Forget Yourself (23 page)

“I will assist you as long as I shall live.”

The last words of my vow echoed over the courtyard and two-dozen people cheered. Frederick stepped toward me and pressed his lips to mine, then pushed my mouth open with his tongue and thrust it inside. This was it. This was it. This was it.

I STOOD BOLT UPRIGHT
: it didn’t do for a wife to slouch. We had our own cooking-stove, mounted in the corner of our home: it took in a little gas cylinder and burst out a delicate blue flame. We had blue fire. I was even more proud of the fact that we now had privacy: no-one could peer upon what I cooked, and I cooked gladly.

I was cooking a meal for my husband. A recipe. The handwriting of the recipes had improved: that was my doing. I had given a class on that very subject—when writing, it is important for a wife’s hand to be as graceful as the rest of her. I had given the class short sticks and had them practice upon the ground, scratching in the dirt: we made sure none of the men saw such rough behaviour. And Ketamine’s handwriting had improved immensely: the recipes were now far more legible.

The classes were popular—all the least, minor, and moderate women would gather at the courtyard to learn something new. Almost all, but some things—and some people—cannot be helped, however much you might try, however much you want what’s best for them.

I looked over our home. Tables, mirrors, and a pestle-and-mortar. We even had a yellow-skinned plastic chair, without a single crack or sprain. It was surprising what you found in the rations-box when you were the first ones in. The order was changed and not a single person spoke out or complained. Pilsner had stood by, a standing scowl, but when a new-married couple shouted ‘those two first,’ nobody had spoken against it.

I brought the rice to the boil. Salt, sugar and nutmeg were stirred in. Nutmeg was my favourite—I was glad the recipe had called for it in great quantities. The rice went white at the edges and brown in the middle, so I stirred it vigorously until the colour was even throughout the pan.

I chopped three mushrooms and a cucumber with my new knife. It had no rust and fit snugly in the palm of my hand. We even had our own block of wood for chopping the vegetables. Frederick had told me that we’d earned it.

I glanced at the door: he would be home soon. The apartment was clean, I had made sure of that before cooking, and the coloured shapes shone brightly. He would be pleased, wherever he had spent his day.

I told them not to nag their husbands, as the magazine had told me. One of the women asked if she was allowed to nag, as she had a wife, not a husband. Her wife was seated next to her. I told her yes, she could nag, but those women with husbands must leave them be. If you are concerned, draw a circle around those thoughts; keep them contained, where they can’t cause any problems.

Three powdered eggs were sifted over the rice. It was looking perfect.

It may have been young Ketamine who gave out the recipes, but I was the one who taught the others how to cook with grace. I saw the perfect woman behind my eyelids, stooped gently over a pan, her wrist firm but not rigid, her expression cool but not absent. They stood in rows and I helped them form their imperfect mimicries. Some did well; others poorly. I couldn’t control such things.

Where was Frederick? He wasn’t making artworks.

I needed to contain such thoughts.

An acrid smell: the rice began to burn—now the edges were getting too brown. But I couldn’t turn off the stove: this food needed to be served hot. I stepped carefully to the front door and opened it, peeking out just a little.

There he was—lumbering toward me looking pleased with himself. His shirt was buttoned all the way to the top: your body is for your spouse, no-one else, not even the flies.

I quickly stepped back toward the stove. I was stirring when he came in, but I walked over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He told me the food smelled burned.

A circle.

I had a class to give that very afternoon. I sat in the corner of the room on a purple and gold cushion which was embroidered oh-so-delicately, and closed my eyes, envisioning a pristine married couple. At first all I saw was darkness and a dance of dim colours, then they swam into view. They were the couple from page 32 of the magazine, an older couple, with matching grey hair and slippers, dancing together in an ‘old-fashioned minimalist apartment’. The couple were having a conversation, their voices identical to Frederick’s and mine. I listened.

I held on to the scene for as long as I could before it dissolved. I delicately stood from the cushion and opened my eyes. Frederick lay on the bed, one hand over his eyes, his face scrunched tight and tense. I walked over to the bed and delicately kissed him on the cheek—no response. I told him I loved him and made my way out the door to the courtyard.

They were already there: almost all of them, as always. They waited patiently, wordlessly, in rows. The least women were on comfortable chairs or varying shapes, sizes and colours; the minor women on some rickety chairs or stools; the moderate women on crates or small stacks of bricks.

Least, minor and moderate, their demeanour was the same. They looked at me with equal expectancy.

This was our time at the courtyard: the rest of the time it was full of men. Men went to get the water, that was their task. Frederick would go to the courtyard for hours at a time, talking to the others—in some small way he had the same role as me, but the men didn’t need so much guidance, it came naturally to them.

I took two deep breaths—the same two breaths I always took beforehand. They did the same, though I never told them to do the same. In the third row was Ketamine, alert—one of the most attentive.

As always I looked for Burberry, as always Burberry wasn’t there—though I knew she would come eventually. She would want a spouse of her own.

I told them that today we would examine the topic of conversation: what should a wife say to her spouse? What was appropriate? I made it clear that this was not the same as addressing the husband, that this was the ‘small talk’; the little conversations that make up a day.

Nodding. Forty nodding heads.

I reminded them to avoid questions: questions can make your husband tense. You want to soothe. Avoid gossip and hard, metallic topics like the length between rations, or memories, or things that affect the whole world.

A hand was raised: I had taught them that too. It was Ketamine’s hand.

She asked what they could talk about.

I told her that was a good question. There was the weather—though that should stay light, its best to talk about the good things the weather brings: how wonderful the snow looks, or how nicely the sunlight shines through the window. If you like the sound of the rain, then tell him.

Another hand: a woman with short hair asked if there was anything else?

I told them that of course there was. The rations themselves made a good topic of conversation—talking about food always being satisfying. I suggested asking which recipes he wants to try—Ketamine beamed—and to talk about which things tasted good, and what they appreciated, to let him know he made the right choices.

Another hand: a woman said she had a wife—what should she talk to her about?

I told her she should talk about the same things: If one of them picked the rations then the other should let them know how good they were. Perhaps it was even easier for them; they didn’t have to distract their spouse from harder thoughts, they could both talk about how much they loved the sound of the rain and the home they had together would be lighter than air.

She really should be hearing this, I thought. What was the point in her sitting alone in the triangle hut?

The class was over in no time at all. Each of the women lined up to thank me in turn. The wives were full of appreciation: I had given them something to talk about. Eventually Ketamine stood before me.

We each told the other how happy we were for them. She had married Jay the casinoist. They were good together, she said so. They worked as a team. She would write the recipes and he would take them to the casino night, handing them out along with the alcohol. We would then all chatter over them whilst taking small sips of drink—sometimes Jay would stay for a moment. He was the only man—other than Frederick—I had directly spoken to in a long time.

Ketamine asked me how Frederick was. I told her everything was wonderful. She asked me if he was still making artworks—I told her no, not at the moment. Perhaps he was forming something in his mind, working his way to something big. Ketamine said that she hoped so.

Two women passed by: thank you, thank you.

Ketamine thanked me and made her way back to her home. I waited for the rest of the women to leave, then did the same.

The sky was dimming at the window. It seemed to be getting dark early, but I knew Frederick would be home soon. I had busied myself by picking at frays from the carpet-circle near the door, being careful not to damage my nails.

I wandered over to the box by the bed. Inside were all my clothes, soft and some shiny, clothes which suited me and flattered my figure. At first I had been excited to try each new dress or shirt or skirt on, swaying in front of a mirror, feeling the pull of my own body. I was less excited now, and learning how to sew properly myself had robbed them of their mystery.

I went over to Frederick’s box. The fabrics were firm and dull, course and stiff. In the days after our vows he had wanted to take a jacket or trousers and have Rings sew on something shiny or silky, but such things didn’t fit, and I knew that if brides were to behave a certain way, then the grooms were too. He had wrinkled his face. It was the last time I’d told him to do anything.

I picked up a brown-grey jacket.

Blondee. What’re you doing with that? Frederick’s voice was met with the clunk of the door falling shut.

I told him I was just checking it was straight. Softer, I needed to be softer.

Frederick asked me how the class had gone and I told him that it had gone very well, then thanked him for asking.

He sat down, pulling his shoes from his feet. He told me there had been a scene.

I wondered if I should ask.

There had been a scene at the courtyard, after the women had left. Two men, both had beards. Frederick said one was called called Gut, and that they were shouting at each other, right in front of everyone. Gut hadn’t even had a shirt on. They were shouting and shouting.

I told him their names were Gut and Green. He looked irritated at my interruption.

He continued. He told me that they were shouting, but Gut, he started crying. Actually crying, in front of everyone. People were whispering about how he should act more like a man, and they didn’t look pleased. Green didn’t like it either, and he spat at him. On him. Right in his face.

Frederick gestured to his nose, his words rushing by more quickly.

Eventually Gut stopped crying and said it didn’t have to be that way. He said he didn’t want it, he didn’t want marriage—he wanted Green, and for things to be the way they were before. Then he started crying again, in front everyone. He just told him he loved him, over and over, until everyone ignored them. Pilsner had then taken him away somewhere.

I felt sorry for Gut.

Frederick didn’t—he was sure he would come around and have a marriage of his own, eventually.

Frederick collapsed onto the bed, a small putter of dust spilling into the air. I slowly took off my clothes and lay with him.

I watched the darkening sky and felt his bulk on my body. In my body. I groaned, it was important to make sure I made the right noises. To move properly, to writhe. I writhed beneath him. He enjoyed that, it made him go faster, more little beads of sweat formed about his shoulders.

He pulled himself out and kissed my neck, his tongue slopping against my skin, leaving wet trails behind it. His mouth almost met mine, but he moved it down to my breast, sucking at it. I gave him another groan and lifted my arms above my head. He brought himself back up and entered me again.

I was in the yellow room. There was the mantelpiece, there was the stone woman over to the side. There was the bucket of soapy water.

The door was open. A sickly light drizzled over the carpet, the carpet which was the softest thing my feet had ever felt. The door was open. I could leave the room. I called for my husband, and stepped over to the exit.