Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (15 page)

‘Exactly!’ she said. ‘That’s his modus operandi. He works on sympathy, taking advantage of your good nature. He’s controlling and manipulative.’

Dory was close to tears as she recounted how she and Egon had raised me with so much love and such decent morals. ‘We came to Australia with a suitcase, after surviving Hitler. We’ve worked so hard, and Paul has the chutzpah to think he has a right to my hard-earned money. I have scrimped and saved so that we can be comfortable. Anyway, one day it’ll all be yours. He’s a psychopath—there’s no other word for him,’ she said. ‘You’ve done psychology . . .’

I was trying to remember my lectures on psychopathy. I would have to look up my old textbooks when I got home.

‘Was the sex really so good that you’re prepared to overlook everything else?’ she asked.

She and I had never discussed my sex life before, but I answered her honestly. ‘Maybe to begin with . . . but lately, we hardly ever sleep together, let alone have sex,’ I confided. ‘Anyway, it’s never really been about the sex.’

‘I would have picked him as gay,’ she said abruptly.

‘Well, he says he’s not. Maybe he’s confused—he dresses up when he’s stressed.’

‘What, he’s a cross-dresser?’ asked Dory in her forthright manner.

‘Well, not all the time.’

‘
Oy
. That my daughter should marry a transvestite. He’s not going to have The Operation, is he?’

‘No, don’t be ridiculous!’

‘It’s not so crazy,’ she said. ‘Plenty of
faigeles
do.’

At home, I went straight to my third-year psychology textbook on abnormal behaviour. I read the definition of psychopath and my jaw dropped—for all intents and purposes, it was describing Paul: the disregard for others, the lying, the ignoring of society’s rules, the lack of empathy, the need for immediate gratification, the charm and empty promises . . . Paul was, it seemed, a textbook psychopath.

With the house now tidy, I had begun extending luncheon invitations. The few female friends I saw let it be known that they disliked Paul. I wasn’t sure how to explain what was happening with our relationship—I didn’t really know. Around this time, I received a call from an American woman, Susan Ginsberg. She was answering one of Paul’s old ads in Readings bookshop for share accommodation. The quirky nature of the text had attracted her. After I asked her if she was related to the famous beat poet, Allen Ginsberg, which she wasn’t, we began chatting; soon afterwards, we arranged to meet.

Over the next few months, Susan and I developed a strong friendship. I liked her enormously. She was a Jewish psychotherapist from New York and we discussed Paul on occasion.

‘He sounds like a really interesting guy with a narcissistic personality disorder,’ she said. ‘He’s clearly bad for you.’

I agreed. ‘But I feel like I’d be deserting him if I stayed in Melbourne.’

‘Hang on, hasn’t
he
left
you
?’

I didn’t know any more. I related how he desperately wanted me to move to Holland; how I couldn’t let go of him, even though he said the most horrible things about Dory and had developed an obsessive hatred of her.

She theorised that Paul was trying to create a schism between Dory and me. ‘She’s the voice of reason. But if he isolates you, he can manipulate you to his heart’s content.’

I couldn’t deny she was right. I could see him doing it, but I couldn’t stop myself—I was weak. I had fallen in love with Paul’s potential—his ‘nice’ side. ‘He’s just not the person I thought I married . . .’

‘It’s obvious,’ she stated with finality. ‘He’s your addiction.’

Even though I’d never been addicted to anything, Susan’s explanation was that he’d got under my skin. She cautioned me not to make the mistake of thinking he’d reform. ‘Psychopaths never change.’ I filed that thought away for later.

I explained that, whatever I did, it was never enough. I told her how miserable I was without him; how sorry I felt for him and how everyone had abandoned him. I wanted to do the right thing by Shoshanna, but I didn’t know if I could give him up. She theorised I had a need to ‘rescue’ him—like a stray cat. At her prompting, I made an appointment with a family law specialist. As he saw it, Paul had deserted us, so my custody of Shoshanna would be assured if we got divorced.

Coincidentally, Susan moved around the corner from Dory and the two of them formed a friendship after I suggested a meeting. Dory and I were also developing a new closeness. She took me out constantly—trying to help me fill the void left by Paul—to the theatre and galleries, or arranging visits with her friends, mostly musicians, dancers and artists. True to her word, she also helped me buy a new car—a white Volvo station wagon.

Francine invited us to dinner one night. Here I saw a new side to Dory: we sat on floor cushions with Francine’s dreadlocked Ethiopian boyfriend as he played bongos and smoked dope. He and Dory discussed music—African rhythms and instruments, about which she was well informed from her many tours there with the Bodenwieser Ballet.

It saddened me that Dory seemed so accepting of Francine’s unconventional lifestyle, and yet she was so critical of mine: I assumed she simply applied higher standards to my behaviour than that of others. I wished I could share more of myself with her.

I was still feeling Paul’s absence acutely. He began calling regularly from Amsterdam, distraught and in tears. ‘I miss you and Shoshanna so much—the pain is indescribable.’ Apparently Saskia and Vlad had ‘dumped’ Paul in an apartment; he hardly saw them and had no friends. He’d started his computer course, but admitted I was right. ‘It’s not my thing. I want to do art . . . I want to come home.’

‘You need to figure out where home is,’ I said.

‘It’s any country—so long as you and Shoshanna are there. We belong together . . . but Mom won’t pay for a return ticket.’

I told Paul he couldn’t keep chopping and changing countries and careers. He begged me, promising that, if I paid for his ticket, he’d get counselling. He’d also work on his folio and go to night school. I believed him.

I knew that if Paul stayed away, Shoshanna, now a two-year-old toddler, would have no conscious memory of her father. I didn’t think I could do that to her, so I bought Paul’s ticket, hoping desperately that I had made the right decision.

8

And so Paul returned to Australia with high hopes of a new beginning. We had a joyful reunion and he moved straight back to Warrandyte with Shoshanna and me. I was determined to make things work; we began seeing a marriage counsellor and intimacy between us resumed. The counsellor talked of the need to spend quality time together, and we attempted to follow her advice.

Paul instantly reconnected with Shoshanna. He spoke of his pain at having been apart from her and I revelled in the notion that we were all together again. I was sure my adoption had intensified my need for family.

However, my relationship with Dory started to suffer. I didn’t want to have to choose; I thought it perfectly natural that I could have both of them in my life, but Paul had resumed his constant criticism of her. He was also not comfortable with my friendship with Susan, misconstruing her as a man-hating ‘rad les fem’. I had anticipated Paul’s aversion to her, but realised I couldn’t maintain my closeness with her and stay married. Unfortunately, I let my friendship with this wonderful woman lapse.

Paul seemed enthusiastic about his prospective art career and I was thrilled that he wanted to pursue this. But, despite his many promises to work on his art portfolio, I was having to push him. Tension started to appear again as he spent his days stoned.

Unfortunately, he had failed to gain entry into any of the graphic design courses he’d applied for. The advice was unanimous: studying would be futile as he was obviously gifted and should be able to get a job as a cartoonist. I came to the conclusion, however, that Paul was unlikely to ever be able to hold down a regular nine-to-five job working for a boss. If we were to make a go of things, I would have to accept an unconventional lifestyle.

Although I was trying to stay positive about Paul, I missed Susan’s companionship. Most of my other female friends had stopped seeing me—Warrandyte was a fair way out of Melbourne. Dory had been right about that, too. I was resenting Paul for the loss of my friends. I felt alone: not
lonely
—because I’d always been comfortable with my own company plus I had my darling daughter—but alone.

Paul began talking about a career in acting; according to him, Sydney was the place to be. He reasoned that he was at the peak of his physical prowess, having spent so much time working out. He’d only been back a month and I thought it too soon to move yet again, but he accused me of being an unsupportive wife. I felt he should knuckle down and find a job here, rather than chasing pipe dreams. Finally, after he convinced me there was no work in Melbourne, we agreed he’d trial going to Sydney for a few months; it would be costly and mean being alone again, but I was prepared to make the sacrifice.

Paul called me soon after he arrived, saying he’d found somewhere to live. ‘I’m staying on Oxford Street with some gay guys. It’s the heart of “Vaseline Valley”.’

I was well aware of its reputation and asked him if they knew he had a wife and child.

‘Not exactly . . .’ He hesitated. ‘But I’m getting lots of interviews and have a photo shoot booked with a magazine called
Campaign
Australia
. I’m gonna be a gay centrefold.’

I was annoyed: he didn’t seem to be able to make up his mind about his sexuality. I thought he should tell them he was married, but Paul refused.

‘Don’t worry—I’m not gay and I’m not fucking anyone, male or female, although there’s a considerable casting-couch culture here.’ He told me how ‘they’ all fancied him, so Sydney was where he was most likely to get employment. He thought he might get some cartoon work, too—he’d already designed an invitation for one of their parties. ‘They’re all into wine enemas,’ he explained.

‘What, they put wine up their arse?’

‘Yeah—it’s absorbed quicker through the anus than the stomach.’

I reflected ruefully after hanging up that Paul being ensconced in the gay community was the total antithesis of Shoshanna and me in Warrandyte; we were going to kiddie birthday parties with two-year-olds, while he was going to wine-enema parties with leather boys.

Within a few months Paul had made a hasty retreat home when he ran out of money and goodwill, the latter after mentioning his wife and daughter. I wondered how many more times he’d leave, and how many more times I’d take him back.

He showered me with expensive presents of leather lingerie, which angered me. ‘You know we can’t afford this shit.’ He had spent two weeks’ worth of income on lingerie he knew I didn’t even like. ‘This stuff barely fits me—it’s size 10.’ I could only conclude it was for his benefit. I was feeling pressured again to be someone I wasn’t. I wanted to be the devoted mother, not a leather-clad vamp.

‘Humour me—it’ll look great on you,’ he said, blaming my alleged penny-pinching on my Jewish upbringing. But that had nothing to do with it; I just had different priorities to him—our child, for starters.

However, Paul couldn’t forgo instant gratification for any long-term goals and I was getting increasingly frustrated. I’d anticipated that, living rent free, we’d finally get ahead, but his spending was compulsive. We argued about money and he accused me of being controlling. I knew that wasn’t true; I just wasn’t instantly acceding to all his wishes. There always seemed to be something—bigger, better, newer—he desired, whereas I was prepared to make do.

Paul began cross-dressing again, augmenting it with some lipstick and eye shadow that Saskia had inadvertently left behind; he also started buying vast quantities of porn magazines. The whole transvestite issue was upsetting me. I wanted to try and understand it, but I had no-one to talk to, besides him—and whenever I broached the subject, he clammed up. We’d been having semi-regular sex, but obviously I wasn’t satisfying him. And yet, when he was cross-dressing, I wasn’t turned on: I just couldn’t get the image of him as an unconvincing woman out of my head.

How did he see
me
? Did he want
me
to fuck
him
? With what? Fingers, dildos, fists? He’d asked me for anal stimulation during some of our love-making sessions, and I found it a turn-off.

Most disturbing was the frequency with which he was self-administering cask-wine enemas; I assumed it was somehow stress-related, although perhaps it simultaneously filled a need he had for anal stimulation.