Down Among the Gods (15 page)

‘I haven’t,’ says Patrick. ‘I never took much interest in maintenance. Always got someone else to look after that side of things.’

‘Ah,’ says Gregory, ‘I see.’

Later that evening Jessie and Gregory go down to the local for a pint. Patrick decides to stay and watch television instead of joining them. Gregory is surprised, and is about to press him when he catches the urgent negative in Jessie’s eyes. It suits her fine.

‘What do you think?’ she says, as Gregory brings the glasses over to their table. It is Monday night, and the pub is almost empty.

‘He’s a good cook,’ says Gregory. He has not, in fact, found Patrick very interesting.

‘Is he gay?’ she says.

Gregory puts down his pint and sighs. ‘One of the problems with straight people,’ he says, ‘is that they think that anyone who’s gay is constantly on the lookout and automatically fancies anyone else who is gay.’

‘One of the problems with gay people,’ says Jessie, ‘is that they are always making generalisations about how straight people drink.’ She takes a few sips of her pint, then says, ‘Anyway, you are always on the lookout.’

‘So are you! It doesn’t mean you fancy every straight man you see, does it?’

‘You don’t fancy him, then?’

‘No.’ He doesn’t, at all. In fact he can’t understand what Jessie is so worked up about.

‘But did he fancy you?’

‘No.’ Gregory takes another swig from his pint, timing his moment. The beer mat is stuck to the bottom of the glass. He puts it down carefully and wipes his lips. ‘He fancies you, though.’

Jessie had intended to mention the circlet of hair she found. She had intended to describe Patrick’s strange behaviour and ask Gregory what he thought about it. But all that is forgotten now.

The door has been opened for Aphrodite.

‘Does he?’ says Jessie. She is so accustomed to concealing such feelings that she is attempting to hide them now even from Gregory. But he isn’t taken in. He digs her with his elbow and she breaks into a satisfied grin. ‘How do you know?’

‘It’s obvious. You can’t ask me how I know. I just do. I could see it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. I’d say he’s mad about you. Just a bit scared, that’s all.’

It’s a handy cop-out that one, often used by women as an explanation of why relationships fail to materialise, or fail to mature, or fail to last. It’s a misconception, though. There are exceptional cases, but in general men are bigger, stronger, and much more disposed towards aggression than women are. How could they possibly be afraid of them?

What they do often fear, with some justification, is the lurking and dimly perceptible presence of the immortals, waiting their chance to move in. In such cases women, too, are often scared.

Gregory is vaguely aware that he may be egging Jessie on into something he shouldn’t. There is something about Patrick that makes him uneasy, but he can’t put a finger on it. And the more he thinks about it, the more uneasy he becomes. There is a silence while Gregory ponders and Jessie fantasises.

Into the silence walks James, with Corrie on his arm. Gregory forgets Patrick instantly. He would forget Jessie, too, if she wasn’t sitting beside him. He and James have known each other for years. They have never been lovers and it’s unlikely that they ever will. James is into an entirely different scene. But there is, none the less, a great deal of open affection between them. Gregory nurses a private hope that he and James might end up their days together, if James survives.

But it won’t be for a while. James is currently very much in love with young Corrie. He met him at a party one night and drove him home. James has been in an emotional bind ever since. He will not pay Corrie to sleep with him. He has never paid anyone to sleep with him. But he wants to get Corrie away from the game and into a serious relationship.

Corrie exploits the situation magnificently. He has never had it so good. James takes him out, buys him clothes and meals and drinks, and always gives him money at the end of the day. He has no problem about giving Corrie money as long as he doesn’t sleep with him. He still hasn’t slept with him. Corrie is learning the arts of the geisha. He has James wrapped around his little finger.

Gregory calls them and they come over. Corrie is fidgety, so James sends him to the bar for a round of drinks. Jessie opts out. She has never liked James. She thinks that he teases Gregory and makes a fool of him, and Gregory can’t persuade her otherwise. She finishes her pint and stands up.

‘You going?’ says James. ‘I hope it isn’t on account of us.’

‘No,’ says Jessie, ‘I was just going anyway.’ She turns to Gregory. ‘Any last bit of advice?’

Gregory winks and says, ‘Go for it.’ Then as Jessie is halfway out of the door, he remembers the unease that he still hasn’t been able to identify. He calls out the first thing that comes into his mind, across the whole length of the pub. ‘Whatever you do, use a condom!’

Jessie laughs as she walks away down the street. Gregory has been on at her for years about the dangers of sex without condoms. She knows that he’s right, and a slight shiver runs through her as she considers the risk she’s about to take. But apart from the basic ungainliness of the things and the embarrassment they cause, Jessie will never forget the experience which put her off condoms for life.

She blames them for the break-up with Alec. They were living in Kentish Town in a small but comfortable flat. Jessie had been away for the weekend with her parents. Her father was just beginning to show signs of the dementia that was to make the last year of his life a torment and put the whole family under stress. It was the first time that either of her parents had given any indication that they might some day weaken and die and Jessie was alarmed, and anxious to share her feelings with Alec. But when she arrived home, Alec wasn’t in a position to be receptive to her distress. He was sitting very much at ease in the kitchen, drinking vodka and smoking a joint. And he had company.

It wasn’t that such circumstances were uncommon in their life. They had many friends, male and female, and Suzie was often around. But not, as far as Jessie knew, when she wasn’t there.

She joined them, and Suzie soon left. That might have been the end of it, except that when Jessie went into the bedroom to unpack her bag, her eye was drawn to the bedside table where Alec kept, among other things, the condoms.

The drawer was lying open. Jessie went and looked into it. Alec’s driving licence was there, and his passport and the spare set of keys to his mother’s house. Everything was there that was always there, including the condom packet. Open.

It was always open and so was the drawer. The only thing that wasn’t open before was the gateway to Jessie’s suspicions. Horrified, she sat down on the side of the bed. She remembered buying the packet at the chemist’s a fortnight ago. She remembered, she believed, how many times she and Alec had made love since.

Never count condoms. Better to count paving stones, lovers you have lost, or even noses you have broken. Count costs, if you must, count calories, and if you are suspicious, count your change. But never, never, count condoms.

Anything can happen. There’s always the one that falls down the edge of the bed, or the one that gets twisted and thrown away, or the one that might be left in a pocket on the off-chance of a quick one before dinner. But Jessie counted. Nothing was said. There were no scenes and no accusations, but within weeks of the occurrence, Alec was out. He’d had enough, he said, of Jessie’s carping criticism and her jealous, suspicious behaviour.

It was the first time that Aphrodite abandoned the scene in favour of Hera. But just now there is a reversal.

Patrick is still watching the television as Jessie climbs the stairs and goes into the bathroom. She keeps her hair dry while she showers and afterwards takes it out of its plaits. When she has finished she brushes her teeth, fits her dutch cap and ties up the cord of her dressing-gown. She has never before in her life been so bent on seduction.

Patrick sits up as Jessie comes into the room.

‘What are you watching?’ she says, as she crosses to the dressing-table.

‘A thriller, I think.’ Sometimes Patrick follows the plot of what he is watching and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes his mind goes off hunting around in itself, throwing up little startled birds of thought which drift warily back towards the coloured screen and disappear.

Jessie begins to brush her hair. ‘Is it good?’

‘Not really.’

‘Maybe there’s something else on? I wouldn’t mind watching something myself, tonight.’

Her hair has become a broad sheet which glistens and lifts at the ends with each sweep of the brush. Patrick watches, TV forgotten, as she puts down the brush and ties her hair loosely with a thin scarf of Indian cotton. His heart fills with terror as a familiar feeling, ancient and universal as time itself, rises up and threatens to take control of him. As Jessie turns towards him he stands up to leave, convinced, as he has been throughout his life, that such feelings originate outside himself and that the best way to escape them is to run. But Jessie passes by him and reaches up to flick through the channels. ‘
Miami Vice
?’ she says. He doesn’t reply, and when she turns round, his eyes are on her and not on the television. ‘Do you like
Miami Vice
?’

Patrick’s escape route is blocked. Since the feeling that he is experiencing is not his own, it must belong to her. The woman in front of him, like so many women before her, has become, for him, a goddess.

And Patrick can therefore absolve himself of all responsibility. He lets go; offers himself into her hands.

‘I don’t think I’ve tried it,’ he says, ‘but I probably would. I like most kinds of vice.’

Jessie laughs. ‘It’s great to have company,’ she says, stepping backwards away from the television. She pauses, close to him. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

She reaches out to touch his arm, in what could still be taken as a friendly gesture if necessary. But it isn’t. Patrick turns to her and slides his hand beneath that soft haven of hair where it so longs to go.

And Aphrodite claims them. Within her divine auspices, they will share, for a while, that blissful sense of union that comes upon lovers and remains for as long as they worship, without question, her power.

Lying beside Jessie in the semi-darkness of her room, Patrick knows that he wants this to work more than he has ever wanted anything before. And Jessie, her head on his shoulder, swears a solemn vow to herself that she will not be jealous, or critical, or possessive.

Me? It suits me down to the ground. I get on great with Aphrodite. We have a son, you know. Or a daughter, depending on which way you look at it. Hermaphroditus. Neither, actually. Both. Two in one. Aphrodite and I get on just fine.

That night, when she does eventually sleep, Jessie has a strange dream. In it, a weird-looking man with secateurs in his hand is climbing a pear tree. He winks at Jessie as he climbs down, then clambers into her lap. By this time he is shrinking and becoming an infant, but the only things that don’t recede in proportion are his genitals. They are the largest and most grotesque organs she has ever seen.

When she wakes, Jessie tries to make sense of the dream. She wonders if it means that she hates men and wants to castrate them. It worries her more than a little. She doesn’t tell Patrick, and it’s just as well. He wouldn’t have understood it, either.

Hardly anyone really understands the language of the messages I send.

I
N THE PRESENCE OF
Aphrodite, all other gods lose their authority. Who would stand against her? Where would any of them be without her, after all? She may not be mistress of creation, but she is mistress of procreation, and without that, there would be neither mortal upon earth nor immortal in the heavens.

Besides, everyone knows that she never stays around for too long.

Aphrodite has given Jessie and Patrick the strength they need to resist their former patrons, but it still isn’t easy. Patrick would go to the ends of the earth for Jessie, but he still doesn’t know how to begin dealing with himself. He is often withdrawn and moody, often restless, often anxious and tense. Occasionally he blows a fuse, throwing down some uncooperative tool or plaything and storming out in disgust. But he always takes pains to direct his anger away from Jessie, and to hide from her the worst depths of his depression. These are confined to the times when she is out of the house, or occupied with her work in the office, so she never sees him like that, staring for hours on end at one spot on the floor, his mind in monotony, churning the shallows. Whenever she returns her presence pulls him out and spurs him into activity of some kind or another, back in the here and now.

There are times at night, too, when he lies beside her, aware of her warmth and her comfort but alone none the less and unable to sleep. At those times he longs to wake her and ask her for help, but he doesn’t. He wouldn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know himself what it is that plagues him and threatens to pull him down into some awful abyss every time he sinks towards sleep. And he is afraid that she would not know, any more than he does, what he can do to escape it.

Jessie is more aware of his pain than she lets on. The temptation to organise him is strong, to get him up and get him going and cheer his life along. She could do it, she knows. But she won’t. She has made that mistake before.

The life drawing classes which brought them together have been forgotten. They have served their purpose, after all. Patrick blames his previous state of existence on the seductive nature of the London pub scene, so they don’t go drinking together. But they fill spare evenings with trips to the theatre or the cinema, or walks in the park or along the embankment, all those things that lovers do. And on days when Jessie isn’t overloaded with work, they stay in bed for much of the day and, unknowingly, worship Aphrodite.

Jessie is so charged with new vitality that she sometimes worries that she might be burning herself out. Patrick spends a lot of his time sleeping, but she is awake early each morning, no matter what time she got to sleep the previous night. She is delighted by the turn of events in her life, but it has all happened so abruptly that she finds herself unable to quite trust it and lives with the fear that it will end as suddenly as it began, and leave her once again washed up on the shore of someone else’s life. With that in mind, she makes concerted efforts to keep her work in order and give it as much time, if not more, than she did before Patrick came on the scene. Her mind is re-energised and constantly active; she works hard at trying to understand Patrick, analysing his behaviour and moods according to whichever of her favourite philosophies of life seems to fit them best at any given time, and now and then she meets with Gregory to discuss her different theories. And, as always happens when she encounters new love, her thoughts become dramatic and poetic. Occasionally she writes down a few lines of a poem or an idea for a story that she intends to return to, but time is too short and too precious, and Patrick’s presence is too demanding for her to find the time and the peace that she needs to put work into her writing. Nevertheless, she lives in the belief that she will have it some day, and that all that is happening now is as it is meant to be in order for that to come about.