckling.
Man who soft
We don’t want no man who soft
Man who soft
We don’t want no man who soft
Soft in the head (can’t work well)
Soft in the bed (curse from hell)
All women cry a thousand tears
Cast all soft man into the sea
That seemed reasonable enough to him.
There is a man
Say him name cook-man
(you know him, you know him)
But he can’t fry in the bedroom, no
Cast him out
Suck your teeth
Soft man give the woman wine
But they never get no meat
He was frozen. The woman hovering above him called out to the crowd.
‘You see this man singing song about our macaenus?’
A chorus of voices, most of them female, came at him from all directions.
‘Nothing wrong with him meat – look how tall him is!’
‘Tall with small meat not good! Give me a short man if the bed-part good and strong!’
‘Is not size he singing about! He say macaenus don’t have no rhythm. You never have a big man dip down too far and mash up you insides?’
The woman nearest put her hands on her hips.
‘He a lie! Macaenus, you can dance?’
Man who soft
We don’t want no man who soft
More women were joining in now, tsssking and sucking teeth and calling out and arguing with each other. He thought of getting to his feet, wondered what he might do next if he managed it, aware of his own thudding embarrassment.
‘I bet that singing man jealous, he own woman want the macaenus, that is all! Everybody know Xavier Redchoose son of Pewter is a fine and decent man. He leave him whoring days behind him, long time!’
Hell and damnation, he’d never had any whoring days.
‘Still mourning him wife in deep respect!’
‘Who say is macaenus he singing about? Is not only him cook in Popisho!’
Soft in the head (can’t work well)
Soft in the bed (curse from hell)
‘You don’t hear the song say we know him? Macaenus, is you vex this nasty singing man?’
All women cry a thousand tears
He couldn’t speak. He wanted to. He brought the moth bag up to his nose. What would happen, which gods would cry, if he lifted the thing to his mouth, swallowed the moth whole and cursed them all?
Throw all soft man into the sea
‘Gods, the tune wicked, though!’
Darling make you come to me
‘Macaenus! I have some bizzi tea for any bedroom problem, set you up right!’
Throw all soft man into the sea
Come to me
Come to me
‘Is true what the man saying, macaenus?’
Throw all soft man into the sea
He could barely shake his head, this concrete thing, creaking. Men were looking and grinning, nudging each other.
‘Mas’ Redchoose, talk up for yourself! Slackness and nastiness!’
Someone turned the radio off, mid-play. Blam. Silence.
The clucking died. The women stared. His throat dry-clicked.
Come here, Xavier. Smell me.
The young man with golden-stranded dark hair who’d turned off the radio flung himself down on the jetty beside Xavier. Legs so long his toes might brush the sea.
‘Well, that song is a lie,’ he murmured.
As if they’d known each other for a very long time, now.
11
Anise burst out of the back doors of the factory and stood, gulping the air, looking for the woman with the orange paint. There she was: swinging her paint can, marching across the road towards a squat, bright pink, two-storied house. The building reminded Anise of a huge peeled watermelon; she could practically count the seeds.
Anise glanced up at the factory and burst into laughter. The building was glistening, its green walls caked in orange letters: across the doors, still wet, on the diagonal, so neatly done, like taking obedient dictation at school.
WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR
ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE?
WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR
ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE?
WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR
ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE?
WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR
ALTERNATIVE? WHAT’S YOUR ALTERNATIVE?
This woman was as bold as Ingrid. It delighted her.
Anise trotted across the road and through the melon-house gate. The low wall surrounding the property was thick with tangled bougainvillea, yard lush with otaheite and custard apple trees. Swarms of box-down-red anthuriums: wet, as if pulled out of some creature’s innards. Lizards rustling in the bush, and mice. The wheet-whoot of an unknown bird and the jingle of a backyard river. The acrid mess of an animal. Grass thick with shame-my-lady plants, their miniature green buds closing as she brushed past them.
The paint can sat on the front veranda step; a damp, clean brush laid on top of it, unapologetic. A large bare foot, well shaped and carefully moisturised, poked out of a frayed white hammock, the other tucked underneath the paint-woman’s derriere. She was splayed gloriously, her breasts up close to heaven, her thigh cuff as beautiful and expensive as Anise had hoped.
‘You bring money?’ The foot swayed.
‘Money?’ asked Anise.
The woman lifted her head, so they were eye to eye. ‘You don’t come to a whorehouse and get no freeness.’ The tunic rode up so high Anise was tempted to look away.
She might have known there’d be whores here, what with the quiet and the privacy and so many factory men. She was one of few healers who worked with them. Tan-Tan liked to talk about their loose morals and idleness, so she’d never told him. He was probably scornful about this place, too; he’d never mentioned it. It annoyed her when he tried to protect her from reality, as if she didn’t see nastiness on a regular. She could use more whores in her work, truth be told – these days more people were begging credit or offering payment in kind, arriving with bags of avocado, shelled gungo peas and fried breadfruit. Whores paid their bills promptly, with cash-money: duggu-duggu was always in demand, regardless of economics.
‘Well?’ said the woman with the beautiful foot.
‘You get a lot of woman paying for your services?’
‘Some.’ The woman shrugged. ‘Not as many as we should.’
‘I don’t think is something woman really seek out.’
‘That is because some man tell them so.’
‘Well. I married.’ She felt stupid as soon as she said it.
The woman sniggered. ‘All the more reason to come here.’ Her voice was nasal, a high-hill accent, sentences ending on a soft uh sound. Anise was surprised. Most whores were peasants, but this accent meant the woman came from money. Certainly more expensive than her family.
‘So why you come?’ asked the woman.
Anise gestured at the orange paint can. ‘You doing a little painting, sis.’
The woman smiled. ‘Don’t call me sis, like you know me. You in my place, and I don’t even hear your name.’
‘Um … Mariella.’ It was the first word that popped into her head.
‘Just Mariella, so-so, no family name, no mother name? You very informal. You think I’m a street girl? That is why you won’t tell me your name?’
‘What you name?’
‘Eh-eh! So you can run go police and tell them you find the Orange Man? Tell them Hot Crotches send you – that name them will recognise.’ Her smile was a beautifully white thing, stretching across her face, so knowing. ‘But you can call me Mistress Mixielyn Establishment the Second, daughter of Esther. Um-Mariella.’
‘Mixie, for short?’ It wasn’t easy, teasing this calm and scornful whore. On the roof, ground doves shuffled and flapped.
‘You don’t tell me yet which service I can provide for you, Miss Married Lady.’
‘I only follow you to ask you about painting up the factory.’
‘You know, I revise my original theory.’ Mixie wagged her finger solemnly. ‘Is a special kind of woman come here to pay for a grind, and you don’t look that special.’
‘You really not answering my question?’
‘I think you have a man – excuse me, husband – and he have a habit of coming here for a little pum-pum, and you just finding out.’
‘I – wouldn’t – what –?’
Mixie’s grin grew broader and all the more bumptious.
‘Mmm-hm! I did know it. What him penis look like? If you ever look at it. So many gentlemen come here because them wives don’t like them penis.’ Mixie was gleeful. ‘No, forget that, too! You the other kind.’
‘What other kind?’
‘You want lessons! You come to find out how him move and what him say. You want to sit down and share wine with us. Tell your friend them how you spend a whole hour talking to whore.’ Mixie rocked the hammock, clapping her hands together. ‘You need me to teach you how to suck a man, Mariella? Only cost a few of your white-robe coins.’
‘Who you think you talking to?’ She was getting angry out loud, and she hadn’t done that for whole heap of time.
‘No shame, if you need instruction, my dear. Maybe him bored why him nah fuck you. Don’t mean him don’t love you.’
‘I don’t need lessons!’ Anise’s voice rose an octave. Why was it so rass hot today and why them damn dove on the roof and mouse in the bush couldn’t shut up? ‘I don’t need any – lessons –!’
‘You know, time getting on.’ Mixie slid out of the hammock gracefully, like a mongoose: swuuuups. She was grinning, holding up both hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘Is alright. Is fine. You can fuck.’
‘I never have no complaint! I—’
‘You don’t have to prove anything to me, Mrs Mariella. Everything just fine.’
‘My name is not Mariella!’
‘Hush. I never mean to upset you. If you want to make a contribution for more paint you can leave the coin right there on the paint can.’
Before Anise could say another word, Mixie pulled open a pink door and went into the house, slamming it behind her. Anise stood staring, aware of her jaw hanging open. She could hear the other woman’s laughter, carolling through the windows.
Oh no, you did not just slam a rass door in my face.
‘Mixie!’ She wrenched the door open and ducked inside. ‘Mixie! If you don’t come back, I swear I going call up the radio and tell them you paint up Intiasar factory!’
Laughter, somewhere tinkling.
Anise snapped her mouth shut, the sound of her own voice harsh in her ears.
Three ceiling fans undulated in the rafters.
She had never been inside a whorehouse.
There was no vulgar erotic art or women exposing themselves, only new bamboo chairs and large, plump blue cushions. Everything so very clean. Newly waxed floors. She could smell the shine.
She heard scuffling somewhere to her left, and the creak of stairs.
‘Mixie?’
The scuffling abated. She listened to the fans whistling. Where were the other women? Did they have the day off for holiday gallivanting? Maybe they only worked at night.
The next room looked more like she’d imagined: eight velvety chaises longues, clustered around three large and intricate changing screens. Through the windows, she could see the quivering Dukuyaie hills. A thin red stream poured down one of the rises, snaking its way around trees; a river turned red with bauxite? She fingered a screen. The artist had worked in purples and blues: fish in trees, birds lolling underground, winged lizards. She guessed the women hid behind them, and were presented like confectionery, to be chosen.
She missed sex.
There had been three serious men, and a few others, before Tan-Tan. She was a good lover, whatever Mixie said: enthused, appreciative, even skilled. Her healing hands helped slow the grind, helped eager men who popped too fast. She’d liked the layered negotiation of sex, from the very beginning. It wasn’t just pleasurable, or intimate; it was interesting.
She missed her husband’s body. The longer she did without it, the less she could imagine doing something with it.
Snapping at Mixie was ridiculous. This sudden need to prove she felt all these things and could do all these things surprised her.
You had just the right number of man before bitterness full up your spine.
Four serious men, if she counted Xavier Laurence Redchoose.
No, no, she couldn’t count him.
She stood abruptly, hesitated, then slipped behind a screen. She rested her chin on the top of the frame, peeping out at the expectant chaise longue. She slid a finger down the side. Thought of men watching her. Tan-Tan, watching her.
Xavier, watching her.
Such a name on the lips. Slow: Zaaaay-vee-er.
She twirled, crouched down, popped her head up and over, smiled at an imaginary, admiring audience, waved. She teetered on the wrong foot, smelled herself as she lifted her arm. Of course, she would never. Sell her body. Who could name that price?
She pushed out her bottom lip and sighed.
Was Tan-Tan punishing her? What man refused a woman’s body, laid out and waiting?
Bastard.
Stop it.
Why you not angry?
Did all whores sleep this mellow? Like children put to nap? There was something prim about this whorehouse. Which man could grab or snatch or fuck raw in here?
Anise kicked off her sandals and rotated her ankle from behind the screen. She stuck one arm out and waggled it.
Greetings, macaenus.
She’d tried to be patient. A man was not a woman. But she’d finally asked Tan-Tan straight. Standing at the door of the room where he weaved, needles and cloth in soft bundles around them. I mean, what we doing, Tan-Tan? You vex I say no? You feel bad? You feel sad? You … don’t want me no more? Because I can’t take this for too long. His eyes had been limitless, looking up at her calmly from his loom. The three minutes in which he said nothing at all, just looked through the back of her head, were so like forever that she’d cried out, and crept away shivering.
After that, asking would be begging. And in this life, she was not begging a man for sex, again.
She examined herself in one of the mirrors. Thirty-seven and she didn’t look bad. Her skin was clear and healthy, a little swollen below the eyes.
So you don’t think he cheating on you.
How the hell I supposed to know?
But what you think?
It’s possible.
And if he a dog, you want to sleep with a dog?
No, if he really a dog, I gone.
She pulled a face at her reflection, stuck her tongue out. Let Mixie come in now, and see her playing like a little girl, nah? She turned away from the mirror and surveyed the stairs and landing above her. Stepped forward. Heard a thunk! sound as something hit the floor.
She glanced down and saw her own vulva rolling at her feet.
Oh Jesus have mercy.
Somewhere, past the shock, she was amused at invoking her father’s lone god.
Oh lord lord have meeeercy.
Her entire pum-pum had come loose: like a heavy battery falling out when the tiny locking device is retracted. Compact, self-contained. No blood, no mess. Just a chunk of her, lying there, rocking slowly.
Anise screamed. Then when nothing happened, she stopped screaming. She bent closer, shaking her head wildly.
‘Oh my gods – oh my gods – oh my gods.’
The vulva stared up at her, like a meaty bit of cake. Yes, that was it: someone had sliced into her pelvis and scooped out the whole thing. She might cup it all in a handful. There were freckles. She hadn’t known that about herself.
Oh my gods. Do something, anything.
The swirls of hair, the openings and curls – at this angle it made an odd kind of face.
My pum-pum laughing at me.
Check to make sure you not dead.
What?
Just check.
She took her pulse, slapped her cheek, pulled her hair, pinched herself, trod on her own foot. Most of it hurt.
So you not dead, then?
No, fool!
She dared not feel between her empty thighs – the prospect of a gaping hole was horrifying. Sharp, broken pelvic bones, dangling fallopian tubes; would she be able to touch her own intestines? She swallowed spittle, trying to stay calm. She had to do something, but what?
You don’t name healer? Heal something!
The voice in her head was quite hysterical.
Even if she could put it back, would it ever be the same again?
Oh lord, have mercy. Who know what could happen to a pumpum, out in the world on its own?
Anise took a deep breath, grabbed the vulva, parted her knees, crouched and shoved it back. There was a kind of voom noise, as if a void had been blocked. The entrance to the universe, perhaps. It tickled. She giggled ridiculously.
No pain.
