Under the Knife. Andrea GoldsmithЧитать онлайн книгу.
lavish her with kisses. And when Eddie protested: ‘Let yourself go. We’re not illegal. Queen Victoria couldn’t get her mind around lesbianism, much less legislation.’
Eddie’s manageable life had broken its moorings. She was in the rapids hurtling towards the falls, over the edge and tossing in the foam, but before she crashed into the waters below she’d be back in the rapids, again heading for the falls. Thrilling it was but life-threatening.
Then it came to an abrupt end.
Paula’s opera was being performed in Melbourne. Eddie had accompanied her to rehearsals, had found herself meeting numerous people who, like Paula, needed little sleep, who would work all day and sit at endless tables at night, eating and drinking and being effortlessly entertaining, and while they were pleasant enough to her, Eddie knew it was only because she came with the star. As for the opera, she loved it but did not understand it. Much of the symbolism — sand trickling into a pile on the stage, a devil’s mask that would appear without reason, white-daubed faces and blackened feet — made no sense to her. And the music, more a matter of atmosphere and sensibility than actual melodic lines, slithered over her like hot wax, and she could not understand that either. She was burning up in music, she was burning up with questions, but unwilling to expose her ignorance, she kept them to herself.
The night of the first performance came around. The audience was a mix of worldly Europeans, avant-garde cognoscenti and musical lesbians. Eddie sat alone in her complimentary seat surrounded by critics and patrons. Everyone seemed to know one another, people talked across her as if she didn’t exist; such relief when the lights finally dimmed and she could sink into the anonymous dark.
The opera, performed in a single act, lasted ninety minutes. There were mutterings at the first notes, and by the half-hour mark several people had left. But for the next hour, Eddie could feel the breath of the audience, a unison awe and expectation that, if not for her connection with Paula, Eddie would have succumbed to herself. When the opera finished there was a prolonged silence and then the applause began: for the singers, the orchestra, the director, the conductor and most especially for Paula. She was called to the stage, accepted flowers and applause, and then a microphone was shoved into her hand. She thanked the audience and everybody connected with the production; as for those who had walked out, she’d prefer people to leave in disgust than not be moved at all; a few more thanks, her pleasure at being back in Melbourne, and just when Eddie thought it was all over, the hot wire whipping.
‘This performance is for Edwina Frye,’ Paula said, gesturing to Eddie in the auditorium. ‘From my heart,’ she added, blowing a kiss.
A week later Eddie ejected Paula from her life. It wasn’t specifically the lesbian business, Eddie knew that at the time; Paula could have been a man or an elephant and the problems would have been the same. ‘You must change your life,’ Paula would say, quoting her beloved Rilke. For Eddie it was the hardest demand of all. Keith, her psychology tutor, had been oozing up to her for months. ‘Meet me at home on Saturday afternoon,’ she told Paula. ‘My parents will be out.’
Paula arrived to find Eddie in bed with Keith. Without a word, Paula left the house and her life, left it empty, and no one, not even Nigel, has filled it since. Eddie glances at her watch, and not likely that Otto will fill the gap. She checks her make-up, can’t delay any longer, pulls on her professional persona and heads off to the bar where Alexander is waiting.
4th September, London.
I was aware of my attraction to Edwina from the beginning, but for the sake of the biography I didn’t pursue it. Indeed, prior to that evening when she joined me for a drink, we’d not met for reasons unrelated to the biography. Even a meal at home with the family had been primarily for data collection, although, as it turned out, it had an enormous impact on me.
The meal had been Cynthia’s idea, to provide an opportunity for Edwina to observe the family man in situ. We were all there: my mother, Cynthia, Simone and Greg, and at the last minute and looking as if she’d dragged herself from the gutter, Claire. She was reeking of smoke and probably far worse, but there was nothing I could do as we were about to sit down to dinner. Fortunately she behaved herself, which is to say she spent most of the meal silent and scowling and clearly wanting to be elsewhere. Although Edwina managed to draw her out, and by the time coffee was served, had her talking about her painting. After dinner, she actually showed Edwina some of her work, an invitation never extended to Cynthia and me.
I was very conscious of Edwina’s being in my home. I was extra solicitous towards my mother, very much the attentive husband with Cynthia, the fond father with my daughters. But every time Edwina spoke I felt a rush of adrenalin. She might have been working, but she was in my home, a social occasion with food and wine, it was simply not the same as sitting with her and her tape-recorder in my office. I remember touching her several times, knowing that what was permissible in the milieu of one’s loving family would not be elsewhere.
A night for data collection but so much more. This, I realised, was no fly-by-night attraction. I saw Edwina alongside Cynthia, saw her vitality, her originality, her newness, and knew I’d never wanted a woman so much. I’m not proud of this, and certainly not now when I’d give anything for Cynthia’s warm, steady devotion. But at the time, I looked from my wife to Edwina and knew that Cynthia’s love was no longer enough. I wanted some white water, I wanted Edwina.
Fortunately I had the good sense to put the biography first. Outwardly nothing changed, but privately I exercised no restraint. I imagined the places we’d go, the conversations we’d have, most of all I imagined being in bed with her. Over and over I imagined these things, until they were second nature to me. By the time I rang her for a drink, a real lover could not have occupied me more fully.
I never doubted she wanted me too. I find the digestive tract fascinating but I know it’s not a common interest. Yet from the beginning, Edwina encouraged me to talk way beyond the requirements of the biography. Such a charming inquisitor she was, I truly believed she was attracted to me. I remember when she asked about my choice of specialty, how she leaned forward, her arms resting on my desk, how she was close enough to touch, the fine white skin, the raised pipes of her veins, her perfume, the carved stretch of her clavicle, her gaze so attentive.
I told her about Peter Faine, without whom I might have become a skin specialist or a neurologist, and his sons, both of whom attended my school. The Faine boys never showed any interest in medicine, but they were good company and wild within the acceptable limits of the day. The Faine house was full of all the noise and activity lacking in my only-child home and I visited often.
The sons were my friends, but it was Peter Faine who was the main attraction. He was a gastroenterologist, the sort of doctor quite common in those days who regarded medicine as a public calling. A short, jolly man with a shiny pate and tailored beard, he always found time for me. He used to tell me about medical life — the patients, surgery, the illnesses, students — and I came to admire him in a way I did not my own father. When I thought of being a doctor, I imagined myself just like Dr Faine, taller and younger, but in most respects very similar.
Looking back, I suspect I wanted to be Peter Faine. I enrolled in the same medical school, did my residency at the same hospital, and never questioned I would specialise in gastroenterology. As for my choice of the lower tract rather than the upper, it was pragmatism more than anything else; there was a crowd at the upper end and much more room for a newcomer at the lower.
Pragmatism? I remember Edwina saying. Is that a euphemism for money?
It wasn’t, and besides I found the large bowel more interesting than other areas of gastroenterology. And there was so much to be done. With most of the research having focussed on the upper tract, the lower area was wide open — I actually said that to her, but rather than the snickering it would occasion from most people, Edwina responded with the same regard she reserved for everything I said.
Can I be blamed for thinking she was interested in me? She did encourage me, although now I see her approach as one of calculated entrapment. Harder to explain