Chapter 29: Last Tango in Paname

Sure enough, mum's money arrived a few days later. Rhonda made an appearance the same day, her first since the morning after the party, but she had barely got the door open when the scene in the lounge room caused her to close it firmly and leave again.

Maggie collected the money at the Royal Bank and went straight to British Railways. She bought a ticket to London for that very night. In the morning she would try stand-by on a Pan Am flight to Seattle, sitting perhaps in the same seat on the same plane they'd come on. Her plans were precise. From Seattle she would catch a bus to Vancouver and then the local to Crusty and Belle's and then drive Geronimo to the feisty arms of mère Bebette on Pepper Island.

Olney was out when the bank called. He came home in the afternoon, famished from a frugal day of idle wandering. Maggie had been pacing for an hour, waiting. He took one look at her and threw the priest out of his cell. Her voice shook: "I'm leaving tonight." The words slipped around his neck like a noose: termination tonight! But what about at dawn? his sense of tradition cried.

"Tonight," he repeated dumbly, sitting on the nearest chair: it dumped him. Maggie started to laugh and then burst into tears. "Pootie, you can't go." His voice spoke quietly to the floor.

"Oh, yes I can," she said defiantly, brushing away the tears. "I'm getting out of your neurotic, careless life." A week of pent-up anger cracked its whip in her voice. "You're a menace, Olney Garkle. They're going to lock you up one day, if somebody doesn't kill you first. I'd like to kill you."

"But sweetheart," he said from far away, "I didn't mean to hurt you--"

"What crap. All you care about is getting your cock serviced. Anyone gets in the way, too bad for them. You're a jack-off in every sense of the word, a sex maniac who ought to be turned in. Why don't you turn yourself in? There must be a padded cell somewhere, just waiting for you. And then you wouldn't be able to ruin people's lives the way you do. You're a prideless manipulator. And you're rigid and fussy and a slob. You're the worst man I've ever met, you ... you putain of a salope."

"Mais non, Pootie, c'est--"

"I don't care."

"My God," he said, shaking his head as if to wake up. "Pootie, darling, let's go to Swan Walk and feed the ducks. We can talk there, ok? Like always."

"No. You'll probably try to push me in. I don't trust you, and I'm through talking. I'm going to pack." She marched off to the bedroom, blowing her nose. Olney still sat on the floor, staring at a speck of something on the carpet. He seemed incapable of lifting his gaze. The front door opened quietly. Rhonda froze when she saw him sitting there, like a marionette at rest.

"Are you all right?" she asked, in spite of herself.

Olney jerked his head toward her. "Maggie got her money. She's leaving tonight." He turned his face away to hide the tears, but that only made it worse. He began to sob. Rhonda closed the door and hurried down the stairs. Hearing the door click shut, Olney whirled around, his face red and distorted. He wanted to shout, "Wait. Don't go. Take me with you." Instead, he attacked the chair, punching it and cursing until he fell back exhausted. The chair, unscathed, regarded him evenly. "Maggie!" he yelled, getting to his feet. No response. He ran to the bedroom. She lay on the bed, curled up and crying into her pillow. Her suitcases were still in the closet. Olney fell beside her. He grabbed her roughly, wrapping her in his arms and squeezing until she cried out in pain. He kissed her furiously; she responded, suddenly awakened by a violent passion. They pulled at each other's clothes, kissing and biting all the while. When they were naked, he tore into her, trying to hurt. She wanted to hurt too. Hating him while he fucked her, she jerked up and down, trying to break him in half. He retaliated by reaching for the virgin tube of K-Y in the bedside table, his quaking hands desperately fumbling with the cap. "What are you doing?" she rasped, as the cap went flying and the lubricant squirted against her rectum. "Violator!" she yelled, slapping him in the face. He flipped her over, setting his aim for the squirming target of her glistening anus. He wanted his cock to disappear in there, inch by inch, to feel the tightness all around it, to come under enormous pressure. He pressed and pushed and finally got the head in. Against her will, the dark little sphincter expanded and contracted, rejecting the intruder while trying to take it deeper inside. The belly of his cock was being tickled and tugged into ecstasy. Overcome by the sensations he loved most, Olney tried to shove it deeper. "Ow! that hurts," Maggie cried. "No, it doesn't," he gasped, and blew his dying seed into her barrens.

They lay side by side, drained and limp. Maggie, on her back, stared at the ceiling. Olney lay on his side, staring at her. He felt his emotions suddenly going mad. They were trying to tell him to be ashamed, to realize at long last that his actions had consequences for which he must pay. As usual, he was trying not to listen. He waited for Maggie to say something, afraid of what it might be.

"You're a real bastard, Olney," she finally said. "Please get out of here."

He kissed her damp temple. "Poot, I'm sorry I did that--"

She exploded. "God damn you, I hate your guts!"

The force of her anger caused him to burst into tears. Amazed at this reaction, he stammered, "Maggie, please, my darling, my Pootie ..." He tried to cuddle her, but her body was rigid. Abruptly, he sat up and slammed his fist on the bed. "Why in fuck's name is this happening? Why can't my shiteating life go the way I want it to?" His own anger stopped the tears.

Maggie was silent. She was mad enough to commit murder, but of course, he was going to outdo her.

"Sweetheart, say something to me," he begged.

"That was our goodbye lovemaking and you ruined it."

"I know, I know," he said, almost with a whine, so flustered he could feel a childish tantrum coming on. "For God's sake, Maggie, I'm sorry." Before he could stop himself, he said it again: "I didn't mean to hurt you--"

"Yes you did. You buggered me against my will."

"Ok, I hurt you, and to be honest, I meant to, but you were trying to hurt me too. It's just that I've got the biological advantage. Admit that you would have done something awful to me if you could have."

"Like you're always saying, you really don't know. Do you?" Maggie turned away from him. He reached out to caress her trembling back.

"Don't touch me." He took back his hand and pulled up the covers. "Why don't you just go." she said.

"Poot, for crying out loud, it wasn't that bad. I barely got it half way in."

She turned over like a shot. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out! Get out!" She was hitting him as hard as she could.

Olney grabbed her around the waist and buried his head on her chest. He let her pound his back until she exhausted herself. Her body went limp in his arms; he laid her down and snuggled beside her. After awhile, they drifted into a light sleep, as daylight left the window.

An hour later they awoke in total darkness. Olney turned on the lights and ran to the living room for cigarettes. The bad dream seemed to be gone. They smoked for awhile, before either spoke. "I don't really hate you," Maggie said after awhile. "You do the worst things, yet you seem truly innocent of having the worst intentions."

"Intent is important," he agreed. He knew it was a stupid thing to say, but he felt such relief: she was back with him.

Maggie gave him a wilting look. "Anyway, living with you is more than any woman should have to stand. You're one hundred percent impossible." She poked him in the ribs. He laughed cutely and she tried to smile. "When we're like this, it's ok," she said. "But mostly, I never know who to be with you. Maybe I'm nobody. You don't do much for a girl's self-confidence."

"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie," he said, squirming under the guilt. "I wish I could take it all back, what I just did, and all the arrogance."

"Yes, well ..." Maggie let the phrase dangle. "So, what are you going to do?" She traced a small finger over his belly. He watched it move over the wizening flesh. Years ago his belly had been the perfect male specimen: flat, wrinkle-free and taut.

"That belly used to be worth its weight in pussy," he said wistfully.

Maggie removed her finger. But there was no more anger. She hated being angry. He'd always goaded her into it. "I suppose I'll always love you, though. They probably all do. From a distance, in the end."

"So. You do love me, after all."

"Of course I do ... did."

"You never actually said it before."

"I did too."

"Never. You kept hedging."

"Well, I thought it. Maybe I didn't believe it, is why I never said it. I've always had a problem with love. Feeling it, I mean. I can get gushy over puppies and parakeets, but something stops me with people. Except you, I guess. If it's possible, I suppose I love you. You're cute, you know. There's something endearing about all those disgusting things you do. But you frighten me." She looked at him closely. "Do you think you're ... amoral?"

Olney winced. Was he? "Of course not. I'm a man who likes variety in his love life, is all. For me, a woman's body is the highest esthetic. You know, Poot, Rhonda was never a threat to us. I swear. I'm basically monogamous."

"You mean you like to have the old boot at home while you're out womanizing."

"Er ..." Could that be true? Common enough behavior in men. "Absolutely not. I just wanted to make it with her, a purely physical attraction. My penis craved to be inside her, while my mind--goading the biggest sex organ of all, its brain--craved to use the latter's appendages to explore the exquisite sexual artistry of her body." Maggie's double takes were suitably theatrical. "See," he continued, "I feel exactly the same way about you. The problem is diversity. Every woman has a uniquely beautiful body. And I'm a born connoisseur." He would have hung his head at the unpopular admission, had not his chin, owing to the awkward position of the pillows, already been resting on his chest. "But I really wanted us to make love to her. I did want you to be there. You could have beautified her face with your soft pussy, shampooed her hair with your juices, nibbled her ears with your labial--"

"Enough!" The idea was not without merit, but! "I couldn't. You would have stopped loving me. Rhonda is more attractive to you. I can tell by the way you look at her, by the things you always find to talk about with her, things that don't include me."

"She isn't more attractive to me. She's just attractive in a different way. That doesn't mean I'm going to dump you. My heart and loyalty have been yours all along. Look, I like talking with Rhonda, we have certain cultural things in common. And I am physically attracted to her. But there was never any danger of my falling in love with her."

"She would have fallen for you."

"Women. Why can't they fuck without falling in love? Men can."

"A woman doesn't like to make love with a man unless she is attracted to him in ways that are more than physical. Women are not dogs like men. They have feelings."

"You just said feelings were hard for you to express."

"That doesn't mean I don't have them. Anyway, this is different. In this case, men--and you in particular--have no feelings at all."

"Well, there you go, then. Women have feelings and men don't. Women are squishy, goopy, ultimately maternal flesh factories of simpering, whimpering feeling, while men are lean, forceful and stripped of all sentiment in their quest for sensation, is that right?"

"Yes!"

"Me, I like it like that."

"Men are a genital-driven gender."

"Well, women are the genital-drivers, then." Uh-oh, did that mean he was at their mercy?

"That's why you wouldn't rent to a man. According to your simple summation of life, he would have been helpless to fight off his desire for me and I would probably have been egging him on, unconsciously, of course. Your ego couldn't have stood it."

She always got him with that one. He couldn't deny it; another cock on the loose would have driven him crazy with jealousy. But still: "That may be true, but, to be honest, I wanted to rent to a woman more than I didn't want to rent to a man. Unless the male in question is someone I know and like, I prefer the company of temptresses. And anyway, it's easier for women to deal with these incidents."

"What utter bullshit! You have the understanding of an adolescent about some things, especially women. For your information, the only reason women find it easier to put up with 'these incidents' is because they've been subjugated to the whims of men for centuries and been forced to."

"Lloyd love a duck, but I hope things don't change now. Just when I'm reaching my Casanovan prime."

"You're a sex fiend, Garkle," said tough titties, "and one fine day they're gonna nail you for your perverted tastes, particularly in young girls. Arrested as a sex criminal. What will you do then, when the police beat you in your cell every night. You only like me because you think you can make me behave like a lolita. You never got past the 'doctor' stage."

"You love playing the little girl, why not admit it. And you're lucky to be small. I pity the amazons of this world who can't sit on their lover's knee. Imagine those awkward moments when the big-boned beauty, desirous of a moment of girlish rapture, pulverizes the legs of her grimacing beau."

"What a mean, nasty thing to say."

"It's true. And anyway, I'm not sexually arrested. It's just that certain pre-teens are so unspoiled, their young bodies so utterly pluckable. Take a twelve-year-old girl, pre-pubertal bien sur, height: 4' 10", weight: 75 pounds, legs: long, color of hair:--"

"Stop it. That's sick. Twelve-year-olds are too young to handle sex the way adults do. They might put out a certain sexuality, but they're only trying it on for size. If you confront them with it they get scared. It just isn't happening, Olney. Think of the guilt they would have to deal with."

A big sigh from the boy ... or is it an involuntary exhalation meant to hide his own guilt? "Hey, I'm kidding, it's just a fantasy." Another big sigh, this one recovering the offensive. "But doesn't it concern you that we live in a culture that uses sex to sell products to children while simultaneously raising them to fear sex? And you wonder why we're stuck with serial killers and U.S. presidents?"

"U.S. Presidents?--"

"--Because, unfortunately, the fantasy is very powerful. So powerful, in fact, that it won't go away. It's a vicious circle of suppression that's supposed to end at the legislated age of, what is it, sixteen? eighteen? when, according to the law, genitals are no longer blanks. That's sick. By then it's too late. By then that human being is looking at his or her box with anything but a healthy attitude. Come on!"

"Well, that's how it is, so get used to it."

"I won't! Do we so hate our children that we subject them to making our mistakes all over again? Do we get some twisted delight from seeing them stumble just like we did? All those powerful urges punished or suppressed. Children have the right to guilt-free sex, if they want it. But shouldn't they be taught to have a choice? It seems to me that after a few generations of sane sexual tutoring, the sex killers and child molesters and exposure artists and obscene telephone callers would be phased out of existence. I submit that the fundamental drive behind the crimes of these violators is love. Warped out of true because of society's fear, hence blindness, to something that just won't go away. To deny or make frightening the sexual urges of children is a form of madness. Which begets more madness. The basic drive is choked and what do you wind up with?"

"I know," chirped Maggie, raising her hand. "Serial killers and U.S. presidents."

"Right!" boomed Mr. Weird. "Two sides of the same coin for your moribund culture. One acts out the national psychosis, instead of sublimating it at the movies like everyone else, while the other speaks in bafflegab to soothe the national blindness to its psychosis. Together in spirit, they rape and torture and fund right wing baby killers in poverty stricken countries--"

"--Off the wall!"

"Not off the wall. You can't have a nation at sexual odds with itself and expect peace in the fucking valley."

"Ok, ok!" She'd heard it all before. That Olney had dangerous ideas was nothing new, but, poor girl, she'd always hoped he wasn't serious. He wanted too many things to be different and this was the craziest of them all. Like many a radical he was close to being right. Maybe he was right. But who would listen or dare to agree? "I can't handle it any more, your bizarre vision of how the world ought to be." She swung him a quick side-eye. "These fantasies you have about twelve-year-olds ..." She paused. "They're just fantasies, aren't they? I mean, if the opportunity arose, you wouldn't actually do anything, would you?" There, asked at last.

"Never," he cried, looking the ceiling straight in the eye. "You think I want to go to jail? Just fantasies, like I said."

"They're more than that, I'm afraid." Maggie felt the final giving up move sluggishly through her body. "I'm no pervert and no trailblazer, either. At least not where sex and politics are concerned." She sat up. "Ow. My bum hurts, you bugger." She poked her tucked-away puckery gingerly. No blood. "Olney." She sighed heavily. "I'm going to miss you, but I'm going home." She got up and walked carefully to the closet.

He leapt up too, suddenly feeling lonely and afraid, his naked, skinny body dancing nervously. "Poot ... hey, I'm sorry ... never wanted to hurt you ... too selfish ... can't help myself ... shouldn't take me so seriously." He stopped jerking about. "I just can't believe you're leaving tonight. Let me undo the harm I've done. Help me to undo it, for God's sake." He held out his arms. She was bringing the other suitcase out of the closet, hands busy, arms full. An awkward moment. Something passed between them. Invisible but tangible, it brought distance and gulfs. Their bodies sensed what their minds could not. He dropped his arms.

"We both knew it would come to this," she said. "A gutsy pair for making the attempt. Or stupid." Her suitcases lay open on the bed. "My mother wondered why I hadn't called sooner." She stopped to put on some clothes. "It's cold." And: "So, what are you going to do, now that I'm out of the picture? Have it both ways with Rhonda until you find the next 'esthetic' victim that strikes your fancy?" She looked up from packing with a grin of hatred. "Rhonda's got lots of money. You could do worse, as you did with me."

"Knock it off, Maggie. Quit admitting so baldly that you've never understood me."

"She won't have you now, anyway. You blew it royally. You probably always do. They used to make movies in Italy about sad sacks like you. We saw one together. Your idol, Vittorio Gassman, was the star, I believe."

"You leave Vittorio out of this. We've seen movies about you too. You were the whore they always found in the gutter next morning with her panties stuffed in her mouth."

"Foul beast of a man," she hissed.

Olney dressed quickly. "Well, why are you trying to provoke me? Now, of all times."

"Because I did love you and you betrayed me. I hoped you were man enough to take care of me, but you weren't. Just a gigolo, like my mother said."

"Great. Buy a two-headed dildo on your way home and have a good time with her." Maggie sailed her copy of Shikasta to the general vicinity of his throat. Fending off his soon-to-be ex-lover's charm against the evil presence of Shammat, he shouted: "Well, you started it."

She packed furiously. "I hope you're not planning to come back to Canada by any remote chance."

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm going to do. I haven't got any money."

"Pity, that."

"Don't worry, I'll think of something. Why don't you have your mother send me a couple grand, eh? Tell her I need it to screw twelve-year-olds in the ass." The I Ching flew at his midsection. It connected. "Ouch!"

"You slimy prick. She hates you. A lot of people hate you, Olney Garkle. You don't do right by them, taking and never giving. Everything you touch turns to merde."

"Hey, that's my line."

"Regarding you, it's everybody's line." Maggie threw the things she'd thrown at Olney into the suitcase. The smaller one was already packed, crammed with the odds and ends she'd picked up in Paris. Since the awful night, he had watched her ransack the apartment for everything she owned. He didn't care; whatever she left, he'd leave too. If it was the last thing he ever did, Olney was going to come out of this with nothing to show for it.

"What time is your train?" he asked, himself giving up.

"Ten thirty."

It was seven.

§§§

Chapter 30: Au revoir, Salope

Top