Between Dog and Wolf Read online

  between dog and wolf

  elske rahill

  THE LILLIPUT PRESS

  DUBLIN

  For my sisters, Juliette, Felicienne, and Lydia

  One must find the history of what she could not know if one is to try and recognize her. One must find the history of what she cannot narrate, the history of her muteness, if one is to recognize her. This is not to supply the key, to fill the gap, to fill the story, but to find the relevant remnants that form the broken landscape that she is.

  Judith Butler, 'Bracha's Eurydice'

  prologue

  It doesn’t cry at all, your baby. For three days it turns in its glass box, opening and closing its fists. The fingers are pale, furling, strong as the claws of a bird. What comes from your nipples isn’t milk at all. It’s bright orange at first, then bright yellow. You taste it. You finger it into the small mouth, and the round tongue works vigorously. This is more important than the milk, the nurse says. It’s for cleaning the stomach of you; of your blood and your insides. It’s for separating the new body a little farther from your own.

  You spend the third night cross-legged on the bed, rocking as the baby suckles, coaxing the milk in, touching your lips to the furred scalp. You can say it now, you think. You can tell it something true, whisper it close to the head that smells like coconuts—

  —But this is not for me to know: the smell of your own flesh that is also not yours; the aloneness of that. The first night in a hospital bed with sterilized sheets, the hours distilled in the night by the baby’s pulse and yours; as banal and momentous as waves crashing on a beach: katchoo, katchoo. The head emerging from you like a battered balloon, fingers like tentacles drinking in the light, the skull-crush opening into a face knowing and stupid like an ancient fetish.

  These are your things. I must try to remember that now. It was easy to forget, Helen, with someone both evasive and penetrable, like you. I couldn’t help exploring you, creeping into your eyeball and crouching there, peering out at your world. I couldn’t help delving into your mind, that languageless lagoon, perverting it into narrative. All that I did though – speaking for you, stealing from you, creating and undoing you, I did because I loved you.

  one

  Helen had her back to me. She was leaning a hip against the counter, humming, waiting for the kettle to boil. I was still warm from bed and wrapped like an invalid in layers of thermal vests. Helen’s feet were bare. It made me shiver just to see them naked like that: her toes purplish against the chequered floor. The floor must have looked like a chessboard once, but the white squares have yellowed since it was first put down, and the black ones are sun-bleached grey. There is a gap at one corner where the lino has curled up, and dust and stray peas and hairs and bits of tobacco gather under it. The kitchen is shared by six of us. Like the other kitchens on campus it’s tiny, with the drabness, outward cleanliness and inward filth of a place unloved and tended weekly by a professional. Helen bought a fish bowl to liven the place up, but the fish keep dying. There was another dead one there this morning, floating at the top with its fins clamped to its body. Helen mustn’t have noticed yet.

  She was wearing a matching pyjama set of brushed cotton with heavy, straight folds at the shoulders and up the legs. She looked clean. I was very aware, suddenly, of the pockets of stink trapped against my body. When I moved a waft of stale body heat was released up and out the neck.

  ‘New PJs?’ The sound of my own voice startled me. The words shot out like an accusation: New PJs? She looked down at her body as though she had forgotten what she was wearing. The pyjamas were cream. Pink moons and stars were printed on the fabric with the words ‘Sleepy Girl’, designed to look like a child’s handwriting, floating about between them. The top buttoned up the front like a shirt, the way all pyjamas used to. It didn’t look right on an adult body. It made her breasts seem heavier than usual.

  ‘Penneys – seven euro – such a bargain! They’re so comfy as well!’

  I am not used to seeing Helen without make-up. All day her face is an orangey disc with shimmering lids, spider lashes, smiling mouth the colour of bubble gum. In the mornings her eyes are ringed black by the residue and a tan tidemark outlines her jaw. She must have scrubbed well last night, because this morning she had fresh, translucent skin – impossibly white. It made me think of dew. The only clues to her usual mask were the unchanging eyebrows, professionally plucked into sharp little peaks of alarm. Otherwise she looked gentle this morning, peaches-and-cream pretty. I told her she’d get a cold in her bare feet and she shrugged, sliding a big mug of tea across the Formica. She was feeling happy this morning. You can always tell how Helen is feeling at a glance. Her mind was cloudless behind her eyes.

  ‘You slept late. Late for you, Cass.’

  I shrug. Actually, I woke quite early this morning. I watched the ceiling and thought for a long time about getting up. The white paint was splattered with grey blots. It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed them. If I stare at them for too long they begin to move about the ceiling like silver worms. Today it was worse; they merged and parted quickly, rolling into one another and multiplying like mercury maggots. It was so terrifying that I didn’t want to see. I pulled the blankets up over my head. I wanted to shrink back to the dark like a snail. In a neighbouring room someone scrambled into their clothes and clattered away, late for something, and the sounds of the college day started up outside my window. I don’t have a clock but I can count the hours from bed by the morning chats and the yelp of sneakers.

  I know those noises by heart but they always shock. Their life scratches at the walls, pecking at my quietness to haul me up out of my shell.

  ‘I have no lectures today,’ Helen said, hoisting herself up onto the counter and kicking her heels against the press. A dimple curled at the edge of her mouth. Her hair is a mass of blonde wisps, barely believable, like the hair of something mythic.

  ‘I have absolutely nothing to do today!’

  This seemed to make her proud and she hopped down again, all dimples and light. Why was she so bloody happy?

  I smiled, ‘What will we have for breakfast?’

  ‘Dunno. I feel like Coco Pops. Do you have any? I’m totally addicted to Coco Pops at the moment. I ran out yesterday. I meant to buy more …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh well. I don’t know then. I’d love a fry but I’m totally broke. I spent a fortune on Saturday night …’

  ‘There are eggs. Will I make us some pancakes?’

  ‘Oh yeah! Cool. I haven’t had pancakes in ages!’

  There was no ground coffee left in the tin, which in any case belongs to Cahill down the hall. Neither of us drinks instant, so we raided Helen’s penny jar, and she put on a coat and flip-flops and went to the snack stand in the computer block. While she was gone I mixed the eggs, sugar and flour into paste with a fork and then slowly, carefully, added the liquid; half milk, half water. The first pancake was a disaster and I had to throw it out. The rest I spread with raspberry jam and sprinkled with hot chocolate powder. They were piled on the plates by the time Helen got back with coffee in cardboard cups.

  So we sit on her bed, our backs against the wall and the duvet spread across us lengthways, feet sticking out the end. These rooms were decorated when paisley was either in fashion, or cheap, or both. The sixties it must have been, but I don’t know. I’m no good at that sort of thing. I don’t know what ‘paisley’ means exactly, but I know that it describes this decor: floral print curtains, brown on lighter brown, tinged orange by years of daylight. No-colour walls. Cockroach-colour carpet. The flowers join up like spreading mould. They resemble no flower and all flowers. Helen’s room is bigger than the
others. She has a dressing-table strewn with lipsticks and dusty make-up brushes. There are photographs stuck around the mirror in careful disarray. They’re the same sort of pictures she used to put up in boarding school: party scenes of people grabbing each other in elbow hugs, clutching bottles of beer. It’s her way of assuring herself that things go on outside her room, that she has fun. The room always smells like her perfume: a sweet vanilla concoction that comes in a bulbous white bottle.

  She has been keeping an orphaned kitten in her room for about a week now. It mews until she lifts it onto the bed where it topples about clumsily and its tiny claws catch in the blanket, making quick, painful nicks with every move. It’s a miserable little thing. It trembles constantly. When you hold it you can feel its skeleton through the loose, blubbery skin.

  Helen still hasn’t put on socks. We laugh about one of our lecturers – ‘the woman-hating, youth-crushing cat-man’, Helen calls him – who looks like a giant, bald cat, the inbred kind; pink with big ears and a pixie face. Siamese or Pekinese, Helen says they’re called. He enjoys telling us that all personal morals are a social construct. He enjoys our dismay.

  ‘… very juvenile for a middle-aged man.’

  ‘Yes but for a cat …’

  We guffaw like little boys and let the hot raspberry jam trickle between our fingers and plop in sticky drops onto the plates and duvet. It is only with Helen that I get like this – giddy, laughing at things that aren’t witty, nearly dribbling with stupid, clumsy laughter.

  The kitten’s tail sticks up straight, quivering. Its cry is sickly and hopeless. It is very young and might not live without its mother. We can hear Cahill, the Irish language student, banging the kettle and cursing me in the kitchen. He has seen the pancake in the bin. I wrapped it in newspaper and everything, but he must have spotted it somehow. He is well brought up, raised on some Irish-speaking island, and enjoys a good earnest rant about wasting food. I often think he puts on rubber gloves and trawls through the bin, searching for evidence of my wastefulness.

  He marches down the hallway and bangs on my bedroom door.

  ‘Cassandra?’

  We pull Helen’s duvet up to our mouths to stifle the giggles.

  ‘He’s a total nut,’ Helen mouths, raising her eyebrows, curling her dimples.

  ‘Cassandra? Cassandra? Did you make pancakes?’

  ‘How does he know it was me?’ I whisper. For some reason this makes Helen laugh more.

  ‘Shhh. Sh. He’ll hear you!’

  Then he’s back to the kitchen, muttering to himself as his porridge simmers.

  Helen is still in hysterics, biting the duvet, tears starting in her eyes, but I don’t feel like laughing any more and it annoys me that she does.

  ‘Are you ever totally happy Helen?’

  Before it’s out of my mouth I am embarrassed. The question hangs there. I’m not even sure what I mean. It seemed, for a moment, as though that’s what it was all about; our laughing, our eating pancakes for breakfast, that it was all about saying, ‘I am totally happy.’ I got it wrong though. I can see that now. She giggles, her head thrown back in dismissal.

  ‘Cassy, what are you like? It’s too early for all that stuff. Drink your coffee!’

  She tongues the jam out from in between her fingers and wipes her hand on the duvet. I think of the smell of dried spit. Like public phones. Like blow job.

  My question must have ruined her mood because she decides to go to the library for the afternoon. At least I won’t miss that lecture now. I’ll make it up to her. We’ll go out tonight and I will be positive and fun and light-hearted. I can be like that sometimes. We’ll pick up some good-looking men, laugh at tired jokes, flirt all night and leave them at the taxi rank.

  * * *

  Oisín tried to re-button the three plastic poppers of his duvet cover where they had come undone during the night. Then he gave up because the duvet had twisted itself up inside and bundled to the bottom and the whole thing had to be redone.

  The sight of her had affected him last night. She stayed with him like a sum or a crossword clue.

  He had been coming home early from a party, tired, with a weight in his belly. He was a little too drunk to concentrate on his book and he tried to stare out at the wet, black road and the January darkness. When she stepped onto the bus with an air of summer and light about her he felt okay again. Suddenly he didn’t mind just sitting on the bus, doing nothing. Looking at her made him feel like he was doing something. He watched her put on lip gloss for no one and blink at the rain. He knew her name, Helen, although he couldn’t remember how he knew it. He didn’t say hello. He wasn’t sure whether they were supposed to recognize each other. He had nothing interesting to say anyway.

  Keeping his body under the blanket, Oisín reached an arm out into the cold air and patted around the patch of floor beside his bed, feeling for his laptop. He had left it open. Grabbing the base, he heaved it up off the carpet and plonked it onto his knees. It was still on standby, hot like a hurt limb and buzzing weakly with the effort of staying alive all night. He tapped the mouse pad and it sighed, flicking the screensaver on: a picture of Kirsten Dunst wearing a pink crop top, her dimples neat as the little dent of her navel – a still from a film he hadn’t seen. Then he clicked on the internet icon and waited for the page to load.

  He logged in to his email account. There were no new messages, so he browsed through his old ones and found the link he was looking for in a message from his friend, Aengus: http//www.xxccklolly//grl2grl. The link turned blue when he moved the arrow over it. He clicked and waited. A picture of two identical girls flashed up: outstretched tongues touching, hands on each other’s breasts, semen splattered on their faces and in the briny tangles of their hair. He liked when his mates from home emailed these links. It was easy to just click and not have to feel like a pervert searching for porn. You didn’t have to pay unless you wanted a video.

  At home in Tipperary he hung around with the lads. They were very different from the guys in college. They sat together in silence mostly, but they understood each other, Oisín thought. When they spoke it was without eye contact. It was loud and followed by an expletive or a guffaw. They talked about what band was ‘fuckin’ crackin’ or who was doing the local ‘fox’. Occasionally they went to gigs or to the cinema together in small groups. They were all employed, after many years of resistance, in low-ranking office jobs or serving meals-on-wheels to the elderly. They were living at home as they plodded into their thirties. One of them, Aengus, had a girlfriend.

  The youngest of the lads, and the only one to go to college, Oisín had long ago vowed in a wordless part of himself not to become a snob, to never consider the lads anything less than he had when they had offered the only possibility of a social life. Whenever he was really down one of them was sure to suggest a trip away. Oisín thought of these holidays as a chance to let off steam, as though there was an uncomfortable burning in him that had to be vented abroad. He usually had fun and came back refreshed, his mind clearer. The last holiday was in Amsterdam, getting so high that they kept losing their way back to the hostel, and watching live sex shows starring mysterious-looking immigrant girls.

  He was surprised to discover what ‘live sex show’ really meant. The first time they went Kevin had organized the tickets. He was good at that sort of thing, and often said that if it wasn’t for him the lads would never do anything but sit on the couch all day and night, wanking and drinking beer.

  ‘If it wasn’t for me, fuckin’ Denis would still be a fuckin’ virgin! Wouldn’t ’cha Denny?’

  ‘Go ’way to fuck,’ said Denis, looking into his pint, searching for something better to say. Kevin was tall with a strong jaw. He had the best score record. If the lads were picking up women he always got the pretty one. The girl’s friend went to Aengus, or sometimes Oisín, and the rest of the lads had to peel off and find their own birds.

  Kev was the one who had suggested the holiday in the first place, booke
d the hostel, collected the money. He was in charge. He bought the tickets to the sex show without asking anyone else. With half-hearted protests of ‘fucking rip-off’, the lads had each given him their fifty-five euro and followed him to a small brick building in the red-light district. It looked like an abandoned house. The front door was not locked. It opened inwards. Beyond the door, the building expanded like a magic wardrobe. They were in a circular lobby with a high ceiling and corridors leading off it in five directions. These corridors might lead to anywhere, thought Oisín, to more lobbies with more corridors. The building might go on and on indefinitely.

  The guys waited in the lobby, kicking the carpet, trying to make jokes but too giddy to think of any. Denny, stooped and balding at the age of thirty-one, wearing a T-shirt that said ‘I fucked your girlfriend’, told Oisín about that time they had stolen the pint glasses from Nancy’s bar.

  ‘And Kev’s face! Man i’ was d’ funniest thing ever!’

  Oisín felt sorry for Denny. He couldn’t help it. All of Denny’s stories were about ‘d’funniest thing ever’, and he had told the story of the stolen pint glasses four times since the airport yesterday. Oisín had never allowed himself pity for any of the lads before, and it felt like treachery. He didn’t know which was kinder: to slag Denny off or to laugh along. Without deciding to, he let out a deep, open-mouthed laugh that reverberated too much in the stripped room, shocking even himself. Kevin and Aengus looked at him, and then back down at their shoes. They scuffed at the worn carpet. Oisín yawned and looked at the ceiling. There was gold paint flaking off the plaster cornice.

  At last a skinny usher arrived, took their tickets, told them all to follow him, and proceeded down one of the corridors. The men walked behind him in silence, falling into single file, lead by the glow of the usher’s torch down a long, low passageway. Oisín felt as though they were tunnelling down under the earth. They passed closed doors. There was felt on the walls. Oisín ran his fingers along it until the tips began to burn. His throat hurt.