A Million Versions of Right (12 page)

“That’s not even the best part. When I was a little girl he’d tell me that he discovered the perfect way to preserve the lime. He claimed that it would NEVER rot! Can you believe it? Apparently the perfection inherent in that lime imbued him with a complex theoretical capacity. He was able to adapt and execute this preservation method in a matter of days. Something must have happened along the way though – I never did see the lime. My father told me he lost it. Simple as that! I’ve spent my entire life contemplating that lime. You want to hear my theory? Of course you do! I believe that somehow during the construction of that wall, the wall you’re here to test, the lime became trapped.

I’d bet my bottom dollar that waiting inside that wall is a pristine lime, preserved to perfection! I never did have the heart to tear it down though. If it’s in there, it’ll communicate with us! I’m counting on Astenburger’s methods to make contact with my father’s crowning achievement.”

I stare up at Mrs Webber, who is still lost inside her vacuous fantasies. I want to be anywhere but here. The instrumentation has been set up and I appear to be sipping from a cup of tea I don’t remember being given. Mrs Webber’s ponderous story largely washed over me but I heard the word limes mentioned on numerous occasions. She seems nice enough, a bit starved for attention perhaps. Sexually speaking I wouldn’t want anything to do with her – I don’t even know why I’m thinking about it. She’s still standing politely just outside of my field of vision. I have to get her out.

“Sorry Mrs Webber, it’s not permitted for clients to witness the process. I hope you understand.”

She looks disappointed but she nods warmly and leaves me alone.

I feel self-conscious about screaming profanity with elderly ears in the adjacent room. My insults come across more as whispered suggestions.

“Hey flatty. Would you mind giving me a response? I’m about to be fired don’t you know? I’ll rub my cock on you. That’ll get you going, you garden hat.”

I take a step back. I’m clearly just embarrassing myself. As the day bleeds on I spend more time contemplating the wall than actually insulting it. I visualise it as a manifestation of my employment. It sprouts great wings and flies away like a toaster on a screensaver. My waning motivation concocts images of me attempting to capture the wall with a butterfly net. I get within striking distance, swing the net with all my strength and watch as it shatters upon impact. Shards of twisted metal skewer my body. I retrieve a white, blood stained flag from my pocket and wave it about. I surrender! The wall comes crashing down, the growing shadow darkening my world. Pitch black.

* * * * *

I arrive home after another shitful day and find Nadia once more in darkness, the headphones secured to her ears with masking tape. She claims that the headphone masturbation is evolving into an obsession. I ask politely if I can spend some time with the headphones to which she begrudgingly agrees. For the next hour I absorb the masturbation cathartically as Nadia watches impatiently. Rather than reclaim the headphones afterward, she throws me against the wall and violently pulls down my jeans. For the first time in months she gives me a blowjob – probably the best blowjob I’ve had in years. It’s as if her life depends on it; as if she’s trying to swallow me whole.

For inexplicable reasons, Mrs Webber enters my headspace several times throughout. I shake her visage away as best I can. Nadia’s mouth is firmly clamped around me when I ejaculate. After she swallows, she slowly stands up, looking confused. To my bewilderment, Nadia claims that my semen tastes exactly like limejuice. I shrug it off as a psychological distortion on Nadia’s part until she exhumes a lime pip that has mysteriously wedged itself toward the back of her mouth.

The rest of the night is spent taking turns with the headphones while the other watches. I leave Nadia with the headphones while I make my way wearily to work.

* * * * *

“Do we have anything yet?”

Mrs Webber looks hopeful. She reminds me of a child, a child I was about to disappoint.

“Sorry Mrs Webber, it will take a couple of days for the preliminary data to be analysed. You’ll receive a full report bearing Astenburger’s insignia.”

Although it clearly isn’t the answer she’s looking for, the mention of Astenburger’s insignia sets her eyes alight. Mrs Webber ponders the thought for a while and suddenly starts sniffing the air like a hungry cat.

“You know something, Michael? You smell more strongly of sex than anyone I’ve ever met. I can almost see the sex wafting from you.” How do I respond to a comment like that? I stand dumbfounded for some time.

“I haven’t showered in a couple of days”

“It doesn’t offend me any but I’d recommend a basic hygiene regimen. Especially when you consider that you’re representing Astenburger.”

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind, Mrs Webber.” I make my way hurriedly over to the wall and arrange the instrumentation haphazardly. Mrs Webber voluntarily leaves the room. Once more I have a cup of tea in my hand I don’t remember being given. I stare the wall down confrontationally.

“I will break you, you fucking son of a bitch! I’ll poke your tits out with a dirty spoon and feed them to your mother. I WILL BREAK YOU!!!”

This continues for some time before my hoarse voice gives up. I seek Mrs Webber out. I have an uncontrollable urge to ask her a few questions. She’s on the toilet, door wide open. She looks terrified.

“What are you doing? Get out of here!”

“I just have a few fucking questions, Mrs Webber.”

“Are you going to rape me?”

“NO! I am not going to rape you. I just have some simple questions I need you to answer.”

“At least allow me my decency.”

“You get your fucking decency AFTER I’ve asked you the questions.”

She begins to sob in that inimitable way elderly ladies do.

“Look, stop crying. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Just ask your questions and leave me be.”

I get right to the point. “Why do you believe Astenburger’s bullshit theories? What evidence out there suggests that any of this is even remotely true?”

“More to the point, what are you doing working for Astenburger when you clearly don’t believe in his theories?”

“It’s a job – people need money – I’M PEOPLE, MRS WEBBER!!!”

“Are you going to rape me?”

“NO!!! I’M NOT GOING TO FUCKING RAPE YOU!!!”

“Why not?”

“Why not? I’ll tell you why the fuck not: because I DON’T rape people. Get that out of your fried mind.”

“Is it because you find me unattractive? Is that it?”

“No, it’s because I don’t believe rape will get me anywhere. I have no desire for power over anyone. Plus, let’s be honest, Mrs Webber, you’re old. I don’t make a habit of fucking people more than twice my age.”

“If I asked you politely, would you rape me?”

“If you asked me politely it wouldn’t be rape would it!?”

“Would you consider making love to me? I’m a virgin, Michael. I need love, even if it’s only physical and fleeting.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Webber, there’s no way on earth I could do that.”

I watch closely as the mood in her cataract-stricken eyes turns cold. I can feel the environmental mood change.

“How do you think your employer would react when I tell them you harassed me like this? How do you think the Police would react, Michael? You clearly haven’t thought this through.”

I wince as reality sucker punches me in the gut. The weight of my folly crushes me to dust.

“How can you be a virgin, Mrs Webber? How does anyone in this day and age stay a virgin? I thought you said you were married?”

“I’m not of this day and age, Michael. For me, the topic of sex never came up until it was too late. Now, are you going to love me Michael?”

“There’s a problem that I don’t think you’re considering.”

“What’s that?”

“In order for me to ‘make love’ to you, certain physical reactions need to occur that given the circumstances, aren’t probable.”

“You’re talking about erections aren’t you, Michael?”

I nod emphatically.

“Don’t be foolish, you’re more erect than you’ve ever been.”

I look down at my trouser front and sure enough, my penis is painfully erect. I’m in danger of bursting through my jeans. There isn’t a hint of arousal anywhere in my body, yet physically I’m all ready to go. Perhaps my body is simply trying to save me from myself. Keep me out of harm’s way. I capitulate.

“Where do you want to do this?”

“Follow me to the boudoir, Michael.”

She rises from the toilet without wiping, trousers still at her ankles, and waddles toward the bedroom. I follow.

* * * * *

“I need to know that you love me, Nadia. I feel lost and I’m relying on you.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

“I had a horrible day at work. The sort of day I can’t even begin to describe.”

“I love you more than you’ll ever admit to yourself. I love you so much it causes pain.”

“Life is horrible pain.”

“The pain of my love is wonderful.”

“I need to take the headphones with me to work tomorrow, Nadia.” The look of fear on her eyes drowns my heart.

“You’ll get them straight back. Please, Nadia, I need them.”

She paces the room, rubbing her chin with dirty hands. I can already sense that the solution she’s looking for doesn’t exist.

“You can take them, Michael, I won’t stop you. Please don’t keep them from me. When you’re not here, they’re all I have.”

I comfort Nadia with everything I have, which admittedly, isn’t much. I stroke her knotted hair and kiss her unwashed neck. She cries into my chest. I feel the warm damp of her tears as they seep into me. I find musical qualities within the crying. As it continues, it strikes me: I haven’t listened to music in days. This is the first time I’ve even thought of it. I spend significant time with the melancholy symphony, willing Nadia’s demons away while ignoring my own. That night we perform acts of unspeakable passion. We can’t stop.

* * * * *

I make my way back to Mrs Webber’s. She still appears entranced in post coital bliss. I arrange the usual instrumentation along with the headphones. I ask if she has a portable stereo. She fetches me one immediately.

“What on earth are you doing, Michael?”

I ignore the question. I hate her questions. “Can you get me a CD, Mrs Webber?”

“What CD do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter. Anything.”

She spends some time foraging around for a CD that won’t embarrass her. She returns with a pile of five or so. I grab the first one my hand touches, dropping the rest. The plastic clatter elevates Mrs Webber’s anxiety and she takes a cautious step backward. I load the CD roughly, intent on getting the job done. Sleep deprivation retards my coordination and every basic movement becomes a matter of second and third takes. The CD is loaded. I fumble with the headphone jack. On the fifth or sixth attempt I get it plugged in.

“Michael! What is this? Tell me what it is you’re doing? I could call your supervisor at the drop of a hat.”

“Shut up or fuck off, Mrs Webber.”

She takes several more defensive steps backward, finding solace against the adjacent wall. The icons on each stereo button, which indicate the function, have faded with use. I cycle through them all, searching for ‘play’. When I hear that magical sound of the CD whirring into life I pump a fist of internal victory. Holding up the enigmatic headphones against my ears I listen for the masturbation, making sure it isn’t an isolated phenomenon. It isn’t. Wanking fills my headspace instantly. I turn the volume up as far as it will go and press the headphones firmly against the wall.

“What are you doing now, Michael?”

“I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”