Reading Madame Bovary Read online

  Reading Madame Bovary

  AMANDA LOHREY

  Reading Madame Bovary

  Published by Black Inc.,

  an imprint of Schwartz Media Pty Ltd

  37–39 Langridge Street

  Collingwood VIC 3066 Australia

  email: [email protected]

  http://www.blackincbooks.com

  Copyright © Amanda Lohrey 2010

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

  or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

  The National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Lohrey, Amanda

  Reading Madame Bovary / Amanda Lohrey.

  9781863954907 (pbk.)

  Short stories

  A823.3

  Book design by Thomas Deverall

  Typeset by Duncan Blachford

  Printed in Australia by Griffin Press

  For Jan McKemmish

  1950–2007

  CONTENTS

  Primates

  Reading Madame Bovary

  Ground Zero

  Freedom, Order and the Golden Bead Material

  Perfect

  The Art of Convalescence

  The Existence of Other Men

  John Lennon’s Gardener

  Letter to the Romans

  PUBLICATION DETAILS

  Primates

  Isadora

  That’s me. Isadora Kay Munz. My mother called me Isadora because she greatly admired Isadora Duncan. A free woman, she used to say, I wanted to name you after a free woman. What’s a free woman? I wondered then, and still I haven’t figured it out. I hated the name, Isadora, and the fact that my family called me Izzie. When I reached sixteen I announced to everyone that hereafter I wanted to be called Jackie (after Jackie Onassis, whom I greatly admired) but soon the borrowed glamour of that wore thin. When I made out my first job application I signed myself I. Kay Munz and I’ve been Kay ever since.

  From time to time my mother will bring the subject up with reproach. I gave you a distinguished name, she’ll say, and you have made yourself ordinary.

  I fall back on my schoolgirl Latin. Alis volat propriis: she flies with her own wings.

  The house

  The house is in Strathfield, Sydney, Australia, The Southern Hemisphere, The World, The Universe. It is a medium-sized Victorian terrace, six metres wide. Too dark, like all terraces, and with an immense mortgage that weighs on our brains like the hunch on a hunchback. We’ve been here six years and still we are unable to afford the repairs that would restore it to some level of gentrified grace and comfort. The walls and ceilings are flaking near the cornices, there’s a brown damp patch in the corner of the dining-room ceiling, the bathroom still has the pink bath and the baby-blue tiles that our predecessor, a Portuguese bricklayer and cement contractor, got as a bargain deal.

  Every night I dream about houses; some of them vast and palatial where I wander from room to room, others small and cramped and Dickensian. Sometimes the roof is missing, sometimes it’s a wall. Sometimes there are no doors or windows. Sometimes a great crack opens in the foundations. Sometimes a bright light floods the house and I am happy.

  The list

  I begin each day by reading the list I have made the night before.

  Sometimes this is the first thing I do in the morning after I sit up in bed. Here is a list of things I might do in one day. Every day the items change but never the length of the list.

  – defrost meat in morning for dinner in evening

  – make school lunches

  – put on load of washing

  – give dog flea tablet

  – sign permission note for school excursion and fold into

  envelope with seven dollars in change

  – change Rebecca’s dental appointment

  – buy white cardboard for Ben’s school project

  – buy replacement air filter

  – buy and post birthday card for George

  – buy stamps from slot machine, fresh ham for school lunches,

  ditto apples

  – pick Ben up from aftercare

  – hear Ben’s reading practice

  – wash mosquito nets in ti-tree oil

  – cook dinner

  And then there’s my job. All of the above is just maintenance.

  Sex

  But I remember whole days spent in the pursuit of sex, not the act itself, but the preparation and anticipation. A date (single) or assignation (married) in the evening; shopping for a satin and lace chemise, a bodystocking, revealing enough to titillate but not absurd enough (red heart-shaped net with black lace, too ridiculous) to make us both laugh (inwardly), to bring on that fatal self-consciousness which is death to ecstasy – which is loss of self, or loss of all but a small corner, one blind focal point of self. The lingerie was not for him: I wanted something new for each new occasion, a new charge, no old associations. This was the flood of sexuality that motherhood dammed. Or dispersed. Men don’t know how to handle this in the women they live with – they resist it when what they should do is enter into it; become the father as sexual object. A man who is good with a child takes on a new and subtle, but potent, sexual charge for the mother of the child. If only they knew.

  The brothel

  It’s 8.10 on a Monday morning and as usual I am at the station waiting for my train, waiting for it to throttle to the platform with its loose, dusty rattle.

  They are filthy, these Sydney trains – never wear white to work on public transport – but once I am seated my mind tends to wander. This morning I find that suddenly I am reliving a recent fantasy, the one about the brothel. Some time ago I read about a male brothel in Paris. Yes, a male brothel. Those films about respectable housewives who secretly want to be prostitutes make me laugh. That’s a male fantasy! Women want to go to brothels alright, but as customers, not workers. In the weekend papers I read about this brothel, and dozing on the couch in the sunroom I drifted into a prolonged fantasy. What would it be like, this place? How would it work? The best thing about it would be its evanescence: easy come (sic), easy go. And now I find I’m reliving this fantasy, on the morning commute of all places.

  Burwood!

  The harsh nasal burr of the PA system breaks into my reverie like a buzz-saw hitting a brick. But in the overall scheme of things it’s a minor distraction. I see a large house, in the eastern suburbs maybe; or it could be a nondescript building in the city, an old office complex, three floors rented out; or a former private hotel of small apartments. I go in, and look through a one-way mirror at some young men playing cards in the parlour. They sit with their shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow and my eyes caress their tanned forearms, their elegant necks and cropped heads and you can smell them, through the walls, their salty, spicy smell, and I hesitate, and then point, silently.

  Croydon!

  (The chainsaw again.) The woman on the desk (yes, it’s still a madam – cosier, I think) nods, presses a buzzer beneath the desk, ushers you soundlessly out the back through the swinging, ranch-style doors and along a corridor carpeted in ice-blue. She produces a discreet single key and unlocks your apartment door. Inside there is subdued lighting, comfortable white couches, simple mirrors. He comes in, says hello, you say your name, he looks at home in the apartment, relaxed, like a woman, he asks if you’d like a drink, a cocktail, you say yes though you never drink cocktails but you want to watch him mix it. He pours things into a simple silver shaker, his gestures are spare and practised, he hands you your glass and sits opposite you, cr
ossing his legs, one arm along the back of the couch and your eyes are drawn to the golden hair on his tanned forearm. There’s something about that forearm that’s full of promise.

  Ashfield!

  His dark hair falls onto his forehead, casual, but he hasn’t taken too much trouble with his appearance; he says he’s been to the market that morning and found some wonderful barramundi. You wonder if you should believe him, if all the shopping is done by someone else, but you decide it doesn’t matter. ‘After another martini we’ll have dinner,’ he says. ‘Okay?’ You smile, you don’t say anything. You gaze out of the window at the lights of the city.

  You begin to submerge in that feeling of anticipation, of novelty, of alarm, of imminent revelation, although, in the end, it won’t matter what it’s like, in the end you may not even reach the sex, you may simply eat and eat and eat from his superbly delicate and thoughtful meal, and drink from his champagne, and fall asleep on his couch with your head in his lap and his mesmerising male smell in your face …

  Newtown!

  You look up, over to the corner. The table’s set, but not fussily. He brings in a platter of fillets (he knows you hate fossicking among the bones) in a fine light sauce. He says, ‘I didn’t think we’d need an entrée – it’s too hot tonight.’ You are soothed by his judgement, his ease, his conviction. You wonder what this superbly laid-back male has conjured for dessert, your sweet tooth. You shut out the thought of cheese cake

  Redfern!

  a faux pas that could flatten your erotic impulses, deflate your pneumatic balloon, dry up your brimming juices. You are momentarily uneasy at the thought of a fruit sorbet; too light, too unimaginative. You feel a warm, expansive ease in your belly and you cannot tell, or care, if it’s your stomach or your womb expanding; you feel the blood flowing; the surge down there. There is no moment when it begins to flow, just that sublime gush of recognition when you become aware, when you acknowledge to yourself that the sluices are open. Juicing …

  Central!

  What do you talk about? You don’t want to think about that, words can wreck a fantasy, words can wreck any erotic encounter, he might say something stupid and look suddenly goatish, or worse, say something melancholy, waiting for you to mother him. You make your responses warm but brief to discourage conversation. He suggests you have dessert and coffee on the couch; you think this is a wonderful idea, you tell him you want no coffee because you know it focuses the mind and clarity of thought is the last thing you want now, you move across, sink in the luxurious cushions stuffed with raw wool, not too firm, not too soft, and wait. He brings in the sabayon with raspberry sauce and sits beside you. Bliss, a proper pudding plate of fine white porcelain, a proper spoon, nothing dinky or parfait-like. There is something manly about this spoon, something unspeakably strong and streamlined and fine

  Town Hall!

  and you are almost at the high point of seduction when the PA blares

  Wynyard!

  Here you are. Here I am in the gritty underworld of my terminus, a dark, musty hole of litter and dust and broken bottles and shit in corners; a place where men solicit rough trade in the public lavatories or, in one famous case, a judge exposed himself to commuters in the stairwell. Up the long, grubby escalator I glide and out into the diesel fumes of lower George Street. And the seduction moment is lost and I am in work mode and all I can think about is how you would pay afterwards. Cash, of course. In those other brothels, the ones for men, you pay before; you deploy your charmless credit card on the formica desk of the madam. Here, you bring cash. One-hundred-dollar notes, drawn especially; those notes that are too impractical for shopping. You fold them in a roll and ease them into the hip pocket of his pants, which hang on the large wooden knob of the door. Slipping that wad into his pants is your final, final pleasure.

  You are a woman who likes to pay for it. No emotional investment, no protecting the investment over time (what is time, here?), no ego, yours or his, a total disregard of face; no cherished defences, nursing of sore spots, no ghosts, no vulnerability. Paid civility, the freedom of the cash contract. The free joy of the cash nexus is greatly underrated and we could do with more of it. If we paid parents and children to carry out their family rights and duties we might have less trauma. In the cash transaction we are equals – you are helping me by providing a service. I am helping you to make a living. No murky devious world of manipulation, obligation and superego – should, must, ought to. Duty.

  I have heard of a brothel in Paris in the 1890s that had a hundred rooms. In each room a different fantasy: a Samoan hut, a Victorian train carriage, a beggar’s archway under the bridge, a dark alley with trash cans (real or fake? How often would they empty them? Would it smell? The smell of fish bones and rotting banana? Would the smell be essential?). I think this a marvellous idea but wonder at the pitfalls. The man would have to have such confidence, such easy wit and physical charm to carry off, unselfconsciously, his costume – his grass skirt, his dirty overcoat, his blue serge uniform and peaked cap. I shared this fantasy with my husband, Frank. Most likely, said Frank, most likely the women would just laugh at him.

  I decide to save this fantasy for Diana.

  The huntress

  Diana is my best friend. She is a senior librarian at TAFE, buxom and blonde and with a great interest in goddesses. She was christened Maureen and changed her name when she turned thirty. To her surprise, everyone took to it straight away, perhaps because it clearly suited her. She was a Diana at heart, a huntress.

  Diana is a trivialist. A student of trivia. Not, as she points out, a trivialiser – on the contrary – but one who ascribes the proper importance to the common, the ordinary, the everyday, the familiar, the trite. One who studies the popular, the vernacular, the vulgate. Like a good librarian she is familiar with her reference works and quotes, from the OED, the English author O.W. Holmes, 1883. You speak trivially, but not unwisely.

  Diana recently enrolled in a goddess workshop. She subscribes to a magazine called Crone Chronicles and another called Sage-Woman. She read a book entitled Megatrends for Women and was deeply affected by the chapter ‘The Goddess Reawakening’.

  For someone into crystals et al Diana is surprisingly hardheaded; ruthless even. When we are discussing sex one day she says, ‘Sometimes I think that sex itself is insignificant.’

  I stare at her in disbelief. I know of no-one who has had so many lovers.

  She corrects herself. ‘That is not entirely true. It is significant, like food, only when we have none. Once we are enjoying sex it becomes insignificant; a mere pre-condition, like eating and shitting, to the rest of life. It is a spasm of fleeting and short-lived sensation that helps to regulate the nervous system and dispel accumulated tension, anxiety, etc, etc.’

  ‘This is a very unspiritual view,’ I say, deadpan. ‘Not very Tantric.’ I am mocking her.

  I tell her I could not disagree more strongly. When you have a sexual relationship with someone, they have a piece of you. They enter you not sexually – phallically – but electrically (your field). Their vibrations enter your body and disturb your vibrations, sending all your atoms into disarray. After a while you recover – your atoms re-arrange themselves into their old patterns but they bear the imprint of the invader, like lung lesions after TB, or war wounds – an erotic branding iron. And sometimes, with a deep, painful infatuation, sex isn’t even necessary for this to take place.

  Until I had children I was prone to infatuation. Probably still am, although now I pull back from the brink before I am close enough even to gaze at the view. Why? Because children have radar. They sense the moment when they have ceased to live at the centre of your attention. They sense the alien intruder. An insidious vertigo begins to pollute their consciousness; they reel inwardly. I would not take them there. I would not put them at risk.

  Still, unruly desire is always present, always roiling in the substratum.

  My dream

  I’m in a modest suburban house. The
re’s a small swimming pool out the back that takes up almost all the yard. It’s surrounded by a strip of concrete and a high wooden fence on four sides.

  The house is full of people.

  I go out on my own and look into the pool. At the bottom is a huge, thick snake, cut into several pieces, and three enormous fish like elongated skates.

  While I’m watching, one of the creatures emerges from the water and attaches itself to the fence by suction.

  I’m mystified. What is it?

  At first it looks like a huge, dark turtle but as it slowly inches its way up the fence I realise it’s a monstrous flounder. As its blunt nose reaches the top of the high fence it leaps into the air and hovers, horizontal, above me, three metres of dark, streamlined flesh. Slimy, and gleaming like a giant placenta.

  Suddenly it soars over the fence into the pool in the yard behind and I hear a thunderous, rasping splash! I see the water rise up on all sides above the height of the fence.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I say to the beast. ‘I will return later.’

  I go inside and say to the others: ‘Am I imagining this or are there monstrous fish out there in that pool?’ They seem unmoved.

  I wake.

  Fate

  Diana is superstitious. She consults astrologers and clairvoyants. I find this surprising in someone whose IT skills are in advance of just about anyone I know (barring experts). Boolean logic isn’t everything, she says.

  Diana makes raids into the outer suburbs, looking for clues. Once, when the kids were interstate with my parents and Frank was at a conference in Adelaide, we spent an hysterical weekend together. On the Saturday afternoon we drove out west to see Diana’s latest discovery, a woman with second sight. Diana believes there are wise women in unlikely places and this one was a Mrs. Cluny who lived out in the sticks at Bankstown. Diana had rung and made an appointment for three o’clock and when we finally managed to locate the street we were surprised to find a small weatherboard cottage built in the ’30s with a rickety fence and bare, scrubby garden. We walked to the back of the house, as instructed, where there was a shabby grey veranda and a white sulphur-crested cockatoo in an iron cage that looked at us and said nothing.