A Clean Slate
by
Marc Ellis
Published in Redoubt, Volume 13, University of Canberra, 1992, ISSN 1030-4932
The deal had been clinched soon after.
You must not judge me, he had said to her. It is not necessary. I will not repeat your experiences for you.
He was calling his own bluff.
She had prepared him for this. Bad previous experiences and all that was associated with them were revealed, laid out on the table.
It was not him, he must understand. It was her. She knew that.
The deal had been clinched soon after.
I promise you. It will not happen.
It was too risky. She wished to die away, to fade, to find a wall to flatten against, to find a place with no echoes.
It is not necessary to repeat your experience, he had said to her. He would make sure of this.
I promise you, he had said, it will not happen. You must not pre-judge me. It is not necessary. I will not repeat your experiences for you. You can be too alone.
She had prepared him.
It was not him he must understand. It was her.
She knew that.
***
The river succumbed to a race of long - tailed taxis and a party of Americans came down to the hotel’s landing steps to board them.
I want another spritzer snared a Brooklyn accent, and I want it pretty quick.
There was a flash of white coats and a mop of clean black hair leaned into the boat. He could imagine a blonde old girl in tight pants.
George. This is warm. Get me another one.
Just a moment, he would say, brushing his fingers against red fingertips as he took the glass away, her sorrowful demanding pout passed on to his lips. She would have her spritzer, and pretty quick too.
***
The travel bag lies on the fake satin bedspread, lacerated by its zipper. Outside, the traffic of Bangkok completes another silent lap of Silom Road. He hitches up his trousers and smoothes out the shadow of the slim, square case he has removed from one pocket. The noise of the shower falling onto the putty-framed tiles provides applause. The digital clock watched him from the bedhead. Four fifteen am. The avalanches of shower water fall less frequently than before, and more heavily. The washing of hair.
It could seem a pity, he thinks.
He eases his arm into her suitcase and places the cigarette case next to her pill boxes and jars, then eases his back - clad arm from the hole evenly.
***
She had stripped naked before him and taken a dress from the open, packed bag on the bed in front of her. She bent when she was naked, using the function of the search for clothes as a reason for covering and hiding herself. Her knees were bent and jammed together, and she kept her head down.
I should have known I’d need a change before the plane.
He had made certain requests and they had been satisfied. The cigarette case was rectangular with a finely - sprung lid. Cloisonné, with an elegant pattern in emerald and ruby. He pressed the lid and felt the small whir of the mechanism release it. The stuff was packed densely and bore the imprint of the lid’s underside. Things had gone smoothly.
***
Their hotel room overlooked Wat Arun. Stuck to each other, they wound their way into the shower where the distilled water fell off their skin and splattered on the porcelain. Only the odd drop survived, trickling and creaking into the cracks between them, cleansing, eroding. The rest rose in furious clouds to blend with the marble walls.
The sun was rising.
The Temple of Dawn he said. He felt his lips move in and against her ear. Multi - coloured mosaics, he said.
She pressed her head back against him and let the water run into her eyes and slide down her nose. It catapulted off her chin and fell onto her breasts, running over his hands and slipping between his fingers.
Porcelain mosaics, he said. Smashed porcelain.
He heard a laugh. She had not read the guidebooks. Setting his shoulders hard against the tiles he edged his feet together, clutched with one hand at her thigh, and pulled her to him.
The sun was moving, illuminating the handbasin, the bidet, and the huge towel which waited for them spread out on the rail, ready to enfold, to comfort, to disguise.
***
Their shopping had been peaceful, desultory. A silk suit off the peg and some scarves; an ounce of perfume and a cloying array of crèmes, moisturiser and soap, all only marginally cheaper than they were at home. Everything had come from the one department store, except for the cigarette case which she had dutifully bought for him at the government jewellery shop.
Now we can just watch, he said, leading her by the arm into the smog of Siam Square. We don’t have to do anything.
At Wat Arun, she ran ahead of him to climb the steps.
It’s easy, he had told her, handing her down from the tuk tuk. They were meant to be climbed. It has a function.
She had already run off, pursuing the smile she had managed to paint on her lips in the taxi. He could hear her laughing ahead, and the souvenir sellers scattered before her at the foot of the stairs.
The porcelain mosaics confused his vision. All he was sure of was the river, the tuk tuk and the high prang ignoring the sun.
She was gone. The souvenir sellers resumed their places. The heat flew with a quiet, steady hum and the taxi driver turned his back and sauntered towards a noodle stall beside the entrance.
She’s gone he said to himself, accepting the slight breeze relayed by the teak trees, hearing the slow thump of the temple bells. A cushion of clean, dry fur floated in the klong, and the grey water lapped at the sharp teeth of a drowned dog.
It fell in, he rationalized, not seeing the souvenir sellers as he mounted the steps.
It was an accident.
***
At the restaurant beside the river they chose their fish from a tank and said how they wanted it.
She agreed with everything he suggested. He could see the agreement welling up within her. Opposite the restaurant was a pink door set in a pink wall. A small, black dot was set in the door, and a compact doorbell was small but prominent below it. As they ate, several men came to the door, rang the doorbell and, after waiting for a few minutes, they were admitted. It was impossible to see who admitted them. The ends of some fingers, unmarked by rings or nail polish, by any indication of sex at all; the curve of the arm as it increased in substance from the wrist, that was all that could be seen.
Open and shut. They were all types, the men who rang the doorbell, and they all stood patiently waiting, indifferent to the calm curiosity of the diners who watched them and ate their fish and pushed the greasy durian around the frosty plates.
Her head was bent sightly forward and she was holding a piece of the foetid green fruit to her reaching lips. Another man was swallowed by the door and the importance of a clean slate, of blamelessness, sang out to him from the silence of the door’s black dot.
She had prepared him for this and he had called his own bluff. Bad previous experiences and all that was associated with them had been revealed, laid on the table, well in advance of this. He stood forewarned. He had been greedy, unable to control himself.
The durian was eaten; the last green smears across the plate they had shared exhausted any opportunities for respite from the decision of which had then informed himself, leaning, looking into her eyes.
Tired? We could walk if you’re up to it.
He took her arm and led her through the hotel arcade to the street, knowing that she would succumb to the first tuk tuk that blocked their path.
***
All ready?
She states this as happily as she can bear, smoothing back her damp, combed hair and putting her palms to her freshly-hydrated cheeks. She holds the towel. She has dressed damply in the bathroom.
All ready he replies, moving towards her. He reaches to take the towel, not going close to her. He throws the towel onto an armchair and zips up the suitcase.
All ready he replies, smiling for a moment tenderly at her.
© Marc Ellis 1992
