Mary, who had no idea what he was talking about, smiled back.
Michael Shane wrenched out the cork and poured the wine. He sipped, sighed, and flexed his hands again. He gazed out of the window for a while. Mary knew as soon as he started to speak that he had said all this many times before, had let it all out many times, had used it all many times before.
‘She was my first love,’ he began. ‘In every sense my first love. You’ll always love your first love, they say. They don’t lie. She broke my heart.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary.
‘It’s all right. It’s fixed now, I think,’ he said, and smiled again. ‘It was unforgettable too. I mean the good things were unforgettable too. She was tremendous to be near— funny, very exciting, very expressive. Wild as hell, of course. Very passionate.’ Michael allowed himself a full ten seconds of sultry-eyed reverie at this point. It might have lasted even longer if the complicated telephone on his desk hadn’t suddenly parped out.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What? Borneo. I mean Winnipeg. Carol—no more calls, okay?’
‘But what was bad about her?’ Mary asked.
‘Insecurity, I think. For all her brains and looks, I think she was really desperately insecure…’
… Big deal, thought Mary as Michael chatted contentedly on. Insecure. Is that all. Who isn’t? What did people do and say about what they said and did before that kind of word came along?
‘ … and as soon as she started caring about someone, and I mean really caring like she did about me, a part of her turned against them—or against herself. She had to fuck it up, and by humilating herself in some way.’ He winced. ‘She did some terrible things. Wow.’ He whistled. ‘Some terrible things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh you know. There aren’t really many ways for people to behave badly. It’s quite a limited field really. They can taunt you and fuck other people and get drunk and vicious and so on. She did all that a lot. She hit me once, quite hard too, while I was asleep. That takes some doing, I’d have thought.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary. She found herself sharply affected by this man and she couldn’t tell why. At the moment, for instance, she was wondering just how much doing it would take to give Michael Shane a good punch while he lay there dreaming about himself. What’s happening to me? she thought. And then she knew. She was remembering Michael Shane. But not with her mind—not with her mind.
‘What was the worst thing she did?’ asked Mary.
He leaned forward, examined her for a few worrying seconds, and said, ‘I’ll tell you’—as if this willingness singled him out for originality and nerve. Perhaps it did. Mary listened. She was feeling hot again. Michael had stopped looking at her, and a gleam of wretchedness showed in his young face. He didn’t seem to have told this part of the story before. And now she could tell how old he really was.
‘Have we time? Yes, we have time … I’d been writing a play, been writing it the whole year I’d been with her. About this guy who seems to have everything, but really he’s—Anyway. It probably wasn’t that good. It probably wasn’t any good. We were alone in the country in this cottage I’d borrowed. I was reading my play through, correcting it—that was the idea. One day she locked herself in my study. I was banging on the door. I heard the sound of paper being thrashed about—there was an open fire in there. She whispered through the door that she was going to burn it. My play. Her voice was mad, not like her at all. She knew I had no copy. There was no reason for it or any thing…’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary, without volition.
‘I started pleading with her through the door. I could hear the fire crackling. By the way it’s not what you think. This has a trick in its tail. She started reading bits out. Bad bits, in a terrible voice, my voice but… a mad voice. It lasted an hour. You know—”Now we come to Act II, Scene Two, when Billy says—”, and she’d read out some phrases in the terrible voice. Smoke was pouring out underneath the door, even ashes. It lasted an hour. Then she let me in. The play was gone and the grate was overflowing. It was hell in there. I could hardly see. She was pointing at me and giggling.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary. She delegated a part of her mind to concentrate on not saying sorry again.
‘There’s more. We had an incredible fistfight, with fists. The only time I’ve ever hit a woman. She gave pretty well as good as she got, by the way. That lasted about an hour too. When we were too bushed to hit each other any more and I was lying there sobbing and moaning, she said that she hadn’t burnt the play after all. The play was in the other room. She’d been burning the blank paper. I’d never felt happier in my life. We got drunk and went to bed, ran around the house naked. Oh, man. Wonderful girl, intense girl, I thought—this is living. But it’s not living. It’s the other thing. Very soon afterwards I realized something. She must have known that play by heart. She must have hated it by heart. Can you imagine? A week later / burnt it. We ended about then. I thought I was going queer for about a year afterwards. After her, women look transparent. They look transparent. They aren’t of course,’ he said, and looked at Mary.
‘So—so that was the worst thing Amy ever did?’
‘To me, yeah. Mind you, this was way back. This was before all her really heavy numbers. This was kid’s stuff. She was nineteen. Ah, Carol. Yes, no, bring him in.’
Mary stood up. She noted incuriously that something had happened to her legs; they were numb and tingly, especially in the calves, not legs at all, just a vanity of legs.
‘I wasn’t surprised by what happened to her,’ he added conversationally. ‘I don’t think she was either, not by then. Thank you,’ he said to Carol and got to his feet.
Mary turned. Carol came forward, tentatively offering a sheath of pink paper. Behind her in the doorway a tall young man bobbed about.
‘Ah, this is the dope on the Eritrean thing, right?’ said Michael. ‘You’ll never guess what these jokers are trying to do now. Hi, Jamie,’ he called as he started reading.
‘Hi,’ Jamie called back. ‘Hey, Mike…’
‘Well goodbye, Mary,’ said Michael. He shook her hand. ‘It’s been nice talking to you.’ His eyes returned to the pink paper. He said, without looking up, ‘Carol, I’ll need you on this. Jamie. Why don’t you see Mary out?’ • • •
Before we go any further, let’s just clear up two rather crucial inaccuracies in Michael’s dramatic tale—two telling distortions that probably result from imperfect memory, amour propre or simple disbelief.
The first point is this. Michael says: ‘I thought I was going queer for about a year afterwards.’ Now that’s mis-leadingly put. Actually, Michael was right. He did go queer—and he stayed there too. He never went back to not being queer, not really. He sought shelter from the luna r tempest, and never went out to face the wind and the rain. From my own dealings with her, I’d say that this was what Amy was probing for in Michael Shane.
The second point concerns that play of his. Its title, incidentally, was The Man Who Had Everything—and it wasn’t that awful, just very conscientious and very mediocre. Michael says: ‘A week later I burnt it.’ This isn’t strictly true either. Doesn’t he remember? Is he still blinded by smoke and his own ball-broken tears? He burnt it, but she made him. He didn’t want to, but she made him. She did. Oh, she did.
• • •
Mary followed Jamie through the outer room. He closed the door after them and turned to face it with his hands on his hips. ‘Scumbag,’ he said with finality.
Mary watched. Jamie started talking to the door as if it were a person and he wanted a fight with it. She had seen this writhing, sidling style in public houses, just before trouble broke out.
‘Oh, Mike, you fucking cocksucker. Well I got news for you, man, cos I’m fucking fuckin out! Cos I don’t fuckin need it, manl’ He turned to Mary with a wriggle. She started moving down the deserted passage and he came after her. ‘You know what he makes me do?’ he said shakily. ‘Makes me g;o to fucking Sketchley’s to pick up his safari suits! The little scumbag’s safari suits! He treats me like shit. I don’t need this! I got stacks of dough.’